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| No Surface All Feeling; 5/22 early evening - Rugby crew + others | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 17 2013, 06:01 PM (576 Views) | |
| Purple Girl | Dec 6 2013, 04:52 PM Post #16 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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He didn't want to leave. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that he didn't want to leave her. Didn't want to walk away from Jean Grey Summers, or Jean Grey, or both. One body, what seemed to be two minds. Both of them seemingly fractured, at the very least stressed nearly to their breaking point. Kara felt the green haired woman's hand finally go from limp and lifeless to movement, turning over and gripping her own. The purple-skinned woman held tight in turn. Everyone needed an anchor sometimes. Something to hold to until they could get their bearings. For as long as the other woman might need her, she'd stay here and she knew Mantis would make sure she got whatever help the green telepath could give. Or she would find whatever other help they had to provide. It wasn't a hollow promise she made to Calvin Rankin, though it wasn't a promise of miracles, either. Jean would be as all right as they could possibly manage and she'd be safe in their care. It wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't be the same as him being here himself, seeing for himself, knowing what was happening. But it might have to do all the same. On the other side of the bed, she heard Scott Summers speak the name of Frost, and Gateway was gone again. Putting two and two together was easy enough and a brief look to Mantis gained her a nod from her teammate. More than she could work with, then. They were bringing in a stronger telepath. "Yeah, alright," she heard Mimic say as she turned back. It was reluctant agreement, but still agreement and for the best. They couldn't both stay here, Rankin and Summers. Not and have any kind of peace for anyone, she suspected. "I'll go. I'm not doing anybody any damned good in here." Including himself, Kara knew, as the winged man looked around to each person in the room, ending with the other dimensional Scott Summers as he added with grudging reluctance, "Just..take care of her, alright?" The other man turned toward him, paused a moment, then nodded slightly. Thank the gods for small mercies that they could at least agree on the fact that the woman between them was the one in the most need. The two of them playing tug of war with her would do more harm than good. Then Scott Summers sat down on the other side of the bed, next to his wife, taking her other hand, murmuring her name. So unfair. So horribly unfair to all of them, what had happened in that field. But try as she might Kara also couldn't seen any other way it might have gone and not been even worse under the circumstances. Again, though, no point dwelling on that. Now, they could only do what they could do toward putting things to right and she turned her attention to other things. More welcome things, as Forge's hand came to rest on her shoulder, thumb stroking gently over her skin there at her neck, and she looked up at him, met those dark eyes carrying more shadows now that had been added to the ones there before. But then, so did her own most likely. “When you’re finished here...” he said, and she could feel his concern, understood it. Was grateful for it, even though her wounds from this were minor at worst, “...find Clarice. Or Madison. Someone. Don’t be alone tonight.” Even though she knew it was all in her head (no pun intended), just that light, brief contact seemed to lessen the throbbing in her head. Kara nodded, reaching up with her free hand to curl her fingers gently and briefly over his arm. "I won't," she assured him, attempting to send what reassurance to him that she could with that meeting of eyes and the light contact of her fingers against his arm, "And I'll be nearby." If he needed her, but she left that unsaid because there was no need for it to be. His friend needed him and she only needed some rest and sleep when they were done here. There would be time later for the things they wanted. After a moment, Forge turned toward Mantis, seemed confused for a moment (not unusual where her teammate was concerned) then nodded and moved to pick up a bottle of rye from nearby. Yes, they'd probably need that from the looks of things. One look at Calvin made that plain. Forge moved back to the winged man, metal hand going to the other man's shoulder, then steered his friend toward the door with a final look around the room. Kara watched them for a moment, still holding fast to Jean Grey's hand. The big man looked back for a moment, eyes lingering on the woman on the bed, then seemed to almost physically force his attention forward again. As they made their way out of the room, she looked over to Hone, then to Mantis again, with full knowledge that they all still had their own parts to play here as Scott Summers continued to speak softly, almost inaudibly, to his wife. No, it wasn't good or fair, not to any of them, but they were all doing what they needed to do. What they had to do. |
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| Kiwi Black | Dec 7 2013, 05:06 PM Post #17 |
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International Bloke of Mystery
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Whatever the joke Summers had seen in the choice of Frost to help his wife - something about the shared history, maybe, that had come up in the planning for today - the man wasn’t sharing. That was fine with Hone, who had better things to be doing than wondering about it, and who was already pulling off part of his focus to attend to the end of the words passing between Rankin, his friend, and Purple. The Indian with the metal leg was looking to take Wings out of here, from the sounds of it, with Purple’s assurances that she’d be here, with Mantis, to look to the woman whose hand was still clasping tightly to hers. A good thought, practically speaking, the way things were going with this pair of bloody young rams butting heads with each other almost every time you turned your back, regardless of what it might do to the sheila that was the cause and the fuel for it, though Hone was glad (if that were the word for it) that the man those kids called ‘Maker’ had left it to his friend to make the choice in the matter. Winged bloke had earned his right to make the decision. Earned it in blood and in pain. "Yeah, alright," the Canadian said finally, hand running through his hair, and those big wings a-flutter again. "I'll go. I'm not doing anybody any damned good in here." Which was true, no matter that it was a shame (when had that mattered in anything?), though you could see on the bloke’s face just how much it cost him, over again, to have to admit that to himself. "Just..take care of her, alright?" As the big man’s gaze fell on him in its turn, Hone nodded, the movement brief and matter-of-fact, an acknowledgement from one bloke to another that he’d be doing everything he could, even if that might be in the way of organizing for the people who could help her, rather than making a mess of things trying to do that direct himself. His mission, and the team he’d picked for it, they became his responsibility. So he’d do what he could to see Jean Grey-Summers right, or however close to right they could get her, both for her own sake and for the sake of Rankin, who was asking for only that right now. Summers, who’d shared the last, and longest part of the winged man’s look as he’d made his request, he nodded to, moving silently to take a place by his wife and setting to extricate her hand from the death grip she’d got on her own head, and murmuring her name quietly. A good thing, and he could get the message too, even if seemed like it took more than a few hints to get it through that quartz on his face and into his brain. Major point was he was doing it, and right now they all had to hope that he was what she needed, because otherwise they were running bloody low on options. The Indian moved then, to Purple, hands on each other’s arms and shoulders as they shared a look that seemed to contain a lot more than the few quiet words they were exchanging. It was a new look on Purple, one Hone hadn’t seen in all the time he’d been working with Clarice and her team the last couple of years. Fitted her more than you might have thought, too. Private and discrete in the center of the room, no matter that she still had a tight connection to Grey Ginger, but still loaded with meaning, even to an outside observer. No one else’s business either. After a moment, the bloke with the metal leg looked on, exchanging a gaze with Mantis - confused on his part, about the same inscrutable expression as ever on hers - before making a quick detour to where he’d been sitting when they’d first entered the room, retrieving a bottle of some sort of whiskey or other before coming back to Wings and lifting a hand to start to guide him out of the room. The big man followed, turning back for a second, his eyes on the woman on the bed. She didn’t look up, didn’t lift her head from where it was buried on her knees. Hone couldn’t have said whether that was a mercy or another knife to the balls - maybe both, but it was what was. The big man turned his head like he’d had to move it with will, instead of muscles, and both men were back on their way to the door. *Can you find Ness for me?* Hone put out in his head for Mantis, not willing to disturb the fragile quiet, the only noise in the room right now the soft murmur of Summers speaking to his wife. *She back on the Helicarrier?* A look, and a nod, and that was that for now - have to debrief her, check on her personally later, but for now, this was still the top of the list, and it wasn’t nearly in the kind of stable point where it’d be okay to leave. “Right then,” Hone said aloud then, with a brief nod back to Mantis, glancing to the bed once more and watching for a moment as Summers - still speaking softly, gently than you might have thought him capable of - coaxed her to lift her head and shoulders enough that he could cradle her in his arms. For a moment, she looked lost, bewildered, a little girl trapped in the face of a grown woman, then something shifted. Slipped her hand free of Purple’s, and shifted herself, burying her head against her husband’s lap, one hand still clasped in his, and one clutching and releasing and clutching again at his knee. “We need someone she can’t shake off, that’s why Frost’s on her way,” Hone explained to Purple, once he’d made his way over toward her near enough that he could speak without disturbing the pair on the bed. Though at a guess, she’d have already have figured out that much herself, hearing the name when Summers had spoken it. Smart woman. Probably more than smart enough to have an inkling of what he was going to say next, though that didn’t mean he didn’t have to say it aloud all the same. “Might still not be enough, but. Don’t much like to say it, Cuz, but we might need you to take hold of her too, if she still doesn’t want to cooperate.” Not a lot of appeal in the idea of asking one of them to take the free will of the other, especially considering all of this, but times were where neither of the choices was good, and you did what you had to. Getting Mrs Summers what she needed, whether she was too far gone not to fight it on the way or not, that was the thing right now, and best to make sure that was clear on all sides before the matter got forced for them. |
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| Mimic | Dec 7 2013, 11:46 PM Post #18 |
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One Man X-Team
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Leave. His head tried to reject that idea. So did his gut. How the fuck could he leave? Walk out with her on the bed, looking like that. Sounding like that? How could he ever make his feet taking him out the door and leave her behind? How the fuck? A look around the room told him how, though. Kara spoke up and told him how. Even Forge, the Fucker, was telling him how without saying a damned word. Not his place. Not his fucking place, even if it felt like it. Not his Jean, even though at least some part of her was there. Not a damned thing here he could help her with. She had Kara and Mantis and even fucking Summers for that, because he was her husband. Nothing he could help with and, though he didn't like thinking it much less admitting it, all the hell he was gonna do by staying here was make it worse. Worse for her. Worse for himself, but he didn't much give a shit about that right now. But he'd go. Yeah, he'd get the hell out, let Forge help him force himself toward the fucking door, just as long as he knew they'd take care of her. As long as he knew somebody was gonna take care of her. Needed them to say the damned words, or at least acknowledge them. Let him know they understood what he meant, what he was asking. He looked at them one by one, and one by one they nodded, including the last one. Summers. Who looked at him, took his goddamned time, but nodded all the same and went to sit with her. Calvin looked away, settled his gaze on any damned thing else in the room he could find because he didn't wanna see that. Couldn't right now. Couldn't watch her turn to him, even though he knew damned well that's what she needed to do. Should do. Scrubbed a hand through his hair as Forge said something to the purple girl. Kara. Oughta tell him to stay here, with her, but couldn't make his mouth form the words. Hell'uva fucked up mess. Him. This. All of it. For every damned body involved. There were voices and he knew people were talking, but he couldn't focus on the words. Couldn't keep his attention on them long enough to get whatever was being said to make any sense. Didn't much care. Heard Frost's name and wavered again. Jeannie'd fucking hate that, even if it was probably the best option. Maybe he should- No. Fuck. No, him being here, no top of Frost, and with Summers? He didn't have to know the details of what needed doing to know that'd just make it all a bigger mess. Probably make it harder for anybody to help her like she needed. Forge moved off and for a second Mimic frowned, wondering what the hell he'd missed, but then he saw the Fucker go over and pick up a bottle. Yeah. Best damned idea he'd heard yet, even if he hadn't heard it at all. Then the other man was back, hand on his shoulder and Calvin nodded. Still damned reluctantly, but he did it, just like he made his damned feet move toward the door, whether they wanted to or not. Nearly made it before he had to look back, right to that woman on the bed. Didn't really give a damn about anybody else in the room, just them. Needed that last look at the woman there that was the twin of the one he still saw in his dreams some night. Needed to confirm what he already knew. He needed to get the fuck out and let somebody else try to sort this shit. Try to help her however they could. Get the hell outta her way, because he knew he was in it right now. In it in a way that just meant keeping her in pain and torment that wasn't even hers. Pain and torment he'd helped cause, god help him. And he'd deal with it his own damned way, Calvin resolved as he forced his head back around front with the force of whatever damned will he had left. Forced his feet forward and through that door, outta that room. He'd deal with it and the part of him knew Forge, the Fucker, would keep him from drowning his ass in it completely, even if right now that didn't sound like such a bad fucking thing at all. [Cont'd for Forge and Calvin in a thread yet to be named] |
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| White Queen | Dec 13 2013, 01:30 AM Post #19 |
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Top class breeding, darlings.
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As soon as Emma heard the distinct sound of Gateway’s whirling bullroarer, she knew that it was a collection, rather than a delivery which had brought him to her. A rather urgent collection. That was how he worked, after all. The Resistance’s own version of Lassie, always making an appearance when Timmy fell down a well. The Australian was silent, as was his habit, but words were hardly necessary. If she wasn’t needed, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. A quick telepathic exchange was all the additional persuasion the former White Queen required. Whatever complications the team returning from Stamford- no, Rugby- had encountered, they were severe. Of course they were. What other sorts of complications could they have been, really? “Let’s be off, then,” Emma said blandly, setting aside what she’d been doing as she approached Gateway. “I positively throb with curiosity.” The dark-skinned man lifted one arm and set his bullroarer spinning once more, and the two of them were snapped into another of the private quarters aboard the helicarrier. Emma took in the scene with a single sweep of her cool blue eyes. The mix of people both present and absent spoke volumes all by itself. They were all arranged on and around the bed. Hone and Kara on one side, engaged in what appeared to be something of a strategy session. Mantis occupying the other flank, her expression unusually tense given her normal state of enigmatic serenity. And the very center, surprise, surprise, lay Jean Grey (very well, she could permit herself to tack on the obligatory possibly-Summers to that), her head buried in her husband’s lap while he whispered what Emma could only assume were meant to be soothing words. Nowhere in sight was the fifth member of the group who’d left for Connecticut, and given the sight before her, it was no great mystery why. “So this-” Emma began, stepping toward them, only to stutter to a halt as she was painfully buffeted by waves of mental turmoil radiating throughout the room. The psychic plane in her immediate vicinity was sandpaper and smoke and the feedback of a microphone held too close to speakers. Not immediately harmful, but decidedly, almost tangibly unpleasant. “Nngh.” She pressed the fingers of one gloved hand to her temple as she quickly erected sufficient barriers against the backlash. Smoothing out her expression, she lowered her hand and directed her attention to the two most articulate of the room’s occupants. “Do we know how bad it is?” she asked, tone cool, brisk and businesslike as she crossed the remaining distance to the bed. “Or is there a degree of spelunking required before I get to the real work I’m here for?” Regardless of how they answered, she could already tell it was cut out for her. This was already proving to be a unique experience, even by her considerable standards. |
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| Jean Grey | Dec 19 2013, 09:43 AM Post #20 |
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Can kill you with her brain.
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She wanted to be gone. It didn’t matter that it was her again in the driver’s seat of her mind, or whatever it was that ‘her’ meant any more. I am Jean Grey, she’d said, and Jean Grey was here, one hand clasped in someone else’s, someone she could only vaguely place as a steady, purple presence, the other gently chafed between two others. She knew that rhythm, knew that warmth, that worry. That was her husband, and she clung to that knowledge, as fiercely as she could, holding it cupped in mental hands like a flame that needed to be shielded from the hurricane gusts that screamed and scoured the shredded screens that should have been the rest of her mind. It didn’t matter. How could it matter that it was her at the helm, if the ‘ship’ was only a bucket floating on a sea of terror and pain? She could feel it. The raw emotion, the hurt deep enough to cut, deep enough to break, deep enough to scour through every defense, every image she tried to raise in its path. She was falling, tumbling end over end, and it didn’t matter that it was her, because there was still nothing to stand in the way of the rawness of the pain that welled up from every suppressed memory. They were her memories. Her memories, but her memories, and no matter how hard Jean tried to force them away, they seeped and seethed back in to wrap around and choke her. Her baby. Her daughter. She’d... ...oh god... ...oh god, oh god oh god oh god god god why was it all losing and tearing and leaving and ripping and leaving her alone alone alone all alone no one there and he’d promised and there was no one it was only her and she’d ruined ruined ruined ruined everything. Fucked it up, messed it up, hadn’t thought, had just acted acted acted stupidly, everything thing even she should have known better. Wanted to stop hearing stop feeling pain stop anyone having to hurt and it would all have been better better better worse if she could only have only have only have- ...if she could only have been gone. She wanted it. She wanted it to stop. But there were thoughts in her head, and these ones weren’t hers, and there was love in there, and worry, and god, it was so much worry, and so much love, and she couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t hurt him like that. Had to stay. Had to keep trying. Had to fight it, for him. For the arms, the hands, gentler than they should by rights have been, the voice murmuring in her ear and in her head, fingers coaxing her up, up, up, strong but kind. She was... where... she was... where was he? Who was he? He’d said he wouldn’t leave her! He’d said... he’d promised... ...he’d promised her forever. Till death do us part. And she wasn’t dead. She looked around, found him, found Scott, and cleaved to him, dropping the other hand and burying her mind and her head against him, squeezing his hand like he’d disappear if she couldn’t keep pressing, and clutching at his knee, tighter and softer and tighter again. Scott. He was here. She needed him. Needed him to need her, like he had before, like he had when she’d been lost to herself except that he, he, he, couldn’t let her go. Needed him to need her more than the pain and the loss and the anguish and the knowledge that her daughter was dead, and it was all her fault, every part of it, every part of it, down to the decision, the choice she’d made, that He’d asked, that she’d spoken, and she’d said.. and she’d said... ...but he needed her. And so Jean clung to him, only dimly aware of the other voices, the movement, the minds, each with their own whirls of emotion and plans, questions. But through all of it, there was Scott, and he was a constant. A safe channel to navigate, even in a sea like this one. A way through. |
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| Purple Girl | Dec 19 2013, 11:54 PM Post #21 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Dark purple eyes watched the two men make their way out of the door, reluctance in every line of Calvin Rankin's tall frame. Reluctance and a look as though he didn't know what to do with himself. As though he'd lost something precious. Or maybe given it away. In a way, Kara supposed he had. It had to be hard, beyond that even, for him to walk out that door and leave Jean Grey behind. Even knowing it was what he had to do. For her, but for himself, too. And Forge, guiding his friend when he couldn't seem to manage to quite guide himself. Bottle in hand. Mimic looked back once, everything written there on his eyes and face. All the things, the deep, private anguish, that no one should ever have to expose to the world. Yes, they all had a long evening and a long night ahead of them. None of them more than the woman on the bed and the man holding her hand on the other side, the purple skinned woman mused, watching them for a moment. She wasn't entirely sure Scott Summers even realized the rest of them were there anymore, but that was just as well. His attention was on the one that needed him most right now. “Right then,” Hone said aloud then, nodding to Mantis after some likely conversation or other, probably taking care of some detail, there as Kara held fast to the other woman's hand, still, but otherwise left her to her husband as he murmured to her words that she couldn't make out herself, coaxing her around to cradle her like a small, wounded child. Even if she could have listened in, she wouldn't have tried. That, too, was a private thing. Private pain. Then Jean's hand slipped out of hers and she curled herself in against her husband, head buried in his lab and hand clasping and scrabbling against his leg. Picture of a broken woman in torment. May the gods help her however they could. They'd need all the help, divine or otherwise, that they could get tonight, Purple Girl suspected. “We need someone she can’t shake off, that’s why Frost’s on her way,” Hone told her as he came around toward where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She'd guessed as much when she'd heard the name before, but nodded all the same. Emma Frost. Yes, she'd been the one to work with Rogue, help purge or integrate or whatever she'd managed with the two personalities in the former X-Man's head, hadn't she? It was probably the closest thing to experience with something like this that anyone had. “Might still not be enough, but. Don’t much like to say it, Cuz, but we might need you to take hold of her too, if she still doesn’t want to cooperate.” Lips pursed, Kara glanced back to the pair at the other side of the bed. Watched them for a few moments before turning back to the Maori man with a slow nod. "I can't say I much like the idea of doing it, either," Kara told him by way of acknowledging a truth and not by way of complaint, "but I'll do what I need to if that's what it takes. And it might, with the history there," she acknowledged that unspoken but understood fact. At least, there was history with the Jean Grey from their world, who was at least the equivalent of a ghost in the head of this woman from what they'd seen, and Emma Frost, wasn't there? If this Jean Grey had that same history, then they were likely in for a fight. On one or more levels, but of course Hone knew that already. He was good with the details. Taking away the free will of this woman - these women - that was wasn't something she took lightly, either. Especially when one of them had had that very thing done to her in the most terrible way possible. Had been destroyed by it, in fact. Of secondary, and at this point negligible, concern was her own reluctance to end up merged with the fractured mind or minds of Jean Grey. It wasn't something she'd ever done in a situation like this, or with someone in this kind of state. Not something she cared to contemplate, but a bridge she'd cross when and if she came to it. The roar of Gateway's bullroar signaled his return and the arrival of Emma Frost herself. Kara looked up and past Hone as the telepath's assessing gaze swept the room, seeming to take account of them all and the situation in general. “So this-” Emma began, stepping toward them, only to stutter to a halt and it didn't take any real guess work to understand why. It was one of those times when Kara again wondered at Mantis' seemingly fathomless well of calm. The psychic turmoil in the room was almost palpable enough for her to feel herself, and her own telepathic ability was almost nil. “Nngh.” One gloved hand moved to her temple and Kara realized that she'd never really seen anything give the former White Queen pause until now. That, too, was an indicator of what they were dealing with. The next moment, the blonde had regained her composure, hand returning to her side and attention coming to rest on her and Hone. “Do we know how bad it is?” she asked, tone cool, brisk and businesslike as she crossed the remaining distance to the bed. “Or is there a degree of spelunking required before I get to the real work I’m here for?” That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? Eyes lifting to Hone for a split second, the purple-skinned woman then looked back to the former Hellfire Club Queen. "It's bad enough that Mantis can't help her," she confirmed, looking briefly to her unruffled teammate before turning back again, brow lifting marginally, "but I think you'll find it more a maze than a cave." Kara gave a brief nod toward the woman on the bed, still clinging to her husband. "She took on at least some of the memories, and from what we've seen at least some of the personality, of the Jean Grey from this dimension. She's going back and forth and sometimes in between, but we really don't know exactly how extensive it is or what kind of damage it's caused." Mantis might, at least more so than she or Hone did, if she would say in any way that they could decipher. But she'd learned one thing in her time with the Resistance it was that Mantis shared information in her own time and her own way and even ninjas and Hounds couldn't seem to change that. |
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| Kiwi Black | Dec 22 2013, 04:07 PM Post #22 |
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International Bloke of Mystery
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No, he didn’t much like to say it, but Hone had never let that kind of thing stand in the way of saying what needed to be said, and this time was no exception either. Purple had been through a lot, the woman on the bed had been through even more - double her allotment for a single person, it was looking like - and asking one to take over the other, bulldoze through what was left of her free will wasn’t something to go about doing lightly. He hadn’t forgotten about those boulders in her head either, but sitting perched on the side of the bed not that far from the newlyweds, turning to look them over with pursed lips, Purple did a bloody good job of not showing a sign of them. Thinking over his words, the situation with Green Ginger, clearly taking the time to make her own assessments about what might be needed, and what she could do, and the New Zealander could appreciate that. Smart, sensible woman, so no worries with her thinking it through for herself - not like there was all that much to think about anyway, given the facts (the few they knew) about this situation, so it wasn’t much in the way of a surprise when she finally looked back to him and gave the nod. "I can't say I much like the idea of doing it, either," Kara told him by way of acknowledging a truth and not by way of complaint, "but I'll do what I need to if that's what it takes. And it might, with the history there," she acknowledged that unspoken but understood fact. Yeah, bloody pain that. He’d got enough of a sense of Jean Grey and her history - either one of them, on that particular count - the last couple of days to know that was a grudge that wasn’t settling. They all had, in fact. But when it had come down to it, talking - or at least thinking - it over with Mantis and Gates a few minutes earlier, the bottom line was still that they were well short a supply of telepaths with either the power or the skill to have any shot at making headway in a case like this. Only other one that might have had the raw strength was Lavender Jones, the bit of spy fluff, and if she hadn’t been able to make her way through the Alpha Pup’s mind to spot the number that had been done by this woman, Hone wasn’t much rating her chances of being able to foot it with the real deal. “Good-o,” he said though, for the affirmation Purple had made for what she’d been willing to do, rather than the allusion to the bugger of a wrinkle in the past history, but that too got a nod, and a serious expression as he met her eyes. Pig’s dinner, all of this, but you did what you could, muddled on through the sty, and set about ensuring you could still get the best pork chops you could raise at the end of it all. The bullroarer’s low whine preceded the reappearance of Gates and Frost. Seeing Purple’s eyes go up and past him, Hone turned his own gaze first to the husband and wife on the bed, doing his best to judge their reactions. He’d looked up at the entrance, she didn’t; not so much as a stutter in her semi-regular shifting, clutching thing she was doing to his leg to indicate she’d even noticed the intrusion. “So this-” Emma began, stepping toward them as Hone turned his head around enough to get a look at her. Same as ever, immaculately kept - wearing those bloody white gloves again that made her look like a leprosy patient, or maybe an old time prefect, ready to check on the dusting job done by his juniors - and precise in her movements. Or at least she had been precise, right up to the point where she pulled up right quick, screwing her face up and emitting an expressive, and not at all elegant noise before placing one hand to her temple. Moment later, it was all gone, the expression on the pale lips back to pristine, cold blue eyes turning their upper-class stare to the side of the bed where he and Purple had gathered. “Do we know how bad it is?” she asked, tone cool, brisk and businesslike as she crossed the remaining distance to the bed. “Or is there a degree of spelunking required before I get to the real work I’m here for?” Purple looked up his way, slight query in her eyes, and the former chieftain nodded. She knew as much as he did, and probably more, and since Mantis was choosing for the moment to keep herself a little way off, back on the other side of the bed, and not volunteering anything, might as well be Purple who gave the explanations. "It's bad enough that Mantis can't help her," she confirmed, looking briefly to her unruffled teammate before turning back again, brow lifting marginally, "but I think you'll find it more a maze than a cave." If that had a particular significance, most of the meaning was lost on Hone, though he reckoned it meant a little more to the green-skinned woman on the other side of the room. Not much of a reaction there, but there was a flicker of tightening in her lips, and a suggestion of a nod too, before Purple kept on with what they’d figured out so far. "She took on at least some of the memories, and from what we've seen at least some of the personality, of the Jean Grey from this dimension. She's going back and forth and sometimes in between, but we really don't know exactly how extensive it is or what kind of damage it's caused." Good job of a summing up, that, but after a quick wee glance to see how Frost was taking it, Hone turned his attention back to the couple on the bed to see how Summers was taking the closest he’d got to an explanation thus far. Could have spared himself the effort, but, for all the readable emotion on the bugger’s face. Slight twitch of something in one side of the jaw, maybe, but he was back playing those cards so close to his chest they were probably inside his singlet. “One soul. Two egos. One and a half banks of memory.” Mantis, choosing to break her own silence, but only for those three cryptic statements, and though Hone looked toward her as soon as she’d started speaking, he could have spared himself the effort there too. Soon as it was over, she was back to the same unruffled look she adopted whenever she’d decided there wasn’t anything better worth doing right at this second. Still, it was something, even if it was a bloody riddle. With a shrug, Hone chose to take that as all they were getting for now, and turned his gaze back to Frost with a measuring expression. “You’re here because we don’t have anyone better on hand, mate,” he said. Simple as it goes. “You up for it?” In the moment of silence that followed right after, Summers spoke. Just one word, but it was doing a job of squeezing its emotions - tightly regulated and controlled, but still there - inside itself. “Please.” |
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| White Queen | Dec 27 2013, 02:20 PM Post #23 |
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Top class breeding, darlings.
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Intriguing. Unnerving. Staggering. Emma was not accustomed to such visible breaks in her composure, however temporary. She found that she cared as little for it now as she ever had. It was a testament to the severity of the situation she’d walked into. Even with all that had changed recently for the Resistance, it would appear that costly victories were still possible, if perhaps no longer the norm. All had known the mission bore a rather unique assortment of risks, none moreso than the woman lying on the bed, staring up with sightless eyes, but Emma doubted any of them anticipated something like this. No matter. After the initial shock, Emma was able to psychically brace herself against the unexpected assault, and regained her usual dignified mien. The former White Queen went straight to business as if the momentary interruption had been no more than a mirage. The trouble was simple enough to assess, what remained was gauging its severity and its precise nature. The other telepaths present might be able to offer some useful information on that. Otherwise Emma expected she was going to have to add a bit of spelunking to her list of preliminary objectives. As per her habit, Mantis remained silent and all but dethatched, her expression smooth and inscrutable. It would be useless to expect a response from her until she deemed one worth her effort. Would that more people held to that policy, although in this case it wasn’t particularly helpful. Kara, fortunately, was not so purposelessly enigmatic as her teammate, and bounced her eyes towards Hone before returning her attention to Emma. "It's bad enough that Mantis can't help her," she stated, which merely reinforced what the woman had the realize Emma had already deduced. The lavender-hued woman glanced toward the serene telepath and her brows made a slight climb toward her hairline. "but I think you'll find it more a maze than a cave." One had to wonder exactly how many caves Purple Girl had explored to make such a comparison, but it seemed she had agreement on that score from Mantis, who gave the very slightest of responses. A press of the lips and a nod so abbreviated it might only have been a shadow. Well then, it would seem they had a consensus on the matter. Emma filed that away as Kara continued, nodding toward where Jean lay clinging to her husband like a broken child. "She took on at least some of the memories, and from what we've seen at least some of the personality, of the Jean Grey from this dimension. She's going back and forth and sometimes in between, but we really don't know exactly how extensive it is or what kind of damage it's caused." That certainly put a sobering wrinkle on things, didn’t it? Emma pressed her lips together and allowed herself the luxury of a sharp intake of breath before releasing it in a more even, focused stream. She regarded the green-haired X-Man on the bed with slightly narrowed eyes, as if she were a bomb that might explode at any moment. It was a wonder the psychic feedback wasn’t worse. She could sense the maelstrom of wills even from here. Worse than anything she’d encountered before, but then, nothing like this, nothing on this scale, had ever happened before, had it? Emma took smooth steps forward, her face set with purpose, homing in on the bed. As she passed the foot, Mantis apparently saw fit to add her own commentary. “One soul. Two egos. One and a half banks of memory.” A riddle, but there was some worth in it all the same. “Do you know if anything beyond memory and ego has transferred over?” She paused next to Kara, expecting she would get no answer from Mantis. Certainly nothing straightforward. If there was even the slightest chance that they might be dealing with a hound, even fifty percent of one, Emma wanted to know. “And what happened to the body it belongs in?” It was perhaps irrelevant, but she saw no reason not to be thorough. Hone looked at her then, as if he were a high school basketball coach preparing to send a fresh player off the bench to fill in for an injured player. “You’re here because we don’t have anyone better on hand, mate, You up for it?” That wasn’t entirely true, but Emma kept that remark to herself. Loathe as she was to admit it, there was someone better, and were that person not the very soul in need of help, Emma would be tempted to advise that the risk was too great even for her. As things stood, however, she was in truth the best qualified to attempt what needed to be done. Before she could answer, however, another voice spoke. Just a single word. Tight, direct, restrained, yet still there was a hint of emotion in there, reigned in as if he feared it might careen out of control if it were allowed to break free. “Please.” Emma glanced over to see him looking up at her, eyes hidden, but the appeal clear on his lips and the set of his jaw. “It would seem I shall have to be ‘up for it,’ as you say,” she said, turning back towards Hone with a humorless smile. She turned back toward the bed and lightly brushed the surface of Jean’s consciousness with her mind, testing the feel. It was sharp and gnarled. A maze, yes. Built from thorns. She was grateful she’d had the foresight to consider just such a scenario when she’d designed and built her mind transfer device. Nothing like this had happened, leaving the plans she’d devised untested, until now, but she remained their best expert in matters such as this. Reaching out, Emma placed her palm against Jean’s forehead. Blue eyes lifted toward Scott and regarded him. “She’s holding on to you as a means to center and ground herself,” she informed him. “No accounting for taste. It would be most helpful if you were to focus on your feelings for your wife.” “I’m not going anywhere,” the man asserted. That would do. The blonde telepath nodded. “Anyone who breaks my concentration will spend the next week believing they’re Carman Miranda,” she warned the room, not bothering to look up. She bent over slightly and did her best to lock eyes with Jean while forging as many anchors as possible to tether herself to. This close, the force of the storm within was nearly enough to rattle Emma’s teeth. A heartbeat passed, and stretched out into timeless infinity as Emma’s astral form stretched out from her physical body as if shedding her own skin. It floated there, in the frozen space between thoughts, wisps of psychic energy rolling off the contours of her mental form. *Jean,* she called out. *Hear me. I don’t care for this any more than you do, but all the same, I’m coming in.* That said, Emma reared back, focused to a pinpoint, and pushed her way into the tempest that was the other woman’s mind. |
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| Jean Grey | Dec 30 2013, 04:08 PM Post #24 |
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Can kill you with her brain.
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There was Scott. She could feel him with her mind. In her mind. A bright column of love like fire, steady and unfailing. A beacon and a light and a foghorn to keep her course through the storm that was her head. The love was warm. Constant. And within it too, those same rods of alloyed feelings, worries, fears, licked by the flames but never able to melt in them, however hot they burned. Three of them. That he’d never be enough. That she’d abandon him, like everyone did. That he’d let her down, fuck it up, and everyone would know. The pillars of Scott Summers. She knew them. Loved them, because they were as much a part of him as all the rest. Reached for them now, folding herself in with them tightly till she could feel the pain they carried, and the accusation he’d never put voice to. She’d done this to him. Scared him. Worried him. Opened him up and left him vulnerable to feelings he wouldn’t be able to control and now she was going to leave and disappear and he’d be alone in the dark, damaged and useless. Yes. That one. It was still there, lurking under everything through all these years, waiting to pounce on him, no matter what she’d done and what she’d tried, and now she was only proving it right, wasn’t she? She wrapped that though around herself, tighter and tighter till the guilt was thick and bright and hot enough when charged through with that same steady love to clear her thoughts, give them a sharpness and a clarity that was almost, almost, almost enough to cut through the howling sob of the other memories that were seething across her mind. Enough to cut, enough to hurt, enough to think. Enough to feel - or maybe finally be aware of - another presence, nosing and brushing and poking at the edges of the storm that was her mind. Familiar? Sharp, though. Acid and diamond hard shell, though it was brittle there in places, wasn’t it? Flawed. Diamond cut, but it shattered too. And it might, if it kept nosing about like that, too close to the storm. *Jean,* she called out. *Hear me. I don’t care for this any more than you do, but all the same, I’m coming in.* Coming in? Coming in? It was... she was there, inside, setting across the walls of wind and loss and despair and rage and pain and loss and loss and hate and loss like a little floating fiberglass raft setting out across a roaring ocean. She caught it, plucked it from the waves, formed a platform, an island, a skerry from a little welling of the clear calm guilt she’d been building for herself. A landscape, barren and desolate, just those same few blasted trees and crumbling buildings that had been there in that forsaken part of nowhere where she’d fought and lost and won and lost, and herself, sitting at the center, doing her best to wrap herself in a cloak of crimson. Ruby quartz, to protect, to hold herself in check, in place. *You.* Jean formed the word from the image of her own mouth, but there was an echo, faint and all around her that she hadn’t meant to put there. It was familiar, that presence. She knew this woman. Both of her. *What are you doing here? Come to finish the job this time?* Make her crazy. Break her mind, crack it open with its power and leave it so others could pick away at it, make use of it. Control her and use her as a tool, that had been what Emma Frost had wanted, all those years ago, wasn’t it? A pet Phoenix, on a leash that she held. *Too late,* Jean said softly, smiling at the humorless irony of it as the word echoed around her, louder than her own voice had been, Late, late late. Her voice too, but not just one other voice, a chorus. *Someone else did it,* she continued from her lips, and pulled her hands up to her face to try to drag that same cloak around her head. Broke me. Broke... me me. said the world, and it was right. A pet on a leash, nothing more than shards of a person. *It was Him.* No. Was that right? The winds were howling stronger, turning their words into shouts and screams. Me. Him. Me. Broken though, whoever it had been. That much they could all agree on. |
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| Purple Girl | Jan 2 2014, 10:18 PM Post #25 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Perhaps Mantis knew more of the exact extent of what was happening in Jean Grey's head, but her often enigmatic teammate wasn't volunteering anything just now, That, Kara supposed, left it to her and Hone to tell Emma Frost what they knew. Which, unfortunately, wasn't very much. A look to Hone and a nod from the Maori man and Purple girl related what little they did know. From what bits she'd seen herself of the inside of the other woman's (or women's) head. More a maze than a cave and that at least got a barely perceptible nod from Mantis. Twisting and turning and folding in on itself. Leading to blind ends and false passages. There was probably a center, a sort of common ground, but you'd need a map of some sort or a great deal of luck to find it. All they really knew with any real certainty, though, was what they'd all seen. This Jean had at least some of the memories and some of the personality of the one native to their own world and it all seemed to be running together in places. Merging like half mixed batter. Sometimes she was this Jean, sometimes she was that one, and sometimes it was almost like she was both. And aside from perhaps Mantis, they had no definite idea of how deep it went. Surface or to the core or somewhere between in that, too. Seeming to absorb all that, the White Queen pursed her lips, eyes narrowing and Kara glanced back with her to the small form on the bed, clinging to her husband. Broken beyond Mantis' repair, would that be true for Emma, too? Would Emma Frost admit it if it were? “One soul. Two egos. One and a half banks of memory.” Mantis spoke up briefly as Emma stepped toward the bed, confirming at least that. It made a strange sort of sense when she put it with what they'd seen in that barren place in Rugby. “Do you know if anything beyond memory and ego has transferred over?” Kara frowned briefly at the telepath. Anything else? What else was there-? But then she thought she understood. The Hound programming. Yeah, that would be a problem. “And what happened to the body it belongs in?” Considering that for a moment, dark purple eyes flickering to Hone, then back to the woman on the bed and her husband again briefly, her own expression tightened. "Gone," she said simply, not willing to elaborate further. Not here. Emma was clever enough to gather anything else she needed from there. "And if she took anything of the Hound," her head cocked briefly back toward the green-haired woman, "we haven't seen it. But that doesn't mean it isn't there." One and a half banks of memory. All they could do was hope that the extra half wasn't anything of Ahab and his programming. “You’re here because we don’t have anyone better on hand, mate,” Hone interjected baldly and with a shrug. Never been one to mince words, had he. “You up for it?” And, after a moment, from Scott Summers, “Please.” Something told Kara that the hearing of that was a rare event. “It would seem I shall have to be ‘up for it,’ as you say,” the telepath remarked after an assessing look toward Scott Summers and turning back to Kiwi Black with a smile that held no amusement. Then the blonde turned back to the pair on the bed and silence fell for another moment while Emma did whatever scouting or assessment she needed. Then she reached out and placed a palm against Jean's forehead. “She’s holding on to you as a means to center and ground herself,” she informed Scott Summers. Kara lifted a brow mildly toward Hone. You didn't really need to be a telepath to figure that part out. "No accounting for taste. It would be most helpful if you were to focus on your feelings for your wife.” Even this man called Cyclops would be hard pressed to do anything other than that, the purple skinned woman suspected, but he duly assured her that, “I’m not going anywhere,” and that seemed to more or less meet the other woman's approval as she nodded and Kara reached up absently to massage her own temple again. Checking the bathroom for aspirin might not be the worst idea in the world at the moment. Before things had a chance to possibly explode violently. “Anyone who breaks my concentration will spend the next week believing they’re Carman Miranda,” the former White Queen announced by way of apparent warning. Despite the throbbing in her own head, Kara emitted a sound caught between a snort and a brief huff of laughter. "I might consider it if you could provide the hat," she muttered with a shake of her head and a semblance of a smile toward Hone, "but you're still welcome to try if you like." Kara fell quiet then, not wanting to really disrupt whatever process Emma was starting. Dark eyes moved from one person to the other in the room. Hone to Mantis to Gateway, almost invisible as he sat in a shadowed corner out of the way. Then to Emma, Jean, and Scott. After a few moments, her brow furrowed. "She's confused. Fighting." Leaning toward him, she whispered the words to Hone. She couldn't hear it or see it, but the turmoil in the air, the psychic resonance, was palpable even to her. Not unexpected, but not the best case scenario, either. Yeah, they were in for a long night. |
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| Kiwi Black | Jan 6 2014, 07:35 PM Post #26 |
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International Bloke of Mystery
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You had to say it for Mantis - when she did decide to speak, she knew how to maximise her moments. Sure as sheep. A few words, but more than enough to get the attention of everyone who wasn’t Ginger herself. “Do you know if anything beyond memory and ego has transferred over?” Frost asked, pausing on her way to the couple on the bed and turning that question over to Kara. Smart move there, since Mantis had gone back to watching them all in a way that didn’t suggest she was disposed to be any more forthcoming just yet. “And what happened to the body it belongs in?” A pair of eyes flicked over to meet his, and Hone met them silently, holding his tongue and keeping a watch on Kara as she made a glance around the room at the others. "Gone," she said for them both, and left it at that. Good on her. The end was a necessary fact to be confirmed, the details... well, they deserved a wee bit more than that and this. "And if she took anything of the Hound," her head cocked briefly back toward the green-haired woman, "we haven't seen it. But that doesn't mean it isn't there." Hone nodded once. Hard to imagine Hound programming could have lain dormant through all the business that had gone down in Rugby, and all of this here, with so many juicy targets around, but you never did quite know, and it wasn’t something to mess about with too much confidence over. “I’d put my money on no, but as bets go, there could be safer,” he offered as his own estimation of the probably slim possibility, then got back to the main thrust of business. Right now, they didn’t have anyone better than Frost on hand for this, whatever the bloody hell this was. As far as endorsements went... well, it’d do. Only question was, was she up for it? Well, wouldn’t you know - still some surprises to be had here, like that ‘please’ that had just fallen - been pushed, really - from Summers’ lips. Hone wouldn’t have thought he had the word in his vocabulary, based on the interactions he’d had with him so far, but there you went. Looked like maybe Frost wouldn’t have thought it of the bloke too, but if she was surprised at all, she recovered quickly enough, turning back Hone’s way with a humorless smile. “It would seem I shall have to be ‘up for it,’ as you say,” she said. He nodded again. Wasn’t much else to be done, for any of them. And the blonde telepath got started, taking on one of those bloody mysterious looks of concentration you got used to after a while, then apparently deciding that it wasn’t enough and reaching out to lay one white hand over the green-haired woman’s forehead, and informing her husband that eggs were eggs, and his wife was making him her anchorline. The dig about his taste wasn’t bad though - had to have a wee bit of respect for any sheila who could still find time for the petty personal digs while in the midst of business, eh. “I’m not going anywhere,” the man asserted. Not rising to the bait from this one, at least. Good-o. Better than the fact that Purple had one hand at her bloody temple again, and bugger all that could really be done about that right now. “Anyone who breaks my concentration will spend the next week believing they’re Carman Miranda,” [Frost] warned the room, and since she wasn’t looking up, Hone didn’t bother to do a thing to hide a stupid bugger of a grin that broke when a wee guffaw escaped from Purple next to him. "I might consider it if you could provide the hat," she muttered with a shake of her head and a semblance of a smile toward Hone, who met it with some more of his own, "but you're still welcome to try if you like." *This one would enjoy wearing the hat.* The words appeared in his mind, and this time the New Zealander would have called it a bet as safe as houses that it was only in his mind. Mantis, of course. Who the bloody hell else would think this was the right time for putting that kind of tease in her tone? ‘Cept him, of course. Private like. *Only if you’re not wearing anything else, mate.* *It could be arranged.* Right, all fun and diversions till somebody lost a mind, and seeing as they were looking a wee bit past that already, Hone didn’t let that particular exchange take up too much of his own, keeping part of his attention on the couple on the bed and the white woman who’d elected to take up that burden, and part still on the woman beside him. The frowning woman beside him. Bugger. The tattooed man bent in to meet her halfway as she leaned toward him, waiting to hear her analysis of the situation. "She's confused. Fighting." A whisper, but clear enough. Gaze turning back to the green-haired woman, not that he had the knack of seeing anything like Purple or Frost or Mantis had to be seeing right now, Hone nevertheless gave her a shrewd looking over before nodding again. “Wish I could say I was surprised, eh,” he remarked, not quite as quietly as Purple had. Maybe he should have thought about that a little more, too, because he could just about have bet the flock that Summers had pricked up his attention at the sound, even without moving a muscle. “That’s a bloody great dose of self-loathing she copped, on top of the more than decent base of it she already had going.” Didn’t take a genius to spot that about Mrs Summers, that was for bloody sure. Or at least not if you’d got her started on the tack he had when he’d first broached this. Not nearly as self-assured as she thought she needed to present to the world, but... yeah, he’d got the husband’s attention now, hadn’t he? Funny how you got the knack of spotting a glare behind that visor before too long, and that was definitely what was being directed over toward he and Purple right now. Ahh, bugger. “You don’t know Jean. She’s strong. Stronger than anyone,” Summers declared, a stony edge on his voice. Yeah, bugger was the word. What were you supposed to say to that? Didn't even sound like the bloke really wanted anyone to agree with him, lest they be accused of thinking they knew her as well as he did. Better maybe just turn his own gaze back to Purple now, eh? Yeah, good enough plan right now. |
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| White Queen | Jan 12 2014, 11:44 AM Post #27 |
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Top class breeding, darlings.
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The answers were roughly what Emma had expected, but the confirmation was nonetheless useful. She wasn't overly fond of undertaking a task like a task such as this without having a reasonable idea of what it was she was getting herself into. No body. That did eliminate a few options for dealing with this. Better options. Options that would be far preferable, if not necessarily more pleasant for all involved. Of more immediate concern was the possibility that some measure of the hound programming was swirling around in that clash of egos and souls Mantis had so helpfully described. If that turned out to be the case, they had much more in the way of problems than Emma had originally surmised. Kara's testimony on the matter was hardly encouraging, for that matter. Nor was Hone's remark about the bet not being exactly the safest. If so, she'd have to deal with that as well, wouldn't she? Although perhaps not just her. The delicate work ahead might require her unique touch, but dealing with a hound was something all the telepaths on the room could assist with. And given the hound in question, that might still not be enough. The biggest surprise of the whole thing turned out to be Scott Summers, who seemed to have found the fortitude to politely use the magic word. Would wonders never cease with these visitors from beyond? All the same, he was not who Emma would have selected as a source of stability, but the woman did have the poor taste to marry the man in the first place. It was just as well. So long as he cooperated and focused on his affection for the woman, they stood a far better chance of a reasonable success. So long as she was free of distractions, that was. If anyone, especially a certain Mutant Messiah, was so unwise as to break her concentration, the consequences would be dire. She would see to it herself. Not that her comrades in arms were about to take that seriously. That would be too much to expect from them. It was one of the unfortunate elements of solidarity, she supposed. They were free to be amused if they liked, her warning was meant more for the troubled man holding on to Emma's new patient. This was all going to be very unpleasant, she was sure. Whether Jean liked it or not, she was coming in. Emma certainly didn't care for it, so at least they'd have something in common for once. There was a flicker at Emma's message. An awareness, a recognition. That was either a good sign, or a very, very worrisome one. She'd find out which soon. A moment later, she was there, the tension of forcing her way through suddenly releasing like a rubber band. She was falling- no, spinning, through the turbulent psychic waves around her. As if she were caught adrift in a sea surrounded by black winds and thunder. She threw up a shield before her to stay the barrage, but she still had no sense of direction, tossed about wherever it flowed. Emma desperately tightened her grip on the anchor, felt it strain against her as she began to right herself. Now if she could just- The other picked her up then as a child might snatch up a dollhouse figurine. She was carried away before she could register the shift, and a moment later she was unceremoniously deposited onto a calm pocket within the storm. Small, but solid beneath her and clear of the blinding waves rising around her. Around them. Jean was right in front of her. Cloaked in a particular kind of red. Ruby. Of course she would be. Watching her. *You.* the redheaded telepath said, and the words reverberated like an echo chamber- no, like a twisted chorus. A second, cold voice hitching itself to the words. Changing, but all the same. One and two. *What are you doing here? Come to finish the job this time?* Well, that certainly established that a Jean was a Jean, no matter how many, from where or what state she was in, didn't it? There was more mockery in her tone than suspicion, however. The suspicions were still there, though. Bitter memories from a life contesting with some other version of the White Queen. Emma was not a welcome visitor, but compared to the other occupant in her mind, merely an irritant the other telepath could much more easily put up with. *Too late,* she continued in faint voice. Her lips formed a thin smile, the same sort one might find on Anthony Perkins or Mary Todd Lincoln. The second voice became a loud chorus, a tinkling cascade, as if Jean's sanity were a crumbling cliffside, each falling bit of stone a note far greater than the source. *Someone else did it,* she continued and slid her hands up to her face, as if to scrub it. She'd either forgotten her MacBeth, or was something of aficionado. *It was Him.* The chorus was now swarm of screaming, angry voices. A rioting mob howling their outrage. The winds around them began to close in, eating away at their tiny atoll. If it swallowed them up, Emma knew she'd be swept up again, and finding Jean once more could very well be impossible. Me. Him. Me. Broken words, fractured voices. Anger and despair. Emma clenched her heart against the cold fear threatening to spill inside and did the only thing she could in the seconds she had remaining. She raised one hand, opened her palm, and swung at Jean's face. Perhaps she might slap a bit of sense back into her. The hand struck, the impact resonating through her arm with the psychic feedback. That had been deliciously satisfying, even if chances were high she would soon regret it. *I am here to help you!* she shouted, straining to be heard above the cacophony. *Your hysterics are neither welcome nor useful. There is none here save us, do you understand?* They couldn't afford to have her mind on him. Not for this. They were too close to the edge as it was. Far too close. |
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| Jean Grey | Jan 17 2014, 06:25 PM Post #28 |
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Can kill you with her brain.
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Broken. Broken, broken, broken, all in pieces. That was Him. Or maybe it had been her. Her fault, all of it. The voices howled it, shouted it, whispered it. All at once and over and over, because all that mattered was that it was over and true and done and broken. And now, here was Emma Frost. Too late, but showing up for the party anyway. Scared though. Frightened of the winds and the chaos, now that they were here. She should be afraid. This was what she’d wanted. Now, Jean watched almost idly, removed even from the processes of her own mind, as the woman in white found some resolution. Enough to strike, on a flat-handed dull slap that reverberated down through Jean into the tiny island and all the roar of voices around them, all at once, a single resonating tone in a discordant sea of noise. *I am here to help you!* The words were small, in comparison to the roaring of the voices around them, but polished, focused with a determination that cut across the noise. *Your hysterics are neither welcome nor useful. There is none here save us, do you understand?* Though the force of the blow had rattled the blood-red folds of the cloak wrapped around her, and shook the ground they stood on, Jean herself didn’t wince or cry out. But she did stop, gaze narrowing in again to a careful, more intent focus that she trained on the platinum blonde woman before her, and the noise outside of them stilled to a living, breathing silence. *Is that what you think?* she asked quietly, and smiled, nearly laughing for the complete absence of humor in any part of this. No one here but them. Yes, it was funny. She did laugh, but then she paused to think, tilting her head to one side and considering the other woman through green eyes, even as the words made her stop to consider herself. *Hmmm... and you’re right, aren’t you?* she decided after a moment. *No Phoenix to hide behind. No Madelyne Pryor.* The world rippled once, twice, as though shrinking back from each name, but it stood, and Jean did too, slipping the ruby robe from her shoulders as she rose. *Just Emma Frost, and Jean Grey.* The robe fell in clouds to her feet, and Jean reshaped it again, to form a low solid plinth on which she perched, legs dangling over the edge while she leaned over her knees and peered toward the blonde, standing alone before her. *Would you like to finish this job, Emma?* she asked. Erase me. No More Jean Grey, the walls of the world moaned in answer. She was Jean Grey. All of her. Both of her. She wouldn’t be taken apart. But maybe she should. No more hurting. No more hurting the world. No more hurting other people. No more hurting her. No more Jean Grey. Maybe that really would be better for everyone. |
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| Purple Girl | Jan 22 2014, 06:58 PM Post #29 |
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I Can Make You Love Me
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Would there be anything of the Hound taken from the woman and brought into this one? A question none of them really had answer for. A chance Emma Frost would have to take. Nothing they'd seen so far indicated that there was any of that programming laying in wait inside the mind of the broken woman on the bed, but who could really know? Not her, certainly. Not Hone, but he at least seemed to share her gut feeling that the part of their own Jean Grey that had been Ahab's Hound had been left in that field in Rugby. Still, it was a risk and one worth noting and keeping in mind. As for the threats of being turned into Carmen Miranda if they disturbed the other woman's concentration, well, as threats went she'd seen worse. It wouldn't be so bad if Emma could provide the hat. Hone was silent, but there was a grin on his face all the same. That was all either of them could really contribute at the moment, as the White Queen delved into the mind of another. A woman Kara wasn't sure would welcome her presence there in any way. Sure enough, though she didn't have any way to 'see' what was happening for herself, she'd learned to recognize the ripples and currents in the psychic plane, especially when they took a sudden jump as they just had. No, Jean Grey wasn't going to quietly cooperate. She was confused, fighting. Kara could 'feel' the struggle in a way she couldn't explain but that she commented on quietly to Kiwi Black as her expression drew into a frown. He leaned toward her to catch her words, keen eyes looking over the green-haired woman before he nodded. “Wish I could say I was surprised, eh,” he remarked, voice slightly louder than her own had been. “That’s a bloody great dose of self-loathing she copped, on top of the more than decent base of it she already had going.” Her own lavender eyes shifting, Kara nodded slowly, slight frown still etched into her features. Yes, she did have that, didn't she? Did a decent job of hiding it behind a veneer of confidence, but bits leaked out here and there. No one with the real confidence and belief in themselves and their own competence that Jean tried to project asked someone to kill them first and ask questions later if things seemed to be going pear shaped. “You don’t know Jean. She’s strong. Stronger than anyone,” Scott Summers declared, attention trained on them and voice hard edged. Kara met that visor hiding his eyes for a moment, head cocked. Is that what he really believed? Or what he wanted to believe? And which was the worst disservice to his wife? Or maybe it was just what a husband in these circumstances that he hadn't asked for and hadn't wanted needed to believe. Needed to hold onto so he wouldn't go crazy himself. Kara Killgrave could understand that, in a way, as she felt Hone's attention shift back to her. "Yes, she's very strong," Purple girl agreed, still watching that visor. There was a link there, wasn't there? Between him and his wife? He had to be aware of the struggle going on, maybe even more so than anyone else here. He had to feel that, didn't he? "But no one is that strong," she added, keeping her tone even, away from any edge of irritation or blame as she remembered that request in Stamford, knowing he wouldn't like hearing it and that it might not be her place to say it, "No one should have to be." Everyone needed a release valve from the pressure, someone or something to lean on. The right not to have to be 'stronger than anyone' or anything, all the time, every second. Right now, his wife needed to be allowed to let the rest of them help her fight, including him. Or they were already fighting a losing battle. |
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| Kiwi Black | Jan 26 2014, 11:15 PM Post #30 |
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International Bloke of Mystery
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Self-loathing. Never all that difficult to spot really, even in the ones who thought they were hiding it from themselves. Definitely hadn’t been all that bloody difficult to see in the green-haired woman who was on that bed, even before whatever this was had left her with that great bugger of a dose that seemed like it might have been the greater part of what her double had left to her. Slight nod from Purple there, slight knitting of violet brows. Yeah, she’d seen it too, no doubt of that in Hone’s mind right now. She didn’t say anything though in answer, and probably neither should he. Bunch of onlookers, standing around dissecting a battle which wasn’t theirs, even before it was over, and for what? Probably shouldn’t have said the words, eh. Definitely shouldn’t have said them as loud as he had, either, because it seemed they’d got Summers’ attention there. Not all that difficult to spot a bloody glare behind that visor either, not once you got the knack of it, and that was one the man was training on him now, before he declared, in a still, stone-cold voice, that they didn’t know her. That she was strong. Stronger than anyone? Well, that was the way of it, eh? Hone let the bloke stare him down, for all the good it would do him, turning his own gaze instead to Purple, and watching her as she raised her own eyes toward the man in the visor. Frank, and considering, that was the look in her eyes, that way he’d seen her take before. Stepping back from herself, and weighing whatever it was that had crossed her path to take their measure, and giving away precious little of what she might think of it in the process. "Yes, she's very strong," she agreed in the end, purple eyes still seeming to weigh the man before her. Not judging, maybe, or not too much of that. But weighing, yeah, that was there. "But no one is that strong," she added, while Hone looked from one to the other, and then on to the green-haired woman on the bed. "No one should have to be." Dark eyes flicking back to Purple for a moment, Hone nodded, the barest tilt of a chin for agreement, then back to Grey, or Summers, or Ginger, or whatever it was that there was to call her. She looked still now, more than she had been. A wee bit calmer, maybe, but the former chieftain wasn’t sure that was all that much of a relief. You saw it happen, if you stuck round long enough in the world and kept your eyes open, in a person who’d been broken, fighting themselves. Point when they went calm? That was the most dangerous one of of all for them. Or maybe what the bloody hell did he know? Summers had a toehold or more in her head, didn’t he, and the bloke was watching Purple, not his wife. “She is,” he insisted, stubborn as a kid who was watching someone come for his last toy, though without the heat or the heart. Just conviction there, rock-hard certainty. Stony as a volcanic plateau, and about as hospitable to anything that wasn’t itself. “She just doesn’t have faith in herself.” The way of it, and then some, apparently. Kiwi Black lifted his eyes from the woman, put them over on the man and his bloody visor, and watched him for a moment before speaking. “You tell her that, mate?” he asked quietly, but the bugger didn’t answer. Looked away, maybe - Hone thought he might have at least, seemed like his attention had turned stiffly back to the woman, to Frost, and whatever it was that was going on inside their heads. That or he just hadn’t had an answer to that. Either way, didn’t look like there was one coming back at them, and so instead, after keep his gaze steady on the other man for another long moment, Hone turned his attention back to the others still here, Purple and Mantis. “Bugger this. There something we can do?” he asked them. Mantis took a bit longer to think about it than you usually saw from her this time, but when she did, it was as calm and warm and about as halfway to cryptic as ever. “There are some who would hold their faith in other people,” she said, and looked to both Kara and Hone, and was silent again. Righto. |
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3:33 AM Jul 11