3/18 - Jake
3/18/2010
=XF= White Queen's Suite - Third Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
The heart of the White Queen's rule reflects her color and her taste. Spotless white cover floor and walls--all but the outer window wall that surveys the gardens and the East River beyond them. A lushly upholstered couch in the corner offers a perch for enjoying that view or simply relaxing, with an end table and lamp at hand for reading.
The room's decor lies in the furniture. A slab of gray-veined marble rests atop safety-glass legs and lays clean and empty; the wooden paneling behind her does the work of hiding an impressive array of technology. A sweeping throne of a chair sits behind the desk, and two rather more modest chairs crouch in front of the desk, available for supplicants or other guests. The most recent remodel of the room has utilized non-metallic elements where possible.
A door leads to an adjoining suite, where white reigns with a regal decisiveness softened by fine fabrics, lush carpeting, and the suffusion of well-bred taste. The bed stands sleek with satins and down-plumped pillows, its ash-blond frame matching the wood of its paired night stands and the long, low-slung bureau against one silk-papered wall. Across the room, layers of gauze curtain shield tall windows; a high-backed armchair reigns in a corner there, attended by wide ottoman and neat reading lamp. One door leads into a large walk-in closet and another opens in on a bathroom of echoing design and decor.
Winter still clings to the the Big Apple. Not in the City proper, where the heat of thousands of bodies transmutes moisture to muck and steam almost before it touches down, but rather in the estates tucked into secured enclaves in and around the City. Gray snow lingers in icy piles next to shady walls and under trees that line long driveways, at the end of which the Hellfire Mansion casts its shadow in more way than one. Early afternoon means a still quiet locale, and the foyer and hallways Jake is led along is muffled and still under formality's choke hold. A small fire burns down in the fireplace of the suite she is ushered into past a discreetly placed pawn, but beyond that and a silky-haired dog dozing in front of it, there is no immediate sign of life.
Telepathy is a muted presence behind shielding, though Jake does offer a quick mental glance in search of the warm glow of fellow psionic ability. Dressed in a charcoal, well-tailored skirtsuit with a bright splash of color in the silk, lavender blouse underneath and dark heels, she has obviously long ago learned the lesson of dressing for her height. She strides on even clicks of heels to take a seat in front of the desk, casually assuming invitation and permission. Her dark hair is pulled loosely back in an artfully mussed twist of an updo, but chocolate snatches of waves escape to brush gently against her face. She waits.
Almas lifts her head at the stranger's intrusion and slowly climbs to her feet to pad over to investigate. A few snuffling pokes with her elegant snout satisfy her and she returns to the edge of a nearby chair to sit and wait. Emma doesn't make her wait long. A few minutes later, the door opens ahead of a fashion plate in dark slacks and french-cuffed linen, white shot through with tiny, silver threads, all lines pressed crisp and clean. Emma pulls two envelopes out of a stack in her hands and turns to hand the rest off to the pawn outside the door. "Ms. Janssen." Quick, efficient strides eat up the distance between door and desk, and the envelopes are tossed on the desk.
Beneath the designer looks, her presence pulses with suppressed power, glacial in it's measure and force, the touch that she spins off her mind practiced and sure and precise as it brushes against Jake's shielding. Emma hooks a hip onto the edge of her desk and folds her arms in front of her as she arches a slim brow and looks at her calculatingly.
One hand drops from the arm of her chair to offer for Almas's inspection, the slight curve of a familiar smile touching Jake's lips. It returns when the dog retreats. "Ms. Frost," she returns, respectful in a particularly unfeigned way. There is quick interest in both her gaze and mental aspect, muted appreciation for the woman in front of her on a number of levels: the office, the clothes, the unconcealed allure of her. But most of all the power. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
"The notice was particularly compelling," Emma notes easily, faint amusement and interest shifting and folding under her tone's gloss. Ie, Jake pulled the right strings. "What has brought you here?" The slight emphasis on the last word spins out layers of different meanings.
"I understand that you're familiar with my employer," Jake says to start, "and the other telepath who works there." The smile curves a touch dry across carefully glossed lips. "Tom Sikorski is very -- limited in what he's willing to do with his powers. Which makes him a particularly limited instructor."
Emma tips her head to the other woman's understanding, though her face remains a neutral mask. At least until understanding brings an appreciative curve to the corner of her mouth. She leans against one hand on the desktop and drops her gaze, her lashes lowering as a dark veil over eyes brilliant in color and clarity. In their absence her mental eye focuses on Jake's mind, power peeling away in layers to first touch, then cling to Jake's shielding like wet silk. "I see. And you feel... /restrained/ by such limitations?" she asks carefully.
"Yes." The answer comes clear and firm, the sentiment of her tone echoed in the coloring of her mind. Jake resists the urge to retreat, to pull shielding closer around her in response to the new touch. Instead she holds steady, reaching with a mental finger as if in some careful imitation of the Creation of Adam. "I have spent most of my life restraining instead of exploring." And here her smile turns the tiniest bit self-deprecating -- as much as is possible for her. "Wasted time."
"Exploring requires the will to search and exploit and conquer. You would be /safer/ with that restraint." Emma unwraps her powers, leaving a sense of a hollow void in their place, and pushes up and off her desk, turning her back on Jake. There is an invitation there, a questioning of Jake's will and instincts.
"Danger doesn't bother me," Jake says, smile settling to an expression more narrow, more interested. "I am trained to take care of myself." This goes beyond mutation: as Emma's mind retreats, Jake's follows, full of the promise of raw potential that mingles with physical aptitude and sharply honed skills. Yes, she knows how to take care of herself.
"Not like this. Not in this way," Emma retorts from her position behind the desk, one hand steepling on the top, fingertips pressing whitely against the slab. The return of her power is quick and teeth rattling when it rushes to meet Jake's own. And yet it is careful too; it does not crush or pierce or break. It tests, weighing strength and measuring skills. Her face sets in cold lines and her eyes narrow in concentration. << Show me your ambition. Show me why I should bother with you. >>
Breath catches and shields bend but do not break under that rush of power. Jake flexes against it, the strength of her telepathy pressing and snapping against Emma's. Excitement surges with the clash and testing. She shows her. Ambition is so seeped into every fold and corner of her mind it is hard to miss, but she actions speak louder than words, as it were. She does not just press and snap: she casts of any fear of this larger force -- and how she knows it -- and /pushes/. Her power is wielded with a particular viciousness that belies a chilling willingness to use it: it surges and crackles with the thrill of muscularity.
Muscle meets power, battering against it like the sea thundering against coastal city storm walls. It seeks and seeps along seams and fissures until it is through, and Emma turns the tides to pull her in close. Her mental touch is cold and smooth, slipping along the lines of the other telepath's powers and giving her no purchase in return. << Oh, pet, >> she purrs, the sound a caress that slides like ice over overheated skin. << The things I could do with you. >>
Jake takes in a slow breath through her nose, skin and mind both heating in some twisted anticipation that is almost desire. Her power claws for purchase, seeking nicks or cracks in those whitewashed walls with a glee that is almost playfulness, but for the ruthless drive behind it. << If you show me, >> she says, pressed against those walls. << Anything you want. >> Willingness flares in offering: not only does she want to explore the breadth of her power, she has already begun in distinctly unmerciful fashion.
The walls of Emma's fortress bend and twist to enclose Jake's clawing, holding on to her like a child trying to hold onto a angry cat. << Shh, >> she soothes, the chill of her presence warming as she detangles her mind from Jake's, a thread at a time. Reality reasserts itself, and she sits down heavily in her chair. "I'll show you," she agrees, voice rough.
Under Emma's firm enclosure, Jake's power calms and settles, though it clings for the briefest moment when she begins to depart. "Thank you." With more sincerity than Jake is usually capable of, the words are wrapped and hugged in a need that goes beyond mere curiosity. "Titan offers a certain outlet for my skills, but--"
Emma bends the tips of her fingers against her temples and rubs surreptitiously. "Speaking of... These lessons are not the kind of thing that can be done long-distance." There is a question to the statement, probing after intentions.
"I didn't think so," Jake replies, the crook of her smirk bland as she settles back into her chair with the appearance of casualness. It does not quite hide the crackling energy that still shivers in her muscles. "I can get work anywhere I go; I'm very good at what I do." Arrogance comes easy.
Emma's eyes are hard and bright as she considers the woman across the desk from her. "Yes. I'm sure you are," she says slowly, moving her finger from her temple to her lips, pillowing it lightly. She is quiet another moment, and then the finger falls away and she reaches to pull out a drawer. She extracts a business card and slides it across the desk to Jake. "When you are prepared be more /selective/ in your employment, call this number."
Jake picks up the business card, glancing down at the number and then returning her gaze to Emma's. The card flips between her fingers with a sharp, papery sound. "I will," she promises, the headiness of anticipation clamped down under self-restraint. "Soon."
Emma's smile is predatory satisfaction. "Good." Her brow twitches, then settles into a graceful arc as she rises and gestures toward the door. "In the meantime, may I show you the club's /other/ benefits?" There is no innuendo there. None at all.
"I," Jake says, rising just a breath after Emma, "am a huge fan of benefits." She smooths down the line of her jacket and skirt in an idle gesture. Though she lacks the grace of Emma's form and height, she moves with a rippling comfort in her own body.
All the benefits you can handle, baby.