(no subject)
=NYC= Alcove - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
The staircase opens onto a large alcove centerpieced by two full-length windows that overlook the gardens. Chairs flank the windows, nestled into corners and guarding the upper levels of the north and south wings.
Did somebody say awkward? It /is/ awkward--the neutral ground between Black and White, King and Queen. A well lit little space that serves as nothing more than a place to pass through, and yet, it is still a place. Emma, en route to or from some rendezvous, dressed for the day's business, reaches for the curve of banister.
Cool grey is tailored close to broad shoulders and long arms. The suit is a familiar one, all three pieces. The metal briefcase at the suit's side and the sling its other arm rests in as it ascends the stairs: also potentially familiar. The head on top of the suit is something different altogether. Lurid blue light ghosts from the recesses of empty, screened sockets in the place of eyes, and white vapor wisps in recurrent streams from gaps in the shaping of an alien metal skull. Xorn's heavy jaw retains its permanent leer when he finally crests the top stair, and he has to turn his upper body to get a clear look at her.
Emma can't help it. She is startled. Familiar though the body may be, the face is enough to unsettle anyone. "What the--?!" Her backwards step is less than graceful, a slender heel tipping sideways and forcing her to grab for the banister. Telepathy flares defensively, only to slap ineffectively at the Xorn helmet.
"Morning." says Xorn. It sounds like less of a greeting than a robotic, resonant statement. Yes, it is morning. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, there is a hiss. Twin jets of steam flare from the joint at either jaw, the eyes go dim, and the face mask pushes out a spare inch or so -- enough that Erik is able to set down his briefcase and lift the heavy contraption off his head. All associated tubing and some wiring trails after it to reveal the pardoned (and now slightly ruffled) terrorist beneath.
Emma straightens as the mask is removed, her expression growing more sour and grumpy as the surprise and shock blend into recognition. She blows a breath out and eyes him with wary peevishness. "Good morning. /Erik/."
Less ruffled by Emma's displeasure than he was the claustrophobic fit of the helmet, Erik smiles thinly at her and turns his hand over. The loosed helmet drifts out of it, trailing the thickest of its tubing in mockery of a spine. Thusly relieved of that burden, he stoops back after his briefcase.
Emma folds her arms in front of her and shifts her weight warily back to the offending heel as she follows the path of the disembodied head with her eyes. "Why are you wearing that thing again?" she asks, her voice trilling up at the end into a hint of suspicion of mental instability motivating the wearing.
"So that I am not forced to murder the press. And, so that they would not follow me here." His eyes follow her attention towards the helmet, and there is an odd sort of...affection there, for the craft of it. Not strictly all that stable in itself. "I'm leaving, Emma."
"Mm?" She pulls her attention off the tangled web of metal and cable and shifts it toward Erik. "That's good. You should enjoy your new found liberation." For as long as it lasts. "Any place in particular?"
"I'm leaving the Circle." Clarification seems necessary, and Erik finally turns his head back to look at her again, clear eyes searching for some sign that she has misunderstood intentionally.
There is none. There is also no sign that she is particularly surprised. Just a sort of blank wall of expression broken by a slow blink. "Permanently?"
The lack of surprise is received with resignation, and it's a moment before Erik lifts his brows and replies, "Assuming you have no future disaster planned that might require the reining in and reorganization of your pawns."
She sucks in her lower lip slightly and bites. It slides out again a moment later when she flicks her gaze away and back again, and shakes her head. "Nothing as such is planned. I..." Emma falters, then narrows her eyes and purses her lips. "What are /your/ plans?"
"Plans?" The question seems to surprise him. Mildly, anyway. The corners of his mouth tug down, to be followed by a similar downward twitch of his brows. "No plans. Just..." His shoulders lift into a distant shrug.
Emma's mouth twitches and she is quiet for a moment. Her hands fall, one to the banister, the other drifts downward slowly to her side. "If this is what you desire, so be it. Our hand shall remain open to you, however. Let me know if you desire assistance in the future." The words seem cold and formal, though perhaps practiced and polished is closer. Her hand, unanchored by anything, floats back up in a softening gesture.
"What I desire." Is there an echo in here? Erik chuckles, then shakes his head. Dismissive. "All that I ask is that you continue to allow Ellen to work with Bahir."
"Of course." The hand turns over, palm up.
"I will announce my intentions to the pawns. A few of them may be displeased." Business to business, Erik glances down, then lifts a hand from his briefcase (which floats in place this time) to fix his collar where it was flared around Xorn's tubing.
"They will adapt." Or else. "I am sure they will appreciate the communication, though." Her hand twitches, a half-step forward to fix his collar for him aborted quickly. She tilts her head, eyes brightening slightly. "Do keep in touch."
"Mmm," says Erik. He does not brighten, but remains focused on the task of his collar. It's managed deftly enough one-handed, all things considered, and Emma's aborted effort gets a glance before he resumes his grip upon the briefcase.
Little enough to say now. Emma nods and resumes her forward motion, only this time angling for the stairs instead of his collar. She pauses, her shoulder pointed toward him, and looks across it at him. "Thank you, Erik. I am sorry we couldn't have made this work."
"So am I." Her look is met with one that is direct, at least, for all that it's rather lifeless, and he turns to go his own way. On to his office to collect the last of his papers.
With a nod, she too turns away, down the stairs, and on with her day.