2014.09.15 - A New Direction

It has not yet hit the news that Emma Frost has resigned from the Academy of Tomorrow, the institution that she built and cultivated with her own two hands and an absurd amount of money. People "in the know" are already buzzing with gossip, so it's only a matter of time. Rather than face the press on this, Emma has chosen the elegant coward's way out, and absconded to the Riviera for a vacation.

Emma is dressed in her usual all white everything, sitting on the patio of an upscale cafe. It's night out, and the lights are up everywhere, and it's all very glamorous. Emma has on white-rimmed sunglasses, perhaps to keep that glamour away. She's sipping coffee and has barely touched a small plate of nouvelle cuisine. Alone, with her thoughts...

"KAFF! KAFF!"

And so ends one of the shortest smoking careers in history. Scott Summers hands a cigarette back to the woman who apparently offered to share it with him, his face turning slightly red as his coughs continue. This, of course, causes the woman no end of amusement, and she says something teasing in French.

Unlike most cafe patrons, Scott seems to prefer to hang out indoors, near the counter. Which makes him a target for the handful of people who assume that he must be some rich muckity from the States. He kind of gives off that vibe, what with the casual suit, the complete inability to speak the native language, and the ease with which he hands over his credit card to pay for a meal that costs enough to feed him for a week back home.

But as he picks through his food, it's obvious that he's not interested in whatever fancy glop it is that he purchased. In fact, he seems to be paying only cursory attention to the people who talk to him. He does a pretty good job of hiding it, and his red shades help greatly in that department, but he seems to be mostly scoping out the people outside.

Emma is used to being watched. The Hellfire Club is a great place to go if you want to constantly feel watched, while also watching others in turn. It helps too that Emma is not a particularly ethical telepath.

The waiter comes and asks if Emma wants another coffee; she accepts; the whole transaction is conducted in flawless French.

Still, the feeling of being watched nags at Emma. She decides to confront the feeling directly. She sets down her fresh coffee and strides inside purposefully, beelining right to Scott. It's obvious he's been 'made' from the first step she takes. When she reaches Scott, she tilts her sunglasses up and looks him up and down, perhaps judging the cost of his suit. "If you're not going to come and ask me, darling," she says in her English accent, "I'll have to come and ask you. Is there something I can help you with?"

For the briefest of moments, Scott's mental patterns probably give off a very 'Oh shit! I'm caught!' vibe. But this is, perhaps mysteriously, quickly suppressed. Thank goodness for Professor Xavier's strict telepathic resistance classes.

The women to Scott's right give Emma an incredibly nasty look, and then immediately start talking amongst themselves. The word 'putain' is muttered a few times, though what they're saying is mostly drowned out by the noise of the cafe.

With his back still toward Emma, the young X-Man's smile goes unseen. He manages to keep more than a trace of it from showing up in his voice as he responds. "I hope you know, Miss Frost, that you've completely ruined my dramatic entrance. But while you're here, I guess you might as well have a seat, and let me think up another way to make a strong impression." His tone is earnest, his words uncomplicated. But his motives, those are pretty well shrouded.

Emma continues regarding Scott with care. The words of the women are ignored. "Young man, as dramatic as you wished your entrance to be, perhaps the theatre is not your calling." The corner of her mouth crooks: this is as close to a smile as she's getting for the moment. She actually sounds a bit tired. Not jet-lagged, but... weary. Considering the circumstances, is it strange?

Emma does sit down next to Scott, and motions for the waiter to bring her yet another drink, s'il vous plait. "So. You plainly know me. And I can't imagine it a terrible coincidence that you turn up across the world in the same cafe as me. You're one of Charles's foundlings, are you not? Enlighten me, my dear, as to why I am sitting here right now."

"I've got no idea why you came to this cafe..." One of Scott's brown eyebrows arches over the rim of his glasses as he regards the woman with a look of confusion. "Oh! You mean why are you 'here' and not still outside." He indicates to the waiter that the woman's drink is on his card. It's a completely meaningless gesture, as she's got way too much money to ever miss the price of the drink and the money that Scott is currently using is actually the Professor's plastic. But still, at least he makes an attempt at gentlemanliness, no matter how slight.

"You're here because you're curious. Now, the only time a person is curious, at least in my experience, is when they don't really have anything interesting going on at the moment." He doesn't really ever confirm or deny who he works for, content instead to just concede the point, accept that he's not as mysterious as he would hope, and move on. "Which leads me to assume two further things about you. First, you're in a bit of a rut."

"And Second, you might be looking to make a change."

1. Unethical telepath,

2. Ruby quartz sunglasses tend to stand out even in dossiers.

Emma receives yet another coffee. She's avoiding liquor for the time being, mostly because that's how she spent the morning, alone with the most expensive bottle of champagne she could find. "A 'rut.'" Emma actually seems offended, in her own low-key way.

"Absolutely thrilling psychoanalysis, darling. I was gripped by how intimately your fingers caressed every hidden expanse of my mind. Would that Freud had had you backing him up." Emma has a sip of coffee. "I have to say, my dear. If you're here on behalf of Charles, I wish he had sent one with a silver tongue... instead of just the eye candy." She's very attentive to Scott, visually at least.

"I don't really need to understand the human mind. I teach math. But I'm sure Freud would have all sorts of theories about why you always wear white, despite your... reputation." Further illustrating his absolute lack of a silver tongue, Scott manages to keep the conversation just shy of approaching the border of outright rudeness. But even though he's basically concurring with the assessment of the women to his right, he does so with a faint, almost affable smile.

Unlike Emma, Scott's posture is very rigid and closed-off. It doesn't seem as if he finds her unattractive. Rather, it seems as if he's unwilling to let himself register the emotion. Speaking of people a psychoanalyst would have a field day with....

"Of course, it's because of your reputation that I've been dispatched. Perhaps the Professor has too much respect for you to attempt to charm you away from your present path. Or maybe he just thinks that you've got a thing for men who wear glasses."

"That's actually a very simple answer, dear," Emma says regarding her white wardrobe. "I look EXCELLENT in it." She says this with such thorough conviction that even a non-believer might be given cause to rethink their lives.

"Still, kudos to Charles for at least trying a different strategy. Trying to bait me by appealing to my more base sexual instincts... which can only tell me that you're married. Ah, but no ring. So you just might as WELL be. Is that why you sit so rigidly? No opportunity at home to... let it all hang out?" Emma lets out that almost-smile again, teasingly. "But we have all night to explore THOSE seedy avenues. Tell me. What deal are you about to place on the table, hmmm?"

Our poor X-Man would look to any reasonable onlooker like someone who was completely outclassed. Perhaps he's even beginning to think so himself. But you'd never know it by looking at his face. He continues to pick away at the fancy glop that he ordered, despite not being entirely sure what it actually was.

"This isn't me being rigid. This is me having good posture. If you're interested in seeing what I look like rigid, well... I don't usually get involved with older women." There's an almost infuriatingly unrushed, matter-of-fact way that he says everything. Perhaps he'd actually make an excellent poker player.

"I also don't get involved with gambling. Like I mentioned, I teach math."

"I'm more of a chess guy."

Emma seems pleased, or at least as pleased as she really gets, with what Scott says. "How dull," she trills, but it's not clear whether she actually believes that. "That doesn't change what I wanted to know, however. If Charles sent you -- why? I could look into your mind and find out for myself, young man -- young man who has STILL not properly introduced himself, if I might remind you of a concept known as 'manners.' But I can sense your telepathic shielding from here, and the experience of breaking through that would be tiresome for me and likely painful for you. So. Out with it. All of it."

"If you think that breaking through the shields would be tiresome, then I can't imagine how bored and disappointed you'd be if you ever actually saw inside my mind." Scott puts down his fork, finally giving up any pretense of desiring to finish his meal. "I'd be tempted to remind you again that I teach math, but I think we've covered that already. But that's only half of my job. The other half is... well... if you know Charles as well as you seem to, you probably already know what the other half of my job consists of."

For the first time since she sat down, he actually turns his face in her direction. Sure, he's given her the occasional sidelong glance, but this has mostly been covered up by his impenetrable shades. But now he's facing her, and the tone of dry sarcasm has been replaced by one of earnest entreaty. "What I'm offering you is danger, excitement, and a chance to use your God-given talents to help a world that, for the most part, still fears and hates us. I'm offering you a chance to get dressed up in tactical gear and Kevlar and save the day without anyone ever knowing it or appreciating it. If you take my offer, you'll get your hands dirty, but you'll also make the world better for a bunch of mutant kids who haven't been born yet."

"My name is Scott Summers, but pretty much everyone calls me 'Cyclops.'"

Emma listens with rapt attention. Her expressions are often hard to read, beyond 'satisfied with herself.' But this has her attention, and her blue eyes fix intently on Scott as he speaks. This is Emma Frost the businesswoman, the entrepreneur, the woman who has built her whole existence to an atomic level.

So it might not be the best thing that her response begins with: "I have conditions."

Emma continues, "You see, Mister Summers -- like Charles, I understand the threats to mutantkind. And I am perfectly willing to help. But as fun as it sounds, cramming oneself into fetish wear for a little breaking and entering and light treason, the way in which I prefer to help... is by educating. By teaching. You know about the Academy, I'm sure. Those children were my life. If you want me, you must take me as an educator first -- and a mutant super heroine second. Those are my conditions."

"Oh, that's actually expected. Most of the members of our merry little band teach 'something.' I teach math, for example." Scott can't suppress a smile as he finds a way to plug his boring subject one last time. Repetition is apparently something he's very fond of. Some would call that discipline, others tedium. But judging by the way that the meal in front of him has been separated into its separate components and arranged in a semi-circle according to size... Draw your own conclusions.

"That actually was easier than I thought. Maybe I'm more charming than I give myself credit for. I'll tell the staff to expect you. We'll handle your transportation, of course. I'd invite you to fly back with me when I head to the School, but I'm leaving in six hours on a cramped military jet... and I get the feeling it'll take you about a month to pack."

Emma smirks -- a full smirk -- and then has a sip of her coffee. "Darling," she says, "I can pay for my own plane ticket. But you must know... I ALWAYS fly first class."