2013.09.14 - The Pale Man

The correspondence arrived several days ago. Notably, it was addressed from Monet St. Croix herself and not from the office of Cartier St. Croix. It was brief: she would very much enjoy Dr. Grey's company for lunch and it would concern matters at the Institute.

It is a bit over dramatic for simple enrollment, especially considering that Monet already received the enrollment papers just under two weeks ago. She never turned them in, however. It would be a tremendous waste to hand them off to an upper level administrator over lunch rather than simply mailing them.

However, it ended with: 'Please agree to meet with me. I anticipate your response.' Please was underlined.

It is a French place. The restaurant is named for and survives by the reputation of its chef, a well respected and awarded man. The interior is shades of soft whites and pale colors, with gently curved ceilings. There is just enough furniture to make the main dining area appear to be the inside of someone's drawing room.

Monet sits at a table for two in the corner near a floor lamp, wearing an understated floral sundress. Several men nearby are very obviously her bodyguards. They are near useless, but they mean well.

Dr. Jean Grey has no bodyguards. But, then, she can generally take care of herself. And, really? What's likely to happen in an upscale restaurant like this?

(No. Wait. Don't answer that. She's an X-Man.)

She enters the restaurant, dressed a little less summery than the European, but still quite suitably to the environment. She's a woman accustomed to dealing with some of the movers and shakers in Washington. This is a sort of not-quite-social engagement she can navigate fairly handily. Thus, her pant suit, while in lighter shades in deference to the transitioning season, is both fashionable and serviceable, all at once.

When approached by the maitre d', she indicates she's expected by Miss St. Croix and is presently brought to the table, where she greets the young woman with a simple smile.

"Miss St. Croix. A pleasure to see you again." She glances about. "This is a lovely restaurant."

The bodyguards allow Dr. Grey to pass, though one of them turns inward to watch the table instead of the rest of the restaurant. They are on edge, more than one would expect from the context. They believe this is a dangerous job.

Monet does not rise to meet the doctor. She seems distracted. She does not even turn her head when she tries to read Jean's mind. It is not a skillful attempt, but rather a forceful probe. She is talented but without finesse.

"Dr. Grey," she murmurs absently. "It is very lovely. It's the little details that are wrong, however."

And Jean's shields are strong. The forceful probe is enough to catch the telepath by surprise -- it's unexpected, after all. But, she's well-trained and very quick, and so it's only her surprise that leaks through. Well, that and the immediate conclusion that 'something is very definitely wrong'.

She arches a brow, regarding the girl with a slightly cooler expression than her initial warmth. Not hostile, just cautious. And, perhaps, cautioning. Further, she picks up on the guards' unease, and the scrutiny of at least the one. Unless they're well-shielded, it probably wouldn't take much for the red haired telepath to discover just what it is that has them so on edge. And, yes. She is both curious and concerned enough, now, to at least make the attempt.

"I think you need to tell me why you brought me here," she says aloud, very seriously, now, settling into the seat opposite the young woman. Monet will likely feel the flare of Jean's power as she effectively turns the attention of everyone in the restaurant away from the table and its occupants. The only people who are at all likely to pay them or their conversation any mind at all are the guards and, strictly within the confines of maintaining proper service, the assigned waitstaff.

When she is repulsed, Monet turns from the window to stare at her guest. Her expression is hard. She studies the doctor's face for a silent moment.

The guards are not well shielded. They are trained in anti-telepathic techniques, but those are to give people confidence, not protect them from actual telepaths. Something happened to Monet while she was visiting Genosha last week. Six men sent with her were killed. They do not know the specifics.

Monet looks toward the restaurant, eyes roving across the lunch crowd. She looks sidelong at Jean and then lowers her head. "I had thought to ask you what your mutation was, Dr. Grey. I suppose that is a very useful one."

A waiter approaches. Monet flips her menu open with a manicured finger and gives it the briefest of looks. "The foie gras, please." She allows Jean to order and waits for the water to leave before continuing. "I do not actually care for it. I am curious as to what makes foie gras into New York State foie gras."

She frowns, her attention wandering back to the nearby window. "Foremost, I have a thought to enroll my younger sisters in your school. I asked you to meet me here because I wish to ask questions that may not be appropriate in the context of the Institute. I have recently learned many things about Dr. Xavier.”

"Mm," Jean acknowledges Monet's hard look with a steady one of her own. "It's one of my talents, yes." She doesn't go further than that, however. Not while she's still sussing the woman out. As she senses the reasons behind the guards' caution, however, she turns to glance at the one that continues to stare down at her. There's the faintest nod of understanding.

Genosha. Again. These days, it almost always comes back around to Genosha.

When the order is taken, however, she smiles to the server. "The sea bass, please," she says. It looked good on the menu.

As the man retreats, she returns her attention to Monet. Her smile returns, though still serious. "If you've been to Genosha and spoken with Mr. Lehnsherr--" Jean refuses to refer to him as the Imperator-- "I imagine you have. I'll answer any questions you have as honestly and directly as I may."

"He was less forthcoming than one would expect," Monet admits. "Ms. Frost had stronger opinions of the Institute, or was more candid."

The teen folds her hands with fingers threaded together, resting them on the table before her. Everything on the table. "Your initial letter indicated that the Institute protects mutants. Is this protect solely in the political sense, Dr. Grey? Ms. Frost assures me that her Academy is telepathically shielded from attack. No one who wills harm against her students can find it."

Monet searches Jean's face, eyes bright. "Yet she is critical of the Institute's level of militarization. Do you have these--safeguards, would you call them? Does 'Mr. Lehnsherr' often come calling with soldiers? I find it difficult to believe. I do not think it is true."

Jean shakes her head. "When the Institute was founded, in the very early days, Mr. Lehnsherr and Professor Xavier worked as partners. I was among their very first students, in fact. However, they had philosophical differences that led to a falling out between them very early on, and Mr. Lehnsherr left the Institute to pursue his own path." She doesn't elaborate on what that may be. "Professor Xavier, and by extension those of us at the Institute, believe that it is imperative mutantkind and humanity learn to co-exist in peace, to protect one another, and to respect one another. That is what we teach and encourage. That said, we recognize that not everyone shares those sentiments. Thus, we also teach measures of self-defence and, frankly, ability training that isn't so much meant to turn our students into combatants as it is meant to give them a much greater range of control over their own talents. The judgment on how they use those talents is left to each individual student. Most, however, choose to uphold the Professor's dream of peace and co-existence."

Her expression remains serious, however. "I can tell you, we've very, very rarely experienced any direct threat against the Institute, itself, nor have we seen any direct action against its grounds." she says. "We have telepathic, cybernetic, and standard security protocols in place. As well as a few more esoteric measures meant to protect both those residing on our grounds and those residing in the surrounding community." They do, after all, have at least 2 magic users friendly to their cause, after all. And God forbid that one of the on-campus mutants have an 'accident' with their powers that could potentially crater Westchester.

"I've not spoken with Ms. Frost directly, as I believe I mentioned before. And, I have to confess, I'm not entirely certain what the full extent of her past dealings or experiences with the Institute have been. But, I can assure you, we take every reasonable measure to protect our own -- particularly our students."

Monet echoes Jean: "Very rarely."

"The way everyone speaks of this," she continues, "is very similar. World-weary, resigned. Ominous mentions of warfare and Chess analogies aside, I cannot help but feel that this is routine." Monet turns her hands palm up, spreading her fingers. "I do think that is true. I will be honest with you, Dr. Grey, because I have very little to lose by doing so. The safety of my younger sisters is paramount to me."

Monet crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. She looks very small, tucked up like that. It is only the posture that makes her appear larger. "The problem, Dr. Grey, is that I do not know if I can trust you. I believe traipsing about in other people's minds is incredibly rude, but it is a concession I have made to my paranoia. If I cannot see yours, you could be anyone."

"Perhaps you could still be anyone if I read your thoughts, but it would be a small comfort. Can you prove you are who you appear to be, Dr. Grey?"

Jean is not of a mind to open her thoughts up to pretty much anyone, these days. Including -- or perhaps especially -- the Professor. She's been too angry, too frustrated, and in too much pain to even consider it. And now to this girl she hardly knows?

She remains silent for some moments, considering the problem, her expression reflecting her pensiveness rather than an inscrutable poker face. That, alone, is a concession to the girl, though Monet likely doesn't realize it.

"The challenge in that, Miss St.Croix," she says slowly now, "is manifold. I suspect you are as disinclined to share your raw thoughts and emotions as I am, just to start." The smile she gives is both knowing and rueful. "That is, I think, part and parcel of being telepathic. There's also the reality that while telepaths of equal or lesser strength cannot deceive one another, any telepath sufficiently more skilled or more powerful than another can dominate the weaker, sometimes without their even being aware of it. Given the forcefulness of your probe, I will credit you with being a telepath of decent strength and skill; one I doubt I could easily manipulate, even if I were of a mind to -- which, I assure you, I am not. But, consider that I was caught flat-footed and still able to block you fairly easily." She's not bragging. Not at all. The fact she's an Omega level talent, however, creates a somewhat skewed playing field, and she's simply laying it out for the girl to consider. "Even if I were to open my thoughts to you, would your paranoia truly allow you to trust me, even then?" She inhales a deep breath, her lips thinning as she considers a possible solution.

She opens her hands and lays them on the table. "Here is my best suggestion -- I will consent to a mind-meld between us, if it will help reassure you, under the following conditions: It happen some place private, in a place of your choosing if you would prefer, though I do have an office not so far from here; it be reciprocal, so that I have as much a right to see your thoughts and motivations as you do mine; and we confine our attentions to those things directly related to the question at hand, your sisters' safety at the Institute and each of our motivations and integrity regarding that, each respecting the other's boundaries and staying away from those innermost sanctums of thought and personality that we do not wish shared. It's imperfect, I know." After all, who knows what could be hidden in those sanctums she mentions? "But, it's the best I can do. Failing that, I can speak to Ms. Monroe or the Professor. Perhaps they can put you more at ease than I can." Of course, the Professor is an even more skilled telepath than she is, so... it may be debatable in his case.

"Do not think me a scared child, Dr. Grey," Monet responds with steel in her tone. The waiter returns and Monet falls silent, sitting up and straightening her back. The food is obviously delicious, but whether it is worth the cost is a matter of perception. She continues when they are left alone once more: "I am capable of making decisions in nuanced emotional situations."

If Dr. Grey is the pale man, then what are the consequences? Is this an elaborate threat--is the pale man hinting at his intentions of telepathically dominating her? Yet what is the alternative? Ms. Frost could be the pale man. So could Mr. Lehnsherr. There is no place to land. One clearing, at least, looks more promising than the others.

She lowers her eyes. The foie gras is not offensive. She still does not touch it. When Monet speaks again, it is somewhat more softly. She cannot dispense with all of the authority she attempts to project. "I appreciate your position. I accept your offer and consent to your terms."

If she is wrong, she will be back in the streets of Hammer Bay. If she is right, she will have won some measure of protection for her sisters. The only thing she stands to lose is her life, and that is such a small thing in certain contexts.

It's fortunate for Monet, then, that Dr. Grey is, in fact, as sincere as she endeavors to appear.

She's not inclined to foie gras, herself. But, the sea bass is as well prepared as she'd hoped it would be, with its sprinkling of pine nuts and rose beats. She doesn't linger over the meal, however, as lovely as it is. There is business to attend.

When they finally leave the restaurant, Jean directs the girl's driver to a mid-sized building in Upper Metropolis. There, in one corner of one of the broad floors, is a small laboratory complex labeled with a neatly-designed, understated monograph that reads 'Grey Research Foundation'.

Jean welcomes the girl into the suite. Again, it's small, but well-appointed. Between her grants and the Professor's patronage, the lab is well supplied and neat, and the public-facing areas, the office and the connected lounge, are professional and well-kept.

The doctor welcomes both the girl and, doubtlessly, the bodyguard that insists on accompanying her, into the sitting area. It's a little more comfortable than the small research office.

"I would offer you something to drink," she notes, referring to the small fridge in the kitchenette at the far end, "but I imagine you're more anxious to get down to business. However, if there's anything you require, do ask."

Monet is polite but silent for the duration of the meal and the ride. She allows one of her father's men to speak for her when they navigate to the office. One of the men does attempt to follow the two women inside, but Monet dissuades him with a glance over her shoulder.

"I had water at the restaurant," Monet says. She does not take an immediate seat, allowing Jean to dictate the pace of the meeting. "I do not require anything save for the 'business.'"

The office has drawn none of her attention. It may not be the fanciest place around, but Monet may as well be on a featureless plane for how much she appears to notice.

Frankly, a featureless plane would probably be easier, from Jean's perspective. She's sat too many times on these couches, across from other mutants wanting to open their minds to her -- or wanting her to open hers to them. On the bright side, though... it's familiar.

"Please, then," she says gently. "Have a seat."

Once the girl has situated herself, Jean takes a seat beside her, turning her body to face her. "I don't know about you," she notes, "but in situations like this, I often find touch creates an easier means of focus." She raises a hand, extending it. "May I?"

Permission given, and reciprocated, Jean closes her eyes and sets to the work of modulating her shields enough to let the girl into the surface layers where the information she seeks lives. She spent much of the silent meal and quiet car ride reorganizing her bulwarks to protect those most intimate of places, and the places within that betray her weaknesses, anger, or pain.

However, she cannot hide the ghost of the Phoenix Entity that ever hovers at the edge of her consciousness and roosts in her subconsciousness. The sense of the cosmic will always flavour the touch of her mind.

"That has been my experience as well," Monet agrees, becoming more toneless as the moment nears. She does not appear to enjoy this. More notably, she is not making an attempt to hide her displeasure with the situation. Teenagers can be sullen no matter where they're from.

She sits, nodding her assent to Dr. Grey. Monet does not raise her hand, but instead folds them in her lap. She stares straight ahead, ignoring the doctor.

Monet does not have mental bulwarks. She has no organized defense of her mind outside of what is inherent in her intelligence. Her defense is willpower, turned outward and against everything. It does not stop just because they agreed to show and tell. When Jean telepathically extends herself, Monet's mind recoils. It is only tentatively that the doctor is let through.

The teen is quick, however. She intuitively navigates through the opened psychic shields, slipping through gateway after gateway. If she notices the alien presence or realizes what it may be, she makes no sign of it.

Jean is no slouch in the willpower department, herself. And, indeed, those access points the girl nimbly slips through are politely left open. The reality is, the bulwarks are in place as much -- if not moreso -- to keep the cosmic telepath's power contained as to keep intruders out.

Nevertheless, she gives the girl as much room to room to reassure herself as she can, even while her own mind gently drifts, much like a raptor soaring silently over the landscape, through Monet's own desperate thoughts and motivations.

What the girl will find, ultimately, is that Jean was quite sincere in what she said to her in the restaurant. Without giving away the real secret of the X-Men, the sense that the school is well-protected and that the Professor's 'Dream', as it is called, is taught and encouraged at every turn. If there is some disappointment in Jean's thoughts that the Dream is not more successful than it is, perhaps that is to be forgiven.

One thing above all, however, is clear. Jean, herself, will lay down her own life before she will willingly allow any of the students to come to harm.

Monet surveys what she is allowed to see. Sight, or whatever equivalent there is in this realm, seems to be enough. She does not touch, she does not push, she does not test. She looks and lingers.

Once she has broken through, someone of Jean's talent has little trouble doing whatever she wants. Monet's mind is ordered much like any untrained mind, despite the strength of her potential resistance. There is much more of it. She is extremely intelligent. She also has far more memories than someone of her age should have, or someone of any age, really.

Monet remembers everything.

In her mind, the teen resides in a specific place. It is either a beacon to the soaring presence, or a last ditch attempt to make this a guided tour rather than a free opportunity to peruse. There are thoughts there--recent and fresh, though just as vivid as everything else. This is why I did these things. This is what will come after you.

In a street in Hammer Bay--

"I said... Now I see why your brother wanted you so badly. You really are a special one, aren't you, Monet?" The man begins to close the distance between them, dry voice slowly changing into a silky tone, marked distinctly by an archaic English accent. "I remember watching you and your sisters playing for hours, how frail you were back then. I imagine now you'd be able to rip my head from my shoulders without a thought, wouldn't you?"

And--

The most she's able to learn before the mental walls slam up around his mind is that, despite his already advanced age... he's even older than he appears. Approaching two centuries, in fact, and a lifetime of traveling and learning.

And--

Monet steps back, breathing shallow and fast. She lets the body drop, holding the head of her 'father' before her. There is blood on her dress. Carotid arteries are excitable. Her hands are covered in it. She breathes faster.

In a room in a living place--

She can just--it hurts. If only she could--oh god, it hurts. Monet keeps her eyes open. They are too wide and the muscles around them twitch often. She is forcing herself to see. Every other second, she fights a convulsion. The neural inhibitor is working. The dark figure is not thrown across the room, nor is he suddenly compelled to free her and then kill himself.

And--

The inhibitor does not punish simple thoughts. Monet is very good at building impressive things from simple thoughts. She thinks: don't make a noise. Keep your eyes open.

She is not Monet. She is a camera. She is here to observe things for Monet to view later.

And--

"This is the key moment, of course. Getting people together is easier than you might think. It's simple logic, really, and excellent observational skills. Now, however, when my hard work comes to fruition, when the best of the best is finally ready to advance to the next step in evolution, I must be there to see it through. One wrong move and the whole thing fails, at which point I must start over."

The implications are truly terrible. He clearly sees her death as little more than a minor setback, just another obstacle to overcome, and he talks about it like it means next to nothing to him. As if it were nothing to manipulate people for generations until he got what he wanted.

"So," he says, tracing her face with the cold steel of the scalpel, "I will try my hardest to make sure you survive. You are special, after all. A clone just wouldn't be the same... I've seen how that can turn out."

And--

As Monet turns to stare at him, he laughs a bit, only becoming more pleased at her refusal to go down. "I certainly did well with you, didn't I? Quite a specimen indeed."

He examines her with an appraising eye, before he murmurs, almost to himself, "Perhaps one of the younger Summers... Now that would be interesting. A few more years, of course. Too soon, now. Far too soon... But in another few years..."

Then his face--

As he speaks, he leans forward and suddenly, just like that, the shadows are gone and his face is displayed for her in all it's pale-faced glory. "You will make a fine example for the others to follow when the time comes for this world to evolve. Sweet dreams."

There is more. She did things to escape. Hurt herself to stay awake, tricked the building to let her out, killed people to get away. There is an image of a room miles tall, filled with neatly labeled tubes of floating bodies.

Her thought is clear: is this too much for a congressional hearing?

That Monet remembers everything is perhaps not as great a surprise to Jean Grey as one might suppose. She, too, remembers everything. It's the curse of the strong telepath.

This girl's memories, however, stir something in Jean. The torture she was put through, the threat she lives under, the threat extended to the Summers... Jean doesn't really have to guess who that could be. She knows so many of them.

Pick one.

Pick them all.

Over her dead body.

The bulwarks within Jean's mind shudder. They don't shatter; they don't splinter; they don't give way. But, it's very much like a dragon -- or, in this case, a Phoenix -- has rolled over in its sleep and disturbed the mountain above it. Were the woman's eyes open, a flash of golden power would be briefly seen, the flare of righteous anger at this pale-faced stranger.

The Pale Man.

Thus, there's certitude reflected in Jean's mind, the cry of a raptor echoing with harmonic dissonance, and the very clear thought: ~ I will not let that happen. ~

To anyone.

Her eyes do open, now, crystal clear, deep green flecked with gold. "I will do everything I can to stop him," she tells the girl, now, looking into her dark face. "I will do everything I can to keep you and your sisters safe."

And, echoes her thoughts -- simulacrums of Scott, Nate Grey, and Rachel flickering across her mental landscape -- to protect my family.