Chapter 8: Dinner, Dance, and Show
Dinner at the nearest Italian restaurant was a quiet affair. Suffice to say, discussing the intricacies of Belasco’s gruesome skills over a plate of eggplant parmesan met stiff resistance. Meggan wanted to focus on lighter topics; Brian tried to pick Betsy’s brain; Betsy hadn’t even sorted it all out yet, and she sure as hell didn’t want to blabber about anything in public. Brian’s insistence pestered Betsy, and by the time they’d exchanged their sibling snipes at each other, neither were in the mood to humor Meggan. In turn, Meggan ignored the two and passed the time by twiddling her thumbs.
That and debating with herself how long Brian would be sleeping on the couch when they got home.
For being the ruler of the Otherworld, Brian sure put himself in a lose-lose situation: his wife and twin sister both slapped him with the Silent Treatment. The devious glimmer in Meggan’s eyes and the venomous glare in Elisabeth’s convinced him to work everything out before the two women in his life crushed his spirit.
Brian put his fork down. “Betsy, how about you take a vacation with us? Fancy a cruise?”
“Lovely, Brian. Then I can spend all of my days on a boat underneath your scrutiny with no means of escape save overboard. Lovely.”
“I’m looking out for you. Who knows what Belasco did to you?”
“I know what he did to me,” Betsy flatly said, resuming her meal.
“Don’t I have a right to worry about you?”
“Yes you do, so if you have anything you want to say to me, say it.”
“I...”
“Want to know if I’m really your sister? Want to know what the deal is with Frost? Want to know what else Belasco had in mind when he gathered all the other poor saps and assaulted the Otherworld? Want to know what to do about my tombstone in your backyard?”
“What is your problem?!”
“Life.” Tiredly, she motioned their waiter for the bill. “Sorry, but I’m not playing twenty questions anymore.”
“That’s it? I lose you for months, fight for your soul, and when I try show support, you’re suddenly a Prima Donna? Do you even want to see me?”
“Back off, ok? Next time you come back from the dead, remind me to watch over you like a hawk and treat you like glass.”
Brian tried to say more, but Meggan caught his gaze and shook her head. No good could come out of this, and while the blonde woman was angry at her husband, she wasn’t heartless enough to let him flounder. “Call us,” she said to Betsy.
Her sister-in-law spared her a strained smile before leaving money on the table and disappearing out the door. Brian groaned, put his head in his hands, and released a great breath. “That could’ve gone better.”
“No, it couldn’t have.” A confused Brian silently beg his better half for an explanation. Lucky him, Meggan could never resist those doleful eyes. “Honey, Betsy’s gone through the Otherworld’s worst, and now, she’s inside a demon’s body. She had any number of reasons to walk out on you and pressing her to open up one day after she gets back control of herself isn’t your most intelligent idea. We both know she has a rebellious streak after what the Hand did to her.”
“She’s always had the rebellious streak,” he confessed, “but, as usual, you’re right. I just wished she’d let me help her. I know I can make her feel better.”
“Brian, she is your sister: being here for her already makes her feel better. She’ll come back to you if you stop nagging. Be glad to know that for the most part, your sister’s soul is still intact. Besides, you are sooo cute when you’re arguing, it’ll be an injustice to split you apart. Honestly, I don’t think there’s a pair of twins more different than the two of you.”
“Thanks, luv, I really needed that backhanded compliment.”
“You’re welcome,” she smiled and batted her eyelashes, “you deserved it after ruining dinner.”
“Awww bugger, I know that look. You’re putting me on the couch tonight, aren’t you?”
“Your powers of deduction are astounding, Captain Obvious.”
*****************
What Emma would’ve given for a quiet, Italian dinner... oh, like this encounter with Xavier for instance. Started innocuously enough.
Emma. Charles. Could I have a word with you about the semester grades? They’ll be done at the end of the week. I was thinking about giving you an extension. Really? Really. No thank you, I will have the grades in by then. Emma, you shouldn’t push yourself. Charles, I know my limits. Betsy doesn’t know hers. What are you insinuating? Perhaps this conversation would be better in my office.
Damn him, hooking her in like that.
She tapped her feet, wishing the office’s carpet was of a harder material so her displeasure could reverberate off the walls. “Aren’t you going to ask about yesterday’s gory details?”
“No,” the Professor said as he gestured for the blonde to sit, “I’m going to ask how one of my instructors is feeling after a harrowing twenty four hours.”
She slid onto one of the velvet couches and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tired and fetid.”
“Fetid?”
“There was a swamp and, well, never mind. There was a swamp. I can still smell the decaying plants.”
“My... condolences,” he carefully said behind a smile. Seeing Emma’s relaxed state, he kept the light, casual tone as he talked. “I understand you also had quite an exchange with Betsy last night. Jubilee’s rumor mill has been amazingly busy.”
Emma had a million reasons to ignore Charles ranging from his shady actions to his legendary (and often blind) idealism. He’d worked his brand of palatable manipulation on her before, giving just enough to entice her but taking back as much as he wanted--see her presence at his mansion teaching under his roof for an example. After her Hellions died, she thought maybe her old methods were wrong and that his were better. Turned out his pacifist ways produced no better results: Everett would agree if he wasn’t dead. Old man Xavier was as shifty as he was bald, and although Emma loved a good challenge, she hated losing, which was something she did too often around him.
Both acknowledged the horde of unresolved issues between them, and for their own selfish reasons, coexisted with each other in spite it all. Charles needed bona fide teachers and Emma needed to teach; however, her contract made no mention of this X-Men garbage and she got dragged into it any way (though it was hard to turn a blind eye when the classrooms get attacked). After looking at their encounters, the blonde noticed she more often than not got stuck with the short end of the proverbial stick, hence her contempt for him.
But today, Charles was too disarming. How could she summon her passive-aggressiveness when he dripped caring and concern? She wanted a fight, not this huggy-feely stuff!
Damn him, catching her in a moment weakness like that.
“Betsy and I reached an understanding,” she allowed.
“So I’ve gathered from all the people I’ve spoken to.” The Professor neglected to mention he’d have to be psi-mute or dead to not sense the amount of energy expended in the medlabs last night. Ever the opportunist, he folded his hands together and helped Emma’s sputtering mind along. “Are you feeling any effects of your merging with Elisabeth?”
“Mild effects,” she reflexively answered. “Emotion fragments, borrowed memories, acquired skills--nothing traumatic or overbearing.”
“Those are hardly mild symptoms, Emma. Given time, they could do your psyche much harm, especially the negative subconscious aspects loosened by the encounter.”
Yes, and? “I am hardly a novice when it comes to these things. I’ll be fine.”
“And in case you aren’t fine? Your teammates are willing to help you any way they can, myself included.”
Emma almost accepted the offer: the affirmative hung on the tip of tongue before she regained in enough good sense to give it a swift--and hopefully painful if words could feel pain--death. Thanks to Betsy, she might have had a rosier view of Charles, but willing to bare her neck to him she was not. When all was said and done, the man was one of the most selfish, egomaniacal, and arrogant people in existence. Had to be one to lead a bunch of renegades who fought for “the peaceful co-existence between humans and mutants.”
Ah, finally! Her passive-aggressiveness found time out of its busy schedule to plop itself between Xavier’s unfathomable purposes and her own agendas.
“Papers await,” Emma said, dodging Xavier’s olive branch, “Besides, I can only take so much mindless drabble in one day.”
Stand, pivot, walk, exit, slam--like so, the blonde poofed away. Charles waited a few seconds before calling out, “Tessa?”
The dark haired woman emerged from behind the curtains, sunglasses on and face unreadable. “Emma Frost is always one to look out for,” she said, answering the question in the Professor’s eyes.
“Is that your personal or professional opinion?”
“Both,” she replied. “She has the knowledge, ability, clearance, and motivation to strike a crippling blow to the X-Men, but...”
Her words held him in rapt attention. “Go on.”
“... but the probability of that is low. Her mannerisms--introspectiveness, momentary confusion, mood swings--indicate a certain level of preoccupation, which in and of itself is not associated with the White Queen. The same aloofness held true for our exchange earlier today, and while these may be suspicious signs any other time, her excursion with Shadowcat and Psylocke adequately explain her changes. Therefore, my assessment of her would be ‘unthreatening.’ Since we are under a presumable time constraint and combing for enemies amongst our own, which in and of itself takes time, I suggest we remove her from our list of suspects.”
Charles clasped his hands and nodded slowly. “Good. Continue with your impeccable work, Tessa. I would like our potential saboteur to be quietly dealt with before I take my leave of absence. Are you sure you can handle this without anyone else’s help?”
“Positive--I will have their identity by Saturday. There are only three more people I have to observe.”
“They would be?”
“Jean Grey, Kuan-Yin Xorn, and Remy LeBeau.”
*****************
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in Chicago, one Doctor Isa Hayes packed up the last of his belongings. Scratch that--more like belongings the goons of Frost Enterprises didn’t rip from his hands yesterday. His lifelong research, gone in one night. Government agencies would’ve set him up for life because of his schematics; radical activists would’ve killed for five minutes with his program suite. Instead now, all of it fell into the lap of a corporation because, in his desperation two years ago, he’d signed over the rights to his intellectual property so he could get funding. While everyone else laughed him off, calling his theories and methods ludicrous, Frost Enterprises backed him and never questioned him.
So why did he get fired? Because he did a favor for the owner of the multi-billion dollar conglomerate? Bullshit, but nonetheless, bullshit he’d have to take because he was one of the “little people,” one of those honest, hard working Joes who got trampled under the stiletto heeled feet of the powerful. Not for the first time, he wondered if his firing was a well-orchestrated plot to strip him of his most prized possession, and the more he mulled over this possibility, the more he found it sensible. However, he dared not let the outrage show for fear of the hulking security baboons looming outside his office door.
Well, at least they left him a shred of dignity by letting him pack up his things in private. “Twenty minutes,” one of the simpletons grunted, “And don’t take no company property either.”
Isa felt it wise to not mention the idiot’s use of double negatives. He wouldn’t get grammar, nor the cruel reality that his security job was just as easily swept aside as a researcher’s blood, sweat, and tears, if not more so.
Three cardboard boxes. Doctor Isa Hayes, Harvard graduate, boiled down to three lousy boxes containing reference texts, coffee mugs, pencils, and an optical mouse. They even took his precious notebooks, citing something in his contract about his doodles being potential leaks of Frost Enterprises’ investment. Yes, some contained formulas, but did they also have to “repossess” his daily planner? The grocery list didn’t have sensitive material, only how much juice to get by week’s end.
Bastards. All of them. Fucking bastards.
Between his mental cursing, the unexpected happened: the phone rang.
Who would be calling him now? He almost didn’t answer, but his curious nature got the best of him. “Hello?”
“Doctor Hayes,” a distorted, male voice greeted, “Would you like to destroy the mutant who ruined your life?”
“Wait a second, who is this?”
“Does my identity matter? Your mortgage payments are coming up, your pièce de résistance is gone, and I offer you a way to reclaim lost glory. Revenge, contrary to what people say, is a dish best served immediately, repeatedly, and with a side of wrath. So old chap, should we get cooking?”
“I…”
Years of conforming to scientific integrity ate at him. Not only was accepting this offer unprofessional, it was also extremely dangerous. Mutant? What mutant ruined him? Henry McCoy? Who was talking on the other end of the line? Was this a joke? Even worse, maybe the crazy man really meant what he said. Isa didn’t have the information to make a good decision, but yet, he found himself drawn to this stranger’s ideas. He had nothing to lose: no family to think about, no colleagues who’d help him, and most importantly, no job to keep himself afloat. He had a bone to pick and now, a means to pick the bone with.
“Will I get back my research?” he asked hesitantly.
“Why yes.”
Isa bit his bottom lip as the phone shook in his grasp.
The voice chuckled. “Time’s up, and I guess you’re not interested. Too bad, your genius would’ve made setting up the genetic templates so much easier.”
Setting up genetic templates? “You have my materials already?!”
Silence on the other end.
“I’ll do it!” he yelled. “Did you hear me?! I’ll do it!”
The laughing came back. “That’s better, Doctor Hayes. Now, leave like good little ex-employee, and I will contact you soon enough.”
******************
- To be continued...
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