Story: What If Emma... (chapter 2)

Authors: Yimmy

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Chapter 2

Title: What If Emma Became a High School Teacher?

Notes: This is a standalone chapter, separate from the first one.

Chapter 2: What If Emma Became a High School Teacher?

Emma hugged her denim jacket closer. Like any typical New York winter, the sun set hours early and the crazies came out to play when darkness touched the ground. Honest, she didn’t mean to stay late at the high school, but the tutoring session went so well she couldn’t tell poor Kevin to leave. By the end of the econ marathon, he had the concept of the aggregate market equilibrium down pat, showing once again that if there’s one thing Emma Grace Frost didn’t do, it was quit on her students. That determination made her the teacher she was, and no one could take that away from her, not her badgering father, not her uppity sisters, and not her indifferent mother.

A pox on them for looking down on her, saying teaching was a useless waste of her talent. So what if she didn’t make millions or frequent midnight soiree’s? At least she wasn’t sleeping around like Adrienne or taking drugs like dear old mother. They couldn’t fathom why she would take her economics degree and hang around children who didn’t give a rat’s ass about market trends and profit slopes. They couldn’t imagine why she’d pull double duty and lecture about Lord Byron and his fellow Romantics.

“The Frost name,” her father delighted in saying, “is synonymous with power, pride, and prestige. You, my Emma, exhibit none of those qualities.”

How further off base could Daddy be? Few jobs paid a person to brainwash their children. Even fewer came with the ability to influence entire age groups. Only one job had those same pliable, brainwashed youths return to say thank you. Come on, look at the 60’s and what schools did to the United States--the entire tye dye industry subsisted on the stubborn, nonsensical nostalgia of a few fanatics and globs of college students. What other institute could influence thought, culture, morals, economy, and perception like a school? Not that Emma was a manipulative person or rebel of a teacher, but she just found the observation interesting, kind of like how she found cream swirling in a White Russian interesting.

Someone had to guide growing adolescents into adulthood or else they’d end up like their ignorant parents, and Emma, being a mutant herself, had some real incentives for keeping the tolerance high.

Mutant? Mutant you say? Yes, mutant, and being so was something the other Frosts would send her into those government “humanitarian” camps over. Knowing full well since birth never to expect affection or sympathy from her parents, Emma kept her powers a secret and chugged through life hoping to make life a better for those of her kind. Becoming an educator was a step in the right direction, more so than succumbing to Daddy’s wish for her to slip into some rich man’s bed.

With a dream behind her, Emma set off into the world to make it more livable one person at a time. Some called her idealistic, most called her crazy, but Emma Grace Frost knew she’d succeed. A human mind had the ability to start wars, destroy lives, exploit earth, and take advantage of others. Why not use it to heal societal problems and moral debauchery? Seeing as how her own brain operated on a different plane than everyone else’s, Emma had a healthy respect for the mind and the good it could do.

Sad that only two people in the world understood her vision to educate tomorrow’s generation: one was her brother Christian. Sweet Christian wasn’t a mutant, but he was gay, and Daddy to shipped him off to boarding school before disowning him midway through the semester. Seriously, how could parents disown a child? Not like they could pluck their respective DNA out of Christian and unmake him their son. Nature, to the best of Emma’s knowledge, didn’t work that way; however, society did, so tough beans. Her brother ended up in one of the many San Francisco suburbs, San Palo or San Pablo or something. Became a music teacher by day and a street musician by night, pounding out tunes on his Panasonic keyboard as one third of a trio, his band mates a blind drummer and a fourteen year old saxophonist.

They still talked. In fact, Christian urged Emma to pursue her dream, parents and expectations be damned. Would she be happy sitting behind a desk firing people and watching the stock market fluctuate? No, so time to ditch the drama and follow the heart.

And the other person to understand Emma’s vision? Why, her very own Feli-

“Nice night for a walk, ain’t it little lady?”

Oh, this was bad. Four intimidating (and some inebriated) men impeded her way on the sidewalk. So absorbed in their own business, the other Manhattan pedestrians didn’t even bother looking at the scene. Seemed like someone was actively diverting their attention or...

Emma squinted at the hooded man in the back. Psychic energies radiated from him and engulfed a small radius with the mental suggestion containing apathy. Neat trick, but Emma had better ones.

The burliest of the burly touched her cheek. “Pretty thing,” he complimented as he brushed a blonde hair aside, “How’s about we get to know each other better?”

How’s about we get to know each other better? “How’s about we get to know each other better?” Emma scoffed. “Could you say anything more hackneyed?”

Her unconcerned demeanor threw them off for a second. The touchy feely man turned to his friends and asked, “What does hackneyed mean?”

Simpletons. “Overused, unoriginal, and tiresome,” answered Emma. She then added a “Dipshit” for good measure.

Rocket scientists these men weren’t, but they understood “Dipshit” just fine.

“Big mouth on this one. I like that. Means she’ll open up real wide when she sucks our dicks.”

Emma’s hand darted out and snared a handful of the talkative man’s crotch. His eyes bulged as she gave him an innocent grin split seconds before she twisted. Pepper spray appeared in her other hand, and she plastered the hooded mutant in the face. Charm broken, her fellow pedestrians began to notice the scene and react, some running to get out of the way, some flipping out their cell phones, a few upstanding individuals even coming to Emma’s aid. The two remaining, silent men--silent because they were drunk--lunged to protect their squirming, pleading friend.

Honest, Emma had them under control. Thanks for the help, but no thanks. Emma Grace Frost feared no one, least of all a band of machismo dripping savages. Those self-defense courses Christian told her to take came in useful, and if she couldn’t take them down, she still had her telepathy to fall back on. She couldn’t take control of their minds or anything, but simple barked orders like “Stop” or “Trip” were no problem, hence this situation was no problem.

A streak of black and platinum white dropped down in front of Emma. Thugs and helpful New Yorkers alike had no time to react. The streak never stopped moving, clocking the two attackers, sweeping Emma off her feet, and then jumping back onto the New York roofs without so much as a word.

Some said the streak was Spiderman doing his nightly patrols. The ones in the know knew the Black Cat had struck to protect her own.


*****************


Emma Grace Frost wasn’t only a mutant, which, as stated before, was an unforgivable sin in her parents’ eyes. Emma Grace Frost was also a lesbian, which, if Christian could be used as an example, was Daddy Frost’s grounds for war. Add her altruistic pursuits, apparent lack of incredible financial success, and well, if Mommy and Daddy knew an ounce more of what they knew now, they’d suffer heart attacks. Not that Emma minded, but she did have a bi-annual subscription to the “love thy parents” mantra, so she didn’t test their overtaxed organs. Yes, love thy parents... said nothing about trusting them or visiting on a regular basis.

Ahhh, the smell of technicalities in the morning. Emma loved technicalities because they always made life more interesting, like the technicality with her lover. Technically, Emma Grace Frost loved two women: the mild mannered Felicia Hardy and the city heroine Black Cat.

On any given night, the blonde shared a bed with either voluptuous vixen. The world would’ve called her a slut. The world would’ve called her unfaithful. The world would’ve called her sick. The world would’ve called her a harlot.

The world didn’t need to know Felicia Hardy and the Black Cat were one in the same, and tonight, if those determined green eyes were any indication, the Black Cat was staying over.

Rushing wind whipping her hair slowed. The hopping from building to building ceased. The Black Cat gently set Emma back on the ground, or actually, on the roof, the roof of their penthouse loft.

“Did they hurt you?”

Emma almost wanted to laugh, but she knew how seriously Felicia took her safety and shot down the response. “Unscathed,” Emma assured, snaking her hands around her lover’s trim waist, “You forget I used to teach at a Brooklyn high school.”

Pleasing sensations got pushed aside by worry. “You should drive more often. It’s safer than going out on your own like that, especially when the sun’s down.”

“Unless you’re chauffeuring, I am not putting myself in forty five minutes of Manhattan traffic. Walking is less stressful.”

Frustrated, Felicia groaned and disentangled herself from the blonde. “If you’re not going to drive, then call when you’re late. I ran all over the city looking for you, and good thing too because those men would’ve raped you.”

“No, they couldn’t have,” said Emma, folding her arms and glowering, “I’m not made of glass and you know that as well as anyone. I may not be some hot shot crime fighter, but I can hold my own against drunk frat boys.”

“Just call me for my sake, ok?”

No fair. Emma could never stand up to those green orbs of persuasion. “Fine,” she relented, “I’ll remember to call next time.”

Without waiting for Felicia’s reply, she stormed away and made sure to slam the door leading into their home extra hard. Down the tasteful spirally stairs she trudged. She didn’t even bother with her shoes, instead marching all over the immaculate white carpet and heading straight to the large stainless steel fridge.

Emma needed a drink.

A bottle of Smirnoff Ice clanked onto the marble countertop. Twist, pop, gulp, sigh, gulp, repeat previous step. A few minutes later, Felicia descended from the roof, her Black Cat mask dangling off an index finger. Emma polished off her weak liquor and dumped the bottle in the recycling bin. As she blazed to the bedroom, Felicia put a hand on her shoulder.

Her voice dripped with regret. “I’m sorry for going paranoid on you, Emma.”

“Yeah, I can understand. I shouldn’t get protective when you throw yourself in front of murderers and super villains every night, but when I come home late, it’s ok for you to freak out. I get it.”

The sarcasm stun enough for Felicia to wince. “I deserved that,” she sighed. “It’s in my nature to worry about you. I’ve got enemies all over the place, and every minute I don’t know where you are, I get uncomfortable. Does that make me controlling? Yes. Does that make me demanding? Yes. But am I justified? Yes.”

Those words all rubbed Emma the wrong way. Brought back memories of childhood, of a domineering father and his host of lackeys he called babysitters. “How long have we been together?”

“Four years, seven months,” answered Felicia without hesitation.

“And in all that time, have I ever been threatened by any of these enemies? The Hobgolin has never darkened our doorstep. Venom hasn’t shown his face to me. I’ve seen them on TV; I’ve seen their wounds on your body. That’s it. It’s safe to say you don’t have to be paranoid.”

“Just because it hasn’t happened doesn’t mean it won’t!”

“You can’t run my life, Felicia!” The blonde’s voice became dangerously quiet and she turned away. “I’m not your belonging. I’m my own person and I won’t stand for being a trophy girl, there for you to fuck whenever you’re buzzed after a fight.”

Anger and hurt consumed the Black Cat, but she commanded herself to will her rash thoughts away. Both she and Emma were fierce, independent women. Any attempts to stifle said independence were met with aforementioned fierceness. Just, sometimes, in the middle of protecting the greater masses, a protective streak popped up. No, Emma wasn’t a dainty tart, but after seeing so many die, so many tragic endings, the scared, selfish side of Felicia wanted to keep the blonde under lock and key so no one would ever cause her harm.

“Please Emma, look at me.” Her lover didn’t turn her head. “If I have to beg on my knees, I will.”

Maybe it was the Smirnoff, but Emma felt sadistic today. Normally, she’d never let Felicia stoop so low, but today, the offer sounded too good to pass up. “Well?” she asked, still not moving her head.

Swallowing her pride, Felicia got to her knees; only then did Emma drown herself in those comforting pools of green. “You have two minutes, Hardy.”

Didn’t need to tell Felicia twice. “I need to protect you, Emma and I can’t just leave you alone. When I saw those men coming at you, I almost lost myself. Please, I’m not trying to be so bitchy. Tonight scared me half to death. I know how much you career means to you, but... but...”

She wrapped herself around the blonde, half to feel the supple body, half to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. “You’re everything to me, Emma: you’re my purpose, my shield, and my life. There’s no way you’re a trophy fuck, and you saying so hurts me more than you can imagine. I love you so much I can’t even breathe right anymore. The very sight of you takes my breath away and every touch makes my heart race like I’m running a marathon. I can’t stop protecting you because I can’t stop loving you. I went too far, and I’m sorry.”

Despite the apology, despite the declarations of love, Felicia felt Emma rip herself away. Bitter disappointment of losing everything shot through her until a set of warm lips pressed against her cheek. She opened her eyes and found Emma kneeled on the ground with her, body about to press against body. Felicia captured Emma’s lips with her own and wouldn’t let go. Long, pianist’s fingers fumbled for the concealed zipper on the Black Cat costume. The platinum haired woman took pity on the frustrated digits and helped them along on their quest to remove the form fitting clothing.

A burst of movement brushed from her neck and down past her cleavage, finally freeing her ample breasts from their resting places. Enticed by Felicia’s excited gasp, Emma’s hands slinked under the neoprene and fondled and massaged and teased and pinched and rubbed for all their worth. The deft simulation reduced the mighty Black Cat to a pliable mass of purring nerves, the burning and yearning razing all thought as blood diverted to the most sensitive of regions.

Sex with Emma always blew her mind. Make-up sex simply defied description.

Felicia groaned and leaned back to allow easier access, but she forgot about the bookcase. Her head produced an impressive thump, crossing her eyes and stopping the amorous adventure in its tracks. A precariously balanced Batman comic tumbled from its perch about five feet up and landed open on Felicia’s face.

The title: “Here Comes Catwoman!”

Emma laughed while Felicia growled. The Black Cat tossed the big boobed harlot’s chronicles aside and glared at her highly amused lover, who by now had herself in stitches as she rolled over the carpet. The accident might’ve killed the mood, but Felicia remained as aroused as ever, the ache for release not easing. She found herself caught been wanting to laugh, cry, scream, or finish the freakin’ job herself.

Felicia pounced on Emma and pinned her in one place. The laughter stopped as they gazed into each other’s eyes... until Emma couldn’t hold it in anymore and broke down in Felicia’s face.

“Glad to know you’re having fun.”

The blonde steadied herself. “Oh honey, you’re my Catwoman, and you know you can come for me any day!”

Predictably, the laughter resumed.

Catwoman. Here Comes Catwoman. Haha, very funny. Felicia might’ve laughed herself if she wasn’t so keyed up. Attempting to distract Emma, she dove in with a kiss while her hands undid the button on the blonde’s slacks. Giggles transformed into mews of pleasure, Felicia’s fingers working some magic of their own between Emma’s silken folds of flesh. Straining for more, Emma bucked her hips and grazed her clothed chest against Felicia’s exposed breasts. Long locks of platinum hair shielded their sweaty, blissful faces from the world as the encounter sped to the climax.

Emma’s mouth parted. Her entire being--her heart, her mind, her spirit--seized. The dampness on Felicia’s two fingers grew, but they didn’t stop. Small tremors induced by the fervor of love electrified both bodies. Blue eyes glazed over, breath caught, voice lost.

“I’ve got you,” Felicia whispered, planting soft kisses on an euphoric Emma, “I love you...”

Their front door burst open. Still gripped in the throngs of passion, the women failed to summon the wherewithal to process the situation, much less fight back. Gloved hands pulled Felicia away and dragged Emma to her feet. Men, masked men all around them and more coming in. One of them stunned Felicia by clubbing her head with a baton. Others followed, striking her viciously, repeatedly, and mercilessly. They held her up by her arms so their hits would score more damage. When a particularly hard blow shattered a rib, the men whooped, some making comments about her jiggling breasts, half naked body, and or tortured cries.

Overwhelmed by sight of her lover’s pain, Emma frantically screamed “STOP!”

Remarkably, the men stopped; Felicia slumped, motionless. From just outside the door, a familiar voice spoke. “Yeah, yeah! Them the bitches who fucked with my crew!”

Another deeper, refined voice chuckled. “Splendid, Mr. Ireveti.” Fingers snapped to signal someone. “Bullseye, show these four men my deepest appreciation.”

“Sure Boss. Come on boys, I got your cash waitin’ in the car.”

“Sweet!”

The men in ski masks parted. In walked a fat, bald, clean shaven man smoking a cigar and looking like he owned the world. He clutched Felicia’s jaw and made the half dead woman look at him.

“The Black Cat,” he greeted warmly, “My apologies for barging in unannounced. I notice you were... preoccupied.”

Through half lidded eyes and trembling mouth, Felicia mumbled one name. “Kingpin.”

He rammed his meaty fist into her stomach. The punch would’ve folded her in half if his cronies weren’t propping her up. Turning his attention to Emma, the cold hearted monster smiled.

“What a beautiful blonde angel. Tell me, what’s your name?”

Emma spat in his face.

Taking the gesture in stride and wiping the saliva away, Kingpin browsed the living room. He plucked three framed photographs from the coffee table and spent the better part of a minute admiring them.

“So I gather you two are lovers?”

One of the masked men snorted and scoffed, “Dirty dykes.”

Moving faster than anyone anticipated, Kingpin stepped in front of the henchman and backhanded him to the ground. “I do not tolerate such remarks,” he calmly noted, “I’m a businessman, not a bigot.”

The others fell into line and the room silenced.

“Now then,” he continued, sidling to Emma but facing the slowly recovering Felicia, “Business first. The Black Cat, or Felicia Hardy, has caused me a great deal of grief both financially and socially. Seeing as how I did gift her with her powers she is so adamantly using against me, I’d like her to stop. Now, that can be accomplished in three acceptable ways.”

He began pacing. “One: the Black Cat comes to work for me. Goes without saying she’ll be well compensated. While I do run a tight ship, my employees have remarkable benefits, including but limited to the best health coverage, ample reinforcements, and no threat of jail time. While this would be the speediest and most peaceful solution, I have a feeling her do-gooder self will conspire against me, so I’m leery at the proposition.

“Two: I kill the Black Cat. Such a graceful creature, I’d hate to waste her talents, but some things can’t be helped. Nothing personal, business is business. I don’t suppose that route bodes well with either of you.

“Three: I take this blonde lover and use her as leverage against Ms. Hardy. Not the most savory of arrangements, but certainly a most agreeable one from my perspective. The Black Cat keeps every one of her nine lives, no one gets hurt, and I have one less meddlesome needle in my side.”

He spun to gaze at his platinum haired prisoner. “So what will it be?”

Felicia could barely keep her eyes open. The harsh holds applied by her captors dug into her tired limbs. Kingpin’s thunderous blow hurt more than she cared to remember. Her body throbbed like a giant bruise while her head swam in a dizzying haze. Insulting words from earlier hammered at her pride, but she couldn’t gather herself to stand up, much less retaliate.

The pleading, terrified look in Emma’s eyes smashed her heart into meaningless shards.

She mouthed something quietly, too quietly for anyone to hear.

“Could you repeat that?” the Kingpin asked as he walked closer to her.

Felicia took a deep breath. “Kill me,” she murmured, holding her sadness in, “Let Emma go.”

No... “No! Felicia! You can’t!”

The Kingpin glanced between the two separated women and nodded. “I will honor that,” he said with a hint of respect, “There are those a lucky person would unquestioningly die for--I am one of the few who can readily sympathize.” He motioned to one of his men who then drew a silenced pistol. “Would you like her here or somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else.”

Between the menacing men, the fat mob boss, the defeat, the getting dragged away, the sadness, the desperation, the finality, the love, the hurt, the death, and oh, sweet, wonderful, caring, about-to-be-executed Felicia, something in Emma snapped. The limits of her telepathy lifted themselves and waves of thoughts assaulted the blonde. She sensed them, watched them, and with little effort, even manipulated them.

Every mind, so fragile.

Every consciousness, so close to dimming.

Every one here, so vulnerable.

Instinctively, she snared each interlopers’ minds and shredded without rhyme or reason. Sudden shrieks filled the loft, people clutching their heads and dropping to their knees while they bled from their noses and ears. Even the mighty Kingpin succumb to the psychic attack, his normally collected countenance twisted into a mish mash of agony and cluelessness. She continued tearing for all she was worth, her rage fueling her to do more damage, to increase the suffering, to save Felicia.

Someone pounded down the hall. The last of Kingpin’s flunkies, the one called Bullseye, the one who took four men outside under the pretense of paying them but instead slit their throats. He’d suffer too, but before Emma could act, he fired his gun. The bullet bounced off the doorknob and hurled itself through her midsection, stomach, spine, and back. An immediate chill shot down her lower body and she couldn’t feel her legs anymore; however, she could feel blood collecting in her insides before spilling out of her newly formed cavities.

Bullseye came into the room long enough to see Emma collapsing, the Kingpin foaming at the mouth, and Felicia scooping up the silenced semi-automatic handgun which was suppose to spell her doom. Fifteen bullets rattled from the weapon, seven of them striking the costumed man. He dropped and didn’t get up.

Felicia crawled over to Emma and held her love to her chest.

*You’re turning me on,* the blonde mentally said, too wounded to physically speak, *Zip up. I don’t have enough blood to go around now.*

Felicia couldn’t even appreciate the humor.

She cried as she watched Emma’s life leave her.

Police sirens blared in the background. The windows shattered and in swung Spiderman and Daredevil. They directed help as best they could, but in the end, all either could do was comfort their friend and pray for the best.


*****************


Two years later...


Emma took a break from grading her literature class’ finals and glanced at the clock. Eleven PM--Felicia and Peter should’ve been done with their patrol by now. Tapping into her telepathy, Emma scoured New York City and found her two charges horsing around in Times Square, basically wowing the Japanese tourists with their death defying acrobatics and autograph signing skills.

*Both of you,* she growled, letting her unhappiness be known, *You’re crime fighters, not circus acts.*

Peter winced at Emma’s irritation. *Busted,* he sighed. *Well, I’m going home to MJ. Catch you later, Cat!*

He webslinged away, leaving an inundated Felicia Hardy to fend for herself, both with the enamored tourists and the ticked off Emma. Following shouts of revenge and a half hearted chase, the woman hightailed herself back to her new base of operations: Kingpin’s former skyscraper.

Up and up she climbed, finally gliding into the top floor with her proverbial tail tucked behind her. “Sorry, Emma,” she blushed, “We, umm, got carried away.”

Massaging the bridge of her nose, the blonde put down her red pen and frowned at her wife. “How are we suppose to be a fearsome crime fighting force when two of the three field members are always acting like rock stars?”

“Rock stars? Matt’s the one that looks like a rock star, all dressed up like Stevie Wonder in red spandex. Not our fault the Manhattan travel guide calls us ‘integral pillars of justice’ and puts us on the cover! We gotta let loose once in a while.”

Furious at the lackadaisical attitude, Emma wheeled herself from behind her immaculately neat desk. “How is putting your life on the line in the middle of a crime infested city a good time or place to ‘let loose’? You’re doing this for the general public, not to be a tourist attraction!”

“Fine,” Felicia acquiesced, bending down to kiss Emma, “You made your point. No more having fun when we’re out on patrols. There, happy?”

“Quite,” she grumbled. Stupid Felicia never did fight fair when she got in trouble. Mild annoyance replaced the anger of seconds ago, and all Emma could do was get herself minimally worked up. “If you and Peter can’t control yourselves, I’m going to have to get outside help, digitize our operation, and run a vigilante group without the consent of the New York authorities.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Felicia mischievously grinned, “I’ll retire, and after you establish yourself as cyber crime fighter, you can dole out information to the superhero community under the mysterious pseudonym of the Oracle.”

The mischievous glimmer infected Emma, but she combined it with her derisive sarcasm and trademarked flowery speech. “As the all knowing Oracle, I’ll get Hawkeye and Warbird to do my dirty work, then we can call ourselves something utterly dim-witted like the Birds of Prey.”

The two women stared at each other and blinked.

“Nah,” they both said at the same time.

Felicia got behind Emma’s wheelchair and dutifully escorted her wife to the kitchen. “So, what’s for dinner tonight, honey?”

“Takeout.”

“Again?” she muttered, “We need a butler.”

“I hear Peter knows a good one who’s looking for work.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Charles Xavier or something.”

***************

- The next tale awaits...

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