ArchivedLogs:Brief Escapes

Brief Escapes
Dramatis Personae Elliott, Emma
In Absentia	2013-03-28 Quietly gala-ing.
Location <NYC> Hellfire Club - Upper East Side
Monochrome elegance at its finest: the Hellfire Club plays home to New York's elite, and has spared no expense in making that clear. Black and white marble tiles the floor, the pattern distinctly that of a chessboard. Rich wood paneling lines the walls, and the alcoves of the entry hall hold statues reminiscent of chess pieces. Meeting and dining halls provide plentiful space for the club's members to congregate, whatever their needs. The Hellfire's library, while far smaller than its ballroom in size, is far more prized in content. Hundreds of volumes line the meticulously tended shelves, the rarest kept carefully in climate-controlled cases under the watchful eye of the mansion's librarian. High-backed leather chairs and plush couches provide quiet reading spaces beneath soft lighting, and tall windows look out to the mansion's gardens beyond. The main ballroom of the mansion is vast and opulent, its ceiling vaulted and the balconies above curving gracefully away from the grand staircase -- an ideal place from which to Make An Entrance. The hallways that branch off from the staircase run in opposing monochrome: the stark white court's quarters to one side, the dark black court's quarters to the other. The evening drags on in its wonder, allowing people of all types to mingle with others - as long as they were on the very carefully monitored and security checked guest list.  Miltary contractors /can/ speak with the citizens they might be countering and suppressing, and humans can mingle with mutants and discuss differing politics.  But are they?  If they aren't doing so naturally, Emma Frost will step in and introduce topics to help get the ball rolling. Dazzling in a simple, strapless white ball gown, Emma is floating around the room from one group to another, dragging single individuals into different lions dens when she feels they can handle it without too much discomfort.   After finishing an introduction, she pauses, looking about the room for someone she hasn't 'handled' yet. Elliott doesn't quite dazzle as much, but she is very white. Crisp navy dress uniform, one pant leg neatly pinned up and tucked a good deal shorter than the other. The thick-padded fingerless gloves on her hands are white to match the uniform, and her wheelchair even gleams like it has recently been washed. At the moment she has been locked in conversation with a similarly military-dress-uniformed (Air Force, though) general but the exchange seems to be coming to a close; the general has a Stark Industries C-level type approaching him and Elliott has been rather /distracted/ by a passing (bowtied, cummerbunded) drone. The drone drops to hover at her level as she plucks a chocolate-covered strawberry off of it, and she reaches a hand towards its bow tie, looking rather /charmed/. At least until her hand passes through it; then she looks startled. She drops the strawberry; it might have been a disaster on her clean white uniform but quick reflexes catch it again before it hits the cloth. It's not a very /dignified/ save, but at least she won't be chocolatey for the entire gala. /Too/ chocolatey, anyway. There's a spot of it on the palm of her glove that she is oh-so-surreptitiously licking off. Emma watches quietly, her eyes widening when she sees the quick save.  She draws in a deep breath and approaches the same drone and performs the same test as Elliott, finding no sensation whatsoever when her hand passes through the illused clothing.  She snags a strawberry and walks over.  "That was the strangest thing," she admits in a carefully concerned tone, creating some bafflement to echo Elliott's.  "I didn't think to touch them before you did.  I am grateful that you did."  She extends her clean and empty hand in greeting.  "Emma Frost." "It's /strange/," Elliott agrees, "they look so /real/, how do they manage that?" In her mind there is genuine puzzlement, combined with an engineer's automatic search for /methods/, scrutinizing the drones for -- what? Holographic projectors? MAGIC? She is dropping her hand, untouched strawberry held carefully in her fingers, and then she looks up to offer Emma a bright smile and take her hand. "Elliott Carruthers. I heard a rumour that it was absolutely /dazzling/ woman in white responsible for this whole event. I should give you my congratulations, everything here looks perfect." << Almost everything, >> at least, her mind is adding, in quiet noooot-really-comfort with the open mutants wandering the Gala. But it's subdued; for the most part her easy warmth /is/ genuine. Emma smiles and squeezes Elliott's hand gently before releasing it.  "Thank you.  -- You know?  I'm going to have to look into those little suits myself.  I didn't think hologram technology was that far advanced.  Of course, when Mr Osborn makes his actual presentation, all of our questions may be answered - so I guess we have to be patient."  She nibbles lightly on the end of her chocolate strawberry, her minaudiere dangling gently from mid forearm.  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lt Carruthers.  I hope you are enjoying yourself in this make-believe land I have constructed." "Neither did I. If his technology is this well-developed, maybe this Gala is just a formality," Elliott says with a quiet laugh. "I think he'd have a line of contracts waiting to get their hands on some of his tech." She remembers her strawberry when Emma eats hers, lifting it to nibble, as well. "Oh, it's a wonderland. It's nice sometimes to get away from reality for a night --" Her head dips in mild apology. "I mean, for you, I guess, this is work as well. But hopefully you manage at least a minute here and there to enjoy yourself?" Her thoughts are wandering to the gala, the decorations, the music, the food, the guests. Emma. There's a faint tinge of patience to the thoughts -- as a politician's daughter there's always a sense of routine, of duty, accompanying Putting On A Formal Face for things like this, but there's genuine appreciation, too. She's had a /tiring/ few weeks since returning to the states; a night not in the spotlight just enjoying someone else's work is delightful, even if she isn't entirely sure how she feels about Osborn's approach to all this. "The food is a joy in and of itself.  I think I subsist on freezer food a good deal of the time - because I don't really have time for better things." Emma smiles, her nibbling sufficiently delicate so as not to smear any chocolate on her lips, but they are a little more pink from the fruit itself.  "If you are able to 'get away,' then you have paid me the greatest compliment an event coordinator can receive.  Thank you."  She moves to stand a little to the side so that Elliott can escape the conversation any time she likes, but stays close so they can still speak.  "After all your news spots lately, you could probably use a night off from being the target of the press." Elliott laughs, again, glancing upwards at Emma. "Oh, I can relate to that feeling. Maybe not freezer food but weeks of MREs will make you pretty happy for the sight of a fresh strawberry." She takes another bite of /strawberry/ << mmm >>, patting her fingertips clean on the small napkin it came with once she has eaten it. "Tonight, here, I am /definitely/ --" she says, and here there's a glance towards the very /bright/ photokinetic and his partner; it's pleasant externally but carries that same sharp twinge of discomfort internally, "-- being outshone. Mr. Osborn's brought some very interesting guests. It will be interesting to see how it hurts or helps the reception of his presentation." "It is quite a varied group," Emma agrees, putting a little more emphasis on 'varied' than is completely necessary, before nibbling a little more chocolate off her strawberry.  "He has orchestrated this evening in a very specific fashion.  I am in the dark as to what he is going to announce, but I feel everything will make sense by the end of the evening."  It doesn't hurt that Emma is paid to reassure everyone.  She smiles over at Elliott, studying her features perhaps a little longer than is necessary, before lowering her eyes shyly.  She wets her lips and looks up and away, feigning a little embarrassment, remaining mentally aware if the other woman is interested in flirting with her.  "Oh, was there anyone in particular that you wanted to or needed to meet tonight?  I have the pleasure of knowing everyone here, so I can introduce you around." Elliott meets Emma's eyes until the other woman looks away, and there's a touch more interest piqued, now, than merely polite conversation. She folds her napkin neatly, rests her hand on the arm of her wheelchair, and her smile comes a little warmer. "Oh," she says, lightly, "I've been doing nothing but getting paraded around to distinguished people since I set foot," here she has her own quiet internal chuckle. Foot! Hah. One. Oh no wait that turns briefly into a quiet internal twinge of grar. But it returns to chuckle soon after. "back in this country. I think right now I've got the far more preferable company right here." She glances up at Emma again, looking over the other woman with a quiet sense of appreciation. "Planning an event like this must've been eating up the bulk of your energy, lately. Please tell me you're going to have at least a little downtime to enjoy yourself, after all this is through?" "Do you mind if I sit?" Emma gestures to a nearby seat, moving toward it.  "I've been on my feet forever." Relatively sure that Elliott will oblige her, she takes the seat in hand and moves it a little closer -- or leaves it where it is if Elliott follows her.  She settles down on the cushion with a small, honest sigh, letting up on the pressure of her feet.  She transfers that relaxes smile over to Elliott before hiding it behind her strawberry, nibbling a little more.  "I should have some time off after this - a day or two.  I need to check my schedule."  Once seated, she flags down a waiter-bot for a little bubbly, deciding to use it medicinally.  One glass will not impair her.  "What might you be doing in the next few days?" Elliott does follow, hands dropping to the wheels of her chair to push it closer. Emma's question draws another twinge, amusement and frustration comingled to leave her just a little wry. "I certainly couldn't fault you for it, I've been off my feet for weeks." It's light enough, though, that she's joking rather than taking offense. She tucks her chair in nearby Emma's, reaching for a glass of champagne as well and sipping it slowly. "Taking it /easy/. I've had a storm of paperwork for getting back to school, but now I kind of just want a ecouple days to relax. Settle back into the city, maybe?" << maybe with some good company, >> comes with another glance at Emma, but it is comingled with an uncertain sort of bitter self-doubt at odds with the rest of her otherwise confident demeanour: << -- if any company wants me now. >> It's not a doubt that shows through in her easy bearing, her easy smile. "Do you work for Osborn, or the Club?" There's a quiet /hope/ here that Emma says the latter: as a member, carried down through her mother, it means more opportunity to run into the woman later. Emma has the good sense to let the joke go by with a small laugh, looking a little bit grateful she wasn't offensive. "Oh," Emma replies with a small surprised smile. "I guess you hadn't heard yet. You're looking at the Hellfire Club's newest event coordinator." It is still somewhat new news, all things considered and this is Emma's first big event. She lifts one leg to cross it over the other, moving the limb and it's accompanying layers of white fabric closer to Elliott, reaching out, but not touching yet. Her eyes watch for silent clues that this is okay. She then takes a long sip of her champagne and a bite of her strawberry, almost finishing it off, without messing up her makeup. She chews quietly then swallows. "They keep me pretty busy, but I have purposefully cleared my schedule of meetings tomorrow and Saturday, and pre-emptively labeled the days 'Follow-up/Clean up' in case of things getting messy tonight." She looks around briefly, both to make sure things are going smoothly and no one is searching for her - and to throw glances at the roving waiters again.  "Mr. Osborn has small explosives on the list of things he is presenting today. He has promised me that he isn't going to use them, but explosives are not always contained." It is something one does not want in a room like this. "If I have to find contractors to completely rebuild this room, I'd rather not have to also disappoint and reschedule meetings."  Elliott may notice that all of the usual expensive pieces of art in the ballroom have been conveniently relocated elsewhere in the Mansion. "If things go well, though, I'll be free until Monday."  Emma gives Elliott a long look and then finishes off her champagne and strawberry, stuffing the leafy bits inside the glass and wiping her fingers on her napkin.  The glass and the napkin are deposited in a drone's care.  "I don't suppose we could coordinate this time off, taking it easy, relaxing?" "Oh!" This news comes with a pleasant cheer. "Well. That /does/ promise wonderful things for the Club's future social calendar." Elliott is listening, quiet, reserved, through Emma's words, a polite chuckle given to the mention of explosives: "Goodness, well, he certainly would get a lot of /press/ for it but likely not the kind he wants!" -- but her attention inwardly is very keenly /aware/ of that shift of Emma's leg. Still, she makes no move either toward or away from this shift -- until that last question, which visibly relaxes her and warms her smile. Her own posture shifts, slightly, in her chair, crisp white slacks brushing up against Emma's dress. "You know, that sounds like it'd be delightful. Something quiet, maybe? I'd imagine you'll have had your fill of bustle and crowds." She's also idly considering Osborn's explosives, somewhere in the back of her mind, buried beneath the flirting. Considering what other measures he might be bringing forth, considering how they'd be best employed to combat dangerous mutants. These ponderings come with quiet flickers of memory; yelling, flashes of gunfire, the salt-smell of sea, smoke, a searing-sharp pain from some invisible blade cutting into her leg. Emma briefly considers distracting her mentally, but doesn't, leaving Elliott's brain untampered with.  Instead, she bends her foot more, sliding it against the surface of her good leg, still careful in case the touch is unwelcome. "I would definitely find some solace in something quiet - perhaps just the two of us and maybe some take out."  She offers quietly, considering, a small smile on her lips.  "At the same time - I could use trip to a store to furnish my apartment a little better.  The place is bare!  It's rather terrible."  There's a pause and then she offers, "I could show you some time and you could let me know what you think?" The touch is welcome, evident both by the pleased note in Elliott's mind and the shift of her leg to press back into it. "I can't say I'm the best at home decorating, my idea of style for years has been putting up an extra photo of home in my berth. Might just make that all the more fun seeing about furnishing yours, though." She offers Emma another smile, quick and easy. "How do you feel about Indian? I know a place that's pretty much to die for. Assuming we all get out of /here/ without being exploded, that is." "I love Indian."  Emma admits, smiling brightly, rubbing her foot a little more against Elliott's when the gesture is considered pleasant.  "And I welcome any sort of advice on furnishing that might make my place feel a little bit more like home."  She draws herself into a standing position, looking about the room.  "Thank you for a glorious respite.  I feel more energized for your company."  She opens her minaudiere and retrieves a small business card from a small pocket.  "I'm going to be working a lot tonight, but I don't want to lose touch.  Call me later.  I always have my phone with me - and I have an office on the first floor, near the club entrance, if you feel like finding me there.  Or, if you need to get away from the party, but don't want to leave." Elliott accepts the card with a warm smile that is really just an echo of the grateful flush inside -- there is only /so/ many times she can answer questions about her experiences before needing a /break. "I'll call you," she says, and it has the weight (and intention) of a promise. She doesn't /say/ she feels more energized, but she certainly looks it, her thoughts, too, carrying a more cheerful lightness to them as she wheels her way towards another robowaiter. Because hors d'oeuvres. Emma smiles as Elliott leaves and straightens up.  She takes a deep breath and looks around again, her mood shifting.  She slips back into professional mode, which is nowhere near as warm as her flirtatious side.  She uses her cellphone in her purse to check her makeup, then moves on with the night.