To Be Known
Roleplaying Log: To Be Known
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Emma and Andrea cross paths at a charity function.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: January 03, 2020
IC Location: New York City, NY
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 03 Jan 2020 23:44
Rating & Warnings: G
Scene Soundtrack: None
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

It's early yet in the evening, and already Emma Frost has the look of overwhelming boredom about her.

Oh, certainly, when the right body comes round, she pretends that she's pleased to see them and turns her lips upwards into a plastic, photo-perfect smile. One never knows, after all, when one of the hired event photographers will turn a corner. And she has plenty of people who want to talk to her, wrapped up prettily in her murder-sharp stiletto heels and a daring avant-garde snow-white cocktail dress with an asymmetrical bodice that shows nearly everything on one side, but wraps her up in a conservative collar and puff sleeve on the other. It's fitted to the point of appearing painted on from wait until calf, and split high on the daring side to give her room enough to walk.

But that's really the way it goes at these things.

It's an charity event for a local group supporting youth in the arts, and she silently counts her blessings that at least it's not a dinner. There's no terrible, dry, and altogether forgettable rubber chicken from some obscure caterer to pretend to eat, and there's plenty of prosecco. (Even if it's not a particularly remarkable vintage, it's serviceable. And serviceable is enough for an event like this.)

Checks are being written and given over, although Frost has already done her part: her foundation is one of the evening's sponsors. (Hence why the prosecco is serviceable, because she made damn sure it would be.)

The band plays; a lively local jazz quartet. The mood is generally good. It should be a good night for the charity involved.


One would assume that being a public mutant and attacked in the middle of New York City would keep one's head underground for a few days, but not Andrea Jackson. Though she cancelled her New Years plans, she was not about to miss a charity event involving young children.

Making her way inside, she gives brief, quick professional smilse to the cameras while evading shouted questions about the attack. She gives off a few no comments to the reporters, shrugging them off. The popstarlet and once princess of Disney isn't about to feed the vultures any tasty snacks this evening.

Dressed in a stunning black dress that hugs her athletic frame while still maintaining a conservative look, the fabric shimmers beneath the the bright glow of LED's. She has a hint of make up on to accentuate her cheeks and lips, and a pair of heels. At her side is her bodyguard, James, who is built like a college linebacker, but with the age of a man nearing his 50's and has seen his share of war. A decorated military veteran now retired, hand picked by her mother for her personal security.

As she makes her way through the crowd, she still feels like a fish out of water. Her heightened ears can catch the low murmur of conversation about her. Mutant. Be careful. Dangerous. Love her heels! Is that her dad or her date? As she finds herself in front of the band, she listens to them play with a small smile on her lips, tucking some of her brown hair back behind her ear.

Miss Frost stands out like a sore thumb of course. She's gorgeous, wearing a dress that would make most mother's throttle their daughters, and commands attention. She knows of her through the media of course as a powerful, wealthy woman and it's hard to take her eyes off of her as she casts casual glances, followed by a light sniff of the air. She wears amazing body wash. Jealous.


Whether she's publicly declared or not, Emma feels the change of the room when Andrea enters it in the unseen ways that only a telepath can. Pricks of interest light up in foreign minds, bright notes in an otherwise sedate score of thoughts.

And the mind witch turns her gaze, too.

She watches from the corner of her eye even as she pretends to pay attention to the conversation at hand (blah blah blah December modern sculpture exhibit in Chelsea blah blah blah). She sips from her flute and returns her attention to the balding man in front of her.

But then, in the quiet of her own thoughts, Andrea may hear a small, disembodied voice. It's a voice that, perhaps, may sound like her own as it echoes in her head. « A surprising choice, back to public so soon. »

And as she uses her abilities to speak, the mind witch also uses them to listen, skimming across Andrea's surface thoughts to get a solid read


As she takes a glass of water from a waiter to sip from, Andrea is a year shy of at least consuming alcohol in public, and she doesn't need the press if she was to snag some champagne. Letting out a soft sigh, her brow furrows a bit as she hears her phone chime away in her purse that hangs off her arm. She's ignoring that too. Tonight is a night to relax, smile, make some contacts for Starlight and — wait, what was that?

She stiffens noticeably at the second voice that enters her head. « My mother says that hiding is a sign of fear and in war, you can't show fear. Who're you? » She takes another sip of her water, giving only a causal glance about, offering up a smile to someone that pauses to take her picture. Always the epitome of professionalism.

« If you are from the same group that tried to hurt me the other day, I won't pull back my claws this time. I'll tear your throats out in front of everyone so the world knows I will not be bullied. »

As far as surface thoughts go: 'I took thirty-three steps from the front entrance. Two emergency exits at the north and west corridors. I should have listened to Sam. There is too many innocent people here. Too many cameras. Shit. Shit. Shit.' Her heart is racing, though she keeps a professional stance as she continues to keep most of her attention on the band, though she has started to angle herself to face an exit, sipping on her water again. Her free hand reaches out to slide into James, giving it a pair of squeezes.

And within a second, James is stepping in closer to his charge, glancing around the room from behind mirrored shades.


« It's so endearing when little kittens pretend they are jungle cats. Have your claws even really grown all the way in, dear? »

Oh, this is even more fun than she thought it would be originally. Half-drunk, Emma laughs at a joke. It's not the one that the man in front of her is telling her. She takes another sip of her wine.

"Will you pardon me?" she asks without really meaning it as a question, slipping to a new conversation partner. This is all business. He's contracting a yacht out of her shipyard, and she means to tell him how its going and how grateful she is for the business. She multitasks conversations with a deft hand.


There is a visible frown upon Andrea's face as she takes in a deep breath, then focuses as her ears give a few pricks, twitching and shifting to more pointed angles. She closes her eyes, listening to the voices around her, pinging each one and sorting through them. As she gives another squeeze of James' hand, she lets it go, then slowly turns around as she /listens/.

« I'm not a cat. » She says with an indignant sniff of the air, nostrils flaring before she slowly opens her eyes. As she singles Emma out again, she trains on her voice as she listens to her speak to the men for a few minutes.

« I love your dress by the way. Versace or Ferretti? »


« Vintage McQueen, actually. Also, you were the one who brought up claws. Don't critique just because I'm the one who followed the metaphor to its natural conclusion. You sound like a sore loser. Very unbecoming. »

The voice inside matches easily the CEO outside well enough, although there are some discrepancies that the mind witch introduces to keep it perfect. « I also would very much recommend that you keep those claws sheathed. It won't end well for you, otherwise. You're a little outclassed. Points for fighting spirit, though. You have to love a girl with gumption. »


« I am a wolf. Not a cat. You aren't the only 'bitch' in this room. » She says with some wry amusement. « It's also pretty obvious you aren't with that other group, because they were homeless hobos who weren't very organized and had terrible body odor. » Andrea visibly relaxes a bit as her ears shift back to normal from beneath her thick mane of chocolate hair.

« You are Emma Frost. You are one of my top ten strong female idols that I have tried to pattern my business model after. Are you a mutant like me? » There is a hint of hope in her mental voice. Adoration. Respect.


She's a role model, Andrea tells her. « I am, actually, exceedingly wonderful and worthy of all admiration. So, I suppose, your taste isn't the worst, » Emma agrees, with only the barest glance in Andrea's direction — a pulse of time, nothing more — to serve as something of a confirmation on the guest. But then?

Then sarcasm. Her thoughts drip with it.

« But no, not a mutant at all. A figment of your imagination. Thoughts reflecting back upon yourself. Very realistic, though, I'll grant you. »

Another beat.

« And really, if you were going for the wolf imagery, you should have gone with fangs, not claws. Claws are decidedly more catlike. »


« My claws can rip a person apart as if they were made of paper. I turn into an eight foot monster and I go animalistic berserk. It wasn't good for my neighbor's cat when I had my first change. » Andrea says as she sips at her water, then offers up a smile to a pair of guests that say hello to her. Their thoughts are filled with disgust for the popstar, but they're putting on an appearance.

« Do you think we can talk later in private? I'd love to ask you some questions, about … all of this. Public imagery stuff. Mine took a hit the other day, though my record sales spiked for a few hours. People are weird. »

She gives James a nudge and asks him to mingle so that she isn't being hovered by the bodyguard. Seems whatever tension she was holding has melted away. « This group that attacked me, they plan on hurting more people. They're whack jobs. »


« Take it from the telepath. Most people are far closer to the 'whack job' end of the spectrum than is really comfortable for anyone. »

Emma doesn't really seem to be bothered by the thoughts that surround Andrea, or surprised, and she really doesn't tell the other girl. Swirling her flute, she moves on, evades another conversation, and moves towards the coat check. She finishes the content of her glass, sets it on a tray as she passes by it, and then moves to collect her things.

« If you want to talk, you may put a call into my assistant, Miss Beaumont. Tell her that I told you to put you on my calendar, somewhere in the evening. She won't believe you, naturally, but she'll at least tell me that you called and come in with my calendar pulled up. »


« I'll do that then. » Andrea says as her dark eyes track the woman across the room. She gives a lick of her lips in thought, then offers up a smile in her direction. « It was nice to meet you! I really do admire you. » She says honestly.

« Have a good night Miss Frost. » As it appears that she is taking her leave.


From across the room, her eyes turn to meet Andrea's for another pulse of time. It spans a breath, no longer. She's played the game long enough to not risk any more. Then it's all smiles and laughter for a gentleman who offers to help her with her coat. She slides into the snowy expanses of fur with meaningless flirtations for a man likely three times her age.

But she's still listening. A strange feeling of amusement crosses the air, an empathic push at the mention of admiration. She is, as has been stated, wonderful. Glorious, even, as she effortlessly pulls her hair free of her coat's collar and coyly sets a kiss upon her fingertips before transferring it to the man's cheek.

Andrea won't know the dark things that Emma finds lurking beneath the exchange there, and it's for the best. She's bid a good night. In two realms. The man receives one in her polished, adopted British tone. « And to you, dear, » Emma projects to the other with a vaguely school-teacher sort of tone. « And don't wander too far from your hired wall, hm? »

She doesn't really wait after that, or send any more parting glances. Instead, she simply slips out of the party and into the early dark of another cold winter evening in Manhattan.

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