868/Don't Ask What We Did Last Night

Don't Ask What We Did Last Night
Date of Scene:	30 March 2020
Location:	Main Foyer
Synopsis:	No one gets between Emma and what she wants. Which is probably a nice bubble bath, a book, and another chapter in Guide To Dealing with Crazy People.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, James Proudstar, Emma Frost

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Coffee is, without fail, a given. Black as the lack of a soul possessed by Illyana Rasputina, missing that as a result of some cunning infernal interaction and her forefather likely suffering the curse of many an angry imperialist Russian. Well, either way, it's piping hot and patently scalding in every respect. Heat flows through the ceramic sides and gives warmth to skin defined by Siberian chill, given the distinctive pallor of her fair complexion. The blonde sorceress slouches towards Bethle... the door, having washed all evidence of nefarious deeds done overnight. For anyone knows, she could have spent a balmy week in Limbo being attended to be demonic attendants, buffed back to fighting form, and otherwise her usual dark self.

Not so terribly likely. The flip of clothes likewise gives no remnants of grave dirt or worse on her, either. She leans against the wall, anticipating. Surveying. The world's prettiest gargoyle.

James Proudstar has posed:
James Proudstar took a little longer to clean up, mostly because he was the one chest-deep in graveyard dirt. He's not sure what he's gonna do about those clothes...burn 'em probably...clay stains don't come out easy. Maybe a bit of an internal wince at that, if only because he has some inkling of how expensive stuff in his size is, and he grew up about as poor as the dirt he's just spent several minutes washing off. But now he's clean, and in a simple pair of blue jeans and a red T-shirt. He's actually barefoot for now...not even a mighty lego is likely to faze him if he steps on it.

It may be a source of mild amusement for some that James is as likely to either be carrying around a full pot of coffee, or one of those mugs that's usually a gag-gift for people but in his hands almost looks normal-sized. In this case, it's the latter, and despite the copious wafts of steam coming off of it he takes a big gulp of the dark liquid...almost as black as the night they've just spent fighting a Barghest...as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, heedless of the near-scalding temperature. His insides are almost as durable as his outside, apparently. "Kitchen sounds like a warzone. May have to wait on food unless we go out again." He notes altogether nonchalantly to the pretty gargoyle as he arrives.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma Frost, temporary overnight guest at the mansion, is making her way at a just-too-fast to be casually walking clip from the kitchens. She's dressed in rumpled business casual, rumpled in the sort of "I didn't pack an overnight bag" way, her expression almost //too// placid and expressionless as she heads towards vacating the Xavier premises. Blonde locks are tumbled around her head, prettily but unartfully. She's not her normal, perfectly put-together self, but there are reasons for her tolerating that for the moment. Not for much longer, if she has anything to say about it: her intention is to go home, replace the battle armor of business suit, perfect hair, and flawless makeup, and tackle some board room issue that will make her feel far more powerful than she's feeling at the moment. At the moment, she's simply angry, insulted, and really just... worn down. Her telepathic shields are up. She knows that there's an awful lot of fellow telepaths in this building and she doesn't have the patience right now to deal with them.

She slows some as she sees the two mutants in the foyer, giving them both a polite, if somewhat strained, smile. "Good morning," she says to them both, with a half-inclination of her head.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Illyana is rarely found with those giant-sized coffee carafes, probably because she could just enchant a refillable mug if she really wanted. But that's not sporting, and the sorceress knows better than to show off. Her sins are of the regular-size variety to make up for the catastrophically large curse responsible for causing so much grief and so much pain to the unsuspecting world at large. Being a gateway for the elder evils of the universe comes with no breaks, which is possibly why she can sport leather pants so unironically. No Goth virtue here, though, no attempts to play on that nihilistic viewpoint. It would be worse, perhaps, if her sweater were a hoodie with pointy cat ears on it or something. She salutes her mug to her compatriot in trouble, the big man overshadowing the petite creature. Her pale frosty eyes take in the coffee cup and she takes a sip of hers, ignoring the fact it's probably capable of melting glass or, perhaps, titanium. It all works well. "Wait," she says with a roll of her shoulders. "What do you crave?" It's a dangerous question from a girl hiding horns and a tail, but make of that as one will.

The scouring gaze from the Rasputina scion takes in Emma in her speedy departure, cutting a swathe through groggy students and the few darn early birds out to get their worm and secure ideal study spots scattered around the school. Battle armour that's in tatters isn't unfamiliar, but the expression on the woman's face is. No telepathic threat comes from her, but then, the psychic might find a hole in her shields. Or rather a spot eclipsed, one impenetrable chunk that simply refuses to show up. "Da, morning. Careful, people outside jogging." She scoffs on the notion of running for /fun/. Run for your /life,/ children.

James Proudstar has posed:
James is certainly hard to miss, and a formidable obstacle for those rushing to and fro, though he seems to carry a certain consciousness of his size and as Emma approaches he actually shifts to allow a younger student to pass by him, perhaps notable to the observant, that student is never in James' line of sight before he shifts. He takes another sip of that enormous mug of coffee and seems to consider, "I dunno...could probably go for a steak and cheese omelette with some potatoes on the side." He answers Illyana's query.

And then Emma is there and making greetings, and the near-black-eyed Apache returns her nod, managing enough cheer to be polite when he replies with a simple, "Morning." Internally, he recalls her voice as the woman he didn't know from the previous evening...the one that found Sinister things in Alex Summers' head. But he doesn't voice that knowledge...that would probably be a little rude. Though the powerful telepath may well glean a surface sense of partial, but far from complete recognition from him.

Emma Frost has posed:
"I'll keep that in mind," Emma forces a hint of cheer into her voice. "Perhaps I should give them some time to clear out." The last thing she needs is to cause problems with some kid getting in a morning jog, so that some purple-haired harlot decides that it's time to blast her into the next county, rather than just--

Breathe, Emma. "I solemnly swear I've been given permission to be here, for the moment," she says in a joking tone that's entirely too serious. "Emma Frost." She drops the whole job title thing. She gets the impression it wouldn't matter much to these two, anyway.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The dead zone surrounding Illyana is exactly five feet and something tall, and definitely with a given attitude. Her fingertips spread along the circumference of the mug, greedy to press in her skin close to the source of that molten heat comparable to the violent demise of stars and the upwelling convection currents sliding chunks of the Earth's skin around on a backbone of rocky goo. She tips her head at the reference to an omelette, giving James that thoughtful sort of inquiry usually offered by archaeologists confronted by cuneiform or Linear B or something Doug could translate back-handed by looking away from a screen for a moment. The petite winging together of golden brows marks a distraction from the slow-moving course of her thoughts, a deadly river breaking from the slumbering icefalls of desecrating cemeteries and up-ending National Historic Sites, like you do if you're awesome. Or completely ignorant, amoral, or both! She claims neither of these titles.

Notably the kids decide not to bother her, not in the least. They give her a wide enough barrier, spurred on by those frosty looks, the tall Apache, and that woman in a business suit who maybe went into the Danger Room in that suit and-- don't try to understand their muttering logic. It's outloud for a few of the students. No inner monologue worlds here.

"Illyana," she says, which is given with the solemn force of the sword that expertly cleaved Anne Boleyn's head from her pretty little neck, self-described, in a single go. No surname. It wouldn't make a difference, wouldn't help. "Lost? Or applying for the maths teacher role?"

James Proudstar has posed:
"James Proudstar. Pleasure, Miss Frost" The polite reply isn't quite belied by the tall fellow's demeanor, but neither is it excessively warm. He's got the demeanor of a stoic, but there's no sense of either wariness or discomfort at the small-talk. He does, however, perhaps look a bit on the fatigued side. A subtle slumping of shoulders and a bit of darkness around the eyes, as well as the subtle, haggard signs of perhaps a lack of sleep. Which may explain the massive mug of coffee beyond just its' relative size in comparison to James himself.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma actually laughs lightly at Illyana's query. "I hardly knew they were looking. Though I'm more apt to teach political science and civics, myself," she replies. "No, not lost. Leaving. I seem to be an unwanted presence for the moment. Perhaps I'll inflict myself on this place later, but I can tell when I'm being asked to vacate." She taps her forehead lightly.

She gives James a once-over. "You look tired. Rough night?" she offers. "I'd suggest the kitchens, Alex is making breakfast..." From that direct is suddenly a loud series of yelling, mostly unintelligible fromthe busy foyer, though a few curse words are clear enough if by tone than nothing else. "Hm. Semms to be going well," she mutters flatly.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The measured regard from Illyana is nothing at all warm. There are friendlier icebergs headed for Edwardian era passenger ships, but then, this is default mode from the girl whose perfect English is accentuated by a very strange Russian accent indeed. Few hear the Far Eastern oblasts in New York, at least outside of Little Odessa. Her frank manner settles on the side of suspicion, though it's tempered only somewhat. The curl of her fingers could account to that. Coffee. Nothing to get between her and the precious caffeine. Nomnomnom. Alas, disappointments could be had from every breath spent not indulging in the drink. "Who told you, Charles, Jean or Scott?" Three names, tossed down like the beginning of a wild poker game, each crisp name almost edged and showing the suite of hearts and diamonds.

Curses from the kitchen, nothing new. The cadence of the voice is at least familiar. She slides her sole along the floor, sidelong look to James to measure up his response. Reason to go on the run to check it out? "Not making a steak omelette. No steak in there." Her shoulder lifts, setting it out. "Rough night for you, I think."

James Proudstar has posed:
"Little bit." James replies honestly enough to Emma. He turns his gaze in the direction of the kitchen and nods, "Lotta sizzle, but probably no steak. Not a mess we want to deal with. Scott's brother's more'n a little pissed off, and Miss Braddock is about a half-octave away from sounding like a mountain lion that got stuck in the rain. Ain't lookin' to accidentally get fried in body -or- mind thanks."

As if to somewhat mirror Emma's indication towards her head, James sort of gestures at his ear, offering about as much explanation as to his own abilities, and how he's overhearing more specifics of the drama unfolding a couple rooms away. Naturally a few of the students are clustered at the edge of hearing, dropping eaves like they're hot.

Emma Frost has posed:
"Huh." Emma looks almost pleased for a moment. "Maybe the purple-haired harlot finally crossed enough of a line. Pity." She looks to Illyana. "No, Jean and Scott actually were the ones who let me stay last night. I suppose I haven't met Charles yet." She shrugs. "However, the British tart who seems to think a Chanel contract means she's anything important made it very clear since I'm not a member of the..." she stops herself before saying 'cult'. "...club... that I should make myself scarce. I suppose she thought me leaving means she's won." Emma rolls her eyes. "Sounds like perhaps not."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Have no doubt whatsoever Illyana understands the words given. She just prefers to be so laconic, it's to the point that a sentence of more than six words uses up her daily allotment. There's a television show waiting for her if they ever recast Ciri, and Ciri ends up going down the Witcher path. The coffee is woefully low, nothing to be fixed at the moment, and she turns to one of the students a little too obvious up there on the stares and offers that direct, unblinking stare with a force that keeps demons in line. Bet it works great on a 15-year-old boy. Especially because "Magik is creepy" ought to be on a bunch of t-shirts and texted alarmingly through the school's well-monitored social media network. Either that, or she might be sizing up the kid for fitting in a cauldron.

"Mm." How evocative. "Jean and Scott's offer stands." A long beat stretches out as she almost dares to yawn, almost, her hand reaching up to cover that feline show of fangs. Or it could be, the indulgence of sleeplessness handled in a way entirely feminine and demure for the appropriate positioning of said hand over said mouth. Nothing to conceivably find troubling there, no? "What caused the fuss?" She's probably with James on this one, let him suss out the particulars and let Emma give the details.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Ain't our business, I'm just gonna say that this has really broken any illusions that the grown-ups handle dating any better than the kids. Maybe I shouldn't have avoided it while I was in school." James is amused and resigned all in one, but nods to Illyana's sentiment, "Yeah, Miss Braddock doesn't get more say than Scott and Jean. Only the Professor can do that, and he pretty much never does. Well...maybe Ororo, but there'd be a discussion." He takes another gulp of coffee, "Also there's breakfast in there, but I don't think it's worth it."

Emma Frost has posed:
"Mm." Emma glances to Illyana. "I'm dating Alex. Apparently that's... an uncomfortable issue for some people." She gives a tight smile. "Who seem to have possession issues. But I appreciate the... notation of the hierarchy here. She didn't exactly ask me to leave, but I wasn't going to sit there and watch her... handle... Alex in that way." She half waves it off. "From the yelling, perhaps he eventually grasped what she was doing." She looks to James. "Piece of advice: when a woman can't stop touching you, she's trying to get into your pants. And no, I don't think adults handle any of it any better than teenagers." She laughs. "I help run a nightclub. I see a lot of it."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
For an uncannily long moment, the pale blonde is dead silent and motionless. It's not the deer-in-headlights look, but the kind of predatory assessment that a snow leopard hidden in the mountains might offer a Siberian tiger prowling across her territory ought to receive. That brittle moment flexes, stretched out like spider silk until coming within a point of snapping under the weight of fraught anticipation. She should say something, after all; staring just isn't polite.

She assesses James' take on this useful advice, presumably as it sails way over her head. Teenagers, what do they know? Somewhere, Piotr Rasputin is putting down his shovel or his brush, his ears burning an incandescent scarlet as the 'Snowflake is in trouble' alarm goes off. "Too bad." For them, the missing words imply. "Your dating life is private." A firm nod underscores the point. "Clearance, you do not put the students at risk. Just someone's overinflated opinion of themselves and confusion possession is not nine-tenths of the law." She examines her nails, faultlessly polished and buffed free of grave dirt and blood. "Why bother with cauterwauling?"

Bet she's a delight at parties and in therapy sessions.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Maybe you should take Illyana to your club. Seems like she could give lessons." The tone is not sarcastic so much as...sounding like he's in agreement with the figure that is practically his polar opposite in terms of appearance. "Which club do you help run, Miss Frost?" Not that James is the clubbing type, not least of the reasons being he's not yet old enough for it, though given his size -most- places would only need a half-convincing fake ID if he were of the persuasion. But he's not, really, so much as just curious and perhaps subtly or not-so-subtly steering the topic of conversation away from the drama unfolding a few rooms away.

Emma Frost has posed:
"The Hellfire Club, in the city. North side of midtown, just south of the park." Emma perks a bit. "It's really more than just /a/ club... four bars, two nightclubs, two restaurants, and a lounge. Plus conference facilities." She grins. "It's a pretty nice place, really. I've been going... well, as a Legacy, that is, and to the parts where underage kids are allowed... since I was a teenager and my father was helping to run it. He's retired now." She glances at them both. "Mutant school, mm? So... if you don't mind me asking, what is it you two are... gifted with?" She looks up... and a little up... at James. "Besides I'm guessing being able to rip a tree in half with your bare hands." That last part is mostly teasing.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Take me to a club?" Illyana rounds on James, which means rolling her shoulder into the wall and completing a thirty degree pivot with feline lassitude imbued in every motion. Her gaze affixes a pointed, direct stare on those night-dark eyes. "You have to come." The condition isn't exactly flexible there, dropping the burden no doubt of chaperoning on someone large enough to create his own impressive gravity well and a circle of personal space roughly comfortable for the average Finn. Whether her age qualifies her is a dubious point; she looks just about old enough, or the type to definitely have false identification and a poker face needed to get by the security. "It sounds like a whole building." This gives an opening without quite allowing a question to traipse off her tongue; the kind of question, then, that wisely opens up the floor for Emma to keep talking.

"Hellfire Club, a loaded name. Like the den of debauchery in London?" Casually tossed out there, she downs the last of the coffee and mourns its loss. So unfair. "Gentlemen's club," she asides, sotto voce, for James' benefit. In case he didn't know. "No women allowed except the harlot variety. Mustn't let the wife become a virago." Her enunciation there has shades of 'wendigo' behind it, and that's probably one of those lovely confluences of a Romance language with the Native American languages, where they parallel and create just the right horrifying image. Sorry, Rahne.

Another blithe transition comes with the force of flinging dynamite into a barrel of flour. She waits until he answers Emma, before providing her own, "Interrogating you."

James Proudstar has posed:
"Enhanced senses and ripping trees pretty much sums it up, yeah." James admits to Emma, "Or maybe I just have the mutant ability to blow up like a pufferfish." It's certainly deadpan over sarcastic.

However, +1 point to the Russian Sorceress Supreme* for making a dent in the enormous Apache's usually solid composure, as dark eyes widen a touch and blink owlishly a couple of times. "Huh?" He pauses a moment, and rubs briefly at the back of his neck, a little bit self-conscious about his utter lack of experience with said kinds of places, regardless of what theme they might follow. For the briefest of moment there may be a flicker of familiarity that evokes a certain equally voluminous, tree-ripping elder brother in the gesture. But unlike some, when the moment passes there's a certainty in the response that others often lack in such circumstances, "Sure, if you want." Of course this mobile gravity well has the added bonus of not being as likely to stifle Illyana's fun compared to certain occasionally-shinier individuals.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma headtilts. "Well, the London club is the original club house, and in decades past it was certainly..." she mms, "A place of a certain kind of debauchery. Let's just say our more modern club is a more modern take on hedonism, with a tiny bit less bondage and sadomasichism and a lot more alcohol." She shrugs. "And the membership roster is a bit less restrictive. It seems that being too exclusive doesn't make nearly as much money as the illusion of exclusivity, shall we say." She shrugs. "It's been this way since just before my father joined the board, I think. As long as I've been around, for sure. I've heard stories of how things used to be, and they are... quaint. I think I prefer this."

Emma glances to them both with an amused look. "Well, I certainly won't argue if you want to check it out. There are... many options in the club if you have preferences. More rowdy or less, music or not. Food and drink. I admit to being biased when I say it's probably one of the best places to spend time in the city."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The mutant interrogator is hardly the scary one here. I mean, man hwo rips apart trees is infinitely more impressive than blonde chit who could be knocked over at the beach around Coney Island, when waves show up with a little more gusto than usual. Tree-ripping talents are not in those pretty arms, at least. She nods sagely to James. "It will be good for you," she says of the Hellfire Club. "Learn to tear up the dance floor. A different tear." Changing some of the clarifications, she goes back to watching with a kind of voluminous delight and amusement lurking under the surface. Which means there isn't a hint of a smile anywhere. It takes much more digging to locate that, the 'fun' in such a figure questionable at best. Maybe the pair of them get excited when the doom-beats of Latverian darkwave techno show up.

"I tease about debauchery. Everywhere in New York has a thing. I found a place with a hundred candles on the bar. How does the fire department allow only candles? It is made of wood in there." It could definitely be considered a strange choice. She nods to Emma, not at all plussed in any fashion. "We will go. Say hello if you are there." Continue the interrogation off home ground, right? It's exciting! Or in fact, she is there. "What part do you recommend? In this club. Many rooms, so many choices."

Oh Berto. You have a sister and you don't even know it.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Hopefully not literally tearing it up. Though the only kinda dancing I know how to do probably isn't what they usually see." James replies to Illyana, with a touch of genuine amusement again present. "Probably wouldn't stay on Miss Frost's good list that way."

"Yeah, that does sound like a fire hazard." James muses on the description of the hundred candles establishment, but he's letting Illyana take the lead in this interrogation, mainly because she seems to be covering all the bases.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma muses. "Well. You may not be old enough for the Dungeon... it's strictly 21 and up. But there's an old speak-easy, Lily Ann's, that's nice and quiet with some great ambiance. The Rathskeller is my favorite. It's the pretzels. And the beer." She gives them a chuckle. "Though they do have other things besides beer to drink." She shrugs. "It's all about what you're thinking of doing. I know once we reopen in a few days after we finish repairs from the incident, there's be several evenings with the Grand Edwardian hosting various club nights. I think the first is going to be a bit darker, since the Dungeon is going to be out of commission for awhile." Alex had kinda of put some... damage to the floor. And the bar. And... well.

She chuckles. "Well, you'd be surprised what regulations can be ignored if you pay off the right people," she says with an eyeroll. "That's likely what is happening with that bar."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A dizzying variety of names: Dungeon, Lily Ann's, Rathskeller, more. Wonder they're all straight. Illyana smirks briefly, and brushes her bangs off her face in a fluid motion. "Da. Good to know." Vodka watering hole, straight up, right? She rakes her fingers through her golden hair to arrange it with some measure of order around her shoulders, the blunt cut all the more telling for its length. "The incident. He is all right?" No question who 'he' is, being fairly clear on Alex.

She asks James, "You still want that egg? I owe you one."

James Proudstar has posed:
James listens intently to the list of features at the Hellfire Club, tucking some of those details away in his memory. Somehow he suspects Illyana will have an interest in that "darker" themed event. Call it a hunch. There's no overt reaction to Emma's casual outing of corruption. Not exactly a surprise such things go along.

"Yeah, could definitely still go for some breakfast. Doesn't sound like the Kitchen's gonna be a particularly pleasant place for at least a little while longer, though." He does look curiously to Illyana, wondering what she might have in mind. Though in her case she could probably wade into the fray in the Kitchen, get food, and return without a word and none would find it overly odd from her. Nor any more or less awkward than many social interactions with the Queen of Limbo tend to be.

Emma Frost has posed:
"He's..." Emma trails off. "Yeah. He's fine. Now, at least, I think. Physically at least." She looks a little distant. "It could have gone a lot worse." She doesn't offer up much more than that, but there's a hint of worry at her eyes.

"Hmm, breakfast. I mean, I won't stop you if you want to wade in," she shakes her head, "but there may be safer options if you want to pop into town. If you want, I can drop you off, at least."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
There isn't any sort of indication Illyana will wade into the kitchen like a lion among cubs, growling and hissing her way through to the kill in the giant-sized fridges. Nor that she has any intention of braving places where far more dangerous predators with adamantine claws stalk, possibly famished and unwilling to share their prize. No need to see how adamantine claws hold up against a Soulsword, thank you. Her coffee cup has to be sent back there anyway, but more than likely it won't see the dishwasher. Instead, some cursed soul labouring under her aegis will end up washing up and setting the table nicely. Minus a few pentacles and red candles for ambiance, which every young demonic queen needs. Don't ask. Limbo has tacky design features in places, which her diary no doubt contains long laments about.

"It is a good bus ride," she says. "When none of us ride, they take it away, da?" The curse of the young, not rich enough to own a car, much less pay insurance or parking in the astronomical, eye-rolling-back prices charged in New York. Forget a life of crime, just be a parking structure owner and rake in the millions. Makes the Kingpin look like a tawdry little urchin on a corner in that respect. She gives Emma a direct, steady appraisal that comes with far less blinking than it should. Truly, a terror on the Vegas strip. Never mind she can cheat the dice by scaring them. "Give it time. Wounds heal at their own rate." With that said, she kicks off the wall and sashays to the door with a gliding stride that's all efficiency and absolutely no interest in being saucily beautiful. A mere glimpse of the black, curb-stomping boots under her leather pants would lead one to believe they are part of the leather pants themselves, somehow blended together. The fit's darn good, and woe to anything that gets in the way. Like a door. One nudge to the handle sees it opened, fresh air poured out and the drowsy, winter-scorched grass rolling before them. Hell of a long walk, but she looks totally nonplussed about reaching the bus stop. Not like Xavier's School warrants one literally outside the building in the circular drive or anything. "Thank you though. For the lift." She salutes with that vague effigy of her Soviet past, albeit outdated by about a decade or two before it hit Siberia and anyone noticed that glasnost was no longer a thing and comrade-this-comrade-that weren't exactly kosher.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Sure I'll fit?" James queries of Emma, not that he hasn't squeezed into vehicles that made for an uncomfortable ride before, and borne it about as stoically as he does most things. In any case, he then glances to Illyana and nods, "Yeah, I manage on the bus better anyway, but thanks for the offer, Miss Frost. Hope the rest of your day goes better." He gives a bit of a wave, and then heads to follow Illyana out the door, equally nonplussed about the walk, but setting aside stereotypes he does still kinda look like the kinda guy that might enjoy long walks in the woods. Not least of the reasons being he's wearing sturdy hiking shoes rather than sneakers.