Slow Moves
The Club has always been. Not necessarily in its present form, but throughout human history, the powerful have dominated the weak, and the most powerful have played games beyond the understanding of their lesser peers. To some, those games, in themselves are the rewards of influence. To others, they were simply steps on the road to more power.
To Sebastian Shaw, however, they were both.
His entry into the Club had been almost guaranteed; both parents initiated in their teens by grandparents preparing them for the future in one way or another. An ex-model trophy wife of a mother who contented herself with an outer circle position and an unlimited supply of Valium, Xanax, and all the pool cleaners her heart desired. A brilliant but limited father, brutishness and cunning carrying him far in the world of business but drowning him in the politics of the Club. They both died in a tragic automobile accident, noteworthy people in a crowd of noteworthy people, when Shaw was twenty-four, but it didn't matter because he'd been running Shaw Industries for years and knew what he was doing far better than his father ever had. His involvement in the Club, almost from the beginning, was deliberate and calculated. He did not hesitate to step into his father's too small shoes, and went about widening his metaphorical pond.
The Old Boy's part of the Club welcomed him eagerly, because he'd been to all the right schools, new all the right people. Knew what to say, and the way things worked. Favors upon favors, credit upon credit. Debt upon debt. He'd moved up the ranks as time and nature (or at least, natural selection) took their toll on the members, and the Inner Circle had voted him in unanimously (with the exception of that bastard Buckman). They needed new blood, they said, someone to carry on once they were gone; someone who understood them. And Sebastian had nodded and agreed.
Emma Frost's entry to the Club was entirely her own devising.
In many ways, she came from the same world as Shaw, albeit on a smaller scale. Doting but vacant mother, controlling and powerful father. Unfortunately for Emma, she had the misfortune to be born with siblings. Older siblings. Adrienne was already in training by the time she graduated the elite middle school her parents sent her too, and was firmly ensconced in Daddy's pocket by the time she graduated high school. Cutting her loses, after an unfortunate incident with her brother Christian and a bottle of pills, Emma did what all good girls did to rebel against their fathers. She ran away with a lower class boy to New York to become an actress.
She proved to be exceptionally talented at it. Of course, Emma made herself extremely talented at a wide variety of things, and so this didn't surprise her in the least. Her tolerance for fools, however did not further her struggling career. Troy, the inappropriate boy was gone within three weeks, and none of the subsequent near-identical variations on the same theme lasted much longer.
Her powers were far more important to her development than Shaw's had been to his; they provided her the gateways to the places she needed to be and shown her just how pubescent grown men could be. From there, it was laughably simple. She took what she learnt and applied it, built on it. Eventually, she reached the same plateau as her family, and stalled there, unwilling to wait the years it would take to build a base the size of Frost Enterprises, and even more unwilling to be Adrienne's underling for the rest of her life.
Unfortunately for Adrienne, a series of unfortunate photographs with a certain stockbroker were leaked to the media in a shocking scandal, and she left the country in something of a rush, last seen boarding a flight to Majorca. It would never do if something happened to Winston without a clearly designated successor. Why, the company could go to stockholders. Daddy rather reluctantly welcomed Emma back to the family bosom; a necessary sacrifice given the complete uselessness of the rest of her siblings.
"The least flawed of a bad batch!" he'd rail furiously, sinking faster and faster into a maudlin haze of twenty-year-old Scotch and pretty young secretaries. Always in his study, every night. Emma would nod, icily calm in the face of his scorn and simply continue with her work, nails clicking on a keyboard or a pen sliding across paper. "Bitch," he'd mutter, and tip his glass back, and that was that.
Oddly enough, Daddy had the good sense to die of completely natural causes shortly after Emma knew what she was doing with Frost Enterprises. Emma had pondered taking the final step, and letting Daddy's own slide into alcoholism take care of him. A car trip late at night, after knocking back one too many at the office. It would be so simple; she knew what she was doing and there would be no evidence connecting his demise to her. She held back instead- it was all so horrifically Freudian- and Daddy had to good sense to die all by himself.
The Club noticed her, like the Club noticed all up-and-comers. Winston had made it onto the radar but not into the circle. Emma, on the other hand, was deemed far more to their liking, and the rest was simply a matter of time.
Emma lapped the attention up, and she'd learnt her lessons as an actress; it wasn't too long before it was lapping back. Entry into the Inner Circle became an almost foregone conclusion, and she charmed the heart right out of Buckman. That wasn't all she charmed him out of, if rumor could be believed, but no one said a word.
Everybody did it, it was just that nobody talked about it.
Emma always remembered their first formal introduction. If she'd been the type for melodramatics, she could have remembered that it was a fateful, stormy day, but the sun had been shining gently through the windows of the club, and old Emmanuel DaCosta had been snoring in his chair. Emma was newly promoted to the Circle, and Shaw could afford to hold himself aloof from the politics of the lower echelons now.
His eyes had latched onto her like iron filings to a magnet the instant she arrived.
Jealous, Buckman had glared, as Shaw had stared- not blatantly, of course, but he'd been shocked enough when she entered that his mask had slipped a bit. Their paths had circled each other, but the contact had never been so direct.
Emma knew precisely what direct contact with her did to men. She'd been living with it in her head for years. No-one had ever reacted to her as Shaw had. He'd recognized her, not as a fellow mutant, she would note with interest after the first casual mental touch- but as a predator. Like knowing like, and such. She made her decision then, options considered and weighed but there had never been any doubt. Emma had no intention of remaining White Rook for long at all.
"Ms Frost," he'd drawled, reclining back in his chair as Buckman sputtered at Shaw's brashness, "I'm positively delighted you could join us,"
She'd laughed softly, taking her seat. He looked away, of course, but he always looked back. Inside, she smiled. He was hers.
They both knew the opportunity had been too good to pass up. He'd followed her from the meeting, moving through the Club naturally, but always after her, towards the entrance. She hadn't turned around, or given any sign that she knew he was there, but he was convinced she did.
He realized, as they approached the entrance, that frustrated panic was seething in his gut, and suppressed it ruthlessly. Such things weren't to be entertained. He would not permit her to leave today without a chance to speak to her.
Then she'd turned her head slightly, the words trickling over her shoulder like a soft waterfall. "Can I offer you a lift Sebastian?" and he'd murmured, "I'd be delighted," and never looked back.
She told him secrets there, in the back seat of the car, driver safe behind a partition and perhaps more. Whispered thoughts and plans to him as he kissed her hungrily, her lips, her throat. They both knew, with the understanding of like minds, that they could venture down no other path. She agreed the instant he even opened his mouth to venture the thought.
They had sealed their alliance there, on the cool leather of the limousine, driving aimlessly around New York with the tinted windows sealed. They both knew that what they did would not be for love of each other. It was simply…an understanding. A sign of commitment, more binding in some ways than in others. The rush of simultaneous relief and wariness; like knew like, and for a moment, relief overwhelmed them before reality returned. The shriek of a horn penetrating softly through the windows brought a resurgence of wariness that would never be wholly gone again.
They both understood that it was better that way. It kept them free for other pursuits.
When she and Sebastian had formed their alliance, Emma had known it would not be easily. She had not, in her naiveté, grasped the magnitude of their obstacles. A moment in Sebastian's mind, however, had solved that.
Buckman had the rest of the Inner Circle firmly under his thumb. There were only five of them under fifty, and Buckman's family medical firm took very good care of all of Mr. Ned's special patients. Nobody died until he said they could, and he had a replacement lined up for afterwards. He would never have been able to do it but for that tart Seville the Black King, Leland, was nearing ninety and barely spoke at all, anymore and the Black Queen hopelessly mad, eyes wide with dark, furtive secrets. With the White Queen in his bed and the lesser pieces in his hospital, he had the entire Circle in a stranglehold.
Time, however, was not to be stayed and even with the assistance of Buckman's seemingly innumerable doctors, the ravages of age worked their way through the Club like they always had. The Old Boy's Club was not destined to last forever. Old faces were replaced with new; Emma's lovers always believed that she pushed their candidacy for the Inner Circle, Shaw's hunting companions and business partners the same. Buckman would thwart them, of course, and would take a childish delight in doing so, never looking beyond the uppermost façade of their actions.
They returned from the Inner Circle meetings with tearful apologies, and staid headshakes, and the resentment grew like a wave. Many a member of the Club would never know that they owed their position to a blond, slipping out of an anonymous hotel room after a night of faked passion and a panicked phone call about a heart attack. Emma never looked back, and wondered just what Freud would have made of it all.
They never killed anyone, of course. There were limits, and that wasn't how the game was played. You could destroy, damage and ruin, but never, ever kill. It was inconceivable, and more importantly, it drew far more attention the Club's way than the members would permit. Helping nature along however, was simply a fact of life.
The old guard was dropping like so many flies, but it wasn't enough. Even with the groundswell of support for younger candidates in the Outer Circle, Buckman's grip on power never wavered; the Club's brand of democracy was unique, but functioned well enough.
Buckman should have seen through it, of course. The man hadn't gotten where he was by being blind and stupid. But he'd never been playing against people like Emma and Shaw. She kept him occupied, his mind had room for little beyond her. Even Seville, darling daughter of the military-industrial complex, was supplanted, and Seville knew it in every fiber of her being. Years later, friends were to recall that if she had not had the comforting arms of Sebastian Shaw, they would have feared for her life.
Shaw had questioned once, if she was getting to attached to Buckman. "You are a woman," he pointed out, brushing aside the dangerous hint in Emma's cocked eyebrow, "and women are far more likely to be unable to keep their emotions detached." He'd been cool, as he suggested it, "I've got far too much invested in this for you to be led astray," and she'd frozen at the hint of threat in his voice. He was, in every way, the dominant partner in their little venture. He was better at this than she was, yet, and he knew the Club in ways she did not.
"If I go down, Sebastian," she'd said icily, with no hint of inflection in her voice, "I'll take you into the pit with me screaming." He'd laughed at that, knowing she meant it.
Sebastian had known that it would not continue to be that simple. There were only so many members for whom a rough workout with Emma would be sufficient, only so many members who were careless enough to drive in cars without armour plating. It was tragic what had happened to old Emmanuel DaCosta, simply tragic. His son, however, was showing the promise of being completely infatuated with Emma, and that was enough to justify it to Shaw.
The problem was, they were stalled.
He always did his best plotting alone. Even now, jugular-deep in his partnership with Emma, he did not include her. She took what he permitted from his mind, and he took it on faith that she did not take more. It was by no means a perfect arrangement, but Sebastian had his own resources.
Tessa had been more valuable than he'd ever realized.
Even Emma had not been able to keep Buckman occupied forever though, and the man had suddenly noticed that his power base was dropping away beneath his feet. Dear Paris, resting in his bed upstairs at that very moment had turned further away from him than Buckman knew, and his staunchest supporters had been carried away in ambulances, buried on their estates, or in all manner of absurd and obscure naval traditions. He did not have the influence to remove Emma or Sebastian anymore, and by keeping him occupied so long, Emma had likely saved their lives. He'd turned on her when he realized, of course, but Emma had simply laughed in his face.
Old Ned never had taken insults to his pride very well.
But without something dramatic, the two struggling factions- remarkably clearly defined for the Club- were stalemated. They'd sat like that for nigh on a month, and neither side's efforts had been able to provoke any more than ripples in the stock market, drops in the socialite ocean. Buckman was getting desperate enough that subtlety was deserting him; young Coulter's death on his hunting trip the previous weekend had been proof of that. Sebastian wondered for a moment how Buckman would get anyone to believe that a successful young software executive in line to inherit millions within mere months would suddenly decide that suicide was the only answer, but knew that money would be all the proof he would need.
Tessa was there, in the background, silent as always, but Sebastian realized that he had his own solution to the Buckman problem. Buckman had dug his own grave, and it was time to start filling it in.
Three days later, Ned Buckman's yacht was found floating, unmanned, of the coast of Catalina, Florida. In a gruesome twist, it seemed Buckman's estranged ex-lover Paris Seville had somehow procured an assortment of rather high-powered firearms- none too hard for the owner of the single largest military production company in the United States- and gone on a rampage. Her body was never found, but it was never for a moment presumed by those who would care, that she was still alive.
Emma, of course, wore white to the funerals. Sebastian, ever the traditionalist, wore black.
Whenever Emma Frost examined her life, it always struck her as odd how it could be so neatly compartmentalized. The devoted daughter phase, the rebellious, ambitious runaway, the returning prodigal grey sheep and the powerful businesswoman, she had progressed through these phases smoothly, but within each, there had come a time when she had reached a plateau. Just before she'd returned to her family, just before Daddy had died, she had been thwarted, limited by circumstances. Her rise had slowed, and she had not been pleased.
Of all the unlikely sources, the serenity prayer had provided the answer. She changed what she could change, and accepted the few things she could not.
After Buckman and Seville's deaths, she had expected something similar. It was anything but.
Emma had always known that her alliance with Sebastian Shaw was a finite agreement. Once it had served it's purpose, it would be dissolved. They would become competitors for the newly floated power of the Inner Circle, and rather than the steadying break of a plateau, Emma's first days as the White Queen held all the crackling tension of the eye of a storm.
The only survivor of the previous Circle had been the erratic Black Queen. This did not surprise either Emma or Shaw in the least- Selene had never maintained close relations with the rest of her court, or the Inner Circle- but it worried Emma far more than Shaw. After all, a Black Queen did not turn on her King without reason, even one as mad as Selene. Loose ties to the Club however, were more than substantial enough to draw unwarranted attention, in the event of official discovery of Selene's…habits.
Tessa too, concerned Emma, although that was a ripple beside the wave of Selene; there was only so much influence an assistant could have. Emma was simply furious she could not get into the woman's head. Sebastian had a reason, of course, for keeping her around, but whether it was simply to aggravate Emma or for some more…competitive purpose remained to be seen.
They both had their own courts to rebuild, after the shattering, and while the choices were not decisions to be made in haste, Emma had seen her rise coming, made her choices before the appointment was official.
Her requirements, of course, had been extremely exacting. She would not settle for less than the most appropriate, and the King was the most delicate choice of all. Few met her requirements though, and it was with some discontent that she settled on Pierce. He at least could be controlled, and what he lacked in some gifts, he more than made up for in others.
The others were in some was easier, some harder. Jason Wyngarde, head of Brixton United Pharmaceuticals, provided her with more valuable ties to the legitimate, elected authority than did Pierce's defense department contracts. It was remarkable, although hardly surprising, just what some shockingly senior members of the government got up to in the privacy of their own homes. Privacy, of course, was a relative term to Emma. She still remembered dear, dear Adrienne, and wondered occasionally how she was liking seclusion on Majorca.
Bogan was by far the simplest, but also the most disturbing choice. He was a member of the old guard, and had been a member of the old guard for longer than most of members had been alive. His own powers- an open, unacknowledged secret lurking in the minds of everyone who knew enough about him to guess the truth- were dangerous. Horrifying, in the way he used them, even to Emma, but she needed the added authority of the older members. Her position was too precarious for controversial choices, and with Shaw lurking in the wings, as eager to pounce on her weakness as she was upon his, she could not afford to slip. Bogan would insure the safety of her court, as that DaCosta boy was supposed to for Sebastian. Emma had no qualms about Bogan's superiority in that department. She had been surprised when he accepted her invitation- he could have had power in the Club a very long time ago, but had chosen not too- but was too afraid to change her mine and renege. People who crossed Bogan rarely failed to regret it deeply.
Worthington, sweet innocent Warren, was an indulgence she simply chose not to deny herself. He was little more than a walking financial fund, laughably unsuited to the scheming of the Club, and without protection, he would amount to nothing. With it…a puppet, especially a powerful one, was always useful.
For Sebastian Shaw, choosing his court had been a combination of ruthless practicality and risky personal indulgence.
He would never, ever dream of denying his fascination with dangerous women. Emma was not the first, simply the one whom he had played with the longest. He was beginning to tire of her, much to her chagrin.
In order to select his court, he had begun venturing on excursions.
His assistant Tessa had proved an invaluable shadow. He had never regretted retrieving her from her wasted existence in the ruins of the KGB, even if she refused to account for her talents. Certainly, she had not acquired them and training in them from the Soviets. She did not betray him however, and Shaw was convinced she never would. That was sufficient.
While the selection- survival- of his Queen was not within his control, as yet, that simply made his other decisions more important. His involvement with Emma had consumed far more time than he had hoped, but he had never lost sight of the goal. Quiet, deliciously brilliant Tessa had been doing his legwork for him, like any assistant should.
Her search had been wider than he'd believed, he thought, as she lead him into the alley. She had not answered his demands for information, but he knew she would, in time. She always did.
Arching an eyebrow at Tessa as she stopped, he stepped past her and paused instantly. He had not expected the child to be so exquisite. About fifteen, the Asian girl had a tiny porcelain doll's face, complete with hard, unmoving eyes. Sebastian felt himself freeze up, and tried to turn towards Tessa, completely incapable.
Oh yes. She would do perfectly.
"Enough," his assistant's emotionless voice said, breaking the silence, and Sebastian gave the girl a considering look. That had been most…well, unsettling was saying the least. But oh, how useful it could be. He deliberately looked her in the eye again, and broke the gaze, to prove to himself he could do it. It was unsubtle, of course, but it was telling.
Tiny Xi'an, or Shan as she ended up being called, knew with the icy rationality of a child forced to adulthood before their time that they were offering her a better deal, for a lesser price. They had walked out of the alley without a backward glance, metaphorical or otherwise.
Emma had not been pleased to find him bringing home strays, but Sebastian had no intention of suddenly deciding to place her own comfort ahead of his. Their alliance was many things, first among them equal. So when she had let herself into his suite at the Club to harangue him shortly after his return, he had not been pleased.
They studied each other, sizing each other up as though they'd indulge in something so crass as a physical confrontation. He wondered if it was simple posturing, or she was worried by the fact that she was bringing home strays.
Her lips twitched and he arched an eyebrow, the first volley thrown in gestures rather than words, but they both knew she had no intention of backing down. "Sebastian, if you are trying to infest the club with venereal disease, you should simply have taken better care of Paris," she said eventually, in a flat tone.
"Now Emma, that was beneath you," he replied loftily, "You're doing that quite well on your own. Did you have a reasonable objection, or were you simply objecting on principle?" She'd narrowed her eyes at that, and he'd marveled at how she had changed. She'd come a long way from the little riches to riches guttersnipe he'd first met.
"On the whole, however," he said smoothly, as she opened her mouth for what would nod doubt be another scintillating and scathing remark, "I rather think that unless you would like to set an inappropriate precedent for interfering in each other's court's, you leave this room right now, and keep your opinions to yourself."
She'd backed down, as he'd known she would. The look she'd sent him should have flayed him alive, but he ignored it, turning back to his desk as she left the room, door clicking gently shut behind her.
Just like Emma, Sebastian was more than aware of the risks inherent with any woman as mad as his dear courtly paramour. Especially one who routinely left a trail four bodies wide. Tessa had not chosen delightful porcelain-little Shan by chance.
Beautiful, mad Selene had not let them in when they had arrived, that night. She was not so far lost to reality as to perform her experiments somewhere crowded, public, in the city, but the estate was far from secure. Although, Sebastian supposed as he wrenched open the lock, she was certainly capable of protecting herself from small scale intrusions. A burglar who encountered Selene- who rarely indulged in modern conveniences so blasé as electric lighting- would never tell what they saw in this house.
Moving through the house, calling her to him softly as Tessa and Shan trailed in his wake, he wished there had been another way to do this. A sure way: what little pixie-like Shan would do tonight, with luck was not something that had been done before.
Thunder had cracked outside, auspicious weather for such an undertaking, and Shaw had started at the brush of a hand on his shoulder, spinning around to find Tessa had drawn him back, spotting what he had not. Selene was standing at the window, completely unclothed, staring out at the moon. She did not react, although she must have known they were there.
Tessa had said that a moment was all they would need, but quite clearly things were not to progress so smoothly. Detached, Sebastian wondered if they would die here tonight. If anyone could kill him, it would be her, his crazed goddess of the moon.
"Selene, my darling, how are you?" he said, stepping closer. The difference between one metre and four would not be enough to save him, if she decided to strike. "A fine evening," he added, and the thunder tolled again, punctuating the words with beautiful emphasis.
She spun suddenly, one hand latching out to catch his face in a vice-like grip, thin arms belying the strength of the claws gripping his cheek. Her eyes were wide, an unnaturally large amount of white showing, and he knew that she had…fed. Would that make a difference? He could feel himself begin to sweat.
She stared at him, cocking her head this way, and that. She glanced at Tessa, dismissing her and perhaps rightly. For the first time, her advice had not served him well. Her eyes latched onto Shan with an all to predatory delight for Sebastian's liking, and she released him, almost tearing her fingers free. He simply stepped back. Pretty pixie, porcelain Shan was no use to him, if not for this, and if she was of no use, she would have to be disposed of.
Selene took a halting step, and then another, and Shan's wide eyes hardened, locking on the other woman's. They both froze, and unconsciously, so did Sebastian. The room was silent, no sound echoing from what must be a struggle, some form of confrontation invisible to the eyes of non-telepaths. Shaw could feel the sweat on his chest.
Before he realized anything had happened, Selene had raised her arms, hissing like a cat, and Shan had taken a step forward, the first since the confrontation had begun. Selene arched back, spine cracking as she went completely rigid, stifled gasps escaping but camouflaged by the louder sound of the nude woman hitting the rug, knees giving way. Shaw watched, Tessa silent behind as tiny Shan stepped forward and the Black Queen writhed, an obscene parody of ecstasy.
Gradually, her struggling ceased.
The first meeting of the new Inner Circle was filled with tension. Shaw and Emma's alliance was plain as day, for they had not been subtle, not with the members of their court. Emma thought that Selene, who had chosen a significant enough occasion to make one of her rare appearances, seemed strange, but that was hardly abnormal for the woman. Her mind was as veiled as ever. The little whore Shaw had brought in sat in the Bishop's chair, a small smile on her face. Roberto DaCosta, plainly itching to be away from the meeting, lolled on a couch, the Black Knight's chair empty for the moment. Tessa, as always, stood silently behind Shaw.
She wondered idly if the members of either court realized what kind of games they had signed themselves up for. She wondered if she and Sebastian had; they had bent the rules to replace Buckman, but never resorted to outright brutality. Against someone who knew her as well as Sebastian, however, such reticence could not be permitted. "I notice you seem to be short a rook, Sebastian, darling," she said lightly. "Couldn't find anyone to meet your exacting…standards?" She emphasized the last word so lewdly, gauging the reactions of the women that Sebastian had surrounded himself. Roberto twitched uncomfortably, which was neither surprising nor particularly noteworthy: the boy was still bristling at being a boy, let alone a suggestion that he was Sebastian's catamite. Tessa simply watched, as was her custom. The tiny Asian child showed no change of expression, no reaction, which Emma dismissed as being jaded, used to being called a whore.
Warren's belated snicker from beside her as the joke penetrated his prettily thick skull caused an internal wince. If she was going to avoid killing him herself, lessons would have to be imparted, but pillow talk made excellent speaking time.
She'd always found people so much more…receptive, verbally and mentally, when sated.
"I suppose not," Sebastian agreed blandly, and she narrowed her eyes before catching herself. Sebastian Shaw was many things, none of them bland. "If you have no further objections Emma…." he said, trailing off as she motioned for him to continue.
"I move that this meeting of the Inner Circle be called to order,"