Author: Lucinda
Rating: Y-14 for violence
Ninth in the 'My Daughter' series
Main characters: Betsy Braddock, Jean Grey, mentions of other X-Men, strong presence of the Watchers Council
Disclaimer: Travers and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Caine Marko, Tom and Sean Cassidy, Jean Grey, Betsy Braddock and Charles Xavier are the creations of Marvel comics.
Distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.
Notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS. :Words in colons: are telepathic communication.
"How are we going to handle this, Betsy?" Jean's question was reasonable. While the redhead had several more years experience as an X-Man, she'd never dealt with the sort of political maneuverings of the aristocracy, or the deception and searching of intelligence operations.
For a few moments, Betsy was quiet. "Do you think you can bear to play the part of a secretary? The term would be a personal assistant, actually. If I go as a wealthy, moderately influential woman with an interest in history and secrets, with an assistant, they'll focus on me. That will give you the option of acting under less observation."
"What about your reasoning?" Jean's tone made it clear that she was considering more than just Betsy's past and upbringing. "And this assistant idea had better have more of a reason than your opinions about my clothing, again."
One hand waved, dismissing the old complaint. "When I was younger, about ten, someone from this Council came to my father's house. We weren't the only family to have such visitors. If I mention such things, act curious, slightly awed, and desperate for something to strengthen a politically weak but wealthy family..."
"How much detail will you need?" Jean's concern tinged the question, along with images of suspicious people dressed like a bad television program. "Is this going to be dangerous, or merely touchy?"
"Unfortunately, I can't answer that," Betsy sighed. "If they somehow attracted the attentions of Black Tom and the Juggernaut, we must assume that there will be an element of danger, though we can't be certain how much. We are going to be seeking information most of all, not to stop some terrible device or to fight an enemy."
"You and Sean both seemed to think that they have a lot more influence than they're admitting to," Jean mused. "How useful are they likely to view your persona? And will you be Betsy Braddock?"
"To be blunt, it would be simply impossible for them to ever get their hands on a location like that without as much or more clout than many nobles. To keep it for so long... No. Somehow, they have the power," Betsy's statement was firm, free from any doubt. With a small smile, she continued, "They aren't likely to assume that Victoria Kenmore is terribly useful, just a small fish with hopes and delusions of becoming a bigger fish. But I shall be a small fish with money, and I have yet to encounter any sort of organization that has no interest in that. Most likely, they'll try to smile nicely, and give the equivalent of a few pats on the head, right before trying to separate me from some of my presumed money and send me on my way."
"I hate playing the part of a little fish," Jean grumbled. "So, you'll portray yourself as a woman with more money and ambition than sense?"
"Go ahead and laugh. You'll be portraying the long-suffering, plainly dressed assistant." Betsy sighed, before adding, "At least we have somewhere to stay. Braddock Manor will have more than enough room. If they notice, why, I was privileged enough to attend school at the same time as their daughter, practically family back then, of course."
Jean giggled. "And probably related somehow, with that nest of intermarriages and related nobles?"
"Yes, but its considered poor taste to start out by boasting of distant connections. Vicky's going to be ambitious, not tactless."
They spent the entire flight telepathically discussing details of wardrobe, protocol, and location. Jean would need to be able to present herself as familiar with London and society, as if Victoria Kenmore had been living on the edges of society for quite some time.
End part 1.
Jean sighed, trying not to frown at her current clothing. The outfit, while looking suitably formal, did absolutely nothing for her in terms of color or cut. In fact, it might have been the singularly least flattering article of clothing... "Betsy, you didn't mention that your persona would have a pettily spiteful streak."
"Of course. What else happens to people of thwarted ambition?" Betsy's amusement was clear.
Jean turned around, and found herself blinking at the changes in her teammate. Betsy's outfit looked expensive, a frilly, overdone gown in plum with gold accenting, too much jewelry, a rose scented perfume, her hair dyed black, and a rather haughty expression. Somehow, she managed to look a good twenty pounds heavier, and her complexion was somehow... less clear. Betsy had managed to look almost plain.
With a half smirk, Betsy commented, "I'm afraid that Vicky hasn't quite got what she wanted out of life."
"You caught that, I assume," Jean retorted.
Betsy nodded. "Of course. The whole point is that she's not quite as impressive as she wants to be perceived. You don't spend as much time involved in fashion as I did without learning a few tricks, and who would ever think that this is me?"
"Good points, all of them," Jean agreed. "Do we have an appointment?"
"We do, and we don't want to be late. Vicky and her assistant are expected at two," Betsy murmured, her tones and accent more British than normal. "There's no reason to suspect that Mr. Travers is a mutant, so we should be able to listen freely, but it would be over-confident for us to try to look deeper than surface thoughts, or to assume that there are no mutants or otherwise gifted individuals at the offices."
"I hadn't even thought about non-mutants being able to detect a telepathic probe," Jean murmured. "How common is that?"
Betsy shrugged, "Common is relative. Certain magical traditions use mental discipline and abilities, they'd almost certainly know. I used to work with a woman who claimed that she was a direct descendent of Nimue, from the Arthurian legends. Some spies pick up the ability, either from years of practice or that much mental focus. If they're really just a historical society, they probably wouldn't notice a thing, but... We don't really think they're just a historical society."
"The more I hear, the more I have to agree with you and Sean - there's something else going on," Jean murmured, picking up a slim briefcase. "So, away with us to our meeting?"
"Off to our meeting," Betsy agreed. "Fortunately, I have a driver ready, and he'll take us in one of the blander cars."
End part 2.
Jean looked at the headquarters and gave a small sniff. There was a new door, the wood still looking sharply distinct from its frame, and a sign proclaiming 'London Society for Historical Research', with the iron bar bent at an upwards angle. "It shows that Caine was here."
:Remember, we aren't supposed to know any of that, my supposed secretary: Betsy's mental voice was amused. :And as my personal assistant, you get to open the door and look studious while Vicky tries to look important.:
:Don't enjoy this too much, Betsy: Jean cautioned. :We're here for a mission, not for you to take a trip down memory lane.:
:Of course: Betsy's mental voice held a trace of arrogance. :if I were being myself, not only would both of us be much better dressed, they would be coming to us. Of course, that would limit what we would see of them…:
Jean opened the door, and the women stepped inside. There was a receptionist, glancing at them over a desk with several stacks of papers. With a pained smile, Jean approached the woman, murmuring, "Miss Kenmore has an appointment with Mr. Travers at two."
"Of course, please follow me." The woman stood up, stepping around from the desk. Her outfit was just as bland and unflattering as Jean's, though she did seem quite content that way. Her thoughts were a bit more interesting though… The redhead must be Kenmore's personal assistant. Price'll be falling over himself to flirt with her, and Travers will probably be trying to charm Kenmore – as if that man could charm anyone. He'll probably think a few fake smiles and some empty words will have the woman cheerfully handing over her inheritance in exchange for a couple empty promises to make good connections… Or maybe she wants someone to find something impressive in the family tree, God knows Travers has sold that sort of thing before…
"Where did the new door come from? I would have thought that such a prestigious organization would have made certain that the door and the frame matched…" Jean let her words trail away, hoping not to raise any questions in the receptionist. A few helpful images about what had happened would be nice, but questions might be dangerous.
An image flickered in the receptionist's mind, the door falling inwards, knocked out of the frame by a massive fist, the Juggernaut standing there with the much smaller Tom Cassidy beside him. People had started to scream, alarms wailing, and the two men had stalked closer, anger radiating from the smaller man. In a cold voice, Tom had demanded, "Could you be taking us to see Mr. Quentin Travers? I've got a few questions for him, and I couldn't find a number to call and make an appointment."
With a small shake of her head, the woman commented, "There was a slight problem with the preferred repairmen. Several repairs were needed after a pair of disgruntled visitors last week… There's no need for either of you to worry." Running underneath the spoken words, there was a more troubling thought - those angry men were much better behaved than some of the visitors that Mr. Travers had entertained.
Listening to the floating thoughts, the telepaths followed the woman down a hallway. Many thoughts were easily dismissed, observations of their co-workers annoying habits, frustration at small apartments, the pinching of a new pair of shoes…
But there were a great many people making files on people. People that were alive now, not deceased people of historical position and status. As Sarah the receptionist turned them around a corner and started up a staircase, reflecting that Mr. Travers had changed the location of his office after his visit from the men who'd knocked down the door, Jean and Betsy realized something else about the subjects of the files – they were all young women and girls. Some were in their early twenties, others were still in school, there were even some who were still too young to start their formal education.
:Betsy, why are they making so many files on girls? This can't be normal, and I'm not seeing a historical connection there at all.: Jean's worried thought didn't quite mask her concerns. Were these girls mutants? Why were none of the files on boys? Why were they keeping track of so many girls?
:Some of them are from particular families, very few of which are aristocracy. Some have relatives that work in this group, or were adopted by someone here.: Betsy paused, and turned over some of the fragments that they were hearing. :I'm more worried about why so many of them are being given fighting lessons. Oh, they're listing them as self defense, or karate, or archery… but why is it so important that all of these girls of varying backgrounds and social classes learn these things:
:We learned some of them…: Jean thought back, feeling a knot of suspicion growing in her stomach. :But we're… Well, I was always intended to be an X-Man, and you were a spy.:
:I want to know why they seem to be training a private, all-female army, and what their goal is.: Betsy's thoughts were hard, laced with whispered suspicions.
:An army? Do you think…: Jean paused, considering the sheer volume of files, and how many girls were being tracked. :But wouldn't an army be more effective if they were adults, and not school-children:
:How old were you when you first helped Xavier? How old was Kitty: Betsy's thoughts were soft, tinged with sorrow. :How many wars in the past had soldiers who were scarcely more than children, and how many invaded peoples used their children to smuggle things in and out, to set traps? Young and dangerous are not mutually exclusive.:
:I don't even know what's going on yet, but I don't like it.: Jean decided.
:Neither do I: Betsy agreed.
They could feel Travers even through the solid oak door, eagerly considering the financial assets of Victoria Kenmore, and pondering the best way to flatter them out of her hands, and into the coffers of the Council. He was certain that she was some aspiring socialite, her thoughts on nothing more complex or far reaching than attracting a powerful husband and gaining entrance to the higher levels of society. He thought her a fool, though a fool with money. Otherwise, he would never consent to wasting his time with her, he'd simply delegate an underling.
:Charming: Jean thought. :And we have to smile and pretend to fall for this guy:
:Be glad we don't have to flirt with him: Betsy retorted.
"Mr. Travers, Miss Kenmore and her assistant are here for their appointment," Sarah murmured.
"Of course, show them in, Sarah," a man's voice, a deceptively mild baritone.
Jean felt surprised that he seemed so ordinary. Quentin Travers looked like any other middle-aged man of reasonable prosperity. He was not fat or particularly lean, his hair was barely starting to gray, and there was a faint bump in his nose. He looked like a historian, or an accountant, and his face didn't really match the manipulatively cold thoughts… until she looked at his eyes. They were cold and hard, like pebbles, calculating and ruthless eyes. Dead eyes.
"So glad that you could make time for me, Mr. Travers," Betsy cooed, clearly throwing herself into the role of an empty headed socialite.
"Of course, Ms. Kenmore. It's always a delight to entertain such a lovely lady as yourself," He smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. :Your sort are so simple to deal with, a bit of flattery, some historical accomplishments that can be tied t a safely dead relative… She should be good for a few thousand pounds before it takes any real work.: He kissed her hand, and murmured, "What brings you here on this lovely afternoon?
"Actually, I remembered something that a dear friend of mine mentioned once. She mentioned that someone from this historical society found an ancestor who had been knighted with the particularly memorable title of 'Champion of the Realm, Slayer of Dragons', though I can't quite recall everything that she said about the ancestor… I presume a noble knight." Betsy managed to smile and look as if she was trying to conjure up an old memory.
"Yes, there were some fascinating titles given in the early fifteenth century," Travers remarked blandly. "Some of the most astonishing justifications were used."
"I was wondering, Mr. Travers, if something similarly impressive might be found in my family. I've seen the way that Therese flaunts her ancestor who received his knighting from the king as well as a crown grant of land, and… well, she couldn't be the only person with such a noble, valiant ancestor." There was a firm nod, with a small, hopeful smile.
"Of course, though it can sometimes be a tedious thing to search through so many years of records." Mr. Travers paused, and pulled out something from one of the drawers of his desk.
Jean shifted her position, looking as if she was simply removing a paper from her briefcase, and caught a glimpse of his hand. For reasons unknown, he was holding what looked like a golden cage of wires, twisted with tiny purple beads and pearls, surrounding a walnut sized crystal that seemed blood red at the center, fading quickly so that the outside was almost clear. He was frowning at it, pointing the strange object at Betsy. He then moved it, so that the end was aimed at her, and the gem changed color, deepening until it was almost all red.
:Damn, the assistant's bloodline carries the potential. She's too old to be of use, and certainly untrained and useless, but if she has daughters… Yes, I'll need to have someone find out more about Kenmore's assistant.: Travers put the strange device back into a drawer. :I wonder if she has any prospects of children, or if we should arrange a conveniently charming suitor to enter her life. Someone to marry her, make sure she has a handful of children… She's pretty enough that it wouldn't be a hardship.:
:Jean, lock your emotions down. If he sees you with that expression…: Betsy's voice was in her mind, insistent. :You look about ready to rip him apart. Not that I blame you, considering that I caught that as well, but we're supposed to be harmless people, remember? Not mind-reading mutants.:
"Do you have that family tree ready, Celia?" Betsy's voice was soft, and she motioned to Mr. Travers. "I thought that it might be a bit easier if you had a copy of my family tree to start with. A guide for where to look for illustrious ancestors."
"Of course, Miss Kenmore," Jean replied, her eyes downcast as she handed the paper to Travers. Idly, Jean wondered if there really was a Victoria Kenmore, and what a search on the woman would find.
"Thank you, ladies. I assure you that some of my people will begin searching immediately. Do you need me to show you the way out?" Travers smiled, folding the page and placing it on his desk.
"If you would be so kind," Betsy fluttered her eyelashes in polite helplessness.
:I can flatter as many empty headed society women as I need if it will help fund my purposes: Travers reminded himself. :Having a malleable Slayer again will make it all worth it.:
:Betsy, what's a Slayer: Jean thought, wondering why Travers' mind gave the term a special significance.
:I don't know, but I think we'll need to find out.: Betsy nodded at some meaningless courtesy that Travers had offered. :Let's go, this place is making my skin crawl, and I want to get rid of this bad make-up.:
As they left the office, they concluded that they had only caught the edge of the tail. Whatever this group was up to, whatever a 'Slayer' was, it was much bigger than a single office in London, and much darker than swindling the peerage out of money to 'find' illustrious ancestors. They could only hope that it wasn't going to become the next big crisis that the X-Men would have to fight.
"I hope that these 'Slayers' aren't anything like Sentinals," Jean murmured.
"I don't think they're any sort of robot," Betsy mused. "What I don't know is why they're only following women and girls, or what your age has to do with whatever they think those girls might be useful for."
"My age… He made it sound like I was some ancient hag," Jean snorted. "Honestly, I'm only twenty six."
"Normally, that's too old for a truly effective indoctrination process: Betsy pointed out. "Children can be easily convinced to do things, especially if they're told by people in trusted positions, their parents, their favorite teachers… Even if those things are risky."
"We may have gotten some information, but it feels like we have more questions than ever," Jean sighed.
End part 3.
End MD9: Digging for Answers.
