Chapter Two: High Society
The Ballroom
Warren soared through the air, enjoying what he saw as his last few minutes of freedom. He was neatly dressed in his tuxedo, which had been adjusted at great expense and dire threats to accommodate his wings by a tailor of known quality and discretion. Of course, when he actually entered the room Warren would have to use his image inducer, which he had purchased on seeing the one designed by Xavier. He would have to keep his wings folded close to his back and make sure he didn't accidentally barge into anyone, or anything, with the wings no-one would see, but he supposed he would have to put up with that discomfort for now. He alighted on the roof of the building and looked down at the slime trail of the limousines crawling along the pavement like snails, and at a similar pace. He was probably taking an unnecessary risk by chancing exposure like this, but then again, why would any of them see him up here when they were so used to looking down at people? Warren grinned darkly. It was amazing how quickly those glittering, posturing people had changed from 'us' to 'them.' Being a mutant transcended all class barriers, as he had quickly found out... but it seemed as though he had not fully shaken off his snobbery, merely redirected it. He saw another limousine pull up and an up and coming young movie starlet prance out on her high heels. The paparazzi noticed too and soon turned their cameras on her, the flickering of the cameras almost painful in their brightness in his superhuman eyes. She gave them a practiced, polished smile and walked inside, somehow contriving to try and display her 'best side' to all sides at once. Warren found it rather depressing, really.
Another limousine pulled up, this time it was a couple who stepped out, a classic combination: the silver fox, an older but still distinguished and handsome man, and the blonde kitten, his much younger paramour. Of course, with these people 'young' seemed a relative term; the girl seemed within a few years of thirty either way but even from where he was perched, Warren could make out the telltale signs of plastic surgery. He hated to think what those Barbie-doll types would do if they were to find out they were mutants too- surgery to try and remove the offending... feature? His parents had certainly dropped several well-known surgeons into conversation that could deal with Warren's own 'little problem.' Warren decided he would not be able to put his entry off forever, and that he may as well get it over with. He flew up into the air and floated along until he found a suitably shadowy landing point, an alleyway several blocks away. He walked out, adjusted his clothes and strolled along until he reached the milling hordes of photographers and journalists. His appearance did not go unnoticed and he heard his name mentioned several times.
"Worthington's boy... he's back... what's he doing here?... his father... some press stunt...?"
"Mr Worthington? Warren?" One voice made itself heard over the noise and he turned to find a microphone shoved into his face. His eyes trailed down the hand holding it, up the arm, then alighted on the face. It only took him a few seconds to put a name to it.
"Ms Tilby," he said politely. He had his public face on again, smiling the smile at the top of a dozen 'most eligible bachelor' lists. "It's been a while."
"It certainly has," Trish Tilby said. "Where have you been all this time? Where did you go?"
"Oh you know... here and there," he said vaguely. "I've been... travelling. Learning more about the world."
"So why did you decide to come back? And why now?" Trish pressed him. She had managed to get herself into prime position and whatever remained of exclusivity would be hers but cameras were flashing and pens scribbling as the rest of the pack circled excitedly.
"Why not?" Warren waved the question aside. "Maybe it's just time for me to get my feet back on the ground." He enjoyed knowing that even those who made their money cutting apart every celebrity utterance in forensic detail would never guess the subtext to that answer. However, Trish Tilby was not finished with him just yet.
"So the rumours that you fell out with your father are just that?" she asked. "After all, at an event like this... well, you won't be able to avoid him."
"Why would I want to?" Warren shot back. "Do you all know something I don't?" That made the score Warren Worthington III two, gutter press nil. Warren was beginning to enjoy himself. "I can assure you Trish that I was speaking to my father only earlier this very afternoon. If that's all?"
With that he turned neatly and walked into the elegant lobby, fighting to keep the smile off his face. It was not quite up there with rescuing people from burning buildings as the Avenging Angel but this was as good as he had felt in some time.
A few minutes later, another limousine rolled up, this one bearing diplomatic plates. Technically speaking, Cartier was not here in his official role, but as an ambassador he had a limousine and a driver and he would be damned if he was not going to use it. All three of his girls had accompanied him in the end; he had not originally intended to bring the twins but they had inherited the St. Croix stubbornness and it would be more trouble than it was worth to try and stop them coming. However, he was beginning to regret that decision. Monet was as aloof and poised as ever, but the twins were rather less so. They were rarely invited to this kind of event, as they tended to get rather overexcited. At only seventeen they were old enough to appreciate and enjoy the glitzy, prestigious atmosphere but not old enough to fully comprehend the serious business that went on behind the scenes. Ninety percent of the conversations that occurred would be business agreements, albeit no-one would be so gauche as to word it like that. News would be discussed, innovations mentioned, trends in the market may find their way into the conversation, and over champagne and classical music deals would be brokered and favours exchanged and everyone involved would go off knowing a good night's business had been done. That would be made exponentially harder by having a pair of giggly teenage girls making moon-eyes at every handsome young man they came across, and even harder when the girls in question were themselves very pretty. More than a few of the more unscrupulous men in the room would not hesitate to use fine wine, fancy language and subtle displays of power to charm the twins into whatever they wanted, which was something Cartier could do without. Tonight of all nights he could do without any distractions whatsoever. There was talk of what was potentially a game-changing deal in the making, something that would have technical, political and social implications; anyone who could get a stake in such a situation would have riches more rewarding and useful than mere money, and Cartier naturally wanted to be part of that. On the other hand, if they thought he would be distracted, others may underestimate him in turn and he could use that to his advantage.
The limousine slowed and stopped and Cartier turned to face his daughters. To their credit the twins stopped their twittering and nudging of each other and adopted solemn expressions. Cartier offered them each an arm and they exited the limousine together, making their way up the red carpet as a trio. Monet watched them go but did not make any move to join them. She knew exactly what her father was doing; playing up the sympathy vote even though their mother had been dead over seven years now. She waited for them to be inside before making an appearance herself. As she stood up she paused just long enough for any sharp enough photographer to take a very striking photograph but without holding the pose long enough to be obvious about it. She walked towards the lobby at a pace perfectly calculated to ensure the best median between favourable coverage and appropriate grace. She knew, of course, just how good she looked. The dress a perfect colour to set off her looks, and cut just right to emphasise a body money just could not buy. The necklace and earrings that were her only accessories were understated yet classy, with her sleek, ebony hair stretching down to her shoulders in a luscious wave. Oh yes, she looked damned good, even by her standards, and it had been a long time since she had really shown off her looks. She made her way into the lobby, where an hotelier in a tuxedo bowed graciously and showed her into the main room. Just as she expected, there was a classical band playing some elegant waltz- Strauss if she was not mistaken, and she very rarely was.
As she had expected, several heads turned as soon as she walked in. Not in the same literal way the photographers' had, or the way she turned heads on the street; these people held to a higher standard. You wouldn't get to the top end of the industry if your attention wandered so obviously; a moment's distraction would be noted, and a moment would be all it took for your schemes to be shattered and hopes dashed. Nonetheless, the corners of some of the sharpest eyes in the country were focussed on the beautiful young woman who suddenly appeared. Monet decided to play things safe to begin with and joined her father and sisters; she could enjoy herself later but for now she wanted to see how events would pan out.
She found him already deep in conversation with a swarthy-looking man she would have identified as South American, Brazilian to be more exact if his accent was anything to go by. He looked vaguely familiar and she guessed he was one of her father's older business partners, or even a friend if men of their position could ever be friends.
"Ms St. Croix... you look truly beautiful," he said, kissing her hand. Fortunately in doing so he completely missed her rolling her eyes. She had suspected it from the beginning but had just had that conviction proved- he was one of the old-fashioned kind, the ones that collected and disposed of beautiful women with the same regularity and dispassion they bought and sold stocks and shares, simply as a sign of their masculinity. Monet's father on the other hand noticed her expression and knew from past experience how quick she was to launch a barbed comment and quickly intervened.
"Emmanuel, do you know who that is over there?" he asked quickly, pointing out a man who was somewhere between the ages of the dilettante playboys eyeing up the starlets and the older, more level-headed businessmen.
"That's Anthony Stark," Emmanuel said. "Howard's son, meant to be something special apparently." Emmanuel da Costa was not a man to be distracted easily though and he quickly turned his attentions back to Monet. At least, such was his intention but Monet had already gone. She had hoped that this would prove some kind of diversion but unfortunately things had turned out exactly as she had thought. Well, if she could not find a distraction, she would make one. She couldn't help a smile as a sudden thought struck her, and she sauntered across the room, using her telepathy to read the thoughts of everyone around her as she went. She was vaguely aware that some people would consider it unethical to probe other peoples' minds like this, without their permission, but she couldn't see the argument. As far as she was concerned, you would not walk around with your eyes closed simply because some people were blind, so why should she abstain from using gifts no-one else had? She was different to them- better than them, when it came down to it- so why pretend otherwise?
She was not particularly surprised by what she found. Many of the men were appreciative of her looks, and many of the women were aware of that fact. She eventually set her sights on the one she had heard her father name 'Tony Stark'- he was old enough to be good conversation and have the dignity not to drool over her, but still young enough to be interesting and passably good-looking, even with that ridiculous goatee. He was also accompanied by a redhead with poise and confidence to match Monet's, and Monet was determined to rectify that situation. She paused for a natural pause in the conversation before cutting in; there were such a thing as manners after all.
"Good evening, Anthony," she said smoothly. Stark turned quickly, obviously taken unawares, and his eyes widened as they took in the sight of the newcomer. Monet managed to keep the smirk off her face as she noticed the tiny tells passing over his face: the reflexive but charming grin, the oh-so-slight narrowing of the eyes as he tried to remember her name, clearly believing that they must have met before to be on first name terms. He quickly recovered and introduced her to the others, hoping one of them would know her and address her by name.
"A better one for your presence," he said smoothly. A bit too smoothly really, a bit slick, but better than some would have managed. "This is Brian Braddock-" he introduced a tall blonde man of square-jawed good looks. An intriguing possibility should Stark prove too dull... "-and his wife Meggan." Meggan turned out to be a short elfin woman. Wife, not girlfriend, and therefore too much hassle for Monet to concern herself with... She would have to hope Stark proved diverting then. "And this is Natasha Romanov."
"Charmed," the redhead said, her smile not fooling Monet for a moment. Natasha had a distinct Russian accent, which suited her voice and added to her other physical charms. All the more satisfying then to humiliate her... Stark realised that he would have to try and bluff his way through.
"And this is-"
"Miss St. Croix... is it Monet?" Braddock said. He had an accent too, but his was that of English high society. Monet was surprised he had recognised her, as she did not remember him, but supposed that she was after all very memorable. "Your father and mine have done business- selling some industrial equipment to Braddock Laboratories."
Now Monet remembered. That had been several years ago, and Brian had certainly not been the chiselled specimen he was now- she could remember a gangly, awkward looking young man, certainly no-one worth a second glance; the transformation was... impressive. She nodded politely and turned back to Stark.
"Would you care for a dance?" she offered, her tone making it quite clear that if he had any sense the answer would be yes. To her surprise, Stark looked to Romanov before answering, clearly seeking her permission, but not in the way an anxious boyfriend would do; now Monet came to think about it, the way Romanov was looking at Stark was more like a bodyguard than a lover. Monet risked a quick psychic probe of the Russian's mind but to her surprise came up against a solid wall- nothing she couldn't break down but much stronger than a normal person's. Even more surprisingly, even at that fleeting contact, Romanov's eyes suddenly narrowed and she tensed subtly, and Monet realised she had felt the touch- which should have been impossible for anyone without training. She had a feeling Stark was not worth this fuss and turned away, fuming inwardly. She was not used to failure but Romanov was clearly not a normal human, and Monet had no intention of getting caught up in mutant affairs.
Warren had also made his way inside, but he had instead stuck to the edge of the crowd. His presence had already created a minor stir, and he had no intention of poking that particular hornet's nest. Besides, if he stayed to one side his parents would not be able to contact him without breaking off their current conversation, and he suspected they would not take that chance. He was looking around at the crowd when he heard a voice say his name.
"Warren? What are you doing here?"
He spun around, hoping he wouldn't catch anyone with his wings. He had maintained his usual polite smile but it took on a distinctly glassy edge when he realised who had spoken to him.
"Candy?" He coughed and tried again. "Candy, what an unexpected pleasure to see you here."
"Unexpected?" Candy repeated. "I've been trying to contact you all weekend, but you never replied to any of my messages..."
"Well, you know how it is, business before pleasure," Warren said quickly. "I really wasn't expecting to be here tonight myself to be honest."
"Oh... well, as you are here..." Candy began hesitantly. Warren may be rusty but he knew a hint when he heard one.
"A dance, then?" he offered. There was no polite way to get out of it, unfortunately; he would have to go through the motions. Hopefully after one dance he would be able to think of a decent excuse to leave. He lead her to the dance-floor and they began a slow waltz. Warren wasn't really thinking about Candy, or anything much; he was operating mostly out of habit. He suddenly felt an odd sensation in his head, as though someone had run a feather over his forehead. He recognised it instantly as the mark of a telepathic contact, having felt it before at the hands- and mind- of Professor Charles Xavier, founder of the X-Men. Most people would dismiss it if they even noticed in the first place, but he had too much experience to make that mistake. The problem with telepathy, though, was that it was, well, telepathic. Unless the person had the grace to introduce themselves, it would be nearly impossible to identify them in a crowd. He noticed a few heads turning slightly and a couple of puzzled expressions as some people noticed the telepathic interference, even if they did not identify it. As far as he could tell, the source appeared to be a tall girl with long, dark hair, but that was about all he could tell about her.
"Excuse me," he said to Candy, with such a dazzling smile she didn't even realise he hadn't actually given any reason at all to snub her mid-dance. She simply smiled herself as she watched him walk away. Warren managed to make his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling politely when people addressed him but not slowing in his pursuit. He could see the girl talking to Tony Stark and the mysterious Ms Romanov, and although he could not hear the conversation over the music and hum of conversation, he could tell it hadn't gone according to her plan. He noticed her making her way back across the room and took the opportunity to examine her more closely: tall, shapely, extremely attractive and she knew it, which to some would only add to her allure... and, it seemed, a telepath, a mutant like himself. But what should he do next? She was clearly aware and in control of her powers, but that didn't mean she would appreciate anyone bringing them up in conversation...
Warren Worthington Junior was deep in conversation with a number of like-minded individuals, all of whom were discussing one subject, and one subject only: mutants. Of course, they were all too experienced and canny to commit themselves to any particular stance, but that was no reason not to try and ascertain the most common view.
"I think this is just the beginning," Worthington said. "If we had no idea that mutants even existed, we could not make any move to... track them."
"You think that they have been making plans, then?" One of his companions asked.
"I think there is more to them than we know," Worthington said. He didn't want to nail his colours to the anti-mutant mast just yet, but he was pretty certain by now that the prevailing view on mutants was not exactly positive.
"There are rumours going around, after all," said another man, Bolivar Trask. He was relatively new to the upper echelons; his fortune had taken a jump in recent times, his company was now worth more than it had ever been. "They say the Sentinel Project may still be operating..."
Worthington noticed the tiny flicker in every pair of eyes as they analysed the words. The Sentinel Project? That was big, big news if it was true. The original Sentinel had been involved in the revelation of mutants, and although all details on the so-called Apocalypse incident had been covered up, it seemed unlikely the anti-mutant robots would not have been involved in some capacity. And with mutant numbers on the rise, the prospect of a control method resurfacing was not out of the realms of possibility... On the other hand, the Sentinels had caused a lot of damage, and by funding them you would forever associate yourself with the mutant issue, however that turned out in the end.
Of course, the Sentinel Project was one that was tailored almost perfectly to Worthington Industries. They had always been at the very forefront of technological research and development, the only ones who had even come close was Stark and now his son, but they focussed on small-scale technology, cybernetics and firearms for the military mostly, while Worthington had tailored his company for heavier machinery, creating vehicles and construction equipment, all of which would not take a lot of tinkering to adapt to Sentinel production instead. Ever since his son had outed himself as a mutant, Worthington had also discretely purchased a small but highly advanced science laboratory that worked on various means to nullify or even... cure... mutants. Not only could he build the Sentinels, he could improve the design, adapt and advance them. And with the mutant population expanding with meteoric speed, anyone who had a way to counter their threat would find themselves in high demand. As befitted a businessman as hard-headed and practical as Worthington, he was not particularly given to flights of imagination, but even he could not resist losing himself in a vision of the future possibilities... the sky really would be the limit... that thought reminded him of his son and brought him crashing out of his daydream. Warren would not be happy at all if he discovered his father's plans- even before his little problem had arisen, the younger Worthington had been worryingly liberal and sentimental, and there was no way that he would stand for the company he would inherit creating machines designed to combat mutants...
Outside the Hotel
The young bellhop standing outside and waiting for any late guests considered himself something of a film aficionado, and particularly of action or thriller films. Therefore the sight of a black van with darkened windows tipped him off immediately that something was not quite right- there was a lot of money gathered in one room inside that hotel and it was not unfeasible that some opportunistic gangster would attempt a heist. However, although the van slowed down it did not stop and he watched it pass out of sight before relaxing- false alarm.
Only a few yards away, the car full of men sniggered at the unsuspecting man. The car looked like any other, although of course the registration plate was completely false, and the men inside were not wearing their masks or anything that would give them away as anything unusual. They waited for their signal. The taxi across the road flashed its headlights once, twice, three times- the all clear signal.
"Let's go." The order was passed around and the men clambered out. All of them were dressed in sharp suits of various colours but impeccable taste, looking for all the world like more members of the elite group socialising and scheming at the ball. They made their way towards the bellhop, who looked at them in concern. He didn't have to be a film freak to know that a bunch of suited men with an air of menace and purpose meant very bad news. The leader of the men approached the younger man with a faux-friendly smile.
"Excuse me sir, but I have to ask you-"
"No, I'm doing the asking," the man contradicted him in a low voice, the fake grin never wavering. He had somehow produced a squat, menacing pistol and was pressing it into the boy's stomach. "And I'm asking you to just go inside and save us both the trouble of having your guts blown out of your back."
The bellhop edged backwards and into the lobby. Surrounded by suited men, it would be impossible for anyone to see the gun jammed into his abdomen and so the receptionists and doormen looked very confused to see the entrance of the newcomers. The man with the gun made a pointing gesture with his free hand and within moments the other men had also produced guns and were menacing the other staff of the hotel.
"Hands in the air, ladies," one of them ordered the receptionists. "You so much as glance as the emergency switch and I blow your damn heads off, got it?"
Another man was in the face of the youngest and fittest looking of the doormen, and thus the one most likely to cause problems. "Don't even think of any heroics," he growled. The leader swung his gun and caught the bellhop on the temple, knocking the poor boy out cold. The leader gestured to one of his men that looked about the right size.
"You, switch uniforms and get out there, we don't want any attention."
As the man quickly stripped off the bellboy's clothes and put them on himself, the leader pulled out a small phone from his pocket. It only had one number on it, but it was the only one he would need. It had barely rung twice when someone answered at the other end.
"Yes?"
"We're in, it's locked down. We can proceed."
"Understood." The phone clicked off without another word but a few moments later five more men walked in, each with a briefcase in each hand. These were quickly opened to reveal the weapons tested earlier, which were passed around until every man present had one. One case also had the strange device being worked on earlier, which was quickly placed on the desk and turned on. The air was filled with a low hum.
"Is it working?" The leader asked tersely.
"Better believe it," the other man said happily. "With this baby on, there're no phone-calls in or out, all cameras down, nothing working without my permission."
"Good work," the leader said. "Okay, you three, you stay here in case one of these heroes plays up. The rest of you- masks on and follow me."
The men pulled on their masks and raised their weapons as they followed their leader into the main room.