Have you ever just wondered why you bothered to write a certain story? That's how I feel about this one. *sigh* Oh, well. Was it worth sending to the list? It isn't finished yet -- details at the end.
Disclaimer: Marvel owns almost everything in this story. I leave it to you to figure out what they don't :)
I don't trust him. I can't quite place it, but something about that man makes my very skin crawl.
Since I locked away my telepathy to hold the Shadow King at bay, I've had to learn to view the world through new eyes. No longer do I have the certainty of my abilities to back up the impressions that I form of people. I am forced to find the truth from lies with only my own observations and gut feelings. Emotions are a guessing game rather than something that I feel from others with certainty.
In short, it's been something of a... learning experience.
I've adapted to this new form of living. I think I've gotten rather good at it. But at the moment, all I'd like is the ability to confirm the nagging doubt I'm feeling about our host.
He's well dressed, polite, smiling, and doesn't look like he could run up a flight of stairs without becoming breathless. And yet, he seems dangerous to me. He turns slightly to snag a glass of wine from a passing waiter, and his eyes catch mine.
For a moment, I could swear that I see something almost predatory in those watery blue eyes. And then, that fleeting emotion is gone and he's smiling at me. He excuses himself from the group of he was immersed in and begins to drift in my direction.
I hope that he's heading somewhere other than me, but I've made my way through enough of these parties to recognize that he's signaled me out. I cast a quick glance towards Warren, steady and secure at my side. He's seen him, too. But unlike me, Warren's look is more of irritation than unease.
Warren's words earlier this evening ring in my ears as the man approaches us. 'He's a horribly boring, condensing, idiot,' Warren had proclaimed as he struggled to straighten his sky blue tie.
His words hadn't left me eager to met the man, and I was no more eager to do so now. But now, my lack of eagerness stemmed more from my nagging distrust than from any of the man's irritable character traits.
"Warren!" he cries out, finally arriving next to us. He clamps a pudgy hand down on Warren's shoulder, eliciting a barely disguised scowl from him.
"Alan," Warren replies, less than enthused by our host's arrival.
"And whose your pretty little friend?" Alan inquires, his eyes locking on mine. I must admit, I am no stranger to having men's gazes locked on me. But this look sends my internal warnings flaring.
I may no longer be a telepath, but I do trust the instincts that I've gained through my many battles. Though a quick peek in this man's mind would be useful at the moment...
"Elisabeth Braddock," Warren answers, his arm wrapping around my waist. It's a possessive move that would once have irritated me. But at the moment, I don't mind. I need to know that he's nearby, to assure myself that he is fine.
Alan surveys me with pursed lips. "Braddock?" the name rings a bell in him, and he launches into a long winded and highly one sided discussion of business matters. I can certainly see where Warren formed such a negative impression of the man.
He stays glued to us through the remainder of the evening, setting me on edge. I sway between the urge to cringe from his presence and the desire to knock his head into a wall.
He catches me glaring at him as he makes a particularly insulting comment, and as if amused by my reaction, grins at me. The urge to slap the little weasel is gaining.
And finally, the guests begin to trickle out. I've rarely been so glad to leave a stuffy party as I am this one. But even as we escape, my suspicion is not abated. I could swear that I feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as we leave.
The drive home is filled with Warren's comments on the guests we met that evening. Usually, his observations would elicit a smile from me, but at the moment, my mind is still locked on the pale, fleshy man we eagerly left behind.
Warren notices my preoccupation, but chooses not to bring it up until we are home. As I slip out of my ridiculously expensive dress, Warren gives into his concerned curiosity. "Betsy? You okay?" he asks, flopping down on our bed with a tired grunt. A terribly boring party tends to take more out a person than most people ever realize.
"Alan Blackwell," I say. I am not about to naw over this matter alone forever when I have Warren to discuss it with. "Something about him seemed wrong to me." I wait for Warren's answer, which is a while in coming.
He's considering my reaction to the man carefully, which pleases me. He still respects my instincts despite the lack of my telepathy to back them up. And to think, I'd almost lost him mere months ago. I shake off those thoughts and refocus on the disturbing matter at hand.
Warren has finally thrashed out his response in his mind. "He's always been a little bit strange," he muses. "But I think you're right. There was something... calculating about him."
I settle my dress on a hanger and place it back into the closet before moving to the bed and collapsing next to Warren. "I don't trust him."
He sighs softly. "Tomorrow, we'll see what we can find out about him."
That will do for now. I nod against Warren's shoulder, and close my eyes.
End note:
I had this idea (as usually happens with stories... :) and I needed the
rest of the story to go with it. So, this is my attempt to build up a story for my
(probably not worth writing) idea. Unfortunately, my buildup has left me with no idea of
how to get to the reason I wrote the damned thing :(
I can't do suspense, and I can't do buildup. I'm too impatient. I need to jump to the part that I know what to do with...
So what to do? I'll probably just leave this one hanging as is, unless I (miraculously) figure out how to get from this point to the next... (ha! like that'll happen!)
I should really stop doing this...
So, here it is -- part 2 of my story! Who'd have ever guessed that this day would come? :)
Disclaimer: Recognize them? They belong to Marvel.
Thanks to Poi Lass for her opinion on this :)
I wake up, a scream caught in my throat even as the images from my dream fade back into the recesses of my mind. I lay motionless, save for the uneasy shift of my eyes as they attempt to penetrate the darkness enveloping us.
Warren is curled up next to me, his warm breath a whisper across my cheek. I will not wake him. I know that he would attempt to make this lingering haze of fear hanging over me dissipate - and perhaps even succeed in doing so. But some things, I must deal with on my own.
Gradually, my heart ceases it's frantic pounding, and I am able to convince myself that no danger lurks in the shadows this night. Now, I can examine the wispy remains of the dream that awakened me.
There is fear, and beneath that, a sense of... inferiority? That does not sit well with me. It was my feelings of inferiority in the face of Jean's power that left me open to the Shadow King's goading... and left me in my currently psi blank state.
But now?
I don't know. I have skills and resources beyond my caged telepathy. There is nothing to fear.
An image of Alan Blackwell's predatory gaze flashes through my mind and I shiver at the feelings his face evokes in me. I push back those feelings and banish the man's plump face. There is nothing I can do about the man now, and I will not worry about him.
If there is truly a threat here -- I can deal with it.
Warren sighs heavily, running a hand through his tousled hair yet again. "Nothing," he tells me, letting the pile of records he was leafing through drop to the floor. He shoots a hostile glare at them before turning to me inquisitively.
"I haven't been able to find much about Blackwell to confirm my suspicions, either," I answer with a responding sigh. Not that I had actually expected one of his business transactions to just scream out 'I'm up to something!'. Although that would have made this job easier.
"What next?"
I can't help but smile slightly. Even after several hours of mind numbing, eye straining, and utterly useless research, Warren is still willing to go along with my gut feeling on an almost total stranger.
The only thing that struck me as odd was Blackwell's sudden withdraw from direct control of his businesses. "I think that it may be helpful to confer with his business partners."
"Sounds good to me," Warren replies easily.
"So, what exactly is it that you wished to speak to me about, Ms. Braddock?" Daniel Muybridge inquires as he spears a tomato from the salad placed before him.
I discreetly study the man seated across from me. He is more physically attractive than his partner, with a tanned, open face and a trim form that speaks of treadmills and rowing machines rather than any necessary physical labour. But he possesses none of Blackwell's obvious sense of mastery of his surroundings. He looks almost uncomfortable as he waits for my answer.
"Alan Blackwell," I reply, smiling with all the charm I can muster. Muybridge's guarded smile fades altogether, and his eyes shift away from mine. I patiently wait for him to compose himself. I am not about to scare away a potential source of information with an impatient prodding.
Muybridge settles his fork down next to his plate, still covered with his barely touched salad before turning his attention back to me. "What do you need from me?" he looks torn between the urge to bolt and the desire to spill his worries to me. I only hope that his desire to talk overrules his instinct to flee.
I tell him what I need in the form of the carefully constructed story that Warren and I agreed upon. He listens to my half-truth attentively, his lips tightly compressed. When I finish, Muybridge spends a tense moment absently plucking at the sleeve of his pressed white shirt before slowly nodding.
"I'll tell you what I know, Ms. Braddock." I nearly sigh in relief at those words. Things would have become more difficult for me had Muybridge not cooperated. "But not here," he adds, gesturing towards the other dinners in our meeting place.
I nod slightly. "Let's go, then."
Let's see... three chapters, two pages per chapter, six pages! *sigh* I am so pitiful... From now on, if I can't finish it in one sitting, it's not getting written :)
Disclaimer: Marvel.
We leave the restaurant together, the silence heavy with unspoken words between us. I am expectant, eager for confirmation or denial of my vague feelings. Muybridge's silence is more one of dread. He has the look of a man about to meet his death. I wonder if the secrets he is about to reveal are truly that awful that his every step at my side seems as if it were being forced forward through nothing short of the total strength of his will.
He is obviously nervous, an expression that he is not having much luck hiding behind the polite, brittle smile he offers to any acquaintance we encounter. We make our way towards the destination Muybridge suggested with as much of a leisurely stroll as we can manage considering the height of both of our emotions.
Muybridge comes to a abrupt stop next to what I presume to be his car. He fishes around in his pocket for the keys. Finding them, he unlocks the door and slids into the driver's seat, opening the passenger door for me. I follow his lead and settle down in the seat next to him.
"He used to be different," Muybridge says abruptly, his voice startling after our long silence. His head cocks to one side, and he regards me seriously. "Alan was always rather... unique, but recently..." he shrugs slightly. "He used to be different," he repeats, apparently at a loss for words to describe the changes he has seen in Blackwell.
"Different how, Mr. Muybridge?" I ask, gently urging him to continue. I wrap my arms around myself in meager protection against the chill air that I can feel even through the body of the car, and watch Muybridge closely.
"Sane." The word that drops into the silence of the car obviously was not what Muybridge had intended to reveal. He shifts nervously, his hands tightening around the steering wheel desperately. He looks almost queasy suddenly.
His eyes clench shut and he draws in a calming breath before gathering the strength to continue. "I don't know how it happened, Ms. Braddock. I can't pinpoint when things changed, or even how, really. All that I know is that Alan Blackwell is not the man he once was -- and more than that, he is a much less appealing one."
"And this frightens you?"
He nods slowly. "It's the eyes... They always seem to be watching everything and everyone. There is such contempt in them..." Muybridge trails off, shaking his head helplessly. "There's something missing from him."
Though not quite what I expected, this news does serve to add some substance to my otherwise vague feelings about Blackwell. It is not as much information as I may have wished for, but the fear in Muybridge's eyes tells me that the man is worth being wary of.
"Be careful, Ms. Braddock," Muybridge tells me. "You don't want to mess with Alan."
Perhaps not. But somehow, I don't feel as if I'm going to have much of a choice in this matter.
When I arrive home, my immediate desire is to find Warren so that we can work through my discussion with Muybridge together. Unfortunately, he has still not returned from his own errand, and I find myself alone.
I ignore the stab of disappointment that rushes through me at that discovery and turn my attention to the mail neatly stacked on the table near the front entrance. Absently, I divide the envelopes into matters of interest. Bills, social invitations, personal correspondences... my half-hearted study of our days mail comes to an abrupt stop as I find myself looking down at a cream coloured enveloped from Alan Blackwell himself.
The writing is a bold black scrawl, and it is addressed to me. My nagging sense of worry spikes as I absorb that. Blackwell has no reason to be addressing me. If he were to contact anyone in this apartment, it should be Warren, not I. Before the previous night, the man had been no more that a brief name mentioned in passing in regards to Warren's business matters.
The image of Blackwell's predatory eyes as we left the party springs up in my mind, as do Muybridge's comments.
My nail slits through the envelope's flap with ease and I withdraw a crisp sheet of paper. I carefully read over Blackwell's message before letting it drift down to the table.
He has invited me to meet with him.
My worrisome side informs me quite primly that I should do no such thing. Seeing as I haven't listened to said meek voice in quite a while, I am not about to start doing so now.
I am a ninja. I am an X-Man. I am a _Braddock_. And I do not back down from a challenge.
~end part 3 -- finally!
You know, I think I hate this story...
