Headquarters of Frost International, Top Floor, Wall Street District, Manhattan
Tuesday May 30, 8:51 am.
In a nearly empty, sleek looking boardroom with expensive furniture, a woman with an imperious expression sat in a comfortable ergonomic office chair, overlooking the view from the top floor of her building. The woman’s look was impeccable, with an ivory pantsuit that was tailored to perfection, platinum blonde hair without a strand out of place, and just enough makeup in varying shades of white to enhance her already perfect features, rather than hide blemishes.
Determining the woman’s age from appearance alone would be impossible. She had none of the signs of age that were present in others of her gender… no crows feet, no smile lines, no blemishes, and certainly no grey hairs. She had the fully mature yet ageless features that were commonly used by fantasy authors to describe elves and angels, though her figure was by all accounts full in a way fantasy elves most certainly are not (unless you’re describing elves in a very specific genre of Japanese fantasy), her ears were most definitely round, and she had a distinctive lack of wings.
Her eyes and bearing suggested she was in her mid-forties.
“Miss Frost,” a young woman stood behind her in a more modest suit, but with facial features that heavily resembled the seated woman, holding a bundle of papers with a frustrated look on her face, “The return of the Seere heir completely ruined our plans for the company. We’d nearly succeeded in…”
“Esme,” the woman interrupted with a stern tone, “Why do you insist on ignoring my instructions at every step of the way?”
“Sorry… mother,” the young woman corrected herself, though her barely concealed annoyance caused her to develop a slight tic in her left eyebrow.
“Wonderful,” the woman’s voice grew warm with pride, “You may continue.”
“Yes, well,” the girl adjusted her position, took a moment to center herself, and continued, “The Seere heir’s return has made things difficult, and the board is starting to panic. The terms of release for the trust were so demanding that the board thought they’d be safe for another half decade before they would have to deal with him. The problem is that the boy not only completed the terms of release, but earned three PhD’s on top of the required MBA…”
“That young man is biologically three years older than you and your sisters, dear heart,” the older woman admonished her daughter with an indulgent tone, “and that doesn’t even begin to describe the actual chronological age my dear. Referring to him as a ‘boy’ is fundamentally underestimating him. What is my advice on that matter?”
“Never underestimate your business rivals. Always assume they are as competent as you until proven otherwise, especially when your intelligence is limited,” she answered while releasing an exasperated breath, and then continued as her mother swiveled in her chair to look at her with a raised eyebrow, “Mother.”
“Exactly,” she nodded, “Mr. Seere may be a relative unknown, and his academic achievements might be slightly less than that of you and your sisters, but that doesn’t give you the right to dismiss him entirely, dear.
“Besides,” Emma looks at her daughter with a smirk, “he didn’t have five bodies to help him earn his PhD’s at the same time.”
“Of course Mother, ‘there is no greater danger than underestimating your opponent'," she nodded, outwardly accepting her mistake with a resigned expression, “Though, I think you’ll find that chronologically, my sisters and I have over 50 years of experience…”
“Dear, no matter how much you and your sisters try to pretend, you are all distinct entities… which is made plainly apparent by the fact that you are here with me and your sisters are not. You cannot just combine your chronological ages to suddenly inflate your own. Especially when teenage hormones are involved.”
Esme looked a bit cross at the admonition, but quickly ignored the dig and continued with her report.
“Right, so as I was saying, the return of the Seere heir is putting an unpredictable wrench in our plans. We’d previously obtained 30% of the active shares in the company, and with the blackmail material we have we were on track to take control of the board; however, with the sudden release of so many controlling shares… we’re now sitting at only a little over 14%. This puts us back significantly, and with the newest demands from Mr. Shaw and Ms. Gallio…”
“I’m quite aware of the demands those two have been making dear,” the facade of perfect control in the woman’s demeanor shattered almost instantly at the names mentioned by her daughter, and a resigned and exhausted expression took over immediately, “I am also quite aware of the strain on the company it has caused.”
“Mother, I know you’re aware,” Esme’s voice grew to be silent and consoling, but no less urgent in tone, “But I need to stress this. If this goes on much longer, Frost International will become a subsidiary of Shaw Industries in everything but name. We need to do something drastic. We have another year at best, and months at worst.”
The woman released a resigned sigh as she turned back to the office window, stared at the large “STARK” logo on the tower only five blocks from her own headquarters. Emma would never admit that she was jealous of the ease with which her rival across town seemed to control his own empire… but her poor moods always seemed to bring her gaze back to that garish logo.
Emma had climbed the ranks of the Hellfire Club, against Charles and Eric’s advice, to help grow her business and gain the freedom she’d desired for so long. She’d come a long way since her time as one of Shaw’s ‘exotic dancers’, and she had thought she was on track to becoming a true powerhouse on her own.
But now? The white king piece remained unclaimed for a year, and she was more a glorified pawn with a fancy title than a true queen. It just went to show, even a queen was merely a piece in a true player's hands.
“Fine,” she said after she was finally able to fight through her feelings of helplessness, “What’s the situation right now.”
“Well, the boy… sorry, Mother… the Seere heir was scheduled to address the board in two hours, but we received an email this morning from his lawyer citing a personal emergency, and that the board meeting is being postponed until Thursday. It’s possible that Seere will make some kind of statement that will disrupt their normal operations.
“How large of a disruption remains to be seen. The general sentiment before the heir’s return was that a spoiled brat is unlikely to ruin his own cash cow, and would likely continue on as a figurehead, but the news of the heir’s accomplishments has the board a bit concerned. Apparently the Seere matriarch was a powerful and strong willed woman, and they are worried that the boy will resemble her more than the useless eye candy she had for a husband.”
“He found the irregularities that we’ve been planning to use against Adams. That’s why he’s pushing the meeting back. He needs time to build a case for dismissal. If he was simply going to sit back and let the board make him money, there wouldn’t be a delay.”
“Mother, isn’t that a little premature? It took us two months to build a case against Adams once we noticed the irregularities, and we still don’t have enough to do anything more than push him a little. Two days is hardly enough time to make much of a difference.
“Besides, there have been multiple sightings of the boy… sorry, the young heir… with an older red haired woman in expensive lounge bars all over SoHo and the Village in the past eight months. Isn’t a hangover the more likely cause of the delay?”
“No dear. It’s all a bit too coincidental for my liking. His lawyer finally released the documents from the trust yesterday, including the public financial records, and suddenly the young man decides to postpone a meeting that has been scheduled for a month?
“No,” the woman stated definitively, in a tone that brooked no disagreement, “He discovered the same irregularities in the public records that we did. The only thing I’m unclear on is how he expects to have enough information to take action by Thursday. What does he hope to accomplish in only two days?”
The woman’s daughter did not answer, which was fine, because the question was mostly rhetorical. After a few minutes of contemplation Emma turned the chair back until she was looking at her daughter.
“Contact the boy’s lawyer. Make sure I can see him before the meeting begins, preferably tomorrow. I need to have a face to face with him. If he truly believes he can somehow control Adams in two days using only the public records and what he can dig up before Thursday… Maybe the boy will be useful.
“Worst case scenario, he’s punching above his weight, and this will be a minor speed bump in our plans. Best case… my white bishop’s position has been empty since Shaw decided to provide his last ‘example’. I was hoping to hold the spot for your uncle Christian once I’d established myself and it was safe for a non-mutant, but Selene and that thug she calls a king aren’t making that seem like a likely scenario any time soon.”
Nowhere
Time has no meaning. A long time ago. Sometime far in the future. Right now.
Serafall nearly succumbed to the void at first. It was almost too much for her. Luckily, she was able to coat her body in demonic power, and protect herself from its insidious energies. She had no idea how Gregory survived here, the boy was barely a high-class devil when he disappeared. Still, Sera could feel him. He was out there somewhere.
Direction has no meaning in the void, but Sera could still feel a pull from Gregory. She steeled herself, she still didn't feel that he was in danger, but there was no way she was leaving that poor kid alone in the void… or wherever he ended up.
Sera began flying through the substance of the void. She would find him, even if it took her another four hundred years to do it.
An apartment building in the Upper East Side.
Tuesday May 30, 9:32 am
When Bobbi checked her skirt, touched up her makeup, and fixed her hair that morning, she was pretty sure she was ready for anything the kid could throw her way.
She was ready for her observation target to be some kind of enhanced individual, likely a mutant with teleportation and telekinesis.
She was ready for the former teaching assistant from Xavier’s institute that miraculously returned from death by cosmic radiation so intense that no human being, enhanced or not, had any business surviving.
She was ready for her cover to immediately be blown and to have to change tactics on the spot.
She was ready for the irregularities in financial records for the observation target’s company, and ready to offer SHIELD’s assistance in regaining control of said company.
She was ready for the observation target to act like a typical male in his social class, treating her as a sexual object because of her appearance.
She was not, however, ready for the woman, who at this point had met the observation target two days ago, to treat the man like they had been lovers for decades. She also was not ready for the repeated (though likely non-serious) sexual advances of her observation target’s girlfriend, who until this point had always been described as ‘demure and reserved’.
She was also not ready for the ex-wife of one of New York’s most wanted enhanced domestic terrorists to be working as legal counsel for her target. She especially was not ready for said counselor’s ‘friend’ who would occasionally make disturbing comments about consumption of potential threats or mating with the observation target.
She was not ready for the trauma damaged enhanced mass murdering teenager that had been terrorizing minor gangs in Hell’s Kitchen for the last six months. She was not ready for said mass murderer to display all of the classic signs of an abuse victim, wincing when people raised their voice, curling up tight on the couch in order to take up as little space as possible, and generally trying as hard as she could to remain invisible.
She was not ready for the man hanging from the ceiling of an adjacent apartment, who also happened to be Zebediah Kilgrave, a.k.a. The Purple Man, one of SHIELD’s top priority targets. The man who had apparently been puppeteering said mass murderer with mutant mind control powers.
She definitely was not ready for her observation target’s Aunt to suddenly bluster through the apartment door with kisses and greetings shortly after everyone convened, somehow get everyone’s coffee order exactly correct without asking in advance, and then pull the mass murdering teenager into a hug while the girl sobbed on the older woman’s oversized pink sweater.
Bobbi had been given a large cold brew coffee with a splash of oat milk, light ice, and three splenda. This order would have been incorrect until about a week ago, when Bobbi had been diagnosed with an abscessed tooth, and had sworn off sugar. Now the order was perfect.
Bobbi was definitely ready for the coffee once she gave up trying to understand the situation and just drank it. Somehow without knowing it, every moment of Bobbi’s life had been secretly spent getting ready for that coffee. Now that she’d finally found the coffee that she was apparently destined to encounter at this specific moment in time, she was feeling a lot better about all the other strange shit she'd encountered in the past hour.
Not being ready for something had only ever been a minor and temporary inconvenience for Bobbi. She was, as her coworkers would confirm (when they weren’t calling her a cocky bitch or worse), an extremely effective agent. Improvising, for Bobbi, was only a minor inconvenience. It’s not like making plans was ever really effective in her line of work anyway, no matter what the analysts tried to tell you.
That’s why, when her observation target and his lawyer were discussing somehow obtaining classified and incriminating evidence from the current CEO’s laptop… Bobbi volunteered.
“Yeah, that sounds about up my alley,” the agent had said, just as confident as she had been when she’d walked into the elevator this morning, “I’ll take care of it tonight.”
Plus, it was certainly enjoyable to see the same look of shock on everyone’s faces as she would have had this morning if she was rookie enough to let her emotions show on her face.
“Miss Morse,” her observation target had said with a look of incredulity, “We’re talking about breaking into the home of a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, which is likely guarded by multiple professional bodyguards, stealing his personal laptop without him knowing it had gone missing, accessing the laptop and downloading all of his files, and then replacing it and leaving without raising the alarm.”
“Yeah,” Bobbi had answered, “Seems like a typical Tuesday. I was worried that this job was going to be boring. You need anything else while I'm there?”
The observation target’s girlfriend had nearly squealed at that statement, and then whispered in a voice that was quiet enough for plausible deniability. Bobbi was pretty sure it was said intentionally loud enough for her to hear.
“See Greg, I told you she was a badass. God, I just want her to sit on my face and call me a bad girl.”
The same apartment.
A few hours ago.
“So,” a young man whispered in his apartment kitchen while brewing a pot of freshly ground coffee, while a black haired waif of a girl curled up on his couch, trying as hard as possible to be invisible, “Are you sure it's ok for her to be here? You said the presence of a man might not be the best thing for her.”
“She’s fine,” the girlfriend clinging to his back stopped inhaling her new boyfriend’s scent long enough to comment, “She associates you with safety since you were the one to free her from that asshole. I don’t want any other boys coming up here, but you should be fine as long as you don’t make any aggressive moves… which, to be honest, you weren’t going to do anyway.”
The young woman immediately returned to her new favorite activity, immersing herself in the scent of her new lover’s back, with a serene smile on her face.
“That’s a relief,” the boy sighed, “I was worried for a moment. You know, I don’t mean to be a pest, but we’re going to need to address the open summoning contract between Jess and myself soon. I really don’t want the girl to rack up more karmic debt than she can afford.”
“That’s fine,” the girl answered, moving around to the boy’s front now that the kettle was on the stove, without letting an inch of space grow between them, nestling her head into the crook between his chin and his chest, “We can deal with it later today after our strategy meeting. How does that work, anyway? I never really asked, and you were just so cute pouting last night I forgot to ask for a clarification.”
“Eh, well, the short of it is that the spell measures karmic impact between the summoner and the summonee. Once the negotiations are complete, the spell tallies karmic debt… that’s the difference in what is done for the summoner by the summonee… and tacks it on as a kind of ‘emotional surcharge’ at the end. Emotions are drained from the summoner, and are used to cultivate the summonee’s magic power.
“It’s a way for Devils to cultivate their magic without the lengthy process of meditation and cycling magic power. Unscrupulous devils will make wildly unbalanced agreements, leaving their contractor an emotionally drained mess, but any good businessman knows that…
“I’m boring you aren’t I,” the boy interrupted himself as his girlfriend bit into his collarbone.
“I didn’t say that,” she said, “I just felt like biting your collarbone for no reason whatsoever.”
Jean hopped off of her boyfriend’s back.
“You know,” Jean continued, “I really feel good about what we did last night. I feel like I should get a degree in psychology or counseling or something. We could help so many people.”
“You know I’ll support you in anything you wish to do. In other news, I’ve already called Anne… that’s my lawyer, by the way… she came by when you were a ball of darkness on my living room floor… We're going to postpone meeting the board. I found a few irregularities in the financial records after you had gone back to the other apartment with Jess. We need some time to come up with a strategy.”
“Wait…” the girl gave her lover a stern look, “did you sleep at all last night?”
“Eh? I mean… sorry?”
Jean crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave Greg a stern look. She said only two words in response, “Hmph, men!”