[color=gray][color=ffff00][b]House of X[/b]
[i]Unincorporated Genosha[/i][/color]

The morning dawned calm and clear, a warmth in the air suggesting the humidity and heat that would come later in the day at the height of Genosha’s warm season. The House of X was, in truth, no house at all; but a collection of buildings surrounded by tall walls masoned with thousands of smaller stones reinforced into one surface, each building beyond a mixture of modern glass, concrete, and woods native to Africa. Among the tallest structures within the compound resided the X-Men, with one of the tallest suites belonging to the White Queen.

Within the wall of windows stood the reflection of the man behind the blonde woman in white, as she sat curled in a large leather chair aimed at the wilds of the Indian Ocean beyond the shoreline of Genosha and the clear blue waters that rolled upon its white sands. The tone that reached out behind her, towards the man in the reflection, was little more than a placeholder for the normal conviction of the White Queen, “What is it you want this morning, Scott?”

If anything about his facial expression changed, she missed it, crystal blue eyes focusing past the glass, and back into the red and pink morning light hanging in the air above some of the bluest water she had ever seen. His voice came out secure, and cautious, as if he were braving potentially treacherous waters ahead with the thoughtful mind of a strategist, “I’ve heard that tone before from other telepaths.”

She moved her body just so with a tiny turn of her hips and shoulders, delicate not to upset the balance of the steaming mug of flavorful coffee resting in her lap, allowing a more comfortable angle to tilt her head back and turned in his direction, an angle from which to unleash the bright blue eyes that he usually found so beautiful upon his uncovered hair and visored face. “It’s too early in the morning for seductions, Scott.”

“The whites of your eyes are turning red.”

Emma’s unpainted lips set into a tiny frown, her head turning back towards the far-away horizon, her tone changing only with the passing of a soft sigh, “I didn’t sleep very well. Did you come to point out flaws of beauty and underscore your propensity for telepaths, or was there an actual purpose to any of this?”

Much to her absolute irritation, he smiled his pretty smile from behind her. There was little toying with Summers, his mind ran on contingencies and pragmatism. Coming to a rise towards her would accomplish nothing of what he wanted to accomplish concerning her, let alone the rest of his day. Truly, the man could be maddening.

“You have a vengeful heart, sometimes, Ms. Frost. I come in peace; I’m meeting with part of the US Military delegation flying in today. I know you were supposed to meet with Xavier today.”

A slow sip of her coffee, and her voice seemed to smooth, “And how do you know that?”

“I have my sources. I just wanted to say…be careful, there, Emma. I think Charles is up to something. There’s got to be a reason for all his recent trips beyond the diplomacy. At least, a reason for all the secrecy, and we still haven’t seen Douglas show back up since the last trip. And we haven’t seen Gambit since the, uh, ‘disagreement’ between Rogue and he blew up.”

Despite herself, she didn’t sigh again at him, “Are you worried about me, Scott?”

Even without looking with her mind or her eyes, she could hear the warmth in his voice, “Worried about the White Queen? Well, she can take care of herself better than most, but maybe I just wanted an excuse to say good-bye.”

For the first time during the talk, Emma Frost sounded truly invested, “Are you not coming back tonight?”

“I don’t know. But let me know how it goes if you will.”

“Good luck, Scott.”

“You too, Emma,” he said, before making a futile attempt at a furtive escape. 

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[color=ffff00][b]Genosha International Airport, Pilot’s Club[/b]
[i]Outer edges of Hammer Bay, Genosha[/i][/color]

Tropical greenery, humid air, and the glow of the bright afternoon sun on miles of concrete stretched out as far as he could see, bordered only by the hint of tall steel security fencing protecting the flightline of the Genoshan International Airport. The sounds of turbo-jet airplane engines and helicopter blades chopping air drifted from the flightline to the interior of the small cement and reinforced glass building that housed the Pilot’s Club on the far side of the airport, away from the main hangars and the only terminal building of the comparatively small international airport.

The flightline sounds mixed with the drifting background music of 60s rock and Motown playing on an old jukebox in a corner of the club’s bar until a door in the exterior wall filled with windows to the outside opened, bringing a high-pitched whine of a high engine spin hundreds of feet away from the building louder than normal into the bar. Scott Summer looked up and smiled, sliding off the barstool and approaching the newcomer wearing the khaki US Navy officer’s working uniform, gold aviation wings and a checkerboard of various ribbons and medals underneath it upon the left breast, the gold oak leaf designating a Lieutenant Commander, and silver aviators on a face framed in a tightly cropped head of short dirty blonde hair.

“Scott, how the fuck are you, man?” The man all but laughed joyously as he came in for a hug, before stepping back and transitioning to a firm handshake.

The man’s attitude was as infectious as it was just plain good to see Jack ‘Solo’ Owens, Scott returning the quick and tight hug, smile, and the handshake before motioning to the barstool next to him. “I’m good, Jack, really can’t complain too much, all things considered. Long way from the orphanage days, huh?”

Jack slid the aviators off and allowed his youthful blue-gray eyes to get a better look at the uniform Scott wore, grinning as he sat down, sliding the sunglasses on the counter in front of him, “I’ll fucking say. Talk about uniforms, man. Superhero Scott Summers. That thing breathable?”

Scott looked down at the navy blue, light blue, accented suit he wore with hanging hood. Even he had to chuckle at it, considering the point of view of the man next to him, “More than you would think, you never know the situation we’ll find ourselves in. How’s that thing? Are those creases really ironed in?” Scott asked, as he motioned the bartender for two beers.

“No,” Jack admitted with a little snicker, “they iron them for sharpness, but the crease is sewn in with something like fishing line, real thin thread.”

“They iron them?”

“Ship’s laundry at sea, dry cleaners at shore. You launder and iron that thing yourself?” Jack asked, taking up the frosted mug of lager the dark-skinned bartender brought them.

Scott took a quick taste before a small shrug, “You know, I do. Our materials aren’t exactly Navy issued, but now that you mention it…we could use a laundering and ironing service ourselves.”

Jack’s expression turned, even as the warmth and shade of a smile stayed at his mouth, his tone became a more somber thing, “I’m sorry to hear about your wife, Scott. She was killed by aliens?”

A stronger, thirsty, drink and Scott was shaking his head, trying not to smirk at how badly informed his old friend was, “Not exactly. Getting your information from SIPRNet or the grocery store checkout?”

Jack’s bark of laughter was a welcome sound even as he laughed through another drink of the beer, “Shit, man, the ol’ SIPRNet doesn’t have much on the X-Men.”

Scott’s smile hollowed as memory hit him; the day his wife gave her tearful farewell, before activating the Kree weapon that ended her life, and the threat of the Dark Phoenix. “She, uh…sacrificed herself to save a lot of lives. A lot of lives.”

Jack stared in some variation of empathy and wonder, clasping a left hand with a wedding band on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry. I tried to reach out when I heard.”

“Yeah,” Scott nodded, forcing the smile back to his lips, trying to stay where he was instead of returning to that day, again, “What about you, Jack? How’s Heather? The little one?”

“Oh, shit, dude check this out.” The Navy officer reached into the back pocket of his pants and revealed a wallet, flipping through military ID, civilian driver’s licenses for various countries, he got to the pictures in the wallet; Heather was blonde, beautiful, blue-eyed. Some kind of political staffer on ‘the Hill’ that Jack had met when he was a military liaison officer to a Senator—Scott didn’t ask which one. The little one was a dirty blonde Gerber rascal; a few months shy of two years old.

Mostly, the two traded buying rounds and war stories, most of them centered around flight hours.  Jack was a veteran Navy pilot of multiple platforms, and Scott certainly had his questions about everything from the old Prowlers to the F-35s, while Jack was curious about the Blackbird and other smaller jets he’d seen in intelligence and aircraft identification charts—Naval pilots were so constantly trained on being able to spot other types of aircraft in the air that instead of women posted in their state rooms and heads it was pictures of aircraft. By the time the sun was lower in the sky and a darker burnt orange, he'd even heard the origin of Jack’s call-sign ‘Solo.’

“So this Genosha thing is getting serious? Sovereignty at the barrel of a gun?” Jack finally asked.

Scott shook his head, “I’m not fond of it either. It’s not the right way to go about it. We can’t undo what Magneto did, all we can do is try to turn it into something better.”

Jack had to nod as he gave a half-hearted sip to his latest, half finished, beer, “I guess so. Got the Pentagon strategy boys nervous. Conventional and nuclear is one thing, if what I read and hear in the classified briefings is true, Magneto can end the world as we know it by himself? Just screw up our atmosphere. Charles Xavier can enter almost any mind he wants, from anywhere. Ororo Munroe can weaponize weather? These ‘Omega Level’ mutants. Scary fucking shit, Scott. Let me ask you…you renounce your US citizenship?”

Scott’s brows perked, “No, I guess I didn’t.”

Jack stared for a long, longer than usual, hard-buzzed moment before the back of his hand gave a tap to Scott’s nearest arm, “Come on to dinner. I got the Vice Admiral in charge of 7th Fleet, CAG-5 C.O., PacFleet NavInt C.O. Nothing political.”

“I got any enemies in that room, Jack?”

The Naval pilot chuckled, “No more than I do. C’mon, Scott. Come to dinner.”

“What’s our ride?”

Jack laughed, “Hell it’s your country, Scott, you tell me.”

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[color=ffff00][b]Hellfire Club - Hammer Bay[/b]
[i]Hammer Bay Waterfront, Genosha[/i][/color]

The building looked little like the modern architecture of the surrounding Hammer Bay waterfront. Instead, it was surrounded by black iron gates affixed to solid stone pillars, with a security force of mostly veterans from other similar postings, all within the same organization. Here, in the Victorian-era Gothic Revival architecture hall bearing the name [i]‘Hellfire Club, Hammer Bay’[/i], the White Queen awaited the founder of the X-Men.

Two minutes later than he was scheduled to be, the visitor was announced, Jeffrey led him through the foyer and past the double Palladian door frames and their glasswork doors of the outer parlor. The room opened up to a two-story ceiling resplendent with multiple crystal hung chandeliers, paneled walls of dark green wallpaper, detailed architectural ornament, large volume, and symmetrical decoration with stylish furnishings.

The White Queen was seated near the entrance of the room in a high-backed chair of red leather, knee high boots, white leggings, and a silk blouse with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves; all of it snow white in color. Her hair was straight, shoulder length, with not a hair out of place. In the background the sounds of the second movement of Bedřich Smetana's Má vlast played quietly.

She awaited him with a half-full wine glass hanging from her hand, just off the arm of the leather studded chair, legs crossed and crystal blue eyes unwavering. He approached wearing some black turtleneck, tweed trousers combination. He looked slighter than he ever had before, as if the width of his shoulders was the cost of Shi’ar healing—an observation she kept to herself, for now.

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Emma,” the bald man began, though she ignored it, instead her eyes drifting to the thick black rubber and ribbed case he carried by a handle at his side. The smile in which she offered was closer to that of an ‘Ice Queen’ than a ‘White Queen’ but given the times they all had their little sacrifices to make.

“Put it there,” Emma had no notion of what was within his oversized case, yet the comfort she had in ordering him to place it upon the brass legged polished wooden table before her was the same level of comfort most people had lounging on a couch, alone.

Though there was some slight pause, Charles Xavier did, in fact, place the case he carried upon the table she directed him to. “I know there are a lot of questions—”

“—Oh? Are there?” She cut him off with a genuine sounding surprise to her measured tone, even if it was in truth meant to be every bit as condescending as it didn’t sound, “Whatever do you mean, dear Charles?”

Charles Xavier stared blankly. [i]Shit[/i], she could all but hear him thinking. Instead, however, he spoke in firmer tones, “What Erik and I are orchestrating…it must be done very carefully. You are to be one of the first people, when we’re ready, even If before it’s fully ready. Your importance in the endeavor cannot be overstated, Emma, but for now…”

Emma Frost sounded dreadfully bored, and even more unimpressed, “Charles…don’t flatter me. It’s cheap. What have you brought me?”

“Without Jean, you had as much experience with Cerebro as anyone. When we updated to Cerebra, I considered an update to the very structure, but I’ll admit there were struggles. It wasn’t until I got something of a Shi’ar education in some of their technical processes that the answers were clear. With Erik’s help in the incredibly precise construction, we were able to produce an update.” Xavier leaned over as he clicked each lock of the case open, opening the case and turning it around in one motion, presenting Emma with a…helmet.

“It’s…hideous.”

Xavier blinked up at the White Queen, again, “It’s a mobile Cerebra. Each helmet is connected to the same psychic-digitized system. If anything were to happen, either to me, or cut off communication, whatever the worst cases are…it would be important you have one, as the only other telepath within our movement with the skill and experience to operate it.”

Emma Frost took a long sip of the wine glass and tilted her head at Xavier in confusion. “You think this answers anything? The others can talk of secret trips. They can talk of missing mutants—”

“—no one is [i]missing[/i], Emma—”

“—I’m not talking about any of that, Charles. Care who you’re speaking to. I see what you’ve been doing. The acquisitions. The reorganizations. Oh, you can try to hide behind your shell companies and your fronts, Charles, but don’t for a second think any of that obfuscates your moves. I see the board. My advice: should you require my assistance as badly as you say? Do hurry with your truth telling.” The glass was finished, and placed gently next to the open case, as she stood and simply walked out of the room. “Jeffrey will see you out.”
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