That Driver is Going to Die

March 11, 2017:

Betsy and Rogue are in Manhattan doing some high class shopping when they run into Emma, who's driver is late to retrieve her.

Lower Manhattan - New York City

The southern end of the island of Manhattan is the seat of Wall Street and City Hall. Bounded by the Hudson on the west, the East River on the east, and the harbor to the south, it's a veritable mosaic of smaller, storied neighborhoods that fill in the patchwork south of 14th street. From the arts-friendly, boutique-laden, gentrified areas of Greenwich Village, SoHo, and TriBeCa, to the tenement dwelling, immigrant-filled, working class districts in the Lower East Side, Bowery, Little Italy, Lower Manhattan is one of the most diverse places in the city. Just about anything can be found here, and often is.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

At six o'clock on a Saturday evening, the even and deceptively light footsteps of stiletto heels makes its way out of a small boutique in TriBeCa. With a small number of unmarked bags hanging from her arm, the woman wrapped from nape to toe in a seasonally appropriate shade of winter white looks down at the delicate gold link watch on her wrist.

Ugh. How did it get to be so late? And where is her ride? He was supposed to be here by now.

Emma Frost is not one keen to be kept waiting, and the expression she wears—darkening faster than the sky with its sun that races down towards the horizon—is a clear indication of that displeasure. Shopping high? Quickly on its way to being ruined.

-

Betsy Braddock had taken Rogue out shopping. Ostensibly, it was for the 'party' that had not yet occurred. Mostly, Betsy needed almost no excuse at all to spend money on clothes, and a legitimate one like Rogue's was too good to pass up.

A multitude of bags are availed to them, and in each one is a different outfit. Some casual, some dressy, even some formalwear and evening clothes— gowns and dressy women's suits that would look formidably stylish without compromising Rogue's need to keep her skin covered.

Betsy does pride herself on her sense of aestheticism. Mission Accomplished!

"No— always start with shoes," Betsy tells Rogue, swinging one of the dozen-odd bags the two of them have with them. One full load of bags is already in Betsy's Aston, parked in a private garage not far away. "It's far easier to match outfits to shoes than vise-versa. And take it from me, six hours in stilettos, you'll be grateful you bought shoes that fit well instead of for their color."

The leggy Brit steps out in grey leggings, calf-high riding boots with a moderate heel, and a double-breasted jacket in deep aubergine. Her hair's worn in loose, shambling curls, framing her high features.

A subtle smile curls her lips when she spots a certain blonde telepath not far away, and a flickering butterfly of a thought is aimed at Emma. «Emma, darling. Fancy running into you here,» she remarks to the exquisite blonde. She waves at her for Rogue's benefit.

Rogue's 'style' was somewhere between a Goodwill Shopper and Milla Jovovich from any of the Resident Evil movies. In fact, thats about how Rogue tackled her day to day outfits, coming at it from one of those two directions. She didn't make as much money as some of the teachers at Xavier's did, and most of it had gone toward her new (classic) car.

So, she was happy to get out and experience New York for what it was notorious for. High Fashion. And who could possibly be better a teacher/coach on that than Betsy??

Rogue was wearing her brown leather trench coat coat right now, she had a black shirt on beneath that and a long black scarf that was wrapped around her neck a couple times, with its ends dangling down her chest. She had some belled-jeans on, dark blue denim and a big belt with a silver X-shaped buckled. Some simple leather heeled boots were beneath her belled-jeans.

"Hey, you treat me like a dress-up doll, Betsygirl. I'll wear what ya tell me to with complete confidence." She grinned at her friend, then averted her green eyes toward Emma. Rogue knew 'of' Emma, but didn't know her personally. She just smiled to the woman nice and friendly like though.


The familiar pulse of a thought against her own draws Emma's cool gaze in the direction of the two women drawing nearer, and she turns her body away from the street and adopt one of her intentionally artful poses as she lifts her hand to shield her face from the glare of the setting sun as it bounces off a high-rise's glass facade. Her thoughts betray a mild sense of surprise, but the rest is expertly—if overtly—shielded from the other telepath. «Not all that surprising, I suppose,» she offers, contradicting what is plainly there to sense. «The new spring lines in some of the more enduring names… Bound to draw a few familiar faces.»

The smile Rogue offers is friendly. The one that Emma offers back in kind is mild and polite.


Betsy touches Rogue's elbow, careful not to touch her skin, as always. "Emma Frost," Betsy murmurs. "You'll want your best manners. She does not suffer fools or a casual word. She is, however, charming in her way."

She finishes this last before the two women join Emma, and Betsy steps towards Emma to kiss the air near her cheek with a European polite sensibility, though she doesn't crowd Emma's personal space overlong.

"Emma Frost, this is Rogue, one of the young ladies staying at the Mansion," Betsy explains. "Rogue— Miss Emma Frost."


Rogue didn't seem to be hindered by a less-powerful smile given back to her in return, she was usually all about the southern hospitality and she was also an expert at not worrying about what others thought of her. She just kept smiling as Betsy made her introductions and did the little kissy-thing.

"Goodness." She said toward Emma, southern accent quite thick. "You're as pretty as snowy mornin', ain't ya?" Her way of paying a compliment. Touching skin on the Belle wasn't a concern at the moment, since only her face and neck were really exposed. Emma didn't seem like the handshake-type though, so Rogue just kept her gloved hands in the side pockets of her leather duster.


Personal space is certainly a cherished commodity, particularly when one considers the tightness of the Manhattan population.

The airy mark of familiarity is returned easily enough, but as she's introduced to Rogue, she makes no effort to conceal her assessing. "I suppose that depends on whether you mean a morning in untouched Alpine mountains or a Bostonian roadside," she quips, one corner of her mouth tugging upwards a little. "Although, I should hope you intended the former." She minds her own manners around Braddock, and doesn't even stretch out her own mind towards the Southern-warmed stranger. "A pleasure, I'm certain," she continues, finally acknowledging the introduction properly."

-

"There's a bit too much poetry there for her to be referring to a muddy ditch," Betsy tells Emma, her tone something playfully chiding. "And it's evocatively accurate, in my mind as well."

Betsy's mind and thoughts are as impossibly dense as ever— a murky miasma that permits little light through. "We've been shopping for a few hours, and I think tea time is on us. Would you care to join us for a bite to eat?" Betsy suggests to Emma, flickering her purple eyes meaningfully at a bistro down the street.


Rogue listened to the response from Emma and it just made her grin nice and big. She rolled forward onto her toes and then bounced back onto her heels, playfully. Her head shook just once left to right and she kept the grin through what Betsy responded with. "The good one. I assure ya." She said, her chin now dipping into a singular nod. "I ain't lookin' t'get punched today. Well… maybe not till I hit up the bars a little late'ah, an' get some booze in me first. Then I might change my tune on that."

Rogue's left gloved hand came out and she brushed some of her white bangs out of her face and looked to Betsy, then back to Emma as the tea-invite was offered. "Ya'll know each other from the School, yeah?" She asked then.


"Something like that," Emma replies vaguely, and her eyes tightening just the slimmest degree at their perfectly smoky edges. She looks down the road towards the indicated bistro, and then squarely back to Betsy. "Another time, perhaps," she replies, with all the notes of an apology. "Unfortunately, my car will be here soon. I've a dreadful party that I'm due to attend in a couple of hours." She glances to Rogue, affording her a small part of that pitch-perfect declination. Then the White Queen finally shifts her own stance, looking over her shoulder to where said car SHOULD be with a huff of irritation.

Her eyes return to the two women of the Mansion. "You understand, of course."

-

"Of course," Betsy murmurs, nodding her head slightly. Polite society accepts any excuse at face value, because it's the polite thing to do. "I'd hate to keep you. Perhaps we can get together for drinks again sometime soon," she suggests to Emma. "Catch each other up a bit, discuss the latest fashion trends?" Betsy doesn't have the wealth that Emma does— not by a slim margin— but she has the haughty demeanor of a born aristocrat, and it echoes from her perfect poise.

"Rogue? A snack, then, and a break before we return to shopping?"

RETURN? They've been power-shopping for 4 hours!


Rogue was definitely the least wealthy of the three of them, too!

The southern gal nodded gently to Emma's turning down the invitation and Betsy's response to her. "No worries." She said softly. "Ya got places t'be, hearts t'be breakin', right?" She grinned then and looked around for whatever it was Emma was looking for, seemed like her ride… She half expected to see a horse-drawn carriage pull up to the curb like the one that took Cinderella to the infamous ball, with the white horses and golden accents…

Rogue's green eyes went back to Betsy and she smiled at her friend big and huge. "We're gonna need t'rent a Van t'get all this back t'the school, at this rate." She teased the other. "But I'm down for it. I'm just happy t'be out an' about. "


"I've heard worse plans," Emma intones, her chin tucking a slim degree. It's not precisely a yes, but neither is it a flat no. It is the mild and courteous 'we'll see.' With two telepaths who don't make an easy time nor habit of reading each other, the White Queen is certain that her deeper reasonings are all hidden safely away. "But, until then… Bon appetit."

You go eat. She's going to start considering just how horrific to make her chauffeur's life for being late. …even if the poor chap is simply stuck behind roadwork a few blocks away.

END

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