SOIKOS log: Frost and Farouk.
Jan. 9th, 2010 10:10 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsEmma Frost and Amahl Farouk catch up.
The astral plane was still a tenuous place to wander, as the damage of the Shadow King continued to reverberate in even the furthest corners of the collected psychic unconsciousness. Structures faded in and out, and a few psychics had even mentioned seeing 'shadows'; echoes of minds given shape and moving fleetingly and insubstantial at the edges of their senses. But it still had the tremendous advantage over all other types of communication of being absolutely private and untraceable, which made for exactly the right method for paranoids and those working in the dangerous shadows. Just like Emma Frost and Amahl Farouk, who had asked for the White Queen's presence.
As always, entering the astral plane set Farouk's mind on edge and he self-consciously tightened the controls over the entity forever trapped within him.
"Ms. Frost. Lovely to see you as always. My sincerest apologies for disturbing your day."
"Farouk," replied Emma coldly. "You disturb my day simply by existing. I assume you have your daddy issues on a tight leash?" She raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I'd prefer they didn't cause any further damage around here."
"Ah, yes." Amahl said dryly. "Charming, as usual. Well, I suppose in the absence of competence, one must make up with overwhelming lack of manners. Very... Boston."
"Manners are social lubricant," replied Emma. "The likelihood of us moving in the same social circles are infinitesimal. So you get honesty. Besides," Emma's image on the plane flickered with light for a minute, "you have no idea how much it cost me in shredded clothing after the thing in your head escaped. I had to stay diamond for a week. If you think it's going to happen again, could you send me a memo? At least give me enough time to talk to my tailor."
A psychic echo shuddered through the astral scape, the ripples of a long-forgotten event still manifesting unknown and unknowable throughout the depths of the collective psyche. Farouk centered himself; once a purely instinctual reaction done with nary a thought. Now everything, absolutely everything he did while on the astral plane was a conscious decision.
It gave one a rather different perspective on the environment he found.
Amahl looked around absently, taking in the chaotic medley. "You know, when I was but a youngster in Paris there were persistent rumors that in the seventies the French tried to harness this place. In response to the Oil Crisis, you understand. The idea was to build an interface that would allow channeling the psychic power into energy. They decided not to go with the telepaths, however. Norman humans plied liberally with LSD and melded with Perpetuity Engine."
Farouk pulled on his mustache, amused. "I spent much of my early time on the Plane looking for them, you know. They say that the experiment was somewhat successful. Energy output was achieved - before the 'psychonauts' went AWOL. Suddenly, violently and all over the place. The walls on the Rue Monmartre wept blood, the ghost of Jim Morrison climbed the Arc and recited dirty Irish songs and Chaban-Delmas could speak nothing but the truth for a week. He lost the election shortly the-after and France decided to invest in nuclear power all of a sudden."
He chuckled. "Their bodies still exist, reportedly. Alive and unchanging, trapped in a stasis field no one can explain, with the Machine growing and changing around them. Their minds - somewhere else. Perhaps here. Perhaps long since eaten by a forgotten God or a manufactured demon."
Farouk shook his head ruefully. "A place of wonders, this."
Amahl was still smiling genially when he turned back to Emma. "And one which I was already mastered when you, my dear, was still fucking your way out of the madhouse and into high society and a semblance of mental stability."
He concentrated, conjuring up a chair and sinking into it with a grateful sigh. "Another thing I learned - is never promising things I could not deliver. The cost, you see, is usually too high. So tell me... When you with a charming grandiosity assured myself and Samson that Neramani was forever trapped inside her own nightmares, were you lying or simply failed to do the job properly?"
“I was already aware you were a Levantine antiquity, Farouk,” pointed out Emma. She frowned as she considered his last question. “I put Neramani in a labyrinth of memories with no exit. There is no way she could get out of it by herself. But no telepathic construct is entirely stable in the face of a concentrated onslaught. You’d have to find someone strong enough to smash it or subtle enough to find the entrance and they would have to be very, very good to overcome what I did.” Her frown deepened as she looked at the flickering shadows around her. “The damage to the plane doesn’t help. Anything that even partially draws upon its power is more tenuous now.” She looked back at Farouk. “So someone has let her out. Any names? Because whoever did it would be quite extraordinary.”
Amahl rose, dissipating the chair with a languid off-hand gesture. "This was a courtesy call, my dear girl. Just a heads up - in case you want to take precautions against the eventuality that Calysee will come looking for you. She was in prison, she's not any more. Any more information sharing will cost you extra. You might want to make inquiries among your friends in the brownstone how these things work. Do take care."
With a muttered commentary (his voce not quite sotto) about amateurs playing with the intelligence business, Farouk made a brief, slightly mocking bow and exited the astral plane.
The astral plane was still a tenuous place to wander, as the damage of the Shadow King continued to reverberate in even the furthest corners of the collected psychic unconsciousness. Structures faded in and out, and a few psychics had even mentioned seeing 'shadows'; echoes of minds given shape and moving fleetingly and insubstantial at the edges of their senses. But it still had the tremendous advantage over all other types of communication of being absolutely private and untraceable, which made for exactly the right method for paranoids and those working in the dangerous shadows. Just like Emma Frost and Amahl Farouk, who had asked for the White Queen's presence.
As always, entering the astral plane set Farouk's mind on edge and he self-consciously tightened the controls over the entity forever trapped within him.
"Ms. Frost. Lovely to see you as always. My sincerest apologies for disturbing your day."
"Farouk," replied Emma coldly. "You disturb my day simply by existing. I assume you have your daddy issues on a tight leash?" She raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I'd prefer they didn't cause any further damage around here."
"Ah, yes." Amahl said dryly. "Charming, as usual. Well, I suppose in the absence of competence, one must make up with overwhelming lack of manners. Very... Boston."
"Manners are social lubricant," replied Emma. "The likelihood of us moving in the same social circles are infinitesimal. So you get honesty. Besides," Emma's image on the plane flickered with light for a minute, "you have no idea how much it cost me in shredded clothing after the thing in your head escaped. I had to stay diamond for a week. If you think it's going to happen again, could you send me a memo? At least give me enough time to talk to my tailor."
A psychic echo shuddered through the astral scape, the ripples of a long-forgotten event still manifesting unknown and unknowable throughout the depths of the collective psyche. Farouk centered himself; once a purely instinctual reaction done with nary a thought. Now everything, absolutely everything he did while on the astral plane was a conscious decision.
It gave one a rather different perspective on the environment he found.
Amahl looked around absently, taking in the chaotic medley. "You know, when I was but a youngster in Paris there were persistent rumors that in the seventies the French tried to harness this place. In response to the Oil Crisis, you understand. The idea was to build an interface that would allow channeling the psychic power into energy. They decided not to go with the telepaths, however. Norman humans plied liberally with LSD and melded with Perpetuity Engine."
Farouk pulled on his mustache, amused. "I spent much of my early time on the Plane looking for them, you know. They say that the experiment was somewhat successful. Energy output was achieved - before the 'psychonauts' went AWOL. Suddenly, violently and all over the place. The walls on the Rue Monmartre wept blood, the ghost of Jim Morrison climbed the Arc and recited dirty Irish songs and Chaban-Delmas could speak nothing but the truth for a week. He lost the election shortly the-after and France decided to invest in nuclear power all of a sudden."
He chuckled. "Their bodies still exist, reportedly. Alive and unchanging, trapped in a stasis field no one can explain, with the Machine growing and changing around them. Their minds - somewhere else. Perhaps here. Perhaps long since eaten by a forgotten God or a manufactured demon."
Farouk shook his head ruefully. "A place of wonders, this."
Amahl was still smiling genially when he turned back to Emma. "And one which I was already mastered when you, my dear, was still fucking your way out of the madhouse and into high society and a semblance of mental stability."
He concentrated, conjuring up a chair and sinking into it with a grateful sigh. "Another thing I learned - is never promising things I could not deliver. The cost, you see, is usually too high. So tell me... When you with a charming grandiosity assured myself and Samson that Neramani was forever trapped inside her own nightmares, were you lying or simply failed to do the job properly?"
“I was already aware you were a Levantine antiquity, Farouk,” pointed out Emma. She frowned as she considered his last question. “I put Neramani in a labyrinth of memories with no exit. There is no way she could get out of it by herself. But no telepathic construct is entirely stable in the face of a concentrated onslaught. You’d have to find someone strong enough to smash it or subtle enough to find the entrance and they would have to be very, very good to overcome what I did.” Her frown deepened as she looked at the flickering shadows around her. “The damage to the plane doesn’t help. Anything that even partially draws upon its power is more tenuous now.” She looked back at Farouk. “So someone has let her out. Any names? Because whoever did it would be quite extraordinary.”
Amahl rose, dissipating the chair with a languid off-hand gesture. "This was a courtesy call, my dear girl. Just a heads up - in case you want to take precautions against the eventuality that Calysee will come looking for you. She was in prison, she's not any more. Any more information sharing will cost you extra. You might want to make inquiries among your friends in the brownstone how these things work. Do take care."
With a muttered commentary (his voce not quite sotto) about amateurs playing with the intelligence business, Farouk made a brief, slightly mocking bow and exited the astral plane.
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