White sand stretches between my toes like warm sugar, the ocean breeze carrying that perfect mix of salt and sunlight that screams "paradise." It's a stark contrast to having my ankle fused inside a metal bulkhead just moments ago.
"Another cup?" Emma asks, tilting a delicate porcelain teapot toward my empty glass. She sits across from me at a small wrought-iron table.
"Sure," I reply, watching as amber liquid streams from the pot, catching the sunlight like liquid topaz.
Emma pours herself a cup as well, her movements graceful and precise. "Any sugar?" she asks, gesturing to a small crystal bowl between us.
I glance around at the pristine beach, the impossibly blue water, the table that materialized from nothing. It's all constructs of Emma's mind, manifestations of her telepathic power.
"No," I say, shaking my head. "I'm amazed you can do this much with your powers."
Emma's lips curl into that predatory smile I've come to know so well. "Darling, I can do a hell of a lot more than just this."
I lift the teacup to my lips and take a cautious sip. The flavor explodes across my tongue. Rich and fragrant. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Perfect.
"Even this tastes real," I murmur, turning the cup in my hands.
"Indeed," Emma replies, taking a delicate sip from her own cup, pinky extended in that way that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and elegant at the same time.
The waves crash rhythmically against the shore, a soothing soundtrack to this bizarre tea party. I wiggle my toes in the sand, feeling its texture, marveling at how complete this illusion is. Then a thought strikes me.
"Are you cutting off my leg right now?" I ask, surprisingly calm about the whole thing.
Emma doesn't even blink. "Yes," she says matter-of-factly, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "I didn't want you to have to witness something so gruesome. Even with your pain receptors suppressed, that feels like a lot of unnecessary trauma. Plus, now we can enjoy each other's company better."
I can't help but smile at her, feeling oddly touched by her concern. "Thank you, Emma. That's very thoughtful of you."
She tilts her head, the sunlight catching in her platinum hair like it's been waiting all day for the opportunity. "For a student like yourself, anything."
"Are you keeping me calm?" I ask, suddenly curious about how deep her manipulation goes.
"Just the projection," she replies, taking another sip of her tea. "Your emotional state is entirely your own. Impressive, considering the circumstances."
I look out at the endless ocean, calm and serene in a way that real oceans never quite manage. "Do you do this a lot when you're alone? Go on little mental vacations?"
Something flickers across her face, vulnerability so brief I almost miss it.
"I try not to live in a fantasy. Though perhaps if I had a partner, it wouldn't be as... problematic."
"That's probably for the best," I nod, digging my toes deeper into the imaginary sand. "You wouldn't want to go crazy, living in dreams all the time."
"Yes."
A comfortable silence settles between us. It's strange how intimate this feels, sharing a hallucination while my actual body is going through something horrific.
"So," I finally say, leaning back in my chair, "should we treat this like a therapy session? Since we're here anyway?"
Her lips curl into another predatory smile. "We can if you'd like." She sets down her teacup and reaches for the top button of her pristine white blouse. "Shall I remove my shirt?"
I can't help but laugh, caught off guard by her audaciousness even though I should be used to it by now. "I think it'd be an issue if I was hard on a mission. Not exactly conducive to stealth operations."
"Are you sure?" she purrs, undoing the first button anyway. "It's not real, after all."
"Actually," she continues, her voice dropping to a silky whisper as she undoes another button, "since it's not real, you should touch them."
My mouth goes dry as she works her way down the front of her blouse. "I... uh..."
"What's the matter, Jack?" she asks, innocence and seduction battling for control of her expression. "Afraid of a fantasy?"
"I'm not afraid. It's just... that's a dangerous line to cross if you're my therapist, right? Ethical boundaries and all that."
Her eyes flash with amusement as she leans closer across the table. "Ethics are for people with less power, darling."
I snort, trying to look casual despite my racing heart. "Ethics are for people who don't want to get fired, Emma."
"I'm far too valuable to be fired."
Something warm and impossibly soft suddenly fills my right palm. I blink, confused because there's nothing visible there, just my hand floating in empty space between us. Yet I can feel a substantial weight, perfectly curved and yielding beneath my fingers.
"What the…" I run my thumb experimentally across the invisible surface and feel a small, hardening point at its center. My eyes widen. "Is that... a nipple? Are you putting your breast in my hand outside the projection?"
"What? Of course not," Emma says, but her smile widens into something decidedly wicked. Her eyes glitter with mischief as she watches my face. "That would be terribly inappropriate, wouldn't it?"
The sensation becomes more defined, impossibly soft skin with a lovely weight pressing into my palm. I can feel the subtle texture, the warmth, everything except visually see what I'm touching.
"You're lying," I say, my voice embarrassingly husky. "I can literally feel it."
Emma leans back in her chair, still fully clothed in our shared illusion despite what my hand is apparently experiencing in reality. "Perhaps what you're feeling is just another layer of the projection. The mind is incredibly susceptible to suggestion."
I swallow hard, curiosity getting the better of me. My fingers apply gentle pressure, squeezing the invisible nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I watch Emma's eyes carefully, searching for a reaction.
Her ice-blue eyes darken slightly, pupils dilating as her breath catches. "Is that what you like?" she murmurs, her British accent thickening slightly.
"Well, it's not something I hate."
"Funny."
A sudden thought cuts through the haze of arousal. "Are you still, uh... hacking my leg off out there?"
Emma shakes her head, her platinum hair catching the sunlight. "No, that's done. We're sitting in the corner now. I'm making sure you heal properly and that no one takes you from me."
"From you?" I echo, my eyebrows shooting up.
"Yes," she says with confidence. "You're my responsibility for now."
"Interesting." I release her invisible breast, leaning back in my chair as a thought forms in my mind. "When you have sex, do you mix real physical sensation with the telepathic stuff simultaneously?"
Emma's eyes gleam with promise. "Do you want to find out, Jack?"
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Yeah, I do, but..." I hesitate, trying to articulate the warning bells clanging in my head. "Something about you just gives me a bad feeling. Like you reek of danger."
"I'm like you, Jack."
I snort, shaking my head. "Parents in the MMA?"
"No," she says quietly. "Broken."
The word hangs between us, heavy with implication. I stare at her for a long moment, processing this unexpected confession.
"I'm not broken," I finally say, the denial automatic.
Emma tilts her head, studying me. "No?"
The words catch in my throat as I try to form a response.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am broken.
While I'm still struggling with what to say, Emma leans forward.
"Do you want to hear a secret, Jack?" she asks, her British accent thick as honey.
"Alright," I reply, grateful for the change in subject.
"I'm actually from Boston."
My eyebrows shoot up. "No way. I'm from Boston too."
"I know," she says with a slight smile.
"Then why do you talk with a British accent?"
Emma's expression shifts subtly, something darker passing behind her eyes. "Astrid Bloom, my old mentor."
"Was she nice?"
"No," Emma replies, her voice suddenly flat. "She was horrible. She forced her brother to kill her parents and tried to turn me into a soldier."
The casual way she drops this bomb makes my stomach tighten. I try to imagine the kind of trauma that creates someone like Emma Frost.
"What happened to her?" I ask quietly.
Emma's lips curve into a smile that holds no warmth whatsoever. "She tried to steal my consciousness." Her eyes meet mine, ice-blue and unblinking. "So I destroyed hers, and assimilated all her telepathic knowledge."
"Oh," is all I manage to say.
Then it happens. The pristine beach dissolves, the sky and ocean melting away in an instant. The sensation is jarring, like being yanked out of a dream by an ice-cold bucket of water.
I blink and suddenly I'm back in the real world, my back pressed against a cold metal wall. My new leg looks completely healed. Emma kneels beside me, her face tight with concentration, those ice-blue eyes suddenly alert and focused on something I can't see.
"We have to move," she says urgently, all traces of flirtation gone from her voice.
"What?" I struggle to reorient myself, the abrupt transition from beach fantasy to industrial storage room giving me mental whiplash.
"I just lost contact with Scotty and Kitty." Emma's voice is clipped, professional in a way I've never heard from her before.
"Fuck," I whisper, the implications hitting me like a gut punch. If a telepath as powerful as Emma can't reach them...
"Come on," she says, already on her feet. She motions toward the stack of yellow A.I.M. uniforms we saw earlier. "We need disguises."
I stare at my newly regenerated ankle, flexing it experimentally as I pull myself up. "Do you think they're still alive?"
Emma pauses, her hands already reaching for the uniforms.
"Probably."