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A Diamond in the Rough	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > General Views: 3410 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 3: Out-of-Book Opening
-Potentially triggering scene in this chapter

Emma’s senses reeled at the unexpected touch of another’s mind. Before, every time she’d made this sort of telepathic contact, it felt like being dropped into a maelstrom of thoughts, like a too-loud party with thumping music and loud conversation pulling her attention in a dozen different directions at once – except all the conversations, in a single person’s voice, indistinguishably ricocheted off one another. She could never endure the buffeting for long, so she always broke contact quickly.
What happened just now, however, felt completely different. Rather than a cyclone of fragmented words and images strung together by the most tenuous and esoteric connections, Ms. Grey’s words had rung clear and crisp in Emma’s mind, like the chime on the grandfather clock at Granny Frost’s house. The words themselves – You are not alone – reverberated through her as well, leaving Emma feeling dizzy, as though the planet itself had tilted further on its axis. She felt the truth of them, in a way she hadn’t felt since she discovered her curse.
Emma felt her breathing quicken and her heart racing in her ears and her stomach turning somersaults. Worse, she knew she couldn’t entirely hide the shock on her face, though she managed to convert it into indignation. “My family is powerful,” she warned in her most chilling tone. “If you do that again, I’ll make sure you’re expelled.”
Ms. Grey’s lips pursed into a half-frown. “Emma, I…” She turned her head, her long red hair whipping over one shoulder. “Look. We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’m truly sorry for that. Why don’t we go our separate ways for now and talk again later?”
Delicious, Emma thought, a triumphant smirk on her lips. She’s backing down. Aloud, she replied, with no shortage of venom, “Bold of you to assume I want to talk to you at all.”
The redhead sighed. “Fine. Whatever. See you in class.” With that, she stormed off.
Alone again, yet mindful that she still occupied public space where others might see, Emma kept her celebration internal. Victory from the jaws of defeat, she congratulated herself. Especially impressive after that little surprise she pulled. Checkmate, darling.
Seized by sudden doubt, Emma glared in the direction Ms. Grey had gone, wondering how far away the redhead might be able to hear her. The mane of red hair caught Emma’s eye about forty paces away, approaching one of the computer labs, and she felt a slight jolt of surprise to see that mane stretching down to the waist. The longest Emma had ever worn her hair was shoulder-length; due to horrendous, embarrassing split ends, she’d retreated to a manageable chin-length bob throughout high school. Envy bubbled inside her once again.
Just outside the computer lab, the other telepath turned back towards her, and Emma presumed the redhead had sense her attention. To Emma’s surprise, however, the redhead merely offered a friendly wave. Confused by the gracious behavior, Emma turned away, destined for the Student Health Services building.
She didn’t see Ms. Grey again that day.

XXXXX

Student Health Services, as expected, gave Emma a clean bill of health and sent her on her way with an aspirin for any lingering headache. That suited her just fine – Emma had grown to hate doctors and nurses when her curse first manifested. She’d quickly learned to keep quiet about hearing voices in her mind when one of them suggested – or thought about suggesting (she couldn’t remember anymore) – committing her to a mental institution.
For a Frost, that simply would not do.
The rest of the day proceeded without incident. Besides Psychology 101, Emma’s Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule consisted of Introduction to Business Management (Business 101) and Calculus I (Math 121). Tomorrow and Thursday, she’d have Honors English (English 115) and American Government (Political Science 101), the latter owing to her interest in rhetoric and politics from overhearing Father on the phone with various clients, business partners, and politicians, all of whom eventually seemed to submit to his will. If she planned to present herself as a worthy successor to Father, she needed to learn how to play the game he played.
Once her classes ended for the day, Emma strolled towards one of the parking lots, where her sporty little Audi coupe awaited, its pearlescent white paint gleaming in the afternoon sun. A Sweet Sixteen gift, Pearl (as Emma called her) had proven an absolute joy to drive, smooth-riding and nimble, with deft acceleration and braking – not to mention its comfortable interior. Plus, I managed find a spot with some shade from the late-summer sun, so the leather seats and steering wheel shouldn’t be too hot to endure.
The distinct scrape of tire rubber at low speed against asphalt, approaching from behind and to her left, drew Emma’s attention back to the present. A glance over revealed the front end of some sort of economy car – blue paint faded in unsightly blotches, dented fenders, and what appeared to be duct tape around the edges of the headlight. To call this heap a “jalopy” would be paying it a compliment, she thought, not slowing her walking pace.
Just as she noted the missing passenger-side mirror, the window rolled down, emitting a strange scent Emma had never smelled before, though it reminded her of the studio right after rehearsal or the moment after everyone had removed her toe-shoes. Out of the window leaned a lean, wiry, tanned, goateed young man, probably a few years older than Emma. The leer on his face made him resemble nothing so much as a weasel, and Emma felt the hair on the back of her neck standing up.
“Hey there, sweet thing. Ain’t seen you around before,” he addressed her in a tone she assumed he meant to sound charming and flirtatious.
“Everything you just said makes my skin crawl,” she replied curtly, still facing straight ahead. This is really happening, she realized. I didn’t think this sort of thing happened in real life.
“Aw, c’mon, baby-cakes,” this stranger wheedled. “Don’t be like that.”
“You couldn’t possibly believe this tactic to be at all effective,” she replied drily. This never would have happened back home.
“Love those shoes. Can’t resist a woman in heels.”
A change of tactics, noted Emma. I should, too. I should have known better than to engage at all. Let’s see if ignoring him will make this idiot go away.
At least it’s a compliment based on my attire, not my body?
“Better if that skirt was shorter. Show off those sexy legs.”
So much for that, Emma sighed. A lifelong ballerina, Emma recognized that her long, sculpted legs were one of her most alluring features. She often felt quite proud of them, until she started seeing what so many men, staring at her with lust-filled eyes, fantasized about…
“Love to have ‘em wrapped around me.”
Emma felt the urge to visibly retch. Every time, she grumbled inwardly. She sculpted her “resting bitch face” into a more active, more obvious frown.
“Aw, don’t be like that, doll-face. Give us a smile.”
Why would I smile? I’ve been stuck in this encounter for at least sixty seconds and enjoyed precisely zero of them.
“Nothing? Cat got your tongue?” The stranger’s voice acquired a hard, aggressive edge. “You think you’re too good for me, you stuck-up bitch? You ain’t that pretty!”
Emma would never admit it – especially not to this cretin – but that one struck a nerve. She was pretty; or, at least, everyone she encountered thought so. Her frown deepened. At least I’m almost to my car, she comforted herself as she turned away from the catcaller into the parking lot.
Tires squealed behind her, and Emma thought, or hoped, that they’d gotten the message. Not wanting to take further chances, however, she walked faster. Only when she reached Pearl to unlock the door did she notice the jalopy swooping around from the far side of the lot. She felt her stomach sink as it stopped behind her car, blocking her in.
Worse, they’d approached from the opposite side, so the driver, a broad-shouldered ginger whose dingy sleeveless shirt showed wiry arms bedecked with tattoos, could glower at her with icy blue eyes. “It’s real rude to ignore my pal T-Race,” he boomed, “specially after he been so nice to you.” His face contorted into a malicious grin. “Say you’re sorry, and we’ll let you out.”
Emma’s eyes flicked around, but the parking lot currently stood empty of other Bernhardt students. The morbid thought, So this is how one ends up in the headlines for weeks until becoming a cold case, flickered through her mind. Gathering herself, she decided to change tactics once more: Rebuffing them failed; ignoring them only enraged them. Intimidation seems like my only remaining recourse.
Emma raised her chin defiantly, glaring back without looking into their eyes. She most certainly did not want to see or hear their thoughts right now. “Say I’m sorry?” she scoffed. “If you plebes knew who my father was, you’d be apologizing to me and begging I didn’t inform him.”
Weasel-face clambered partway out of the window to leer viciously at her over the car’s roof. “By the time we’re done, bitch, you’ll be calling me Daddy.”
Emma had planned to name-drop Father, but she grasped now that ploy would fail. Panic began swelling inside her as she reviewed her dwindling options. I can’t fight them. I can’t run, either, especially not in these heels.
“Can’t wait to teach this rude cunt some manners,” agreed the ginger with an equally-vicious leer.
Emma’s jaw clenched. I will not beg. I will not cry. Neither is the Frost way.
Only victory.
Anger, cold and furious like a blizzard inside her, replaced panic. Her hand dove into her satchel to retrieve her cell phone, and she hoped these plebes knew what one looked like. “I’m going to count to three. If you imbeciles don’t move, I won’t be calling the police. I don’t know what Father will have done to you, but I doubt anyone would be able to identify your remains.”
“We’re shakin’ in our boots,” scoffed Weasel-face.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” growled Ginger, rising out of the window himself…
… just enough for his eyes to meet Emma’s. He froze.
Emma didn’t feel the onrush of his thoughts as usually happened. In her seething fury, she didn’t spare it much attention. “Move. Now,” she commanded.
“Moving now,” Ginger responded robotically, sitting the back down in his seat and backing the car away.
“Fuck, man, what the hell?” cried Weasel-face. “Whattaya doin’ –”
“Driving off a bridge, for all I care,” Emma bit out.
As if on cue, the jalopy peeled off, a puff of smoke rising from the tires. Weasel-face squawked – Emma smirked at the satisfying sound – and fell back into the car. It swerved out of the parking lot, out of sight, and out of Emma’s life.
Emma practically fell into Pearl’s driver seat and gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckled turned white. At least twenty minutes passed before her breathing and heartbeat returned to normal. Once they did, though, she went for her afternoon drive.

XXXXX

After her afternoon drive, a long soak in the tub in her off-campus apartment helped Emma shake off the day’s events.
As she sat down for dinner, Emma turned on the local evening news, intent on gaining insight into the stories considered important to this unfamiliar area. The anchor, an Oprah-esque woman clad in a black turtleneck and chic purple blazer, spoke in mellow tones about the ground-breaking of a new downtown parking deck. That finished, the program cut to the rush-hour traffic report.
After a commercial break, the anchor returned: “Tonight’s breaking story – Greenwich PD are investigating a late-afternoon accident that nearly claimed the lives of two area residents.” The program showed a beat-up blue jalopy, upside-down at the bottom of a ravine.
Emma’s eyes widened. That looks familiar…
The camera then showed the bridge over this ravine, the destroyed guardrail dramatically framed. The anchor gave the approximate time of the accident. About half an hour after my encounter with those two cretins, Emma calculated, a sense of unease building within her.
“The vehicle’s occupants,” continued the anchor, “have been taken to Nightingale Memorial’s ICU for their injuries. No one else was involved in the accident, but Greenwich police plan to question them for possible reckless endangerment.”
The program then displayed mugshots of Weasel-face and Ginger – not that Emma felt the slightest hint of surprise that such a pair of slimeballs had a record. “Neither has yet regained consciousness, and none of the doctors could give a prognosis.”
Emma’s mind whirled. I told them to drive off a bridge, and they drove off a bridge. That can’t be a coincidence.
Did I do that? I didn’t know that I could do that.
What else could I be capable of… if I put my mind to it? She snorted at her own lame joke.
The news report, and the thoughts it engendered, hung over Emma for the rest of the evening. Before turning in for the night, she came to an unwelcome resolution: There is, unfortunately, one person I could talk to about this…
If only it weren’t her, of all people.
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A/N: AFF's site downtime did not significantly impact the posting of this chapter. I didn't finish it until December or early January, and I've been busy in the interim anyway. I'm currently working on chapter 4, but no prognosis for when it'll be finished.
I invite you, dear reader, to review this chapter, or this story as a whole. I'm always open to feedback, especially with a piece that's going this far out of my usual comfort zone.
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A Diamond in the Rough