Adult-FanFiction.org : Marvel 'Verse

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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5: Developing Pieces

Wednesday afternoon saw Emma in the dance studio for her first private session at Bernhardt. Clad in a pale-pink leotard, tights, and toe shoes, she started her stretching early. After her auditions with the American Theatre Ballet this past summer, she doubted anything Bernhardt could muster could possibly compare.
After all, would the dance instructor at a small women’s college make me keep dancing until my toes bled?
The feeder program for ATB, Studio Company, had been nothing short of brutal. Emma remembered one rehearsal lasting for twelve hours without rest. Walking out to the car felt like having nails driven into my calves. The look of something approaching pride on Father’s face, though, when I walked out of that rehearsal without flinching? Utterly worth it.
My only complaint is the total focus on classical pieces, Emma mused. One can only dance Cinderella or Swan Lake so many times. If Father had preferred for me to aim for New York City Ballet, I could’ve danced to something avant-garde like Diamonds.
Emma sighed. Serious ballet would take time away from my studies. With those days behind me, though, I doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity.
The arrival of Professor Oglethorpe broke into Emma’s thoughts. Out of habit, she assumed first position on her instructor’s arrival. The professor stood a mere five-foot-one by Emma’s estimation, but she still moved with the grace of a seasoned dancer, even in her heels. Despite her petite frame, she bore a certain presence about her.
“Good-afternoon, Ms. Frost,” the professor greeted her in a pleasant tone. “I redda your dance résumé. Issa impressive. Why you here?”
To her chagrin, Emma found herself straining to understand Professor Oglethorpe through what sounded like a thick Italian accent. Besides which, the question itself threw her – none of her other instructors had ever asked why she danced. Mother had insisted on starting ballet lessons when Emma was still a toddler, or barely past, and she’d insisted on Emma continuing through elementary, middle, and high school. Like anything else she’d put her mind to, Emma had excelled, and excellence earned something which mattered much more: Father’s approval.
Aloud, she answered with an impassive expression, “I don’t understand, Professor.”
“You coulda been de prima in New York, but instead, you here.” The petite woman circled Emma, her dark eyes almost steely as she studied her newest student. “If we gonna work together, I gotta know what you want from de ballet.”
Emma fought not to frown. Normally, by now, the instructor has started warm-up exercises, not asking inane questions, she groused silently. Not that I miss having one wrangle me into position with a wooden rod, she allowed.
Aloud, she answered, “It’s good exercise.”
Professor Oglethorpe clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Lotsa easier ways to gi t’exercise,” she argued, still circling. “Maybe yoga.”
“I’ve been dancing for years, Professor. Why would I exercise a different way?” I’ve never challenged one of my teachers like this. I hope she doesn’t kick me out.
To her surprise, the professor laughed. “You are so young, Ms. Frost! You shoulda try new things while you can. Before you getta old, like me!”
I do not understand this woman.
Professor Oglethorpe clapped her hands together. “We do a bar work first, Ms. Frost. Once you warm up, I watch you dance.” She glided over to her CD player and stereo, and the expected sound of classical piano filled the studio.
The bar work, at least, followed a familiar pattern of pliés and tendus and ronds-de-jambe. Emma started to feel the burn in her legs doing the latter en l’air (as she’d done for years). All the while, Professor Oglethorpe glided around, observing from every angle, with her only words consisting of commands for the next exercise or counting the time.
Once they’d progressed through the warm-up exercises, the professor withdrew her CD. “Now, Ms. Frost, I wanna see your ATB fancy choreography. What did you do for your audition?"
"We auditioned with 'Dance of the Snowflakes’ from The Nutcracker Suite,” Emma answered dutifully.
“Ah, classico!” Professor Oglethorpe enthused as she popped in a new CD.
A moment later, the instantly-recognizable strains of Tchaikovsky began, and Emma floated into motion. Although she’d auditioned months ago, the choreography came back as if she’d just learned it, thanks to her sharp memory. The dance felt much different this time, since now she dances alone, rather than as one of several dozen aspirants moving, supposedly, as a unit, each with a number pinned to her leotard.
That type of audition, Emma reflected bitterly, is rightly known as a “cattle call.” I’ve never felt more like a piece of meat. Until that incident on Monday with those two cretins, anyway.
She suppressed a shudder at the memory and pushed it aside to focus on her dancing.
As the piece wound down, Emma spun through her last, most difficult combination of pirouettes and arabesques, finishing in a flawless relevé. During the audition, the directors had made the hopefuls hold the pose for what felt like an eternity, legs burning from exertion, to see who would falter first. Etched with crystalline clarity, the faces of the other hopefuls – disappointed, teary-eyed, shattered by their own frailty as they failed and their dreams crumbled into dust – flashed through Emma’s mind.
Mercifully, Professor Oglethorpe applauded and stopped the CD, gesturing for Emma to release the pose.
“Now dat I see you dance, Ms. Frost, I can honestly say: your technique is –” She brought her fingertips to her lips and kissed them, like a chef approving a perfect dish. “But I also see why you don’t-a get into ATB.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. “I chose to pursue my education instead of dance.”
The Professor surprised her yet again with a laugh. “Maybe so! But also, Ms. Frost, the way you dance, you gotta no expression. No soul!”
Emma fought to maintain a neutral expression, withholding the frustration now building within her. I’ve never loved ballet, true, but… that stings. Aloud, she replied, “I was taught to strive for a serene, focused presentation. That way, the rest of my movement would speak for itself.”
Professor Oglethorpe by now had resumed her previous mode of constant motion, though she now seemed much less focused than before. “But I think, I come aback to de question: why you here? Why you still dance even when you don’t a-love it, even when you so talented?”
I doubt that ‘Mother insisted, and I stuck with it because it made Father proud’ would satisfy her. Emma pursed her lips. “I’m not sure how to answer that, Professor.”
The professor shook her head. “Ms. Frost, I wanna help you find de joy of ballet again. If you wanna dat too, I see you next week. If not?” She shrugged. “Maybe you find a something else, a something you love.”

XXXXX

After finishing her homework and dinner on Thursday, Emma activated her laptop – a top-of-the-line Apple PowerBook 4 – intent on playing a few chess games before bed. She’d discovered from Dr. Pembleton, the political science professor, that Bernhardt’s chess club had unfortunately gone extinct when the previous faculty advisor left for a better-paying job outside academia, and no other faculty member had volunteered for the role. Attempting to be helpful, Dr. Pembleton had given her the names of a few of the former chess club members, suggesting they might have formed a sort of informal club.
Emma had smiled thinly and thanked the professor. She preferred live opponents, mostly to savor the looks of growing panic and despair as she outmaneuvered them, cutting off every avenue of escape. Without a regular source of them, however, faceless strangers on the Internet would have to suffice.
The better to sharpen my raw skills. Father taught me to use every weapon in my arsenal to win, so I don’t mind leveraging my curse in case of emergency. Victory is victory, after all, she mused as she logged onto her account on Scheming Mind.
Still, I find it so much more satisfying to win because I’m just that good. She smirked as she deployed her Sicilian Defense against the opponent she’d found. Like winning without castling, or forcing a mate without using my queen to do so.
Her current opponent, cherrypoppindaddy69, lasted less than twenty moves. Emma ignored the simple “gg” in the game’s chat box and sought her next opponent. Sometimes, she thought about changing her screen name, WhiteQueen1985, to something with a bit more flair.
Not often, though. If asked, Emma would describe her aesthetic as “elegant simplicity.”
She began a game against a user named WakandaForever and drew white. She mulled over her options for opening lines – Ruy Lopez? Giuoco Piano? Queen’s Gambit? King’s Indian Attack? Deciding on the Queen’s Gambit, Emma led with d4.
Awaiting her opponent’s response, Emma ran through various permutations, the pieces moving in her mind’s eye as she’d been taught. She admittedly found the task easier with physical pieces, which added to the challenge when playing over the Internet. Before long, Emma recognized her opponent’s defense – King’s Indian Defense, which she often found a tough defense to crack. With a tight smile on her lips, she went to work.
As the game progressed and she started picking away at her opponent’s position, a thought occurred to Emma: Wakanda? Isn’t that some Third-World country in Africa? I’m surprised they even have the Internet there. I hope the connection is stable enough for me to finish the win – I’d hate to have to accept a draw if this player drops early.
As she’d predicted, WakandaForever’s King’s Indian Defense proved difficult to break. Piqued by the challenge, Emma leaned closer to her laptop, her swivel chair’s creak seeming loud in the otherwise silent studio apartment. Even a few pawn sacrifices and piece trades hadn’t significantly disrupted her opponent. Impressive, Emma conceded, even as she finally managed to gain the advantage. Some of those moves were absolutely inspired.
Forty-five moves in, Emma finally separated the black king from his last pawn, while hers sat safely on the opposite side of the board, two moves from promotion. WakandaForever resigned before she could take the pawn, but they offered an ebullient congratulations in the chat box: < Excellent game! I thought I might be able to salvage the win, but you played masterfully. >
Emma smirked. Feeling magnanimous after a proper challenge, she typed her response: < You too. You almost did manage to turn the tide at the end. Almost. Play again sometime? >
< I look forward to the rematch, > replied WakandaForever.
If she’d been at home, Emma would’ve poured herself a glass of wine to celebrate a hard-fought victory. In any other civilized country, one can buy alcohol upon attaining adulthood, she grumbled to herself. Father had, since she turned sixteen, permitted her one glass in celebration of tournament victories, and she’d developed her palate by winning often. Naturally, she preferred whites.
Still riding high nonetheless, Emma decided on one more game and accepted a challenge from SlimShady03. The program randomly assigned her to play black, so she had to wait for her opponent’s opening before she could choose a response. She mentally reviewed some of her options against the openings she saw most commonly at her level.
Before the first move, though, the chat box came alive.
SlimShady03: < asl? >
Emma’s eyes narrowed. What does that mean? She repeated the message back.
SlimShady03: < 18 m NY >
Age, sex, location, Emma realized, feeling mildly chagrined at not parsing that on her own. In the chat, she replied < 18 f CT > before adding < You probably guessed I’m a woman based on my username. >
SlimShady03: < You never know. Rumor has it there are no women on the Internet. >
Emma smirked, but before she could respond, her opponent played e4. Sicilian it is, then, she sighed inwardly. I was hoping for something a little more exciting, darling.
By move fifteen, Emma realized she’d spoken too soon.
Her opponent had deployed his pawns and pieces in a manner Emma had only seen in textbooks, never in live play. Slowly but surely, he’d hemmed her in, reducing her available moves until nothing desirable remained. To break the stranglehold, her heart now pounding in her ears, she started taking.
One exchange begat another, and another, and another, in a veritable cascade of board-clearing. Materially, Emma gave as good as she got, but at the end her few remaining pieces sat in poor positions, and she didn’t have a pawn structure to speak of – more like a pawn shambles. Emma shook her head as she surveyed the wreckage.
SlimShady03: < Quite a bloodbath, wasn’t it? >
Emma replied, < Indeed. Care to resign now? >
SlimShady03: < I should ask you the same thing. Think you can survive long enough to promote? >
Emma studied the position. I’ll have to get creative, but it’s feasible, she determined. In the chat, she wrote, < My position isn’t lost just yet. Game on. >
Not getting a response didn’t bother Emma; she assumed her opponent was pondering his various strategic options. With time ticking away and no move forthcoming, though, she began to grow concerned. A win’s a win, she reminded herself. But from running out of time? Unsatisfying, darling.
Before she could type a query, though, SlimShady03 wrote, < Something’s come up at home, and I need to log off. Draw? >
Emma snorted and replied, < A likely story. Still, you’ve been a superb opponent, and etiquette demands that I extend you the courtesy of your request. > To demonstrate that she wasn’t upset, though, she clicked the “Offer Draw” button. I don’t often encounter someone who plays on my level, outside of tournaments. Especially ones who know some of the more obscure anti-Sicilian lines.
She considered typing as much, but decided not to. She didn’t want SlimShady03 to know just how rattled she’d gotten.
SlimShady03: < Thanks. I’ll keep an eye out for you so we can play again. > The timer stopped, indicating he’d accepted the draw. A moment later, the site informed Emma he’d logged off.
Emma rolled her shoulders and stretched, relishing the release of tension from sitting too long in a tense position. She also took a moment to savor the feeling of her silk pajamas against her skin. I should probably prepare for bed anyway, she decided. Besides classes tomorrow, I have to meet Ms. Grey.
A meeting of the minds, one might say.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N: Special thanks to my wife and beta reader, who consulted with me on all the ballet stuff. She's written stories under the pen name reginafabulae.
Any errors or issues with the chess stuff are purely my own. I do know how to play, but I've never been ultra-serious about it. Part of the fun of this story for me is diving deeper into the theory and history of the game, even if the story itself won't be getting lost in the weeds of it. For example, I discovered that Scheming Mind was the actual name of an actual chess website up through the mid-2000s.
That's when this story is set. I realized a while ago that one of the reasons I feel such an attachment to X-Men: Evolution is that, with the show running from 2000-2003, they were in high school at the same time I was. I'd also draw a parallel between Magneto revealing the existence of mutants to the world, in terms of impact on the world and how the characters understand it, to that of the Sept. 11 attacks.
For this story, too, it allows me to bring a lot of what I remember about the college experience - like campuses having dedicated spaces called "computer labs" with Internet access that -gasp- didn't rely on dial-up, or cell phones being common but used more for making phone calls (rather than texting; and taking pictures was basically out of the question).
Finally, the dance instructor is an homage to one of my professors, a short Italian woman with a distinct accent who'd married an American, so those who didn't already know of her were often surprised.
As always, I welcome feedback via review or PM on the forums.
- 4
- 5
- 6
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A Diamond in the Rough