What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

[Tom Harriman]

This thread takes place a few days after Tread Softly, Because You Tread On My Dreams (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=21870), and shortly before X-Force, Assemble! (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=21876).

Tom felt like a fool. Worse, he felt like a naked fool, walking into a situation like this completely unarmed. Granted, the incredible replicating army of tuplets had demonstrated that even armed, he wouldn't be much use against anything that could potentially transpire when he entered the building. But still, it would be nice to have something to shoot at them with, if they tried to tazer him again.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was here. Everything that the mysterious Surge had told him about saving the world from mutants too dangerous for conventional organisations to handle - it all sounded very Men in Black, but Tom was no Will Smith. Though sometimes his exploits and activities attested differently, he liked to think that he was a fairly sane and rational human being. Taking on thugs wih knives and guns was one thing. Knives and guns he could understand, and what he understood he could find a way to handle. But mutant abilities were something else entirely: there wasn't always a way to predict them, combat them, or defend against them.

Especially if they involve fire, he mused grimly, a wave of electric memory sweeping across his skin. An involuntary shudder followed.

Like always, he scrutinised himself intensely. Why was he even doing this? Was it all still a game to him - a chance to play secret soldier, on some covert team right out of the annals of science fiction? Did he really need a team - compatriots, comrades, friends - so badly? Or was this all just the reaction of a bitter old sldier, forced to leave before he was good and ready, and just desperate to belong?

He pushed his way through the entrance doors. Too late to turn back now.

"Good morning, Mister Harriman," an all too familiar voice called from the security desk. Tom cringed - another of the One Man Army Corps goon-clones sat smugly behind the desk.

"Morning, Joe," he grunted back, reading the man's name from the badge on his chest. He seemed inconspicuous, sitting here with his friendly, open-and-honest name badge, as if he was just a regular security guard, rather than a tazer-wielding abduction machine. His eyes narrowed involuntarily behind the set of dark glasses that he wore, his mind conjuring up all manner of brutal, physical harm that he planned to inflict on Joe the first chance he got.

If Joe knew the kinds of things that Tom was musing, he certainly didn't react to it; his attention was more focussed in filling out whatever data entry his computer was prompting him to do. "Miss Ericsson would like to see you before your meeting," he added.

"No threat of tazering this time, huh?" he muttered. Garnering no reaction from the guard, he directed his muttering purely at himself, and wandered away from the security desk, wondering what it was that he was actually supposed to be doing. Who the hell is Miss -

His brain wasn't permitted to finish that thought however; his eyes settled on a slender frame sporting corporate chique, watching him intently with deep blue eyes that shone with intelligence. He turned to face her entirely, a fingertip hooking the bridge of his shades to allow him to peer over. He flashed her his most disarming smile. "Why, hello there."

[Dahlia Ericsson]

Well.

Isn't that...delectable.

She allowed a smile to curl her plump, shimmering lips in response, the light cascading across her features as her head dipped slightly. A bit of southern charm in retaliation for the disarming smile and the lingering glance over the sunglasses.

The little game that men and women played just never got old.

Note to self...thank Surge. Again.

Dahlia turned and winked at Joe, before finally stepping forward, extending a perfectly manicured hand. "Mister Harriman, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. My name is Dahlia Ericsson, and I'm glad you've decided to join us. I've read a great deal about you. Walk with me, won't you?"

Turning on a silver stiletto heel, she sipped from the Starbucks cup she held. A delighted sigh passed her lips as she savored the sweet, flavorful concoction before speaking again. Down a long, sparkling white corridor that didn't have the buzz of activity that it soon would. Lining the hallway were open doors that led to various offices and meeting rooms, all furnished but devoid of the personal touch that employees all brought to their own work spaces.

At the end of the hall and a short ride down in an elevator, lay a heavily reinforced set of double doors where Dahlia swiped the keycard dangling from her belt and set her face in front of a small silver retinal scanner. "Surge speaks very highly of you. Which, in itself, is rare. But I took the time to read your file and delve into your background for myself. You have some impressive credentials..." she paused as the doors slowly opened and they both passed through, where she closed them with the same process. "...and I must say I'm stunned that no one has snapped you up before now, in spite of your Level Three status."

Beyond the double doors was a small, neatly furnished seating area with a desk for a secretary placed in front of another set of secured double doors. The space was bright in spite of the lack of windows, and decorated in muted silver and blue tones.

"Good morning, Miss Ericsson...the lab is prepped and ready. Is there anything else you'll need?" asked the young woman seated behind the desk, dressed in a sensible skirt and blouse under her crisp white labcoat.

"No, thank you, Emma. Please ensure that we're not disturbed." Dahlia replied with a smile, before gesturing to Tom to follow her to the other set of doors. Another swipe of the keycard and a retinal scan followed, only these doors slid aside with the barest whisper of sound. Beyond them lay a large, sparkling clean laboratory, with only the the bare essentials of research set out on the counters. Two frosted glass doors were set into the far wall, surrounded by stainless steel cabinets and unmarked work surfaces.

She perched on a stool and crossed her slender legs, fingers clasped around her coffee as she watched Tom intently for several moments. "In addition to joining the team, I'd like to make you another offer. Treadstone Industries, the public side of things, is at the forefront of research and development in several fields. It originated in aerospace engineering where we are still the leader, and has recently come to include weapons development and biomedical research. A mind like yours is exactly what Treadstone needs to stay at the forefront."

[Tom Harriman]

All things considered, Tom thought he was doing a pretty good job of keeping his tongue in check. Normally he'd have made some sarcastic comment about his PhD for example; but while he'd happily shoot his mouth off at one - or several - of the Joes were they here, and maybe even Surge if he was feeling confident enough, this Dahlia Ericsson character had the kind of don't mess with me air that usually meant a person was either untouchably famous, untouchably powerful, or untouchably rich.

As Tom followed dutifully in her wake - a pace or two behind, purely as a reflexive security measure, and in no way related to inappropriate staring, or thoughts regarding her untouchability - he didn't really pay all that much attention to what she was saying, his brain just skim-reading the words for anything relevant. He didn't doubt that it was all very well phrased, and it certainly seemed complimentary enough, but when she finally got around to saying something worth paying attention to, he figured she'd probably let him know.

In the meantime, there were far more interesting things to be paying attention to - like whether or not those were tights under the skirt that Emma was wearing, or the fact that - Ooh, retinal scan. Fancy.

By the time Miss Ericsson finally did say something worth paying attention to, Tom was busy trying to name all of the assorted gadgets and gizmos littered about the lab, and was wrestling with the feeling that his very being there was contaminating the pristine conditions. His brain stalled for a moment, forcing him to make an auditory double-take.

"You're offering me a job?"

[Dahlia Ericsson]

"Well, I suppose I should be grateful you heard at least that much. Yes, I'm offering you a job as part of Treastone Industries. This will be your lab. Emma out there is working on her Doctorate and will be your assistant. Whatever you need, just ask her and she can requisition it. If you need another assistant however, you let me know and I'll take care of it. I'm very particular in who I allow in to my facilities."

Dahlia sipped and then tilted her head as she watched Tom gaze around the lab. She couldn't entirely read his expression, but that would come as she got to know him better. And Emma's insights would certainly be useful, given that the young woman's mutation enabled her to read unguarded thoughts.

Another sip and she spoke again. "I know, its alot to take in. But let's look at it plainly. You need a job, and I need your brain working for me, and no one else. You will be well compensated, obviously, and have access to the best benefits Treadstone offers. Besides...no one else will let you outfit your lab the way you want it or let you work the way you wish to."

The woman smiled broadly as Emma nudged her mind and left a few choice words hanging there. She'd have to hit him with them at a later moment, when it would garner her the best reaction.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom's arms folded reflexively across his chest. While her sarcastic dig at his attention span wasn't exactly unjustified, it was enough to nudge him on the defensive; and when it came to a battle of sharp tongues, Tom was hardly going to back down. Granted, the whole job offer combined with the prospect of Miss Maybe Tights as a sexy lab assistant took the wind out of his sails - he blamed his mother for teaching him not to be ungreatful as a child - but still: a little indignance was needed here.

If I ask for a second lab assistant, his subconscious mused, Can I also requisition a pole?

Focus, Tom, another part of his brain insisted.

"You said you were an aerospace engineering firm," Tom countered, slipping in a couple of superfluous details to undermine Miss Ericsson's jab at his lack of apparent attention. "I'm an astrophysicist: not an engineer, or a biochemist -" He trailed off; though he could probably concieve all manner of weapons technology that he could research given his skill set, he wasn't too keen on the prospect of giving her ideas.

Squaring his jaw, he met Dahlia's gaze with an unwavering one of his own; and for once, his brain was entirely focussed. "So lets drop the pretense and the wikipedia-style vagueness. What is it you want from me, specifically, that you can't get from some other labcoat brainiac with a PhD?"

[Dahlia Ericsson]

Thank all the gods, there is fire under there. Indignance.

Good.

This I can work with.

"Primarily, yes, Treadstone is an aerospace engineering entity. It was founded that way in 1933 by my grandfather. Since I took control eight years ago, I've been determined to diversify our holdings." Dahlia began, taking a sip from her coffee that was conveniently timed to his continuing words. She arched a sculpted blonde brow and simply nodded, his words not affecting her in the least.

In fact, she preferred the straightforwardness. Another point in his favor.

Glossy lips curled up into a wicked smile as Emma nudged her mind again. Oh, the girl was priceless. She'd keep him on his toes.

"I want weapons. Things no one else has or is anywhere near discovering on their own. I want whatever your delightfully wicked brain can give me that will keep us steps ahead of the Brotherhood and lightyears ahead of Vanguard. I have chemists, engineers, and biophycisists...but you would be the first astrophycisist on my payroll, and the only labcoated brainiac working solely for the benefit of mutants." Dahlia finished, holding Tom's gaze and waiting...patiently. Or at least, as patiently as a woman like her could.

[Colonel M. James Hunter]

Account switch fail. Please delete. >_<

[Tom Harriman]

"Weapons."

Were it not for the fact that his arms were already folded, Tom would have done so again. The word had tumbled out of his mouth with far less disgust and disapproval than he actually felt at the suggestion Miss Ericsson was actually making. "Perhaps this is another situation where the bastardised rip-off of English you Yanks used has diverged," Tom accused with narrowed eyes, "But your meaning of 'benefit' seems to differ quite radically from it's meaning in the language I grew up speaking."

Tom forced himself to pause; forced himself to deliver his words with approximate calm. "Weapons are for fighting wars, Miss Ericsson. Your sparky friend downstairs sold me on a noble cause, to save the world from dangers that nobody else can stop. But this -" He gestured around him, his waving hand alluding to Dahlia's proposal. "- is not a noble cause: there's nothing noble about an arms race with the military. It's the innocent mutant minority - people your friend claims we're setting out to protect - that are going to get caught in the crossfire."

He shook his head, dismissively. "I'll help you fight this secret crusade of yours. And if I have to, I'll use my 'delightfully wicked brain' to help us. But I won't so much as sharpen a stick for your arms race, nor forge a bullet to increase your company's profit margins."

[Dahlia Ericsson]

"I think you misunderstand, Mister Harriman, this already is a war. The Brotherhood is waging its own war against stability, and since we're not mincing words, they're doing a spectacular job of making the innocent mutant minority the focus of it. Let's not leave Vanguard out of the discussion however. There are a government agency, yes. But a fringe one at that that does not have the full support of any branch or authority figure. Did you see any of the rally footage? Do you realize that most of those whom they collared and dragged off haven't been seen or heard from since?"

Dahlia turned and set her now empty coffee cup down on the counter behind her, fingers pushing blonde tresses over her shoulder. Folding her hands together, her demeanor and voice remained cool, calm, and collected. It wasn't difficult, really, given the cutthroat corporate world she walked in on a daily basis. Her hands rested on her knee as she leaned slightly forward, head tilted as she held his gaze.

"Do me the very great favor of climbing off of your suddenly high moral ground, Mister Harriman. I already have the means to sharpen sticks and forge bullets aplenty to fill Treadstone's coffers. Its the innocent minority you speak of that I'm truly interested in helping. Your research and development here would be for no other purpose or benefit than to help the cause. Your presumption that I would attempt to profit from what you create to help us protect them is truly sickening." She sighed softly and shook her head, revulsion dancing oh-so-briefly across her features. Fingers smoothed out her designer suit as she gracefully uncrossed her legs and stood.

"This is a noble cause, Mister Harriman. This is not about an arms race. This is not about profit. This is about protecting. About being one of the few willing to stand between the innocent minority, human and mutant alike, and those forces willing to use, abuse, and hurt them in ways we haven't yet begun to fathom. If you cannot or choose not to see that this is what we're truly doing here," she gestured, much as he had moments before, "...then we're done here."

[Tom Harriman]

A hint of a smile flickered across Tom's features. "Congratulations, Miss Ericsson - that's the first thing you've said today that didn't sound like corporate bullshit."

His expression notched down a few steps in intensity, morphing into a frown as his fingers reached up to scrub across his lightly stubbled jaw. "I want your assurance - your word - that nothing I develop for this war of yours will ever make it onto the market; black, or otherwise."

There was still a tug of reluctance dancing at the back of his mind. Intellectually, he knew that the cause was worth it. He trusted Surge - strangely, given the whole kidnapping thing - when he'd assured him that they were the 'good guys'. But there was something about this Dahlia Ericsson that just didn't sit right with him. He guessed it was that she was all business; unlike Surge, who was all business. Something about her just seemed a little false, like she'd thrown up some diamond veneer, and the real Dahlia was somewhere underneath. It was a defense mechanism, he supposed: the world of business was full of sharks in the water; throwing up a fake exterior was a pretty good way of making sure they wouldn't see you bleed.

He held up a hand for patience, just in case Miss Ericsson decided to get ahead of herself and interrupt his reverie. "Before I say yes, I'll need to see everything else that your people are working on. I don't need specifics: I just want to know if you're building nukes, or weaponised viruses, or anything like that."

[Dahlia Ericsson]

"My apologies then...I sometimes forget when to stop slinging the corporate bullshit, since I don't often have the freedom to speak freely, for lack of a better phrase."

Dahlia smiled for a brief moment, before turning on her heel to stride over to the nearest computer terminal. The large, widescreen monitor flared to life as she dragged a finger down the scanner attached to the right hand side of it. Since she'd not logged into the terminal before, her usual home screen was visible only for a moment or two before the system took her through a number of security prompts. One of which she answered wrong on purpose so the picture of the precious toddler with auburn pigtails and bright blue eyes wouldn't be visible again.

It took Dahlia several minutes to give Tom a proper overview of Treadstone's current research and development activities. "We do have a few scientists working on nuclear research for energy purposes, but nothing even remotely weapons-related. Certainly no weaponized viruses either...as you can see here, our biochemists are mostly in cancer research, with some few who are to be working out of this facility who will be working on mass vaccines, what I'm hoping will develop into ways to combat the most common weaponized viruses."

Turning back to glance up at him, Dahlia nodded with a slightly more somber expression on her features. "You do have my word, that I will protect whatever technology you develop for us to use, with whatever means are at my disposal. There is a perk in being both the CEO and the President of Treadstone, nothing happens without my express consent. Now...shall we talk salary, Mister Harriman? Do you have a figure in mind before I give you my initial offer?"

[Tom Harriman]

"Hold it, hold it," Tom interjected, holding his hands up for patience, and in surrender. Dahlia Ericsson might live in the mile-a-minute world of corporate business, but when it came to important life decisions like this, he preferred to cruise through the suburbs of logic and rational thought at a steady thirty, so that he had time to slam on the breaks when something leapt out in front of it, instead of merely slamming into it and having to wipe it off the windshield later.

"Thirty seconds," he said, with a note in his voice that wasn't quite command, but made it very clear that on this issue there wasn't even the slightest chance of him budging, "Is not enough time to review your entire spectrum of Research and Development. And I'm sure as hell not going to give you the yes you're looking for if you're going if you're going to try and rush me through everything important. If you really want me working for you, you're going to have to get used to the fact that things will be done when they're done right: not when the timing suits your personal agenda for the day."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Just -" He waved his hand vaguely; at the screen; at her. "- give me some time to review the projects, and think it over. Twenty-four hours is all I'm asking."

[Dahlia Ericsson]

Dahlia smiled and leaned back from the terminal, lightly shaking her head. "I didn't mean to imply that I needed a decision right now. I simply wanted to give you all of the information now, and let you decide at your own pace. Twenty four hours is perfectly fine. Emma can get you whatever printouts and data you'd like to review, and show you to what would be your office if you'd like to relax and review them while you're here."

Fingers rose and threaded through blonde tresses, brushing them back from her face and shoulders. She made a mental note to put her hair up as soon as she had a free moment. "Is there anything else I can answer for you? Any burning questions you have about Treadstone? Or me, for that matter."

[Tom Harriman]

That was certainly an invitation that could be easily misconstrued - all manner of burning personal questions popped into his mind - and Tom didn't doubt that the words had been selected for exactly that reason. Still, it probably wouldn't be the best interview tactic in the world if he responded in kind; and he supposed that was what this impromptu conversation had become.

He cocked his head to the side, suddenly becoming more considered in what he chose to say. "What is your stake in this?" he asked; there was genuine curiosity in his tone. "I mean, I get the cause. I get why Sparky downstairs is onboard with that, and I'm all for fighting the good fight. But you?" He picked his words carefully. "You aren't a soldier like we are. You don't -"

His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. "You're wealthy. You're influential. That means you've got a lot more to loose than any of us. Why risk it?"

[Dahlia Ericsson]

His tact was to be commended. Generally when she gave people such openings, they responded in kind. Tom however, became thoughtful.

Yet another point in his favor, she mused, and wondered how long it would last once they'd gotten to know one another better.

Dahlia balanced her hands on her hips and let a slow smile curl her glossy lips. In that fraction of a second, the surface of her being turned into an endlessly faceted diamond-like substance, encompassing her hair, skin, and clothing. "Because on top of that wealth and influence, I'm also a mutant. I owe it to those of my brothers and sisters who were born with less to do more because I can. However..."

Lifting a hand, she curled her fingers into a fist and forced out a series of spikes and ridges around it, making it look like a vicious mace. She soon smoothed it out, however, dislodging one of the spikes and tossing it end over end in her hand. "....just because I'm not a soldier, doesn't mean I don't know how to handle myself in a fight." Dahlia's glittering diamond gaze winked as she absorbed the effect and shivered lightly as the sensation tickled her senses. Now normal fingers brushed through her platinum locks before she spoke again. "I can create the spikes and ridges without being covered in the effect, and can use them as projectile weapons. And for someone who used to have a fear of heights, the power of flight was a cruel joke at first. Love it now, though."

Dahlia coughed delicately, and glanced away from Tom for a moment to compose herself. "That knowledge remains the secret I've kept it for all these years...I hope that's understood."

[Tom Harriman]

"I didn't mean to insinuate that you were helpless," he countered, a note of apology in his tone: but most of it was genuine warmth that managed to creep into a very slight smile. "It's just that when you've spent year after year after year living in a world where everything is meticulously structured and rigidly planned, you end to start thinking a certain way, and assuming certain basic facts."

"I guess -" He shrugged, with his face as well as his shoulders. "- I'm programmed to view things at a very simple, basic, almost caveman level. Bullets bad. Complete objectives good. Do as told. Where as you, well... corporate business is about as overcomplicated and interwoven as politics. You're programmed to consider causes and effects; repercussions, rammifications, alternatives, compromises - when it comes to calculating whether a job is worth doing, my equation has far fewer terms in than yours. When I make a decision, at worst it puts my life and those of those who follow me at risk. When you make a decision, you're risking countless lives, livelihoods, legalities, and much much more."

He offered a wry smile. "Lets just say that I'm glad you're the business woman and I'm the hired muscle." His eyebrow quirked ever so slightly. "If for no other reason than the fact that I'd look ridiculous in that outfit."

[Dahlia Ericsson]

"It helps if you're born into a business family and are raised in the boardroom." Dahlia replied with a graceful shrug and a warm smile.

She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him critically, bright blue eyes traveling slowly up and down. "You're absolutely right...you would look ridiculous in this suit...but I think the stilettos are very you..." She freed one hand and tugged up a pant leg, revealing a glittering, strappy, nearly five inch confection of a shoe.

"Anything else you'd like to know? Or...shall we leave the rest of the discussion for tomorrow when you've reached your decision?" Dahlia smiled, glancing down at her watch after smoothing out the white silk. "We've still got a few minutes before our other meeting."

[Tom Harriman]

Stilletos were something that Tom just couldn't wrap his head around. He understood the principle, sort of. The forced walk-on-tiptoes routine made a woman's legs appear longer, which society said was graceful or ellegant or something; and it forced them do that kind of cat-like backside-wiggling walk thing, which Tom certainly wasn't going to complain about. But the number of times he'd heard women complaining about how high heels made their feet hurt; how they'd broken heels while walking around; twisted ankles on nights out...

It was like chest waxing, or laser eye surgery. No one was suggesting that they didn't have the desired effect. But was the less painful alternative really that bad?

He dismissed the thought with a slight shake of his head, which doubled as a response to Dahlia's question as well. "I think we're good - I've got enough to consider already, without any more information adding to the data overload. I'm a soldier: my poor brain can only handle so much."

He offered a slight hint of a smile at that, but it quickly morphed into a frown. "That said -" He trailed off. "Do you guys have a vending machine around here? I have a craving for something high in calories and smothered in chocolate."

[Dahlia Ericsson]

Dahlia smiled, and motioned for him to follow her as they left the lab. She stopped briefly to leave Emma with instructions on getting him whatever he needed, before leading the way back into the elevator.

"We do...upstairs in the cafeteria space. Catering is brought in daily for lunch, since we're a bit out in the middle of nowhere out here. There are a couple of vending machines there, and its just down the hall from the meeting room."

Dahlia swiped her keycard to let them into the elevator, eyes perusing the file Emma had handed to her. The young woman smiled at Tom and said quietly, "They're thigh high stockings, not tights." just as the elevator door closed.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom blinked, at first not entirely sure that he'd heard correctly. Careful analysis and a few moments of blank staring at the reflective back of the elevator door confirmed that he hadn't been hearing things, which only served to leave him feeling even more baffled. Surely, he hadn't said that out -

Realisation dawned; a brief smile of satisfaction as his logical success quickly morphed into a frown as he considered the implications. Before long, narrowed eyes of suspicion had become the dominant expression on his face. "The secretary is a psychic," he announced, accusation thick in his voice. His eyes turned on Dahlia, arms folding sternly across his chest. "That's just plain evil."

His mind reeled, wondering just how much of what had been running through his head - or what might potentially run through his head during future encounters - she'd been able to pick up on. Sexy, psychic, and secretary makes for a dangerous combo, he thought, shuddering slightly.

"Not so bad yourself, Doc," a voice from nowhere whispered in his head.

Tom's shoulders slumped. This was all going to go horribly, horribly wrong; he could feel it in his bones. "I'm going to need a tin foil hat," he muttered, slumping back against the elevator wall.