| Innocence, Admiration and Survival |
| Summary: | Following the outing of several students to Leesburg, VA., Jada returns to the school and seeks out help from Headmistress Frost to deal with troubling emotional issues. |
| Date: | 2014-06-26 |
| Related: | X-Babies in a Cave |
| NPCs: | NA |
| Scene Runner: | NA |
| Social/Plot: | Social |
| Players: |
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The girl looks a little sniffly alright. Two of the bodies, #1 and #5 peek their head in the door since it's partially open, and then knock on the frame. Just outside the door, #'s 2, 3, 4, and 6 are waiting out of politeness. No idea why they're all here. Most anything could really be done with just one of them here, considering. "Miss Frost?" Sniffly sniffly. Well. At least they're in uniform! "I um… I… don't really know… who to talk to about… some stuff… And… I dunno… Mom and Dad said school Heads are there to provide guidance, so I…" More sniffles and eye-rubs are beheld, even as she tries to get her juddering mind under control. That shadow is just sort of… lurking over it right now, and #1's phantom pain is like a breathless beacon that's stabbing at all six. Apparently, mental and emotional distress don't distribute evenly over the clones. If anything, the effect seems magnified since they all seem to feel the same amount of pain.
Of course, when one is dealing with a telepath, is anything really unknown? Emma Frost's door is never just unlatched; that the Jadas find it so is clear evidence she knew they were coming and made it so, expressly as an invitation to their arrival. As #1 and #5 peek in, Emma is sitting at her desk, regal as always, posture perfect as she taps along on some bit of paperwork or another on a StarkPad. The platinum blonde Headmistress glances up at the audible sound of sniffling, and then her hands quickly gesture over the pad, locking it up as it is put away.
"Come in, Ms. Doakese. All of you, please." Emma offers in her cool, dispassionate tone, gesturing with one hand to summon them past the seemingly inpenetrable barrier of propriety that always seems to cocoon around Emma. "Come in, and sit." Perhaps oddly, at least in the replicants' experience, Emma shows no surprise whatsoever at their arrival or approach, or their state. She simple takes command of the situation and moves it forward.
"I trust your physical maladies have been suitably treated?" Emma inquires, as if the cut and other tidbits have alrady been discussed, though they have not.
Maybe it's a little bit of OC tendencies that does it? Whatever the case, they file in, when bidden to do so… in order. Maybe the woman's composure, neatness, and overall competence inspires reflexive better-behavior. With her upbringing, she certainly knows HOW to behave better anyway. As they file in, #2 and #4 pull out a chair for #1 before any of them actually sit. Perhaps she views #2-6 as appendages more than anything? Whatever the case, they all sit, just so. Back straight, one leg crossed over the other, and then in that same coordinated unison, they tug their gloves off. Only #1, for obvious reasons, has any trouble. And then? She's flexing the mechanical fingers of her right hand,"I got some bandages and disinfectant. I'm thinking about visiting the infirmary again later, though. I don't get phantom pain much anymore, but it flares up when I'm upset." In front of Emma, it seems they don't even bother to ditch the perfect chorus of their voices when speaking.
"Mmmrph… I guess it would be a waste of time to ask how you knew about that." Frown. She actually finds an honest-to-god pocket handkerchief (they all seem to carry one), and dabs at her eyes. Maybe Emma's second mutation is a dignity-field? "I'm sorry. I'm… crap… how would mother say it… I'm 'in a state'. How much do you know?" One doesn't need to be a mind-reader to ask what she means, considering. "I get… cleithrophobic is the word, I think?" And then that leads to dark thoughts and dark contemplations, and most of all… darker memories.
Emma sits and waits, watching the coordinated interplay between the Jadas, until all are seated, and ready. She does not even seem to mind the multiple voices at once, if only because she is already busy listening to multiple /minds/ at once. "Mmm. Yes. One might best say that I am learning more about it, even now." Every thought, every flicker of memory, is tracked down in one mind or a half-dozen, the details cataloged for Emma's edification. She will deal with their inappropriate conduct later; a student in distress trumps stomping on those who think the rules don't apply to them.
"You found yourself trapped in the cave. This awoke your deeply-seeded fear, and has induced flashbacks to your earlier trauma." Emma clarifies and simplifies, as is her want. She can be a woman of so few words when she wishes, incredibly incisive. Blisteringly honest and insightful. And yet she is almost never as direct as others perceive her to be. Agends flow through the woman like lifeblood. "You've had counseling to try to face this before. But it was minimally successful. Only really abandonning your home and prior environment managed to free you from its constraints. I do not believe you will have that degree of option again. I suspect we will need to confront your feelings more head-on this time, Ms. Doakese." Ever so formal, is Emma Frost.
Bringing it up only seems to make the pain where her fingers were flash brighter. Enough to make her gasp in a breath reflexively. One hand clutches her wrist. They all do it. Not just #1. Memories, bright, and lurid, and vivid. A man sitting on her arm. The smell of body odor. The merciless snip-snip of the garden shears. The nausea. The terror. The vomitting and the loss of consciousness. The fever and the way her very mind begin to stretch thin, as if a rubberband pulled to tight. For a very real moment, it feels as if tight bands are around her chest. All of this, and in no more than a second or two. Bizarrely, it's not the pain her brain focuses on. It's the 'snip-snip' sound. Again, and again.
What follows that is the shadow, always the shadow. The only thing that gives her enough willpower to shove THAT memory down. The heated, almost sensual sense of satisfaction… No pleasure, when her mind lingers over the OTHER images burned into it. The flashes and sounds of shattering glass. Men in uniform. The deafening roar of automatic weapons discharged at close range. The blooms and mist of blood filling the air. Looking back to see her captors' shredded forms as she is wheeled away by medics.
It's a complex issue, because what follows THAT memory is shame. Shame that balls all that up inside of her, and pushes it down, trying to stick it somewhere she won't have to deal with it. Her response to Miss Frost is simple, and shows no more understanding or maturity than a small child,"But… but it's over." Of course, it's not really over for her. What she's reallying saying is a question: Why do I have to revisit something so painful? Of course, the answer is almost equally simple: Because you haven't really left it.
Mental discipline the like of which most of the students cannot even imagine gives Emma the will, the force of mind to take in the replicated, ferocious memories of those dark, dark times and not bow beneath them. They flow over her, and she is immersed in them, keenly and palpably aware of them. But she gives - almost - no sign of it. Just a few moments' barely glimpsed tension, and then it melts away. She too has been through her crucible and come out the other side, forged into the woman she is now, rather than the child she was before. Now, she needs only find a way to help this girl make that same incredible journey.
Easy it shall not be. For either of them.
"No, Ms. Doakese. It is not simply 'over'." Emma answers, but not unkindly. That voice that can be ice cold, slicing through the soul like razors, is merely cool and controlled, rather than ragged with her own grief, as she answers. "So long as you are, so long as your mind remains, and with it your memories, it will never simply or merely be 'over'. Past, yes. But one as bright and well-educated as you are should surely recognize the words, even if you have not yet learned to embrace the sentiment: Past, my dear, is but prologue." It is a bitter lesson to learn, but a key to marching through the firing of the crucible.
"Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head; and this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing." By the time she finishes the quote, she looks more ready to vomit, than comforted. The pain in her right hands seems to grow keener the long they talk about it, introducing an impulse almost bizarrely claustrophic: #1 finds it suddenly of the utmost importance to begin fiddling with the straps of her prosthetic, trying fumblingly to remove it. As if the fingers that were no longer there feel trapped and constrained by it. And her expression? It appears almost entirely as if she were unaware she were doing it.
Thankfully, she is blessed with some of the myopia of childhood even after such trauma. Or maybe it's just a lack of telepathy. Whatever the case, if not exactly unaffected, she seems unaware of the depth to which the woman can, fairly literally, feel her pain.
At first, she is at a loss as to how to respond. Of course, she has to ask the WORST question children ask. She meant to respond with affirmation of how she'd do anything, or how she'd be strong. Instead, she responds with a loaded,"Why?" And there is SUCH a world of questions in that why. Why am I different? Why aren't I like other girls? Why did they hurt me? Why did I enjoy seeing them die? Why do I wish I could've done it myself? Why can't it just be over? "I HATE it when things are messy." This is, after all, nothing if not messy.
Emma does not alert Jada to #1's fidgeting; the prosthesis is hers to do with as she wishes, and no matter how disconcerting her actions, she is hurting no one, not even herself. The Headmistress does nod, actually offering the ghost of a real smile as Jada's quick, agile mind finds the quote and dredges it up, delivering it so well. Emma doesn't show her own discomfort with Jada's pain, because it is not her place to do so. Emma seems always constrained, in sometimes the oddest ways, by her own definitions of what is proper. In this case, it is wholly improper to display the pain she feels from Jada, for that would only enhance the pain caused /to/ Jada by making her self-conscious about it. Better, instead, to face it, and break the hold it has on both of them, without the teen ever knowing.
"Life, Ms. Doakese, is messy by definition. Never simple, or clean. Not even its end is clean, always leaving a mess, and a ragged hole of loss in all those left behind." Emma offers with brutal honesty and a poet's grasp of words, all to exprss philosophy and truth. "Who we are, Ms. Doakese, is defined by our thoughts, our minds. Not our bodies." She waves a hand dismissively. "You, of all people here at this school, should know that best." Ouch. But it is not said with cruelty, just honesty. "And if we are defined by our thoughts, by our minds, then we are the sum of all of our experiences, and our thoughts and feelings derived from those experiences. If you want to end the pain those memories cause you, you will have to face them, head on, and work through all that they mean to you. Then and only then will you be able to stand on their farther shore and look upon them without being sucked in."
Emma smiles a wry, bitter smile, and offers, "As you too well know, nothing truly worth doing in this life is ever easy. Getting through this won't be that, either. But it can be done. I swear it. And if you wish to do so, I offer my help. My support. And my guiding hand to lead the way. The choice, Ms. Doakese, is yours."
For a moment, as the prosthesis is removed, their pain abates. It's just… gone. There is relaxation in her posture, and a momentary increase in focus. But, she has an inquisitive mind, and the truth is, when things are not DEMANDING her attention, focusing all six of her on any one thing grows increasingly difficult. So of course, three looks over to see why the pain stopped. Seeing that smooth appendage, minus some important digits causes a sensation of vertigo, a sort of shock… She really DOESN'T seem to be aware she did it. The pain returns, though duller this time, and embarassment encourages her to begin working on putting it on. #4 helps without actually voicing or acknowledging she is doing so. Still, both mind and blush are quiet signifiers that she is NOT comfortable knowingly doing what she was doing.
"You almost sound military: Unhappiness does not arise from the way things are but rather from a difference in the way things are and the way we believe they should be. Comfort is an illusion. A false security bred from familiar things and familiar ways. It narrows the mind. Weakens the body. And robs the soul of spirit and determination. Comfort is neither welcome nor tolerated here." Whatever the case, it's hard not to enjoy the ghost of the smile and return it with one of her own. It distracts her a little bit, at least momentarily, from the sharpness of it. "You're right, though. I think I used to pray for a time when dysphoria was the worst of my problems." She forces herself to sit straight, pondering her prosthetic, as if it were foreign to her. She probably almost never looks at it unless she has to. This time, though, six pairs of eyes are trained on it. "I think… maybe I should focus more on work and less on wishing for things. It seems the world has a habit of giving you what you ask for and ignoring what you want." Even if the 'know best' statement stings a bit, she offers,"The scariest thing about coming to this school… was realizing I had to really make choices. Like, really-really make choices. Important ones."
A sort of distant look finds her eyes as the replicants all turn as one towards Emma. Anyone less composed might find the coordination unsettling. As it is, she's hardly the most unusual thing under the mutant sun. "Father told me that two types of people turn down genuine offers of help. The vain and the stupid. So… how do I… do this, then. Face it. Work through it?" Her face is very composed and brave now indeed. Internally, she's about a quarter-inch away from shrieking, running, and hiding. Sometimes the line between cowardice and resolve is very thin indeed.
The platinum blonde in white watches all of Jada's interactions with her selves, without ever judging or interfering. It is all news and information to her, useful tools to help prepare her way to helping this young woman - each and every one of her - /become/ all that she can be. But she does crook a wicked smile at being likened to the military.
"Insomuch, Ms. Doakese, as I believe in making sure each and every one of my charges becomes /all/ that he or she can be, so help me every Power above, I suppose I am a bit military. There is some measure of wisdom in those words. Comfort is still something I seek. Indeed, it is something I demand. But that is comfort of reality: fine clothes, fine furniture, fine food, fine art and more. But I do not allow myself to live in a lie. I strip down such barriers to truth in my life. I have seen what happens when one accepts comfort in place of truth, and I have suffered for it, more than any should know." But one does. One does, and some day Emma will learn how and why, what the 'little boy in the bowtie' was about, and she will make someone /pay/ for exposing her secrets.
"Never stop wishing for things, Ms. Doakese. Never. Simply always stay aware that what you wish for is your responsibility to make happen. Others may help you." Emma certainly will, where and how she can. "But the end responsibilty for achieving your dreams is yours." Double-fisted psychic determination, GO!
Emma Frost smiles and nods, acknowledging Jada's final point. "I believe your father and I concur, on that point." Of course, Emma would - in brutal honesty - identify herself as often too vain, too proud, to accept genuine offers of help. But at least she is aware of her failing. She simply chooses not to overcome it. "The first step, as you might imagine, is simply this: you decide that is what you will do. That you will find the way to face it, and work through it. Until now, you have hidden from it. From this moment, that changes."
Some people don't suffer from their failings. They instead enjoy every moment of them. At any rate, Jada is smiling a bit more nervously, and the pain in her hand has resided to a dull throbbing. Easy enough to ignore for the moment. She forces herself to look at the prosthetic again, though only through #1's eyes, instead of the whole sextet's. "I think I'd consider myself lucky if I were even remotely as collected and confident as you." Her mind, even with so many extra resources and brains at its disposal, sometimes takes circuitous routes but still there's the unspoken thoughts she can't keep from forming: Or as pretty. Or regal. Or respectable looking. It's hard to pinpoint the exact emotion she's feeling. If she didn't respect Emma so much, it would probably be jealousy. This is… something else. For someone who shaves half their head, she sure does look up a bit to her educator! "I grew up in plenty. I always had… plenty. Material things didn't matter so much, because I had them. It was all… comfort. I wonder sometimes if I… No… I guess that's part of working on this. I know I blame my parents for trying to keep me safe. Because I feel like… if the world had been rough on me BEFORE this all happened… I think maybe it wouldn't have hurt this badly." As the subject of truth is contemplated, she reasons,"When you're hiding nothing… I suppose it's very hard for someone to hurt you with the truth, then."
"Well… then. I guess I'm doing this. It's going to suck more before it gets better, huh?"
"In many circumstances in life, the ability to project calm and unflinching determination is in fact a weapon unlike any other. And if that is a skill you wish to learn, I will help you." Not because Emma wants a herd of mini-Emma's running around - though she will not deny there is at least a sliver of appeal to that idea - but because that can be a way of helping Jada - all of the Jadas - to become all that they can be. THAT is her mission, and she will do it any way she can. Period.
"I grew up in plenty, Ms. Doakese. Let me assure you, the journey with plenty is different from that with less. But it is no less difficult." Emma didn't grow up with the love Jada had, or the support. Or the trust. There are reasons why as a telepath she is still utterly incapable of real trust. And she's not applying for anyone to come help her change that, either.
"It will get harder, yes. But you will also get stronger, and better able to face it." Emma answers, nodding. "We will schedule regular sessions. And we will work through this. And if something else comes up, I am here should you ever have need of me." Just as she was tonight.
The girls nod as one, trying to resist the urge to fidged from sitting there so long. "I would love to learn that. Who wouldn't? You're, like, the very picture of class." Usually her teenage hormones are a bit less circumspect. USUALLY adults only come in two flavors: hot and old because 'eeew'. Somewhere, Emma fit herself into the third pocket: admiration. Either way, whatever Jada might be, she's nothing if not expressive!
"If you start with nothing, you have to deal with having nothing. If you start with plenty, it makes it hard to value things." Pause. "That's what all the TV specials say anyway." Either way, Jada very much is a product of love, even if it took some strange decisions and paths to get her here. "This is a hard question to ask, but… I suppose if I have it, I'd better, or I didn't learn anything. Um…" She fidgets,"… am I… is there something wrong inside me? Because of the way…. you-know… THAT made me feel." She's referring to how very good seeing her captors gunned down felt. Disturbed by the fact that she LIKED seeing it happen.
Still, as for regular sessions… "I'll make sure to show up. I think… I think today is kind of a glaring example of what happens when you ignore your schedule. This means a lot to me. Really, it does."
There is a mart of Emma that cannot help but preen, inwardly, in pleasure at Jada's words and the genuine sentiment included; she is pleased beyond all reason that her students view her this way, because such is the fulfillment of exactly who and what she wants to be and exemplify, for them and for herself. "I will be sure to include those lessons in our work together." Emma promises Jada, with again that ghost of a genuine smile.
Emma shakes her head, firmly. "No, Ms. Doakese. There is nothing wrong inside you, that your visions of seeing your captors so brutally put down brings you some measure of pleasure. That you find your reaction disturbing and distateful does you credit. But it is a natural, and quite human, reaction. You were weak, physically, incapable of standing up for yourself or revenging yourself upon those who were taking quite perverse pleasure in torturing and ruining you. But someone showed up, and did it for you. And you watched them suffer, and watched them snuffed out, knowing they could never hurt you or anyone else, ever again. If /some/ part of you did not find some pleasure in that, /then/ there would be something wrong with you." OK, admittedly, this is not the way Charles Xavier would handle this pep talk. But Old Baldy isn't here. He's holed up on Genosha palling around with Magneto. He put Emma in charge, and Emma is going to handle this her own way. So there!
"I am aware that it means a great deal to you that I was here this evening." Emma offers, smiling as she arises from her chair and comes around her desk with grace and poise, reaching out to #1 to take her hands - natural and prosthetic alike - and lifting her from her seat. "And it means a great deal to me, Ms. Doakese, that you came to me, and that you would allow me to help you, guide and comfort you. That is my purpose, my reason for being here." Emma turns, making purposeful contact with each of the Jadas, one at a time; she acknowledges each one as a complete and whole person, for all that they may be reflections of the original. "Do you think you will be able to sleep, later? If not, I can assist you with that. Rest is one of the best ways to begin the healing process."
Well, that's probably a shock and a half for herself! Everyone likes being admired and all that. Few people expect to be told that watching human suffering like that could possibly be okay. So when she gets what basically amounts to the go-ahead… Well, from someone she admittedly already respects, it carries a disproportionate weight. That yawning gulf she metaphorically stands next to gapes all that much more wider, with actual encouragement. Even so… they're healing words, of a kind. Like magic, almost, a little bit of the guilt dribbles away, and she feels… added warmth attach itself ot the memory. "I… really? So feeling this way is… right?" Not what she was expecting from an educator at all.
The girl is surprised to have actual physical contact. From the warm soft real hand, the prosthetic. It makes her expression suddenly come across as… demure, and shy. "If you were nothing else, Miss Frost, you'd still shine as a beacon of stability." Indeed, right or wrong, the girl's mind DOES hone in on the Emma as a source of inspiration and stability. While not, perhaps, the warmest person ever, Emma has a certain strength of backbone her own parents lacked during her upbringing. "I… I won't hesitate to come to you again in the future, then." Emma did a good job, after all, of not scaring her away. And they seem to enjoy the reassurance of physical contact, however much it may or may not be expected. As for resting? Well. "I don't know. I'll certainly try." Truthfully, though? Sleeping when these memories are so vivid? Not the easiest for her. "Sometimes I have some trouble, but… it's so close to Friday. Don't go to too much trouble on my behalf. I know I'm already taking up a lot of your time."
"It is often said by some that no feeling is wrong." Emma answers. "I am, perhaps, not quite that open-minded or accepting. But I can say this: to have the feeling is not wrong. To see it, acknowledge it, accept it as a part of your whole self, is not wrong. To dwell upon it, to be consumed by it? That is a different thing entire." Emma twists her lips in a wry moue. "Moderation and balance in all things. Yes, you find release and even joy in their destruction. It was a sort of justice, after all. But so too, you are disgusted by the butchery. Grateful for the salvation it provided, but still disturbed by it. You have no desire to be a part of that kind of butchery yourself, nor to ever require it done on your behalf again if you can avoid it. These too are valid, and just as much a part of the whole of who you are, and who you should be." And isn't that more the lesson one would expect from an educator?
"You need not concern yourself with my time, Ms. Doakese. I am quite capable of concerning myself quite enough with that all on my own. You worry, instead, with what you are best equipped to worry over: Your well-being. Your heart. Your mind. Your spirit." A telepath, Emma, and still she acknowledges all three exist, and as different - if inherently tied - concepts and realities. Emma touches each of the Jadas in turn, as she gently inserts an unspooling post-hypnotic suggestion. It will take a few hours to fully unspool, but it should gently but firmly put each of them to sleep when the time comes, and should keep them asleep through a full REM cycle. There are real benefits to a telepathic Headmistress. And no drugs! "Try your best to sleep. I promise, this will be much easier with the strength sleep can provide. And it can be surprising what dreams can help you work through."
Who knows? Maybe accepting it will be one of her earliest steps towards healing. Maybe it'll lead to darkness. The advice she gets is nothing if not balanced. It's a real enough smile, though that finds her face. Perhaps THIS lesson is a little more comforting BECAUSE it's a little closer to what she expects? Either way, at least one thing has loosened its grip on her. Now if only she could get rid of the rest of the specters hanging over her. "There's no grace in butchery. At best, only purpose and practicality." She chews on that mentally, wondering where she came by that statement, exactly.
"I'm sorry. I suppose I'm a little bit of a worrier at heart." She fixes an almost apologetic smile on the woman… Unaware of the exact nature of the implanted suggestion, she'd nonetheless probably be very grateful for it when the time comes. "Um… Thank you, by the way. A lot. I don't know what I'd do without you." This is, after all, outside the bounds of what traditional therapy has come to expect. Still, she turns towards the door,"Sleep well, Miss Frost. I mean that. We're really lucky to have you here." And so genuine, too!
Jada Doakese
Short. Closing in on around five feet, she's diminutive. At a taller height, she'd probably be considered lanky. As it is, she mostly just comes off slender. With big blue eyes, she's a bit too angular of feature to be really very pretty or exceptionally feminine in appearance. One side of her head is completely buzzed, with her long hair folded over on one side. A quartet of silvery studs march up the shell of her left ear, while wide eyes and a cleft chin give her something of a genuine expression
She wears a cleanly pressed , albeit untucked white blouse with long sleeves and an unbutton black blazer, an X-shaped crest of sorts on the left breast pocket. Her black skirt is surprisingly long, covering even ankles in a rarer display of modesty. Still, a pair of small black heels allows her a little bit of boost to hight. Around her neck is wrapped a red scarf with gold trim. As there are six of her, she usually has a black armband with red block numbers 1-6. They all wear white gloves in addition. All in all, the effect does admiral work making the most of her modest curves.
Emma Grace Frost
A vision of beauty, poise and grace now before you to feast your eyes, this stunning woman makes such a striking and commanding first impression that many can't tear their eyes away no matter how impolite it may be to stare. At just an inch or so shy of a full six feet in height - and that before adding the seldom-absent high heels - her willowy and sumptuous form is the equal to or envy of supermodels and the like, with platinum blonde hair perfectly coifed by one of today's best hairstylists and pale ice blue eyes that sparkle almost luminously. Her complexion is flawless, the healthy creamy pink unmarred by sun, strain or age. And her body's tone and shape are the kind of idealized miracles that have sent generation after generation of women in search of new and better ways to use and abuse themselves in vain to come anywhere close to the like. Her face's features are the perfected high cheek bones, small pert nose, symmetrical eyes, thinly arched and sculpted eyebrows, and full, ripe lips that are often called aristocratic, and given this lady's clear and firm control over herself and seemingly everyone else around her, that title is all too fitting.
A woman of such calculated perfection would not wear anything less than the absolute best, and this beauty is no different. Indeed she would seem to be the penultimate expression of that very truth. The outfit of the moment is quite obviously - to those with the experience to note such details - specifically designed and tailored to fit her and to enhance her best features. An unstructured white single-breasted jacket of raw silk covers a shimmering satin-finish pale blue silk chemise, and the top of her matching raw silk white pants. Her feet rest in a pair of open-toe white leather mules with two inch heels. Her ears are graced with a pair of dangling diamond earrings that easily cost a fortune each, and match the diamond chain choker about her neck set with a single pale blue lapis cameo at the nape of her throat. All in all, this woman doesn't just look like a million bucks. She looks like she alone is a million or two and she's wearing a few million more.
Office 1 - Xavier Mansion
This is a generous sized office. The lower half of the walls are a burnished blonde wainscoting with the upper half decorated with a pale blue multi-hued colored textured wallpaper. Covering the floor is a plush carpet that matches the wallpaper.
Tasteful landscape paintings hang in a cluster on the right wall and against the wall to the left is an eggshell white fabric-covered sofa with another painting hung above depicting the New York City skyline.
In front of the office door are a couple of wingback chairs in eggshell white that face a gleaming neo-modern chrome and glass desk on which sits a holographic projection monitor and other desk things. Behind the desk is a white leather chair and a broad credenza decorated with plants, personal photos and books, beneath the wide window to the outside, flanked by two hutch tops.