ᵀʰᵉ Diamond Standard

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November 21, 2022


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11/22/2022 07:58 PM 

Killer Queen

She's a Killer Queen
Gunpowder, gelatin
Dynamite with a laser beam
Guaranteed to blow your mind
Anytime

 


Lace upon gilding, velvet accented with gold. Opulence hardly seemed the appropriate word. Ostentatious was more fitting, perhaps. It was a mockery of a bygone era, bastardized to suit a fetishized idealism. To the tune of softly playing parlor music, a small social was being carried out. Antique furniture was violated by the scantily covered posteriors that rested upon them. Women were everywhere, their most intimate parts barely covered, but still readily available for the wandering hand's amusement. An even mixture of black and white themed corsets exaggerated their feminine forms, accented with sparkling jewels and their hair drawn back in a complex mixture of braiding and curls; they were too beautiful to be real, as though crafted by Pygmalion himself. Strewn about with glasses of champagne in hand, they flocked around the much smaller population of men. These gaggles laughed and fawned upon each man, treating him as though he was the most interesting human being in the world. And, in a sense, he was.

The Hellfire Club's roster was composed of the most powerful and influential people on the planet, after all. Politicians and captains of industry. The crème de la crème. The most upper crust of the upper crust. To be a member of the Hellfire Club was a prestige limited to only a few, inherited by others. Unbeknownst to most of these talking money bags, however, there was an organization within the organization. It was called the Inner Circle. Themed after a chessboard, the Inner Circle was divided into two courts: White and Black, with ranks ranging from King and Queen to Pawn. Though united in their ambition, the Courts often competed for control of the Inner Circle. It was a little game they played while covertly ruling the world. One such member was about to make her entrance into the social gathering. Unlike the sea of flesh, the White Queen was not some vapid arm adornment. Wearing a white lace mask, she remained--by comparison--overly dressed. Hair so blonde it bordered on white, her bobbed hair was the least of her appeal.

Alabaster skin and ocean blue eyes, she was a regal woman in her own right. But it was the clothes that truly made the woman. Her signature white corset hugged her frame while her pale shoulders were shrouded in a white, fur-lined cape. Thigh-high stiletto boots completed the White Queen's attire. The only thing missing was the coiled whip in hand--this wasn't /that/ kind of party, after all.  On her heels were two White Court attendants. Mirroring their mistress's all-white attire, they smoothed out the folds of her cape, making sure she looked pristine, least they suffered her wrath or her lash at a later time. Signaling the door should be opened, Emma Frost was one step away from making her grand entrance to the soiree when another White Court attendant came shuffling in. With minor annoyance, the White Queen gave the faintest of grimace, barely enough to dimple the corner of her mouth.

"Mistress, there is a phone call." The attendant stammered.

"I will take the call in my office."

With a click of her tongue, Emma turned back the way she had come in a sweeping wave of white. With a deft maneuver mastered over years of practice, she had unfastened her cape and tossed it at the interrupting attendant. Befuddled, the woman clawed wildly at the cape to gather it up against her chest, following behind the White Queen as she advanced down the dimly lit hallways of the Victorian mansion to the White Wing. This was Emma Frost's dominion within the Inner Circle. She was the highest-ranking member of the White Court and, to be quite honest, even if there were a sitting White King, she had seniority; this was her Queendom.

As one might expect from something christened the White Wing, it was white. While the style and coloration of the house itself remained consistent, the walls, drapery, and the overall décor was white and accented with silver or glass. Pushing open the door to her office, Emma set her eyes on the large mahogany desk to the phone. But no sooner had she stepped through the threshold, something blindsided her from the left. The momentum of being hit by what felt like a freight train sent the White Queen tumbling to the ground in a most undignified manner. Reeling from the blow, Emma barely had time to lift her head before the intruder was on her again. Her fist grabbed Emma by the hair on the crown of her head, invoking a sharp yelp as she grabbed wildly at the woman's wrist. But whatever she raked her nails against, it was not flesh. The surface ripped her nails up, even as she struggled to get any sort of traction against the impenetrable epidermis.

"Was I always this pathetic?"

Struggling to look upwards to get a look at this woman, the White Queen was met with herself. But not her. Older. And…shinny.

"I suppose this would be the part where I should say something profound, but, regrettably, I've been around the likes of the X-Men for the last decade or so. I'm reduced to the 'Come with me if you want to live' cliché."

Emma Frost, once and future White Queen of the Hellfire Club did something dangerous. But it was essential for the future. Or at least that is what she told herself. In truth, what she did was the result of a broken heart. Following behind Beast and his stunt bringing the original X-Men to their present, the telepath reverse-engineered his little time travel device. (This is an important lesson, children, never underestimate a blonde with a mission!) While she was seldom credited for her engineering prowess, Emma had invented her own Cerebro--a la Cerebra--and a device for swapping psyches. Programing the time machine, Emma added a special new feature: a tether that would return her to the present. Infiltrating the Hellfire Club was a cakewalk. All she needed to do was command the staff to look the other way, telepathy was handy like that! Luring in her younger self took even less effort. Once rendering the doppelganger unconscious, Emma telepathically summoned henchmen into the office. She silently commanded them to stand guard, no interruptions would be tolerated.

All the pawns were in place, the queen was in check. Emma then wheeled the other Emma to her desk, she was going to awaken with some dignity. "How young I was." She mused to herself, delicately moving a lock of hair from her other self's face. It was…unsettling…touching her own body with new fingertips. She was familiar with every curve, every crease, but it all felt so…alien.

"How much potential I failed to realize within myself." This all needed to fall into place just right. On her belt rested the time travel tether. Upon turning it on, she had exactly the time it took for it to boot up to pull the trigger on the body swap gun before her older body was jettisoned back to the future. Retrieving the White Queen's body swap gun, Emma aimed and pulled the trigger.  Imagine how she could change the future given the chance to do it all over again. But, this time, with the knowledge of the future.

...
...
...


The use of the body swap gun knocks the user and target out cold for a short time. It was a useful side effect, so she had never gotten around to possibly correct it. Slowly waking up, the White Queen needed a moment to orient herself. It was her body, but not entirely her body. It was younger, naive to the potential it carried--and truth be told, this was technically a different universe. Her muscles weren't as finely tuned as her (not all that much!) older body. She was still in fine shape, but Emma had to remember not to give in to the instinct to shift to her diamond form; how dependent she had become! Perhaps she should have flipped some relays in her new head to trigger her secondary mutation sooner than Genosha's massacre. Running her fingers through her hair, Emma smoothed her hair back before she grabbed the top of her corset and adjusted herself. Flashing a glance at the nearest shiny surface, she checked her make-up to make sure it betrayed nothing amiss. Bursting through the double doors of her office, the White Queen strolled past the stunned guards she had ordered into place. She kept marching, leaving the befuddled maids in her wake, as she marched right into the Hellfire gathering. Foregoing her usual pomp and pageantry many had become accustomed to raised eyebrows and garnered a few stray glances. Unmoved by their agitation in her disturbance of their amorous pursuits, Emma strolled right up to one stout, familiar frame. So adorned with women, he looked not all that dissimilar to the scene in Star Wars with that vulgar worm creatures. He certainly had the same level of appeal.

“Shaw, darling.” Emma crooned softly as she shooed away the eye candy. She reclined casually against his shoulder, offering him the delectable view of her ample bosom. “I require your presence in the White Hall. It’s an /urgent/ matter.” She curled the corners of her lips into a vulpine smile as she glanced at the ponytailed buffoon from under her lashes with all the charm of her “come hither” allure. The appeal of a quick dalliance with the White Queen was much too much for Shaw. She stood up, confident her bait had been taken--hook, line, and sinker. She sashayed through the room, her shapely form moving with the effortless grace of a queen with all the calculation of a jaguar on the hunt.

So eager was he that he nearly trampled some guests and their companions as he followed the vision in white away from the soft tones of music and frivolity to the seclusion of the White Queen’s apartment. What Shaw beheld at his arrival was the White Queen in all her splendid glory upon a sea of white bedding. She reclined like a Venus, arms strategically draped above her head on overstuffed pillows, her sensuous form stretched out across the length of the bed. How she got out of the absurdly restrictive corset and thigh-high boots in such a short amount of time mattered not, his lecherous gaze was set solely on the conquest of a queen. All but ripping his clothing from his form, Shaw advanced into the darkened room. Approaching the foot of the bed, his burning desire was very apparent. Gripping her ankle, Shaw pulled Emma downward. His mouth hungrily latched onto the alabaster flesh of her ankle. With a sweet smile on her lips, Emma played coy. She slipped her foot from his grip, curling back up at the head of her bed. Shaw began to climb onto the bed, liking this little game. Much to his misfortune, however, the pretend innocence was not the only game the White Queen was playing. As he approached her, the White Queen struck.

The psibolt knocked him off his feet. Shaw fell onto the bed and rolled. Gripping his head, dazed, the Black King struggled to get off the bed and to his feet. But no sooner did he lay foot on the ground, Emma struck again. Another psibolt, sending the revolting pig spiraling to the ground. Disoriented, hurting from the blows he could not absorb, Shaw lashed out for anything to grab hold of--a weapon, a tether, anything to allow him the comfort of knowing he had control of this situation.

Slipping casually off the bed, the White Queen came to stand over the struggling worm of a man, her face void of any emotion save one: triumph. To finally dispatch this horrid creature, something she should have done years ago--liberating! Drinking in this moment, savoring every last second, she finally struck one last time. Shaw's body went limp. Stepping past him, the White Queen began getting dressed. She had a party to attend.

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