Ice Queen

After spending another night inside the moss-covered walls of the Holy Ghost Church, thankfully in a well-insulated sleeping bag he purchased, his mind churning with plans. The scent of must and old wood filled the air as he fixated on the problem of the telepathic juggernaut, Emma Frost. In her later years, she could keep up with the likes of Charles Xavier and Jean Grey, yet in this reality, she seemed to be in her early twenties—likely twenty-three; he estimated. He expected she wasn’t as powerful at the moment. Additionally, he knew how her powers worked.

As soon as lunchtime began, Peter rushed through the clamoring of chattering students and clinking cutlery as he searched for Ben. Fortunately, he found him walking toward the library, and quickly caught up to him. The twins walked down the hallway as Peter probed him for more information.

“What would happen if I faced off against a powerful mutant?” Peter asked, concerned about the worst-case scenario.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you died,” Ben callously answered.

Feeling his frustration grow by how dismissive and arrogant Ben could be, Peter pressed on. “Are they hiding their powers?”

“That is the protocol we are embedding in their thought process,” Ben answered, his tone clinical and detached. “I wonder if you’ve realized how truly dangerous enhanced individuals can be. I’m certain you never faced an agent, but until Mr. Anderson, none of your kind had ever lived to tell the tale. We won’t help you stay alive, Mr. Pie. This is what you wanted. Enjoy it to the fullest.”

Setting aside the life and death stakes, Peter asked, “How am I supposed to enjoy this when I’m broke as fuck and MJ has no idea I even exist?”

Tilting his head back, as if to consider his response, the enigmatic Ben answered, “Humans only appreciate their lives once they’ve put effort into it.” Turning to Peter and eying him in challenge, he asked, “Have we overestimated your capabilities, Mr. Pie, or do you simply enjoy whining?”

Without caring to hear a response, Ben turned on his heels and left. Clenching his fists, an irate Peter hated his twin even more.

Navigating the bustling streets on his way to ESU, Peter stopped to purchase essential items necessary for dealing with Emma Frost: an R.F.I.D. Reader & Writer, a black hooded sweater with a red inner lining, a twenty-four pack of cell batteries, a sheet of pliable rubber, a handful of transistors, and a spool of electrical wire. His wallet was considerably lighter after the transaction, the last of his recent earnings now exchanged for tools that’ll set him up for a better life.

In the monotonous hum of one of ESU’s many study halls, Peter seized the opportunity to take Ryan’s laptop when the stereotypical jock stepped out to use the bathroom. Peter’s finger tapped away at the laptop faster than a woodpecker burrowing into a tree. The soft clicks of the keyboard filled the air as the young genius effortlessly replicated Ryan’s ID, infiltrated the university’s network, and granted himself all-access clearance in the brief window of time before an amped-up Ryan could stumble back.

The way Ryan rubbed his nose and looked overly alert made Peter wonder if he took drugs while he was away. With another crisp hundred in his pocket, Peter left the study hall for their well-equipped engineering facility and labs. He moved with singular purpose, ignoring the other students in the lab since he wouldn’t need more than a few hours to work.

Peter’s understanding of telepathy was critical to blocking Emma’s gift. He understood that the brain-to-brain interface of a telepath was made possible because of the way brain-cell-to-brain-cell communication occurred via synaptic transmission—chemical signals passing between cells resulting in electrical spikes in the receiving cell. Synaptic transmission formed the basis of all brain activity, including motor control, memory, perception, and emotion. Because cells were connected in a network, brain activity produced a synchronized pulse of electrical activity called brain waves.

The electrical nature of the brain allowed, not only for the sending of signals, but also for the receiving of electrical pulses. It was how the machines could manipulate human thought. Which was why Peter had gathered all the components he needed to make a special Faraday Cage equipped with the best frequency to block out the psionic energy telepaths used to read minds.

Measuring out the interior surface area of the sweater’s hoodie told him how much wire mesh he’d need. He removed the carbon rods from the batteries, smashed them into powder, adding water-based adhesive to make a paste, and spread a thin layer of it over the rubber sheet. Cutting open the hoodie, he slid the conductive, paint-covered rubber sheet in and then wired it to a battery-powered transmitter in his pocket.

Once done, Peter laid the hoodie on the table, ready to test the Faraday wire mesh sewn into the hood. He set the transmitter to the common fourteen to forty hertz range for brain waves, then placed a portable spectrum analyzer where his head would be before turning on an RF transmitter. The zero RF energy received on the screen was a good indication that a powerful telepath should have a difficult time reading his mind.

With a successful test, Peter’s fingers flew over the keyboard in a quiet corner of the campus, his screen illuminated with the city’s list of code violations for a commercial building. Recalling how plumbing issues could clear out entire sections of Zion, Peter scanned through the plumbing violations he could exploit, since commercial drainage systems often see more wear and tear than residential homes.

Satisfied with a solution to clearing out the building, Peter rushed over to the chem labs, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. The sharp, clinical smells of chemicals rushed up his nose as he entered an empty lab. With practiced ease, Peter combined glycine and alanine with 1,6-hexanediamine and sebacoyl chloride, stirring the concoction until it formed the strong, fibrous spider-fluid he needed.

That night in the church brought a sense of achievement that made the hard pew more bearable, and the next day, Peter made his way to the Roxxon-owned genetics lab with his sweater’s Faraday hoodie securely over his head. Though his heart raced, the nervous Peter dropped large dissolvable capsules of web-fluid in all the bathrooms he could gain access to.

Anxiety gnawed at Peter the entire time he was in the building, unsure if or when he ran into Emma Frost. Even with his trust in the psionic blocker, he preferred to steer clear of her entirely. Being able to ogle at her beauty wasn’t worth the risk of her learning the truth about the world. There was no telling how she would react to such a revelation, and the possibility that Agents would try to eliminate her was high.

Twenty minutes after deploying his plan, Peter dialed the city’s public health inspector. He lodged a complaint from the charming courtyard that graced the building’s entrance, reporting that all the bathrooms for the entire four-story building were clogged. Within an hour, the Building Inspector had arrived on the scene, and it wasn’t long before a mandate was issued, compelling employees from each company to evacuate. The building stood empty, access denied to all until the plumbing issue was resolved.

As Peter was immersed in his mental calculations for synthesizing a solution, a sexy voice from behind him sliced through the silence, jolting him back to the present. “And who might you be?”

The sudden intrusion made his heart leap into his throat, but worse than the shock, Emma Frost was standing behind him, regarding him with an inquisitive tilt of her head, her eyes sharp with curiosity. Her entire outfit—pencil skirt, plunging neckline blouse, and high heels—was gleaming white under sunlight, and hugged her voluptuous form in a manner that was nothing short of erotic.

The air was subtly charged with the scent of her perfume, a provocative fragrance that hinted at complexity and allure. Her frosty blond hair, smooth and lustrous as silk, cascaded around her face—a face that held a beauty so striking it would stand out even among the most gorgeous of models.

Looking at him like a peculiar zoo animal, Peter could only think to mumble, “…h-hello,” before sitting back down and pretending to play with his phone.

Emma’s attention drifted to his hoodie as she walked around Peter, remarking with her sweet and alluring tone, “This is something I’m not accustomed to.”

Behind her, an older man with graying hair, evidently wealthy—judging by his attire—and entirely captivated by her, tried to draw her attention. “Dr. Frost?” he called out.

“Quiet Philip,” she dismissed without so much as a glance back, her focus fixed solely on Peter. She slid into the seat opposite him, and, intentional or not, leaned forward as she studied him, giving him a spectacular view of her ample cleavage. Peter’s cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and unwanted desire as he momentarily imagined gripping her large C-cup breasts. She was one of the women that kept him going through his month-long torture. He could feel how much he wanted her.

“There’s a reaction I understand quite well,” she hummed, her crystal blue eyes peering through him. “But what I’m having difficulty with is… trying to get a read on you. I’m usually very good at it.”

“She really is,” Philip zealously chimed in, singing her praises in hope of getting her attention. He took a seat as well and continued, “In one session, it was like she knew everything about me.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Speaking of,” she said, turning to Philip. With a sweet smile, she added, “I do believe our session is over. We’ll continue this next week. And do say hello to Sheila for me.” She then completely ignored the besotted man, who lingered in silent reluctance before finally shuffling away. “My name is Emma Frost,” she said.

Recalling all of her appearances across print or film, Peter knew she was a woman who saw the majority of the world as a giant chessboard, filled with billions of pieces ripe for manipulation. He knew she conducted herself with a personal code, but she wasn’t above taking as she needed with extreme prejudice. Her only redeeming qualities were her desire to teach her students, her desire to protect them at all costs, and her rather strong marriage to the honest and good Scott Summers. This incredibly attractive woman was one person he definitely didn’t want to associate with, and yet, due to his shielding, she didn’t appear to want to leave him alone.

“I’m Peter,” he reluctantly returned, though in his mind, he was eager to escape her orbit.

“Peter,” she hummed, adding, “strong name.” Her sweet voice only made him feel trapped by her palpable allure. “Tell me, Peter, what would you say brought a handsome young man, such as yourself, to that very chair, sitting in front of me just as my last appointment ended? Do you believe in destiny?”

Peter did not want to have a long conversation with her and opted to dissuade her with blunt, unappealing, honesty. “Miss Frost-”

“Call me Emma,” she interjected.

“I don’t want to,” Peter replied, with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Oh?” she returned, growing more amused by his demeanor. “And why’s that?” she playfully asked.

With a sigh, Peter replied, “With all due respect, I’d rather not talk to anyone right now.”

“Girl troubles?” she inquired, seemingly amused by the entire exchange. “Care for a bit of advice?”

Peter tried to dissuade the conversation by informing her, “I’m seventeen, Miss Frost.”

It did nothing to deter her as she smiled and replied, “I see you know the legal age of consent in New York City.”

‘Shit,’ he thought with concerned eyes, making her smile.

Taking the cue and trying a different angle, he stated, “look, I just want to lose my virginity before I graduate. So unless you want to help me with that, you can leave.”

“Oh, come now. You can do better than that,” she starts, tilting her head as she observes his hoodie covered crown, adding with a knowing smirk, “you strike me as a very smart young man.”

Peter held in his breath as he hesitates to remark, “I don’t know what you mean…”

“Fine,” she accepts with a regal shake of her blond head. Almost as if to call his bluff, she asks, “shall we go to the privacy of my office?”

Peter didn’t want to go anywhere private with such a dangerous woman. “… the building’s being evacuated,” he managed to convey.

“Is that what’s going on?” she asked with genuine curiosity, looking at the building being evacuated. “As wealthy as Mr. Ramsey is, for some reason, he enjoys speaking outside.”

“Yeah,” Peter weakly replied. “I was waiting to be interviewed when they asked us all to leave. I’m just waiting to see when we can go back in.”

Nodding a moment, she tilted her head toward the parking lot and asked, “How about my car, then? It’ll be a little cramped, but I’m certain we can make do.”

“I’m seventeen,” Peter repeated, but it didn’t seem to spark any reaction from her. She eyed him as if asking, ‘and?’ A flustered Peter blurted, “You- you’re not serious,” before suddenly understanding she wants to get him naked, or at the very least, get his hoodie off, baring his mind to her. Her intelligence may not be on his level, but she knew how to maneuver to get what she wanted. He may only be a teenager to her, but figuring out why she can’t read him seemed to be an important point of pride for her.

“I’m quite serious, actually,” she says, moving the neckline of her blouse so more of her cleavage was visible. She stopped just shy of showing her pink nipple and Peter was instantly hard—unimpressed by it as he was.

His heart racing, Peter too a deep, calming breath, trying to retain control—regain discipline—as he argued, “I-I don’t think you are. I don’t think you’re being genuine at all and I’m tired of being taken advantage of. I’m tired of the games you women play and I don’t know what you want, but you’re not getting it from me!”

“What I want? Me?” she repeated with growing amusement. “Peter, you’re the one who wanted to lose your virginity. Or could that have been a lie?” Peter said nothing, and Emma only smiled as she happily continued toying with him. “If you must know, I’m rather partial to brunet men with glasses. Even five years younger, I find you attractive, and as a sex therapist, I’m certain I can teach you a whole host of very fun things. So when you solicited me for sex, I couldn’t think of a single reason to say no.”

‘Shit, I can’t get away,’ he thought, trying to look around her allure and drown out the sweetness of her voice with the reality of the situation. “A guy like me would never be with a girl like you, not really,” he declared with confidence. “I can tell you’re someone who uses their sex appeal like armor and their intellect like a sword. You wouldn’t stop at using people like tools. I’ll have one night and you’ll get-”

“That’s right,” she interrupted, eying him much more sharply. He felt like he either pissed her off or made her more curious. In either case, she was much more lively. “You’ll have one unbelievably fun night! Where you’re mistaken is, I’ll have a very fun night as well. Women may have far more options than men, but that’s not to say we hold all the cards. Only the weak ones think we do. In truth, we each have our roles to play, and one is no less important than the other. After all, regardless of gender, sex is an important part of one’s life and mental well-being. I can feel your raw desire for me, Peter, and that vulnerability is cute enough for me to say yes.”

‘An I.Q. north of three hundred with near perfect recall and I can’t think of a single way to get around this,’ his mind screamed. His inexperienced and nervous heart yelled, ‘delay, delay, delay! I’m not ready for the real thing!’ Peter swallowed as he took out his phone and stated, “One night with someone, no matter how ridiculously beautiful she is-”

“Aww,” Emma interjected with an alluring smile.

“Or how amazing it would be,” he tried to continue when she cut in again.

“It certainly would be,” she teasingly interjected.

After a long, trying sigh, he emphasized, “It won’t be meaningful.” Feeling confident in his line of deflection, he added, “That’s a temporary distraction, which is basically running away. If you want real vulnerability, then we can exchange numbers-”

Emma smoothly took his phone—making him hate his slow reflexes—and quickly put her number in, explaining, “this is my personal number,” then stuns him when she takes a selfie of herself from a high angle with practiced ease, pulling enough of her white blouse to show her amazing cleavage and a hint of her pink nipple in the photo. “Your phone is atrocious, but that’s a cute pic,” she said in approval before sending it to herself, and then returning his phone. “Till next time, Peter.”

As Emma finally left, Peter exhaled a deep sigh of relief, letting all the tension he held in drain from him. The only other time he felt so on edge was when the Machines were torturing him. After regaining his equilibrium, he was happy to note the psionic shield worked. Curious, he eagerly checked his phone’s gallery and nearly chuckled upon seeing that she wrote ‘Queen Frost’ as her contact name, but his reaction shifted to a sharp gasp at the sight of her seductive selfie. A part of him knew he was going to be using her image for later. Despite the dangers that Emma Frost represented, there was no denying her unfair sexiness.

‘But she can’t be trusted,’ a clearer mind rationalized.

With this thought, he changed her contact name to a more formal ‘Miss Frost.’ In a pathetic way, he couldn’t find the strength to delete the alluring photo. The thrill of having a figure like Emma Frost, one of his favorite superheroines and a frequent character in his programs, was simply too potent to dismiss lightly. It was an internal struggle of principles throughout the entire time he waited for the building to empty. Peter feigned forgetting something to gain re-entry, then concealed himself until nightfall.

Regardless, it wouldn’t have mattered if he did delete the photo since she sent him a Good Night picture, captioned, ‘sweet dreams,’ with a sleepy and heart emoji. This selfie was even more erotic than the first one. The camera angled down, capturing her entire posed body in bed with her toned legs pressed together, highlighting the roundness of her sexy hips, and except for the rumpled white bedsheets just barely covering her voluptuous assets, she was nude. A tired yet focused Peter stopped working on the solution to go to the lab’s bathroom and rub a few out.