Fooling the sheep

The next Quiet Council meeting was a masterpiece of deception.

The grand chamber, grown from Krakoa’s living wood and pulsing with faint bioluminescent veins, hummed with the usual undercurrent of telepathic conversation. Members filed in and took their assigned seats around the four tables representing the island’s seasonal quadrants. Charles Xavier glided in at the head, his expression calm but weary. Magneto stood stoically beside him. Kitty Pryde shuffled papers with her usual efficiency, while Nightcrawler offered a polite nod to those entering.

Then he arrived.

Sebastian Shaw — or rather, the perfect duplicate assumed by one of Mystique’s eldest sons — strode into the chamber with that signature swagger. His tailored black suit was impeccable, the blood-red tie knotted with precision, and the heavy gold signet ring glinted under the organic lighting. He moved exactly as the real Shaw would: broad shoulders rolling with self-importance, chin lifted, a faint smirk playing on his lips as though the entire world existed merely to amuse him.

“Apologies for the delay,” the impostor announced in Shaw’s cultured, slightly nasal baritone, waving a dismissive hand. “Scheduling conflicts and some particularly sour deals with our human suppliers. You know how those baseline insects can be — always sniffing around for weaknesses to get a better deal.” He dropped heavily into his seat at the Spring table beside Emma Frost, crossing one leg over the other with theatrical flair. “Where were we? Ah, yes, the latest batch of pharmaceuticals. I trust we’re still price-gouging the Europeans appropriately?”

No one batted an eye. Kitty Pryde rolled hers but said nothing. Nightcrawler offered a mild frown at the casual disdain. Magneto steepled his fingers, ever the picture of restrained menace. At the Autumn table, a flawless duplicate of Destiny took her seat, her face unreadable, moving with Irene’s exact measured grace. At the Winter table, Selene’s proxy settled in with regal poise, idly toying with a string of blood-red pearls around her neck.

No one suspected a thing.

Xavier, however, tilted his head slightly. “Sebastian… are you quite well? Your mind feels… unusually guarded today.”

The false Shaw leaned back, flashing a toothy grin. “The last deal I made, the blasted knuckle dragger hired a telepath of his own to make sure I was honest. Charles, I’ve taken certain precautions to make sure that any of the human companies don’t look too closely at how we live. Can’t have every telepath poking around in my skull, can I? Bad for business.” He chuckled exactly as the real Shaw would — rich, condescending, and utterly convincing.

Xavier’s brow furrowed for a moment, but he accepted the explanation with a slow nod. Surface thoughts matched perfectly with what he said. Deeper probes, however, met a slick, reinforced mental barrier — courtesy of Mystique’s innate mental camouflage and Emma’s refined telepathic influence. Nothing overt enough to raise real alarms.

Emma Frost sat beside the false Shaw, the picture of icy professionalism in her pristine white ensemble. Outwardly, she projected cool detachment. Inwardly, she was savouring every delicious second of the irony. Through the invisible psychic link binding her to Mystique, she sent a pulse of wicked amusement:

They’re all here. Your boys are performing flawlessly. Even Xavier only grazed the surface.

Back in their sprawling, ever-expanding home, Mystique lounged like a satisfied goddess on the oversized sectional. A silk robe barely contained her towering eight-foot frame. The real Irene nestled against her left side, one hand idly tracing circles over Mystique’s taut abdomen, while the real Selene lounged on her right, lazily kissing up her neck.

Mystique’s yellow eyes were half-lidded in pleasure as she experienced the Council meeting through multiple perspectives at once — through her sons’ eyes and Emma’s sharp observations.

“Perfect,” she purred, her voice husky. “Not a single crack.”

Irene smiled, her foresight confirming smooth paths ahead. “Xavier is uneasy, but he’ll dismiss it as resurrection side effects. They suspect nothing.”

Selene licked her lips. “Mmm. I almost wish I could be there in person to watch them fawn over my puppet.”

Mystique’s grin widened, fangs glinting. Through the link, she sent a silent command to her sons: Push the Orchis agenda just enough to keep them distracted. Sow the seeds.

The false Shaw laughed theatrically at something Kitty said, slapping the table with outrage at “human interference.” The false Destiny offered a perfectly timed cryptic remark. The false Selene purred an appropriately dark comment about “appetites.”

At home, Mystique pulled Irene into a deep, possessive kiss while Selene’s hands roamed lower across her powerful body. Everything was falling into place. The Council was already theirs.