Xaviers!

Narrator wrote:"I formally request contact with the Symkarian Embassy, for extradition to my homeland" the Chameleon repeated. "Unless you plan on keeping a foreign national indefinitely in your 'holding cells'."

"I don't know, you got a passport on you? One with an UK entry stamp and that isn't fake? Seems to me like we got a case of not immediately verifiable identity claim due to mutant powers and that means the X-Men get to detain you until we can properly determine your identity and Symkarian citizenship." she says, having no idea if that provision exists in this time in this universe, but it sounds good anyway. "You did kind of commit some teensy-weensy crimes."

"I don't need to touch her," she nods.

"Katarina, we're here. We have the real sculptor here. I've checked his mind to be sure."

Tough McBlufferson wrote:"I don't know, you got a passport on you? One with an UK entry stamp and that isn't fake? Seems to me like we got a case of not immediately verifiable identity claim due to mutant powers and that means the X-Men get to detain you until we can properly determine your identity and Symkarian citizenship." she says, having no idea if that provision exists in this time in this universe, but it sounds good anyway. "You did kind of commit some teensy-weensy crimes."

"You wish to confirm my identity? Then you will contact the Symkarian embassy, forthwith. And until then, I shall sit silently in your holding cell, until justice comes out on top."

Real broken record, this guy.

Samantha McManus wrote:"Katarina, we're here. We have the real sculptor here. I've checked his mind to be sure."

Katarina's mind was going a million miles a minute.

What? Who? Who's there? Samantha? Is that you? I can hear you, but I can't hear you. Where are you? Is everyone alright? I can't see; I can't hear. Are you the one holding my hand? When did you learn Symkarian?

The imposter...he is stopped? Contained?

This is all my fault, I should have known that when he showed up early it wasn't him; I don't believe Jacques has been early for anything in his life. Nika normally checked all these things for me...

Mental communication doesn't have deep, shuddering breaths, but there was that same feeling of Katarina desperately trying to cling on to some control, to keep a brave face (poor choice of words) in front of someone from The Public; to be the Princess and not a scared young woman.

I thank you for rushing to our aid. I do not know what would have happened had you not shown up. I am...relieved, if I am the only one...injured by my error.

Katarina tried to think about other things, but the 'don't think about pink elephants' rule was very much in play here.

My former personal protector betrayed me to a different royal house, because she felt I was a poor fit for our country. And the strife that Symkaria is facing right now is because of that.

Whether "that" was Nika's betrayal or Katarina's 'poor fit' was vague, at best, perhaps even in Katarina's mind.

I believe you will find that...whoever this is was working for one of the revolting houses. A Svozilov, or a Toman, or possibly even a Sablinova offshoot. At least, I would hope they remain the only three united against us... she said, trying to distract herself -- and possibly Sam, too -- with the mechanics of what was going on, rather than the wound she was suffering -- either the physical one, or the emotional scar left behind.

Meanwhile Robin has decided to get the importer out of the room. Which in her case means she begrudgingly jumps into his pants and before King Chameleon can take advantage of the abandoned blowtorch, the belt-loop on the back of his pants has grabbed his arms by the wrist and his pant-legs are walking him out of the room. The pink glittery letters spelling 'JUICY' across his butt don't make an already undignified situation any better.

"I've got her as calm as I can, Mister Ciseleur. She can communicate through me. What do you need to get to work?"

"Time, mostly. I was prepared to do a quarter profile, not an entire bust. This may take me several days, which means I need to figure out what, if anything, I can do for the princess; I can't in good conscience leave her in darkness until I am ready!

I shall burn the candle at both ends, but it is better to do a good job her than a fast one."

"I'm not sure I can be here to help you the whole time. It might be better for me to put her into a dream state."

Jacques nodded. "While I am sure you would be compensated, I do not know how long this will take me, and having you stand around for goodness knows how long hardly seems like a practical use of one's time.

What would this, erm, 'dream state' involve?"

"Mostly I would just need to push her conscious mind back into her subconscious. It would be as if she was asleep, until you needed feedback from her. It'd be less traumatic, for her."

"Would she be hard to wake, even temporarily; or would we need an expert to help with that?" Jacques asked, considering his options.

"I'm just a student here," she admits. "If you'd feel more comfortable, there's a telepath on the faculty."

"That is not it, not at all; I just saw what you can do, remember?

I just...there are stories, about princesses and eternal slumber. No spindles will be involved, I take it?"

"I'm not from a fairy tale, Mister Ciseleur."

"Well, not one of yours, at least."

"You said I could get feedback from her when necessary? Some sort of trigger? If so, then go ahead; it is probably a mercy."

"I could make it so you tap her hand a specific number of times, perhaps."

Jacques nodded. "That would fit, yes. If you can do it, at least."

"Let's say three, so you don't do it by accident."

She closes her eyes and descends into Katarina's mind again.

The familiar mists of desecnding into one's mindscape -- the Karkov royal family was trained a little bit in defense, but nothing that would stop any telepath worth their salt.

And so Sam would find herself, on a cold winter's day, in an Eastern European town square. The obvious dominant structure here was a large marble building looming over everything, statues of lions flanking the door on both ends, and men in uniform standing at attention.

Once she's got her metaphorical feet under her, Samantha approaches the building at a brisk pace, trying to give off the air that she belongs here.

She wasn't going to be able to just waltz in without at least being stopped; not here, not without bluffing her way through. One of the men in uniform moved to intercept her.

<"Ma'am. Your ticket, if you please?"> he asked, in a gruff Symkarian accent.

"I'm on official business. Do you want to keep Her Highness waiting?" She arches a brow for emphasis.

<"I do not know what sort of 'official business' you could possibly have, but if you want to see Her Highness, you can pay your 25 francs like anyone else. We do not grant special favors in Symkaria; the rules apply to all.">

<"I don't care if you're here to shake the King's hand itself; no one gets in without a ticket.">

Sam's avatar frowns, and quietly behind her one of the flock sets down in an alleyway.

Shortly after, a convincing facsimile of Jez walks up to the steps.

"She's with me, boys."

With a sigh of disgust, the guard parted to let Sam through.

"You are being watched. Remember not to touch anything; the treasures of our kingdom are worth more than your life."

"Debatable, but noted," she says as she makes her way inside with the Jezulacrum.

Perhaps Sam was expecting a royal palace, or some kind of important-looking government building -- the security outside might indicate so.

But instead, she found herself entering a large atrium, lightly populated by people in suits and dresses milling about, taking in a number of displays and exhibits, talking in whispered tones. From the ceiling, a pair of banners with pictures of Katarina, in both human and golden forms, dominated the space, with practiced (if fake) smiles. They declared that the exhibition of the life and times of Katarina Karkov had been extended for the foreseeable future due to popular demand.

Portraits, photographs and statuettes of Katarina in a variety of different styles were on display here in the front room, but the display cases were filled with more mundane items -- personal possessions, handwritten notes, pages from her diary, articles of clothing, her student ID -- each with an important-looking card explaining what they were and their importance. A pen, sitting on an elevated cushion, was described as the implement Katarina had used to get a B+ on a math test, complete with the questions she had missed highlighted and explained. A cup, complete with the story of how she had accidentally knocked it over while at dinner with the Prince of Madripoor; something that might have been more embarrassing had the princess not been three years old at the time. An open copy of one of her favorite fantasy books, a passage highlighted and and critiqued for it's lack of originality and proper decorum.

Of course, not everything was quite so self-recriminating. There was a lovely little display of the Princess and her parents; a series of photographs of her at a very young age. Those abruptly stopped at about the age of four; the rest of the wall left ominously blank.

The general flow of traffic was headed back into the museum proper, through a couple passages where the main attractions and more recent additions could be found.

"A lot of people's ideas of her, but not a lot of her, aye?" Sam muses as she makes her way to the newer section.

Sam walked down the hallway immortalizing Katarina's awkward teenage years. Even golden princesses get zits, or awkward growth spurts, just like anyone else her age, and even the finest makeup artists and clothing designers in the kingdom couldn't hide all of it. It's just that most people don't have those moments depicted in 40-foot oil paintings, or in carefully explained diagrams encased in glass and put on display for all to see and observe. It wasn't all negative, mind you -- sprinkled in here and there were photographs of Katarina enjoying herself; copies of stories she had written that were awkward but well-intentioned; a small display of Nika-oriented materials, one of the few friends she had had. But, well, teenage years are awkward for anyone, and it was all on display here. That, itself, began to transition to more mutant-oriented things as it went along; presumably artifacts of Katarina trying to convince her father to let her go to university outside the welcoming, safe arms of Symkaria -- a Warhol-esque collection of paintings of Katarina in various X-uniforms from across the years being the centerpiece there.

Sam would overhear the patrons as she made her way through the ever-increasing crowds. Judgmental would be putting it mildly, though it wasn't all critical. It was just every minor piece of bric-a-brac; every fleeting thought and memory, being weighed, evaluated and dissected, for what it would mean for Katarina as a ruler, as a leader, as a judge, as a general, as Queen. Whether that was a representation of Katarina herself overanalyzing her situation or a reflection of actual real-world pressures placed upon her wasn't entirely clear; though it was clear that it wasn't entirely healthy.

The hallway came to an intersection, and then to an end. In front of Sam was the apparent destination of most of the crowds; a large open space, perhaps a converted ballroom. There were actual throngs of people surrounding some sort of glass case in the center of the room, though Sam would have to push through the crowd to see what was actually in there.

To either side of her, through the intersection, were a pair of closed doors; the first blocked-off parts of the museum she had come across. The lights were off in each hallway and were particularly unwelcoming, as the museum guided patrons towards the destination in the ballroom.