Disclaimer: All the characters, save Beatrice, are property of the Marvel=
Comics Group.  

PG-13 for some oblique sexual content but nothing graphic.  

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Unemployed
by Indigo
_________________

*I can't go outside.  If I go outside that door, the world will come to an
end.*

*All right,* she admitted to herself,  *that's not precisely true. But
close enough.*

She had been fine.  Perfectly fine.  She had been wearing her black livery
and behaving with practiced, seamless, flawless decorum -- serving her
simultaneous role as secretary, chauffeur, advisor, maid, concubine, and
all-around Girl Friday when it had happened. 

Whatever *it* had been.

She had been scanning on the astral plane with careful fascination. It had
been a talent she had only recently cultivated over the past few years
with painful effort, because it made her more useful. She had not been as
strong as many other telepaths. There were many she could think of off the
top of her head for whom such an undertaking would have been as effortless
as breathing:  Jean Grey, and the boy Nate who also bore her surname;
Elizabeth Braddock, the ninja telepath who went by the nom de guerre
Psylocke; Emma Frost, once known as the White Queen, now teaching a bunch
of up-and-coming X-Men-to-be.  

*I wonder how they are faring. Did this lancet of energy through the astral
cleave their minds, tear asunder their souls, and leave nothing in its
wake but a cauterized hole in the psyche where once had resided a vibrant
part of them?*

She looked in the mirror.  Outwardly, there was no sign of her pain, and
the abyssmal, echoing silence she felt inside.  Outwardly, she was still
an exotically beautiful woman:  porcelain skin on an oval-shaped face.
Her perfect Cupid's Bow lips had a tiny beauty mark just to the left, on
her lower cheek. Her dark, almondine eyes were enviably long-lashed.  Her
black hair was shining with health,  devilishly thick, and carefully
coiffed into near-perfection.   It was slightly mussed now, from her
having fainted when the psi-bolt struck -- and struck her blind.  

Mindblind.

*Perhaps,* she thought, *They will not call me useless, not cast me aside
as worthless and less than nothing when they find out.* She laughed,
bitterly, miserably.  *You know better.  No matter *how* good you are at
your jobs -- your *mundane* jobs -- they will not care if you cannot
winnow out secrets from the heads of state and billionaire boys who come
to play in your employer's domain.* 

She squeezed shut her eyes on the tears.  *What will I do? I have been
trained for this life, this servitude, since he found me at age fourteen!*
She put her face into her hands.

There was a knock at the door.  "Dear? I heard you were feeling poorly,"
said  Beatrice, the cook.  "I've brought you some melba toast and tea."

"Thank you, Beatrice, but I -- I just couldn't," she replied, shaking her
head as she stared into the mirror.  "My stomach is in knots."

"Very well, child," Beatrice called through the door.  "Let me know if you
need anything.  And come see me tonight. I picked something up at the
drugstore, just in case." There was a shrewd, companionable tone in the
older woman's voice, then her steps faded into nothing as she left.

She laughed, realizing, *Beatrice thinks I'm pregnant!*  She sobered at
once, realizing it was only a guess -- a good one -- but nothing more. Had
she possessed her telepathy still, she would have known for sure what the
motherly woman thought.  Now -- she had had to guess.   For herself, this
was nothing. But she could not guess like that for her employer.  Not when
a wrong guess could mean his life.

The very idea was ludicrous, of course -- not just her being pregnant. She
was on the Pill, and her lover/employer insisted upon condoms and
contraceptive gel.  Still, she had never fainted in ten years of faithful
work.  *People will think what they want to think,* she realized,
remembering her own mother's advice.  *And there's nothing I can do about
it now.*

There was another knock at the door.   "Dear? Are you all right? I was told
you fainted." His voice carried what sounded like genuine concern.

She didn't doubt it -- if she were not well, he would need to find a new
concubine, a new administrative assistant, secretary,  driver, and
bodyguard.  *Answer him,* she told herself, but every time she opened her
mouth she could not bring the words to her lips.  

"You're worrying me,"  called the voice.  "Are you all *right*?"

She stood, smoothing her black uniform, and pressing her hair back into
place.  *You cannot hide this.  You might as well face him and tell him.*
Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room and opened the door.

"Hello, Sebastian," she whispered, eyes downcast.  "There...there is
something I need to tell you."

"Of course, my dear," Sebastian Shaw said solicitously, curling a
protective arm about her.  "You know you can tell me anything."