Charles wouldn’t say that he’d followed Nell and Kent from the ballroom, not in the traditional sense of espionage. He didn’t hide his presence, but he didn’t shout in the direction of the small and jerkily moving woman. She was livid, and Charles couldn’t read her beyond that. It made all association murkier than he liked. Even at Erik’s most frightening, Charles could reach into the other man’s mind and draw some sense of control. With Dr. Greene, it was as if staring at the polished surface of a mirror. There was nothing beneath it, just the reflection of what he cast upon it.
It was as damnable as it was exciting, frightening as it was breathtaking. Was this some sort of development by the CIA? Had they taken research from Cerebro and applied it to the protection of the mind?
Whatever it was, it was different from Shaw’s helmet. It didn’t leave him feeling cold, he didn’t feel the pressing need to obliterate the obstruction, it simply was. As natural to this woman as gills on a fish.
He was nearer to her assistant when he spoke, “Don’t worry Mr. Leigh, there’s nothing you can do about it. You needn’t trouble yourself, and you shouldn’t feel... guilty.” The poor boy’s arms were laden with equipment, and he moved at whipcrack speed despite it. Briefly, Charles reached out to verify that Jean was back in her room with Hank, and then refocused his attention to Kent. “May I help you with something?”