Pre-Tour Stress Disorder (Slate)

Slate was beginning to understand what different clothing items signaled. In fact, he believed he was developing quite an expertise in the area.

A gray suit, bought at a mid-range price, said I feel that you are an important person to meet, but am not trying to intimidate you with clothing far superior to your own.

A blue shirt underneath added a bold color, clearly communicating I am an open and trustworthy individual; you are in good hands.

Black loafers stated, I also have a casual side. Our probability of becoming friends is high based upon data I have collected concerning loafer-wearing men in my approximate age group.

He carried, of course, the usual paperwork: map, registration papers, roommate matching questionnaire, power destructiveness survey, etceteras. He had slipped all of it into a clean new folder with an Xavier's Sister School for Gifted and Talented Youngsters pen, for the convenience of their new resident. He had put this all together with less than a half hour's warning—the regularly scheduled tour guide for this afternoon had, unfortunately, been turned into a pile of sentient slime during a particularly lively Danger Room session, and was last seen sulking in the ventilation system. Given the short time frame, he was quite pleased with the results he had been able to produce. The new student would no doubt feel optimally welcome.

He opened the front door, and strode with a proper degree of ease and a well regulated smile to greet—

"Kaitlyn."

Slate's feet ceased moving of their own accord as he recognized the girl coming towards him. She was carrying a metal briefcase, a backpack, a suitcase—luggage. Why was she carrying luggage?

Ah. Of course.

"You are the new student."

In the future, he must inquire the name of any new student he was to greet. The importance of such had just been qualitatively highlighted.

"...Did your mother bring you?"

He clutched his carefully prepared folder to his chest; this said the correct answer is 'No.'

Slate did not squirm: he simply contracted, like a caterpillar that was not expecting to be poked. His shoulders found his head to be closer than before; his elbows and his ribcage, likewise. His hands more firmly gripped the folder protecting his chest.

"That is an inaccurate term to describe our acquaintanceship," Slate stated calmly. "I would prefer if you called me Slate." Especially once they were inside of the building. While Katrina had been quite understanding about their "date"—she had been the one to arrange the auction, after all—she was still... a woman. Women could be illogical on occasion, particularly with regards to sensitive social standings.

"I am your Mansion Greeter." Slate said. "This is what Greeters wear."

...Wasn't it? He looked down at his suit, and his loafers.

"...Why are you at the Mansion?" He asked. This is what was known as a 'redirect.'

Her reasons were logical enough. Multitudinous enough, as well. Also, it really did appear that she was alone here: there was not even anyone to help with her luggage. As her mother was not the most subtle of individuals, he found it safe to assume that Lori Faust was not hiding behind any of the lawn's shrubs.

"Your 'stuff'? Ah. I suppose that would be appropriate," he assented, tucking the folder under one arm, and taking the handle of the suitcase from her.

It was also appropriate, in his trusted role as Mansion Greeter, to carry on their conversation as they continued up the walk to the doors.

"Is this your first visit to the Mansion?" He inquired. "How long do you indeed to stay?"

"For those with a non-standard educational background, there are placement tests to determine grade levels. Calley had to do them, when we first came. Calley and I," Slate corrected. As separate people, he and Calley naturally would have both taken these tests. Separately.

"Depending on your prior learning, you may not end up placed in the same level for all classes. I was placed significantly higher in mathematics. Do you have a subject area you favor?"

Psychology, perhaps? Unfortunately, 'manipulation' had yet to be split into its own field of study at the Mansion. Perhaps that was different at the Sanctuary; she had certainly displayed a certain finesse for it on their auction date.

In his capacity as Greeter—not to be confused as his capacity of 'one night paid-for boyfriend'—Slate held the door open for Kaitlyn.

The Mansion looked large and regal from the outside.

From the inside, much more so, on both counts.

...Yes. People did remember those kinds of injuries. Even if they got better, and even if they had been apologized to most sincerely. After the running, of course.

Slate had organized bombings, attacks on military bases, and set himself up as a drug lord, yet he had never come quite so close to being arrested as for aiding and abetting property damage.

"It would be better if you did not," Slate stated levelly. He set her suitcase down on the entry rug, and closed the door behind them. With the greatest of sensitivity to her mutational condition, he refrained from sighing. Though it would have felt appropriate at this juncture.

"...However, it would certainly not be the first time that an accident occurred. To my knowledge, the Mansion has burned down twice, and been the site of neural bombings and mass hallucinations, among other things. You are not the most dangerous person here. The Mansion exists to teach responsible control in a non-judgmental environment."

"Extorting your fellow residents into using their powers unjustly is frowned upon, however."

People remembered those kinds of things, as well. Slate picked up her suitcase again, and led the way up the central staircase.

"Come this way. We can leave your luggage in the guidance office."