Scheduled Social Interaction (Susan)

>> "You."

Her pigtails swung with vengeance. Her un-heeled boots stopped dead in front of him. Slate swayed slightly back as the finger prodded at his chest, blinking twice.

>> ... have never been a toad...
>> "... have a twin in the Mansion."

...These were two very different statements. Unrelated, however, he sensed they were not. He decided to answer the more externally verbalized of the pair. It occurred to him that the witch may not have intended for him to hear the former.

“Do I? I had thought he was living at the Sanctuary, recently. Unless he has moved again. Or I have gained another.” Knowing Calley, that second option was a valid possibility. He stated it as such. His completely honest tone could be taken as joking, however. That... would be good, if it was.

This meeting was clearly beginning incorrectly. Slate attempted a reset.

“I was informed that women like flowers.”

Said flowers were offered. The daisies swayed lightly in his hand, their white and yellow faces bobbing innocently up at her.

>> "He was living in my room, recently. For three days straight."

Slate tilted his head. “You should not let him do that, in the future. He is in the habit of never fully moving out. I suggest spraying his face with a water bottle, should he return.” He had heard that this was an effective technique against dogs and cats. Generalizing from that basis, he was fairly confident it would prove useful against any of Calley’s forms, human included.

His daises seemed to warrant close and repeated inspection. Belatedly, it occurred to him that witches had no use for flowers. If they arranged another meeting, he would try something else. Dried herbs, perhaps. Or would she find them more useful in planted form?

>> "So. Anything else I should know?"

Blink.

“Yes.”

Blink.

“Shall we go? I have made a reservation at a Japanese restaurant for seven o’clock.”

Slate held the door open. It was what men did for women.

((ooc: Kat and Noel are parallel-spying on this thread, in Flies on the Wall, and in Your Soup.))

Slate had never had Japanese cuisine, either. He had, however, had Chinese. It had proved surprisingly difficult to find an upscale Chinese restaurant, however. He trusted that the foods were similar.

This trust was betrayed by the menu.

The chopsticks he understood: the white rolled towel, given to each of them by their waiter, he did not. The food names were written in their native script with an English equivalent and descriptions below for the typical dinner’s convenience. Slate was appreciative of this fact. He would not have guessed that “tako” was “octopus.”

Baby blue eyes peeked over his own menu copy. “Is raw tuna safe to consume?” The healer asked, his voice low, so as not to attract their attentive waiter’s attention.

Slate’s glancing, though inconspicuous, seemed sufficient to attract their waiter’s attention. Also, the attention of the couple whose plates he had observed, and—possibly—a pair of eyeballs behind a potted plant.

“The lady is having the vegetarian ten-don—deep-fried vegetables over rice—and the gentleman is having haddock with a side dishes of tofu, rice, and miso soup,” the waiter helpfully informed them.

“I’ll have that,” Slate said. Their waiter patiently held his pen above a notepad, waiting. After a moment, Slate realized that clarification was in order. “What the man is having.” It was a safe choice. Susan said it tasted good, and it was not raw. Additionally, it was clearly an acceptable choice. Though ‘vegetables over rice’ sounded appealing, he was not entirely certain it was... masculine.

That was not a question he had been prepared for. Nor, in fact, one that he had ever been asked, when the speaker already knew his name. Susan had her chin in her hands as she asked it. This, combined with the grin, allowed him to tentatively deduce that she was being playful. He contemplated an adequate response. Truthful? Likely ill-advised, and she was even less likely to believe him. A flippant reply, then? He could honestly think of nothing more flippant sounding than the simple facts. Well, then. It was not as if her mutation allowed her to taste truth.

He settled for a properly preposterous statement.

“I,” the tousle-haired teenager answered, “am a villainous drug lord.” The ‘villainous’ part was a fabrication, of course. The violence in Colombia was continuing to decline as his own sizable faction of the drug trade continued to absorb others. Though he had ordered his cartel to fund local humanitarian projects on principle, that—combined with the continued release of hostages, and the constant plea to the government to come to the negotiating table—was proving surprisingly good for business. The locals were more inclined to help aid the traffickers when said traffickers were building their schools and hospitals, as opposed to raping and murdering them. Beneficence was proving surprisingly good for profits.

“Simply one faucet of my schemes for global dominion, of course.” A joking smirk seemed appropriate at this juncture. “Tell me, Ms. Witch—what country would you like?”

The bamboo plant by the bar seemed to rustle. Slate had more quizzical matters to consider, however. Her definition of ‘who’ appeared to be different than his.

He was Slate Swartz, formerly (and arguably still) Caleb Swartz. He was the owner of Mondragon Labs and its holdings. He was the leader of the Kabal. He was the single most powerful figure in the South American drug trade at present. He owned most of the senators in Romania, and had many of its other politicians on his payroll. He was learning to swim and to ice skate and to do judo. He tutored a fourteen year old girl in math. He’d failed his ethics class at the Mansion, along with every other subject, for two semesters running. Also, his GED exam, but only once.

He was brown-haired and blue-eyed, and his Colombian tan had faded over the Romanian winter into his usual paleness.

He did not know what he was that was not a ‘what.’

“I require an example response.” The boy concluded. “Who are you, Susan?”

>> The one that turns into toads occasionally.

Usually it is cats, Slate stated. Followed immediately by: why are you blushing?