"Hmph." Lenna shook her head. "Shows what you know. I'm no psychic. And he's—" Her attention shifted from Slate to Cortez. Lenna took a few steps forward, and let her fist connect with the side of the drug lord's head. He keeled over to the left, look of horror frozen on his face. Lenna turned briskly back towards the blue-eyed floor-child with a hand on her hip. "Unconscious." She finished, letting her head tilt to the side. "So you can heal him, or do whatever it is you need to. I won't stop you..."

The chair behind Cortez's desk turned. Lenna sat down. Hands folded on his desk. "I would, however, like to ask you some things... important things. Like what you'll do. Now that you've got the thing I suspect you came for..." Lenna's eyes narrowed on Slate, drawing a bead. The gun sat on the desktop, pointed towards Slate and inches from her hands. "What of me? I'm a security risk, I'm loyal, and I'm here... you could order me to kill myself, and I'd be hard-pressed to stop you... I don't like that, Mr. Slate. I don't like that one bit."

"But at least you were honest about it. Puts things in startling clarity..."

Yes. Once again, she'd screwed up. With a whole lifetime of screw-ups and misunderstandings behind her, one would have thought she'd be a bit more careful about just whose hand she shook. He had her in a vice. But unlike Cortez… Lenna didn’t know just where his agendas lay.

All she knew… and it killed her to realize it… was that Slate had oh-so-clearly ordered her to ‘leave him alive’… and now she couldn’t pull the trigger. It had become physically impossible.

She'd tried. Her mind wouldn't let her.

>> "Hmph. Shows what you know. I'm no psychic.”

Perhaps her ability was latent, or perhaps it was so subtle she had yet to notice it herself? Perhaps there was little benefit in trying to convince the woman with the gun that she was not as human as she’d thought.

>> “And he's—Unconscious. So you can heal him, or do whatever it is you need to. I won't stop you..."

Blink. Blink, blink. This was a pleasant turn of events. Slowly, Slate sat back up. Indeed: Lenna made no move to stop him, using any degree of force. Her gaze was still not particularly pleased. Slate tilted his head at her for a moment, blinked, and decided he could live with that.

Cortez was short work. He groaned when Slate was finished, but stayed unconscious—it was up to each man’s mind to wake up on its own time, even after blooming bruises and worse wounds had been removed. Lenna was sitting in the desk, now. Slate deemed that remaining on the floor would prove awkward to further conversation. (Quite good for not sitting in front of loaded guns, but quite awkward to further conversations.) He carefully stood, and sat the chair he had begun this scene in.

>> "I would, however, like to ask you some things... important things. Like what you'll do. Now that you've got the thing I suspect you came for... What of me? I'm a security risk, I'm loyal, and I'm here... you could order me to kill myself, and I'd be hard-pressed to stop you... I don't like that, Mr. Slate. I don't like that one bit. But at least you were honest about it. Puts things in startling clarity..."

Slate’s eyes flickered to the fourth breathing element of their room. The man with the vents on his body. “I would be unopposed to explaining,” he stated, “but our friend needs to be resolved, first.” ‘Resolved.’ He could be useful; ideally, he would soon work for Slate as well. Slate did not have enough attachment to the man to attempt an order, though. The fewer orders he gave, perhaps the less effort she would put into fighting them.

The man with vents looked up from his task of cauterizing the wound on his leg with an elbow vent as he felt all the eyes in the room shift his way. Awkward. He'd overheard it all. He stood there a moment, slumped over his lower half with a bent arm, staring at them.

Lenna closed her eyes. That would not do. As she opened them, Johnathon began his movement across the carpet.

With a sputter and a kick, a small jet of heat blew out the exhaust port on the foot of his good leg. Another jet shot from an elbow, pushing his back across the carpet in a diagonal path towards the door. With a speed that would leave butt-print skid marks on concrete, Johnathon made his exit. He shot across the carpet in the doorway, and out into the hall. A single match-stick flame lit up the tail end of the disturbed carpet. A door guard left his post for a moment to stomp the flame down, then took a few steps forward, and straightened it out. He returned to his place.

Somewhere, someone coughed.

The look of horror mixed with humor receded on Lenna's face. She turned her attention back towards Slate with a tight-lipped "Resolved..." Lowered the fist from her mouth.

And that was that.

Charming. Slate made a mental note to deal with everyone who’d been here, later, in one way or another.

On that note.

“I have no intention of ordering you to kill yourself, Ms. Lenna,” Slate replied with all due practicality. “You’ve been very useful to me. You seem reliable, and you must know the meaning of discretion: your former employment seems to have necessitated it.” On the ground, Cortez groaned again. Slate continued.

“I would like you to work for me in America,” he said. “If that is not possible, than I would appreciate your confidentiality in what you have learned.” Baby blue eyes left the matter at that. ‘If you don’t...’ was really a crash notion.

No intention... That was good, wasn't it? Too good. Lenna waited for the feint to end, and the punching to begin. Then it came. As a -backpat-.

Lenna said nothing as Slate spoke of her merits. This was good, right? He wasn't going to kill her. That was a step up from the men who'd threatened her life, and used that to drive her to work harder. That it was... but then again, who needed threats when the command was still buried in her mind? She was like a sleeper agent, except she knew.

She knew that any time, any day, he could contact her, and give her an order. And while she'd be able to complain her heart out about it, she wouldn't... she wouldn't be able to still her hand, or stop herself from following through.

He wanted her to work for him.

She was already loyal.

This arrangement made her head hurt.

Work for him in America? Discretion, confidentiality... "Look." All the thoughts came to a head in that one word. Lenna held up her hand in the jive for 'stop'. "I can promise you I won't spill your little secret. If you asked nicely, I'll bet you could even have better than my word. Would it be unfair to ask... just a little time to think this decision over? To come back to you, some time later and give you my answer? Because right now, I'm still wrapping my head around the thought of how this is a fair deal..." She did her best not to sneer. If Lenna's teeth ground together a little as she spoke, it was completely involuntary. He had her in the most polite headlock imaginable, and... she still didn't know how exactly this would even work.

There was nothing but a polite nod in reaction to her request. And a slight head tilt, as his eyes puzzled over her facial expression. It was quite curious. He’d never seen one quite like it. He did not understand her feelings: his loyalty command had been less than perfect in her; thus, he could not rely on it. In his mind, she was simply a free agent. With, perhaps, a reduced inclination to backstab him. That was also something he would not rely on.

“Of course, Ms. Lenna. Please, take all the time you need. You can find me at Mondragon Labs Medical, in New York City. Simply request a meeting at the front desk.”

It really was that simple. She could drive onto the grounds; walk up a lane planted with young trees; enter directly into the main building itself. A nine-fingered secretary was likely to greet her, with all due professionalism, in a brightly lit foyer. There was nothing shady about Slate’s operations. They were... straightforward. One simply had to know where that line lead.

((ooc: Continued a few months later in Whenever You See Fit.))

Too easy... this was... too easy. Lenna looked at Slate. Stared at him, as her chair slid back and she rose. He made no moves to stop her. She'd expected a bigger deal. The gun from the table slid smoothly into an inner holster on her vest. Lenna slipped past him, silently.

She made note of his words. All the time she needed... She could find him in America. In -New York-... whenever she saw fit.

She'd run for a bit, test her options. Maybe visit Paris... before she made up her mind.

The door of Cortez's office was open. She went through it. Everything else was a blur.

((Thread end.))