The wait to see Slate hadn’t been that long at all. From the drive in on her motorcycle, to parking, to speaking to the secretary, everything had gone smoothly. The nine-fingered secretary had been more than helpful. Lenna waited in the brightly-lit foyeur as someone was sent to alert the blue-eyed drug lord to her presence. As she waited, Lenna had time to organize her thoughts.

Her hands lowered to the black briefcase at her feet, and picked it up. Her thoughts. She rested them against the black skirt of her lap. Likely, Slate would be surprised. She’d had a lot of time to pull them together. From all ends of the city, things had come to her, fallen her way. It was almost scary how much she’d accomplished since her arrival in New York.

A gloved hand ran a white and black finger down the side of the briefcase, and found the clasp. The case opened. Lenna shuffled through the contents, glancing at tabs, took one folder and slid it behind another. She tapped them against her lap, straightening them out.

A white work shirt's sleeve rolled up. Lenna glanced at her watch. The Mickey Mouse hand moved smoothly across the face. 10 minutes. It was how long she'd expected to wait. She closed the briefcase again with a click as the door ahead of her opened.

"Mr. Swartz will see you, now." A hulking German man with short dark hair announced.

Lenna rose from her chair with a curt nod, and followed him to the board room. They entered.

((ooc: Continued from LET'S FIGHT A BOSS!, back in Colombia.))

The mail had arrived at nine-thirty in the morning, as it usually did. The white envelope addressed to Caleb Swartz had promptly been filtered from the rest, and delivered by hand to the library, where the blue-eyed teenager was looking at a world atlas. Romania. It was very small. India. It was very large. China, even larger. Russia: large, but surprisingly unpopulated. Mostly, though: Romania. (And a little of Israel. It claimed a surprising amount of news time, given that it was smaller even than Romania.)

It took two tries by the guard to catch his attention: the brown-haired teenager looked up with a blink, and uncurled himself from the chair long enough to accept the letter. It was not appropriate to say that Slate ‘lit up’ upon seeing it: besides the general physical impossibility of that expression, Slate’s face did not really change much at all. But he did put aside his atlas promptly, and he did immediately open the letter, with all due neatness and care not to rip it. (And minor annoyance when it refused to open for anything but simpleton-style ripping. Envelope glue companies: they were training the world that destruction reaped rewards.)

Or.

Perhaps, not rewards.

Slate blinked down at the piece of paper in his hands. His face did not fall. That was a silly expression. But he did, perhaps, grow even more still than usual. The guard excused himself from the library.

In May, upon his return from Colombia, Slate had found another white envelope waiting for him. His Mansion grades. Suffice it to say: he had done poorly in the previous school term. To state it with complete honesty: he had failed every class. It had occurred to him then that, perhaps, traditional high school enrollment was not appropriate for Faction leaders. Still: education was an admirable thing. While high school did not strike him as particularly exciting, there were many courses offered at universities that he would like to pursue—such as higher mathematics, medicine, and Latin American politics. Many of these were offered as online courses, if one had a staff that could look hard enough. He could not legitimately enroll, though, without graduating high school. Or the equivalent.

“Sir?” Another guard interrupted. “There’s a woman here to see you; a Lenna. from Colombia.”

“Ah,” Slate replied.

“...Sir?”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he stated. A dismissal. The guard nodded, leaving him alone with his atlas, his cozy library chair, and his GED exam results.

Fail. In every category except mathematics and science.

...Slate tucked his feet back onto the chair, and sat for a few minutes. Apparently, he was not as smart as he thought he was.

Ah.

When this fact had been properly filed in his mind, he made his way to the board room, and sent for Lenna. She entered.

“It’s good to see you again, Ms—” Slate began, rising to greet her. It was at this time that he realized something: he did not know where his shoes were. They had not been with him in the library. Perhaps in his room? This was the problem, with living at one’s place of business.

“Ms. Lenna,” he finished, offering out his hand. His socks were blue and chosen with the cold Lab floors in mind. They were new, and had no holes. They were polite socks, for entertaining polite company.

He was not as smart as he thought he was. It was, perhaps, a lesson it would take some time to digest.

>>“It’s good to see you again, Ms—”

A pause.

>>“Ms. Lenna,” he finished.

Lenna shifted the briefcase to her other hand, and extended the correct one to respond to Slate's greeting.

It was impossible not to note the lack of socks. Lenna had dressed professionally for her interview, in black skirt and white shirt. White gloves and smart red shoes. The same shoes, in fact, she had purchased during her encounter with one red giant, and his lovely gender-swapped female. It seemed Slate had chosen to forgo such trappings. His socked toes wiggled, free. Lenna offered a polite smile, to match the polite blue, and did her best not to stare.

"Mr. Slate." Or should she say Swartz? He seemed the type not to fret over names. She gave his hand a polite shake, and left it at that. Letting go, she stepped past him to the board room's table, and seated herself at one end. The head, actually. The briefcase slid into place on top of the table, at her right. Lenna's hands folded in front of her. She smiled a winning smile, and addressed the blue-eyed leader.

"It has been a while. I've done some thinking since then." That was obvious. "I've made my decision. I came here today to discuss terms of employment. But before that," Her hands moved to her right, and undid the clasps on the briefcase. The black case clicked open. Lenna stood up, and pulled out the three folders from within. With an underhand throw, she tossed them. They hopped through the air a foot to land neatly in the center of the table, spread out like a hand of cards. Lenna seated herself, and nodded to the folders. "A present."

She'd been busy since she last saw him in Columbia. The folders contents would humbly prove that. Inside, Slate would find the information on three potential future employees for his organization. What he did with the information was up to him. The files were gift from Lenna. The last thing they were meant to be was humble.

His socks were noticed. He felt a familiar red warmth creep into his cheeks. Blushing: so far, the means of willing it on and off eluded him. He kept his blue eyes level, and did not follow her gaze downwards as she did not stare.

>> "Mr. Slate."

They shook. She was dressed better than he was. It seemed fitting, therefore, that she should sit at the table’s head.

Yet, perhaps... rude? That spot was generally reserved, was it not? One of the camera techs had told him as much, after his meeting with his new circle of advisors, where WereCat had done the same thing that Ms. Lenna had just done. Was there something about him that inspired women to—?

The tiles felt cold, through his socks. He retracted the question. In any case, he only minded her seating choice on an intellectual level: on a personal level, a chair was a chair, and he was happy she had not taken his favorite.

>> "It has been a while. I've done some thinking since then. I've made my decision. I came here today to discuss terms of employment. But before that, a present."

His favorite, of course, was the chair at Lenna’s left hand. He gathered the files, and took his own seat, curling his feet under him. (The floor was very cold.) Curiously, he opened the first.

A picture of one of the Order’s members looked out at him. He recognized her from the latest King Pharmaceuticals brawl. She was much less unnerving, he decided, when her body was not fused with construction equipment. The other folders were opened, and likewise examined briefly. The information was concise, but good. The targets... were diverse. An interesting present, that brought several questions to mind. When he was done with the unwrapping, he stacked them to be played with later, in a neat pile set at a precise ninety-two degree angle with the table’s edge. So as not to appear too orderly, of course. One of the guards had given him that advice, and he considered it quite good. His eyes rose again to the woman in front of him.

“May I inquire as to your decision?” He asked politely. She was here, and she had brought presents. It implied something. He would like to hear her say it.

"I've decided to take you up on your offer," Lenna replied, eying him as he sat next to her. "I think my presents will speak as testament to that. The three people I detailed in those accounts are potential recruits. I interviewed each one about possible work, but kept the details pertaining to where, and whom with, vague." As per Slate's request of silence, of course. "I told them I might be able to find uses for their particular talents. Nothing beyond that, though I think Meld and the Ranger understood the work would be something special."

"I also come bearing information," Lenna concluded. She paused to let him peruse.

Potential recruits? That she had interviewed? Slate blinked. Initiative. It was... quite a rare thing, actually, in his limited experience. More rare than possessing an x-gene, he realized: he had many mutant employees, but very few like the woman sitting in front of him. Unconsciously, he straightened the folders to a perfect ninety-degree relationship with the table. It was a more pleasing angle. He himself was quite pleased.

“Thank you, Ms. Lenna,” he said simply, “and welcome to Mondragon Labs. I quite look forward to having you work with us.”

“What information would that be?” He did indeed peruse.

"When last we talked," if you could call that talking. "We had a conversation about whether or not I was human. You seemed to think I wasn't. I seemed to think I was. After meeting with a certain member of the Sanctuary named Mars, I've come to realize the extent of the situation. I'm human. That doesn't mean I'm without special traits." She took a moment to let message sink in, then continued.

"As Mars put it, certain humans have a certain thing called 'adaptation'. It can weaken, or nullify, the X-gene within a certain range. I thought it was ludicrous when he first said it. Since then, I've come to the conclusion he was right. And not just me. There are several others. I've met at least one more of my kind. Her name is 'Tyranny'." Another pause. Lenna folded her hands. "Her adaptation is complete nullification, confined to a radius somewhere less than 5 feet... mine is a weakening, with a 5 foot radius. I've confirmed this measurement with Mars. When I drew close to him, his red skin lightened towards pink, and his strength decreased. 6 feet away, no such reaction occurred. With others, I've seen similar reactions. With Meld, for instance." Lenna gestured with one hand towards the folders. "The reaction was severe. Her metal appendages lost mobility. She didn't like it, to say the least. Though, she was willing to work with it, so long as we kept our distance..."

"I've reason to think the members of the sanctuary have further information on these 'adapteds'. Call it personal, but I'd like to learn more. I have an 'in' with them. I helped take care of one of Mars's close personal friends during a trying time. A certain blond mutant with electrical and magnetic powers. Usually goes by 'Charge'." Her eyes narrowed seriously. "When I met her, though, she was in the body of another. That's how I met The Ranger. His mind was in her form. And her's, his." Messed up? Yeah. But that was the truth.

"If you'd like, I could infiltrate and do further research?" Her head tilted innocently. Her first act working for Mondragon labs could be infiltration? Was it wrong of her to make the offer/suggestion?

The information on humanity’s ‘adaptation’ was new information to him. Distinctly new. Perhaps his reaction to it should have been something else: perhaps he should have felt troubled, concerned, worried, or any other number of synonyms he had learned directly from a thesaurus. Perhaps this was an inappropriate reaction.

There was a light, vaguely warm feeling in his chest. It seemed to reside somewhere just below his shoulder blades, though it was a rising sort of sensation. He decided to call it ‘elation.’

“Ms. Lenna,” he stated, the feeling creeping into his voice. It sounded somewhat silly to his ears, yet he could not bring himself to actually care. “I would be delighted if you would infiltrate, and do further research. In fact, I would quite enjoy if you continued to act with all the autonomy and wisdom you’ve had to this point.”

“As for the Sanctuary’s electrical manipulator,” he continued, the tingling feeling somewhat retreating, “please keep me informed of her movements. She killed me.” He added, by way of explanation. “It was uncomfortable.” It really was.

>>“Ms. Lenna,” Mr. Slate started. He sounded pleased. Good sign. “I would be delighted if you would infiltrate, and do further research. In fact, I would quite enjoy if you continued to act with all the autonomy and wisdom you’ve had to this point.”

Lenna smiled. "Certainly."

>>“As for the Sanctuary’s electrical manipulator," Lenna noted the slight change in tone. “Please keep me informed of her movements. She killed me.”

>>“It was uncomfortable.”

Lenna gave a single nod. Inwardly, she quirked an eyebrow. She imagined it would be. "I'll let you know anything I find out about her, or those around her." She bowed her head for a second, surreptitiously glancing at her watch. That hadn't taken long at all. Her eyes rose again. "I suppose all that's left to discuss are policies. This," She reached into a pocket and pulled out a card. It wasn't a business card. No, more a blank piece of paper with her contact information jotted down on it. "My cellphone number and home phone. So you can reach me." She'd recently started renting a new home locally. It was good this had gone smoothly. She'd be able to afford.

Slate accepted the paper with a nod.

“That reminds me—we will finance one apartment, if you wish, as part of our standard contract. If you would like to keep your living arrangements fiscally separate from your employment, we would have no problem with that, of course. The option merely exists.”

“One of the secretaries will go over the details of our contract with you, as well as setting up a bank account—unless you have your own. A discrete one, of course.”

“When we have a mission for you, you will be contacted. Until then—please, continue as you were.”

The teenager smiled, and offered his hand. “Welcome to the Kabal, Ms. Lenna.”

>>That reminds me—we will finance one apartment, if you wish..."

Oh. If she'd known that. "I already have one selected. I'll get you the details," She replied with a polite smile. The smile continued on through comments on bank accounts and secretaries. It all sounded fine. Nothing to worry the leader about.

>>“Welcome to the Kabal, Ms. Lenna.”

Lenna took Slate's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Slate" She was sure it'd be one hell of a ride.