Flowers were everywhere. Every. Where.

The first thing she noticed after the door to the jet opened was the heat. The second was the smell. Tropical flowers somehow seemed to smell so much more than the kinds generally available for sticking into vases in the middle of winter in the northern climes.

Katrina had actually had to put her clothes away in drawers to make room for them all. Every surface was covered. The window sill, the desk top, the dresser, even a large corner of the floor.

It made it difficult to find things, such as her hairbrush, when she needed it. The only outlet available for the curling iron was behind several vases full of gladiolas and pansies. It was already dark outside, and she felt like she was wasting so much time climbing over all these silly vases just to get ready for one simple date.

Somehow she managed to get her hair curled, though she was now down one vase of tulips and there was a wet pile of paper towels in her little waste paper basket. She managed to do her own eye shadow, copying what her mother had done for her interview not too long ago.

She should have realized that it was futile to curl her hair. Already in the first two minutes the humidity was undoing what it had taken her so much time to do.

Oh, fated interview, the start of this whole flower escapade!

She had a floral print dress that would have been perfect for this occasion, but she really didn't feel like wearing it. Really. Instead she opted for a light green halter topped sundress, with her usual bike shorts underneath. For the cold weather segment of this evening, she had her coat and the teal wool scarf Slate had given her for Christmas. These she tucked under her arm with another colorful garment she had picked up just in case.

Checking herself in the mirror, she deemed herself presentable. She made a quick phone call, to double and triple check that she had her reservations all made properly and her permissions in order.

“We're so glad you could come,” the researcher smiled and extended her hand in greeting to the two new arrivals to the island. The setting sun threw her companion's cat ears into sharp relief. The second sunset of the day was much prettier than the first, which had been mostly just a gradual darkening of grey to black.

Finally she walked down to Slate's room to see how his preparations were coming (perhaps with the hidden motivation to make sure he didn't use too much gel in his hair). She poked her head in through the doorway.

“Hey, you ready yet? You're... not mad at me are you?” The little illusionist bit her lip.

She may have been feeling just a little bit guilty lately about how busy she was lately, and the flower thing, and all the suitors that kept metaphorically knocking on her door with their constant stream of videos and flowers routed through the church address, and selling him at an auction to the highest bidder (though he did bring in much more money than any other suitor and pretty much single handedly funded then entire ultimate frisbee season).

((ooc: As per old times, normal text color is for Calley and slate gray is for Slate. Italics are telepathy, yo.))

One thousand dollars—

...and twenty-nine jebati cents. Pass the gel.

You are studying Serbian as well?

Why would I be?

You just spoke in—

The gel was passed, and passed again, directly into the trash can. The bag made a swish-crinkle noise as the bottle disappeared into the otherwise empty liner. Calley never had been one for using this room much, even though it was nominally his.

...That was unnecessary. [/color]

You know Kat hates it when you use that stuff.

I am spending the evening with Kaitlyn, not Katrina. [/i]

Slate fished out the gel with a certain dignity, and resumed its tasteful application to the ordering of his hair. [/color]

You, Calley stated, leaving the telepath to his fate, Are dense.

The shifter ran a quick finger comb through his own hair in front of the mirror. Bed-head chic at its finest. The pink dye had mostly worn out, too—just a few lingering hints at the tips. Which was good: bright pink mice sneaking in the opposite direction of Sam's conditioning class just weren't as inconspicuous as they were meant to be, and pink-and-black stripped tigers were exactly the kind of fashion statement he never wanted to make again.

Not like this shirt. This lovely, entirely tasteful shirt. Who wouldn't want to wear a Hawaiian shirt printed with red hibiscus flowers bigger than his head? Why, this shirt particularly spoke for itself—practically said hey hey look at me don't look at this chump wearing me or remember his face just look at me me me! The aviator sunglasses really added to the effect, he thought.

...Is there some reason you do not want to go to Ecuador?

Is there some reason you keep talking to me?

He was going to get a headache, at this rate. Freaking telepaths. Yeah, you heard him—freaking telepaths.

...Jebati shifters.

Oh, swearing at me in another language, huh? Real mature, Slate.[/i]

Slate concentrated on neatly flattening an errant strand of hair, and ignored both Calley and his shirt. It was a skill that came with practice. One black kitten ear swiveled towards the door moments before—

Katrina entered. Both of Slate's fuzzy ears shied back, hiding in the squishy sea of gel.

No, he was not mad at her. As long as she wasn't mad at—

Calley clapped him on the back on the way out. Clapped him on the back, and discretely batted the gel back into the trash.

The telepath left it there.

And the shifter caught a plane to Ecuador. To a small island off the coast of Ecuador, to be specific.

---

"Pleasure to meet you," the owner of the white cat ears with black spots here and there said, his smile as effusive as his handshake as he greeted the researcher.

Maybe there was a reason he didn't want to be in Ecuador. But it wasn't because of this island. And anyway: he didn't want to talk about it. That headache; it was hitting.

They really were cute, the pair of cat boys sharing a mirror to get ready for their date night. Cute, in a what-on-earth-are-you-wearing kind of way.

Slate's tie was perfectly straight, of course, but his hair and even his ears were dripping with clear goo.

Calley's hair was artistically tousled, but his shirt was absolutely blinding. That may have been the reason for the sunglasses; staring at his own reflection too long could have caused permanent retinal damage.

No, not mad. I'm just sad that things have been so busy lately I've barely seen you at all. You don't think Calley could play a convincing you, could he?

The blonde girl wandered in, shielding her eyes against the glowing neon of Calley's shirt.

“You look nice,” She straightened Slate's already straight shirt and poked at his head. She examined the sticky goo on her finger with a frown, but didn't say anything and tried not to think anything either. Kaitlyn, perhaps, liked the slicked back look.

Still shielding her eyes, she dared a peek through her fingers at Calley.

“Are you really going to wear something so... bright?” Hawaiian was alright, but his shirt was stare-directly-into-a-laser-beam colored. “You're going to melt the ice cream before we get a chance to eat it.”

---

“We're so pleased that you could make it. We are, of course, always interested in whatever experimental measures that can be taken to save the species. Right this way.”

Katrina couldn't help but smile at the memory of asking permission for this mission.

[wibble eyes] “Shin, can I borrow the X-jet for a non dangerous mission to rescue an endangered species of tortoise from near extinction?” [/wibble eyes]

“Lead the way,” she requested, glancing sidelong at her cat eared companion to see if the sound of the ocean and the warm rays of sun were helping his mood at all.

Green sundresses and teal scarf tails streamed back from coat edges. A dusting of snowflakes swirled on the cold concrete of the sidewalks. Calley's red coat billowed out behind him in a rush of warm air as he held the shop's door open for Katrina, revealing a shirt that couldn't blind Stevie Wonder. The bell over the door jangled, and the little shop's owner looked up with a smile. Not many customers in February in this line of business, even if Google's ratings for one's gourmet homemade all-organic ice creams were top notch.

The Italian kept holding the door open, dumbly blinking at the huge man behind the counter. A tall man; six-three or four. And that weight he was carrying wasn't fat. A well-trimmed white beard hung down his chest in jolly curls.

"... Kringle?"

"Oh, you know my brother? Come in, come in!" The man ushered them in with a jovially beckoning hand. Calley let the door of Rudolph's Ice Cream close behind him.

---

How Kat kept getting jet access, he did not know. The jet fuel she went through had to equal the rest of the team combined. Really, he should have a talk with Cold Steel about it. Except that she had him wrapped around her little finger. Extra credit in conditioning class? Give him a break. So Kealey, then. Except that they'd probably chat and laugh and have a heart-to-heart the likes of which New York had never seen. Empathy + Katrina? Yeah. Yeah, he wouldn't find any help there. So Shin, then—

Wait. Who gave her permission in the first place?

...As there was no one to lodge his formal complaint about this field trip with, Calley followed along after his chaperone. Who was asking something.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" The Italian blinked. Not behind his sunglasses, because those had disappeared when he'd used the bathroom at Rudolph's.

"How is it that your power works, again? We're all very excited to know the particulars. The idea of a copying a species is certainly not new, but to think that a mutation is years ahead of the technological parallel—well, really, we kicked ourselves for not thinking of it sooner, after we received your message."

'Your' in the sense of 'your party's' in the sense of 'you had nothing to do with it since when do ice cream dates involve intercontinental travel.'

"If I touch an animal, I can become it. Takes a while to get used to the form, but yeah."

"An exact copy? Even down to the DNA?" The researcher's eyes were fairly sparkling as he led them into the complex.

There were so many flavors to choose from:

“New York State of Mint,”

“Go Bananas,”

“Once in a Blueberry Moon,”

“Rocky Road Construction,”

“Life is like a Box of Chocolates,”

“Rainbow Alarm,”

“Love Potion Number Mine,”

“Chocolate Meese Tracks,”

“Gumball Explosion,”

“Gummy Bear Frolic,”

and many more.

Meese? Real explosions? Katrina tilted her head after reading the fine print on some of the flavors and just had to ask.

“What does it mean when it says 'You will flip when you feel how these bears so gummy frolic in your tummy'?”

She wasn't sure how she felt about something actually frolicking in her stomach. Was that a literal description?

“What flavor do you want?” She asked Calley, squeezing his hand to get his attention. He was being awfully frowny faced for someone in an ice cream shop with actual exploding gumballs. If the fine print was to be believed.

Did they have “Quit Sulking Strawberry”?

--

She had been very vague when she had explained to the researcher what they were going to do. She always felt vaguely uncomfortable giving away what she knew other people could do with their powers. She wouldn't necessarily want everyone in the world knowing the extent of her own abilities, and talking about someone else's seemed even more taboo.

Especially since Calley was the one who had originally taught her to be so cautious.

It had been a tricky conversation in the planning process, with lots of evaded questions, half hints, and promises to answer more fully upon arrival at the island. All of that led to a lot of curiosity that looked like it was about to kill the cat boy.

“So,” she interrupted the barrage as politely as she could, “Do you have a lot of other rare species here as well?”

"Of course. Every species in the Galapagos is rare in its own right—"

The good thing about researchers: they were always willing to talk about their research. The cat boy twitched a grateful ear in a certain illusionist's direction. Honestly, he didn't even know half of the answers to the questions this guy had been throwing out. Did he copy right down to the DNA? Or was it he still Caleb Swartz down at the core? That was kind of a cool question.

The blood tests and DNA sequencing to find out for sure: not so cool.

"—Marine iguanas—"

White cat ears with black spots here and there flicked back to attention. "Wait. So they're... sea iguanas? As in, they go swimming in the ocean?"

"Exactly. They've been recorded to dive over thirty feet deep—"

...That was kind of awesome.

---

...That was kind of terrifying.

"...How do you make it?" Calley asked, to delay the inevitable first bite.

"My brother works with snow. My talents," the man said, with a jolly grin, "lie with a different frosty substance."

A very different kind.

Mint Cthulhu Chip had wrapped around his spoon and was on its way up. It was eat or be eaten. With a bravery he hadn't known he'd possessed, Calley shoved the spoon into his mouth and swallowed as quickly as he could.

...He could actually taste the Eldritch horror. It was bone-chillingly minty.

Was that a smile on Calley's face, or was the just a reaction to the minty tentacles in his stomach?

Katrina voted for smile.

“Are you ready for part two?”

Katrina was bound and determined to make this the best date ever, even if she and Calley weren't dating and never would. Because Kat would be with Slate forever, she was pretty sure. And Calley would admit that he liked Cafas eventually. And they'd all live happily ever after.

Still, she wanted to make it great because Calley was her good friend and she wanted to cheer him up.

The little illusionist wrapped her teal scarf around her neck and did up the buttons on her coat.

“Come on, we've got a plane to catch!”

---

“And here we have Lonesome George.”

The last Galapagos tortoise in the world.

Katrina grinned at their tour guide, then at Calley. She was rocking back and forth on her feet, practically bouncing with anticipation. This was the part she was waiting for: the chance for Calley to copy the rarest animal on the planet. This way, even if the tortoise died without the researchers ever successfully cloning or breeding him, there would still be a little bit of him left.

“Hi there George,” Katrina quietly greeted him with a wave.

“You have to touch him, right?” The researcher asked the cat-eared boy. “We just ask that you wash your hands before petting him to decrease the risk of exposure to foreign germs. There is a hand washing station right over there. Then you can go in and have a visit.”

Calley had underestimated the giant in giant tortoise.

"You could ride these things," he blurted out, as they looked into the enclosure that housed Lonesome George and his lady friends. Which might not have been the best thing to say out loud in front of the researcher who was going to let him in. With something of a cringing blush, he watched the man's reaction out of the corner of his eyes.

Surprisingly, the guy was grinning. "Darwin used to. He complained it was hard to keep his balance, though. ...Don't, ah, actually do that, okay?"

"Gotcha," the shifter said, with a relieved flick of ears. "No turtle riding."

"Tortoise."

"Yes. That." The Italian went to wash his hands, before he got himself into any more trouble. He rolled up his sleeve and used soap, and everything. It was a very hygienic catboy who approached the venerable George.

The fellow weighed in at just under 200 lbs. His was a saddleback variety: a name and high-vaulted shell type that did nothing to correct Calley's initial reaction. He was eating leaves—not leaves from an actual plant, but leaves that researchers had picked fresh and put in there for him and his lady friends. Judging by what remained of the vegetation in the enclosure, real plants didn't survive decades sharing rooms with George and the girls.

"So you're a hundred years old, huh?" The shifter said, sitting down on the dusty ground next to the decagenarian. George slowly lifted up his round head, and angled an unconcerned eye on the Italian as he chewed.

A hundred years old. Apparently that wasn't even that old, either—some cousin of his over in the Australia Zoo had made it to 170. This guy right here was five times as old as he was, and might outlive him yet, even if they both died of old age.

Calley did not work nearly hard enough to keep his sullen face on: with a child-like smile, he reached out and touched George's shell.

Click.

Like tumblers rolling, the blueprint for one Lonesome George, Pinta Island Tortoise locked in place in his mind. As blueprints went, this one felt rather... weighty.

"Was that it?" The researcher asked.

"Yeah, that was it. Though it'll take a few days walking around as him before I can really shift at will."

"Really? That would be a fascinating process to observe—"

As the researcher started geeking out, Calley turned please don't let them put me in an enclosure and feed me lettuce eyes on Kat, his ears slanted ever so pathetically back. She was the one with the keys to the X-jet.

Not that he'd mind sticking around a little bit. They had marine iguanas.