“We’re here.”

The small, redheaded girl in the back of the taxi cab failed to respond. She was too busy staring at the massive building through her window. Xavier's Sister School for Gifted and Talented Youngsters, said a sign next to the front gate. It looked different than she’d imagined.

The cab driver opened the door for her. A suitcase, a backpack, and a metal briefcase sat on the curb; all of it belonged to her. She handed him a plastic card with the name “Kaitlyn Faust” on it.

She didn’t like that name as much as she used to.

With the debit card’s first transaction completed, the cab sped away, leaving her to stare at the gate, struggling to gather enough courage to hit the intercom button.

Beeeeeep

“How can I help you?” asked a voice through the speaker.

Kaitlyn paused and cleared her throat. “Well, uh… you could open the gate for me, I guess.”

“Is this Kaitlyn?”

“Yeah.”

“Ronnie said you’d be coming.” Metal creaked, and electric motors buzzed as the gate opened for her. “Welcome to the Mansion.”

Kaitlyn gathered her things and walked through.

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.'

Kaitlyn stared at the boy in the doorway, stopping a couple yards in front of him. He was one of the Swartz twins, and judging by the fact that he hadn’t said anything sarcastic yet, it was probably Slate.

The word ‘mother’ made her tighten her grip on her luggage. “No,” she replied, keeping her voice as level as possible. “I took a cab.”

She took a few moments to contemplate Slate’s appearance. “So… why are you all dressed up? …Boyfriend,” she added with a smirk. That was sure to make him squirm. It worked last time.

If Slate was going to torment her by bringing up Lori, Kaitlyn was going to torment him right back. Because, obviously, as a telepath who had the ability to read her mind, he should be able to tell what she was thinking. So, clearly, this transgression was intentional.

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.'

Discomfort: achieved. Her smirk was elevated to “grin” status. But it didn’t take Slate very long to remind her of where she was, and why she had to be there.

“’Cause it’s a lot better than the public schools by the Sanctuary,” she shrugged. “Better education, less race wars, and I don’t have to worry about getting sent to juvie for accidentally blowing stuff up.”

There was a lot more to it than that. If Slate really wanted to know, he could probably just pluck it out of her head.

“Could you help me with some of this stuff?” She gestured to her luggage.

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?"

To his first question, “Yeah.”

As for the second, “I dunno,” she admitted. “At least until the end of the year. Depends on how many grades I can skip and if I wanna do high school here or not.”

Now that she was standing right in front of it, Kaitlyn realized just how large the Mansion was. And how… fancy it was. It was certainly a lot more elegantly designed than the Sanctuary. And a lot cleaner. All in all, it looked a lot nicer than Kaitlyn’s old home.

The little mutant decided that this was another reason to dislike the Mansion.

“Do you think they’ll let me start class as an 8th grader?”

Apparently, Kaitlyn’s old tutor taught her all the way up to the 8th grade level. It was a shame their relationship had to end so unpleasantly when she found out about Kaitlyn’s ‘extra-curriculars.’

"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.

Placement tests? That sounded boring. Kaitlyn frowned, having just found another reason to dislike this place.

“I know a lot about history,” she offered, “but science is cool too.” Mars didn’t approve of Kaitlyn reading stuff from the fiction section, but he encouraged nonfiction. Kaitlyn never finished the Harry Potter series, and would never dare touch Hunger Games, but she knew all about spies in the Cold War, and about how damaging different parts of the brain messed up different things. She also read an awesome book about how society and mutants didn’t get along. Not many libraries carried that one, except for the Sanctuary’s.

Kaitlyn’s pace slowed when she got a good look at the inside of the Mansion. She knew why they just called it “the Mansion” now; she felt like she was in some rich person’s home! How did they keep this place so clean? So un-warzone-like? And why would they spend so much money making it look so nice?

“…Uh, Slate?” Her voice carried a tinge of worry, “Remember what happened when that one car alarm went off right next to me, and uh…” She didn’t think she needed to continue. People remembered those kinds of injuries. “…Yeah. How mad would people get if that happened to me in here?”

...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."

Slate’s comments about past accidents reassured her. For the five seconds it took her to start wondering about what happened to the people responsible for those other accidents. What if the ‘responsible control’ thing didn’t work out for her? What if, no matter how hard she tried to get control of her power, it never happened? What would they do with her then?

Such worries fell to the back of her head with that comment about extortion. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Kaitlyn asked, indignant. Although the word ‘extort’ did not yet exist in her vocabulary, she had a feeling that she knew what he was referencing. “I would never do something like that!”

“…without a really good reason, of course,” she added quickly.

"Of course," Slate echoed. And then, to complete the effect, once more: Of course.

There were always good reasons. Slate himself had once been very good at finding them. His good reasons, of course, had actually been good. They had served a higher purpose; had hurt only a necessary minimum in their pursuit, and maximized the reward for the ones who survived. His reasons had been well researched and factually based.

His reasons had never included paranoia over a healer unicorn who ran a soup kitchen, nor had his methods included threatening someone with his mother. The Kabal's former leader had certain bounds.

"This is the guidance office," Slate stated in a neutral monotone. "Gemma Taylor is our counselor; she is not here right now." Witness her empty chair. "She can help you with your class schedule later, and any placement testing your require. For now, we can leave your luggage here until we can procure your room key from the security office."

"Is there anywhere in particular you would like to see on your tour?" He asked.