Maxine Ralls was a very busy lady. He knew this because he'd been watching her, and while he had to admit he hadn't done the watching himself, his little six legged friends spoke of very little nest time. Naturally, then, when Gregory Samson, the head of a recently formed lobby for the protection of visible mutant rights attempted to arrange an appointment with the very popular reporter, her schedule just happened to be filled to the brim. If he wanted to speak to her, he would have to wait until next month.

Next month.

Not likely, you see, because he happened to run into a stroke of luck when her Wednesday appointment's house happened to catch on fire, leaving a hole in her busy schedule. After hearing such dreadful news, a dinner time interview couldn't help but be refreshing! He made reservations at an old fire-house turned restaurant. They served the most amazing blackened chicken.

Also, the servers looked mighty tasty as well. He had to admit, more than anything else, after following this fiery red vixen about for days on end, he couldn't help but write up a few recipes with her name on the ingredients list, but alas, it was not to be!

She was far too useful.

First, though, he had to sway her to his cause. He had a couple ideas of how to do that... The first one was a nice little chat over dinner. The second was likely to happen anyway, because it would be hilariously ironic(See: Having some cops pummel a mutant woman who spoke out in defense of them after they pummeled a mutant woman).

All musings aside, their appointment was beginning soon, and he was already seated, with a menu open. He'd told who ever set dear old Maxie's appointments that he would be the man in the hat; He was wearing a porcelain cat statue on his head.

Gregory Samson was vermin. A large, exoskeleton-encrusted walking representative of what every man really was on the inside once you got past the pretty face and the sweet talk and the warmth of their arms. Vermin. Large vermin, that would crunch nicely under heels.

Maxine had broken up with, not been dumped by, the marketing intern on the tenth floor. At the start of the month. She didn't want to talk about it.

Her schedule had been busy since then. Extremely busy. Too busy for any of those quaint men-creatures who were clamoring—should be clamoring—at her door. Too busy for interviews with them, too busy for the offers for dinner they should be making to her. She was a strong, independent woman who led a too busy for men life.

Until, that is, her interview for next week's segment had fallen through in a literal conflagration, leaving her with... this. This B-list self-styled activist; this gag-a-day villain with the obvious Order ties, and the flimsy new cover lobby for whatever droll new joke he was planning. Lord, digging up dirt on him was as easy as finding cockroaches in her kitchen. Which, by the way, was one of the things she had been busy with: if her landlord did not address the problem immediately, he was going to get his own expose.

God, what she wouldn't give to have her Amazons back. She just needed a little bit of girl time, with maybe a dash of violent venting.

Instead, she had this.

This overgrown insect. This veritable vermin. This man.

"Gregory Samson?" The young redhead asked, smiling shyly after the waiter had shown her over. "I'm Maxine Ralls. What a pleasure it is to meet you—I'm so glad this slot opened up. And might I just say, what a wonderful hat."

Cat on the head. She didn't even want to know what that was overcompensating for.

He enjoyed the atmosphere, here. It had that genuine feeling. It wasn't like a snapplebees or a TGINM(thank god it's not monday.). This was one of those places that belonged here. He considered how it would be ironic to burn this place down as well... Irony did seem to be the theme of the day... Then again, arson was a little played out already. Maybe he would eat all of the plates instead; it wouldn't be at all ironic, but he was in the mood for plates.

Did they have plates on the menu?

"Gregory Samson? I'm Maxine Ralls. What a pleasure it is to meet you—I'm so glad this slot opened up. And might I just say, what a wonderful hat."

He was interrupted by a familiar voice, and his antennae perked open momentarily. Ah! Right on time! He'd hoped she'd be late, so that he could dislike her enough not to feel guilty about having her flogged. Oh well, he never truly felt guilty about anything anyway; there was no sense in sparing her for fear of starting.

"Why thank you! And might I say that's quite a lovely...." He looked her up and down for a moment, and then back to his menu. "Right, we should order. I hear the hideous shoes here are- oh, did I say hideous shoes? I meant blackened chicken. Please, have a seat, kick your hideous shoes off!" Great, something to hate her for! Her shoes would have been better as hats... Much better, actually. "... Are you selling those hats? Oh, dear, I've gone off on a tangent. Pleasure to meet you! As you know, I am Gregory Samson, and I have many, many things to speak with you about. I'm sure you have questions as well, so let's make a deal. We take turns over a delicious meal. Mayhaps you might even try the veal? Though I've been informed against the eel."

Yes. He rhymed. Was it on purpose? Possibly, though he didn't seem pleased with himself as those who often set up couplets in mid conversation. You know those people? The ones who were always like, "Heh, that rhymed." Like they did it on accident. They know who they are.

The mutant was as subtle as a roach in a restaurant. If he wanted a reaction to his insults, he’d have to try harder: anything cheaper than her mascara wasn’t worth batting an eye.

To be fair to her mascara: she’d gotten the boy flirts with redhead girl discount.

She slipped into her chair, after discretely wiping off the seat; she had this identified crawling sensation. Questions, she certainly had. Was he a legitimate mental case, or just hoping to get one’s autograph? Was “did he think he was half as smart as he thought he was” a logical falsity? What part about “steak house” did his rhyme scheme not understand?

“Why, Mr. Sampson, with an offer like that, what could a girl do but accept?” She steepled her hands, and rested her chin on them with a smile; the menu remained unopened in front of her. “Until I finish eating, you have my complete attention.”

“Water and a side salad, please,” she told their waiter, with a sweet smile.

Why, wasn't this a familiar sensation? Acts of fake courteousness, speaking through a professional veneer... He'd had to tip toe around a similar conversation with Syn not too long ago... He wondered if Mrs. Ralls would be more of a challenge to manipulate. Did I say manipulate? I have no idea what you are talking about. Shut up. Still ,he had to wonder if there was a factory out there that expressly produced red heads that were hard to talk to.

“Why, Mr. Sampson, with an offer like that, what could a girl do but accept? Until I finish eating, you have my complete attention.” Oh, how nice, she'd put a time window in place! It was an open display that her patience was thin; that was no matter to him, though. He had to talk to her, and she would hear what he had to say... She would then most likely dismiss all of it.

That worked for him, too... He'd already planned to make everything he said today that she might see as 'wrong' exceedingly right to her in the near future. That was assuming everything went well, of course.

“Water and a side salad, please,”

Ah, the wait staff was here.

"Look at me... Look closely at me... What ever you think I might enjoy cramming into my hideous mouth... bring it out to me. Thank you kindly." The waiter was uncomfortable, looked around quickly, nodded, and disappeared.

"Mrs. Ralls, I know you are aware that I brought you here under false pretenses. Frankly, the fact that you haven't called me on it is a little bit insulting. That, though, is of little importance in the long run. You did your research; I know because I saw you do it. If that's a little unsettling, I'm sorry, but you see, that's my business... Seeing things." Like her apartment, but he wouldn't get into that.

"I'm a bit of an information broker, but that is only my day job... I've devoted my life to something much, much more important. It's because of that devotion that I must say... I'm very disappointed in you."

He paused for a moment.

"That's why I invited you here... To talk. You see, you are a rare thing. You are one of our kind, lifted into the lime light... There are children who look up to you. Little mutant children telling their human teacher that they want to be a reporter when they grow up. Such positions are ones of great pleasure, I'm sure, but they also come with an immeasurable responsibility. You represent our kind like few others can, and, seeing your recent behavior, I wonder if you take such a responsibility seriously... But here I am, practically ranting... I apologize."

The bread sticks and butter had arrived, oh joy! He took a break to grab one of the butter wedges and pop it into his maw.

"I mentioned I was an information broker... I have some information for you. Free, this time... It's about a certain attack that I'm sure you're quite familiar with... Would you like to hear it?"

The redhead listened to the bug’s speech, her hands still steepled, her smile still in place. When he was done, she took her napkin from the table, and spread it over her lap. Fork, knife, and spoon she lined up in the order they had tumbled out; she knew how to properly set a table, but it wasn’t a skill likely to be appreciated in present company. Or was it?

“Well,” the redhead said, returning her attentions to her fellow mutant, and her chin to her hands. “That answers one of my questions. So there is someone in there capable of holding a conversation. To answer your question: as long as you aren’t wasting my time on petty insults and the crazy act, I think I might be quite interested to hear you out.”

“My turn,” she said. “Why were you rude to our waiter?”

He’d insulted her and he’d gone out of his way to make their server uncomfortable with every word out of his mandibles. From what she’d gathered, burning his bridges before they were out of the blueprints stage as a standard thing for him. Classic confrontational inferiority complex, or did he have something more interesting for her?

She responded to his oh-so-ominous stalker insinuations about as much as she’d reacted to his comment about her shoes. She had no way of confirming or denying his claim, here and now, and she wasn’t about to waste breath on yet another thing designed to get a rise out of her. It was something to deal with later, with her own resources. She didn’t give his spiel on her poor role modeling more than a quirk of her lips, either. That, coming from the bug who acted like a chaotic imbecile, was just plain adorable. She’d have pinched his cheeks if he had any.

Whatever else he was, Gregor Sampson clearly enjoyed putting people off balance; at getting them moving on his terms, not theirs.

One could say that she was quite familiar with the strategy.

She plucked a breadstick out from under his reaching hand, and waited on his answer, her green eyes watching him with the sweetest of attentions.

“Well, That answers one of my questions. So there is someone in there capable of holding a conversation. To answer your question: as long as you aren't wasting my time on petty insults and the crazy act, I think I might be quite interested to hear you out.”

Cute. She seemed to have an air of superiority about here; She thought she was something great. That was good; it allowed him to appeal to her sense of pride. Such a silly concept, pride. He decided right then and there that plan B was going to happen. He was almost certain the second the oppression of mutants actually affected her she would sing a very different tune.

“My turn. Why were you rude to our waiter?”

He eyed the bread stick snatched from his clutches for a moment, and then her, dropping his hand to the table.

"I could tell you it's so that when she goes home she has a real story to tell. Think about it. 'I saw a giant bug at work today, served his table and everything. He was really nice.'... What a boring story. Instead, I act how she might expect me to act, and she has a good story for her friends. OR I could tell you the truth. Waiters tend to mess with my food when I approach them in such a way; it makes it all more exciting."

A chest hand wandered to his napkin, and started ripping it up slowly and methodically. "I do hope you don't waste my very limited time with silly questions like that. Since we are taking turns I would ask you, in response: Why are you a reporter?" He wondered if she would answer sincerely, if at all. He wondered if she even knew. He also wondered why he was tearing up a napkin, Oh well.

“Our definition of ‘silly’ may vary, Mr. Samson,” the reporter said simply, to the cockroach with the porcelain cat on his head. The waitress soon returned with her salad; she couldn’t have asked for more prompt service, and she gave her best smile and a quiet thank you..

“I’m a reporter because I’m an ambitious attention whore with a passable face.” Anyone with delusions to the contrary had clearly never seen her show; quality investigative journalism was not what she provided. Really, where else could a ginger-haired girl with a useless but highly public mutation command national attention? She could have hidden in an office supply firm, like her brother; could have married a nice human man and hidden in the house, like her mother. Or she could go on live TV, and own this city.

“Who runs the Order?” She asked back, drizzling a healthy dose of raspberry vinaigrette across her greens. “Off the record, of course. I may pick on your more visible members,” like Isabel, Meld, and really, anyone who took such pains to throw themselves into the limelight; “But I’m not on that market for a full exposé.”

Plus, it was a boring story. A mutant housing racket? Probably some weapons, women, and drugs, too. Oh no, the horror to society’s fair morals. She’d rather someone else stuck out their neck on that one, so she could show up to report on how the NYPD was bungling the arrests. There was a reason she always rooted so hard for those poor boys in blue:: when it came to arresting mutants, and making charges stick--nevermind keeping them in jail in the aftermath--they really were such underdogs.

“Our definition of ‘silly’ may vary, Mr. Samson. I’m a reporter because I’m an ambitious attention whore with a passable face.”

"Yes, I think our definitions do not fall in the same circles. For example... I think it's dreadfully silly that your explanation as to why you've taken up your career is because... If I may parrot, you're an ambitious attention whore with a passable face. While these may be true, a person doesn't pursue a degree in something when they care so little about it. In that case, I think you've lied to me. I take no offense. Who knows, maybe you've forgotten why you wanted to be a journalist in the first place; spending so long as wolf news' pet mutant might do that to you. A journalist's job is to tell the truth. If you don't consider that your job, then you are simply a joke."

“Who runs the Order? Off the record, of course. I may pick on your more visible members, But I’m not on that market for a full exposé.”

"No one. The Order is currently in a transitional phase; Lots of reflection has been done, much realization of mistakes and horrendous approaches. It goes without saying that everyone makes mistakes. I can say that I am confident speaking for much of the entity you know of as the Order. My goal is to help mutant kind. That's why I'm here. I hope to convince you to become more of a voice for our people... You see... We are hurting. You aren't, perhaps, but the average mutant takes lower pay, is less likely to graduate high school, lives in a lower income neighborhood, is five times more likely to be a victim of hate crimes, and is ten times more likely to suffer from depression among other things. I come to you with this because I know something more... Something that I wished you would have asked about by now."

A plate of old cabbage was dropped in front of him, he kept talking. "The attack on Gina Schuyler was no accident. She was targeted because she was a mutant; beaten because she was a mutant... What proof do I have? None. I don't need proof. I know because incidents like that happen daily. They don't often happen on tape, and they aren't always so close to home, but they are common place, and almost always, the officers involved are let off the hook. This woman's case only got famous because she could be considered by many as pretty. In your most recent address you listed the names of many officers killed by mutants in the past, but you failed to mention how many mutants have been killed by police officers... This is a war, Ms. Ralls, and I want you to be on our side; your people's side. Perhaps instead of worrying how the wait staff around you is treated, you should worry about your job, and actually having enough respect for yourself to do it right."

He reached out and grabbed a bread stick.

"Just a suggestion."

He started eating. It was frightening.

"For a man in a bug suit," the redhead said, her fork daintily poised with leafy greens, inches from her lips, "you are charmingly naive."

He also hadn't seen much of her segments. She was a joke. It might not be where she pictured herself in ten years, but it was building a decent foundation for her career. A much more solid one than she could have made working her way up telling the truth and caring.

Seriously, did he think modern journalists thought like that? Next he was going to walk into a Catholic school, looking for people who believed in God.

She also found it cute that he'd advocate that she seek truth, justice, and the journalistically ethically way... and follow it up immediately with "What proof do I have? None. I don't need proof."

"Mr. Samson," the ginger said, lifting her napkin from her lap, "I'm afraid we've had a fundamental misunderstanding. You see—" she wiped slowly, sweetly; a thin trail of raspberry dressing and red lipstick was left behind on the pristine white fabric; "—my people consist solely of me."

She dropped the napkin on top of the remainder of her salad, and stood. She was done. He just hadn't listened when it came to the petty insults, now had he? Maxine Ralls did not sit and listen to assaults on her character; she wasn't interested in news old news.

"Until you have something to actually offer me, don't waste my people's time. Just a suggestion," she said, with an endearing crinkle of her freckled nose.

She slipped their waitress a bill on the way out; the girl deserved a tip, for having to stay behind and deal with that.

"For a man in a bug suit, you are charmingly naive."

"Yes. You seem quite charmed." He mused as a rotten piece of cabbage fell from his maw, and he peppered a mandible with a single napkin.

"Mr. Samson, I'm afraid we've had a fundamental misunderstanding. You see...my people consist solely of me."

He set his napkin down, and pushed his plate away slowly. Odd... The rather sad statement actually managed to make him lose his appetite. "That's... Unfortunate. You could do so much good."

"Until you have something to actually offer me, don't waste my people's time. Just a suggestion."

"Maybe some day you will see that I have so much to offer, but I don't think you're ready... You may not see me as one of your kind, but to me, we are all kin. If you ever need help, I will do my best to give it. Know that. Have a good day, Ms. Ralls."

He truly sounded disappointed. He wasn't; Everything was going to plan. The more right Maxine thought she was now, the more wrong his plans would have her feel. Still, he imagined she would never be easy to deal with; They didn't have to be friends for this to work, they just needed to have something to offer each other.

The giant bug made a reminder to seek out and destroy the sassy redhead factory, though. He then eyed his cabbage... What was that about a loss of appetite? Must have been his imagination. He got back to eating. When he was done, he paid the check, took a nickel, dropped it into a glass of water, placed coaster over it, and flipped it upside down, sliding the coaster out quickly. Why? Because Maxine Ralls hated people who were mean to waiters.

Also, because it was hilarious.