Leila had woken up that morning, barely remebering the previous night. For a split second, she had expected to wake up in her calm Apartment, but no. She was in a darkened room, white walls and sheets, a wooden bed, dresser and desk. "Colorful," she muttered to herself, taking in the bedroom for the first time.

She'd need to ask someone if she could get some paint and give this place a little color. Suddenly, her stomach grumbled. Sighing, she looked around for her Suite Case, where her watch was packed. She found it, safely where she had placed it last night. On the very edge of her Twin Bed.

"Damn, only 8:00." she muttered to herself as she got out of her PJs and pulled on an old pair of fade-away jeans and a black hoodie. Her blonde hair was a mess. Sighing, she decided to just give it a brush and put it in a side ponytail. Half an hour later, she was walking alongside the unknown Hallways, looking for the Dining Room.

She hadn't found it by 10:00, and her Stomach was painfully crying out at her. "Urgh, quite down!" she muttered to the nothingness. As she walked a little further, she saw an entrance into what looked like a Lounge of some sort. She decided she'd better enter, but no one was there.

Shrugging, she sat down on a sofa, opening her book. "Now, what will Bella do next?" she asked herself, gazing at the cover of 'Eclipse.', the third book in the Twilight Series.

Slate tried not to say it. He did. Yet the words came out, anyways: "You are in my spot."

It was 10AM. It was 10AM, and he was carrying a bowl of plain white rice in one hand, and a textbook on human anatomy in the other. His breakfast, and some reading to complement his current thoughts. Recently, Slate had learned something: he could heal not just himself, but others. Once. He had done it exactly once, and it had not turned out as he had expected; if he knew a mutant which could time travel, he would politely ask them to go back and slap his past self upside the head for even trying such a thing. Old Larry had been right: nothing good comes of trying. Nothing good at all. And now Slate's life was a little heavier, and all he had to show for it was an ability he had only successfully used once. He tried to think of that matter instead. He tried to channel his frustrations at Old Larry, a hobo he had met over the summer, briefly. He tried not to say it. He really, really did.

Yet the fact remained: there was a woman in his spot. For the past three weekends, at 10AM, he had come to this sofa and read while he ate breakfast. Many of the Mansion residents preferred sleeping in, or gathering in each other's rooms to watch Saturday morning cartoons; he had not had competition for the couch. Until now.

The woman was older than him by a few years; twenty-something to his eighteen. He had the slightly curly black hair and ethnic face of an Italian with a few other countries mixed in; she appeared rather more typical for a North American girl. Blonde hair and all, though her eyes were brown as they traced the sentences on the book, rather than the blue he had almost expected. There was a scar over her right eye. This was curious. However, it did not change the fact of her current location. And so Slate, holding his rice bowl and his book as he stood in the doorway of the longue, repeated it again: "You are in my spot."

It was rather calm, as accusations go.

Leila was so into her book now, that she didn't even notice a Man coming in. In fact, as the time came for the Vampires and Werewolves to fight the Newborns, she couldn't focus on anything else but the book. So, there's no doubt she didn't notice the same man coming up to her, actually speaking out.

Finally, as she turned a page, she saw him. "Oh," she muttered, blushing slightly. What was he doing, staring at her as if she was doing something wrong? Well, apparently, she was doing something wrong.; sitting in the younger man's seat. Aw, come on. "There's plenty of seats in this room, kid." she said, her Stubborn side coming into play.

"Plus, I don't see your'e name on it." she added, making sure no name was written anywhere on it as she said that.

>> "Oh."

His presence clearly had a large impact on the woman: he was deserving of a glance up from her book, and an eloquent "Oh".

>> "There's plenty of seats in this room, kid. Plus, I don't see you're name on it."

She made a careful show of looking for his name. How extraordinarily clever. The Italian teenager's face remained impassive, but his rice was growing colder, and his seat had grown no less vacant. This was troublesome.

"It is not there," he said, quite simply. "You are looking in all the wrong spots. My name is under the cushion. Look for yourself." There was no trace of jest in his tone or manner. Really, this was no jesting matter: it was the matter of a woman he did not know, and her behind residing in his desired seat.

If the woman fell for his ploy and left her seat to check for his name, he would partake of a very dignified action: vaulting over the back of the couch and claiming his rightful seat, while attempting to keep both rice and book from tumbling out of his hands.

If she did not fall for it... well then. Well, then. A new strategy would be in order.

Leila laughed sarcastically. "Right, if I do get up too check, you'll take this very comfortable seat." she said, smiling at him. She wasn't about to give this chair up, just too proove she was better then him. Plus, if she did, he'll start asking for more things! That was her job, not his. "Anyway, buzz off. I'm reading." she added.

Her temper was slightly higher then desired, but nothertheless, Leila gazed back to her book, knowing that this kid was still staring at her. Geez, what next? Should she just, punch him in the face? He'd probably go run to his mother... Leaving her calm and peacful.

'No, violence wasn't going to solve anything' she thought, quoting this phrase from her father; who used ity so many times when, as a kid, Leila would end up in many fights with boys who pissed her off. Back then, she hadn't listened, she loved punching a boy or two.

Just to see them cry. What a meanie she was.

>> "Right, if I do get up too check, you'll take this very comfortable seat."

Thus did she pass Basic Intellect 101. Sarcastic laughter and smiles were not worth extra credit in this course, but they were not a bad effort.

>> "Anyway, buzz off. I'm reading."

Indeed, a new tactic was in order. It was a sofa. A sofa, by nature, has room for more than one inhabitant: traditionally, it has three large cushions. This particular model was no exception. Equally traditionally, if a female and male unencumbered by any physical relationship sat on the same sofa, they would naturally gravitate to its opposite ends.

Therefore, Slate sat in the center cushion. More than that: he sat to the edge of the cushion, as close to the woman as he could possibly be without actually sitting on her. His legs, which he crossed comfortably into a half-lotus position, would no doubt be within a hair's breadth of brushing her.

Slate opened his book and balanced it in the space where his legs crossed. Then he began to eat his humble rice, with an equally humble pair of chopsticks, as he viewed a detailed color photograph of an autopsied lung. Two autopsied lungs, in fact. This was your normal lung, children. And this, children, was your lung after a fatal case of pneumonia.

His rice was still warm, he was relieved to note.

Great, this boy had nerves, sitting right beside her. "So this is how you'll play it?" she asked, an air of humor in her voice. "Okay," she added. Her brains were rolling now, how should she get this kid out of her sight? Maybe if she planted a kiss on him? He'd probably be grossed out, he was young enough to still think girls had cooties... Jerks, those little boys were. She was about to forget all about this kid and continue reading, when his eating started bothering her.

Bothering her big time!

No, not because he was eating like a pig... In fact, he was pretty well mannered, which wasn't something she had expected from this bratty teenager. Actually, it was the noise his swallowing. bitting and crunching made tyhat ticked her off. "Urgh." she said, "This isn't working, you know." she said, "You won't make me leave by being a jerk." she said.

'I can very well play this game too.' she thought, scoutting closer to him, so that they were touching now. She put her head on his shoulder, and started reading like that, making it impossible for him to either eat or read. Perfect.

>> "So this is how you'll play it? Okay."

'Okay', indeed. He gave her five minutes until she broke, in some manner; most likely, with a renewed dialogue. To be chauvinistic: that was what women did. Five minutes proved to be an overestimation of her willpower.

>> "Urgh. This isn't working, you know. You won't make me leave by being a jerk."

A jerk? Indeed. That might be the term for his current behavior. However, the same point as ever remained: she was in his spot. It was not difficult for her to remove herself to the other side of the couch; she was merely being stubborn about it. Really, her behavior was quite incomprehensible.

On that note: witness Evidence for the Prosecution, Exhibit A; the manner in which she unsubtly slid herself closer to him. She deposited her head upon his shoulder, and her hands--book and all--in a position that interfered with his own reading, and his eating. It was troublesome, but easily overcome. Her blonde hair tickled at his chin. With the finesse and clear action of an unhesitant problem solver, Slate moved his arms so that it looked almost as if he were about to embrace her; one on either side of her body. His head moved down those final few inches, and settled in her hair. He held his rice bowl on top of her book, and continued eating, his chin lightly tapping at the back of her head with each movement of his jaw.

His rice was colder now, but still quite good.

Leila smiled smuggly, he didn't seem to confident in having his spot back now, did he? Well, maybe she was wrong, he seemed more entertained anyway. Hmm, maybe she had gone to far with this. Should she just give him the spot and run off? Pretending she hadn't even thought of cuddling up with him? Even if it was NOT in a Lovey way? Obviously it wasn't, she didn't date Jerks... Maybe she did, but they weren't Jerks before they broke up.

Leila continued reading, though the two were as tangled up as ever, she kept her calm. If she gave in now, giving him his Spot, he'd rub in it her face for ages, so she just staid cool, reading as if no one was on top of her, eating. Soon however, it became a problem. No, not an annoying problem; this was actually pretty halirious. "You know, you still haven't told me you're name." she said, turning her head, so she could face him.

Her hair wipped his face, no food was in it; surprisngly. She sighed, that was something he wouldn't have to worry about. Food in this girl's hair was a crime. A big crime. "And you know, the way were all tangled up, On-Lookers would be pretty scared of us." she laughed, maybe they could be friendly now? If he was a nice little boy, she may consider giving him his spot on the couch.

One thing had been certain about this encounter from the beginning: Slate would get his spot back. His did not have confidence in this, or faith: it was simply a pre-existent fact, from the moment he had walked into the room. Having confidence in it, having faith in it, would be like having faith or confidence in a toaster. The toaster, frankly, did not care.

Therefore, as she attempted to continue reading with his rice bowl in the way, Slate knew that it was only a matter of time until she broke. When she turned to look back at him, he sensed weakness in her resolve. Indecision. He had none. Therefore: he would get his spot back.

>> "You know, you still haven't told me your name."

"Neither have you," Slate pointed out, quite reasonably. His chopsticks came to lightly rest atop his rice bowl as he spoke. He was not the sort to speak while eating. "My name is Slate," he stated, meeting her gaze directly, even though it was only a bare few inches from his face. Hmm. Hmm... On that note: Slate leaned towards the woman, without a trace of expression on his face. Her hair brushed against his face: his lips brushed against her ear. "And you," he continued, in a whisper, "are in my spot." He drew back, and took another bite of his rice, quite serenely.

>> "And you know, the way were all tangled up, On-Lookers would be pretty scared of us."

She laughed. He did not. In fact, he simply continued to meet her gaze, as he continued to eat, as he continued to wait. The spot would be returned. Because it was his.

What was it with this kid? He wasn't about to give up without a fight, would he? Well, Lei wouldn't either. He needed to be shown that he couldn't always get what he wanted. Haha, Ironically, Leila's thinking that. Anyway, he wasn't seeming ready to budge. Maybe she could just leave and go to her room? He'd be a happy little kid, with his spot. Jeez.

Leila laughed, "I haven't. You fooled me there." she smirked. She waited a few seconds, until he had introduced himself. "Slate," she whispered. "I'm Leila, I would say It's niuce to meet you; but it isn't." she said, sighing as he whispered in her ear. "First come first serve." she said simply, turning back to her book to do some reading again. This was a pretty fun first morningf, if she did say so herself.

No, not because of the Presence, obviously. Just because of how she was going to make him go away, if it made him angry, or fall in love with her. Yeah, that's right. He could easily fall in love with her! Sure, she'd never return that love. Ah, so he wouldn't laugh at her Humor? Fine. She sat back, her eyes scanning the pages of her book. No more word would be said, he'd have to deal with silence, he'd have to deal without her spot.

Yes, her spot.

No, not her spot. Contrary to whatever had lodged itself into the front of her feminine frontal lobes, the eighteen year old remained resolute.

>> "Slate. I'm Leila, I would say it's nice to meet you; but it isn't."

"Likewise," he replied, levelly, after he had swallowed his last bite of rice.

>> "First come first serve."

With that, the woman returned to her reading. She was right: first come, first serve, and Slate had made it there weeks ago. He looked down at his empty bowl; its bottom gleamed white. His gaze drifted; there was a small table at the side of the couch. Right next to his spot, actually. It was the traditional home of his rice bowl after he had finished, and he did not see any need to deviate from that habit simply because there happened to be a woman in the way.

And that is why how the eighteen year old Italian ended up attempting to wiggle and push his way behind the woman on the couch. If he succeeded--and he was certainly not about to give up the effort lightly--then his bowl would come to rest in its proper location, and he would stay sprawled against the seat's back, even if the woman remained to clog up the rest of the seat. Half way to victory.

"When did you arrive at the Mansion?" Slate asked. It was a common enough question; given his tone, however, he could have just as well been asking, When did you descend from Heaven to intrude upon my life with your Almighty self-delusions?

It was his spot.

"Likewise"

Leila smirked as she closed her book shut, remembering the page she was at. No way she could read when this man was distracting her this way. She let him do what he had to do as he squirmed around behind her. "You won't get you're spot my pushing me off." she said; however Slate was probably stronger then she was. Oh well, if he had the nerve to push a girl off a couch, she'd leave him to do whatever he wanted.

No way she'd socialize with such an ignorant jerk.

"I got here yesterday, around Noon, I think." she said, "I was at Raina's Party... I suppose you heard of that? It was quite the fun." she said, being a big fan of parties, she couldn't wait for the next gathering. She had met some decent people there too, not that Slate was one of them, he was the opposaite of decent.

"So, do you really want you're spot this badly?" she asked, smiling at him softly now. She was about to give him his spot, he should be happy.

>> "You won't get your spot by pushing me off."

Wiggling: succeeded. Despite her words to the contrary, a physical approach had proved quite successful. Slate's rear was now firmly entrenched upon the battlefield of the disputed cushion, even if his legs happened to stretch out into the middle of the couch. It was not entirely uncomfortable.

>> "I got here yesterday, around Noon, I think. I was at Raina's Party... I suppose you heard of that? It was quite the fun."

Slate gave a nod, as he settled his back comfortably against the sofa's arm, between the back of the couch and the warm feminine lump. "I heard of it, yes. I was unable to formally attend though, I fear. My presence was required elsewhere." His presence was required in Calley's body, which had been the cause of the crashing of that party. Great fun, indeed, for some parties involved. The set-up had looked very nice before the brawl.

>> "So, do you really want your spot this badly?"

Her soft smile reminded him of a viper's kiss. Slate turned his own lips up in response. A somewhat smug response. "Not any longer, no. I am quite comfortable." He had his cushion. It did not concern him if she stubbornly continued to share it, as well. The Mansion was somewhat chilly as Winter approached in its full glory; Leila was quite warm, so not entirely unwelcome, now that he had claimed his rightful seat. His head tilted slightly, appraising her anew.

"How old are you?" He asked, followed directly by, "Are you a natural blonde?" and "Am flirting with you?"

Perhaps he had been too heavily influenced by a certain thirteen year old; the rapid-fire questions were not like him. The unconscious rudeness, on the other hand, was.

Leila nodded, "I see, well it was quite something." she said, not even realizing they were having a natrual conversation now, although he was behind her and she couldn't really see him properly. "Did you also hear about how it got crashed?" she asked curiously. Did he have something to do with it? Leila didn't really think so, but maybe he could of been behind some of it.

Leila flashed her brilliantly white smile at him, "That's good, because quite frankly, I'm comfortable here too." she said, turning her body a little so she could face him. Then he asked how old she was, then a next question that made her laugh a little. Oh, don't forget the questrion afterwards.

cocking her head to the side, she laughed. "Okay, slow down." she whispered. "I'm 21, yes I'm a Natrual Blonde, and I think you are... flrting with me." she couldn't help but to have second thoughts over this boy. I mean, he wasn't much younger then Sam, so why treat him like a kid? Even if he was a jerk sometimes. That made it the whole lot more exiting.

"Now, it's my turn." she said, "How old are you?" she asked him.