It was an oak tree. A Bur Oak, to be specific. Its branches were twisted and gnarled and, this late in Fall, the only leaves that clung to it were brown, dry, and stubborn. It stood on the Mansion grounds, much like many other trees. Unlike the others, though, this Bur Oak was the scene of a rapidly escalating war.

Slate had been studying. Calley was... not a studier. Therefore, he tended to put up a minimal fight when it came to who held control of their mind when it came time to do homework. Particularly math homework. Especially Calculus. They had finally requested a reevaluation of their placement level, in classes. It was little surprise that the eighteen year old Italian teenager was, therefore, no longer in eighth grade classes. They had not predicted, however, that they would be moved ahead quite so far. Eleventh grade Literature and History. Twelfth grade Science and Math. If Calley had known that retaking the placement tests would mean this much work, he probably would have been happy to stay in the eighth grade. Slate did not mind.

However, this battle was only incidentally related to their homework. The teenager had come out onto the lawn to study. He had sat under the tree. That was when it began: with an act of unprovoked aggression from on high.

A squirrel.

A gray squirrel.

A gray squirrel in a Bur Oak, with an ample supply of acorns and aim to make a sniper proud.

Slate stood his ground below the tree, fists at his sides, baby blue eyes narrowed upwards. "Stop it," he commanded. "St--"

And that's when he got an acorn throw down his windpipe. The Italian teenager coughed and choked, and finally hacked the nut back out. Up in the tree, the gray squirrel's tail flicked the air like a general's banner. Its beady black eyes were merciless. Its thin, clawed paws had already twisted another nut into their grasp. The rain of nuts that had assaulted the teenager as he studied had been unprovoked. The squirrel's reasoning: unknown. Yet one fact was indisputable:

This was war.

((ooc: It's fair game to recognize "Slate" as being "Calley" from the War Room meeting, if you want to, Seraph. )

OOC: Calley, you are made of so much win it's not even funny. So don't laugh. ;D

IC: Nathan was strolling around the grounds as an excuse to take a break from studying. He had not anticipated the workload or the level of intensity of the classes that he was in. Nathan was glad that he was only enrolled in few courses to start out the semester. One perk was that he could always use the excuse of a "study date" with Ali. Nathan found her far more interesting than the material his professors covered in class. He would end up studying her more than his course material by the end of their date.

The outside air felt good against Nathan's skin as he walked along the path. It was autumn and the weather was becoming chill. But it was nothing that Nathan couldn't handle since he basically had his own internal furnace.

Nathan continued until he saw Calley standing underneath an oak tree. Calley was in the process of ordering the tree to cease its actions against him when a small object flew out of the tree and went down his throat. Nathan then saw the source of the projectile. A grey squirrel from the look of it. It had the looks of a wily, old veteran general who had seen many a skirmish.

While not being entirely sure where this was leading, Nathan walked up beside Calley. "Hello Calley. Would you like some help getting rid of that squirrel?"

((ooc: *delicately refrains from laughing, at request* ))

>> "Hello Calley. Would you like some help getting rid of that squirrel?"

Slate turned his head to the side, towards his fellow teenager. To the side, and up. Nathan was quite a bit taller than he himself was. He was also calling him by entirely the wrong name. But then, Calley and Slate had not taken great pains to point out to everyone they met that they had mental problems of the very real sort. Therefore: Slate did not correct him. He simply replied.

"Thank you, but I do not think--" An acorn bounced off of his temple. Slate recomposed himself. "It is merely an animal; I cannot imagine that it is fully aware of what it is--" Another acorn, off the back of his head. Slate took a deep breath. "It would probably be simplest, and in good taste, to simply walk aw--" An acorn missed its mark: instead of beaming Slate directly in his eye, it only hit a corner. Slate gave a dignified blink. Then he turned back towards his wizened foe. The squirrel sat high on its perch, acorn at the ready, tail flicking, mouth open in a mocking cluck of laughter.

Cluck cluck cluck!

The next acorn was aimed for Nathan's head. From there, the squirrel stopped playing favorites: it rainy miniscule shelled death down upon them both in equal measures.

Slate's eyes narrowed, the slightest bit. "Yes," he finally answered. "Yes, I would appreciate your help."

Their foe was worthy, and strong. Joining forces was the only option.

Nathan found it amusing that Calley was trying to explain why he was going to walk away while being peppered with missiles. That was until the impact of the squirrels next acorn lande right between his eyes. Nathan's eyes immediately shifted their focus onto their new nemesis. The squirrel seemed to be having great fun at their expense. It was time for that to change.

Once Calley accepted, Nathan started to think about what would be the best way to rid themselves of this vermin. "I could simply burn the entire tree down." The vermin launched another nut in Nathan's direction as if to object to the idea. "But I don't think Tricity or Neena would be too happy about that. Not to mention the New York City officials."

"Smoking it out would probably be our best bet without harming the oak. Unless you have something better." Several acorns struck him suddenly all in different regions of his body. "And I suggest you think of something quick. I would like to rid myself of this vile vermin as soon as possible."

>> "I could simply burn the entire tree down."

"Messy," Slate commented.

>> "But I don't think Tricity or Neena would be too happy about that. Not to mention the New York City officials."

"That, too." He acknowledged. Really, though, first and foremost: burning a tree to get at a squirrel was the vivid dictionary illustration of mess, and a close bedfellow with overkill. He deflected an acorn from his nose with an irritated backhand. Not that he disapproved of overkill, in this case: he did, however, disapprove of mess.

>> "Smoking it out would probably be our best bet without harming the oak. Unless you have something better. And I suggest you think of something quick. I would like to rid myself of this vile vermin as soon as possible."

An outside observer might have laughed at them, standing there calmly discussing the matter while the bombardment of nuts continued. True generals formed their plans on the battlefield, however. Slate was struck on the kneecap with surgical precision: his entire leg gave an involuntary jerk. His face gave an involuntary deadpan.

"Hmm. I fear that will not work; I envision the smoke driving it higher into the tree. It is a simple squirrel, after all. They are not noted for their--" the back of his neck got hit, and his right arm gave a jerk. ...He had not known about that pressure point. "--intelligence," he finished. Somehow, the statement lacked conviction. Slate caught an acorn as it came towards his funny bone; he bent down and scooped up handful of the nuts from the ground, though it cost him a hit in the left kidney to do so.

When he straightened, he was bouncing the brown missiles in his hand. "You are a fire elemental, are you not? Do you think you could light these up?" Bounce; catch. Bounce; catch. "I feel that our friend could use a taste of his own good aim."

Wars frequently escalated, with the introduction of new weaponry. Truly, though, fire missiles were nothing short of classic.

Nathan caught on to Calley's idea right after an acorn caught him below the eye. He didn't spare the squirrel of his glare as he replied to Calley. "That I am. And yes, I would be glad to."

It struck Nathan as odd that two young adult males were about to launch a ruthless campaign against...a squirrel?! Surely they were not so immature as to do that. A few more acorns fired at Nathan from the Evil One steeled his resolve. He would not lose this battle. He was determined to fight until the Evil One was vanquished. And not before. "I hope he's hungry."

OOC: Feel free to god-mod Seraph if you need to.

((ooc: God-Modding permission officially exploited to launch some fiery missiles of squirrelly counter-terrorism. )

>> "That I am. And yes, I would be glad to. I hope he's hungry."

Slate gave one single, resolute nod. There was nothing immature about this situation. Nothing funny. Nothing entertaining. Their foe was worthy, and the battle very real. Now was the time for them to step up, and prove themselves as men.

Now was the time to fight back.

Slate began to supply a steady stream of acorns to Nathan, who supplied a steady stream of fire bombs at the squirrel, who dodged with a nimble grace that was stunning while still supplying the teenagers with a growing collection of nut-shaped bruises. Thus did Slate pick up the nuts it had thrown, and hand them to Nathan. The circle of life.

A few minutes later, Slate was panting hard. Up in the tree, the squirrel general was still standing tall. His banner-like tail, however, was missing several patches of fur, and there were black singes all along his body. His beady black eyes glared defiantly down at them, though one of them twitched where an acorn had scalded its eyelashes. The squirrel clucked, as if in mockery.

Slate jerked his chin towards a branch hanging above the squirrel's head; one of those dead branches that had been cracked in a storm, yet still hangs on for years afterward by a thin strip of bark.

"How is your sharp-shooting?" Slate inquired, meaningfully. Their foe had made the most basic of mistakes: he had not remained away of his surroundings.

On the ground all around the tree, small fires were beginning to smolder, where the lit acorns had landed. Slate did not seem to notice.

Nathan lit each acorn and tossed it as quickly and as accurately as he could at their nemesis. Nathan had to give the squirrel some credit. It was good, really good. It's wounds seemed merely superficial as it still managed to give the boys more serious injuries.

Nathan's aim faltered slightly when Calley asked him the question. Not that it mattered much, the Evil One was very nimble. Nathan scanned the tree, looking for what Calley meant by his comment. A branch that was barely hanging on came across his vision. The trap was almost too good to be true.

"I suppose we're going to find out." The next three acorns came off in rapid succession, all carefully placed on that thin strip of branch. The first one struck and the branch shudderred slightly. The next broke the branch's hold on the tree, rendering the third shot unneeded.

Nathan could feel the anticipation in the air as the branch fell. He was forced to tear his eyes away from the scene. His foot was starting to feel...hot. That was odd. Nathan looked down to find that his shoe had caught fire from one of his stray acorns. Nathan used his power to extinguish that fire and the many others that he was noticing for the first time scattered around the area.

As soon as he was done, he remembered the Evil One. Had their plan worked? Was he vanquished at last? Nathan turned around and observed the scene.

The Evil One was vanquished. Vanquished like a tree branch to the head; struck down in mid-gloating-tail-twitch. It lay on his back on the ground below his former prideful perch, all four paws in the air, tail stretched out behind him. Only the oddly ominous rising and falling of its small chest showed that it was merely unconscious, and not dead enough to haunt them to the end of their days with ghostly acorns thrown at all hours of the night.

The battlefield was quiet. A hollow wind rustled the bur oak's few remaining leaves; several briefly flared from smoldering to flames, then died again. On the lawn, the black patches of grass that Nathan had put out smoked dismally. Angry red spots on exposed human flesh promised bruises in the near future. The Mansion had seen many battles in its time on this earth. None of them had been on quite the same level as this, however.

Slate turned towards his fiery comrade in arms, a satisfied set to his grim face. He offered out his hand, with a certain solemnity befitting of this situation. "I believe," he said, "that the battle is ours. It was a pleasure fighting at your side, Sergeant Seraph."

Nathan let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the unconscious Evil One and the Branch of Vanquishment that struck it. But he could not hold back the feeling that the battle was finished but there still remained the matter of the wily squirrel's continued existence.

The pride of their victory flowed through Nathan as he turned to Calley. "I hope that we will be able to continue fighting side by side in the future. And God willing, we will continue this tradition of victory that we have began here this day. But there is the small matter of him." As he finished his eyes fixed the unaware squirrel with a stare.

Sometime later after having put in a call to the Animal Control department of New York City about a rabid squirrel, Nathan watched as the officials took their Evil One away to the bad place where evil squirrels go. They had fashioned their nemisis with a squirrel size straight jacket complete with a matching muzzle.

Nathan stared grimly at the Evil One with his arms folded across his chest as it was placed in a cage and the door to the vehicle closed, obscuring it from vision. The squirrel gave him one last look before it couldn't see him. It was a look that said, "I'll be back."

"No. No you won't," Nathan said in response.

((ooc: This seems like an epic point to end an epic thread. Sound good? ))

>> "I hope that we will be able to continue fighting side by side in the future. And God willing, we will continue this tradition of victory that we have began here this day. But there is the small matter of him."

A small matter, indeed. Slate stood silent vigil over the defeated general with Nathan, until its jailers came. He watched without mercy as it was caged and carted away.

>> "No. No you won't."

Though the jailers look momentarily confused, Slate understood perfectly: he, too, saw the look in the old general's eyes. He squared back his shoulders. "No," he agreed; "because if he does return, he knows we will be ready for him. And next time," he met the vanquished warrior's gaze levelly as it was loaded into the back of the truck; "we will not be so merciful."

The doors shut with a final clunk. Red and darker tones slowly painted their way across the sky as the truck drove off, its prisoner secure. Slade nodded to Nathan; man to man, and victor to victor. Then he turned and walked towards the Mansion, into the sunset.

OOC: Sounds good. Thread Ended.