Garrett's breath was a thick mist, oozing from his lips on a November morning. Another long night of sleeplessness and brain static. Here he sat, in the little gazebo of the garden behind the Mansion. Earlier in the summer, he had lounged about, soaking up the sun and his surroundings. He was perfectly serene and satisfied with the change of pace and scenery. It was the day he had met little Katrina and the evening after brought the confirmation of his union with Maya.

Memories, as lucid and solid as other memories. Memories of darkness and pain. The beautiful flowers that draped the area were now brittle stubs, shadows of their former selves. Here another shadow sat, on the bench which Garrett occupied. He was only in a hoodie and jeans. No coat or gloves. He had found that in the days and nights since the incident, he particularly enjoyed sensations, be they originally unpleasant or not. His nerves had always been alive prior, but now they flourished under the touch of sensation, much like plants in their reachings toward the Sun.

The steps had been taken. He and Maya were established more than ever, he had signed up to join the X-Men, his job at the shop secure once more. Everything should have been tickertape and smiles. Yet, here he was, the burning sensation behind his eyes white and hot, waiting for the decisive moment to strike. As far as Garrett could tell, the demon was merely a part of himself, created and submerged and then released. If it were released, he would be free of it. It was there, in his shadow. It was his shadow.

It was morning. Morning, and Slate was in control by grace that Calley was too lazy to really wake up. He was in the back of their mind with the rest of the clutter, inanely trying to remember what their dreams had been. So it was morning, and Slate was walking the Mansion grounds. He did not know why. Only that their room had been the same room as ever, and the Mansion grounds had seemed like some sort of goal, while he was still standing inside their window. Now that he was out here, walking, he found only frost-bitten grass and the browning stalks of dead flowers. They had no doubt left seeds on the ground for next spring, or some such Hallmark nonsense. Slate had learned a lesson over the summer, though, from a hobo whose company he had shared for several weeks. Now that he had learned it, he could not unlearn it: not everything needed to live.

The gazebo looked much more exposed than it had in the summer. Slate paused a few yards back from it, his breath misting in white clouds that drifted upwards for no real reason. It was their nature; that was all. Just as it was the nature of something that had been born, to live. There was no choice there: life was a habit. That seemed fundamentally wrong, somehow.

There was someone sitting inside of the gazebo. Slate began walking again; as he drew near, he recognized the teenager. Garrett, the painmancer. Calley had worked with him before, both for some "special" training and in the war room, after Tricity had called all the X-Men to order. Therefore, the man would recognize him, as well: recognize him as Calley.

Not everything needed to live.

Slate stepped up the gazebo steps, and wordlessly took a seat across from the man. Around his neck was wrapped a slate gray scarf that had been given to him last Christmas. By Calley. It seemed a joke, almost, but it was warm against his skin, and November was moving towards December; it was cold.

"If you could have any power, Garrett--any power, in exchange for your nerve manipulation--what would you choose?" Slate asked, in lieu of 'hello'.

Garrett's mind continued to ram. He thought of his brief desire to commit revenge on those who had infected him. His talks with Iris and Crystal. If an opportunity ever presented itself to throw a monkey wrench in their plans, he would not hesitate to do so. Other than that, though, it seemed counterproductive to continue to push so hard for revenge. If Gordon Liu had ever taught him anything, it was that revenge was a worthless cause.

Steps on the wood of the gazebo roused his attention. Looking across, a friend was seated. It was Calley, the amazing shapeshifter. An interesting mutation, beyond anything Garrett would ever imagine. The complexity involved required a singularity of attention to detail that was simply lost on Garrett.The boy had something on his mind, there was no doubt. Garrett looked over at him and nodded, blinking as if to wake himself from his own slumber. He was thinking of something clever to say when Calley beat him to it.

"If you could have any power, Garrett--any power, in exchange for your nerve manipulation--what would you choose?" Garrett sat up straight for an excellent question. Most definitely a welcome distraction. His mouth opened and closed as he cycled through things in his head. " That's an interesting question, Calley. I don't know if I could merely choose one. Some that come to mind right away are flying and healing. Flying just seems so fun and surreal. I wouldn't come down until my body made me. Healing, well I would love to be able to do some of the miracles that the DocProf has. I'd like to work on the gentler aspects of my own mutation, in fact." He sighed and looked at his feet, aware of the boarder in his mind."Unfortunately, my total being isn't decided on the prospect just yet."

>> "That's an interesting question, Calley. I don't know if I could merely choose one. Some that come to mind right away are flying and healing. Flying just seems so fun and surreal. I wouldn't come down until my body made me. Healing, well I would love to be able to do some of the miracles that the DocProf has. I'd like to work on the gentler aspects of my own mutation, in fact."

A small smile tugged at Slate's lips. "Flying is wonderful. Truly wonderful. You cannot imagine; the way that there is nothing around you but air, and the air is something solid, and real; it pushes against you and you against it." The smile returned to a straight line. "Healing is not as pleasant as it sounds, however. It..." He shook his head. "There is so much you cannot do, that it makes what you can do," he hesitated, his eyebrows furrowing as he sought the words, "painful. Worse than not being able to heal at all."

>> "Unfortunately, my total being isn't decided on the prospect just yet."

Slate's head tilted slightly at that. A blink, as if in recognition--though he doubted that the teenager was alluding to what he and Calley would have been alluding too, if they had uttered such a statement. Namely, they would not have uttered such a statement at all: it was only Katrina and Abyss who actually knew about both Calley and Slate. They did not frequently advertise their situation. Mental illnesses were best kept in one's mind, in their opinion. Still, though... that was a statement that bore a need for follow-up. "What do you mean?" He asked, as simply as he could.

Garrett mused at the telling of the joys of flight. Being able to shift into birds would be incredible, Garrett had decided. Just moving through the skies, the world and its drama and weight far below. Of course, it was only fantasy, as Garrett's world was all too real and heavy. He watched Slate's face loses its zest at the talk of healing. He could understand the feeling that there was so much more that couldn't be done than could, but still, it seemed like a worthwhile endeavor to him. Anything beat a life of pain, be it giving or receiving.

Garrett's mind continued to wander. It became more hazy once the words had left his lips concerning the decision that was not unanimous. He had no reservations about what others might think of him and his mental state. He had plenty of people still thinking of him as Pain Guy, so what was the big difference. He had never come to the school to fit in or to become popular. He merely wanted some peace in his life, relief from the mental and physical pain that his mutation caused himself and others.

"What do you mean?" Garrett seemed to turn his head in slow motion, at least to himself. He assumed the static in his mind and the delayed response was the demon's way of trying to interrupt communication and the release of valuable intel about his location inside of Garrett. " Well, there's a part of myself that I assume is me. Maybe it isn't. It was formed during my time in the camps and then it was further nurtured and nourished by the Haywire attack. It is a version of myself that is quite....sinister. It wishes to use my abilities only for their negative aspects. Torture and death are high on the list of its priorities. I had to fuse it into my mind at the end of the Haywire attack as it tried to kill me. I can keep an eye on it now, though it seems to be unwilling to leave. Hope that doesn't sound too odd." Maybe it did. Better out than in.

>> "Well, there's a part of myself that I assume is me. Maybe it isn't. It was formed during my time in the camps and then it was further nurtured and nourished by the Haywire attack. It is a version of myself that is quite....sinister. It wishes to use my abilities only for their negative aspects. Torture and death are high on the list of its priorities. I had to fuse it into my mind at the end of the Haywire attack as it tried to kill me. I can keep an eye on it now, though it seems to be unwilling to leave. Hope that doesn't sound too odd."

Slate's face remained composed; a slight tilt of his head was the tell that he was thinking, however. "No," he said simply, before the time between Garrett's reply and his own stretched out to inappropriate levels; "that does not sound particularly odd at all. Not to me."

Perhaps he should think a bit more about this. But really, it was a better lead in than he had ever received before. Slowly, somewhat tentatively, the Italian teenager with the gray scarf around his neck extended his hand across the space between them. "Perhaps I should introduce myself," he said, quite neutrally, and carefully. "I am Slate. Calley is... not with us, at the moment."

"May I ask," he continued politely, "whether you think that this other you is bad? Would you do away with it, if you could?" The thought disturbed him; perhaps that much could be read, from the way his forehead crinkled slightly, and his tone remained perfectly unassuming, and the fact that he could not help but add; "I think he may have an opinion on the matter himself, if you choose to ask him."

Calley seemed to take his little exposure quite well. So well that it made Garrett's vision clear, his hearing crystalline. The inflection of me in his response caused a stirring within him. His nerves were like the little seeds of dandelions, floating freely in the ephemeral mists of Garrett's mind. Why had this kid wanted him to unleash his gift upon him that day? Garrett's eyes scanned the grounds to his left, viewing the patch of ground, recalling the day's events.

Calley had asked for what Garrett had to offer. Garrett gave it. At the time, Garrett had done so thinking it a prank by whispering children, joking about the Pain Guy. Again, a coincidence had occurred. Seeing how he didn't believe in them, that meant that Slate was here for a purpose. He recalled the stream, the gentle yet turbulent river of Tao, which had brought him here to this place among these people. Like a wayward autumn leaf, falling slowly and landing on the surface of the eventual brook. Garrett's belief was galvanized by the revelation which came next.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Slate. Calley is... not with us, at the moment." Garrett's eyes remained fixed upon the boy in front of him. The sounds of the day retreated, like birds scattering before an earthquake. The idea fluttered through his head that Calley might be mocking him, but in observing his manner, routine and even voice, it was a brief flutter. This was not Calley. It was Slate. Slate was quieter and more measured than Calley. A tremor shook slightly through Garrett's features.

"May I ask whether you think that this other you is bad? Would you do away with it, if you could?" Garrett recognized this kind of talking. He had heard it himself, looking into the mirror in the early morning hours of his bathroom. Standing with the light off, the residual light from outside seeping in. Garrett would stand there, behind the door, so only half of his body was illuminated. In the mirror, he would look at the dark half. He could barely make out an eye in the twilight. It looked back at him cold. " The easy answer is 'Yes it's bad. I should be rid of it immediately. Will you help me?"He smiled at the ..well, slate face before him."However, that isn't the way my story unfolds. Indeed, at first, I was quite mad. The two parts dueled for control. It's been a living nightmare really. I finally got on top of things, or so I thought."

Garrett looked at the hand extended to him, his eyes settling in his sockets. He stood and walked away from the young man, his hands in his pockets. First, he was to spar with him, or better yet to beat the kid senseless with his ability. Now they were to be friends? No, that was someone else. A dull throb began behind Garrett's eyes. Waves of sensation moved through him like lightning across a Midwestern sky at night. " I'd never part with my other. You probably know that the essence of life is survival. It seems obvious, but even at our very beginning, we are two. The dominant self devours the other, but it remains. Deep. Perhaps I am gifted in more ways than I had imagined, having the knowledge of my shadow."

Garrett could smell the coppery scent of blood and soon felt a warm drip as it trailed over his lip. "I think he may have an opinion on the matter himself, if you choose to ask him." So here it was. An invitation, from one shadow to another. That outstretched hand remained, though the physical limb was withdrawn. Garrett nodded in compliance. It was an excellent question. Garrett dropped to his knees as if someone had reached in and removed his legs below the knee. He dropped hard, his hands out and stopping the descent, small red drops staining the frost below their feet.

Red drops. Seizure's vision blurred at first and then seemed to zoom in on the blood until everything went red in his vision. Deeper than his vision. He stood and surveyed the area before him. He stepped over to where Slate was sitting, his pace now slow and sure. He sat back down and dark eyes looked back at Slate. A hand extended now from the other direction. " Pardon my earlier rudeness, Brother. I don't have a name. I do like Seizure though, so call me that for now. My opinion is that the boy is much too contemptuous and ornery. He shirks at his abilities and looks down on them when he should be realizing his true potential. My true potential. It is his birthright as Homo Superior, as it is yours and mine as well, Brother."

>> "The easy answer is 'Yes it's bad. I should be rid of it immediately. Will you help me?' ...However, that isn't the way my story unfolds. Indeed, at first, I was quite mad. The two parts dueled for control. It's been a living nightmare really. I finally got on top of things, or so I thought."

So Garrett considered himself dominant, as it were. Slate and Calley both remembered that time: when Calley's control was a more given thing, though the power struggles were constant. Now, it was Slate who was 'on top of things', as it were, though he did not frequently choose to exercise that position without Calley's consent. He was less than two years old, but he had learned much about life in that time. The more recent lessons had been concerned with just what came of being 'on top of things'.

The way the man spoke was curious: 'the two parts dueled for control', he had said, as if he himself were outside of the situation. It spoke of at least three personalities, with at least two of them distinct; whether the man's non-shadowed personality had self-awareness and a voice of its own was the unclear point. Whether the man's shadowed personality had self-awareness and a voice was likewise unclear, but about to be made abundantly apparent.

>> "I'd never part with my other. You probably know that the essence of life is survival. It seems obvious, but even at our very beginning, we are two. The dominant self devours the other, but it remains. Deep. Perhaps I am gifted in more ways than I had imagined, having the knowledge of my shadow."

Slate could not help but think that the man's reasoning carried an inherent flaw: a foundation in the belief that the duality of a human nature was accompanied by an actual rift. It was more of a sloppy smear between two colors of paint, in Slate's own experience. Duality was an illusion. Singularity amongst contradictions was the truth he had seen, and much harder to grasp for it. Calley, himself, the clutter: none of them had split sides; they were an altogether mess of morals. Geo, Raina, Emerald; everyone he had ever met was the same. Garrett was no exception, judging by the manner in which he spoke: his fascination with the topic of shadows pointed to his own grayscale nature more than it pointed to a separate entity that magically contained all of this darkness for him. Perhaps Slate's suspicions were wrong: perhaps the man did not have multiple personalities. Perhaps he simply liked to wax eloquent about his internal conflicts.

It was not a matter he felt needed voicing. He merely listened and thought, as the man continued to speak.

Or collapse to his knees. Whichever he fancied, really: Slate had no particular opposition to either. He watched, slightly curious: where was the source of those small blood drops? Had the bald teenager bitten his lip during his sudden collapse?

Then he was standing again, and finally accepting Slate's offer of a handshake by extending his own hand.

>> "Pardon my earlier rudeness, Brother. I don't have a name. I do like Seizure though, so call me that for now. My opinion is that the boy is much too contemptuous and ornery. He shirks at his abilities and looks down on them when he should be realizing his true potential. My true potential. It is his birthright as Homo Superior, as it is yours and mine as well, Brother."

Slate shook the teenager's hand, his face neither losing nor gaining degrees of composure from when he had been speaking with Garret. Likewise, his tone remained equally level. "I have a brother; his name is Calley. You and I share no blood." The concept of a spiritual brother ship was not beyond Slate, but it was not something he had consented to with this teenager. The assumption of such a relationship was not something he shared. Empathy for position was not the same as an actual spiritual bond.

"Both you and Garret share the same abilities, then? May I inquire as to how long you have been both distinct from Garret's personality, and self-aware enough to realize the distinction?" They were clinical questions: he was diagnosing Seizure's experiences against his own. He suspected that the Seizure personality was much younger than he was. Slate could remember when he still talked like that; it seemed like a very long time ago, now.

This was a sorry state painted up to look like freedom. Half shackled to a simpering child, Pain had to push his way to the surface. Garrett had fought him and pushed him down, smoothed him out to the point of nearly being nonexistent. Fortunately, he had pushed his way right back out to meet another splinter like himself. In reality, he knew that he was little more than a bad memory with legs. But every moment that Garrett didn't realize it made Pain stronger.

His focus was on this boy before him. "I have a brother; his name is Calley. You and I share no blood." Pain smiled, his lips warming to sermon. " That is where you are mistaken. Our bond is deeper than that of blood. Our fraternity is inngrained into our very genetic structure. We are different from the humans. We are to them as they are to whatever crawled out of a cave thousands of years ago.[/i]" Slate was a brother. Many failed to recognize the place of a superior until they had been in those shoes. Pain would educate everyone. Humans first.

"Both you and Garrett share the same abilities, then? May I inquire as to how long you have been both distinct from Garrett's personality, and self-aware enough to realize the distinction?" Questions, questions. Where was the couch and how much was the hourly rate? " I was nurtured and bred for my position as Inqusisitor at the Medical building in the Registration Camp. It was my duty to make my brothers and sisters tell all sorts of tales at the request of my masters at the time. Humans. Garrett is too much of a wilting flower to stand that kind of questioning for long, so I stepped in when he could no longer stomach it. He was doing well to put me to sleep, but once that elixir of life touched his veins, my strength became tenfold to what it was. I decided that I was not ready to leave. I have agendas of my own and I think it would be best for both of us if I stayed around.[/i]"

>> "That is where you are mistaken. Our bond is deeper than that of blood. Our fraternity is ingrained into our very genetic structure. We are different from the humans. We are to them as they are to whatever crawled out of a cave thousands of years ago."

Slate tilted his head the slightest bit to the right. That was all the response that tirade would get. He had heard it before, in the Kabal, in the Order, from the lips of a wolf girl at the Mansion. Different words, but always the same. He disagreed, but it was on a more fundamental level than the teenager's words addressed. Such a tangent would be silliness, and Slate did not go in for such.

>> "I was nurtured and bred for my position as Inquisitor at the Medical building in the Registration Camp. It was my duty to make my brothers and sisters tell all sorts of tales at the request of my masters at the time. Humans. Garrett is too much of a wilting flower to stand that kind of questioning for long, so I stepped in when he could no longer stomach it. He was doing well to put me to sleep, but once that elixir of life touched his veins, my strength became tenfold to what it was. I decided that I was not ready to leave. I have agendas of my own and I think it would be best for both of us if I stayed around."

Slate was quiet for a moment after that. His breath steamed lightly upwards; once, twice, three times. "Garret," came his carefully measured replied, "please stop this mockery. You have created a puppet to do the deeds you yourself find too disgraceful. You have even had this puppet take your own codename as an X-Men. You know that this is what you have done; your words say as much, even if you still fight the conscious realization of it. I have no desire to speak to the marionette of your disgrace."

Slate remembered the first days of his life. They were not confusing--he did not know what confusion was yet, then. They had simply been... quiet. When he gained control, he was content to spend hours looking out a window, or sitting in Central Park with his eyes closed, and only the sounds and smells and tactile sensations coming in. Perhaps this 'Seizure' was indeed a true split personality--but if he was, then there was something Slate had learned after those days had turned into months and those months into a year: not everything needs to live. If it was a true split personality, then this was his favor to it; as brothers, as the thing would likely say.

What he saw before him, though, was a man running from the actions his own hands had voluntarily committed, rather than accepting them for what they were. It sickened him.

"If you did not wish to hurt those people at the Camps," he stated, with the finality of a judge, "then you should not have done so. If you did wish to hurt them, then you should accept the fact. Outside of shame there lies responsibility, Garret."

He continued to use the teenager's name: Garret. Garret, Garret, Garret. This was his favor to either the one of them or the both of them, whichever it truly was. Perhaps if someone had been equally ruthless with Caleb Swartz, the Italian teen would still only have one nickname.

"Garret, please stop this mockery. You have created a puppet to do the deeds you yourself find too disgraceful. You have even had this puppet take your own codename as an X-Men. You know that this is what you have done; your words say as much, even if you still fight the conscious realization of it. I have no desire to speak to the marionette of your disgrace." Like a shotgun blast, the harsh words ripped through Garrett's mind's various levels. He found himself reeling in a state of shock. His mouth open and yet twisted. In just that very moment, crystal realizations began to form like the ice around them. Slate was right. Garrett's eyes darted back and forth and he felt more nausea.

Another feeling was washing over his senses. Rage. He had the distinct desire to put his hands around the young man's throat and squeeze until nothing else happened. Squeeze until both of them died."If you did not wish to hurt those people at the Camps, then you should not have done so. If you did wish to hurt them, then you should accept the fact. Outside of shame there lies responsibility, Garret."Yes, that kind of talking did nothing but make Garrett want to paint the frosty scene red with Slate's entrails. He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nostrils.

" You are right. Right about that thing being external. Right about me being disgraced. I want to tell you something though, you hypocritical son of a bitch, you know nothing about what happened to me in the camps. Of course I refused to assist them at first. A gun was turned on me. When I refused still, preferring death to becoming a torturer, they turned those guns on children until I did agree. I even got so far as to trade off a child's life for the pain of the parent. Do you think that was easy!?!" He stood closer. Much closer until he was inches away from the boy." Who are you to judge me, especially when it comes to splintered personalities?! You are a splinter yourself. You have no birth records or childhood. You are a puppet yourself. " That strangling feeling was tickling his palms, intent leaping at its chain to transform into will.

Garrett took a step or two away, though. He turned to walk away and stopped short at the gazebo steps. " I really want to thank you for opening my eyes. However, you might want to turn that laser of illumination on yourself sometime, so the X-Men don't have to make two separate uniforms for both of your royal highnesses."

Slate suspected that he may have hit a nerve when the teenager began to blink in excessive amounts, and reel where he stood.

>> "You are right. Right about that thing being external. Right about me being disgraced. I want to tell you something though, you hypocritical son of a bitch,"

...Suspicious confirmed.

>> "you know nothing about what happened to me in the camps. Of course I refused to assist them at first. A gun was turned on me. When I refused still, preferring death to becoming a torturer, they turned those guns on children until I did agree. I even got so far as to trade off a child's life for the pain of the parent. Do you think that was easy!?!"

Decreased proximity. Was he about to get punched? Possibly throttled. Garrett's breath was warm against his face; Slate blinked slowly against the force of it.

>> " Who are you to judge me, especially when it comes to splintered personalities?! You are a splinter yourself. You have no birth records or childhood. You are a puppet yourself. "

Touché, and yet not: the point was both entirely true and entirely moot. It was nothing that either Slate or Calley could fully admit without compromising their individualities. All he could do was let the point slide past him, unregistered.

The teen stepped back. Curious--he even began to walk away. Slate adjusted his gray scarf around his neck; apparently there would be no throttling, today.

>> " I really want to thank you for opening my eyes. However, you might want to turn that laser of illumination on yourself sometime, so the X-Men don't have to make two separate uniforms for both of your royal highnesses."

Slate nodded simply; again, man's point was valid, but he could not risk internalizing it. The 'laser of illumination', as it were, had been his gift to Garret--like most ill-planned gifts, however, it was not one he wished to receive himself. It would have been better if Calley and Slate had simply remained Caleb Swartz; however, there was a strangely retching feeling in their stomach when either of them pondered going back to that. It was what they had been, and it was what they could be, but it was not what they were.

He gave one last nod the defoliated teenager's way. "One more word of advice, Garret." Though he suspected it would be even less favorable than his other words. "There is always a choice. You said that you preferred death to becoming a torturer. If you had truly meant those words, then you could have chosen death. They would not have killed children if you had killed yourself, nor would you have become a torturer. Please do not hide behind phrases like 'I preferred death to becoming a torturer' when they are not true. You chose to become a torturer instead of dying. That is the choice you made. That is what you need to face."

There were other choices, as well: there were always other choices. To not play their game: the children had only been killed because he had reacted to it; no reaction, no dead children. To work with the victims: draw them onto his side, into an act that simulated what their captors wanted to see. To give the captors precisely what they wanted, to an extreme: he had little doubt that the man could, if he wished, execute enough pain on a person to render them unconscious nearly instantaneously; if he played at that being all the more control he had, then he would have been useless as a torturer. However, as the teen had said, Slate did not know his situation at the camps. He did not know how applicable each of those options could have been, or how many more had existed, if the man had refused to be trapped behind his own lies.

He readjusted his scarf again, flattening out the wrinkles around his throat so that it would not chafe terribly if the man's twitching hands did decide to come calling. Chaffing was healable, but irritating.

Simply backing off the man did not actually occur to him.

Garrett really had to stand still. Impulses drove him to turn and use his abilities on Slate. However, Slate was right. As much as he might want to disagree with him about choice, there was no argument. He simply stared forward and listened to the sound of the morning birds. As much as he wanted to believe he couldn't have chosen death, he could have. It was an option, to be sure. Perhaps it was the vestiges of humanity within him as they withered away like plants in a dark room.

No, it was pride. Pride in his being of a superior species. To allow death to be brought upon him by these inferior creatures which believed him to be a freak, a thing to exploit and enjoy until its usefulness wore off, was implausible. The children were tortured as well, but they lived. They were scarred but they lived on to learn from their scars. Garrett placed his hand on the banister of the gazebo. Slate wasn't even there at this moment. There was only the weight of realization that bore upon him.

His head turned to the Mansion and the grounds. He remembered all that occurred here. He knew that this place had helped him when he needed it, but anywhere could have done the same. Sure, he had met Maya, Neena, Calley and others who had shaped his world view and changed him. However, who could say that had he not taken the pamphlet that he received from Raina and had started at the Sanctuary where he intended to, that he wouldn't have met even more influential people? The stream had its turns, but it all flowed the same direction.

"I apologize for my outburst, Slate. I appreciate your honesty and forethought on the subject. I do believe you should look inside yourself as opposed to viewing things from two perspectives. However, it is your life and your path to walk. Just as mine lies before me." That was all he wished to say about it. He walked at a slightly brisk pace back toward the warmth of the Mansion and the solace of his room.