((ooc: Continued from the power training in Learning to Live.))

The look on Nigel Banks' face was unreadable. "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Newton."

"Trust him," Frank Newton replied, in the bare minimum of words necessary to convey the thought, with an unreadable look of his own.

The 'him' in question was a boy shorter than both of them, at 5'8". Younger, as well: a mere eighteen, and that was only if you were being biological about things. His age was closer to two, for any who wished to be technical. His hair was brown, short, and unkempt by no fault of his own: combs simply did not have an effect upon it, and taking gel to it would be an admittance of how much the disorder irked him.

The 'him' in question brought the total of unreadable expressions in the room up to three. It was one of the smaller conference rooms in the Labs; he was seated at the generically rectangular table. He was the only one who was sitting. Frank Newton was standing behind him, on his right side, at the shoulder. Nigel Banks could not miss the symbolism in the positioning.

He had received a call on his cell phone from Frank. The call had led him here. And now he was being asked to trust one of the Kabal's oldest and most unwilling members; Calley. This is a problem onto itself. What compounded it was that Calley's face was unreadable. Calm.

This was not the Calley that Nigel Banks knew.

"Trust him." Nigel Banks parroted, his steady gaze shifting between the seated teenager and the member of Hunter's army. One of the three members of the colloquially dubbed 'Triforce'; the personal guard team that Hunter Antonescu had placed under Calley, to assist him in missions. Mostly, they had seemed to be used as chauffeurs; they shuttled Calley here and there in the pursuit of new forms. It was a less dangerous job than they were trained to handle. The look on Frank Newton's face right now was a throw back; a reminder of how dangerous he really was.

"Since when is Calley a psychic?" Nigel Banks asked, as if the question was a light matter.

"Just trust him." Frank Newton repeated, steadily.

"I will not enter your mind without your consent," the teenager stated simply. What he left off was the fine print: he could not enter the man's mind without his consent. Saying it the way he had, however, gave the words an almost benevolent feel that the complete truth lacked.

Nigel was not looking at the teenager as he made his decision. He was looking at Frank Newton. The man had been an employee in Hunter's private army long before Calley had come onto the scene. Nigel knew him. The large man was built something like a tank. His gaze was steady, and clear. It did not look like he was being controlled by a psychic as he stood there, or as he spoke. To the degree that Nigel trusted anyone, he trusted Frank Newton.

Nigel Banks sat down across from Slate, after a last glance at Newton. He offered out his hand to the teenager. Slate took it.

And then Nigel Banks was knocking over his chair as he backed away, his hand reflexively drawing his gun. He was not sure which of them to point it at. Frank Newton had a gun, as well: more disturbingly, Frank Newton had not drawn his gun. The teen and the large man were as composed as ever. It was only Nigel Bank's heart rate that was suddenly racing in his throat.

"What did you do?" He demanded.

It was a simple enough question. The Italian teenager answered, simply enough. "Hunter Antonescu placed something in your mind, Mr Banks. He has done it to every member of his staff, I suspect. It commanded your loyalty without your knowledge. What I have done," he said, his baby blue gaze ignoring the gun pointed in his direction, and meeting Nigel's gaze, "was edit that command. I have brought it to the forefront of your mind, where you can see it. I have also modified it slightly. Your loyalty is to me, now. Lower your gun, Nigel Banks."

Nigel lowered his gun. He stared at the teen. A certainly coalesced in the sudden chaos of his mind. "You aren't Calley, are you?"

"No," the teenager replied. "I am his brother, Slate. As of today, Mondragon Labs and the Kabal are mine. Will you help me?"

Nigel's gaze flicked to Frank Newton, whose answer was obvious, then back to the teen. "Do I have a choice?"

"To the extent that I can grant it," Slate replied, "yes. I do not know how to remove the command entirely from your mind, Mr Banks. What I have done is to bring it to a place where you can see it. You may fight it now, if you chose. That is more than Antonescu gave you."

He repeated: "Will you help me?"

Slowly, Nigel Banks nodded his head.

It was a room with two doors. This had been a very important point in its selection. Over the course of the past few days, every member of the extensive Mondragon Labs staff had entered through the door at Slate's left. Lab technicians, guards, professional soldiers, janitors. Each of them had left again, after only a brief time, through the door at Slate's right. He spoke only two things to those exiting; "Are you sure you will not reconsider?" or, simply, "Thank you."

Currently, there was a man sitting in front of him, across the small table. The man looked slightly shaken. He was the new chef in the Canteen; he had formerly been employed as the butler of a certain Senator Dumonde, according to the file Slate had open in front of him.

"Will you join me?" Slate repeated, as he had repeated often over the past few days. Many people needed to hear the repetition before they seemed capable of processing an answer.

The former butler's gaze switched to the man who stood by the leftmost door; Nigel Banks gave an encouraging nod. The man turned back to Slate. "This doesn't change the terms of my employment?" He asked, with a composure befitting of a Lab employee.

"No," Slate answered, not even the barest traces of amusement in his baby blue eyes. "It does not. Your contract remains the same; your employer has simply changed."

"Well then." The man said, straightening his shirt with dignity. "That's hardly a problem, is it? You can count me in. Sir," he added, as if getting used to the idea.

Slate nodded, and gestured the man's dismissal. "Thank you," he said simply, as the man's hand landed on the doorknob. The chef gave a nod back to him as he went through the door at the right.

Nigel opened the left door, and waved in the next employee. A soldier: not one that Slate knew, however. Nigel Banks handed him a manila folder as the soldier got settled uncomfortably into the still-warm chair that the cook had just vacated. Slate read it, silently, briefly. Ah. This was one of the men that had been captured from the imp that had shown up on their doorstep awhile back. That explained the nervousness--a true employee of the Labs generally sat in the chair with stoic pride. Imp's men, however, as well as some of the newer employees, were still feeling the waters. In particular, Imp's men had all been pressed into service for the Labs under fear for their lives.

There was no particular reason to discourage that fear. Slate set the file down and stretched out his hand towards the man, as if to shake. "I require you to take my hand, and grant me permission to enter your mind."

"That's an order, isn't it?" The man asked. Slate simply stared at him. Yes, it was easy to tell that this one was new to Mondragon Labs. The man gave a sigh that was almost a wince, and stretched out his hand to meet Slate's own.

The process was quick. He had become quite experienced at it, in the past few days. The new employees were more of a drain, however: unlike the original Lab employees, they had never met Hunter, and had not had the mental command inserted into their mind. This had been a problem, at first; he had put them at the back of the queue as he sorted through the others. In the past few days, however, he had seen the structure of Hunter's mesmer order hundreds of times, and edited it precisely as often. He knew what to do, now.

In quick order, he formed a small part of the man's mind into the same thing he had seen in the other Mondragon Lab employees' minds. It was a simple copy and paste, if you will. Perhaps it was impolite to place the order into minds that had not previously contained it. Perhaps it infringed upon their free will. However, he was taking over an entire organization here, and he was not inclined to do so in a slip-shod manner. And he was still willing to give the man a choice.

The soldier jerked back. A standard reaction, to the sudden changes in his mind. Slate folded his hands on the tabletop. "I am taking over this organization. Hunter Antonescu is no longer your employer: I am. What I just did to you will ensure your loyalty to me. It is a standard security precaution which Antonescu himself used. I have merely... copied it. You cannot disobey my orders; nor can you carelessly mention information about myself, the Kabal, or Mondragon Labs.

"However, I have no interest in an employee who does not wish to work for me. I know that you were forced into this service." His baby blue eyes met the man's brown ones, across the table. "If you wish to discontinue your services with us, you may."

The man gave a cynical laugh. "Just like that? No offense, kid, but I don't think you'll let me go as easy as that. That 'Hunter' of yours didn't."

Slate shook his head, the slightest bit. "You never met Hunter. He has been attending to business in Europe for some time now; the orders to capture you and enforce your service were given in his absence, by the man standing next to me." A slight nod towards Nigel Banks. "As I am the new leader of Mondragon Labs, it is my orders that now matter. I would not have given the order to recruit you unwillingly. I am recruiting no one unwillingly--I only have an interest in people who are honestly loyal to me, outside of any psychic tricks. If you leave now, what I have done to your mind will only prevent you from speaking about what you have seen during your employment here. So long as you avoid me, the loyalty clause is a moot point."

The solider squinted at him, as if looking harder would let him see past the act to whatever trick was here. "So that's it, then. You'd actually let me go."

"Yes," Slate replied.

"No offense," the man laughed, "but I don't believe you."

Slate's reply was level: "Yes. You do."

The soldier stopped laughing. Disquietingly, he did. There was something sincere in the teen's complete lack of humor. "So I just walk away? That's it?"

"Yes," Slate said, for the third time.

"No watching my back on the way out the door? No daggers in the night?" The man clarified.

For the first time, the corner of the teenager's mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile. "No."

"Well." The man said, his eyes flashing to Nigel. There didn't seem to be any tricks hiding behind that man's eyes, either. "Good luck with your little take-over, then, but count me out."

Slate nodded, and motioned for the man to take his leave through the door at the right, to make room for the next employee. As the man's hand settled on the doorknob he asked, true to his pattern: "Are you sure you will not reconsider?"

"No," the man said, with a half-laugh. "No, I think I've had enough of this place. But... thanks."

Slate nodded. The door opened and shut. Nigel Banks showed in the next person: one of the secretaries under Noin. She was just getting back from maternity leave. A 'no' from her as well, unfortunately--by the report of Noin, she was quite a hard worker. And so they continued. Many more people said 'yes' than 'no'; it was the nature of most Mondragon Labs employees to not particularly care if who their pay came from, so long as it came steadily.

The last employee in line--the very last employee Slate had to deal with, outside of those on the Kabal--gave a 'no'. Slate nodded his acceptance of this answer. "Are you sure you will not reconsider?" He asked faithfully, as the man's hand reached to open the door. Still a 'no', but asking one final time hurt nothing, in his mind. He closed the final file, and rubbed at his temples.

"So," Nigel Banks said, his eyes on the closed door; "that's done, then. It's just the Kabal you have to talk to. Are you planning on doing the same thing?"

Slate shook his head. It was partly a 'no', and partly to clear out his budding headache. "No; I do not think it would be wise to attempt such with them. They don't know quite the level of secrets that the Lab employees do, in any case. There is no real need for such theatrics with them." He stood, placing the closed file neatly atop of the others. Noin and her crew would return them to their proper places later. For now, it was time for him to rest again. He'd had to rest frequently since all this began. Fortunately, his first order of business had included Nigel Banks, Melissa Rivers, Noin Mortman, and the others who kept order and calm in the Labs: while he had slept between recruitments, they had maintained the situation amongst the uninformed with a simple lie that the teenager had been sent by Hunter to decide on a few employees to be transferred to an operation of his in Spain. It was unusual, but all the high ranking employees told the grunts the same story: therefore, there was no need to question further. By and large, the Lab staff was very good at accepting what they were told, and not asking too many questions. It was how Hunter had trained them.

Slate stepped out through the rightmost door a few paces behind the last man. Apparently he was several seconds too soon, however. The fine wash of red sprayed across the side of his face, and ruined the collar of a perfectly good shirt.

"Sorry, Sir," Nicholas Williams apologized, panting slightly; "he was a quick draw."

The body had crumpled to the ground near the door; a gun clattered to the ground from his slackened grip. Nicholas put up his own gun, silencer and all, before clamping a hand down over the bright spot of red on his arm. Slate stepped around the body, moving past the injured Triforce member without a second glance. Nicholas fell into step behind him, as did Nigel Banks. "I assume everyone has been assembled?" He asked, in a manner that was not truly a question.

"Yes, Sir." Nicholas replied, with a nod. "Permission to go to the infirmary?"

"In a moment, Nicholas," Slate replied coolly. He had come to the door he wanted. He opened it, and stepped in on a full assembly of the staff who were loyal to him. They had been talking amongst each other; they came to attention as the brown-haired teenager stepped into the room. Slate stepped in front of them, as the bleeding Nicholas and the silent Nigel Banks took up positions by the door.

"From today onwards," Slate addressed them, simply; "I am your leader. You are to answer to me, and me alone. My name is Slate. I thank you for your loyalty to me. Our aim from this day forwards is simple: we will bring order to the chaos. You can rest assured that I will take care of my own." It was a dismissal. They had not worked for him long, but already, they were beginning to understand such cues as that. A buzz of low voices started again as Slate walked from the room, the face of every employee loyal to him burned into his mind. Likewise, each man and woman in that room had been able to see who was present. Those who were not present were no longer an issue.

Slate had no interest in those who were not loyal to him.

Out in the hallway, he motioned for Nicholas to stop. The man was looking a bit pale, but it was hardly the first time he had been shot. Slate turned back towards him, stretching out one hand towards his face. He paused before actually making contact. "Do I have your permission?" He asked.

"Of course, Sir." There was no hesitation to his answer.

Slate touched the man's face. He was tired, but he had the energy for one more thing. When he lowered his hand again, it was with an unmistakable touch of exhaustion. Nicholas blinked: it was his only sign of surprise. He was a professional, after all. He dropped his own hand back to his side. It wasn't needed anymore. The bullet wound was healed.

"I take care of my own," Slate repeated simply. Nigel Banks watched, with a hint of approval in his eyes.

Mondragon Labs belonged to Slate. There was no element of it which did not. His next task was to approach the Kabal members Antonescu had recruited, and to begin fleshing out its ranks with members of his own choosing.

Slate was a psychic, and a healer. He had been uncertain why he existed, in the past; it seemed that there was so much in the world that a healer was useless to fix. Truly, though, nothing was gained from surrendering to chaos. He would simply take care of his own. All that remained was to bring everything the same order to everything that he had brought to the Labs: once the elements he had no interest in were removed, all that would be left was peace.

The X-Men and the Order could bicker over New York City. Slate would let them have it, for now. The world was a very large place, and the Kabal had much work to do.

Slate wiped the spots of blood off of his face with the sleeve of his shirt, and went to wash up before his nap.