"We got a very decent cut before the accounts were frozen, Sir. More than enough to keep up the current expenditures, with modest expansion to the payroll. With the expansions you're planning, though, we'll need to be careful with our investments until your package arrives."

Slate gave a simple nod. It was as he'd expected. "How much, precisely, did we get?" He asked the woman. A four-fingered hand pushed a ledger across the table. Its sharp pencil writings prompted a pleased raising of eyebrows. "Nicely done, Ms. Mortman."

The head secretary took the ledger back. "As I said, modest expansions are well within our budget. Try not to be grandiose until Giant's Bane and Aiden return. Not too grandiose, anyway."

Slate's eyebrows raised again. "Ms. Mortman, you can rest assured that I will do nothing grandiose until I have more than sixteen square miles to my name."

It was a dismissal. Noin recognized it as such, and rose from her seat across from the brown haired teenager at the Board Room's long oak table. "That's reassuring, Sir." She said simply. That was one word for it.

Slate did not watch her go. His gaze was already downwards, directed at a newly opened file. His next meeting for the day. There were a surprising number of meetings involved in properly taking over a megalomaniacal organization.

"Sir?" The older woman asked, at the doorway.

Slate looked back up with a distracted blink. "Is there something more, Ms. Mortman?"

She kept her face a perfectly composed deadpan. "I've heard you're learned judo with Nicholas. If you would like to practice what you've learned, the other receptionists and I meet every Thursday night in Training Room Five." In short: if you would like opponents closer to your own level, feel free to join us.

"Thank you, Ms. Mortman," Slate said simply. As the door shut behind her, he wondered what the proper emotional response was to that invitation. Perhaps... emasculating? Hmm. In any case, he turned back to the file at hand. The man would be here soon, if he had responded to the call that came through his communicator. If he had not, then there was one less budgeting expense in the path to grandiose spending.

Judging by the man's performance in his short time with the Kabal, though, that truly would be a waste.

In the soundproofed basement of his home, Roland found himself practicing a new maneuver. One of his pistols rested on a nearby stool. A loaded clip of ammunition rested three feet away on a separate stool. On a table a metronome clicked away in an orderly fashion. On the first click the pistol was in hand, the second the clip in hand, the third, the clip in the pistol and the fourth beat found a shot fired into a paper target. Roland was working on cutting out the middleman and inserting the clip and firing in the same beat.

It seemed that this practice would have to wait as the blue stone in Roland's class ring gleamed slightly as it began to vibrate on his finger. Work was calling. The message came through in a tinny tone. He was to meet the new chairman and talk. A changing of the guard had obviously occurred in upper management and now the new head wanted to undoubtedly synchronize agendas with the staff. Seemed fair and reasonable to Roland, who quickly locked the house up and revved up his Ducati.

The helmet affixed itself to its master's head with ease as the high end cycle purred through the rural roads of the estate and beyond. It was a relatively short amount of time before Roland found himself dismounting his bike and walking in to the front of the company. He greeted Noin, who mentioned that she had just left the board room and directed Roland on how to make his way there. She added that he was on time and was expected. Roland had donned an Armani suit, tailored to his liking.

He stopped with his hand on the door and stood quietly for a moment. No reason to come running in like a summoned lapdog, tongue wagging. He looked at the grains in the door before him as he made mental notes on jobs and searched his mind for any other pertinent details. He had nothing to fear. He opened the door and found a most interesting person seated before him at the end of the board table.

Stepping in quietly, Roland closed the door behind him and waited to hear from the young man before him. What immediately struck him as odd was that the boy. Boy? Yes, boy, seemed to be the very young man that Roland was to report on. He wondered what twist laid in store for him. Was it a test? Perhaps something else had occurred. Roland chose not to make a note of it unless the proper opportunity presented itself. Otherwise, he would just appear foolish and uninformed, something that professionals avoid like the plague.

The man did not take a seat; merely entered, and looked to the seated teenager as if for instructions. No particular thread of confusion or unease struck his face, nor did he ask any questions. He merely entered, and waited.

Slate approved.

"Welcome, Mr. Turpit. Please, take a seat." With one understated turn on his palm, he motioned to the chair across from him. It was a standard leather chair on wheels, much like his own. The specially modified one that had been in that place when Slade had been called in was on its way to a dumpster, and a specially ordered chair that would suit both the car man and the dignity of the room was on special order to replace it.

He paused a moment to finish up his review of the man's file before opening the conversation. For such a short term of employment, Mr. Turpit's accomplishments were quite satisfactory. A brief tailing mission on the first night he joined, a raid upon the Order's Fort Knox gold with the shadow dingo, another mission with Hunter's stoic second in command, and a photo shot at the Mansion brawl of his own initiative that Slate had already put to use in creating some modestly lifelike X-Men holograms for use in the training rooms. Amusingly, Melissa Rivers had also sent the man to track down the wayward "Calley". If the man was still under Kabal pay at the end of this meeting, he would have to remember to cancel that. It was quite safe to say that Slate knew precisely where Calley was.

When he looked back up, it was with a brief nod; and acknowledgement of a man whose actions spoke for themselves. "Forgive my rudeness; let us begin. My name is Slate. I am the new owner of both Mondragon Labs and the Kabal. Given your satisfactory track record with us in the past, I am interested in renewing your contract, under the same terms as present."

"Before I ask you formally to resign with me," Slate continued, "I would like to offer you the opportunity to ask any questions you might have about this new arrangement."

The brown eyed teenager met the older man's gaze evenly across the table, his hands crossed quietly over the man's file.

The tinny voice coming from the young man seemed to make him like some sort of automated lifeform. Of course, in dealings past, Roland had come to terms with the fact that most company men were similar in design. As tepid as dishwater. When asked to take a seat, Roland nodded and sat comfortably in the leather chair. He wheeled up to the edge of the table and neatly folded his arms on the surface before him, staring into the eyes of the boy. They weren't especially lifelike either, reminding him of a shark.

After a brief visual summary of Roland's file, the boy looked up again."Forgive my rudeness; let us begin. My name is Slate. I am the new owner of both Mondragon Labs and the Kabal. Given your satisfactory track record with us in the past, I am interested in renewing your contract, under the same terms as present.[/i]" There had apparently been a management change recently. What few times that Roland was near places where the few visible employees gathered, he noted a good deal of whispering about takeovers. Such is life in the business world. The important words here were renewing your contract and same terms as present. Roland's visage and demeanor remained constant.

"Before I ask you formally to resign with me,I would like to offer you the opportunity to ask any questions you might have about this new arrangement.[/i]" Roland remained silent for a moment as his mind scanned over various answers to the question. He chose obvious. Everything has been more than satisfactory. Two questions. First, there is a job that I was asked to perform. The current situation suggests the job be modified or scrapped. As I say, it is only a suggestion." Give the Calley bit an escape route. Sometimes energy had to be released, in one form or another." Second, when can I get back to work?" These were the main points, in Roland's opinion. The rest was pomp and circumstance.

The man showed no particular reaction to news of the takeover. Again, Slate approved. He had expected as much: Mr. Turpit had been hired in by Melissa Rivers only recently, and had never actually had dealings with Antonescu. It made matters quite a bit easier, though certainly not to be taken fore granted.

To Slate's offer of a time for questions, the man held his silence for a moment. Curious. There were many ways to interpret a pause such as that. He did not bother to list them in his head. He simply watched the man. If his eyes had perhaps been a bit distant when he looked up from the file, that look was gone now. Slate had been born focusing on one thing at a time. To a large degree, he still did that. Roland Turpit was his current focus, and his baby blue eyes waited upon the man's response with the slight chill they had developed recently. It was curious; he would not think that a foray into mass murder would have any effect on his physical features. That somewhat confused the brown haired teenager.

>> "Two questions. First, there is a job that I was asked to perform. The current situation suggests the job be modified or scrapped. As I say, it is only a suggestion. ...Second, when can I get back to work?"

The second question was quite a pleasant one to hear. Melissa Rivers had noted to Slate that the man was a professional. The entire lack of curiosity about his former employer's whereabouts or state of health, so long as it did not affect him, told Slate much the same. Professionalism. He would have to look into partnering Mr. Turpit and Ms. Leigh for a mission, in the future. The young woman was a strong addition to the team, but she could use a role model when it came to 'professionalism'.

The answers to the man's questions came without delay. Slate's voice was level in tone and volume; it was neither loud nor soft, interested or disinterested; it was a vehicle for communication stripped of unnecessary elements. 'Impassive' might be a word for it.

"If you are referring to your mission to find the teenager called Calley, then yes, I am calling that mission off. I've already informed Ms. Rivers of his location, and he knows the details of his own employment." Namely, Calley was in the box at the back of their mind until he stopped complaining about the manner in which Slate had completed his coup. After that, he would return to the Mansion. It was a good place for him. For them, really.

There was nothing quite like running one's world domineering faction out of a dorm room in the X-Mansion, really. It was a satisfying concept.

"As to your second question: given your reliable record with us, I believe we will call on your services again quite soon. First, however, for the sake of blunt clarity: do you agree to my terms?"

The very dust in the room retreated to the safety of cobwebs from the pair of chilly intellects in the room. One could suppose that they were telepaths, discussing their terms and agreements via brain waves, with all of the lack of talking present. Roland's calm came from experience. He wasn't sure where Slate's came from. It was mere dalliance to ponder such things.The answers to his questions came from Slate's lips in a manner that made him think of ticker tape, streaming from the mouth with droll facts and figures scribed therein.

The Calley mission offering was taken neatly and without thanks nor dissent. It was more of an organization call on Roland's part. He didn't like old and unworkable jobs to hang over him and mar his reputation. He liked to shoot them down as fast as they were set up."As to your second question: given your reliable record with us, I believe we will call on your services again quite soon. First, however, for the sake of blunt clarity: do you agree to my terms?" It seemed like a regurgitation of the previous statement. It only seemed that way, however. Roland knew too many comrades who had ended up with a meager showing for their work due to a mere word change in a contract or verbal agreement.

" You stated previously that you were interested in renewing my contract on its previous terms. If this is the case, I have no reason to say anything but yes. However, since you said now that they were your terms, I'd like to see a copy of the current contract and the new one, side by side. I hope you will forgive me if I seem distrusting. I am merely extremely vigilant and protective when it comes to my most favorable and prized asset. My reputation."

His reputation. Ah. Perhaps he would not rush to bring Ms. Leigh and Mr. Turpit together. Strong egos were not an asset in missions, he suspected. It had not seemed to affect the man's performance thus far, but add in a young woman who also seemed out to prove something to the world, and any potential problems would find themselves compounding most unpleasantly.

Slate gave a simple nod in response to the man's request. It was not unreasonable in the least. Slate slid the man's old contract out from its place in the manila folder, and pushed it across the table with a light flick of his fingers to sliding it into range.

"That is your old contract, Mr. Turpit. The only change is the last page; simply an addendum to the original which changes your employment from being directly under one Hunter Antonescu to being under Melissa Rivers. You will understand if I do not wish to attach my name to official documents." Most Kabal employees did not even demand paperwork, and Slate did not enforce it. He would or would not be obeyed by his employees, regardless of paperwork. He would or would not have Noin continue to wire money into their accounts, depending on their actions. Paperwork held very little meaning. It was, in a literal sense, merely words on paper. For those who paperwork mattered to, he was more than willing to oblige, however

Another flick sent a pen rolling across to the man. "You may sign on the line, if everything seems satisfactory. Your paychecks will continue uninterrupted, and I will be in touch about opportunities for bonuses, as it were."

A nod and a flick of the finger and the original contract sat before him, soon joined with a newer, crisper copy. Roland could not read this young man, but he still had the feeling as if he probably didn't need paperwork. This meeting was never intended for actual legal formalities. Undoubtedly, there was little legality or formality to be had here.As Roland scanned the papers for new parts, he listened to Slate speak."That is your old contract, Mr. Turpit. The only change is the last page; simply an addendum to the original which changes your employment from being directly under one Hunter Antonescu to being under Melissa Rivers. You will understand if I do not wish to attach my name to official documents.[/i]"

Roland nodded in time with the statements made as he signed his accepted false name to the document. He then slid the papers back to Slate and neatly teleported the pen to its holder. Remarks of uninterrupted pay and bonuses were spoken as Roland eased back in his seat, displaying a slight slouch in his otherwise flawless appearance. Paperwork was never necessary. Slate and the company could decide at any time to cancel the contract or just attempt to shoot him. The important thing to Roland was the detail involved. Better to sign the supposed useless paper than find that an equally useless paper could be used against him legally. Perhaps when they decided to change legality stances at will. He remained quiet, waiting to see what happened next.

The papers were signed and slid back, and the pen was returned to his hand in a literal sense that seemed to bypass the laws of physics. Most mutant powers did have that effect, really. Slate clicked the pen shut, and set it back on the table as he slipped the renewed contract into its proper place in the folder.

The man was waiting. Frankly, Slate had been planning to dismiss him: by this point, the employees who had worked with Slate the most--Nigel, Melissa, and the Triforce--would have recognized that they were already dismissed. The man was waiting there, though, as if for orders.

And suddenly, an order did indeed come to mind.

"I want the Mona Lisa, Mr. Turpit," Slate said without preamble, "and I want it delivered to this address." He clicked the pen back open, and pulled a pad of paper out from the drawer in front of him; a left-handed scribble precisely wrote down the Sanctuary's address, with Syn's name as the addressee. "Stop back by the Labs before you deliver it," he said simply, with no allowance in his tone--not even a thought for it, really--for the man to fail. "I will have a note that I will wish delivered at the same time."

Given Antonescu's standing truce between the two Factions, Slate thought it appropriate to meet with the Order's young red-and-black themed leader. He suspected they shared some common interests. And women did like expensive presents, Slate had noticed.

He looked across the table at the man. "Unless you have questions," he stated, "you are dismissed."

((ooc: Does that work for you, Roland? *grins*))