For someone who appeared so young still, Slate sure had thought things out. Both his options that he listed had merits; if he came out and talked about the previous leader of this Kabal thing of his own free will, it would look better on him, but at the same time, like he said, those comments he made might effect people's thinking about the current operation.

Lee really wasn't sure which method to suggest, but wasn't exactly given a chance to anyway, since Slate went on talking almost without pause.

He was going to rebuild a school in South America, destroyed by militants. Mutants were going to actually use their powers to help make the world a better place. It was something that Lee had never once thought of doing. For too many years, it had simply been a task and a half to get by and survive, and then when everything had started to settle and stabilize, there had been the Registration Act. She'd never thought of the idea of actually using one's powers to help like that, but it was an incredible idea.

Then Slate was apologizing for going on such a ramble there, and Lee shook her head. "Don't worry about it," she said softly, thoughtfully. Even a little sadly. "I have to say, that is an amazing goal. To have your powers be useful, to be able to help like that..."

A slightly self-mocking grin touched on the teenager's lips briefly. "I fear my powers are not too helpful for construction projects," he stated with an honest shrug, "but my money is. Or rather, the money of one of my employees; he rather makes money, as it were. It is my goal to have the Kabal be entirely funded by mutants, who are using their abilities in a manner that helps things. For myself, I am considering funding an expansion of the school into a community center which houses medical facilities; I will be going there with my mentor to use my healing, and to gauge their need for such a facility. And, of course, to oversee the reconstruction."

He looked over to the woman. "If I may ask, what are your abilities? Forgive my saying so, but you almost make it sound as if yours could not be used to help people." That could not be right, however: she had already told him that her power could be used to help her own husband, to end these 'merges' of his. A mutant was not the sum and measure of their powers: they were a person first and foremost, and who they were and how they used all of their resources--mutations included--was the true test of their potential. If she wanted to change things, to help make things better, then ways would present themselves.

One of these ways was, perhaps, walking next to her. The kitchen was now in sight.

"Maybe not so much for construction projects, but healing is useful," Lee pointed out. Not that that healing had been able to help Tarin, but Slate had said he'd try again. And, healing in general was a very useful ability.

But, as was only obvious now that she had brought up mention of powers again, and how she had all but wished out loud that her powers were actually useful, came the question of what her powers were.

"I...siphon energy from people," Lee said slowly, eyes on the hallway ahead as the kitchen finally came into view in front of them. "Any time, everytime I'm around people, I'm taking energy from them. I'm getting better at it, not taking so much any more, but I still do it."

By this point, they had stepped into the kitchen. It must not be an actual meal time, Lee realized, since the room was empty other than the two of them. "So, whatcha feel like eating?" Lee asked, glancing over at Slate as she made her way to the fridge. "They've got all kinds of stuff around here, but I'm really not much of a cook, so normally just stick with sandwiches."

>> "I...siphon energy from people. Any time, everytime I'm around people, I'm taking energy from them. I'm getting better at it, not taking so much any more, but I still do it."

"Really? That's quite intriguing. I am not sure I have heard of an ability like that before. Do you simply absorb the energy, or do you use it for some purpose?" He asked, clearly curious on an intellectual level. "It is a small amount, is it not?" He hypothesized. "I do not believe I can feel the effects, at all."

>> "So, whatcha feel like eating? They've got all kinds of stuff around here, but I'm really not much of a cook, so normally just stick with sandwiches."

Slate followed her towards the refrigerator, keeping a polite distance to make sure not to crowd her. He peered dubiously into the white fluorescent light of its shelves, searching in vain for something pre-made, edible, and unmarked by the possessive name of another. He had been living at the Labs for the past few weeks; the Canteen had provided all of his meals. Occasionally, they had even been brought to him. Even before that... he was no culinary expert.

"I believe the only thing I know how to make," Slate confessed, "is pancakes. Could you teach me how to make a sandwich?" The teenager blinked hopelessly over at the older woman, clearly at a loss. The fact that he thought there was some mystery about slapping ingredients between two slices of bread showed just how little he knew of the culinary arts.

Slate seemed really interested in her siphoning. But then again, thinking back on it, so had Calley, for some reason. Lee honestly didn't understand the fascination with her siphoning. It really wasn't that interesting, really wasn't that useful other than for stopping merges and allowing her to have the energy to live.

"What do you use your energy for?" Lee asked. Hadn't she gone over this a year ago with his twin? "What do humans use their energy for? I suppose it lets my heart beat, lets me stay awake, gives me enough energy to move around during the day.

"Though, being down in the infirmary all day, even that's getting harder," Lee said with a frown. She'd never had energy problems before when it had just been her and Tarin, and no one else. Even when they didn't really touch all that much, she hadn't had many energy problems while she'd been around him. Unless you counted not being able to sleep as an energy problem. "Maybe DocProf does have a bit of a point in kicking me out during the day, I'm not getting quite enough energy down there...Maybe I should actually try taking a bit more when I am up here and away from the infirmary."

Peering into the fridge now, and Slate was there as well so Lee stepped to the side slightly so he could have a better view inside. At least Lee hadn't started pulling the things for her sandwich out yet, she probably would have dropped something when she heard Slate's next words.

"You..don't know how to make a sandwich?" Lee asked, confused, surprised, as she looked at the young man next her her rather than what was in the fridge. How could he not know how to make a sandwich? She had been what, eight or something when her mother had finally let her make a sandwich on her own, and Lee had known how to before that.

Slate flushed a deep, deep red, the color creeping up his neck and into his cheeks.

>> "You..don't know how to make a sandwich?"

"No," he replied, trying to admit to this fact without a trace of shame, "I do not." He also tried not to sound too defensive about it. Whether he was succeeding on either account was a matter up for debate. "I do not cook often." This was an understatement.

In fact, now that Slate no longer had Calley's memories to draw from, he could count the number of times he had cooked on one hand. Unfortunately, he only required his pointer finger to do so. Pancakes. They were, quite literally, the only thing he knew how to cook. The only thing he had ever cooked, in the year and some odd months since he had come into existence in Calley's mind.

It struck him suddenly, judging by the complete astonishment on the woman's face, that this was not a normal thing. His face managed the trick of darkening even further.

"...Are they easy to make?" He asked, hopefully.

He didn't cook often. Neither did she, in all honesty, but she still at least knew how to make a sandwich.

Lee could see the darkening colour on Slate's face, and turned her eyes back to the fridge. "Yeah, they're easy to make," Lee said, starting her search for sandwich requirements, pulling each thing out as she found it. "As long as you don't go over board with them, anyway. I'm not much of a cook either, so I wouldn't eat something just about every day here that was all that difficult."

Bread, mayo, cheese, all tucked into the crook of her left arm, Lee was running out of room to hold things. Normally she'd just put it all on the counter as she went, but Slate was there. That would work.

"Here, can you hold this?" Lee asked as she handed a package of sandwich meat toward Slate. Followed by lettuce and tomato. Deciding that was enough for their sandwiches, Lee turned and moved over to a nice open area of the counter and set everything down, before going searching for a couple of plates and a knife.

"So," Lee asked, eyes downward as she started pulling slices of bread out to make the sandwiches. "If you don't mind me asking, how is it that you're all set to go rebuild a school in Columbia, but don't know how to make a sandwich?"

The Kabal's leader suddenly found himself in possession of... sandwich meat. And lettuce. And tomatoes. Slate clutched the ingredients to his chest, juggling them in his arms like fidgeting puppies. In particular, that tomato would much rather be on the floor. He valiantly caught it with one hand... and lost the meat in the process. A stoop, a clutch, a save, and a hasty straightening: let us never speak of that again.

He set his non-uniformly shaped parcels upon the counter, next to those that the woman had procured. Bread. Mayonnaise. Cheese. With an intense stare, Slate familiarized himself with his allies in creation. Soon, with Mrs. Brook's help, they would be in his stomach. These were the ingredients; plates and a knife were apparently their tools. Slate's attention was so focused upon this intriguing process that he almost missed her question.

>> "So. If you don't mind me asking, how is it that you're all set to go rebuild a school in Columbia, but don't know how to make a sandwich?"

...The flush returned. Baby blue eyes stayed upon the neutral ground provided by the bread slices she had brought out, as he stood next to her at the counter, suddenly feeling quite awkward. It was a good question. It was also another that begged the question of how honest was too honest.

"I do not remember much," he explained simply. "My memories of the past few months, during the Registration Act, are patchy; before that, there is nothing. I am not sure if I have ever made a sandwich." He was fairly certain that Calley had. But those were Calley's memories. Having their own bodies was quite wonderful. It was also... disturbingly like being afloat at sea, with no anchor. There were things that he should know, that he simply did not.

"Perhaps that is how I can think like this," he offered quietly, with something of a small shrug. "I only have the present. When I look around, I see things that I wish were different; it seems very clear that if I wish that, I must simply take matters into my own hands to change them."

Bread was out, question was asked, and Lee glanced sideways at Slate to see his face flushed once again. So Lee turned her eyes downward again, watching as her hands opened the jar of mayo while she waited for Slate to answer.

And answer he did, almost as if he was trying to figure out how and what to say in answer as he went. That...certainly explained some things, didn't it? Like how he didn't appear to be that much younger than she was, yet had never made a sandwich, didn't even know how to make a sandwich.

Her childhood, her history, might not have been the greatest, but at least Lee had memories of it, had the good memories of her family before everyone found out what she was doing to them.

If he saw things that weren't right, he felt he had to do something about them. At first, Lee didn't see why that would be different than anyone else in the world, but then she thought of herself again. There were things, a lot of things, that she though of as being wrong with the world, that most definitely needed changed. And yet she had done nothing about any of it yet. She'd simply tried to keep her head down and live whatever kind of life she was able to eek out for herself.

"Maybe we should give politicians that kind of amnesia," Lee said jokingly as she spread the mayo on the slices of bread, followed by placing the cheese and meat there. "Maybe then they'd actually do something useful in office."

"Heh," Slate smiled at the woman's little joke. "Perhaps we need them to do less 'useful' things, really--every time they try to 'help' mutants, I fear I must resist the urge to groan." That was another thing he really must look into--building the Labs' power to lobby. While politics were not the most expedient way to accomplish his goals, they were certainly an angle that was not to be overlooked, particularly in areas he planned to take a more long-term approach to. Like the United States, for instance.

The teenager watched with the air of a pupil next to his Master as Lee constructed the sandwiches. The process was simple, orderly, and produced a clear result. He approved.

"If I may ask, Lee," Slate inquired, because he was under the impression that small talk was more socially acceptable than philosophizing over sandwiches, "What is your opinion of the world, as it currently is?"

His idea of small talk was still being refined.

Slate...had a point there. When politicians tried to help, most of the time things just ended up being worse for mutants. So maybe if they just stopped trying to help...Though Lee didn't see that happening any time soon; they'd work to try and help or harm mutants separately than they would the rest of the population, and for the most part, that's where the problems came in.

Not that Lee could really do anything about that, anyway. Yes, they had paperwork in the works for her, but she wasn't fully legal there quite yet.

Sandwiches were done, and Lee put them on the two plates sitting on the counter, then turned to start putting things back in the fridge as Slate asked a question.

Pausing, Lee looked over at the young man and just appraised him for a couple moments before she opened her mouth. What did she think of the world? "It sucks," Lee finally said in answer, then started moving again to put things back in the fridge. "You can find good people, good things, but the world itself sucks.

"Just look here at New York," she continued. Was she starting to go on a bit of a rant? "Criminals," and zealot ex-cops, she mentally added, "still roam the streets, yet they locked us up simply for how we were born. Locked children up for no other reason than being a mutant. They could have solved the homeless problems if they had put the money toward that instead of those damn camps. They could find the money for that without a problem, but whenever things like homelessness, or health care, or whatever come up, they can't find it, there's not enough budget."

Pausing, Lee felt a bit of a flush crossing her cheeks as she realized just how much she had gone on there. "Sorry," she said softly.

"There is nothing to apologize for," Slate replied quietly, standing by the finished sandwiches on the counter as she put away the ingredients. "I did ask, after all. And there was nothing in your answer that was untrue."

He was not quite sure if he was being helpful, or if she had some other plan for them, but he picked up the two plates and carried them to the kitchen table, setting them down opposite each other. With a small gesture of his hand, he offered for her to choose her seat first. He would take the other.

"Have you ever thought of actually working to change these things you dislike, Lee?" Slate asked, once he had sat down. "That is what I will be using the Kabal to do--we will work to solve the problems we see at their roots, rather than racing around to treat the symptoms, as the X-Men do, or attempting to cure a tree with fire, as the Order seems to favor. You are more than welcome to try working with us, when you husband has recovered." A muscle in Slate's jaw tightened; baby blue eyes were resolute. Though perhaps 'stubborn' would be a more accurate word. "And he will recover. We will find a way."

Lee shrugged as she watched Slate pick up the plates from where she was standing by the fridge. Yes, it was true that he had asked, and nothing she had said was untrue, but she still hadn't meant to go on a rant like that.

But the sandwiches were now on the table, thanks to Slate, and he was gesturing, however small the gesture may be, for her to take a seat first. That was something she probably wouldn't have fully realized what it meant before she had gotten to know Tarin; he was all about the chivalrous and courteous behaviour, opening doors, carrying things for her. Not so much holding her chair for her as she sat unless they were actually out somewhere, but he did tend to prefer that she sit first when they sat down to eat.

So Lee sat in one of the chairs that had a plate sitting in front of it as Slate sat as well, and then he started talking.

"I..." Lee said softly, then cut herself off after Slate's first question there. She had thought of helping, had thought of trying to change things, but not in a long time. She had probably still been back in Barrie the last time she had seriously thought about it, back before she had left her parents. Since then, she'd been too busy simply trying to survive herself.

Lee's eyes were on her plate by the time Slate was asking her, offering her, the opportunity to work with him and the Kabal. Once Tarin was better, of course.

"Yeah, that might be good," Lee said, her eyes still lowered slightly. And it did sound good. The chance to really be able to help, to do something useful. It might be good for Tarin, too, with how he often felt about his powers, helping others might be a good thing for him, too.

She'd have to talk to him about it. When he finally woke up. "I'll have to think about it," Lee said, finally looking up at Slate once more. "Doubt I'm in any state of mind to be making any real decisions right now, but I'll definitely think about it."

Slate gave an simple, understated nod. "I would expect nothing different, Lee. My offer and ideals can wait; finding a cure for your husband is much more important, right now."

Lunch continued; then his much pondered-upon meeting with the X-Men. His return visits to the Mansion continued, as did his conversations with Lee.

No break through would come, however, until March 14th.

((ooc: Continued in Waking Up is Hard to Do.))