Well. This was not strange, in the least.

It was the same Mansion as always. There was nothing particularly new about the snow-patched lawn, or the front steps. The carpeting on the hallway to the Admissions office was still the same tastefully rich pattern, and the paperwork was still exactly where it should be. As was fairly typical, there was no one inside when he opened the door. No one would have stopped him from entering, in any case. He was Caleb Swartz, Mansion resident for nearly a year now. It was not unknown for him to help a new comer get settled in, when the usual greeters were otherwise occupied.

It was Slate's first time coming into this building alone.

Calley was, to the best of his knowledge, sitting one floor down in his Biology class. And Slate was here, sitting in a maple chair in front of the empty Admissions desk, filling out the New Student Course Registration forms.

Name (Last, First): Swartz, Slate

It felt very strange. Though a handful of people around the Mansion--Katrina, Leila, and Shin, among others--knew his name, as far as the administrative records had been concerned, he did not exist.

Calculus II, to be arranged with a local college.
Literature, at the ninth grade level.
Ethics, at the same.
World History and Cultures, at the eleventh grade.
Contemporary World Politics, an online class through NYU with bi-monthly meetings on the campus.

It was not the sort of course load that would ever meet the state requirements for high school graduation. It was lacking in Physical Education--or Danger Room sessions, as tended to be substituted around here; likewise, Art and Science were being neglected entirely. He did not think he would mention the Art omission to Katrina. And he did not think he would graduate from high school. He was not even certain that he would be able to keep up with these five. Somehow, formal education did not seem as important to him anymore.

Slate was learning, and learning fast.

He left the file in its proper inbox, and stood looking out the windows behind the desk for a moment. It was a beautiful day. Yellow sunlight was breaking through the clouds, wearing away at the snow that remained on the Mansion Grounds. They were likely to get a snow storm or two before winter truly broke, but there was a promise of spring in that light. He wondered if that was why his heart was pounding so heavily in his chest.

He had just admitted to both the Mansion and the paper trail at large that he existed. That he, Slate Swartz, existed. Was it a wise decision? It was not too late to withdraw the file. Miss Evans would no doubt take great delight in destroying it for him; he was told that paper shredders also sufficed.

The sunlight really was quite beautiful.

Early that morning, at Mondragon Labs, Noin Mortman had picked up a phone and scheduled a meeting between Mr. Swartz, the Lab's CEO, and whoever was available on the Mansion staff. The topic was to be a potential donation to the school. The time was two hours from now; he had arrived early.

Until he walked into the meeting, he was still just Caleb Swartz, a normal sight around the Mansion. Afterwards? He would see. When he closed the office door behind him, his file was still on the desk.

The Kabal's young leader was now a registered student at Xavier's Sister School for Gifted Youngsters. He had exactly two hours before he saw how this hand would play out. Until then? He could think of no better way to spend the time than simply walking the hallways. They had not changed. He had.

Two hours. In a way, it was the worst time of the day for Lee. DocProf had been forcing her to spend time out of the infirmary every day, at least two hours, and she couldn't count the time that she went for food as part of those two hours. Two hours not being with Tarin, with nothing to actually do, it was hard for Lee. Very hard.

At first, Lee had tried splitting that time up, spending half an hour at a time out of the infirmary, but the doctor was insistent, kept bugging her to make sure she got those two hours in. It had ended up being easier to just do the whole two hours at one time, even if it did mean she had two hours to do absolutely nothing other than wander the halls.

She was really going to have to figure out something to do during this time, reading wasn't going to work, she already sat still enough when she was in the infirmary.

And then Lee saw a figure up ahead that looked familiar. Familiar, and yet it took a couple moments as she walked closer before she could place it. And then Lee figured out where she had seen the boy before. Stopping, she blinked, her head cocked to the side slightly. "Calley?" She asked. She hadn't seen him around the mansion yet the whole time she had been there, but then again she did spend most of her time in the infirmary. "I didn't expect to see you here."

>> "Calley?"

It was hardly an unusual greeting, given that he and Calley were "twins". Slate turned with an amiable tilt of his brown-haired head. The woman's voice was not immediately familiar to him; likewise, while there was a slight tinge of familiarity about her features, he could not place her within his own memories. He and Calley could not both retain copies of all of their memories; therefore, they had done the best that they could in dividing things up. If he could not remember the woman, then it was because he himself had never met her, as such: only Calley had. Since he did not remember even discussing such a woman with Calley, his brother must not have known her very well, or had only met her a very few times.

>> "I didn't expect to see you here."

The eighteen year old gave a small smile below apologetic baby blue eyes. "I fear you might have me mistaken for my brother, Calley."

He offered his hand. It was the polite thing to do. "My name is Slate. I just signed up to begin classes here. Are you a resident, Miss...?"

Calley looked just as confused at first when he saw her as she had been on seeing him. Until it had clicked in where she had seen him. It really wasn't all that surprising that Calley didn't remember her, though, she had just been one of the many mutants who had arrived wherever that place had been, and they hadn't exactly spent that much time together. They had simply chatted a bit and shared a lunch in the cafeteria. Nothing overly memorable, really.

Only, it wasn't Calley. Apparently, Calley had a twin, which is who was currently standing in front of her. "Sorry Slate," Lee said, clasping his extended hand and giving a quick shake. "I didn't mean to...

"Lee S-Brooks," she introduced herself, having to correct herself on her last name. She'd only had it for two months, after all. "A resident?" she then questioned, her eyebrows raised. "Uh, well I am kind of staying here right now. But I don't actually live here."

>> "Sorry Slate, I didn't mean to..."

Slate's smile continued to quirk. "That is quite all right. I hear that the similarity is rather striking." Physically, at least. Indeed, she must not know Calley well if she could not tell them apart at a glance. Where Calley would be twitching about, Slate was standing in the easily relaxed stance of someone who did not have extra energy crackling out through his pores.

>> "Lee S-Brooks."

A curious slip. Slate did not make any show of noticing it; it was not uncommon for mutants to give false names, after all. Perhaps she was simply getting used to her new moniker. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Brooks. I hope my brother did not do anything terribly ridiculous around you."

>> "A resident? Uh, well I am kind of staying here right now. But I don't actually live here."

Slate gave a nod. Again, it was not uncommon for mutants to find their way here, even if they lived elsewhere. It was not uncommon for them to stay, either. The Swartz' had their own apartment, but Calley most often slept here of late, and Slate most often slept at the Labs.

"What brings you here?" Slate asked simply, unaware of the nail he was about to hit.

Well, at least Slate wasn't upset about the fact that she had mistaken him for Calley. Actually, he seemed rather alright with it.

Then Slate was saying he hoped his brother hadn't been too ridiculous around her, and Lee shook her head. "No, nothing too weird," she told him. "Actually, he helped me deal right after the camps, so considering the time, I don't think I'd have even noticed."

And now came the question of why she was there, why she was staying at the mansion if she wasn't actually living there. Bitting her lip, Lee's head dropping toward the floor slightly. "What brings me here," she said slowly, still not looking at Slate. "Tarin, my husband, is in the infirmary. In a coma. It's just easier to stay here rather than going back home, and Sam was able to find me a room."

Swallowing and taking a breath, Lee finally looked back up, looked across the small distance at Slate. She may be done crying about the situation, well maybe other than sometimes at night, but that didn't mean it was easy to talk about.

>> "No, nothing too weird. Actually, he helped me deal right after the camps, so considering the time, I don't think I'd have even noticed."

This was somewhat reassuring, and somewhat surprising. Calley had helped someone to deal? Interesting.

It soon occurred to Slate that he had forgotten a golden rule of Mansion life: inquiring as to why someone was here was usually ill-advised. The woman's gaze and head both dropped; his smile left his face as he managed to become even stiller. Was she going to cry? He did not have much experience with crying women. This could go poorly.

>> "What brings me here. Tarin, my husband, is in the infirmary. In a coma. It's just easier to stay here rather than going back home, and Sam was able to find me a room."

The deep breath and the reaffirmed eye contact renewed the point: if she began to cry, things could not possibly turn out well. The Kabal's leader really, really did not wish for Miss Brooks--no, Mrs Brooks--to cry.

A solution tumbled out through his mouth a split second before it registered in his mind.

"I am a healer," he said simply. "I do not have the training that the DocProf has, but my power functions in a different way. May I try to help?"

He could count the number of times he had healed someone other than himself on one hand. This could also go poorly.

"It may not work," Slate admitted, "but there is never any sense in losing hope. Not before you try a thing, at least."

All Lee could do when Slate said that he was a healer was blink at him for a second. He was a healer? So was DocProf, but DocProf had no clue how to help Tarin. Though, if Slate healed people differently...Maybe he'd actually be able to help Tarin.

"You could?" Lee asked, perking up at the idea that maybe Slate could actually help Tarin, might be able to wake him from the coma he was in. "Yeah, that would be incredible. I mean, DocProf has no clue why he's even in the coma, hasn't had any ideas on how to really help Tarin, but if there's anything you might be able to do..."

So what if he said it might not work, at least it was something. As long as it didn't make the situation worse, what harm was there in trying, right?

"Sorry, I shouldn't be laying all of this on you since you just got here," Lee said, her tone a little less excited than it had been a moment ago. "But any time you would like to try, to see if there is anything you can do to help, I'd be more than happy for you to."

>> "You could? Yeah, that would be incredible. I mean, DocProf has no clue why he's even in the coma, hasn't had any ideas on how to really help Tarin, but if there's anything you might be able to do..."

Tears: averted. Slate's shoulders uncoiled as Lee's interest built. He may not be very well practiced at using his abilities, but there was a certain confidence in them, none the less: they were familiar, and their usage a puzzle to be worked out. Emotions, particularly those of another person... there was no clear cut algorithm for dealing with those, nor anything particularly intellectual about them. You could not trigger them into existence by completing X and Y, nor could you reason them away simply because they were inconvenient or nonsensical. He would take a puzzle any day. Honestly, he would take a table being hurled at him by a disgruntled employee any day.

>> "Sorry, I shouldn't be laying all of this on you since you just got here. But any time you would like to try, to see if there is anything you can do to help, I'd be more than happy for you to."

"It is entirely all right, Mrs Brooks," Slate replied quietly. "I can understand; your thoughts must be entirely focused on your husband, at the moment. Any time that you wish, I can try--I have no obligations for the next two hours, and if this works, it will work in an instant." The DocProf healed with glowing hands; Slate healed by entering a person's mind, and forcing it into a reset. There was no way for him to know that right now, there was no mind in residence for him to 'reset'.

Wow did that sound strange. Mrs. Brooks. Yes, Lee liked the sound of it, but at the same time it sounded strange. She hadn't exactly been called that very often, and mostly it had been Tarin calling her that, so it was still slightly strange to hear.

"You can call me Lee," she said softly. Slate was right, though, her thoughts were all but completely focused on Tarin. But he was willing to try any time she wished, and had the next two hours free? To hell with her plan to have this be her two hours out of the infirmary. If Slate was actually able to help, if he could get Tarin out of the coma, she wasn't going to have to be there much longer anyway.

"Could you try now?" Lee asked, hope fluttering in her chest. Really, this was the first bit of hope that Lee had had since first coming to the mansion, well, the only hope that she had had other than the hope that Tarin might just randomly wake up, like he had seemingly randomly gone into the coma in the first place.

"I could show you down there now. I'm sure DocProf wouldn't mind, he's been at a complete loss for weeks now."

>> "Could you try now?"

Hope fluttered in Lee's chest; something uneasy fluttered in Slate's. The woman was clearly caught by this new idea. Yes, Slate did stand a chance of healing the man. He had mentioned that it might not work however, correct? Perhaps he should emphasize that a bit more.

>> "I could show you down there now. I'm sure DocProf wouldn't mind, he's been at a complete loss for weeks now.

...Or perhaps he should let her have this hope, entirely uncorrupted. Slate gave a resolute nod. Indeed, they could go now. And indeed, he would try: and he would succeed, if he could. There was no need to focus upon anything else. This was a puzzle that not even the DocProf had been able to solve; it should be quite intriguing.

"Let us go then, Lee." He agreed.

He did not really need showing to the infirmary; he had been there himself, on a night when a Music teacher had been cowed into slanting her morals by a bull-headed wolf-girl. However, he let Mrs. Brooks lead: he suspected she would like something to do. Something that was useful, and which had a clear result.

Inside the infirmary doors, it was not hard to spot her husband. The DocProf's healing was quick. There was only one patient still bed ridden; the man did not move beyond a steady rise and fall of his chest. It was an unnecessary question, but Slate had observed that unnecessary questions were used quite frequently in situations of high stress. Confirming with another what your own reason tells you was standard practice.

"Is that your husband?" Slate asked softly. "What is his name?"

((ooc: Tell me if you mind the location move!))

Lee saw Slate nod his head. And then he said 'let's go'. Lee couldn't help it, she was excited, eager, really for the first time in weeks. He really was willing to try, and try right now. Giving a nod of her own, and a small, tight lipped smile, Lee turned and started walking quickly back down the hall the way she had been coming, checking over her shoulder ever so often to make sure she wasn't going too fast for Slate.

It really didn't take long to get back to the infirmary, she hadn't been out of the room all that long. Yes, she had been planning on being gone for two hours, to make DocProf get off her back about that for the day anyway, but if this worked, if Tarin woke up...

Immediately on stepping through the door, Lee's eyes sought out Tarin's still form in his bed. But like every other time she had walked through these doors in the previous two weeks, there was no change.

Walking slower now that Tarin was at least within sight, Lee nodded when she heard Slate's question. Reaching Tarin's bedside, Lee reached out and clasped his hand, eyes flashing to their wedding pictures that were sitting on the table beside her for a moment. The pictures weren't what one would normally call wedding photos; one was the 'official' one that the chapel in Las Vegas had given them, complete with Josh and Rachael, their witnesses. The second photo was much more them, and could only be described as candid. Rachael had taken it as they had walked back to the hotel from the chapel, planning to get a few drinks to celebrate, and you could just feel the love and happiness flowing out of the picture.

"Tarin Brooks," Lee said quietly, finally, as she once more turned her eyes to the young man who had accompanied her down to the infirmary. "His name's Tarin Brooks."

>> "Tarin Brooks. His name's Tarin Brooks."

Another nod. Slate came to stand by the man's side, his eyes briefly touching on the photos that had been set up nearby. Wedding photos. Recent ones; they both still looked the same. The only difference was that Mrs. Brooks now looked rather more worn, and Mr. Brooks... he had that peaceful stillness that the living never achieved, even in sleep. So this was what a coma looked like. Curious.

Slate extended a hand towards the man, then paused; baby blue eyes looked towards Lee for permission. "May I? I require physical contact to heal."

Once her consent had been given, he allowed his hand to settle onto the man's forehead, brushing against colorfully dyed hair. He allowed his own mind to open, reaching out to make contact with the man's own. He could do this much, at least; for the actual healing, he had always required permission. He suspected that he could enter a mind without permission, but he also suspected that it would not be recognizable ever again if he did so. He had only ever tried this on a person who was fully conscious, however; perhaps being in a coma would change things. He stretched out his mind towards the man's own, and...

...A furrow creased between his eyebrows.

He tried again, closing his eyes, to reach the man's consciousness.

Slate's eyes opened again. With a rapidly deepening frown, he brought his other hand to the man's face, placing a lose grip on either side of his temples. He leaned forward in clear concentration.

He released the grip with the same. He sought Lee's gaze again, baby blue eyes clearly troubled. "Where is he?" He asked, not pausing to think of what effect his words might have. "Where is your husband? This--this is not human," he said, with a shaken wave of his hand towards the thing on the bed.

There was nothing there for him to touch. That was not Tarin Brooks, any more than the roast beef in a sandwich was. The thing on the bed was just so much flesh. It had a heart beat, and it breathed, but that was all there was to it.

Slate asked to touch Tarin, saying he needed physical contact in order to heal. Well, hopefully his touch would do far more good for Tarin than hers did. Nodding, Lee let go of Tarin's hand and took a tiny step back from the bed. If his power could only work through touch, there was no use in her touching Tarin at the same time and possibly screwing things up.

Lee watched carefully as Slate first put one hand on Tarin's forehead, then both hands, frowning more and more as the seconds ticked by. And then Lee heard Slate speak.

Lee didn't know what was going on at first. Not her husband? What the hell? And did her heart stop beating there for a moment, or had it just stuttered before starting to pound in her chest?

"What the hell are you talking about?" Lee asked, some strange combination of fear and anger colouring her tone of voice. "Tarin's right there. Of course that's him. He looks just like Tarin, feels-"

Lee's voice cut off sharply right then. What she had been about to say wasn't true, that body laying in the bed did not feel like Tarin, at least didn't feel like anything she had ever felt from Tarin. And she had noticed it from that very first night she'd seen him in the infirmary.

"How the hell can you say that's not Tarin?" Lee asked in a whisper, ignoring what she had been saying just a moment earlier.

Her reaction to his proclamations was foreseeablely bad.

>> "What the hell are you talking about? Tarin's right there. Of course that's him. He looks just like Tarin, feels-"

That was a curious stop. Do not think that it went unnoticed by Slate. He gave a curt nod, as if whatever she had just thought of was proof of his point.

>> "How the hell can you say that's not Tarin?"

Her answer came in a whisper; his came at distinctly more. It did not qualify as 'shouting', but it was certainly a bit more forceful than his usual calm voice.

"This is not your husband," he stated again, more forcefully. "I do not know what conclusions the DocProf has come to, but this--" he gestured again at the limp thing between them; "is not Tarin Brooks; this is not anyone. This... This is worse than death," he scowled, looking down at the man's face. A shakey hand came up, and ran through his damp hairline. Was he... sweating?

"This is worse than death," he repeated, almost to himself. "Death is like a shutter; it comes down so quickly, you cannot hope to heal it. It blocks off what was there. This?" He shook his head simply, his voice lowering back to normal tones as he stared down at a face without mind or meaning. "This is... it is like there is nothing there to die. I do not understand. I just... do not."

His hand reached out again, almost compulsively brushing against the skin on the man's hand before jerking back. The result had been the same: there was nothing there. He could count the number of times he had successfully healed a person on one hand. For the number of times he had failed, he only needed one finger.

He stared down at the body, his head shaking resolutely in some unvoiced refute. He could not heal this. He knew it at a touch.

He would heal it, though. Because he had failed once before; because he did not need any more ghosts. He would heal Tarin Brooks. Somehow.

He was too stubborn to do otherwise.