As clothing and belt flecks showered down like confetti in need of laundering, the blue-eyed teenager's gaze remained level. His focus was on the good Mr. Turpit. Bacchus' unique clothing priorities were a matter for later concern. ...And he did have any particular desire to look up, in any case.

Slate listened to the man's quipping speech impassively. That fit with what he had learned from one of his latest loyalists, as well. Good. Since the loyalist's testimony was above question--particularly after Slate had ordered him only to tell the truth--it was in Mr. Turpit's best interests that his own version of things match up.

"Perhaps the next time you are out of town," Slate stated in reply to the man's story, his blue eyes cool, "you should make arrangements for someone to feed your cat." The matter was left at that. The issue of how he had discovered Nika, what he had done with her, and what he intended to do about Mr. Turpit were all equally ignored. He had not left the man to rot in a steel box. He had, in fact, only given that thought weight for as long as it took him to drink one cup of chilled coca tea on the steps of the make-shift infirmary. Therefore, his presence here was statement enough on the matter.

The man's act of loyalty was honestly surprising. It helped his case quite significantly. Not to ruin the touching moment of employer-employee bonding, but there was something he should probably know:

"In the future," Slate stated delicately, "such an action is unnecessary. I have plausible deniability. The Labs would not have been compromised, even if someone had thought to dissect your ring in search of electrical components." His deniability was more than plausible; it was mostly true. It was under Antonescu's old system that Roland received his ring. Slate personally held no affection for cereal box spy toys; cell phones and blackberries would suffice when face-to-face contact could not be arranged. Like many matters, he could reasonably lay all blame on the absent immortal, should anything inconvenient crop up.

"After you are done," Slate stated, quite simply, "you may join us in the jeep." With that, he turned, and began his course back to the crashed vehicle. He sincerely hoped it still worked. Otherwise, they were in for a long walk.

...And no, he still didn't look up.

(Permission to skip GB given by GB)

Thinking himself vindicated for the moment, Roland stopped to listen to the words falling from the little tyrant's lips. Listening to the advice given concerning his cat, Roland's blood simmered. It didn't boil, but the temperature rose as he considered how Slate would know about his pet. He had to assume that he had released her and spoken to her by now. Fortunately, the seed of murder placed in the cat's head remained, as he was sure that he would have heard a different bit of advice had that small kernel of truth been exposed.

Roland looked at the young master's face. Not so much as a twitch or a raised eyebrow at the mention of the ring. He had the notion to relieve himself of his little parcel on the boy's shoe and see if that spawned a reaction. The boy's lack of emotion made him seem like a walking illusion, preprogrammed to speak and move, perhaps a few basic responses. He listened as the plausible deniability speech came up. It wasn't the first time he had heard it, but considering the situation at hand, it seemed to burn a little more than usual.

The master and muscle turned to head toward the mentioned jeep. Roland was instructed to join them when done. He assumed that meant when he was done defecating the ring out. Might as well shit it, for the good it's done me, Roland thought to himself as he found Colon's personal latrine. It was a delicate and painful operation, one that was gratuitously messy and when all was said and done, required the use of his mutation. He doubted the ring was sanitary, but it was free of feces as the stuff was organic and did not follow the ring on its journey. He made his way out and doused the ring in some of the pure grain alcohol he had imbibed, sliding it back on his finger. With a shimmy of a wlak, he followed the trail to freedom. Well, Slate's version anyway.

It was just as well that Slate did not know of Roland's nickname for him. He was no 'little tyrant'; he was, clearly, something much larger than that. A world breaker and molder. Such a pre-defined term as 'tyrant' could not contain him. On some level, Slate wondered if a new word would be invented to describe him, when all was said and done. He was not conquering the world, after all--he was merely making it into the place it held the potential to be, over the protests of those whose opinions he could safely discount.

Back at the jeep, he tentatively gave the crashed truck a visual inspection. It did not look truly terrible. Not as such. Knowing his own driving skills, he had specifically requested a durable vehicle from the villagers. The villagers... ah. It would not due to take Roland back to the village; even on his best behavior, he still oozed snake oil with a promise that later a bill would be sent for those it touched. Slate looked at Bacchus.

Then, in a delicate understatement, he looked back towards the truck. The slightly red tint rising into his cheeks was a completely normal reaction to something so socially awkward and, therefore, nothing to be ashamed of. That thought did not seem to halt the reaction.

"If any of these men are near to your size," Slate suggested lightly, "perhaps you should scavenge some more appropriate clothing." It would not be hard to find clothing more appropriate than... a hat, a flask, and a knife. "After that, would you like to drive us to the next town? There will be a turn just before the village; simply take a right. I would like to set up our esteemed acquaintance to recover somewhere other than my center of operations."

Yes, the Giant could drive the truck.

Slate looked over at the somewhat uncomfortable looking man now rejoining them, a ring of questionable origins prominent upon his hand. He gave him a simple nod. Briefly, he debated offering to heal the man... but while Roland Turpit was not on his short list of people who deserved a giant hand forcing the gray matter out the back of their head, the man was also not on his list of people to make comfortable for the coming car ride. The multi-hour car ride, with just the three of them.

The faster the Giant drove, the sooner Slate would be able to bathe. Hygiene. He would not take it for granted even again.

((ooc: We can probably leave things off around here, unless you'd care to do somethin' else. )