Slate discovered something, as the next few moments passed: he did not respect Senor Cortez.

Two mutant guards when they had first entered: protection against a teenager, and a guest.

Some manner of shock device, to control his own employee. His female employee.

A row of oh-so-intimidating stone lions outside, leading to two guards with large guns; two more guards, who had apparently been listening at the door like schoolboys. And one in the closet; clearly, not a metaphor for anything else in the Senor’s life.

So much blatant paranoia over a little boy; one that Cortez himself had invited in. So much paranoia, and yet the man had made just that mistake—he had invited Slate in, without even knowing how the Kabal Leader’s powers worked. For all he knew, the teenager could re-write his mind from across the room. He had made the most basic of mistakes: complete underestimation of his enemy.

As chaos and guns swirled around them, Slate sincerely wished he could show the man that mistake. It was very annoying, in fact, that he couldn’t. He had been correctly underestimated.

Well. Mental attacks failing, there were still four guards much more concerned with the gun-welding women than with the thin teenager. Therefore, Slate threw himself at the back of the redhead’s knees, in a tackling hug. With great dignity.

So much paranoia that Cortez, perhaps, hadn't misplaced. As the first guard to draw his gun on Lenna could easily relate. A ribbon of blood spiraled up from the 20-something crewcut Columbian's nose. The black metal of the butt of Lenna's handgun did quick work. From her backwards-wheeling position, she'd shot left and zagged right, straight under his guard, and then-- THWAP! His head flew back like something on the ceiling required his utmost attention.

And then with the punching… A clean uppercut drove his intestines to retreat ever-further into his chest. He flopped messily to the floor as another shot rang out.

Lenna was already moving to the left. Her elbow came up to pin the shooter’s neck against the wall like the metal bar of a mousetrap. Snap. The brunette ground neck into wall further as the guard’s blue eyes rolled back towards unconsciousness. As she dug in, her torso turned towards the last pair of guards. Lenna’s free hand jerked out behind her to fire two shots. The first hit the guard’s gun and sent it spinning from his hand. The second hit him in the shoulder and sent him twirling to the ground. He landed with a thump on an Italian settee.

For a moment, a frown tugged at Lenna’s lower lip. Aww, how sad. The nice peaceful white of the couch got stained red.

Her attention snapped back to the man pinned between her arm and the wall. She tilted her head to smile at him, and let him drop. The guard fell to his knees, jarred awake by the impact against carpet. “You tell your friends not to bother sending reinforcements. They’ll meet similar fates as those guys over there.” The mercenary’s gun jerked back towards broken ribs, bleeding shoulder, and— Lenna abandoned the mortified guard as her attention waned. Bleeding shoulder, and what.

The redheaded guard still stood. “Johnathon…” Lenna froze him with her words. As the other three guards picked themselves up and ran for the door, the redhead nodded.

“Lenna…” Then glanced down at the inevitable brown-haired world leader ineffectively clinging to the back of his knees. “Slate?” The heat on the back of his calves flared lightly to give the poor boy a taste of his current situation. “Best let go. The grown ups need to play. And Cortez—” Johnathon’s head snapped to shoot a lightning glare at the drug lord wriggling his bulk through the closet’s secret doorway like a coward. “Please. Don’t go. I thought you had more faith in me.”

“Faith is for religious zealots and fools.”

Johnathon clicked his tongue. With a visceral tone, he asserted. “Stay.”

Cortez stopped where he was, like a dog on a leash. He waited, eyes narrowed. “Continue.”

There were times when Slate very much wished for laser beam vision. Super strength and a monkey tail would not go amiss, either. Really, he wished for anything more useful than his own abilities, in situations such as this. And he did seem to be finding himself in these situations, with disturbing regularity.

There had, for example, been the time when Trista Evans had taken offense to his new contract proposition. And blown off his arm. Granted that he was able to heal it back, but somehow, it did not seem quite the same.

There had also been, very recently, the time in which a drug lord’s flunkie had tied both he and Tarin up, and begun to torture them publically. The man had pointed out that Slate’s healing just meant he could take lethal damage repeatedly without actually dying. Slate had not particularly liked the look in the man’s eyes as he had demonstrated this. Lee had saved them both.

And now, before his eyes, there was rather a heated battle. His attempted tackle had done nothing. Since that really was the best he could do...

>> “Slate? Best let go. The grown ups need to play.

Yes. That summed it up, somewhat ruthlessly.

The blue eyed teenager let go of the man’s legs and, with all due uselessness, got out of Lenna and the red headed man’s way. He felt an odd moment of camaraderie with Cortez at that moment: neither of them was going to decide the outcome, here. They were just... sitting quietly until the grown ups were doing playing.

Johnathon's eyes returned to Lenna with a placating gleam. Cortez had assented. He'd stay put. And the brown-haired boy had cleared him of their presence. A bastard smile burned on the redhead's lips. "Good choice. And Lenna—" The brunette’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Been a while. Be a doll and cut the gun-fu crapola. You know I prefer things a bit more personal than that.”

A short bark of a laugh interrupted the moment. Lenna turned her body to better line up the shot. Her eyes narrowed pointedly as she tilted her head, lips pulled into a dangerous smile. “Yet you still have your own gun. Why is that?”

Johnathon’s arms rose in an abating shrug. “You caught me. What say we call it a truce with the firearms. I drop my gun, you drop yours?” A boyish smile. His eyes drew perceptively to the gun.

“…” Lenna’s right arm lowered to slip the gun into a holster on her chest. A glimpse of Kevlar underneath black leather caught Johnathon’s eye. “You’ll settle for holstering as means of appeasement?”

A slow nod from the redhead. “It’ll do.”

Lenna smirked. “You always settle. Why is that?”

Cortez coughed. Ugh. This friendly conversation was boring him. When would they hit one another and get it over with? He didn’t hire Mr. Fire for subtle banter.

The redhead’s eyes shifted towards Cortez, then back towards Lenna. He got the hint. His gun tumbled over his right shoulder casually as he came at Lenna in a burst of speed. A flare of fire came off his calve muscles, propelling him into a shoulder tackle.

Lenna tumbled to the left and out of the way, landing on one knee. Her hand darted to her boot and withdrew a knife. All in a split second, things had gone from bad to better. Johnathon’s tackle cancelled in a reverse jet from his forearms. They angled in front of him towards the ceiling and let out a flame. His eyes shot over to where Lenna was already rising as he plotted his next move. A knife.That’s a bit more personal, he noted. A hint of amusement tinged his inner voice. He’d meet her attack head-on.

Lenna closed the distance quickly. Her knife came in with a downward stab. Johnathon caught her right arm with his left, and swung at her face with his right. A slap.

Not even enough to make a cat flinch. Though the knife fell. Why was that? JohnJohn’s slap met Lenna’s punch.

John blocked with his forearms, retaliated. Lenna blocked, and came around for a spinning arm bash. Which met Johnathon’s face.

Nice. His form was broken as he fell backwards a half-step. Lenna took the opportunity, and ran right with it to set up her next strike. A spinning kick… which he ducked. Not so nice. Her leg brought itself up once more. Let’s try that again.

He caught it. Looked so smug doing so, too. Well, smugness is its own reward, but OK. Her other leg came around in a spin kick to his face. Knocked him to the floor.

“Personal enough for you?” She stood over him with a sneer. Impertinence was in Lenna’s nature. One of her best strengths, actually.

Redheaded fighter’s fist met redder lip as he brushed away a trace of blood with a grin. “Better.” But still not good enough! He lurched forward into a tackle, knocking Lenna’s feet out from under her. She came down. And he pounced on top of her.

~<3

“… sigh.” It was always like this, wasn’t it? Cortez fumbled with a flask in his pocket, unscrewing the lid. “These things take so long. Really. It’s as if they don’t think I have a 5:30. Vodka?” He took a swig of the flask, then proffered it to Slate.

As Lenna and Johnathon wrestled on the floor in the foreground, no less.

"No thank you," Slate said politely, and left it at that.

"Pity," Cortez took a quick swig, then stashed his flask in a coat pocket. "It certainly eases the flames."

Flames

Johnathon reared back over Lenna , elbows raised for the burner attack. A downward bash, flames akimbo, right across the chest. Pinned beneath his knees like so, she wouldn't be able to dodg-- a crackle, a pop. The grin on his face vanished as he glanced left, right at his arms.

WHERE WERE HIS FLAMES!?

Ah. There they were. Tiny as the light from a match stick... what was keeping them this small..? His attention jerked back to Lenna, and Lenna's face... connected with his forehead. A head bash. The redhead clutched at his face, elbows facing outwards. Anger flames flared. Did she really!?

"How personal..." Johnathon sneered.

"I thought so." Lenna’s body snapped to the right, arms outstretched and clawing, clawing out for something. A flash of silver, the knife tore across the air in front of Johnathon’s chest, in Lenna’s grip. A swing and a miss. But it forced the redhead back. Lenna shifted her lower body, knees rising to kick Johnathon’s chest with the newfound freedom. He lurched backwards. Arms swung for balance. Lenna slid across the floor, up and away. She pushed herself to her feet, and regained the advantage.

“What did you do!?” Johnathon spat. He stood, huffing and puffing, fists curled at his sides.

The knife in Lenna’s hand raised chest-level, held in front of her, held like an ice pick. Her free hand stayed up defiantly, in a defensive stance. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”


"My FLAMES!!"

"Not my fault if you're all smoke, no fire. Can we wrap this up? Last I checked before you started talking, I was winning."

“………….” The flames on Johnathon’s arms rose to lick dangerously at the ceiling. All his rage channeled viscerally into his next word. “Fine.”

Like a fire dancer, weaving patterns in the dim light of the luau, Johnathon’s arms moved to sculpt the flames. Whirling and twirling, whirling and twirling. This next move would be a finishing one. This next move would—!!

Lenna shot him in the knee.

Johnathon collapsed. His eyes gaped up at her, furious. “Y-you said you wouldn’t use that! You said…”

“Talk is cheap. Sit this one out, John. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

Johnathon’s fury softened to a dull flame. He sat on his backside, clutching his knee bitterly. “...Fine.”

Lenna walked over to Slate, and looked him in the eye. A nod. She turned to aim the gun at Cortez’s forehead.

“Now, we talk.”

Slate was not entirely certain what flames Cortez was referring to. There were the obvious flames in front of them, of course, in the fight that was rather close for comfort as far as any non-healers were probably concerned. The context seemed somewhat wrong for that, however. Alcohol—particularly ingested—did not seem likely to ease those flames, nor—considering that the man was on Cortez’ side—did easing them seem wise.

(The red head was shouting something. He seemed to be having some small difficulties with his abilities. Not unlike when Slate had used his own mutation on Lenna, in fact. Curious. Perhaps she was not simply a psychic, then?)

Slate knew of the expression ‘flames of passion’, as well, of course. This... he hoped was wrong. In this particular situation, he did not really wish to imagine who Cortez would be ‘flaming’ for.

(Lenna shot the other man in the knee. Well, then. Slate returned her nod.

>> “Now, we talk.”)

The blue-eyed teenager looked over at the fiery mutant on the ground. “Would you like me to heal you?” Given the earlier conversation with Cortez, Slate somehow suspected the answer would be ‘no’. Still. It seemed like the polite thing to offer.

Slate's expectations were easily met by Johnathon's glare and his guttural 'pass'.

Cortez closed his eyes. A sigh. "Are you going to kill me now?" He wanted to be ready if it happened. Wanted to look good. Wouldn't go out pawing and praying for salvation. He'd come to terms long ago with the fact that he'd sold out His god.

The gun pressed harder. "No. I said 'talk'. I'll pick the topic. My family."

Cortez looked at her dumbly as only a man with the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead could. "Sorry?"

"You should be, you bastard. After what you did. I heard about it. Apologies are meaningless, tho—"

"I apologize." The drug lord cut her off. "I... don't get what your family has to do with me."

"Well, you killed them." Lenna replied, losing some of her flame. "Organized their deaths. Eliana said. You..."

"Child. I believe you are mistaken... I ordered no such act. Not that I'd remember it, mind you. Lives are kind of trivial, like that. The day one man orders the death of rebels in a certain village may be the most important day in one person's life. But for the person ordering it, it could be Tuesda--"

"S-shut up! That isn't important, whether you remember it or not! The point is, you killed!! You killed them, and..."

"When was this?" Cortez put a finger on the barrel pointed at him and pushed down. The gun lowered slightly as Lenna's eyes wavered with fury. What was he...? Who was he kidding!? And... her mind tried to rationalize things, caught up in an angry teenager's mentality. She opened her mouth, and butterflies escaped her stomach.

“When… when you took me in, I guess? Eliana said… that was when it happened. You ordered…”

"Oh, then! I remember... Eliana came in that day, asking me to allow her to care for the child of some family she murdered during a routine shake-up on a cruise. Some people got antsy and refused to pay the price." His eyes locked with Lenna's, sardonic sadness in his voice. "I guess their child ended up carrying the burden of their debts..."

"What? That's impossible. That's..."

"Your jaw, dear. It's on the floor."

"Shut up!" Lenna snapped. She jerked the gun away from Cortez, letting it drop to her side as she looked off. Thoughts roiled behind blue-green eyes, to the quiver of a lower lip. “That just isn’t possible. Eliana raised me. She looked out for me. Was my mentor—”

“And she killed your parents. Really. It must have been the guilt weighing on her. No wonder she wasn’t hesitant when I assigned her to kill you in Japan… what an easy way to rid herself of it. She was practically tripping over herself to talk to you.”

“And you’re saying she murdered my parents? What kind of BS is this?” Lenna sneered.

“And you killed her. Problem solved?”

"No. No no no. You're lying to me. You always lie. This is just crap. You killed them, she didn't. She raised me. She was my best friend, and you sent her to kill me over some trivial, argh!" Lenna paced, gun rising and falling with each declaration, each new line of thought. It finally settled on Cortez from 6 feet away. Right on his chest.

Cortez shrugged. "What have I to gain? She killed your parents, she brought you to me, she raised you, and you got your revenge... and this whole 'thing' you're on about now, about your parents, or I'm assuming, my forcing you to work for me... well, you're going to kill me for that anyways. I'm just telling you the truth now before you pop the cork on the bottle of champagne you've been shaking up with your ranting. You brought this all upon yourself, Lenna. With the company you've kept and the decisions you've made..." Sad eyes. Lenna remembered Cortez was really good at making with the fake sad eyes. And right now... Lenna bit her tongue as he talked down to her.

"You're right." Lenna spoke in almost a whisper, eyes glued to the rug and in shadow. “It is inevitable. I’m gonna kill you to shut you UP!!”

The gun rose. Her hands were shaking. The pressure had built up long enough. The cork was going to pop. Lenna’s finger tightened on the trigger. Oh, but the trigger. Cortez’s death was only a hair’s breadth away, and…

BANG!

Cortez had exceptional wit in the face of death. Curious. Slate tilted his head, observing the long dialogue. The reasons Ms. Lenna had chosen to aid him, rather than her employer, became rather apparent rather quickly. That no love was particularly lost between them was hard to miss, even for Slate.

That Cortez was about to die, likewise. That would be... inconvenient.

“Lenna,” he tried to interrupt. Too sensibly spoken of a word, given the emotional context.

>> "You're right. It is inevitable. I’m gonna kill you to shut you UP!!”

Slate was not particularly good in a fight: things happened too fast, and from too many sides at once. There was no time to think: only to react. Slate’s instincts, in that regard... could be described fairly as ‘ill-developed’. This, however, was much more straight forward than a fight. There was one action for him to focus upon: her finger beginning to curl down on the trigger. There was one solution: he had to stop her.

“Lenna!” The teenager rushed forward, attempting to shove her arm down.

Cortez was very close to being one of Slate’s own, now. Closer than he would find comforting, in all likelihood. Slate took care of his own. Lenna could shoot him all she wished: it would not due for her to kill him, however.

"Lenna!"

The shot missed, as if on cue. It hit knee, rather than brains. Cortez hissed in pain. Lenna's eyes shifted dangerously towards the blue-eyed 3 year old weighing down her arm.

"Let. Go!" Her arm tore to the right in an attempt to shake him. Gun barrel swung over wall, past potted plant, back towards Cortez, then sunk again. When Slate wanted to hang on for dear life, it seemed he could. Lenna could have shed the weight, could have broken free and shot Cortez, ended it all. But she didn't. He wouldn't let her.

Somehow, her mind willed her body to ease her anger. Form the ball of malice into words. "That bastard! That bastard..." In English. The words held a bit more power in her true native tongue. Lenna's teeth ground against themselves as her chest rose and fell. That bastard... "He doesn't deserve compassion. Let go of me. Let go of me, so I can kill..."

>> "That bastard! That bastard... He doesn't deserve compassion. Let go of me. Let go of me, so I can kill..."

Slate had very little intention of letting go. Compassion, likewise, was not at the top of his priorities. His clinging to Lenna’s arm—with all of its elbow-wrapping and feet dragging across the floor as she flailed—was for purely non-altruistic intents.

“A corpse helps no one,” the teenager stated, quite practically, his chin on Lenna’s elbow. “I can make use of him. Leave him alive.” His orders did not seem very effective with her; he strongly suspected she had some manner of untrained psychic abilities. That did not mean it was not worth trying.

It did mean, however, that further incentive would not be ill-advised. “Allow me to make him mine,” he said, “and you can know the truth. He will no longer be able to lie.” Not if Slate ordered the truth from him. Not unless he was someone like Lenna.

". . . 'Make use of him', how!?" Lenna spat. The gun didn't rise. Lenna was still angry. Damn straight, she was pissed. For some reason, though, she couldn't bring herself to end the insufferable drug lord's life. And this kid...

Cortez gaped at his potential hero. Lenna grimaced at the fact she wasn't making those eyes go slack. The gun's handle pressed harder against the palm of her hand.

>>“Allow me to make him mine,” Slate said, “and you can know the truth. He will no longer be able to lie.”

"What are... no. You can't!" Cortez hurried his words. The realization had come on far too quickly.

Lenna's eyes narrowed. Make him mine... inability to lie... And what Cortez had said earlier, of his men not being themselves. "Explain to me... just how you 'make him yours'." Lenna's voice was low. This next answer was important. It would tell her just what he'd done, tell her what he was planning to do... and right now, the method behind the madness was more important than the end result

She gripped Slate's wrist and forced it down, off her arm. With one quick swing of her arm, she whipped him to the floor. The gun didn't need to rise in this instance. Lenna's eyes locked with Slate's, oh-so-serious. They spoke for her towards the severity of her request. "Explain to me..."

Slate found himself on the floor. His first reaction to this, perhaps, was inappropriate: a slight sense of satisfaction. He had been studying judo with the Mondragon Labs Secretaries since January: it pleased him to know that after nearly a month away from them, he had still taken a fall correctly.

Taking falls was about the only concept he had grasped. This was a fact of some concern. Slate blinked baby blue eyes up at Lenna. She still had the gun.

Could he heal head wounds? A curious thought. It felt somehow distant. The ceiling of Cortez’ office felt much closer: so very much closer than it would have been in the Mondragon Labs training rooms. Almost stifling, really.

>> "Explain to me..."

“Ah,” Slate began. Of course. It was pertinent information to their situation. “I can place a loyalty command in the Senor’s mind. It will ensure his compliance with me, in all things I order: if I tell him to tell you the truth, he will.”

“Unless,” the teenager added, with a blink from the floor, “he is like you.”

"And this loyalty command," Lenna spoke. "Does it require any sort of preparation, any sort of act...? I remember you asked for my permission when you healed..." Her eyes didn't ease. Nor did her ire. If this loyalty command he spoke of was the same that had forced her to blab precious secrets... well, then. He'd already placed such a command in her.

And that wasn't welcomed.

It was strange though, how Slate had added the last part of his message. Unless he's like you... Like her? Like hell. "And please tell me," The gun tapped against Lenna's side disconcertingly as she shared a incensed laugh. "Just what you mean by the words 'like you'?"

>> "And this loyalty command,"

Lenna spoke. Lenna spoke it with emphasis. Slate, from the floor, recognized her tone as mildly displeased.

>> "Does it require any sort of preparation, any sort of act...? I remember you asked for my permission when you healed..."

“Ah, yes,” Slate stated. “That would indeed be the preparation what I required. That, or unconsciousness.” Technically, he had indeed needed the permission to heal her, and he would not have placed the command in her mind if she had been a good person. He chose not to clarify things to this extent. It felt, somehow, that it would be best to answer with minimal assaults on her character.

>> "And please tell me. Just what you mean by the words 'like you'?

For himself, he would have liked to know what her laugh just then had meant. He did not recognize its particular tone, nor did the context seem quite appropriate for laughter. At least, not from his perspective. But then, from his perspective, her boots looked very large.

“If he is a psychic,” Slate clarified, quite simply. “Such as yourself. Your resistance to the command is too high for a normal human, or for a non-psychic mutant.” Was it wise to re-emphasize that fact that he had placed the command in her? Perhaps not. He suspected she’d not forgotten that fact, however, small though it was.

They were fairly nice boots. Authoritative.