To: Zephyr, w/ <3 (solo)

((ooc: Continued from revolution: ur doing it wrong.))

[/b]: There is no need to rush the communication. One would not want him distracted while on his business trip.

perfectprime: Simply send the itemized bill to his apartment; he can review it at his leisure after he returns.

deadhand09: Understood, Sir.[/i][/ul]

E-communications. Slate had developed many metaphors (and similes) about them, since leaving Belgium. Two seemed particularly fitting.

Crackberry. An alternate name for Blackberry. E-mail, Slate had discovered, was the gateway drug. From there, it was a slippery slope: first one is innocently e-mailing graduate students in Belgium—what’s the harm?—but then, before one quite knows what has happened, one is procuring their head secretary’s IM address, stalking twitter topics, and using ‘friend’ as a verb. Crackberry: Slate had one. He’d had one for months. He’d once dissected one, and left its electronic innards on the floor when he was done with it: such blasphemy left an unholy taste in his memories. He had treated a blackberry—a blackberry!—like a cadaver; he had poked and prodded at its parts, innocently ignorant that he was vivisecting something of greatness. Technology was more than the sum of its circuits. And the internet itself...

The internet was a psychic. He could only stand in awe, as a grasshopper before the sun. Its communications were global, and near-instantaneous. Its knowledge vast, and cumulative. A few clicks and keystrokes could affect the physical world: packages could appear at doors, rice could be mysteriously earned for third world nations by playing word games. Google ads knew what he was reading. To any mutant who thought of humans as inferior, let them simply ‘log on’ to this simple fact: humans had created the internet. Into the internet, Slate tread, reverent.

He had not used his mutation. He had not sent a letter, nor picked up a phone. And yet—days or weeks from now, when Zephyr returned to America—he would find a letter waiting at his apartment, deducting from his mission paycheck the cost of several VIP memberships to intercontinental airlines. Travel expenses, these were not. Noin Mortman had narrowed her eyes at a bill in New York: Slate had checked his e-mail in a hotel in Romania. They had ‘chatted’, without ever moving their lips, yet their words had set into motion an action that could very well bring a ‘RL’ scowl to an opportunistic mercenary’s face.

Thus was the power of ‘teh interwebs.’

[/b]: Do the same with any other odd expenses, would you? Again, no need to bother him until after he returns.

deadhand09: lol

perfectprime: :P[/i][/ul][/color]