There was something Susan Hyde had to prove, in an accurate and scientific way that provides results for future references in case the issue was questioned ever again.
Her people skills did not suck.
... that bad.
...
All right, maybe they did.
But that was something that could be improved with practice, wasn't it? People were doing it all the time. There must be some carefully designed way of acquiring the secret knowledge of behaving like a social being.
But, like oter kinds of secret knowledge, this one didn't come without sacrifices.
That was why, when a group of Mansion students she couldn't really tell apart under all the winter clothing, asked her if she wanted to 'tag along' for some socializing and winter sports, the witch said yes. Well, she didn't say 'yes', per se, she just put on a winter coat and a red-and-black scarf, and followed them all the way to Central Park without saying a word.
You gotta start somewhere.

There was one small problem: Susan couldn't skate. It was one of those things all the girls did, and she didn't do. There was many of those things. So now, having made the first step by tagging along, she sat on the edge of the ice ring with the borrowed skates on her feet, fidgetig with the hem of her skirt, watching people glide or stumble by. The ice had its own, tingling sound that came in light-blue waves, mixed with the other sounds made by a crowd of cheerful people. It smelled like winter and hot chocolate.
The teenage witch kicked the wall she was sitting on with her heels idly.
Stumbling looked painful.

It was a simple matter of balance and propulsion. Mere children seemed capable of it, as he was observing. He began to wonder who had first invented this 'recreational activity'; what man, woman, or lunatic had first attached kitchen knives to his boots, and thrown himself on top of a frozen pond? How many neighbors had his, her, or its voice drawn, and how much fun had the creature been having, for the idea to spread? What had passed it from country to country, elevating it to an international winter pastime and an Olympic sport?

The thought was cut short as Slate wind milled his arms, with dignity. There was clearly nothing undignified about it: this was a time-honored way of keeping one's balance. Even toddlers knew it. Though they seemed to be using it less than he was, out here on the ice.

Slate stoically held his arms out, thus increasing his balance, and again attempted to slide his right foot forward. Then his left. Balance and propulsion: that was all that was involved here, besides blade-endowed boots. It was all quite simple. He was certain of that. He merely needed to learn the trick of doing both simultaneously, and he would be moving as easily as--

One of the children bumped into him. Slate found himself sliding forward. This was not to be confused with skating. Having yet to go this fast, he was at a loss as to how to brake.

So it was that the Kabal's Leader found his face pressed against in someone's thighs. His wind milling arms had latched onto the wall; unfortunately, this particular part of the wall was occupied. Slate tilted his head up. The thighs (and associated body) seemed to belong to a young woman with brown hair and red--no, black eyes.

"I am sorry," the nineteen year old stated. "I am in your lap." He attempted to stand up straight, and move back: this led to his feet moving back, while the rest of him again slid forward. "I cannot seem to escape," he said, his voice somewhat muffled.

Stumbling was painful. Not to mention awkward, once the person on the ice ended up in her lap. Face first.
This can't be appropriate...
Susan felt her cheeks turn burning red as she looked down at the young man struggling to back away from her. Was thisbehavior considered normal at places like this? Or was he just a special kind of looser?
"I am sorry. I am in your lap. I cannot seem to escape."
Looser was more likely.
Susan reached down and around the mumbling face with both hands, grabbing the front of his coat; she pulled him up to eye level. With that done, the only question was: could he stan on his own once she let him go?
She was not ready to find out yet. She crossed her legs, just in case.
Susan felt her vision shift as her eyes swam blue on their own accord.
Whoops. Double whoops. One for the guy, and one for the witch.
I'll be damned.
First of all: the specimen in her hands was definitely a mutant. A very bright one too, as the X-gene aura went. Second: she'd never seen this many shades of grey before. With any of her senses.
Confused, she blinked the blue away, and wrinkled her nose. Struggling against her own vision was kinda like struggling on the ice. Her eyes swam black again, for a moment mixed with yellow, before she finally regained control.
Hmm. Interesting.
"Balance is not your primary mutation, is it."
Clap clap. God job, young Witch. Way to start a conversation.

Slate found his coat being dragged upwards between two fists. The rest of him followed, until his blades were roughly under him, and roughly on the ground. She was a relatively strong young woman, he noted.

A strong, blushing young woman. Who was crossing her legs. Slate blinked mutely above the balled up hands near his throat.

In the instant his own eyes were closed, her black eyes changed to blue. Then black. Then yellow? Then back.

>> "Balance is not your primary mutation, is it."

"Your eyes are beautiful," said the mutant boy still dangling in her grip. "Do you know how to skate?"

It was not easy, holding him up like that; Susan could feel the strain in her arms. He apparently had serious problems finding his own feet, and arranging them on the ice to support his body.
In the meantime, she stared at him with mild confusion. He didn't seem shaken by her comment on his mutation.
"Your eyes are beautiful. Do you know how to skate?"
And then she dropped him.
She pulled her hands back to her body in a hurry as the boy disappeared from her line of view, landing on the ice with a thud. Susan blinked down at him. Was he making fun of her? Or, even worse, was he serious? Her eyes? Wasn't that something guys said and her roommates giggled over for endless hours?
On to the second question.
"No I don't." she answered with dignity, and burning cheeks "But at least I don't go around pretending that I do."

Whumph.

Slate found that the ice was cold, yes, but also very hard, and so smooth that it felt like water. The liquid sort: not the solid. Or perhaps that was just the warmth of his hands, melting it subtly as he attempted to tidy the heap he had landed in. With dignity.

>> "No I don't. But at least I don't go around pretending that I do."

Slate arranged his legs under him. When and only when he was ready, he carefully returned to an upright position. After a moment of careful consideration, he determined that he could maintain the state. Then and only then did he return his eyes to her face. Blink. "You have gotten redder."

That was a simple observation, however. The matter at hand was this: "I am not pretending. I am learning. Would you like to learn, too?" He politely offered his hand to her. "I am Slate. If you break anything, or impale yourself, I can heal you."

"You have gotten redder."
"It's a natural reaction to the cold." she pointed out, pulling her scarf up with both hands to cover the lower part of her face and her nose. It really was cold out there. Ice ring. Duh.
She watched, tilting her head, as he sturggled to his feet once again. He reminded her of baby animals. Susan had never been fond of baby animals.
"I am not pretending. I am learning. Would you like to learn, too?... I am Slate. If you break anything, or impale yourself, I can heal you."
She took the extended hand, still sitting on the wall.
"Susan." nice, so far, so good "I'm a witch." maybe not.
She made sure to let said hand go before she slipped off the wall, supporting herself with both hands while she found her balance. It really was not as easy as it looked. Suddenly the idea of getting hurt didn't sound all that distant.
Also. Slate. Another one of those weird mutant codenames.
"So, you are a healer." she concluded, looking up at him. Some people around them were pulling each other by the hand. It was probably not a good idea for two who were equally likely to fall. Susan let go of the wall, holding out her hands at both sides loosely, to balance herself.
"This shouldn't be that hard to do." she muttered "The theory is pretty simple..."

>> "It's a natural reaction to the cold."

This statement seemed somewhat dubious to Slate. While he had indeed observed the correlation she referenced, her own rate of reddening... somewhat outpaced the norm. He was not entirely certain of the cause, however. She did not seem to still be angry with him anymore. She even took his offered hand.

>> "So, you are a healer."

"And you are a witch," Slate said. He tilted his head. "What is it, precisely, that a witch does?" One could hardly assume such matters. Asking 'Can you turn me into a frog?' seemed a good way to volunteer, after all.

>> "This shouldn't be that hard to do. The theory is pretty simple..."

The brown haired teenager held his own arms out for penguin balance, as well. "That was my thought, as well. The method of propulsion seems quite akin to normal walking, except that... both feet seem to move. Or so I have observed."

He frowned down at his own feet. "I cannot seem to remain upright while doing so, however." He tentatively moved into a glide, and demonstrated his point.

Whump.

Baby blue eyes looked up at her from the ice. "It is somewhat aggravating."

"What is it, precisely, that a witch does?"
Susan's eyes were shifting colors again, and now that her feet were on the ice, it didn't seem like the right time to go into some long explanation.
"Um, she gets chased around for being different from the majority?" she ventured with a smirk as her vision cleared up once again. It was as good an answer as any. It was also one of the very few things she did have in common with real witches. If they existed at all, that is.
"That was my thought, as well. The method of propulsion seems quite akin to normal walking, except that... both feet seem to move. Or so I have observed.... I cannot seem to remain upright while doing so, however... It is somewhat aggravating."
The demonstration proved to be quite useful; Susan observed it with intense curiosity, tilting her head to the side. To her surprise, it was also strangely amusing, and she bit back a laugh as the young man called Slate landed on his backside once again. At least he was not afraid to experiment. That was a very good trait in a person.
Not laughing and making faces at the way she talked was another one. It was also very, very rare.
"Well, from this point of view the problem seems to be your feet." she pointed out, balancing with both arms. It was not bad, as long as she didn't trie to move her legs "I don't think you are supposed to keep them paralel to each other. I think they are supposed to go... more like... this..."
Moving the blades on her feet carefully, she managed to rearrange them so her heels were closer to each other. It was progress, but it didn't feel much steadier.
"Excuse me for not helping you up. I don't think I am steady enough."

>> "Um, she gets chased around for being different from the majority?"

"Ah," Slate nodded agreeably. "So it is much like being a mutant, then. Are you telepathic, as well?" He asked. This question was not out of the blue: it was clearly well founded. She had known he was a mutant, after all. Though perhaps witches had other ways of telling.

And then he was on the ground. Yes. The young woman seemed to be holding in a laugh. Slate deemed that the correct response was a grin, as he pushed himself back to a sitting posture. It was a good first step, when one wished to get properly upright.

>> "Well, from this point of view the problem seems to be your feet. I don't think you are supposed to keep them parallel to each other. I think they are supposed to go... more like... this..."

Slate turned where he sat, closely observing her feet before looking at the people around them. "From this point of view," he stated, based upon his distinctive angle of observation, "you seem to be right. For those who are simply standing, in any case."

>> "Excuse me for not helping you up. I don't think I am steady enough."

Baby blue eyes blinked up at her, slightly startled by the thought. "I do not mind. In fact, I strongly discourage any such attempts. They are likely to lead to a recursive pattern." He wobbled carefully to his feet, positioning them as she had done, his arms stretched out again for balance. He frowned downward for a moment, clearly cautioning his feet and legs to behave themselves properly.

"Now," he stated, after he was satisfied with his own vertical state, "what are your theories on propulsion?"

"I do not mind. In fact, I strongly discourage any such attempts. They are likely to lead to a recursive pattern. Now, what are your theories on propulsion?"
Susan grinned back, in a very un-ladylike manner. She had never met someone who spoke her language. It turned out to be greatly entertaining. She could never wrap her mind around what made other females so enthusiastic about trivial things like flowers, but this, this was as close as she got to fun in a long time.
"Well, my theory is once you gain momentum, it seems to be a matter of shifting your weight rather than moving your feet. But the only way to prove it would be in motion, which means the first point on the agenda is gaining enough momentum to start moving forward..."
She looked around, fishing for ideas by observing people who apparently had no problems with starting or stopping as they circled. Some of them were even gliding backwards. Susan wrinkled her nose - she usually did that, when she was deep in thought.
"By the way, I am not telepathic." she added as a second thought. To bad, really. Hearing thoughts would be most intriguing. "I've got synestesia. That, and I can sense the X-gene."
So much about being a witch.
The boy called Slate was easy to spot, really. With all that grey, and the occasional baby blue. Those two went well together.
Carefully balancing with her arms, Susan lifted one foot, and used the point of the skating balde to push herself forward. She slid on one foot for a few feet before she tired to shift her weight to the other one.
Whump.
Well, it was worth a try.

Whump.

Laughter was an inappropriate reaction to a young woman falling. Slate realized this, and clapped a hand over his mouth. That stopped the sound. It did not stop his shaking shoulders, though.

"Forgive me for not offering you a hand up," he grinned (though he attempted not to: his mouth could be quite uncontrollable, at times). "I think we know how that would end. Though, perhaps..."

Tentatively, Slate put her theory to a second field test: he slid his own foot forward (slightly), and then, in turn, shifted his weight to the other side of his body (carefully). The result was two very short, very awkward glides that brought him closer to her.

And somewhat into the wall, again. Thump.

"Your approach may have merit," he judged, giving her a respectful nod as he carefully peeled himself off the boarded side of the rink. "...As for stopping, it seems that some absorption of momentum is necessary. In any case..."

Steadied by the wall behind him, Slate offered the young witch his hand. "I believe this is safe now. What is synesthesia?"

His eyes automatically sought her own as he asked. They really were very curious.

"You know, putting a hand over your mouth doesn't really cover up the fact that you are amused" Susan smirked, black eyes watching ice-blue tendrils of laughter leaking through Slate's fingers "Quite the contrary."
She didn't mind though. She had a vague sense of how amusing she must have looked, sitting on the ice. Besides, she was sure she would have a lot of opportunities to repay said laughter with her own. Slate was doing so great either.
Thump seemed to be the word of the day.
"...As for stopping, it seems that some absorption of momentum is necessary..."
The witch nodded, stretching out her legs while smoothing her skirt down. It proved to be a difficult piece of garment, for skating.
"That would explain why the rink has a wall around it." she nodded, with slightly more seriousness than the statement itself required.
"I believe this is safe now. What is synesthesia?"
Susan took the offered hand, not without hesitation, and pulled on it carefully before accepting the support. You can never know, with men learning to skate... once she was back on her feet, she steadied herself against the wall. It was a very nice, supporting wall.
"It's a neurologically-based mutation. Basically, the stimulation of one sensory pathway leads to automatic experiences in a second sensory pathway." she expained in the words that started to sound like an eternal mantra, usually followed by some mortal-friendly explanation. Susan's eyes turned red, and she tilted her head, watching the patterns of body heat under his skin, and the puffs of crimson-and-pink breath between the two of them.
Shaking her head, Susan blinked the touch away.
"Umm." she added very elaborately, pulling her hand back "Sorry. So. Well. Yeah, it basically means I can combine my senses with each other."
It's not always appropriate.

>> "It's a neurologically-based mutation. Basically, the stimulation of one sensory pathway leads to automatic experiences in a second sensory pathway. ...Umm. Sorry. So. Well. Yeah, it basically means I can combine my senses with each other."

The teenager scratched lightly at his goatee. He was still getting used to having it. "Those explanations are not the same," he pointed out, blue eyes puzzled. "Is it an automatic reaction based upon outside stimulation, as you initially stated, and thus involuntary, or can you do it at will, as your secondary explanation implied? Or is it, perhaps, semi-automatic, like... blinking?" Her eyes were red now. It was a very vibrant color.

Another thought seemed to occur to him. Slate's dropped his hand. "So... you are not a witch?"

He had not intended to sound quite so disappointed. It was simply that he knew quite a few mutants already; she would have been his first witch.

Susan's eyes cleared up in surprise. Someone pointing out a flaw in her logic was something she was not used to. Even her former teachers didn't dare to go that far.
"Semi-automatic" she answered, trying to sound like it was the most obvious thing in the world "Some shifts I can control, others I can't."
She didn't add that it was due to her lack of practice instead of the nature of her mutation. Her own words were currently having a tinge of metal to them. Hmm.
"So... you are not a witch?"
The final blow. Contrary to popular belief, you can smell emotions. Disappointment, for example. Susan recognized that from her long years spent with the Hyde family.
"What exactly makes you think I can't be both?" she asked, this time clearly irritated. Her cheeks turned pink again.
Brat.