His hair was unruly. This was not for lack of shower, combing, nor gel. The Kabal’s Leader frowned back at himself from the rearview mirror of the blue car, running futile fingers through his short brown hair one more time. This served only to produce more spikes.

With a last narrowing of his eyes, Slate stepped out onto the Mansion’s driveway. It was exactly 6:24 PM. Friday. He had a scheduled social interaction with Susan in six minutes.

It took five seconds to straighten his gray sweater after its seatbelt-inflicted rumpling, and smooth down the front and back of his khaki pants. His black dress shoes shone up at him, so he deemed them satisfactory as-is. He reached into the passenger side, and brought out a small bouquet of flowers. Three white daisies. The Lab secretaries had assured him that flowers always made for a good impression, but roses were too weighty for a first date, and anything red was too presumptuous. These, they assured him, were ‘cute’ and ‘suited him.’ He was not entirely certain what that meant.

Nonetheless, at 6:25 PM, Slate Swartz presented himself in the Mansion foyer. With daises.

"Do you feel the need to dress up?"
"No."
Susan underestimated the power of her feminine instincts (something she wasn't even sure she possessed at all). Right after she slammed, locked and bolted the door of her room following the Toad and Princess incident, she had to face the fact that she was shamefully unprepared for her non-date with Slate.
Not to mention royally pissed.
Three hours later a clean and dressed Susan sat in her room, staring down the clock on the wall and trying to make up her mind about wandering outside the comfort zone of her room. And trying to come up with a way of telling Slate and... fake Slate apart.
Also, trying to get her hair into pigtails.
Another half an hour later the young witch, dressed in a black blouse, red skirt, and boots that didn't possess heels, ventured down the hallway and to the foyer, just to find Slate there in the company of three daisies.
Daisy. Innocence and simplicity.
Who the hell put him up to that?...
Susan marched across the room and stopped before him, flowers ignored, to poke him square in the chest with her index finger.
"You." she stated, eyes narrowed as she looked up at him
... have never been a toad...
"... have a twin in the Mansion."
There.

>> "You."

Her pigtails swung with vengeance. Her un-heeled boots stopped dead in front of him. Slate swayed slightly back as the finger prodded at his chest, blinking twice.

>> ... have never been a toad...
>> "... have a twin in the Mansion."

...These were two very different statements. Unrelated, however, he sensed they were not. He decided to answer the more externally verbalized of the pair. It occurred to him that the witch may not have intended for him to hear the former.

“Do I? I had thought he was living at the Sanctuary, recently. Unless he has moved again. Or I have gained another.” Knowing Calley, that second option was a valid possibility. He stated it as such. His completely honest tone could be taken as joking, however. That... would be good, if it was.

This meeting was clearly beginning incorrectly. Slate attempted a reset.

“I was informed that women like flowers.”

Said flowers were offered. The daisies swayed lightly in his hand, their white and yellow faces bobbing innocently up at her.

“Do I? I had thought he was living at the Sanctuary, recently. Unless he has moved again. Or I have gained another.”
Susan's eyes narrowed further.
"He was living in my room, recently." she hissed, with her expression making it obvious it was not a pleasant experience "For three days straight."
She was not sure if that last part of his statement was intended as a joke or not. Susan was not good at humor things, but logic said it wasn't serious: one can't have new twins showing up eighteen years after his birth.
“I was informed that women like flowers.”
Susan looked at the daisies. Then back at Slate. Then at the daisies again. He was holding them like his last line of defense against an angry witch.
Is he scared of me?...
Susan took the flowers, and held them hesitantly, not sure what she was supposed to do next. She still had questions. But her anger was slowly fading away.
"So. Anything else I should know?"

>> "He was living in my room, recently. For three days straight."

Slate tilted his head. “You should not let him do that, in the future. He is in the habit of never fully moving out. I suggest spraying his face with a water bottle, should he return.” He had heard that this was an effective technique against dogs and cats. Generalizing from that basis, he was fairly confident it would prove useful against any of Calley’s forms, human included.

His daises seemed to warrant close and repeated inspection. Belatedly, it occurred to him that witches had no use for flowers. If they arranged another meeting, he would try something else. Dried herbs, perhaps. Or would she find them more useful in planted form?

>> "So. Anything else I should know?"

Blink.

“Yes.”

Blink.

“Shall we go? I have made a reservation at a Japanese restaurant for seven o’clock.”

Slate held the door open. It was what men did for women.

“You should not let him do that, in the future. He is in the habit of never fully moving out. I suggest spraying his face with a water bottle, should he return.”
Susan made a mental note to try that, in case fake Slate returned. She doubted he would. Now that pieces of the three-day puzzle was falling into place, the witch had a suspicion the twin didn't like her all that much.
And Slate didn't even know half of it.
“Yes. Shall we go? I have made a reservation at a Japanese restaurant for seven o’clock.”
Susan nodded, marching out the door. Japanese. She'd never tried Japanese. But she was glad Slate took care of the whole choosing-a-place-for-social-interaction thing. She had no useful knowledge of restaurants whatsoever.
"Well, this expains how you knew about the Mansion." she muttered, half to herself, as they left the building, princesses, toads, and the rest of the day's mess behind.

((ooc: Kat and Noel are parallel-spying on this thread, in Flies on the Wall, and in Your Soup.))

Slate had never had Japanese cuisine, either. He had, however, had Chinese. It had proved surprisingly difficult to find an upscale Chinese restaurant, however. He trusted that the foods were similar.

This trust was betrayed by the menu.

The chopsticks he understood: the white rolled towel, given to each of them by their waiter, he did not. The food names were written in their native script with an English equivalent and descriptions below for the typical dinner’s convenience. Slate was appreciative of this fact. He would not have guessed that “tako” was “octopus.”

Baby blue eyes peeked over his own menu copy. “Is raw tuna safe to consume?” The healer asked, his voice low, so as not to attract their attentive waiter’s attention.

Susan had never been to a fancy restaurant. She didn't even understand why social interaction required fancy restaurants. Or anything fancy, for that matter. But her natural curiosity took the better of her this time, and she followed Slate without complaining, trying to keep her senses in check among all the colors, noises, and smells.
The menu looked suspicious, to say the least. The witch scanned the pages, reading one name after another, glancing at Slate to see if he had more confidence. Apparently, he didn't.
“Is raw tuna safe to consume?”
"I doubt it." Susan murmured, the corner of her lips curling up "But we have something else we can work with."
Taking a deep breath, Susan focused on her senses. She could tell colorful eyes would scare the waiter away for sure - and most of the guests too. She was not sure how mutant friendly fancy restaurants tended to be. So she switched less obvious senses instead.
It only took a few seconds, and Susan started to feel tastes with every breath. From the tables nearby, and from beyond; she pretended to be reading the menu, while she sorted through all the pleasant, less pleasant, and simply weird flavors she found on the plates close by.
After a few minutes of silence, Susan looked up with a grin.
"Whatever they are eating, it's good." she said, with a small nod towards a nearby table.

Slate’s glancing, though inconspicuous, seemed sufficient to attract their waiter’s attention. Also, the attention of the couple whose plates he had observed, and—possibly—a pair of eyeballs behind a potted plant.

“The lady is having the vegetarian ten-don—deep-fried vegetables over rice—and the gentleman is having haddock with a side dishes of tofu, rice, and miso soup,” the waiter helpfully informed them.

“I’ll have that,” Slate said. Their waiter patiently held his pen above a notepad, waiting. After a moment, Slate realized that clarification was in order. “What the man is having.” It was a safe choice. Susan said it tasted good, and it was not raw. Additionally, it was clearly an acceptable choice. Though ‘vegetables over rice’ sounded appealing, he was not entirely certain it was... masculine.

The waiter was being extremely helpful. He was also creeping Susan out, the way he beamed at them. She felt a sudden urge to flash the evil eye at him, but she remembered just in time that this was supposed to be a practice session in social skills, and socially developed people don't scare each other to death.
Or at least, she didn't think so.
She wasn't sure what rules applied to dates. Thank God this was not a date.
"I will have the vegetarian ten-don" she nodded, following Slate's bluffing experience. The food sounded exactly as it smelled. Not bad for a start.
When the waiter finally left them alone, Susan grinned, and rested her chin in her palms. Time for small talk.
"So. Who are you?"

That was not a question he had been prepared for. Nor, in fact, one that he had ever been asked, when the speaker already knew his name. Susan had her chin in her hands as she asked it. This, combined with the grin, allowed him to tentatively deduce that she was being playful. He contemplated an adequate response. Truthful? Likely ill-advised, and she was even less likely to believe him. A flippant reply, then? He could honestly think of nothing more flippant sounding than the simple facts. Well, then. It was not as if her mutation allowed her to taste truth.

He settled for a properly preposterous statement.

“I,” the tousle-haired teenager answered, “am a villainous drug lord.” The ‘villainous’ part was a fabrication, of course. The violence in Colombia was continuing to decline as his own sizable faction of the drug trade continued to absorb others. Though he had ordered his cartel to fund local humanitarian projects on principle, that—combined with the continued release of hostages, and the constant plea to the government to come to the negotiating table—was proving surprisingly good for business. The locals were more inclined to help aid the traffickers when said traffickers were building their schools and hospitals, as opposed to raping and murdering them. Beneficence was proving surprisingly good for profits.

“Simply one faucet of my schemes for global dominion, of course.” A joking smirk seemed appropriate at this juncture. “Tell me, Ms. Witch—what country would you like?”

“I am a villainous drug lord. Simply one faucet of my schemes for global dominion, of course. Tell me, Ms. Witch—what country would you like?”

"Great Britain, of course" the witch answered without missing a beat, still looking at him curiously. Drug lord, huh. He was either being playful, or he was being serious, and she didn't know enough of human games to call the bluff, if it was a bluff at all. It didn't taste like bluffing. Susan was inclined to believe him. Even though the image of the teenage guy in front of her as a drug lord was something she would need some time to get used to.
Susan grew up in a strict Catholic environment.
She didn't mind drug lords at all.

"Point of clarification: I didn't ask what you are. I asked who you are." she smirked at him "Since we agreed to practice social skills together, I thought it would be appropriate to ask." she added, her cheeks coloring pink with suspicion that she might have said something wrong.
"... or you could tell me about that weird twin of yours."

The one that turns into toads occasionally.

The bamboo plant by the bar seemed to rustle. Slate had more quizzical matters to consider, however. Her definition of ‘who’ appeared to be different than his.

He was Slate Swartz, formerly (and arguably still) Caleb Swartz. He was the owner of Mondragon Labs and its holdings. He was the leader of the Kabal. He was the single most powerful figure in the South American drug trade at present. He owned most of the senators in Romania, and had many of its other politicians on his payroll. He was learning to swim and to ice skate and to do judo. He tutored a fourteen year old girl in math. He’d failed his ethics class at the Mansion, along with every other subject, for two semesters running. Also, his GED exam, but only once.

He was brown-haired and blue-eyed, and his Colombian tan had faded over the Romanian winter into his usual paleness.

He did not know what he was that was not a ‘what.’

“I require an example response.” The boy concluded. “Who are you, Susan?”

>> The one that turns into toads occasionally.

Usually it is cats, Slate stated. Followed immediately by: why are you blushing?

I don't like cats, Susan noted in a determined mental tone, and the blush is a natural biological response to...
Mental um.
... I don't like biology either.
Retreating to the audible conversation for safety, the witch smiled at Slate. It was much easier to smile at him when he was not inside her head.
"I am the wicked stepsister" she answered, with a hint of pride in her voice, then considered her own answer for a while. Looking at it from the other point of view, it was not an easy question at all. "I am probably an orphan too, although it hasn't been confirmed yet. I was hoping I was a witch, but I turned out to be a mutant instead. I don't mind. Annnd I am the girl who is having dinner with a person who claims to be a villainous drug lord, and thinks it is most intirguing." she concluded with the truth. There.
"I was not asking for anything specific, actually" she added after some musing "Since I don't know much about you, you can choose to share anything you want, I guess."
I have no idea how these situations are supposed to work.
Should have asked Noel...

Slate blinked. From what he knew of biology, there were several potential causes for blushing. Most of them could be disqualified in this situation; that left—

Oh.

Slate blushed as well.

>> "Since I don't know much about you, you can choose to share anything you want, I guess."

“Ah, I see. Thank you.” It was a good example. The waiter returned, with their food: fish and vegetables were placed on their appropriate spots on the table. Slate waited until he was gone.

“How can one have step-sisters when one is an orphan?” He asked, unable to get past this logical hurdle. Had she been adopted, and then one of her adopted parents re-married? “Calley is generally my only brother, though sometimes there are more than one of him.”

“Why did you hope to be a witch?” He asked, sampling a bite of tofu. It was strangely good, in a tasteless, texture-less sort of way. He stopped eating to stare at it for a moment. Longer than was polite, perhaps. The tofu didn’t seem to mind. He lifted the little pate with its white cube towards Susan. “How does this taste to your ears?” He asked impulsively. Because now that he’d thought of the question, he wasn’t going to stop thinking of it until he had an answer. Her mutation really was quite intriguing. The tofu quivered slightly as it waited on her appraisal.

Is Noel a friend from the Mansion?