“How can one have step-sisters when one is an orphan?”
Susan blinked amidst the general blushing. She didn't see the problem with that issue.
"I was adopted by the Hydes. They made a habit out of 'rescuing girls from the system'" she put out the quotation marks "They had two other adopted daughters besides me. They were hardly my real sisters."
Someone could be 'step' in more ways than one.
“Why did you hope to be a witch?”
"Why wouldn't I?"
“How does this taste to your ears?”
Slate was apparently not giving up on the whole snyestesia issue. Susan found it... interesting, that someone else was interested. She was not used to people paying much attention to her in general. At least not the good kind of attention. She got plenty of the other one.
"It tastes like white noise." she answered, tilting her head as she converted taste into sound "Is that food, or just a component of food?"
Her own food was making curious little chiming noises at her. Susan decided to switch back to normal.
Noel is not from the Mansion. She works for the government. She just keeps forgetting about it.

>> "Is that food, or just a component of food?"

“Food,” Slate stated. It had been served on its own plate. Therefore, it had been represented as ‘food.’ Some of it was already in his stomach. Therefore, he hoped it was ‘food.’ When he focused on things, though, his stomach did feel suddenly strange. Like it was filled with... white noise.

He delicately set the tofu back on the table, and moved on to his rice. He knew what rice was. He could even pick it up with his chopsticks. A WereCat had taught him.

>> Noel is not from the Mansion. She works for the government. She just keeps forgetting about it.

Did she sustain a head injury? He inquired. I could help.

“What’s your job, Susan?” Yes, rice was safe. It didn’t even wiggle as he ate it. This was something Slate asked of his food.

Did she sustain a head injury? I could help.
I don't think so, Susan smirked, it is a side effect of her mutation.
Susan was quite content with her own food. It didn't make white noise. Or white anything, for that matter. It was more green-ish, in a healthy way.
"My job?" she blinked, looking up from her plate "Umm, I go to school. Or I did, until my mutation kicked in. So now I'm going to be graduating from mutant high, and then go on to college." she explained "That is, unless I find something more challenging to do. With or without my abilities, as long as it doesn't inculde uniforms." she added with a grin.

A challenging job, with or without her abilities. One that did not include uniforms. The answer to this was obvious. Slate stated it with authority.

“You should be an ice cream taster. Or a Kabal member.”

This called for elaboration, in case she doubted his words. “Even amongst the same flavor category, different brands and batches of ice cream have subtly different flavors and textures. With your enhanced senses, you could analyze the effects of different ingredients and storage temperatures in ways companies have never even thought to. It would change the industry at its foundation.” Slate liked ice cream. Particularly the green tea flavor.

With some experimentation, he discovered that his chop sticks could cut the white fish on his plate. As he was lacking in other eating utensils, he proceeded to apply this method.

“I would like to go to college, but it has been proving troublesome. I am out of the country too often. Also, I keep failing high school.”

Quite troublesome, indeed.

“You should be an ice cream taster. Or a Kabal member.”
There were only a precious few things in the world that could throw the witch off balance. This statement was one of them. Even more so after Slate decided to elaborate on the trivial part of the idea.
Tasting ice cream. Susan tasted ice cream on a few occasions, usually when her stepsisters wanted some and she got a portion too, even though she never asked, because that was fair. Back when her abilities were just starting to manifest. She tried to remember, but she couldn't tie any extraordinary experience to tasting ice cream. That is, not mre than to any other kind of food.
She nodded politely, and turned to the more cuiroous part of Slate's career suggestions.
"And what is that 'Kabal' you mentioned?"
“I would like to go to college, but it has been proving troublesome. I am out of the country too often. Also, I keep failing high school.”
Blink.
"You keep failing high school? How can someone fail high school?" she asked with sincere curiosity. The possibility of failing anything on the high school level had never even occured to her before. "Is it school in general, or do you have problems with particular subjects?..."

It did not take a telepath to realize Susan was less than captivated by his suggestion. She listened politely to his elaboration, then attempted to change the subject.

>> "And what is that 'Kabal' you mentioned?"

“It is one of my organizations. A small team of mutants and humans; I use them to change the world.”

But more importantly: “Have you ever tried green tea ice cream? I believe I saw it on the menu, here. It is oriental.” Or at least, he thought it was. Green tea came from Asian, correct? He was not sure where ice cream traced its origins, nor where the tea flavor had been first added to the chilled dairy dessert. The witch was clearly not placing the same weight upon this food item as he was. If anything could fix this lapse in opinion, green tea ice cream could. Slate set to finishing his fish and rice, so as to sooner reach the final portion of their meal.

>> "You keep failing high school? How can someone fail high school? Is it school in general, or do you have problems with particular subjects?..."

He lifted his rice bowl; it was warm in his hands. If it happened to hide his blush from her traditional sight (and her infrared), that was simply an unintentional consequence. Clearly.

“I am quite poor at history.” Though he was getting better, one nation at a time. “And ethics. Science and math, I have studied extensively: those are no problem. The others, though, are part of what I do not remember.” It occurred to him that this was, perhaps, part of ‘who he was’. “Oh. I am three years old. Before that, I was not—I don’t remember.”

Yes. He blinked baby blue eyes, and diverted the subject.

“How old are you?”

Slate was apparently getting into a loop about the ice cream. Susan wondered if it was just him, or if there was really something special about ice cream. Since they had it on the menu, she knew she would find out sooner than later.
She also noted the short definition of the Kabal. She tucked it away for later inspection.
“I am quite poor at history. And ethics. Science and math, I have studied extensively: those are no problem. The others, though, are part of what I do not remember.”
Susan raised an eyebrow and stopped eating to tilt her head at him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't those tow essential knowledge for someone planning on taking over the world?" she asked. Maybe she was being partial to history. It had always been her favorite. "Besides, history is easy. Ethics... well, I think I can see the problem with that."
A true witch would agree.
The next thing he said confused the witch once again.
“Oh. I am three years old. Before that, I was not—I don’t remember. How old are you?”
"Eighteen." she answered automatically, before looking Slate over, eyes shifting through the color scale "Interesting... Is that part of your mutation? Are you aging faster than humans? How fast did you learn to speak? Does your twin have the same ability? When did you decide to take over the world?" and, more importantly "Is it common knowledge, or are you sharing something confidential with me now?"
Susan finally stopped to take a breath. She had a nagging suspicion that showering someone with questions was not polite in a setting like this. But the topic was finally getting truly interesting...

Those were many questions. Many. The twenty year old, going on three, was clearly taken aback in a most literal sense. His back managed to straighten an extra millimeter. He leaned back slightly. And, of course, he blinked.

He remembered the last question still, even if the others were trying to drag it down into their incoherent tangle.

“I... do not usually tell people, no. I suppose it is confidential. Somewhat. Can... you repeat your other questions?”

It was a perilous request. He kept his rice bowl in a defensive position.

Susan took a breath and calmed down. Confidential. Duly noted. She had a suspicion that sharing confidential information was part of the whole social interaction thing, and she appreciated it.
She also suspected she had too many questions at once, even for a smart person like Slate. Instead of listing them again, she decided on another approach.
"Um. Could you explain to me how it is possible that you are three years old? Is it part of your mutation?"
She stopped herself before the other questions started flowing. It was science. One question at a time.

Two questions. Slate believed he could handle two questions, particularly when they were of a similar topic.

Slate would have preferred they were not those two questions, however. Could she not have asked about his drug trafficking? That would have been a simpler matter.

“Yes, it is... mutational.” Slate set his rice bowl down, and took stock of their meal’s progress. Finding it satisfactory, he signaled the waiter over. Quickly. “We should order dessert. Would you like to try the green tea ice cream? I believe I saw persimmon flavored, as well. I think I will try that.”

Ice cream. It was not a topic change: it was a topic return. Susan had been the one to lead the conversation astray in the first place. He should have been more wary of such behavior. She was, after all, a witch.

Mutational. That was all she got out of Slate, even though she took the pain to compose a clear, simple, perfectly reasonable question. Part of the young witch was annoyed for not receiving a similar kind of answer. Her mind jumped to the possible conclusions:
1. Slate could not answer the question, because he didn't know the answer.
Not likely.
2. Slate was not allowed to answer the question.
In that case, he is a very poor excuse for a prsent drug lord and a future dictator.
2. Slate did not want to answer the question.
Oh.
"I am sorry if the question made you feel uncomfortable." she apologized - although she was still processing possible reasons for why someone wouldn't want to share details about his mutation, she felt like it was the right thing to do, and she rarely felt that. Ever. "You are just unusually mature for a three-year-old."
Yay, the blush was back.
"Yes, dessert sounds good." she agreed. Slate seemed to be stuck on the ice cream topic, so he was either avoiding other topics, or there was really something special about ice cream. It couldn't hurt to try.
The young witch sighed, and the world slowly swam into the colorful swirl of smells and tastes. Um, no. Not tastes. Definitely not tastes. Susan hurriedly switched again, retreating into the world of visible sounds. And voices.
Umm. Voices...
Black eyes blinked as the witch observed the chaos - in a crowded place like a restaurant, where every person has her own color of voice, together with the sounds of siverware and plates and... she just wanted an excuse to finally close the awkward part of the conversation. What she got, though, was faint traces of a certain, distinct color, highlighted with the X-gene.
"Um, excuse me for a moment, I'll be right back." she told Slate very politely, before standing up and heading towards the bathroom. She had a suspicion bathrooms were partially invented so women would have an excuse for a time-out in uncomfortable conversations. It was just a theory though. It certainly worked right now.
Susan didn't even need to look at Noel as she marched past the girls. Nither did she care if she was alone or not. Locking herself up in the bathroom she wondered why on Earth would the memory manipulator be in the restaurant. Was she keeping tabs on her? Did she even remember her, or was it just a coincidence?...
Let's hope she doesn't know I am having a social meeting with a villainous drug lord.
Susan returned in time for the ice cream. Smiling.

The very mature three year old was observing a trend: blushing, like yawns, seemed prone to contagion. The young drug lord worked on composing himself while his partner in socialization was in the restroom.

The arrival of the ice cream helped.

Their waiter had thoughtfully provided two spare dishes along with those that the ice cream arrived in. As Slate waited upon the witch’s return, he focused himself upon the task of dividing both the green tea and persimmon flavors precisely in half. The use of a spoon for this added an intriguing twist: its concave shape was not inherently suited to equal cutting. None the less, he persevered. There were two dishes in front of each of their seats when Susan arrived, both containing exactly a half scoop of ice cream.

The Kabal’s Leader watched expectantly as Susan retook her seat.

“Well?” He asked, before she could even set spoon to bowl. With Susan, that did not rule out that she’d tasted the flavors already.

She would like them. He was confident she would like them. They were ice cream.

Susan looked at the ice cream. There were four equal portions, or at least as equal as they could be divided with a spoon, by a three-year-old.
"Well?"
"Well" the witch echoed, her eyes turning blue and yellow in rapid succession. For a moment she ventured into red too, but she soon blinked that away - sporting red eyes in the middle of the restaurant was not a logical thing to do, and also, the cold stung her eyes. She rubbed them with the back of her hand.
"That one is green tea, that one is persimmon." the pointed after some colorful observation. It was not hard to guess. One was all green-and-yellow, and distinctly tea-flavored, and the other was strangely sweet and sticky. Switching around randomly for better perception, Susan also decided the former's soft tinkling was in goon contrast with the latter's mediterranean buzz.
"They both have distinct qualities." she admitted.
Picking up a spoon, the witch proceeded with the experiment to stage too, tasting. She made sure to lick the spoon clean after the first one, so as not to spoil the taste of the second. Both ice cream proved to be... enjoyable. Susan took another spoonful.
"You were right, these flavors are very satisfying to all senses." she agreed. She had already decided she liked persimmon for the sweetness, but she had a feeling there would be now way of admitting that and keeping up the witch image all at once. So she said nothing of the sort.
"They should have given us more ice cream back in the school." she added with a smirk "I think I like it."
I think we are being observed.

Her reactions were declarative.

>> "Well."

Factual.

>> "That one is green tea, that one is persimmon."

Enlightening.

>> "They both have distinct qualities."

Victorious.

>> "You were right, these flavors are very satisfying to all senses. They should have given us more ice cream back in the school. I think I like it."

Slate leaned back in his chair—not that he had been leaning forward, per se—with a satisfied nod. “The diet of all children should include ice cream. I myself did not properly experience it until I was two.” For a full third of his life, ice cream had been absent. He supposed that was not nearly as terrible as Susan, who was eighteen. Perhaps after this, he would take her to the ice cream section of a local grocery store. They could choose one of every flavor—or perhaps the same flavors across every available brand—and conduct a proper evaluation of her mutation in its dairy applications. Money was no object: Slate would fund the research. The Labs were a research company, after all.

>> I think we are being observed.

Had he been day dreaming? Intriguing. His baby blue eyes blinked back to the present. Her words were somewhat alarming.

By whom?

Slate remained silent as Susan continued her tasting experiment. It was not like ice cream consisted of more flavors than any other kind of food, or that it was better in the strickt scientific sense of the word; but the combination of temperature, texture, color and taste together was still something that made it more desirable than a normal meal. Susan wondered what Slate was wondering about. At least now she was going along with his idea of a not-date, and not asking qustionable questions.
"By whom?"
Talking about questions...
Noel. The--- mental pause --- friend I told you about.
Could you really call someone a friend if she was currently spying on you?
I think she might be worried about my well-being. I am not sure I managed to convince her this was not a date.
Susan took another spoonful of green tea ice cream. Might as well finish it before they have to deal with the situation.