((ooc: Continued from the cat came back.))

Fact: Calley had never actually worn a shock collar during the Registration Act. He'd thought he had, once, but he hadn't. Turns out, that had just been someone's really bad idea of a joke. So.

Fact: This was Calley's first time wearing a shock collar.

But it was not Calley's first time being collared. Not by a long shot. And he was done with that, free of that, and he'd promised himself he was never going back to that.

Calley was sitting in the middle of the MRC office at the 18th Precinct, one arm hand-cuffed to his chair as the booking officer dealt with paperwork. His leg was jittering convulsively, up and down, up and down. He'd thought they reserved the collars for the dangerous mutants. Dangerous, like Isabel-dangerous; dangerous, like making cop-skin-rugs dangerous. All he'd done was punch a little girl. And lick-attack an officer of the law. And maybe turn him into a lobster.

Freaking no sense of humor, Detective Dorkwad Drake.

Calley's free hand worked its way under the collar's edge, and gave it an uncomfortable tug. He could probably get out of it. Splinter himself to freedom. Wasn't like he hadn't done it before. Wasn't like this thing was going to explode, or anything. It would just give him a friendly little excruciating shock. That was nothing. Ha. He'd had worse. Ha ha, and ha.

He swallowed down a real laugh. He was scratching at the collar. Wasn't quite sure when that had started. Heh.

“Hey. Hey! Don't I get a phone call, or something? Or a lawyer? I want a phone call.” He sat on his hand. His leg kept jumping; up and down, up and down, up and down.

The officer shoved a desk phone towards him. “Five minutes. No long distance.”

“My dad's in Cali.” He just had to be a smartass. Why did he just have to be a smartass?

Stop being a smartass, the officer's eyes said. “No long distance.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Calley stared down at the phone. There weren't many numbers he had memorized, actually. Katrina's? Hello, what's new with you? How's my lobster? So yeah, I'm back. And in jail. Could you get a parent or guardian to pick me up? Cold Steel: So about that whole you-let-me-off-for-murder and then-I-went-on-the-lam thing. So yeah. I assaulted an officer with my mutation. Got bail money? Slate? Heck, that wouldn't even take a phone call. All he'd have to do was think. It wasn't like his other half didn't have the money.

No. No, what he needed was someone who didn't know him at all, but still felt obligated to pick up stray kittens.

…Calley picked up the phone, and dialed the Mansion. Got redirected. Smirked.

“Hey, New Guidance Counselor. This is Caleb Your-Favorite-Person Swartz. So I loved those clothes you left me. The toothbrush, too. It was so nice in its plastic, I had it framed up and put on my wall.” Not really. “So. I'm at the police station. When can you pick me up?”

Soon please.

>>“Hey, New Guidance Counselor. This is Caleb Your-Favorite-Person Swartz. So I loved those clothes you left me. The toothbrush, too. It was so nice in its plastic, I had it framed up and put on my wall. So. I'm at the police station. When can you pick me up?”

The phone rang. Gemma picked up, Because that was just what she did. She took hpone calls that ruined her days, and she enjoyed it.

"Oh dear, Mr. Swartz." she purred with a smirk on her face, as she put the phone between chin and shoulder, and started gathering her things and shoes "I remember you telling me my help was not needed by the Mansion residents."

She just had to. She did not usually toy with students who ended up in jail... but the tiger shifter was really just asking for it. All the time. 24/7.

"Would you mind telling me what happened before I hear the whole story from the police?" she went on, rummaging around for her car keys "Is there press involved? I'd rather not cut through a crowd if I don't have to."

She could always just ask Jorge. Except, she did not trust caleb with Jorge. Or the other way around.

>> "Oh dear, Mr. Swartz. I remember you telling me my help was not needed by the Mansion residents."

He wasn’t the only smartass on the line. And it was kind of hard to breathe in this station. Wasn’t it? He couldn’t be the only one that thought so. They needed to turn the AC on. Or off. Or up. He had goose bumps on his arms, but he felt a little on the hot side.

She was coming. Right? She was the Resident Mansion Hugs-to-All-the-Unlovable-Mutie-Children Counselor. He was a mutie. He was unlovable. It was literally her job to come pick him up. She had to come. Didn’t matter what she thought of him, or he thought of her.

Right?

>> "Would you mind telling me what happened before I hear the whole story from the police? Is there press involved? I'd rather not cut through a crowd if I don't have to."

Right. That was an implied yes. She was coming. Calley slumped a little in his seat, one foot sneaking up to plant itself on the desk—

Don’t you dare, the cop’s eyes said, as he sipped slowly at his cup of coffee.

Calley jerked back upright, scratching under the collar with his free hand. His shoulder was good enough for this phone.

“Oh,” he grinned, “I might have tried punching a cop. Or turning him into an ‘aquatic tiger’ form.” He trusted she could hear the air quotes. “Don’t worry, there wasn’t nearly enough blood to attract the media. So. How long will it take you to get here?”

Because if she could break a few posted speed limits on her way, that would be awesome.

>>“Oh. I might have tried punching a cop. Or turning him into an ‘aquatic tiger’ form. Don’t worry, there wasn’t nearly enough blood to attract the media. So. How long will it take you to get here?”

I should leave him in there for a night. At least one.

Gemma sighed as she picked up the car keys.

"I'll get there as soon as I can. You are not the only one who needs help right now. Sit tight, don't do anything stupid, and... just don't do anything. I'll be there soon."

Not soon enough.

With a sigh, Gemma hung up, and walked downstairs to her car. Another day, another kid in trouble. Punched a cop... yeah, well, Caleb was not the first one in the Mansion to try that. Use mutation to shift a cop into... whatever an aquatic tiger was. Probably a code name for a newt.

She took her sweet time going to the poice station. She knew the way all too well; Jorge was not working right now, but again, she had routine in bailing kids out. With all the confidence of a guidance counselor, she walked in through the front door.

Hoping, really hoping that she would not find the building full of newts.

She took her time getting there. Her dear, sweet, precious time. Why would she do that? Wasn’t she supposed to care about kids in trouble?

By the time Mama T arrived at the station, Calley had been moved to the holding cells. Because she’d taken that long. And maybe because he’d tried to shift, which had not made the nice officers want to keep him in the middle of their nice office.

Turns out that a friendly little electric zap was just as good for Calley’s shifting as he remembered.

Turns out he didn’t want to remember that.

Or pillows. Why the heck was there a pillow and blanket in this cell? He was not going to be here that long. He wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

“You. Are a slow driver.” Said the tiger shifter. Sitting in the corner, opposite the bed. Who was the same color as the white concrete wall.

>>“You. Are a slow driver.”

"Speed limits" Gemma smiled a brilliant smile "One day I will tell you all about them."

The kid did look awful. And he was wearing a collar. Those were for mutants with dangerous (useful) mutations. She frowned. It reminded her too much of the registration. Shock collars did not look good on anyone.

"All right" she sighed "God knows why but I'm bailing you out. Come on."

It took some time to fill out all the paperwork, and hear the cops' side of the story. Boy was it a colorful one. The tiger shifter had a rough day bahind him... and even worse times ahead, if she was involved, because bail or no bail, she was going to Talk with him.

After some food. And the kid needed clean clothes and a shower too.

Oh ha. Speed limits. Yeah. That was funny.

She was so funny.

“You are so funny,” the shifter said, with a funny funny grin. “I could just laugh. All day. Ha.” Ha.

Ha.

>> "God knows why but I'm bailing you out. Come on."

His dignity caught up with him somewhere after he’d scrambled out the cell door, and into her custody. He was unusually mum and cooperative as they went through all the hoops it took to get a certain fashion accessory removed from his person. It remained to be seen whether Detective Ashton and Amber would press charges against him, so he might or might not have a court date in his future. Until then, he was to stay at the Mansion where the legal system could find him if and when they required it.

He’d be extra sure to do that.

“So. How long does it take for this ink to come off?” Calley asked outside the station, staring down at his fingers. He was in the system. Officially. That was... long overdue, maybe?

She didn’t get a thank you. This was her job.

>>“So. How long does it take for this ink to come off?”

"A few days, if you scrub it hard enough" she smirked, leading him to her car "You'll need a shower anyway."

She was just stating a fact. Everyone needs a shower after getting out of jail. Even if he only spend a few hours in there. It was a rite of passage. Especially with animal shifters.

"Later" she continued, getting into the driver's seat "Right now, I'm taking you out to get some food."

And talk. But he did not need to hear that. He was smart enough to guess.

A shower? He was reminded of the way she’d sniped at his clothing choices, the other time they’d met. She had such a subtle air of compassion, this woman.

“Food. Great. I do so love food.”

The way she’d said it, it hadn’t been an option. Usually, that would have been fine with him. Calley did indeed so love food. Generally. He just wasn’t sure his stomach felt the same way, at this particular moment in time.

Would he puke if he ate? No. Because he was not going to puke in front of a Guidance Counselor.

“Let's go somewhere expensive--Italian, maybe. You’re buying, right?” Insert cheeky grin here.

>>“Food. Great. I do so love food. Let's go somewhere expensive--Italian, maybe. You’re buying, right?”

"Italian's good" she nodded "But we are going to a place where they allow stray creatures. And cats."

Because a kid who has just been released from jail was not someone you took to an expensive restaurant. For their own good. They did not need to be stared at.

She knew an Italian place, and she turned to drive that way.

"And yes I'm buying. In my experience, kids who just got out of jail deserve a free meal" she smiled at him; with all the attitude, the kid was somehow hard to stay angry at. "You are not getting a drink though."

Pfft. Yes, he was a stray. And proud of it: it was a good thing. A comfortable and safe thing. The way she said it, it was something that had crawled in off the streets, diseased and broken.

“Hey. I’m legal to drink.” He pointed out. Read: Hey. I’m not a kid.

He recognized the streets they were taking, but couldn’t picture where they were going. He actually didn’t eat Italian, much, despite being Italian. Italian cooking was more comfort food than eating-with-friends food. Good thing Ms. Gemma Taylor here wasn’t his friend.

“So. Lecture in the car, or lecture after dinner?” He cheerfully asked. It better not be lecture during dinner. He was going to have a hard enough time keeping food down without having to hear her ideas about his life.

>>“Hey. I’m legal to drink.”

"I didn't say you weren't" she smirked. There was no way in hell that she was buying drinks for a student. Not even if he was legal. She needed him sober and still scared of jail. Made for a more honest talk than drunk cheekyness.

>>“So. Lecture in the car, or lecture after dinner?”

"No lecture" she smirked "I am pretty sure you have hear most of it, and you can make the rest up. I was hoping for a talk."

Nothing more, nothing less. Caleb was not like the other students (which could have been said for all the others... but yeah, he was quite unique). Before she had the right to lecture the crap out of him, she wanted to know more. His side of the story, to begin with.

“Talk. Right. I do so love the talking...” He stared out the window as they pulled up. The place didn’t look expensive, that was for sure. But it did look family owned. The sign was faded, but the parking lot was nearly full with other customers. Despite himself, his stomach grumbled.

Inside, it smelled like marinara and fresh bread. Their waiter showed them to a table for two. Calley made like a proper gentleman, and pulled out the lady’s chair for her. Snarky smile on the house.

“So. What got you into this charming career path, New Guidance Counselor?”

If they were going to be talking, he’d rather that it wasn’t about him.

>>“Talk. Right. I do so love the talking...”

Gemma smirked. She knew that much.
Table for two, one for Mama and one for Li'l Caleb. The place was nice, and the waiter polite and cheerful, and she realized she was hungry. Getting kids out of trouble usually made her hungry. It was hard work, after all.

>>“So. What got you into this charming career path, New Guidance Counselor?”

Gemma turned the pages of the menu (it had two) and considered her choice of a mela carefully before she looked up to answer.

"I realized my powers can keep mutant kids out of trouble" she smiled a charming smile at the boy "How about you?"

Because, stricktly speaking, getting into trouble with the police did seem to be Caleb's new career path. Go figure.

“Me?” Calley flipped his own menu pages. Not to be confused with ‘turning,’ which seemed to imply he was doing more than casually staring at the pages. Oh hey, words. They had letters. “You know, I’ve never considered being a counselor before. What an interesting question. Does that require any special training, or do you just kind of waltz in and start bossing people around?”

He reached the end—it didn’t take long—and started flicking the pages back the other way. The waiter manifested to take their drink orders.

“Birch beer, thanks.” It was actually on the menu, or so a flick of his eyes had told him. He hadn’t had that since... when? He’d lived in Jersey? Wasn’t really different from root beer, but that was hardly the point. It was birch beer. Best gotten in a pitcher and split between still-functional family members, but he’d settle for a single glass with a paid parental figure.