“Chew toy”—pah! The lime green squeaky hedgehog was more than a mere “chew toy”. It was, without a doubt, the ultimate supreme invention for the hyperactive tiger on the go. Its small size made it easily placed in pockets for transport, its pressure-operated sound device was a marvel of modern technology that needed neither batteries nor computer chip, and its lime green coloration inspired generalized happiness and WTF faces wherever it was brandished. Truly, Teresa was beholding no mere “chew toy”. And he wasn’t chewing it. He was gently nudging it with his teeth, thank-you-very-much.

Don’t even get him started on his behavior being “cute”. He was clearly, in a round-about way, displaying his cunning as a professional spy, oh ye under-appreciative masses.

His tail swished lightly as he watched her walk to the door, finally giving him and his pile of clothes some privacy. With a last friendly non-maul of the lime green squeaky hedgehog and a roll to the floor that landed him on all floors, Calley shifted back to human. The process was as easy and generally non-descript as it always was: one second there was a regal tiger standing with dignity at the foot of the bed, the next second there was a scrawny seventeen-year-old picking himself up. The shift was very close to instantaneous. First order of business: the relocation of his red flannel boxers to their native habitat. Next: rummaging through his clothes. Because it occurred to him that he didn’t need to change back into that over-sized borrowed set, when his own clothes were right here, in all their combined European charm and New World boisterous glory. He’d merrily liberated them from the apartment of one of his meal tickets a few months ago, with the intent to look rather sharp when he officially introduced himself to Syn and her fellow Sanctuarians as their new spy. Suffice it to say that one thing had lead to another, crime sprees may or may not have escalated into somewhat nonsensical apartment break-ins, and he may or may not have gotten a better job offer from Hunter within a few hours. Not dieing is a really good job benefit, just for the record. But the point remained: he had fancy clothes, and he might as well wear them, since they were right there.

Calley put on a pair of gray slacks and a royal blue shirt—straightened out the collar, of course—and pushed open the door of his bedroom to present himself for inspection to the alarmingly flirtatious woman who he’d brought home to his apartment. There was, of course of course, a lime green squeaky hedgehog tucked securely into one of his pant pockets.

Sonya peeks through the crack in the door as a half-ton of tiger transforms to tailless teen. Several thoughts run through her mind at that point.

Wow... so that's what it looks like, huh? I'd expected something more spectacular. is one of them. She's undergone hundreds of similar transformations, of course, but she's never seen it from the outside, and she'd expected something more like special effects in the movies. Instead, it's almost imperceptible: the tiger is gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by a scrawny teenage boy wearing nothing but a pendant.

So thin! is another. For a boy with what she's observed of Calley's dietary habits, he is remarkably scrawny... she can practically count his ribs! Of course, that's not too uncommon for a teenage boy's metabolism, but it's still remarkable... and on further thought, even more so, given his powers. He can obviously change his mass when he shifts; why wouldn't he carry pretty much whatever weight he wants to? Well, maybe he likes to be thin... or maybe it just doesn't work that way.

I want one! is another. The pendant around Calley's neck had been a black leather studded collar a second earlier, just as she'd suspected. She hadn't thought anything like that was possible, but now she knows it is she's flushed with envy. It would come in very handy, a garment that changed its appearance when she did.

Though apparently it's not as general-purpose as she would like, since he has to get dressed like any other guy -- one leg at a time. She watches as he changes into the fancier clothes from his closet and pockets the chew-toy, then busies herself with flipping through one of the stray paperbacks as the bedroom door opens behind her.

She gives a low, approving whistle as she turns around to look at him. "Hey, you clean up nice, Calley!" She walks over and runs her finger along his collar, then hooks it under his pendant and pulls it up out of the shirt. "So what happened to the studded collar?"

The whistle as he came through the door was plenty to get him blushing again; and that was before she started playing with his necklace. Errhm… Slate, he consulted with himself.

Hmm?

She’s making me turn funny facial colors.

I fear you will survive.

Consultation: fail. In any case, having a girl-finger hooked under his collar was rather surprisingly nerve-wracking. Part of that might have been the sudden paranoia that she’d break it and blow them both up, of course. He could trust Doc Jimmy’s crafts to be sturdy. Except for the fact that the man didn’t like him. And had just made modifications to his collar. And he was going to stop thinking about that now.

"So what happened to the studded collar?" Miss Had Him by a Short Explodable Leash inquired.

Calley had been expecting that question, from someone, at some point. It really wasn’t that hard to field. After all, he could tell the almost complete truth on the issue. “Isn’t it shiny and nifty? It shifts with me! A friend of mine made it for me,” that’s where the ‘almost’ came in, “He’s either a technomancer or a genius human. Not sure which. Be nice if he’d made some clothes for me, instead…” Well, actually, the good doctor had made clothes for him. Combustible clothes. He still wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with combustible clothes. The Boss Man had seemed excited by them. Then again, the Boss Man could be a little strange like that.

Something a little impish in Calley made him ask: “So which do you like better—the studded collar or the Triforce?” Which reminded him of something else he should probably say: “And, umm, sorry if I scared you. With the tiger-ly-ness. And the erratic pouncing and jumping.”

> “Isn’t it shiny and nifty? It shifts with me! A friend of mine made it for me.
> He’s either a technomancer or a genius human. Not sure which.
> Be nice if he’d made some clothes for me, instead…”

"Yeah, I guess that'd be pretty useful, huh? No more having to strip in front of girls you just met." she grins up into Calley's blushing face and adds "Though maybe not as entertaining..." with an entirely straight face before walking away towards the couch.

> “So which do you like better—the studded collar or the Triforce? And, umm, sorry if I scared you.
> With the tiger-ly-ness. And the erratic pouncing and jumping.”

She nods agreeably, perching on the back of the couch before answering. "It's OK, really. I was just startled. I mean, you did say you could do that, I just... it's different to really see it, you know? The tigerliness, I mean. The erratic behavior I'm starting to get used to." She chuckles at that. "As for which I like better... well, I guess it depends on what you're wearing with it, I suppose. Does it only switch when you do, or can you make it look like a collar in your boy-form? That would be... interesting."

Which, she admits to herself, it actually would be. To be honest, the flirting with Calley had primarily been intended to keep him off-balance, but it's turning into a surprising amount of fun in its own right.

"So, this technomancer friend of yours... does he pay the rent for this place too?"

"Yeah, I guess that'd be pretty useful, huh? No more having to strip in front of girls you just met."

Wait, strip ‘in front of’? I never…

The door was not fully closed. Either time, as I recall.

Eeegah! But… gah! She-! Gah!

…Hmm.

Down, Slate! No dating the creepy peeping Lady! No!

It was safe to say that a part of Calley was finding Teresa both entertaining and intriguing. Most of him, though, was wishing he hadn’t spent his prime dating years… as a housecat. Social interaction was not was not was not his forte.

“…Or can you make it look like a collar in your boy-form? That would be... interesting."

Calley blinked twice, trailed her over to the couch, and sat cross-legged on the floor below her perch. By the way, the couch-back perch? Excellent seating choice. He put his hands behind himself and leaned on them, staring up at the white ceiling briefly before looking back at Miss Is The Reason My Palms Are Sweating. “You know, I don’t know. It’s kind of high-tech… I’ll have to ask him sometime. Better than tinkering with it. Tinkering leads to breaking, breaking leads to something-something…”

"So, this technomancer friend of yours... does he pay the rent for this place too?"

“Nope! I just have kinda more money than I know what to do with, sometimes.” Calley’s feet started twitch-dancing against his legs. He really really wanted say The llama-kidnapper pays my rent!, but that wouldn’t exactly mesh with his back story as a humble Mansion resident with zero (count ‘em, zero) ties to Hunter prior to the formation of the lovely Resistance. And it was true: he didn’t know what to do with the money he had. And he did have a lot of money. Even though he wasn’t one of the highest paid individuals on the Boss Man’s payroll, he still received a very decent allowance. And besides food and the lime green squeaky hedgehog, he really didn’t spend it. It was just kind of… piling up. He’d never even seen a bill for this apartment: it was just a job perk, apparently. He glanced around the relatively bare place. “Can you tell I don’t really spend much time here? I mostly just come here when I’m avoiding people. And to feed my cat.” He nodded sagely. “Not that I, umm, avoid people. Much.”

“So, what have you been doing since the raid? Where you there for it? I kinda missed it, what with the being elsewhere at the time, and all.” He really really really wanted a Twix bar, but they were discouragingly far away. Across the room, and beyond the cubboard doors…

Unlike Calley, Sonya had not spent her adolescence as a housecat.

She had, in fact, spent those years in high school... specifically in an urban New York high school where "social interaction" -- at least, of a certain variety -- placed higher than most academic subjects on the List of Interesting Things for almost everyone. And while Sonya was by no means the most popular girl in school or anything, she had certainly picked up a few things, by osmosis if nothing else... including, but not limited to, How To Tell When A Boy's Palms Are Sweating... even if he's sitting on them.

Neat! And not only in the sense that it's always nice to get that sort of reaction from a cute boy, but also in the far more practical sense that the more Calley concentrates on the boy/girl thing, the more likely he is to trust her.

> “You know, I don’t know. It’s kind of high-tech… I’ll have to ask him sometime.
> Better than tinkering with it. Tinkering leads to breaking, breaking leads to
> something-something…”

She laughs and nods. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. My little sister took our television apart, once. It didn't end well for anyone... least of all the television. Still... maybe you could ask him? I mean, not to insult the Zelda pendant in any way -- I think it's great to show off your own tastes, no matter what anyone else thinks -- but it never hurts to explore options, right? You never know, you might enjoy it."

> “I just have kinda more money than I know what to do with, sometimes.
> Can you tell I don’t really spend much time here? "

"Well, now that you mention it: yes, I can. You may be the strangest boy I've ever met, Mr. Tiger Calley Friend-of-Technomancers-and-Llama-Kidnappers, but even you must get mail sometimes... not to mention, you know, listen to music or watch TV or do something with your time other than eat and read the occassional paperback." She waves her hand around the room to indicate the distinct lack of any sign of such activity, then shrugs. "Besides which, you already said you were spending most of your time partying with the 'cool kids' and were looking for someone to catsit, remember?"

> I mostly just come here when
> I’m avoiding people. And to feed my cat. Not that I, umm, avoid people. Much.”

"Clearly not... not if you're willing to invite a complete stranger to your apartment to take care of a cat who isn't even here." She smirks just a little, then continues: "I guess hanging out with all those llama-kidnappers can get pretty tiresome after a while."

> “So, what have you been doing since the raid? Were you there for it?
> I kinda missed it, what with the being elsewhere at the time, and all.”

Sonya hesitates for a second, and reminds herself that she really needs to prepare stories for situations like these if she's going to keep up the multiple-identities thing. Still, she recovers smoothly enough -- "Well, I guess now that you've shown me yours, I suppose I can trust you... even if you are a mysteriously wealthy teenager with mysterious friends, right? I was almost there, to tell you the truth. A block or so away, on my way, when those... things attacked. Amp and Vibe were there, right out front on the street... they'd been shopping, or something. And then there were machines, and police, and guns... and --"

She doesn't need to fake the feeling of shame on her face when she ends the sentence. "I ran away. Far and fast. I guess that's pretty much what I've been doing since... running, and trying to find someplace safe."

Unlike Sonya, Calley had never in his life made an effort to either get information or have someone trust him. He didn’t particularly want anyone to trust him, what with it not being a very good idea. And information... just tended to come his way, when he simply behaved as he normally did.

“I mean, not to insult the Zelda pendant in any way -- I think it's great to show off your own tastes, no matter what anyone else thinks -- but it never hurts to explore options, right? You never know, you might enjoy it."

Calley gave a half-shrug and a silly grin.

...I might enjoy wearing a studded collar as a human?

Hmm...

No!

"...You may be the strangest boy I've ever met, Mr. Tiger Calley Friend-of-Technomancers-and-Llama-Kidnappers,” (his approval rating for Teresa’s amazing abilities of articulation escalated ever higher), “but even you must get mail sometimes...”

Calley sat up a little straighter, with an ‘oh shoot’ look in his suddenly widened eyes. Mail... heh... he’d forgotten about mail. He, ah, should check that sometime. Maybe. Not that anyone would be mailing him anything, but he might get credit card offers with those fun fake cards in them. He really liked those cards. A creative individual could find infinite uses for those cards.

“...not to mention, you know, listen to music or watch TV or do something with your time other than eat and read the occasional paperback."

Calley sank a little lower. ‘Cause he really didn’t listen to music, or watch TV, or do anything with his free time other than eat and read and do the Boss Man’s questionable bidding.

...I don’t think she’s impressed with our hobbies.

Perhaps you should tell her that we practice Zen meditation, as well.

...I’ll keep that in mind.

"A block or so away, on my way, when those... things attacked. Amp and Vibe were there, right out front on the street... they'd been shopping, or something. And then there were machines, and police, and guns... and --"

He replayed the memory in his own mind. He’d watched the scene play out from on high; Amp and Vibe had just come back, and then the fun began, like it had been waiting for the red-headed twins. He didn’t remember any random civilians around the area at the time. Which sort of bugged him, since the police had been clearing out the place to keep casualties down during the raid. ...I wonder, do we have access to our own video footage? I want to see where she was!

I am sure Antonescu would be open to hearing the request.

...Actually, I’m not that interested. Let’s just, ah, not bug the Scary Boss Man.

"I ran away. Far and fast. I guess that's pretty much what I've been doing since... running, and trying to find someplace safe."

Calley nodded, in a manner that could very well be interpreted as sympathetic, but was actually highly approving. Self-preservation. He could understand self-preservation. It was generally a good way to not die. Teresa, however, seemed to be making the mistake of attaching morals to the situation, what with the intense levels of shame-radiating, and all. “Umm, I know you feel bad about it, but you shouldn’t. That’s what a lot of people did, and they’re all the ones that are free right now. From what I’ve heard, those robots... they completely outclassed us. And they surprise-attacked us, too. The people who set this up planned it pretty good, and none of us saw it coming.” Well, besides Hunter, himself, and by extension, the entire Kabal. But not everyone had connections up the wazoo. Just the cool people. And the violent ones. Calley’s feet were making sock angels against the carpeted floor. “It should be okay now, though. Maybe. ‘Cause that place where I’m staying instead of here? It’s where all the people who ran, or who got away, are gathering. They’re calling it the Resistance.” He figured that was a good line to stop at. Questions would follow, he was sure. And maybe, just maybe, they'd be ones he could answer without awkwardly cringing.

Sonya resists the urge to laugh at Calley’s expressive reactions to her comments, especially the silly grin when she mentions the collar as a fashion statement and his astonishment at the notion of mail. Jeez, he’s a goof. Cute, though.

> “Umm, I know you feel bad about it, but you shouldn’t. [..]
> The people who set this up planned it pretty good, and none of us saw it coming.”

Sonya nods slowly, slightly reassured. Not that any of what Calley is saying comes as a surprise, and not that any of it is really all that reassuring, but it’s nice to talk to someone who understands.

> “that place where I’m staying instead of here? It’s where all the people
> who ran, or who got away, are gathering. They’re calling it the Resistance.”

Sonya nods again, unsurprised. “Yeah… makes sense. You said Syn and Abyss got out OK, right?” The idea that someone as tough – or at least tough-looking -- as Abyss had to run away from the robots in the end is reassuring, but only briefly. It’s not the same, she reminds herself. They made a stand, then retreated when opposition got overwhelming… I just took off before the fight even got started. Not that she regrets it, exactly – her reasons were good ones, and she would do the same thing again – but it still nags at her. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now.

“So the Order is still up and running, then? That’s a relief. And there was another raid, wasn’t there?” She tries to remember what Rupert had said about the previous raid, beyond the fact that he shot his girlfriend during it. “I heard something about that. So… who all is in the Resistance, besides us?”

It still feels weird to think of the Order as “us” – Sonya still has reservations, deep down – but ever since she listened to that detective arguing for the inevitability of race wars between humans and mutants, it’s been clear to Sonya that she has to pick a side, and she’s getting more comfortable with the idea.

“And is there a plan for getting the rest of us out of the Camps?”

(( OOC: I’m avoiding having her ask too many specific questions because I’ve already established her ignorance about certain things in the coffeehouse thread, which happens later.

Also, I’m totally loving Calley’s foot-twitch “I’m hiding something” tell… nice bit of character continuity. Sonya hasn’t made the connection yet, but given some time she will.

Oh, and congratulations on the student-teaching stuff! If you want/need to put this thread on hold for a while, or bring it to an end, that’s cool… just let me know. Sonya will cheerfully keep talking to Calley all night, otherwise.

Oh, also: remember that Amp and Vibe had a bunch of buff guys from the mall carrying their packages just before the raid.

Oh, and – no, that was it.))

((OOC: *grins*--glad you’re likin’ Calley’s little mannerisms. He’s very fun to write like that.

And I’d forgotten about the buff guys! Hark, ye random civilians pre-raid! They have precedence for existence!))

“Yeah… makes sense. You said Syn and Abyss got out OK, right?”

Calley nodded, his gaze roving over to his kitchen, then abruptly snapping back to Teresa. He was paying attention to the guilt-ridden young woman in front of him. Sure he was. He was not, by any means, still thinking about that Twix bar.

“So the Order is still up and running, then? That’s a relief. And there was another raid, wasn’t there?”

Or yawning. He wasn’t yawning, either. Something in that last bit made him perk up, though. Scratching a hand behind his head, he asked curiously, “What’s the Order?” Because, after all, he was an innocent Mansion resident, and therefore not privy to nearly all there was to know about the Future Leaders of Tomorrow club. “Yeah, though—besides the raid on the Sanctuary, there was a raid at the Mansion, too, if that’s what you mean.” He dragged his eyes away from the kitchen again, and decided that the quickest way to cure his candy craving, short of actually standing up, walking all the way over there, opening his cupboards, reaching in, getting out a candy bar, closing the cupboards, walking all the way back over here, sitting down, wrestling with the wrapper, pausing in frustration, gnawing at the wrapper, glaring in hatred, letting Slate open it for him, and finally—finally!—eating it. Where was he? Yeah. Instead of putting all that effort in, he could flop over on his side. Calley debated his choices briefly, and then flopped. The carpet felt nice and scratchy against his ear. “I think there were little sorta mini-raids at other places, too, because I get the impression that they were trying to get all of us pretty much at once. Dunno what other safe houses there were, but I bet someone in the government knew. Do you think they bought the information off of some mutant? ‘Cause that would suck.” Actually, it would be pretty smart. Selling out to the enemy was a proven strategy for short-term self-preservation.

“So… who all is in the Resistance, besides us?”

Calley swished and/or swash-buckled the carpet with his toes. “I’m not really sure. I mean I met a lot of them—there was this big meeting—but there weren’t introductions, or anything. A lot of people seemed to know each other. Sort of made me feel left out, a little.” And by ‘left out’, he, of course, meant ‘supremely self-satisfied’. The number of people he hadn’t known at that meeting could be counted on one hand. Teresa was getting alarmingly dark. Calley made an effort to hold his eyes open wider. There. That was better.

“And is there a plan for getting the rest of us out of the Camps?”

Calley blinked, twice. “Yeah, sort of. I think. Maybe.” She disappeared briefly, along with his couch. He shook his head a little, but it was asking too much for him to sit up again. The floor was just as comfortable as it always was. “Yes! Yeah, that’s what the meeting was about. And other stuff.” What that other stuff was, he was having a hard time remembering at this particular moment in time.

A fact: Calley was used to taking cat naps. Which is to say, he was used to being asleep for a good portion of any given day, though he didn’t necessarily keep any sort of regular hours. Another fact: he’d been awake for over ten hours by this point. Straight. It was... sacrilege. A profanity that his body was attempting to correct, through divine cleansing eyes-closed prayer.

Sonya watches carefully as Calley drifts off to sleep on the floor of his own apartment.

That’s… odd. Trusting, which was kind of nice, but… odd. Surely he hadn’t gotten dressed up just to go to sleep… and he hadn’t seemed that exhausted? Maybe shape-shifting takes a lot of energy out of him… which, now that she thinks of it, might explain why he’s so scrawny, too.

Maybe he’s faking, to see what I do? This whole conversation with Calley had turned into something weirder than she’d initially expected, and she takes a moment to put it all together in her head. It doesn’t form much of a picture, really, and she can’t shake the feeling that Calley, with all his endearing bleariness and toe-tapping anxiety, is withholding a lot more information than he’s admitting to.

Can’t really blame him, she concludes. It’s not like I’ve been entirely honest with him, either. Still, he’s engaged her curiosity. She wants to know where that shape-shifting collar comes from, and whether whoever made it can make her a shape-shifting set of clothes. She wants to know who pays for his apartment and why they pay for it. She wants to know exactly what his relationship is to Sanctuary, and to the secretive little mutant Order that Syn and Abyss have going inside it, and what the Resistance intends to do.

But she’s not going to find out tonight, it seems, judging from Calley’s snoring. Well, all right, then. It can wait.

She considers carrying Calley into his bed – the floor can’t be all that comfortable, can it? – but decides that the body she’s wearing at the moment probably isn’t strong enough. Besides, she’s pretty tired herself, and the bed looks pretty comfy, and she isn’t all that interested in sharing it – not tonight, anyway – even if it is his. And he did invite her to apartment-sit, after all, though she’s fairly sure that was just an excuse.

So she turns the lights off and lies down and listens to the snoring from the other room until she can’t hear anything except her own dreams.

(( OOC: I spoze we can end this here? ))

((ooc: Me thinks we need some "next morning" closure. Shall Calley sneak out, shall you sneak out, or shall Slate try to follow a recipe for pancakes?))

Please pick the pancakes!

(( OOC: pancakes works for me. and meeting Slate would be fun. That said, any objection to magically declaring "tomorrow morning" to be post-coffeehouse and handwaving away inter-thread continuity issues? Maybe Sonya woke up, went out for coffee, and came back. ))

((ooc: *hand wave, hand wave, magical time-line-fixing hand wave* ...It is done.))

Calley had woken up a few hours earlier, to the sound of a young lady quietly sneaking out of his bedroom and out the door. Okay. Aaaand back to sleep.

Slate had awoken sometime later, to the sound of a door opening and a young woman quietly sneaking back in. This was why they should lock their door. Not, however, that he truly cared. He waited until the woman had taken the noticeable liberty of again placing herself in their bedroom, and then he rose. There was something he had been meaning to try.

Slate, you suck. You suck like a riptide.

He was attempting to make pancakes. The box claimed it was three “easy” steps. Slate was beginning to hold a differing opinion.

This would be a lot easier if you weren’t the most anal-retentive perfectionist on the face of the planet.

There was a counter, a stove top, and a counter on the other side. On each counter was a plate. On the stove top, on an unlit burner, was a large round pale yellow bowl filled with an off-white liquid mix stirred to a perfectly uniform consistency. On a lit burner was a pan, with a cooking pancake. Slate stood impassively posed over it, holding a plastic orange spatula at the ready.

On the plate to his left were two pancakes. They were exact circles, golden brown on both top and bottom, and acceptable. On the plate to his right were thirteen pancakes of irregular shape and/or coloring. The unacceptables.

Can’t I just eat them? Please? This isn’t helping us with the scrawny issue.

Slate intended to eat four pancakes. Four perfect pancakes. Calley could have the rest, after he had eaten his. He only had two more to make.

I hate you so hard.

There was the slightest of smiles curled at the corners of their lips.

Two cups of coffee and a heartburn-inducing Rueben don’t make for the best sleep in the world, and neither do the weird dreams she’s been having lately. She never remembers them, but she always wakes up from them in a cold sweat, afraid of something she can’t name, convinced beyond reason that someone has come to steal her body.

This morning is no different, except she’s not waking up on the street somewhere, or in a cheap motel room… she’s actually sleeping in a comfortable bed, with comfortable blankets, and heat, and… are those pancakes she’s smelling? This has got to be a dream, she tells herself as she climbs out of bed.

Except it isn’t. Calley really is standing in the kitchen in his rumpled, slept-in dress clothes, making what looks like enough pancakes for a dozen people. Though, judging from the number of burgers he put down the night before, it’s possible he’s just making breakfast for himself.

Though, on further thought, even that’s a little odd. He didn’t strike her as the sort who cooked. Not, granted, that making pancakes from a mix was exactly “cooking,” but even that surprises her.

She pads barefoot over to the kitchen, bending down to pick the hedgehog up from the floor, where it presumably had fallen out of his pocket while he slept.

“Calley, you are the only person I’ve ever met who gets dressed up in snazzy clothes to sleep in. Are you going to change into pajamas to go out, now?”