No, no, she can't! She's holding the lime green squeaky hedgehog without permission! Slate, stop her!

"I do not own pajamas. Typically, I sleep naked." Slate replied levelly, not turning away from his meticulous pancake-flipping process in order to face her fully. Calley could watch her from the corners of their eyes. That was enough. "It seemed like bad form to do so in front of you." He inclined his head the slightest of degrees towards the plate of imperfection on his right side.

No, Slate! Don't do it! Don't do it! I'll eat them!

"If you would like pancakes, you may serve yourself. There are plates in the cupboard, and utensils in the far drawer. Additionally, I believe there is strawberry jam on the third shelf in the refrigerator." He frowned slightly, and moved his current attempt to the plate on the right before pouring a new circle of mix onto the pan. "Do not eat the ones on the left, please." This seemed an uncivil place to end his dialogue, so he added: "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

...Pancakes... Their stomach rumbled loudly. There was enough mix to satisfy Calley: first, however, Slate still required two more suitable for his own consumption.

> “I do not own pajamas. Typically, I sleep naked.
> It seemed like bad form to do so in front of you.”

“Well,” Sonya starts off with a shrug, “it’s not like you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before, right? Guess it’s a good thing you don’t shapeshift in your sleep…” Then she stops, forgetting what she was about to say next, and looks Calley over carefully.

Something wasn’t right.

Calley hadn’t talked like that last night, or when they met at Sanctuary. And he was… standing still. Which sounded silly, even in her own mind, but she’s not sure she’s ever seen Calley stand still before.

Maybe he just isn’t a morning person? It sounds lame even as she says it; he doesn’t seem at all tired or twitchy or grumpy or anything. If anything, he seems more together than he did last night, though oddly distant.

> "If you would like pancakes, you may serve yourself. [..]
> Do not eat the ones on the left, please. Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

“Um… thanks…” she responds, hesitantly, and serves herself a few pancakes.

She can’t quite figure out, at first, why Calley is splitting the pile so unevenly… then she realizes he’s separating out the perfectly circular ones from the almost-perfectly-circular ones. Geez… obsessive, much? Is this the same guy who went to sleep on the living-room floor in his dress clothes?

“I slept OK… hope you don’t mind my sleeping here, but it was kind of late, and…” she shrugs. “I went out for a while – actually ran into Syn, believe it or not, and another mutant girl – but didn’t really have anywhere to go afterwards. Seemed silly to get a hotel room just for a few hours, so I came back. I hope that’s OK…?”

She realizes she’s repeating herself, and stops talking as she puts some jam on her pancakes and takes a bite. Not all that great, really, but about as good as you can expect from a box. “Mm… these are good. Thanks…” The fridge is more like what she’d expected from last night’s Calley – no milk, no OJ, nothing perishable, nothing to indicate that cooking breakfast in this apartment is at all a typical operation, and it just reinforces her sense that something is odd.

As she thinks about it – the sudden falling asleep, the goofy and inconsistent behavior, the massive appetite, the bit with the hedgehog -- one theory seems far more likely than anything else she can come up with, and it worries her enough that she says nothing through the eating of several pancakes. Finally she just comes out with it.

“Calley – were you on drugs last night?”

(( OOC: Usual deal… if I’m mis-representing the cat-hair or the fridge, let me know and I’ll fix. ))

((ooc: At this point in time, Slate doesn't care at all about their appearance. He will as he continues to develop, but he's not there yet--so he's fairly covered in cat hair. The fridge bit was fine, though!))

“It’s not like you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before, right? Guess it’s a good thing you don’t shapeshift in your sleep…”

Actually, they did. Quite regularly. Some quirk of their mutation made their human form the least stable of their appearances—when they made the mistake of sleeping in it, they frequently awoke as something... unexpected. Last night, however, Slate had tried out one of his theories. He had taken the liberty of putting himself in control of their body before he had allowed himself to follow Calley into their dreamscape. His hypothesis that this would halt any attempt of their body to change forms had not been proven false, since they had awoken in human form. However, one night was hardly a thorough study. At some point, he might even tell Calley and the clutter his idea. He was, however, testing a secondary hypothesis: that they could, in fact, keep secrets from each other. They were already doing this on a collaborative level, in hiding those certain actions they planned for Antonescu’s future from themselves. He was intrigued by the idea of having thoughts that Calley knew nothing about, though. So far, the clutter was being quite cooperative in aiding him.

That aside, it was quite clear that Miss Teresa had noticed his existence. At the least, she had noticed Calley’s absence. This made him feel strangely good. It was an unnecessary emotion, but a not-unpleasant one. He added a third pancake to the plate on his left, followed shortly by two to the plate on the right. He observed that he was getting better at this.

“I slept OK… hope you don’t mind my sleeping here, but it was kind of late, and… I went out for a while – actually ran into Syn, believe it or not, and another mutant girl – but didn’t really have anywhere to go afterwards. Seemed silly to get a hotel room just for a few hours, so I came back. I hope that’s OK…?”

She was repeating herself. She was speaking in a rather halting manner notably different than her brazen confidence of the night prior, as well. Intriguing. Since Calley had been quite clear that she was welcome to their apartment, Slate saw no need to reinforce the woman’s silly questioning of such. He simply chose not to respond.

“Calley – were you on drugs last night?”

Hey! Was not!

Now that was a disquieting concept. Calley on drugs. Slate did not wish to ever see that. With a steady hand, he placed a forth pancake onto the pile at the left, and turned off the burner. Taking the plate in hand, he joined Teresa at the small table. He carefully—very carefully—spread an even coating of strawberry jam over each of his four pancakes. Then he picked the first up by hand, and began to eat it. Cutting it with knife and fork would serve no purpose except tearing into the very face of perfection.

He was quite satisfied with his efforts this morning. After he had appreciated the first of his pancakes—and only after—did he reply to Teresa’s question. “Drugs,” he answered quite correctly, “are illegal.” That completed, he turned his full attention to savoring his second pancake. It was very well made. Additionally, he was beginning to suspect that he might like strawberry jam. His eyes half-closed in contentment as he took his time tasting each bite. It was good to be self-aware.

> “Drugs are illegal.”

For a few seconds, Sonya is left speechless… she just watches Calley methodically eat his second pancake.

Then she shakes herself out of it and slides Calley’s plate of perfect pancakes out of his reach. “Yeah, duh. I know that. So is turning into a tiger without government authorization, in case you missed the news. I could care less about illegal. They’re also damned stupid, far more to the point. Now answer my damn question and you get your pancakes back. Deal?”

...She had taken his two remaining pancakes, and slid them out of his reach. He had just been reaching for his third. He did not hear anything that the young woman said.

Umm, Slate, buddy? Please try to act normal. Please. Pretty please. Or, you know, maybe I could take control for awhile. How would that be? ...Slate? The clutter recoiled slightly, and Calley hurried to hide in the back of their mind, with the rest of their thoughts.

Slate stood, and walked around the table. He picked up the plate bearing his two remaining pancakes. Then he turned, and walked back to his own seat. This action completed, he looked at Teresa.

“Do not,” he said simply, “take my pancakes.” He spoke simply, because he wanted to make sure she was very clear on this point. He spoke with slow, crisp articulation of each syllable, because this was a very important point. He was eating his pancakes. That was what he was doing. It was through his own considerate choice that he was alternating this action with speaking to the woman. She should not, by any means, confuse his priorities in this situation: he was eating his pancakes. He only happened to be maintaining a conversation with her. If the need arose, their conversation could easily be terminated. He was eating his pancakes.

He stared at the woman, blinking only when necessary. Curious. Apparently, he was capable of deep hatred.

Slate... they’re pancakes. Please. Just—

Equally curious was the fact that, apparently, Calley wanted some of this.

...no thank you.

Sonya’s jaw drops. Literally. About two inches, leaving her mouth gaping open for quite a long time. Then she closes it and nods. Shame. He seemed like a nice guy.

“All right. Enjoy your pancakes. Thanks for breakfast, and for letting me sleep here last night.” She gets up and takes her plate over to the sink, washes it in silence, puts it away.

She gets as far as the door before realizing she left her shoes in the bedroom, and goes back to put them on. She almost says something as she walks past him, and again as she walks back to the door, but she doesn’t. He’d seemed like a nice guy last night, but she’s seen too many of her friends go down this road.

She gets to the door again before realizing she still has his hedgehog. She goes back into the kitchen again, feeling a little absurd, and places the hedgehog on the table.

Then, with some hesitancy, she writes her cell-phone number down on a piece of paper and puts it under the hedgehog. “If you want help getting off whatever it is that’s messing with your head, Calley, call that number. I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll do what I can. Otherwise, just forget we ever met. Got that?”

She doesn’t wait for a response before turning around and starting to walk out.

Slate noticed the woman's pendulum swings between their door and the various things which she had forgotten, but it was safe to say he did not particularly care. He still had two pancakes to eat. They were delicious. Then they were gone.

Now, there was a phone number being slipped under Calley’s precious hedgehog.

“If you want help getting off whatever it is that’s messing with your head, Calley, call that number. I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll do what I can. Otherwise, just forget we ever met. Got that?”

Calley was a nervous ball of twitching energy in the back of their mind. What?

That was really really bad, Slate.

What did I do?

Just trust me on this, Slate. That was not good.

If it was “not good”, then she would not be taking her time in leaving. She would have simply left.

Slate... no. Just no. That was not good.

He wiped trace amounts of strawberry jam and pancake crumbs off of their mouth with a napkin, and turned their head to watch the woman walking towards their door. Again. Perhaps, this time, she would even make it. Calley’s words were annoying him, but the woman’s reaction seemed to confirm them. Hmm. He was unclear as to what he had done wrong, but only mildly bothered by it. He was, by and large, simply feeling content. They had been very well-crafted pancakes. Do you wish to speak with her?

[/color]Err, no, that’s—[/i]

Aaaaand he was in control. Great. Thanks, Slate. Calley’s spine slinked down in his chair as he watched Sonya leave. Well, attempt to leave. Her track record really wasn’t so good so far. But maybe, this time, she might actually make it, and then he’d be ending this whole thing on a really bad note. Courtesy of Slate. He really hadn’t known that it was possible to be more ill-suited to social interaction than he was. But apparently... he could top himself. Great.

“Umm!” He called out. The noise seemed too loud. He made a distinct effort to disappear into the thin white cushion on his seat. “Umm, I don’t do drugs. I said that last night, didn’t I? ‘Cause, umm, I’m bad enough without them. Obviously. So, ah, sorry. You can make with the fleeing now. I’m just going to try and disappear under the table, if that’s all good.” Actually, that was just his melodramatic flair talking. If he wanted to disappear under the table, he could easily crawl under it. All he was doing was progressively sinking lowering in his chair, in shame. Shaaaaaame.

Sonya opens the door to the hallway and resists the urge to turn around… that had already gotten pretty ridiculous by this point.

The truth is she doesn’t want to abandon Calley to whatever it is that’s messing with his head. It’s not like they’re best friends or anything… hell, she doesn’t even know his last name, and he doesn’t know her real name, and probably half of what they’ve said to each other so far has been lies, but despite all that he’s still basically the friendliest guy she’s met since arriving in New York.

Well, except for that detective and his friend. And we saw how well that worked out. She begins to consider the possibility that she just has terrible taste in friends.

But that’s beside the point at the moment. The point is, she doesn’t want to walk away like this. She just doesn’t know what else to do.

He has my number, she tells herself. If he wants help, he knows how to ask. That’s got to be enough, for now. She opens the door and steps out into the hall.

> “Umm!”

She’s not entirely sure whether that’s an attempt to call her back, or just a particularly odd reaction (in a series of odd reactions) to his precious pancakes, but it slows her down.

> “Umm, I don’t do drugs. I said that last night, didn’t I? ‘Cause, umm, I’m bad enough without them. Obviously. So, ah, sorry.”

She thinks about that for a second, and remembers that yes, he had said something along those lines. Is he lying? She’s not sure… but at least he’s not dodging the question anymore. That’s something.

> “You can make with the fleeing now. I’m just going to try and disappear under the table, if that’s all good”

And, she realizes, that’s last night’s Calley talking again, goofiness and all. She almost lets herself giggle when she steps back into the kitchen and sees his little performance.

Instead she keeps the door open behind her with the heel of one foot and plants both hands firmly on her hips, the way Mama always did when she was especially pissed off about something, and fixed him with the fiercest glare she was capable of. “So what the hell was that, if you don’t mind my asking? And I swear to God, if you say ‘what was what?’ I really am walking out that door.”

GLARE OF DOOM!, said Teresa.

tuck in shoulders and look small, replied Calley.

“So what the hell was that, if you don’t mind my asking? And I swear to God, if you say ‘what was what?’ I really am walking out that door.”

“Now see, that just makes it almost impossible to not say—” He took another look at her face, and swallowed convulsively. “Sorry. Ah, sorry. Yeah. Umm, would you believe severe mental disorder?”

...I do not appreciate being referred to as a severe mental disorder.

Well, if it makes you feel better, I was talking about both of us.

...It does not, actually.

...Yeah, me neither.

Calley sunk a little lower. This was actually starting to hurt his spine, but he was going for effect, not comfort level. “Not that I’m crazy. Not crazy-crazy, like hurts-people-for-giggles crazy, or... other... crazies.” He waved his hands, motioning erratically, and including the stove and the empty plate in front of him. “Umm, that was... that was Slate. He says hi.”

No, I do not.

You do when I control our vocal chords. I’m being friendly on your behalf.

Unnecessary. I assure you.

“So, yeah. You can probably keep up the fleeing now. I really should be hiding under the table, what with the admitting-to-this and all.” He pointed a finger under the table, and scouted ever lower in his chair. Funny. She actually was the first person he’d admitted it to. The Scary Boss Man had figured it out on his own, and everyone else... seemed too polite and/or alarmed to actually ask.

> “Now see, that just makes it almost impossible to not say – ”

Sonya doesn’t quite get around to picking up the jam-pot to make a threatening gesture with before Calley changes direction.

> “Sorry. Ah, sorry. Yeah. Umm, would you believe severe mental disorder?”

Which is at least responsive, even if Sonya isn’t entirely sure she believes it. The whole “look at me, I’m so harmless and shamed I fold up under furniture” routine, while adorable, doesn’t do wonders for Calley’s credibility.

> “Not that I’m crazy. Not crazy-crazy, like hurts-people-for-giggles crazy,
> or... other... crazies. Umm, that was... that was Slate. He says hi. So, yeah.
> You can probably keep up the fleeing now. I really should be hiding under
> the table, what with the admitting-to-this and all”

“Oh, for Lord’s sake, straighten up before your spine curves that way permanently. And eat your pancakes before they get cold.” Sonya can’t believe she actually said that. That’s her mom’s line… and come to think of it, she’s more or less been channeling her mom ever since she put her shoes on, and not in a mutant-power kind of way. Wow. Didn’t see that coming.

The thing is, goofy as Calley’s explanation is, she actually believes it. Maybe because his feet aren’t squirming when he says it.

“So, you have a multiple-personality disorder, or something like that? I thought personalities didn’t usually know about each other…” Though really, everything Sonya knows about MPD she knows from bad novels and worse television, so who is she to say? “Anyway, I’m sorry I jumped down your throat about it. It’s just… well, I dated a guy once who was heavy into drugs. It ended badly. I guess I’m a little sensitive about it still.”

She sighs and sits down across the table from Calley, who is still doing his sliding-under-the-table riff, and picks up the squeaky-toy from where she left it. “Come on, eat your breakfast. Tigers have to grow up big and strong, right?” She squeaks the toy a few times, as if trying to encourage a recalcitrant housecat. “Who’s a good tiger?”

Calley wanted to purr as she sat back down. He settled for beaming happily, and sitting himself up straight. She wasn’t running away. Yay! And she was ordering him to eat. No complaints!

And though she was again touching the lime green squeaky hedgehog without his permission, it didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it gave a series of sharp, cheerful squaks! for the woman.

“Who’s a good tiger?”

Calley sat himself up in a parody of suddenly acquired dignity. “Miss Teresa, you don’t need to patronize me.” The fact that he had to cross his arms over his chest to restrain himself from lunging across the table to bat at the hedgehog was, no doubt, adding to his dignity level. With a last chin-in-the-air gesture, he gave up his Academy Award-winning performance and dragged the plate of imperfectly delicious pancakes towards himself. He ate with a knife and fork.

They are unnecessary.

They are civil.

That is an ill-defined word.

Apparently for you, yeah.

She was right: they were getting cold. And the addition of the refrigerated jam wasn’t helping. Still good, though, what with still being food, and all.

“Yeah,” he said, after swallowing, “I think its multiple-personality. Probably. Not sure what else to call this. And it’s not that we know about each other, it’s more like we’ve never not known about each other. Since, you know, we are the same person. Just, umm... not.” Calley awkwardly trailed off. Then he shoved a pancake in his mouth. Chewing: a very good reason to not be talking. Talking: a very stupid thing to do. Chew, chew, chew, swallow. “It’s okay, about the ‘jumping down my throat’ and all—Slate was really really rude to you. I’m sorry.”

I am not.

I didn’t say you were.

“Sorry about your boyfriend, too. You don’t have to worry about me, though.” He’d been sinking down again as he spoke; now, he proudly pulled himself back up. “There’s no way my mom would have approved of drugs, so I’ve never done them. Ever.” He looked up at her. “You dumped his butt, right? You deserve better than some drug addict.”

> “Miss Teresa, you don’t need to patronize me.”

“No, of course not. My mistake. I should have recognized hiding under the table as the mature, sophisticated conversational gambit that it was. I won’t do it again… and neither will Squeaky here.” She gives the hedgehog a couple of additional squeaks before putting it back down on the table.

She nods noncommitally as he explains… or, well, at least talks about… his multiple personality disorder. She doesn’t really have much to say about it… but she is curious. “So, is it just the two of you in there? Or are there other dwellers in the body of TigerBoy I ought to meet? After all, it is kinda rude of me to hang out in their apartment without at least being introduced, don’t you think?”

> “Slate was really really rude to you. I’m sorry. Sorry about your boyfriend, too. You don’t have to worry about me, though. There’s no way my mom would have approved of drugs, so I’ve never done them. Ever. You dumped his butt, right? You deserve better than some drug addict.”

Sonya grins at the last line. “Yeah, I did. Well, eventually. It took a while… mostly because I was stupid and I was sixteen and I was stupid. You know? I thought I could fix him.” She shrugs. “Learned better. People fix themselves. Or they don’t. And man has this conversation gotten depressing!” She laughs and reaches for one of Calley’s pancakes, prepared to pull her hand away if he demonstrates any equally twitchy pancake-protecting habits as his alter-ego, and decides to change the subject. “So, speaking of boyfriends and girlfriends… tell me about this Isabel you’re dating? I don’t think I’ve met her.”

Teresa didn’t seem to be freaking out in the least about the whole “technically really actually quite insane” issue. It was nice. Not that anyone had freaked out about it, yet—but really, the only other people who knew were Abyss, Hunter, and Doc Jimmy. Abyss knew what it was like. And Hunter and Doc Jimmy had just made sure that what might have been a temporary split was thoroughly and completely permanent, since Hunter liked Slate better. ...Actually, that was a little annoying, now that he thought about it.

Heh.

...Boss’ pet.[/i]

“So, is it just the two of you in there? Or are there other dwellers in the body of TigerBoy I ought to meet? After all, it is kinda rude of me to hang out in their apartment without at least being introduced, don’t you think?”

“Oh!” He blinked. “Well, yeah, of course there’s more.” That was just a given, after all—that was the way it had always been. “But they’re just the clutter. They don’t come out and talk, or anything.” He waved his fork in dismissal. In his mind, nothing within the clutter took any offense to his words. Teresa was the first person who’d asked for an introduction to them, so at least five of them rather liked her. At least three were wondering what color her bra was. At least nine were discussing the most efficient way to build a pancake-catapult to use against her. No more than thirteen thought that would be a bad idea.

“...I thought I could fix him. Learned better. People fix themselves. Or they don’t.”

Calley nodded in assertive agreement. He knew all about fixing. In fact, he happened to be working on that right now. Seventeen of the clutter wondering, idly, why they weren’t working on fixing Slate. Slate shut them up before Calley heard.

“So, speaking of boyfriends and girlfriends… tell me about this Isabel you’re dating? I don’t think I’ve met her.”

Calley grinned, and motioned for Teresa to go ahead and have more pancakes, if she’d like. He could make more. He’d been paying attention. “Issie is amazing! She’s nearly as fast as me, and she has a green ribbon in her hair.” He mimed a bow over his head with his hands. “We were both trying out fake IDs at the same bar, and we ended up catching a monster movie together, and then she brought me back to the Sanctuary. It was fun.” He deflated a little. “She’s in the camps right now, though. Probably tried to stab one robot too many. She likes to do that. Stab things, I mean.” He nodded in agreement with himself, and set into another pancake. Chew chew swallow.

“Where are you from? If I may ask. How’d you end up at Sanctuary?”

> “Well, yeah, of course there’s more. But they’re just the clutter. They don’t come out and talk, or anything.”

Sonya blinks at that. “Um… right. OK, then.” She’s not at all sure how to take the explanation, other than as yet another symptom of MPD, and resolves not to let Calley’s charming goofiness lull her into complacency… who knows what’s going on in there.

But at least for the moment he no longer seems quite so possessive of his pancakes, and that’s something. She spreads some jam on another, rolls it up into a little tube, and takes a bite off one end.

> “Issie is amazing! She’s nearly as fast as me, and she has a
> green ribbon in her hair. We were both trying out fake IDs
> at the same bar, and we ended up catching a monster movie
> together, and then she brought me back to the Sanctuary.
> It was fun. She’s in the camps right now, though. Probably
> tried to stab one robot too many. She likes to do that. Stab
> things, I mean.”

Oh!, thinks Sonya. So he really isn’t associated with Sanctuary himself, then… I was right about him being the tagalong boyfriend. That explains a lot.

More interesting is the reference to being fast and stabbing things, though, which sounds awfully familiar. “Wait… is she the girl with the boney knife-things coming out of her body? I saw her once, though we weren’t exactly introduced.” It’s strange thinking of the half-crazed blade-wielding mutant Sonya had seen in the registration line doing something as normal as trying to sneak into a bar or watching movies with her boyfriend, but on further thought Sonya supposes that’s exactly what drives this whole anti-mutant thing.

“Guess that must be, um, interesting for you. Dating a girl who likes to stab things, I mean. Does she make an exception for you, or are you into that sort of thing?”

> “Where are you from? If I may ask. How’d you end up at Sanctuary?”

“The Bronx,” Sonya answers honestly, figuring it can’t do any harm… besides, it’s easier to remember a cover story if she sticks as close to the truth as she can. “Though I haven’t been back there in a while. Probably won’t ever go back. My family, well, they’re happier thinking their daughter isn’t a mutant, you know? I doubt they’ve even noticed I’m gone.” Which is true enough, as well… primarily because the real Sonya isn’t gone; let alone the real Teresa. She laughs a little bitterly at the thought.

“As for Sanctuary, well… I left home when I realized I was a mutant, and came to the city… I thought I could, I don’t know, find some way to live here on my own. Didn’t work out too well at first; I lived on the streets, slept in the park for a while… stole a few wallets here and there, when I could. Then I heard about a place where mutants don’t have to hide, and I went looking for it, and found Sanctuary.

“Though from what you said before, it sounds like there’s more than one, right? Or there was, before the cops came tearing it all down.” She doesn’t need to fake the angry expression on her face. “That just isn’t right, y’know? Nobody there deserved to be treated like… criminals. Or monsters. Lucky for you, you weren’t there when it happened… I’m really sorry about Issie, though. Do you miss her a lot?”

...Calley had watched intently as Teresa did something incredible: she created a pancake roll-up. Within three seconds flat, he was trying it, too. “Yeah, that sounds like Issie! The bone knives make for good stabbing. She doesn’t really stab that many people—mostly just cops, and werewolves.” He nodded to himself, and tried the roll-up. It was amazing.

“The Bronx. Though I haven’t been back there in a while. Probably won’t ever go back. My family, well, they’re happier thinking their daughter isn’t a mutant, you know? I doubt they’ve even noticed I’m gone.”

Calley shrugged, and started rolling himself another pancake. This one, he rolled inside of another one. Two times the amazing! “They definitely noticed you were gone. I bet they even looked for you, for a long time. The only way they wouldn’t have noticed is if they’d already known you were a mutant.”

“That just isn’t right, y’know? Nobody there deserved to be treated like… criminals. Or monsters. Lucky for you, you weren’t there when it happened… I’m really sorry about Issie, though. Do you miss her a lot?”

“You and Isabel would get along well. She’s a pickpocket, too.” Calley sampled his double-roll. ...It was actually a little disappointing. Too round. Her words were funny enough that his leg started jittering up and down against the floor. No one at the Sanctuary deserved to be treated like criminals? Miss Teresa was clearly not privy to the confidences of many a Sanctuarian. And he had been there. He’d actually dined quite well as Isabel and the others had fought for their freedom. Pigeons were plentiful, and he was really starting to like his hawk form. “There was another place for mutants—it was called the Mansion. I took some classes there, though I’m not really smart. They were all the lower-level ones.”

We could easily take Calculus, now.

Don’t get a big head, Slate.

...Pre-Calculus.

That’s better.

“I got the impression that Issie really didn’t like the Mansion, so I don’t think I ever told her that I went there, sometimes.” He slid down his chair a little, and kept his eyes on his double-rolled pancakes. “It’s just kind of weird, having her be in the camps. I mean, I don’t know at all what’s happening.” That really did bug him. He wanted to spy at the camps—it was only a matter of time until Hunter sent him in; why not sooner, rather than later? It would be sort of nice to see that Issie was all right, too. He supposed.

He looked up at Teresa. “Do you know anything about them? The camps, I mean.”