It was possibly the best idea he had ever had. Once, he had forgotten to get Katrina a Christmas present: now, he had remembered to get everyone Christmas presents. Even people he did not strictly know.

Katrina, in this place and time, had gotten a scarf. It was teal, but the weave matched his own gray scarf—the one he was wearing right now. He liked it so much, he was sure she would like one as well.

Calley got catnip, which they pretended Katrina had bought so he would accept it.

Shin got a very curious text on geometry that he had read three times, and found for three dollars at a less-than-half-price store. The cover was torn, but the mathematics were solid.

Tarin might perhaps still be angry with him, but he and Lee had received a gift card to Hooters—as Tarin had frequently offered to take him there, he assumed the man liked the place.

WereCat simply received a tab at the Dragon Inn; it was rather hard to find her in person.

Sebastian was even harder to find (and wanted by the police, apparently): his clover plant was still sitting in Kat's window.

Cold Steel got a lock that would fit on a mini-fridge's door. (He did not entirely understand this gift, but it was suggested to him by multiple students when he inquired around the Mansion.)

There was one other person he would have liked to give a gift to; a man he had once known. As that would generally be considered impossible (especially if Tarin was still mad at him), he had settled for the next best thing: giving to those the man may once have known, or those who could easily have been in the man's place the day Slate had met him.

He was dressed in his gray scarf, and a nice coat—Katrina's mother had helped him pick it out, along with his new boots. Katrina had said they made him look 'dignified.'

It was with the greatest of dignity that the young Italian was stopping at every beggar's cup he saw, and putting in money. Not the clink of coins; the distinctly more weighty silence of real bills. It was not much, but it was enough to get a warm meal at someplace nicer than McGrease King. It was the least he could do.

The streets were getting somewhat more dingy as he walked, which did not seem to be a problem; after all, there were ever more homeless people around here. And that was a good thing, right?

Tucked in his scarf and coat, flashing a wallet full of cash, Slate could not imagine otherwise.

“John you really need to get out more buddy.” Gwen smiled as the older man laughed at her. She loved to try and cheer up the more down trot homeless around her. She had it lucky. She was a young and pretty girl and that meant that for her begging wasn’t hard. People like John were more scraggily and stereotypical. People generally assumed that they were on the streets because they spent all their money on an addiction instead of that they were down on their luck. Poor John here lost his job a few years back and just couldn’t find work. He didn’t have a drinking problem or a drug one. All he had was a homeless one and out of the three his sucked the most. Gwen hated how there people the terrible addicts littering the penthouses of the Upper East Side and yet there were so many homeless that didn’t have those problems. Their only problems were that they were hungry and cold. Gwen sighed deeply as she looked around. She was on one of the poorer streets of New York City which meant it wasn’t the safest place to be, but she was tough and had more than learned to handle herself. She actually liked this part of the city more than her usual hang out in downtown. Up here people were real and they had real problems and real lives to live.

She squinted and tried her best to make out something she really hoped she wasn’t seeing further down the street. “Excuse me John.” She lept up in a hurry and quickly made her way over to this idiot of a boy. Was he seriously doing what she thought he was? Yup. He really was handing out money. This kid must have a death wish or want to get mugged and beaten.

Upon reaching his location she didn’t do what one would expect. Most would have expected her to just stop right there and tell the guy he was an idiot in true Gwen Fisher style, but no. Instead she chose to grab him by his puffy gray scarf and as much of his Preppy Pea Coat as she could hold and drag him with her as she continued down the street and into an alley she knew they could have some privacy in. Great now I’m stuck saving a preppy rich kid with a guilty conscious or some crap. This is a great way to spend my afternoon. Maybe I can convince him to come somewhere with me or something. That way I can get him off this street and maybe take advantage of that thick wallet at the same time.

“Out.” She snapped her fingers pointed over her shoulder with an intense look so the vagrant seeking shelter would know she meant business. She had lived on the streets for a long time and as such had gained a bit of a reputation. She turned to look the idiot, as she had dubbed him in her mind, in the face. Making sure not to let him go so he couldn’t get away. “Are you nuts or do you just have a death wish?! You can’t come this far north of Central Park and wave that pretty leather money filled wallet around in your pretty jacket and your pretty scarf and your pretty clothes and expect everything to be okay. You’re mommy and daddy can’t wave their money around and save you here. If you get cornered or something you could die. Understand.” Probably not but one can hope you are at least a little scared of me. She continued to look him in the eyes waiting for him to respond or run away. Either would work as far as she was concerned.

There was a hand. It belonged to a girl, who grabbed his scarf, and proceeded to man-handle him into an alleyway. Its former occupant scurried out at her command, as if he'd been barked at by the meanest dog on the block.

So they were alone, girl and boy and scarf. In aforementioned alleyway. It was quite dark; the brick buildings shaded out the sun above them, and it had been an overcast day to begin with. He blinked down at her head: somewhat unwashed brown hair, rather intense brown eyes. Her hand was still locked on his scarf. She... did not look particularly pleased with him.

Was this a mugging? It was his first. A low buzzing had started in the back of his head—like voices that he could not quite focus enough to hear. Was that apprehension?

Oh. She was speaking. He tried to focus on her words, through the distracting buzz.

>> "...wave that pretty leather money filled wallet around in your pretty jacket and your pretty scarf and your pretty clothes and expect everything to be okay. You’re mommy and daddy can’t wave their money around and save you here. If you get cornered or something you could die. Understand.”

"Die?" He repeated, with a baby blue blink. "No, I highly doubt that." He was surprisingly difficult to kill.

A single voice rose above the murmurs that were cluttering up his mind.

>> Probably not but one can hope you are at least a little scared of me.

Yes. Yes, he was fairly certain that this was a mugging.

Don't muggers usually have weapons? He wondered, rather loudly.

Is he serious? Rich kids get more and more stupid every day. “You highly doubt that?! You really are a nut and a half aren’t you? I don’t care whatever silly training your parents played for you to get a ‘black belt’ in whatever the hell you think you are an expert in. There are the streets understand me. Here there are no rules and anything goes. You may have your fits but they have guns and improvised weapons. And they will have no trouble getting around a little guy like you.” There was a sort of venom as she made air quotes around black belt. She knew very well that when you had enough money you could buy anything you wanted. Or at least thought you could. She knew more than one girl she bad been on the streets with back in the day that was now turning tricks because some rich kid would pay then a hundred an hour to tickle their fantasy.

Gwen sighed deeply but still did not let go of the soft angora of his scarf. “Alright listen,” She was much calmer now that she knew that her urgency and angry behavior didn’t seem to be affecting this kid at all. “I’m not going to hurt you I’m just trying to illustrate a point. It is dangerous out here and you waving all that money around is you just asking to get mugged.” Hmmm… I wonder if me mugging him right now would illustrate better. I could use the cash after all. Gwen’s face never looked away from the boy as her eyes wandered the ally looking for something more threatening. No that would just be too easy. Though on the other hand he is kind of asking for it. Her eye’s narrowed as she contemplated what to do next.

She was very judgmental, as young females went. Also, presumptuous. It was not a singular presumption, either: it was layered, with each layer integral to the last.

She presumed that he had parents, that said parents were rich, and said richness was the cause of his own (likewise presumed) elevation in socio-economic status. The implication that he had done nothing to earn it was implicit.

She likewise presumed that he had not worked very hard for his green belt in judo (and that if he had worked his way to black, it would be meaningless). Also, that he desired to be forcibly robbed of the money he was peacefully giving away of his own volition.

In all, she was a highly irrational woman. Who was contemplating mugging him, loudly, in his head.

Slate stared down his nose at her (which he could do, owing to the fake that he was marginally taller than her. Not a "little guy.")

"You are correct in that I am rich. In all other respects, your conclusions reflect a lack of consideration for the varied circumstances of others." This was a highly technical manner of speaking, when his audience lived on the streets. Slate considerately rephrased: "That is to say: you do not know anything about me. Also, you are giving me a headache."

Her mind sounded like it contained a thousand voices, all of them as ill inclined to cease talking as she herself was.

Which is to say: they wouldn't shut up. He really was getting a slight headache from all their chatter.

Gwen listened to the words being spoken to her but still refused to let go of the taller man. Sure he wasn’t exactly little as she had implied but some of the gang bangers in northern Manhattan could have surly kicked his less built butt. Woah. Woah. Woah. Did he really just talk down to me? “And who’s making judgments now? Just cause I live on the streets does not mean I don’t understand a well-educated vernacular.” Gwen did her best to not scream at the kid for lecturing her on presumptions and then doing the same. It was always fun when someone… Wait she was doing what? “What do you mean I’m giving you a head ache? I’m sorry I’m telling you the truth. And I may not know anything about you but usually when it looked like a duck and sounds like a duck and has money like a duck it is probably a duck.” As usual the sarcastic walls went up and every word she said was filled with the venom of such speech. This guy was kind of rude. She was the rudest of them all so she could defiantly spot a fellow rude person. Though, something in her told him that he wasn't meaning to be rude and it was just who he was. The kind of kid who lived his whole life not really seeing the world and therefore didn't really know how to talk to someone that wasn’t working for him or family.

Gwen’s eyes went glazed for a moment as a thought accrued to her. Her mind’s eye saw the island of Manhattan clear as day the murmur of a thousand voices filling her head like an explosive boom. As her vision descended on their location in uptown the voices thinned until there was only one. The voice of the boy before her telling her he was a telepath and she now understood why she was giving him a headache. It was the same reason she always had one. Though, she had heard them clear as day in her vision over the years she had more than learned to push them out enough so they were only a murmur in the background of her mind and a pain at the top of her spine. An everyday thing for her that would be blatantly obvious for anyone else.

Had he really just talked down to her? Yes. Yes, he had. But it was only in response to her talking... talking up at him. Also, to her prolonged kidnapping of his scarf tails.

"Would you kindly remove your—"

The island of Manhattan hit him across the head. An explosion of sound, of—Katrina? Abyss? Cold Steel? Calley?—of voices, some of which seemed fleetingly familiar, like a song flipped past on the radio dial, as the voices became less numerous but more distinct, until all he could hear... was her mind, hearing his. Not hearing like he heard. It was something else; something much more fundamental.

Slate did not feel so good.

"I see that you are a mutant," said the Italian, as he wobbled with great dignity. "I... I believe I need to sit down."

He proceeded to do so, with a graceful crumpling of knees.

Gwen’s vision slowly faded back into focus and settled on the normal 20/20 only to see the pale face of the boy in front of her. Oh god She let go of his scarf in one quick motion to grab his falling form as it collapsed before her. She had never used her power with a psychic about to read it. Did he see what she saw? Was there some kind of mental feedback? A million questions flew through her head at a rapid pace but she quickly pushed them aside to focus on the young psychic before her. She had done this to him, inadvertent as it had been, and now she needed to help him.

She was not strong enough to keep him from hitting the ground completely but she could use her lesser strength to slow his decent and prevent any physical injury to go with his mental one. “I am a mutant and I’m sorry I used my power just then. I didn’t know you were reading my mind. I can imagine my power is rather overwhelming when you aren’t prepared for it.” She sat with him in the middle of the ally, all previous anger gone in a moment. All that was left was concern and a feeling of sorry. “I’m Gwen by the way. Are you alright? I have never had that happen so I don’t really know what it did to your brain. Do you feel okay?”

"I have," the telepath said, somewhere in the vicinity of her shoulder. Blinking... blinking helped to focus things. "Had this happen before."

Once. The machine that Calley, Katrina, and Ghost had found in the mansion's basement had felt much like this—particularly in its after-effect. He... was also uncertain of what it did to his brain. But the headache had gone away last time; surely it would this time, as well. It had only taken... an hour or so?

"You are a more pleasant person after you hurt someone. Why is that?" He asked, because it hurt less to just say things, instead of bothering to think about them first.

Gwen really hadn’t expected him to have ever experienced a power like hers. As far as she could tell he was one of the only ones with it in the world. She was a rare breed for good reason. “How? Have you met someone else with my powers?” I didn’t even know there was another in New York She contemplated looking for said person but immediately thought otherwise not wanting to hurt the poor kid again.

“Well I’m not always unpleasant. Something about living the way I do makes you not so nice and rather abrasive upon first meeting people.” Gwen was actually a rather great person when you got to know her. She was kind and caring and loyal to a fault if you really became her friend. The hard part however was becoming her friend. “I also know how terrible the back lash of my power can be. I was lucky enough to be in a hospital the first time I used it. So, seriously, are you sure you are okay? How does your head feel?”

"My head feels... approximately like I was flying in a small jet, which was hit by a volcanic eruption, and proceeded to violently crash land into a remote island." This was not a metaphor, or an attempt at imagery: this was a simple situational comparison. "I have not met anyone with your power; I have simply had this experience before."

What did Sebastian's wife call it, later? Ah, yes—the 'Evil Hat.' Now that he was an X-Man, perhaps he should ask Sam what it was really called. And why it was sitting in the basement, fully activated, where any mutant children could bypass several layers of security into a restricted area and find it.

He was leaning on her arms rather heavily. With the greatest of willpower, he wobbled back to a sitting position independent of her help. Perhaps he would stand, as well.

...On further consideration, sitting still seemed advisable, for the moment.

"Your head... always feels like this? Perhaps that is why you are 'abrasive.' "

It does not excuse your thoughts of mugging me, however, some part of him could not help but add, in another form of speech.

“But… I don’t understand. How can you have experienced my power if you have never met anyone…” Saying Gwen was confused was a complete understatement. Sure he was a psychic and they could do all kind of crazy things. Her power was usually very vague and would only tell her the basics of what kind of psychic they were, this particular man fit under the category of a telepath, but no matter what name a psychic they were she knew one thing to be true, there were an awful lot of them. She had never really taken the time to do a graph with generalizations of basic types of powers but she knew that she had seen a lot of physical enhancements and Psychic powers. So, to her these were obviously the most prominent of powers.

“Hey! There are far more interesting reasons for me to be abrasive.” Gwen smirked at him trying her best to not be ‘abrasive,’ “And yes. But if you don’t mind me asking how much does it hurt? It is a pounding headache or more excruciating?"I may have thought about it but I didn't do it now did I? As the thought went floating through the air to land in the boys pounding head she couldnt' help but let her sweet smirk turn into a smart alec one.

You did not do it only because I collapsed at your feet first, Slate countered. Which leads me to believe that you have an interesting definition of morality.

"It was more of a... surge of information, that has left my head feeling rather hollow." Hollow and fuzzy and hurting. But that was not a description he particularly cared to share. "I will be all right. I simply need time to rest."

Slate smoothed out the wrinkles her hand had left in his scarf, and debated the advisability of standing. He tentatively met the girl's gaze. "Could you... help me move somewhere where people think less about mugging me?"

If you do so, I will admit that you are only abrasive part of the time.

When you live on the streets morality really isn’t a huge concern thank you. “Really do hope that it was only a push on the brain and not something worse.” Gwen breathed deeply looking into the man’s eyes with concern, Should I tell him that his brain could have exploded or should I just keep glazing over it and getting him to tell me just how bad I am. Well crap he can hear me can’t he? Sorry not used to having someone in my head all the time. In all her concern she had comepletely forgotten that he could probably hear every little thought she was having whether she wanted him to or not. She only hoped that he would take it well knowing his brain could basically explode from the mutation that she had basically just trust upon him.

“Gladly. That is after all what I have been trying to do this entire time.” Gwen was happy to change the subject and hope that he didn’t ask any questions about the thoughts she had just been having. With how short the vision was it was rather unlikely that he would have any kind of brain damage. He did seem to be well of course. “Though, we are going to have to think this through before I help you limp out there. The guy who was in this ally ran away but not all of them will.”

...Should I be worried about my brain 'exploding'? Has that... happened to you before? She had mentioned a hospital, hadn't she?

"One moment," Slate said, after she had helped him to his feet. He closed his eyes, and attempted to heal.

...Did it do anything? He felt somewhat more steady, but his head did not hurt any less. He opened his eyes again.

On to other concerns.

"I do not suppose your mutation has any offensive form? Beyond its use against telepaths, that is." He inquired in a mild manner, with only a slight sideways glance. "...I do know some judo. But I have a green belt, not a black." It was the first belt one could earn; he had only recently graduated from the unranked white belt.

The man who was in this alley seemed afraid of you. Does your street morality include violent displays for the purpose of establishing a dominance hierarchy? If so, that could prove useful in simply bluffing our way to safety. He nearly rephrased, but stopped himself—she had already taken offense to such. Her vernacular should be sufficient to understand his words; after all, he was only asking if she beat people up to make herself look big.