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Personality of flaking drywall: minus one. Well practiced condescending gaze: mmm, plus one. Potential assailant to the far too silent anti-mutant actress: shut up, libido.

“Csendes,” the red head supplied sweetly. “Maya Csendes.”

The name was nothing: the lie feel easily off her lips. It was simply the first one that came to mind. Since the recent neural attack, the Wolf News intern squad had been sicced on investigating every store, apartment, and back-alley remotely close to the supposed epicenter. The woman’s quaint little neutral ground bookstore was one of Maxine’s allotted targets, though not a very likely one. Nothing on her list was: all the juicy leads had been entrusted to the senior reporters. She had to content herself with poking at peaceful bookstores and mutant-run medical clinics. Ones owned by a certain Mr. Csendes, incidentally. The two petite, pale-skinned, white-haired mutants looked so perfect together that even seeing their photos side by side on her desk made her gag.

“The item in question is a red notebook, about this big,” she mimed a pad the size of an index card. “Spiral bound at the top. If you’d turn it over now, I’m sure we could all avoid the hassle of middle-men. You look like a man who doesn’t appreciate interlopers.” Smile, smile.

Hand over the notebook, like a good little snotty Brit boy, so the nice reporting intern could go call the police. The best part about anonymous calls? If this turned out to be nothing but a torrid tryst, she’d get to send the police in on dear Ms. Olos’ hypocrisy, and she’d get to report on it, too.

A clear blue eye, short brown hair that looked thoroughly touchable, and a face well within acceptable age bounds looked out through the thinly cracked door with all the personality of a cardboard box. He did have a British accent, though. That was definitely a point in his favor.

Now was not the time to consider her dating options.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the red head said, “but Ms. Olos accidentally took something that belonged to me. I’m simply here to get it back; really, I’d rather be quick. There are people waiting for me back down stairs, after all. Wouldn’t want them to come up looking for me.”

The intern had a hard time believing that Flicky here was any more of a dear friend to the actress than she was. She’d be sure to tell the police that, just as soon as she was out of here. With her notebook.

Maxine took only a moment to think about that. The same amount of time as it took her to draw back, her face in a scowl. “Hell no,” she agreed. It was creepy enough that these tags existed, and a similar kind was already starting to be wide spread among pets; the last thing a reporting intern worth her copy wanted was a Fed-sponsored tracking device under her skin.

“Hell no,” she said again, for good measure.

Under her heel, the stack of paper rustled its sheets in a growl.

The black pen hung motionlessly in the air just above the doorway. Then, with a slight twist of its cap, it began a zigzagging flight over the first room. An entryway. The high heels neatly placed outside of the closet door were of no interest; the closet itself was likewise ignored. To a pen outside of Maxine’s visual guidance, a closed door was simply four lines cut into an otherwise solid wall. It moved further inwards, to the comfortable sitting area. Couch. Chair. Chair. Chair. Table. Pad!

The pad was not Maxine’s pad. It was too thin, and not at all scribbled over. Next to it was a white pen of low ink quality. Nonetheless, Poe welcomed it with a cap twirl when it rose up to join its animated brethren.

The flock of two entered the next room. Here were people. Two people. Poe hesitated only briefly before continuing its search. People rarely looked up, Maxine had taught it. Their flocks were not observant. Not like Poe’s flock. Poe’s flock was a very smart flock. Even if one half of them were of lesser ink quality.

Maxine had knocked politely. And again. And a third time. That... pleasant woman was ignoring her. Either that, or...

The red head glanced furtively up and down the hall, then pressed her ear to the door. Silence. No TV being turned up louder; no laughter as she let her guards in on her little leave-the-mutie-in-the-hall joke; no busy starlet on her cell phone.

Maxine glanced around again, and slowly crouched down. She pressed a hand into the lush hallway carpet; it gave readily, opening up a respectable crack between door edge and floor. With a thought, she gave Poe the order: the black pen alit from its shared perch with Polly, and slipped into the room. The search was on. Poe would make a quick flight up to the ceiling, and start its silent search for the familiar notebook.

If Ms. Olos was in the bathroom or, on a glorious twist of luck, already in bed, then she stood a chance of getting it back without any fuss.

Questions. Of course Lauren Olos would be taking questions; this was first screening of the movie she’d co-stared in. A little speech and Q&A in front of the audience was a given at these functions. Not that a lowly intern at Wolf News would know; this was the realm of the staff movie critic, not the copy machine lackeys and sandwich gofers. Not even if a certain red-headed intern took a weekly break from editing the teleprompter text to race on screen for her own brief appearance. An intern was still an intern; unpaid, unloved, and uninvited.

No. No one had looked at the guest list, and seen that it was lacking Maxine Rawls. The Irish girl was here only because of a scheduling conflict. Ms. Olos was going through press secretaries like a hog through swill. Her secretary two weeks ago had been a nice young man fishing for a date, and more than willing to slip a ten minute interview into a vacant spot in Ms. Olos’ hectic schedule. Her secretary a week ago had called to regrettably inform the red head that she’d been replaced with an oil-covered pelican. The older woman had an unpleasant monotone, but repeated pestering had earned a rescheduling to today.

Upon calling to confirm the interview time yesterday, Maxine had been informed by a curt little man that Ms. Olos had a movie screening today, had always had a movie screening today, and would always have a movie screening today.

But if she’d stop crying (fake crying, thank you), perhaps Ms. Olos would have time for a five minute sit down behind screen, post-showing. In any case, she could enjoy the prescreening, at least please stop crying.

Maxine was watching that time get eaten, inane question on special effects after inane question on blue rooms. Personally, the 3D had just made her eyes hurt.

As the curt little man finally stepped up to the front and helped his employer bow out, the office supply mancer wiggled her way against the leaving crowd to intercept them down on the floor.

“Hello, Ms. Olos. I’m—”

“I’m sorry,” the curt little man interrupted her with a photogenic smile, “Ms. Olos has another engagement now. There are free posters in the lobby, however—pre-signed.”

“I’m Maxine Rawls,” the red head continued, her own smile ozzing. “I’m her next engagement.”

“That the mutie reporter, Curtis?”

“Language, Lauren. Wouldn’t want the press getting another unfortunate sound bite.” Here was a man who bleached his teeth. How many years of braces did it take to get a set of chompers that straight? Must have sucked to be him back in high school.

“Whatever, Curtis. Let’s make this quick.”

With that benevolent hand flick, Maxine was granted five minutes of the woman’s time, and the right to be infinitely grateful for it.

They set up in a little side room in the back of the theatre; Curtis hovered nearby, ready to ax any comments from the record. The brief interview began.

As much as the red head liked the idea of well-lit places, traffic, and sitting, she wasn’t fond of the homicidal mutant still on the loose. As they made their way towards the street lamp and late night civilization, she stayed near to the agent’s side, with frequent over-the-shoulder glances. There seemed to be nothing there but an agitated pen and a limping pile of paper, but she couldn’t be sure. Not anymore.

Less than a half hour ago, she would have been sure there wasn’t a Can Opener in the bushes, either.

>> "You okay?"

“ ‘M fine, I think.” She paused to wipe a coppery drip away from her upper lip. She paused again to stare at the red smear on her hand, then turned and sat down. Heavily. Rex had beaten them there: metallic tentacles were wrapped around a bench leg, slowly scratching at the carved letters of M.K. + L.Z. 4 EVER. The pile of paper settled next to her dress shoe, clumsily bumping against the heel, as if it had forgotten its own motives for the moment. Maxine knew the feeling.

>> "Tell me everything from the beginning. I think I have sterile gauze."

“I was leaving work,” the intern said. “With my paper. Right. And... she came out of nowhere. She called my reports... slanderous.” The red head sniffed, and tilted her head back; her nose wasn’t broken, but she didn’t like the prospects of how it would look on camera next week. On the other hand, maybe she did. Mutants seek to silence brave and beautiful young reporting intern. Maybe she could pre-record it, while the bruising was at its prime.

“I don’t think I need gauze. Maybe a tissue—” Maxine reached for her purse, and found only an empty place at her side. She gazed forlornly off into the darkness. It was not worth going back in there. Not right now.

“Rex. Fetch.”

The octoclip paused for a moment, then went back to scratching L.Z. into E.Z. Maybe if her mutation wasn't so useless, she wouldn't be in this mess.

The red head slowly turned her head, and focused on her savior. "How'd you scare her away?"