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The elevator dinged open. A white cross-strap shoe stepped gracefully over the threshold with just the lightest click of heel. Maxine swept over the polished tiles of the Wolf News lobby, winking at the desk secretary on her way.

On her way, that is, to her evening's date with a fine young gentleman.

She was dressed in a white dress; a rather conservative one, by her own estimates. No slit up the side of the legs, and the only flesh she was flashing was her bare arms; it was a classic Marilyn Monroe dress. Perfectly modest apparel, for a perfectly innocent evening.

She could see the boy through the lobby's tinted windows. Naturally, he couldn't see her, which gave her a moment to smirk privately. He had a pocket handerkef. And the suit to match. And while she appreciated the efforts someone had taken to tame down his hair, she was just as happy that it was springing back up. A little bit of muss had never hurt a man's profile.

"A little younger than your usual, isn't he?" The secretary commented, one eyebrow raised. The woman was the same age she was; they'd even graduated from NYU in the same year, though their paths had never crossed on campus.

"Can you picture him all grown up?" Maxine flashed a grin. "Dibs."

The secretary snorted a laugh, and got back to typing something on her computer.

And with that, Maxine strode towards the doors to claim her auction spoils. For twenty-five bucks, you too could buy a boy in America.

"Good evening, Michael," she said, poking her head outside. "You know, I've been wondering something all day: have you ever been through a revolving door?" She inclined her head to the side, to the capsule-like glass protruding from the building right next to where they stood. She wasn't going to chance her dress in there, hence why she was leaning out the handicapped entrance... But really, what was the point of bringing a kid to a fancy building if they didn't get to use the fun doors?

Screaming made the chains get tighter. The redheaded girl, sitting bolt upright in bed, tried going very very still instead. There was a man in the room. He wasn't old-old, but he was a lot older than her, and a lot taller.

"I'm Maxine Ralls," the girl said, her chin raising defiantly. "And you're stupid. Because my mom is a mutant too, and so is my big brother, and they are both going to cream you if you don't call off your—your Rex. And take me home. Now."

Little Maxine was not amused. Or scared. He was almost as thin as she was. She could take him, if he would just fight fair. Probably. Especially if she didn't.

Well wasn't she just a fresh-faced young idealist. That pearly white smile of hers probably looked just darling on the screen. Not that Maxine was worried about being outdone: this was her show, after all. She had two years of segments under her belt; sharing out fifteen minutes of fame here and there was just what a gracious host did. A touch of the limelight, to put stars in the girl's naive young eyes.

Naivety. Now that was one angle Maxine had never thought to work...

Currently, Slate relayed from the side, she is wishing that she had interviewed 'the trusting boyfriend of New York's most amorous spotlight seeker', as opposed to you. She... does not do interviews with other women often.

Not that little Ms. Dumonde was really a woman, per say: more of a girl.

"So your father—he's the Senator Dumonde, correct? Previous supporter of the Mutant Registration Act? How do you feel about that?"

The redhead rested her chin on top of one hand, looking to every camera like she cared.

They were live in three, two, one...

When the cameras started rolling, the red head seemed caught in the act of friendly pre-show banter with her guest; she swiveled her chair to face the front of the room, and gave the audience a dazzling smile. Her hands were crossed over her knees; her dress was red. Just modest enough that you could take her home to mother; just grown up enough that maybe you could think of better ways to spend your time.

"Maxine Ralls, Wolf News. Here with me tonight is a very special guest; one of New York's rising internet stars. You may not know her by name, but our viewers in the Big Apple will know her by reputation. The griffon rider who fought Cthulhu; the zombie slayer from All Hallow's Eve; the girl who raised over two thousand dollars for her high school Frisbee team by auctioning off young men and women to the highest bidder on Valetine's. Fresh from that victory, this young mover is planning yet another romantic escapade. And this time, New York, everyone's welcome to join in."

"Ladies and gentlemen, Katrina Dumond."

The camera panned out, revealing a young girl sitting across from the red head. She was blonde; her hair was styled up all special in sweet little curls. Her makeup was tastefully conservative, like her mother had helped her put it on.

The show's host smiled welcomingly.

"Tell us, Katrina--may I call you Katrina?--tell us what got you into this vigilante philanthropism."

The studio lights where watching. So was 23.5% of the viewer share in New York City for this time slot. And the girl's boyfriend, standing behind Camera B--he was watching her like she was the only woman in the room. Given the puppy dog love, he really was taking all this well. Men without possessive streaks: where did a girl find those, exactly? On the outside, Maxine smiled for the cameras: on the inside, she debated dying her hair blonde.

It was always the blondes that got the good men, wasn't it? The cute high school blondes, in their church mouse dresses. So sweet. So innocent. No way that boy of hers was anything short of college-age. Probably closer to Maxine's age than hers. Not that Maxine was one to judge.

...Her thoughts are making me uncomfortable, Katrina. Said boyfriend silently relayed from off stage, stoically avoiding the red head's gaze.

Really, what did he expect, coming for her like that? There was a school of metal clips between them; there was a lump of octoclip in her purse who hadn't even come out yet. And there was the paper dog, just looking for something to attack. Maxine hummed distractedly, a smile on her lips.

Really, Vince. Such a silly old man: didn't he know how fast dogs were? That's one of the reasons they'd always been so scary to her—they were big, they were fast, and they had teeth made to tear flesh to pieces. Huge teeth. Maxine knew what dogs were really like.

As Vince lunged towards the dog, it stood its ground with a warning snarl. When the old man foolishly let his guard down to attack li'l ol' her...

The dog lunged for his arm, its mouth gaping preternaturally large in a whirlwind of biting edges. She danced a few steps away with her paperclip school, still humming. It was at that point that the door slammed open, and the party crashers arrived. She was frowning at them before she'd even caught their words.

"Mirror?" Her humming faltered through an icy smile. "You break into my fight, and now you're trying to hurt Mirror?"

"You don't really care about that," the monkey tailed man intervened, still perfectly at ease in his chair.

"Of course I care. It's Mirror."

"Of course you care," he transitioned reassuringly. "You should catch him for us, too."

The redhead considered this with a finger on her chin. "Oh. All right. But first..." She turned back to the dog fight, with the most apologetic of smiles. "Excuse me, Vince—I'll have to finish beating you later. Some more important people are here."

"You don't want to fight them," the monkey man interrupted, sitting up a little straighter; a little less comfortably, a little more uneasily. He shot a glance to Minstrel. The man in the corner hummed his tune even louder, beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Oh, but I really, really do." The smile on her face was alarmingly photogenic. She was humming her own tune, now: just a little more melodious than the other mutant's, just a little more discordant.

That was the problem with a music-based manipulation–everyone had their own song, somewhere inside of them. And once it got stuck in a girl's head...

"Don't kill them, please," she said sweetly. "Just maim them a little."

Metal tentacles rose from her purse like a kraken from the deep. Octosaurus Rex tumbled out to play nice with all the other kids, the paper dog a tornado on his heels.

He was like a little doll. Like a little dress-up doll; My Sized Kindergarten Ken. Well, maybe a little older than that, but the bow tie made him look younger. (The bowtie. The little, snug-to-his-collar bowtie!) And the suit, freshly rumpled by this-is-uncomfortable fidgeting. And the hair, with that absolutely precious mommy-brushed-it-flat-backstage look.

Let the men go to the other girls. Maxine Ralls put twenty five down on Michael with a flourish of pen, satisfied she'd spotted the true cutie on the bidding block.

...Would his feet even touch the ground, in a restaurant chair? Ha!

Really, though: auctioning men off for charity. Why hadn't she thought of that?

The large guinea pig on his shoulder offered a hand. Now that was cute. She reached out her own hand with a more honest grin than usual...

>> "Yeah, don't be cute."

...But retracted it, in deference to Stevie.

"Right this way," the redhead said. At the elevator, she pressed in their floor—of course she did. She wouldn't make the guy mash his hand-faces into the button pad. Or...whatever it was he did. Somehow he'd managed to get a book typed out and mailed to a publisher. How did that work? For once, Maxine actually had questions for her interviewee. Ones she didn't know the answers to already. It was a strange new feeling, really.

The elevator dinged open on the ninth floor. She led them down the hall, and to a room—which she considerately opened for him, of course.

"We've just got to get you set up with a microphone, and we'll be good to start taping. Do you... want any help getting it clipped on?"