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The boy shrugged.

"Someone is," the human-shifter explained, "I know someone who is. I don't know who they are, though."

Gingerly, he peeled the wrapper of the hotdog back, fighting the sting of genetic residue against his fingertips. The boy grit his teeth and, once the hotdog had been freed, plucked-up his bono and happily took a first bite.

Ooh, this was really good! Even without ketchup or mustard... "Brooks" gave a content little smile, his cheeks puffy with hotdog. This wasn't so bad! Maybe he could just... follow Celeste home? Especially if she bought him hotdogs! That had to count for something, right?

"What do your parents do?" the child asked brightly. Of course, they weren't really focusing on her, but it didn't feel right to be the only one answering quesitons.

The boy followed Celeste to the table, clambering into his seat as the tray was deposited between the two of them. Her guess was as good as his, when it came to ages. Those sounded like good numbers, though. "Brooks" reached for his hotdog, prompted by his yowling stomach to go for solid food first, but when his unsuspecting fingers clasped around the sanitary wrapping, it stung!

"Ow!" the boy hissed, letting go of the foil-wrapped food. He clasped his hands to his chest, staring crossly at the thing. Any closer inspection would reveal that it wasn't particularly hot to the touch-- it was the appropriate amount of hot, not nearly hot enough to burn fingers. And yet it prickled his fingers unpleasantly.

"It stung me," the boy said accusatorily. He reached out again, picking up the hotdog to unwrap it. The genetic residue from the person who'd wrapped the hotdog began to trigger a shift, and the tendrils that wrapped around his fingers, hands, and lower arms contorted and shifted, smoothing themselves into a smooth, caucasian skin-tone. "Brooks" dropped the hotdog on the tray again. The transformation made it halfway up to his elbows. He began to revert again when the hotdog had been released.

"I..." the nice lady had asked him a question. But he was a little flustered by the changing skintone, "I wanna be a, uh..." He didn't know what he wanted to be. Didn't she know he didn't know anything? "Brooks" looked around, and saw a uniformed man with a blue cap walking by, "-police officer!"

At this pronouncement, a few gears clicked into place in the boy's head. Someone he knew... someone important... was a police officer. "Brooks" could even see the man's face in his mind's eye, but he couldn't attach a name to it.

The human-shifter rolled over in bed, peeling his lips apart to inhale. His mouth was dry. Totally dry. Chase reached for his water bottle, popped the lid off… empty. Darn it. He couldn't fall back to sleep when his mouth felt like sandpaper. The child rolled out of bed, water bottle in hand, and padded towards the door his bedroom.

Half-asleep and eyes mostly closed, the boy followed the familiar path down the hall to the kitchenette. He was too groggy to even notice the person in the living room. Water… he needed water.

The tile was cool against the soles of his feet. The human-shifter padded to the sink, fumbled with knob, and held the open mouth of the bottle under the spigot of the sink. He filled the bottle and took a thirsty swig. Shutting off the sink, Chase took another sip of water. He drank until his chest hurt, and then he gasped.

Good stuff. He topped the bottle off, and began wandering back to his room. It was then that he noticed the figure on the couch. Chase stared for a moment, the gears of recognition churning in his brain.

He blinked, slowly, and then his brain provided him with a name.

“Amber?”

His voice rasped out before he could stop it. Chase, who was wearing his natural face and not his human disguise. Chase who was too tired to conjure up his human face. The timid child froze, standing there in his baggy t-shirt and flannel pj pants.

The boy's eyes widened, a smile crossing his expression.

"I would love a lemonade!" the child agreed. He lingered near the counter while Celeste placed the order, his slender hands clasped against the countertop. He couldn't remember who he was, but hey, at least he found a nice lady to buy him food! "Brooks" rocked on his feet, eagerly swaying to-and-fro as they waited.

>> "So... Do you know how old you are?"

The boy thought about it, looking down at himself. He wasn't exactly a little kid.... he was... kinda tall, right? But how old did you need to be to be "kinda tall"?

If the pregnant pause wasn't response enough of a response on its own, "Brooks" shouldered a shrug at Celeste and lightly responded, "N-no... I... don't? Really?"

He rubbed his head, frowning slightly.

Chase had deposited the powder into the two mugs, and had begun pouring milk into the mugs when his pink friend requested powder. He still needed the long-handled spoon for stirring, but he supposed it didn't hurt if Kalos took some of the powder.

"Sure," Chase agreed, sliding the yellow, plastic container towards his friend. He wasn't going to spoon-feed Kalos the chocolate powder, but he wasn't going to stop her from eating it either. Once the milk was poured, the cap was replaced on the carton, and he stirred the powder in-- it turned the milk a nice, deep tan. (He might have put some extra powder in, though Chase would insist it was the "just right amount".) The mugs were deposited in the microwave, and it was set into motion.

"I don't know," Chase mused, "We should ask him, some time."

The water was boiling now, so the boy retrieved the noodles and tipped them into the pot. A yawn escaped him.

"Now we have to wait eight minutes," he announced through a yawn. The microwave pinged. The shifter child retrieved the hot chocolate. Again, the milk was cracked open, cool milk was poured in, and stirred. Now the hot chocolate was an inviting pale color, and the cup was noticeably colder. The cap on the milk was replaced, and Chase slid a cup towards his friend.

"Careful, it's still a little hot," Chase warned. He took a sip of the drink... perfect temperature and perfect chocolate-to-milk ratio. Which is to say, a little too rich for an adult.

For a twelve year old, Chase was pretty good at drawing-- not at the level of any of the high school kids, by any means, but he wasn't bad either. It was thus that he found him in Mr. Holloway's art class. He had showed up around the same time that most of the other student had, was sitting in "his spot" (a desk towards the front corner of the room, with his backpack on the seat besides him). He had a pencil and an eraser out, but that was it.

Chase lay with his arms folded and his head on on the table, gaze pointing towards the front of the room. As is two electives (cooking and art), Chase was one of the youngest (if not the youngest) in the room, thus he tried not to attract too much attention to himself. At least he was halfway decent at art... cooking was an entirely different monster.

An older boy walked in late. This earned a listless glance from the twelve-year-old, and nothing more. He looked back towards the front of the room.