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((ooc: Continued for Hunter from Message Received, and for Slate from The Return of an Old Face.))

Mondragon Labs Medical owned all the buildings and grounds for nearly two miles in all directions. Two years ago, the research complex had sprawled from its center outwards, into a warren of store houses, barracks for guards and soldiers hidden amongst them.

With the last spring had come the remodeling; the renovations, and the outright removal of elements that the new CEO deemed less than favorable. For nearly two miles in all directions, warehouses had been torn down and concrete torn up. For someone who hadn’t visited since before that time, Mondragon Labs would be almost completely unrecognizable. Walking trails wound between buildings; men and women were out in the spring sunlight, going about their business. A group of four sat at a picnic bench just off the main drive, having lunch. If not for the white lab coat worn casually by one of the men, or the black uniforms and guns worn just as casually by his companions, this could have been any residential community. If not for the high chain link fence that still marked the perimeter, or the strategic positioning of the buildings; tall apartment complexes in the midst of lower houses; open grounds and narrow approaches, designed to favor a defender. If not for the shuttered flood lights, pointed both outwards and in, or the place where the road lead to.

This was the first year that the apple trees where in bloom. At the center of it all, the main labs complex looked much like it had before, a bit of airy foyer remodeling aside. The white halls still followed their labyrinthine paths, confounding any visitor—invited or otherwise—who was not intimately familiar with their layout.

Hunter Antonescu would not get that far.

“Passing the main gate,” one of the guards at the picnic table said casually into the small headset all of them wore. “You’d better get inside, Kolberg.”

“It would just look suspicious if I left now,” the scientist amongst the three said. He didn’t glance over his shoulder; they’d already seen who was coming, when the cab pulled up to the out gate. The guard there had waved the man inside, and shut the gate after him. “It was a good lunch, fellows. Thanks.”

On one of those tall roof tops, Percy lay flat, his gun barrel tucked out between the ornamental scalloping. He worked to still his breathing after the quick run up the stairs. He’d been off duty, and on his way to a certain weekly meeting, when Noin Mortman had sent the call out. His antique sword was set on the roof beside him, holding down the cape he’d cast aside. The man’s head entered his sights.

“Steady,” Nigel’s voice came through his head set. “Our employer wishes to speak with him, first.”

The Paladin heard a snort through his headset, coming from another rooftop. “And after?” Charles asked.

“After is after. We wait on the boss.”

Slate Swartz was waiting for the approaching man, half way up the Labs driveway. He stood in an open courtyard, next to a small fountain. His dress shirt was neatly pressed; his hands clasped behind his back. He stood alone, and unthreatening.

“Mr. Antonescu,” he stated, when the man had arrived. “You’ve returned.”

The Kabal’s leader had no need for headsets.

He does not leave without my word. And remember, please, the teenager said, so the immortal was unlikely to overhear, if you must shoot through me to get him, please attempt to avoid head shots.

Or rocket launchers, he added, not glancing at the jeep parked a block away. Frank Newton may or may not have stopped digging in the back seat. Next to him, Nicholas definitely sniggered. Or flame throwers.

Nicholas stopped laughing.

A challenging job, with or without her abilities. One that did not include uniforms. The answer to this was obvious. Slate stated it with authority.

“You should be an ice cream taster. Or a Kabal member.”

This called for elaboration, in case she doubted his words. “Even amongst the same flavor category, different brands and batches of ice cream have subtly different flavors and textures. With your enhanced senses, you could analyze the effects of different ingredients and storage temperatures in ways companies have never even thought to. It would change the industry at its foundation.” Slate liked ice cream. Particularly the green tea flavor.

With some experimentation, he discovered that his chop sticks could cut the white fish on his plate. As he was lacking in other eating utensils, he proceeded to apply this method.

“I would like to go to college, but it has been proving troublesome. I am out of the country too often. Also, I keep failing high school.”

Quite troublesome, indeed.

“Well.”

“Yes.”

The young man sat with a map of the Middle East spread on the wall behind him and a book on the same tucked in his lap. The large conference table was surrounded by push leather chairs. He was sitting just to the right of the head of table. It was his usual spot, and had been, ever since he’d first claimed the room. The large chair fairly swallowed his lanky frame, and allowed ample room for leg crossing. His socked feet were a common sight, here. Some people had offices. Caleb “Slate” Swartz, Kabal Leader, had a board room.

“Well,” he repeated.

“Yes.” Noin Mortman agreed. She had set the flier on top of the page he was reading, with no preamble. It spoke for itself. “Shall I inform the rest of the staff?”

“Yes, please. I would like volunteers to enroll in his classes, as well. Choose them from Imp’s men, and the newer staff—no one he would recognize.”

“Of course. Assassination?” The nine-fingered secretary offered.

“Just surveillance,” the teenager magnanimously ruled.

The nine-fingered secretary paused to type something into her black berry. In the parking garage, Nigel Banks ordered Charles Triggs to put back the rifle, with a wave of his hand. The assembled team stood down with disappointment.

It was possible, on occasion, for a secretary to be too efficient at anticipating her employer’s desires.

“Will that be all?” Noin inquired.

“Yes.”

Noin turned towards the door. Slate turned back to his studies. As he did so, an empty chair caught his eye. The head of the table, left vacant for over a year.

“Ms. Mortman—I would like that chair removed. If I do not sit there, it is inappropriate for anyone else to.”

“I’ll see to it, Sir.”

“Thank you, Ms. Mortman. That will be all.”

“Sir—if he comes here?”

Baby blue eyes met the secretary’s own gaze. “Well,” he said simply.

Her lips quirked. “Yes.”

She shut the door quietly behind her. The Kabal’s Leader looked at the flier in front of him for a moment more. Then he neatly folded it: in half, and in half again. He’d been wanting a bookmark. Hunter Antonescu always had been good for providing him with the tools he needed.

Welcome to MRO.

Slate blinked. From what he knew of biology, there were several potential causes for blushing. Most of them could be disqualified in this situation; that left—

Oh.

Slate blushed as well.

>> "Since I don't know much about you, you can choose to share anything you want, I guess."

“Ah, I see. Thank you.” It was a good example. The waiter returned, with their food: fish and vegetables were placed on their appropriate spots on the table. Slate waited until he was gone.

“How can one have step-sisters when one is an orphan?” He asked, unable to get past this logical hurdle. Had she been adopted, and then one of her adopted parents re-married? “Calley is generally my only brother, though sometimes there are more than one of him.”

“Why did you hope to be a witch?” He asked, sampling a bite of tofu. It was strangely good, in a tasteless, texture-less sort of way. He stopped eating to stare at it for a moment. Longer than was polite, perhaps. The tofu didn’t seem to mind. He lifted the little pate with its white cube towards Susan. “How does this taste to your ears?” He asked impulsively. Because now that he’d thought of the question, he wasn’t going to stop thinking of it until he had an answer. Her mutation really was quite intriguing. The tofu quivered slightly as it waited on her appraisal.

Is Noel a friend from the Mansion?

The bamboo plant by the bar seemed to rustle. Slate had more quizzical matters to consider, however. Her definition of ‘who’ appeared to be different than his.

He was Slate Swartz, formerly (and arguably still) Caleb Swartz. He was the owner of Mondragon Labs and its holdings. He was the leader of the Kabal. He was the single most powerful figure in the South American drug trade at present. He owned most of the senators in Romania, and had many of its other politicians on his payroll. He was learning to swim and to ice skate and to do judo. He tutored a fourteen year old girl in math. He’d failed his ethics class at the Mansion, along with every other subject, for two semesters running. Also, his GED exam, but only once.

He was brown-haired and blue-eyed, and his Colombian tan had faded over the Romanian winter into his usual paleness.

He did not know what he was that was not a ‘what.’

“I require an example response.” The boy concluded. “Who are you, Susan?”

>> The one that turns into toads occasionally.

Usually it is cats, Slate stated. Followed immediately by: why are you blushing?

That was not a question he had been prepared for. Nor, in fact, one that he had ever been asked, when the speaker already knew his name. Susan had her chin in her hands as she asked it. This, combined with the grin, allowed him to tentatively deduce that she was being playful. He contemplated an adequate response. Truthful? Likely ill-advised, and she was even less likely to believe him. A flippant reply, then? He could honestly think of nothing more flippant sounding than the simple facts. Well, then. It was not as if her mutation allowed her to taste truth.

He settled for a properly preposterous statement.

“I,” the tousle-haired teenager answered, “am a villainous drug lord.” The ‘villainous’ part was a fabrication, of course. The violence in Colombia was continuing to decline as his own sizable faction of the drug trade continued to absorb others. Though he had ordered his cartel to fund local humanitarian projects on principle, that—combined with the continued release of hostages, and the constant plea to the government to come to the negotiating table—was proving surprisingly good for business. The locals were more inclined to help aid the traffickers when said traffickers were building their schools and hospitals, as opposed to raping and murdering them. Beneficence was proving surprisingly good for profits.

“Simply one faucet of my schemes for global dominion, of course.” A joking smirk seemed appropriate at this juncture. “Tell me, Ms. Witch—what country would you like?”