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To the Last Syllable (Mr. M & Bathos)

Lyla didn't need to be told she'd behaved badly. She got that all on her own. So rather than defend herself against T.B.'s completely warranted remark, she let it pass by without reacting. After all, she was occupied with the business of sorting out what he was telling her, trying to get her head around it, all while the pleasant buzz turned not-so-pleasant and flared up, big and distracting. She almost went a little cross-eyed with the strain.

This, she concluded silently, must be irritation.

So, she could read minds. Possibly. And move things with her own. She didn't know how she felt about that theory. Mostly it sounded crazy. But it could be useful and, admittedly, kind of thrilling to have that kind of power over other people. Then again, she didn't want to have people inside her head all day, every day. It was exhausting.

She dismissed the notion that anything good could come of these alleged abilities as temporary insanity.

"Can you make it go away?"
 
Her silence he took as an acknowledgment that she had done wrong, and he let it pass, the hackles on his neck smoothing out as she thought about what he said. Then she asked a question that made him stop chewing his sandwich for a moment.

"Can I make the sensation or the sense go away? Because making your telepathy go away would be like taking out your eyes or your ears. It's part of you, it's one of your senses that just hadn't been used before now."

"But can I make the pain go away? Probably. What your brain is perceiving as pain is just sensory stimuli it doesn't know what to do with. If you can learn how to recognize and properly interpret the stimuli, you can deal with it just like you would deal with light or sound or temperature; just another sense. The telepaths I have known talk about 'shields,' mental defenses against being overwhelmed or against telepathic attack. You're probably going to want to know about those, too; they sound useful."

He paused and looked her right in the eyes. "There is very little I can do to help you learn how to deal with telepathy, never having even experienced telepathic contact. However, I can tell you what I know, and you can try and work with that. I can also try and contact some of my old friends, see if there's anybody who could help you more directly. Don't worry; I won't be bringing anyone in until you're up to it."

"You can rest here, you can help me out or read or do what you like. You can move about, if you feel you are up to it; I'll be happy to provide protection, although the local predators should be aware by now that you are not to be trifled with." He finished his sandwich and began buttering another piece of bread. "You have time to decide what you want to do, how you want to handle things. But I think in the short term, we'd better get another sandwich into you."

By this point the buzzing was back to its original gentleness, perhaps with an odd, almost mechanical undertone she might barely detect, if at all. Was he planning, already? Was that the sound of his mind being logical? Hard to tell with a sensation she could almost miss entirely.
 
"So I'm stuck with this," Lyla grumbled, not unlike a small child. She fixed her gaze on a random point--which happened to be T.B.'s foot--and glared for a long, quiet moment.

No way out.

At length, she sighed, big and dramatic, and slumped her shoulders. "Okay. I'm a mind reader or whatever." And, just like that, it appeared as though Lyla had come to terms with her new predicament.

She turned her mind inward then, to the buzzing in her brain. Odd to think that it was T.B. she was sensing, who wasn't even close enough to touch. She studied the sensation, memorizing the way it fit into her brain, getting accustomed. She waited for it to change again, as T.B. worked, but it didn't. It was gentle and frustratingly steady.

Lyla narrowed her eyes on T.B., face scrunching up while she made plans of her own. If he was the only person on the block, he'd have to be her test subject. And if he was going to be a test subject, she was going to have to start testing him.

In a voice so innocent it was positively sly, Lyla said, "So. T.B. Tell me about your family."
 
T.B. gazed at the hot plate, turning over her second sandwich to brown, and didn't appear to hear the question. But the buzzing acquired a quality like... like the sound of glass shards crunching as they are stepped upon by a boot. It was rough and jagged, but entirely muffled, inward. It happened, and then it passed.

"I know what you're doing," he said quietly, still watching the hot plate. His voice was calm and inexpressive, though still his usual deep, rich rumble. "And while I approve of the exercise, bear in mind I'll be returning the favor, and I expect as much disclosure on your part as I give on mine."

He looked at her then, eyes sharp and watchful. "My family isn't the important thing. To know about my family, you need to know about my history; that will tell you all you need to know about my family, just in how I grew up. I was born as anyone is, and my young life was as normal as anyones. Well, not quite so normal; my family was wealthy, so I got to go to excellent early schools, up in the sun. I was the oldest of three children, and very physical , I was always strong and fast, and so I excelled in sports, and didn't care about academics in the least, as is common for young boys. I was popular, and handsome, and kissed my first girl before I was double digits old."

"Needless to say, puberty was not kind. At an age where boys find hair sprouting in uncomfortable places, I found hair sprouting literally everywhere. My mouth changed, my eyes changed, and my body..." he paused, his eyes unfocusing a bit as he looked inward with his mind's eye, "...my body changed, in all sorts of ways. Within a few months, I was like this."

The buzz of him had begun somewhat placidly, and gotten more jangly and minor key at the same time as he talked about his transformation. When he paused to remember something specific, there was an abrupt jab, like a stab, inward to the heart of the buzzing. But then it passed, and he looked directly at her again.

"Naturally, my parents took me to the best doctors they could afford. They tried gene therapy, but the DNA was too pervasive. They joined support groups, and signed me up for support groups. I sat next to kids with an extra eyelid, and kids who got flashes of the next few seconds, looking like I do now, and I thought, 'what can they possibly help me with?' When my parents started to get threats, when our apartment door was vandalized, when someone went so far as to travel all the way down to the street level to get some rocks just to throw at me and my family," and here the anger or irritation, if that's what it was, returned, and his words got a touch forceful, "I knew I was causing them more harm the longer I stayed. Nothing they could do was helping me, either. So... I got out. I ran away."

"I got help from some of the people I'd met, so I suppose the support groups had some positive ends, just not the ones they had intended. Eventually I migrated to the surface. The only people who were really family anymore were those like me; not furry and violent, but freaks. It doesn't matter what it is you can do; if you're different, you're hunted. It's us against them, and the stakes are life and death. So you need all the family you can get; you don't get to choose your relations, but you're supposed to stand by them, and they're supposed to stand by you." His buzz had taken on a different tone, one strong and forceful, but still somehow harmonious.

He cocked his monobrow at her. "So you want to know about my family? In a very real sense, you are my family. You and others like us. They're the only family I can rely on, at any rate, and then only sometimes." He flipped the cooked sandwich over onto her plate with expert aim. "Did that give you the data you wanted to know?"
 
Lyla didn't answer T.B.'s question right away. She was quiet for a long time after his speech. So long, she was actually able to finish her sandwich without uttering another word.

It was anybody's guess whether she was feeling bad for T.B., feeling ashamed for asking in the first place, or simply analyzing the changes she'd detected in his mood. She just chewed quietly and efficiently until there was nothing remaining on her plate but a thin dusting of crumbs. Finally, Lyla looked up at T.B. and spent several long seconds considering his face with an openly thoughtful expression on her own.

A sly smile tugged one corner of her mouth upward and she said, "You were a ladies' man." She looked suddenly serious. "So, what about now? Got a special lady to, ah, scratch you behind the ears?"
 
T.B. hung his head. "Oh, I shall regret certain choices of word, won't I?" He heaved a sigh as she asked about his current situation, and while there was a minor flash of irritation/anger, he didn't react very strongly to the "ears" comment. Instead he just sighed.

"There have been women, over the years. I am romantically hetero..." that was as close of an identifier as he needed; in modern society, play partners could be whatever gender, but relationships, that was the differentiating factor. "...But come on, you're not going to find many normie women in this day and age who would be interested in such a severe throwback. So all my paramours have been from the ranks of the mutated. To say they were varied would be... an understatement."

He sighed. "To say they had been recent would be a lie. It's possible I haven't been with a woman since..." he favored her with a look that seemed equal parts amused and saddened, "...possibly since you were born. That's a depressing thought."
 
"Okay," Lyla said tonelessly.

Wow.

She really hadn't expected such a forthcoming response. She thought maybe T.B. would bristle and play modest and talk to her about boundaries and exactly where his lay, but he didn't do any of that.

T.B. had 'varied' lovers. And that was an understatement. T.B. got laid. A lot. Or at least he used to. How could Lyla hear that and not get a visual? And that was just ... interesting. Because--and her eyes dipped briefly then to his middle before popping back up again--that was a whole lot of fur.

Her cheeks went suddenly red hot with embarrassment. "Okay, mister manwhore," she said to distract from the fact that she had instantly become profoundly flustered, "how old are you, anyway?"
 
He looked startled, the first time she had seen such an expression on his face. The sudden jangled nature of his buzzing confirmed it. "Manwhore? No! No no no-no. Don't misunderstand. You've experienced my good looks and charm, do you really think that's capable of pulling a lot of tail? No, when I say 'varied' I mean I can't afford to have a 'type.' I mean short women, tall women, hairy women, women who can force you to think about your worst childhood memory accidentally in the heat of passion... the few relationships I've had the women have ranged all over the map. Mutants can't be choosers, when it comes to looks. That's all I meant; if you gathered all my ex-girlfriends together, you might manage a small coffee gathering, but you'd have no two similar."

He shook his head. "Okay, I've spoken entirely too much about my sex life. Or lack of same. Let's move on. I'm old enough to really regret trying to go back and count up all the mistakes I've made. You say 'how old,' I say 'too.'" He paused to let the joke sink in. "Let's just say I've been around the block more than twice, and all of that at ground level. So I'm still your best bet as a survival teacher, at least in the city."

He sighed and looked to the picnic. "I'm nearly out of margarine; do you want another sandwich, or should I jut put it all away?"
 
Lyla's face grew even hotter when she realized her error, and it was only through great physical effort that she managed not to hide her face in her hands. As it stood, she was red up to her hairline and fully aware of the fact, which, in turn, humiliated her more, until she had no choice but to hand her plate over to T.B. wordlessly and motion with a wave of her hand that she was all done eating.

Despite her embarrassment, her mental faculties actually remained intact, and she had the presence of mind to notice the small clues T.B. had given her about his age. He'd had a few lovers--weirdos of various size and, she was betting, beauty--but he hadn't had sex in a while, possibly since before she was born. It was hard to tell, on account of his deformity, but he didn't seem that old.

Also, it occurred to her in some distant part of her mind, that was a long time to go without an assisted orgasm. Quickly tumbling after that thought was the realization that, if Lyla didn't turn her mind to something else soon, she was going to real damage to herself with all the blushing.

"Okay, so you keep telling me you're going to teach me things, even though you don't have this same problem." 'Problem' rolled off her tongue a lot easier than 'mutation' did. "How?"
 
He was back on familiar territory with that question, and what was better, it allowed him to politely ignore their mutual embarrassment. How could she have possibly thought he was some kind of player? "I can't help you with the telepathy, but I can give you a place to hide from overstimulation. And you will occasionally get someone passing by outside whom you can detect: I'm hoping that now that you have some idea of what the stimulus is, you'll be able to overcome the initial interpretation of pain and start drawing information from it, like you're supposed to. You can use me as practice, and I can try and find someone who can help you more directly, but you can take your time with it down here."

"And that's just telepathy, which is the most difficult one. The other power I've witnessed is telekinesis, and once you initially learn how to enact that, it's all about practice. This, I can provide. And then, there's just the basics of living down here. How to grow your own food, how to safely tap for power and water, how to find basic supplies and clothes, how to protect yourself from the mouth-breathing troglodytes, how to occupy your time so you don't go crazy..."

He paused, obviously warming to the topic. Even after all these years, even after his own hard-won experience, there was still something inexpressibly cool about these sorts of abilities existing at all; as restrained and Spartan as his own life was on a day to day basis, he was not immune to the excitement of potential, of discovery, even second-hand.

"Just imagine if you were trained to fight off your attackers from earlier, if you could have handled them yourself. And you could have, if you'd had the knowledge. Now imagine that ability augmented by your power, adding force to every blow, adding energy to every throw. Even if you simply fled, imagine how you could run, or leap, or climb, if your body were carried along by the force of your own will, as well as the strength in your limbs. That's the kind of potential I've seen, that's the kind of thing you can learn." He shrugged. "And that's the kind of thing I ought to be able to teach."

He held up his empty drink bottle and looked at her intently. "When we're done with you, you will have a dozen different ways to evade, block, or catch this. And several of those techniques won't involve using your physical body at all." With that, he grinned wolfishly, showing a flash of sharper-than-human white teeth, and abruptly hucked the light plastic bottle unerringly at Lyla's head.
 
Lyla was momentarily distracted by the flash of sharp, white teeth, the way T.B.'s mouth pulled wide for the first time since she'd met him. The muscles in his face pulled up and his eyes appeared, for just an instant, a little more human, bunching in the outer corners with a crafty kind of mirth. It was a sight to behold. For just a moment, she thought maybe her mind could fit together the contours of his face like puzzle pieces, into a ghost sketch of the handsome young man he'd once been.

She didn't even flinch when he chucked the bottle and it smacked her right against her forehead with a hollow thunk before bouncing into her lap. She blinked then, shook her head like it was going to break the cobwebs loose from her mind, and grimaced.

"You," she said slowly, plucking the bottle up and spinning it deftly between her fingers like a hotdog bartender, "are kind of an ass."

She threw it back at him, and it sailed through the air toward his face.
 
He watched the bottle arc toward him, and reached out to pluck it from the air at arm's length. "Yes. Yes, I am. But you know what's worse than an ass?"

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the blanket-covered windows. "This city. It's a ravening monster that will destroy your soul before it crushes and rends your body in its steel and concrete jaws, and you think I'm waxing poetic, but in many cases it's literally true. And that's all before anyone finds out you've got a few extra codons in your genes."

He shrugged. "If I'm an ass, it's because most of the world has been trying to kill me for decades, whether they know it or not. Maybe you'll feel the same once you can get a look inside people's heads, maybe not. But you'll never be the girl you were two weeks ago. That may be bad, or it may be good... but it'll definitely be strange."

He smiled again, closed lips but his eyes crinkling up again, an authentic smile. "I hope you'll find, however, that strange can be wonderful."

He flipped the bottle in his hand, end over end. "So, learning things. What do you want to start with? Heads up!" He flung the bottle back at her head, just as fast as before. It was so whisper-light, it couldn't even sting her skin, but, yes, annoying. This time, however, she could see it coming, if only because of the "heads up."
 
Lyla put up her hand to stop the bottle and it bounced off her palm. She caught it with her other hand before it could hit the floor and roll out of her reach.

"Nope," she said brightly. "I'm pretty sure being an ass is much, much worse. Also?"

She threw the bottle at him hard then, drawing her arm back for extra force. She was fairly certain it wouldn't make a bit of difference to him and it would make her feel better, so why not put everything she had into it?

"The doom and gloom thing you've got going on right now? So not attractive."
 
He snorted, actually, a sound of derisive amusement, as he caught the bottle as if he were picking it up off a table. "Fine, I'll let you come to your own conclusions." He put the top on the tub of margarine, and looked about.

"So, perhaps the first thing... I think you ought to figure out where you want to live. I mean, here, this place -- you're welcome to stay here until you're ready to look around elsewhere. It's safe, it's got lots of things to read and listen to, it's got water and power, and I'm not here most of the time. Although I'll be here as often as you want me to be."

"But if this is going to be your place, at least for now, you ought to figure out how you want it set up. That mattress isn't bolted to the floor, the stacks of books are all movable; I set them up in that wall so that you wouldn't be hit with the glare from the lamp when you woke up that first time, but you don't have to keep them there."

He shrugged. "I know where I can dig up some chairs and another table. Do you want me to?"
 
I'll be here as often as you want me to be.

Lyla felt a disquieting surge of comfort upon hearing those words, once again averting her eyes and only just managing not to fidget nervously. She didn't want to want T.B. around at all, but she couldn't ignore the fact that he made her feel safe and protected. She hated that.

"Well," she said, getting to her feet, "it's not exactly homey, is it?" She turned and looked at the modest little set-up, hands going automatically to her hips. Absently, she went on, "I wouldn't mind a chair, but I don't have much use for a table."

She went and inspected the wall of books around the mattress, brows knitting. It was kind of claustrophobic, having the precarious stacks surrounding her when she woke up first thing. T.B. had a good point about the light, though. But she supposed, if she was going to be sleeping here all alone--while T.B. was out doing God-knew-what--then she could turn the lights out when she slept.

"I guess I'll move these books against the wall ..." She got to work breaking down the stacks and moving them across the room.
 
He nodded. "I'll bring something over, then. There was some furniture left over when Mr. Lambropolous died; he was the man that left behind a large chunk of these books. An antiquarian, much as I am, though rather more of means. I rather wish I'd known him when he was alive. In any case, there's some furniture I've not had much use for, but haven't wanted to throw out. I'll go drag it out of deep storage, down the block."

He shrugged into his coat while she was moving books around. "The windows are boarded up for security, and to make the place look deserted; the blankets are just hung there for aesthetic purposes. I believe I've put all the breakable things in this other room, but if you run across any albums, please try not to shatter them. The door lock is pretty easy to disable from this side, and I'll show you the trick to it from the outside whenever you want. Oh, if you want some working music, I have some singles near the player. One's already on there; if you are curious, just lift up the needle arm and put it gently on the edge of the record to play it. I went ahead and took a guess at some music I had that might be more your speed."

Dressed to leave, he waited until both her hands were occupied with carrying a stack of books, and then he whistled to get her attention and, grinning, flung the water bottle at her face again, hoping she'd react instinctively without her physical body.
 
Beckoned by T.B.'s whistle, Lyla turned, arms stuffed full of old books. A musty smell rose up from them, something that reminded her of dust and cold, dark stone and authentic wood. She found, grudgingly, that she kind of liked it.

Her eyes fell on T.B. and widened.

"Son of a--" Lyla flinched away from the bottle that was flying straight from her head. Despite her apparent lack of respect for T.B.'s things, she really didn't want to drop his books. At the same time, she really didn't want to be smacked in the face by the bottle again.

She ducked her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and took a deep breath, bracing herself to get knocked in the side of the face ...

... and she did. Get knocked in the face, that is. The bottle bounced off of her with another of its hollow little sounds, hit the ground with a louder thunk, and rolled away.

The bottle, however, was not the interesting thing. Nor was the way Lyla scrunched up like a startled cat at the prospect of being hit by a bottle. What was really and truly interesting was the remaining pile of books surrounding the mattress--the ones she'd yet to move and was standing just beside.

Untouched, they all tumbled over and across the floor.
 
T.B.'s laugh was deep, from the belly, and delighted. "Look at that! Just look. You can teek, and you can do it while conscious." He picked up the bottle, tossed it in his gloved hand, then slipped it into his pocket. "No need for this anymore. You can do it, Lyla, now you just need to practice controlling it. But we can do that later. Let's get you settled, first." He actually winked at her, smiling, and then left, practically skipping out to the door.

It didn't take him long, just maybe twenty, thirty minutes, and he was banging open the door again. The first thing he carried in was impressive... it was a large overstuffed leather wingback armchair, and he held it in one hand, carrying it in front of him as he entered the room. "Here, will this do?" As he came in, he set it on the floor, and took the things out of his other hand and set them down; a battered wooden coffee table and a floor reading lamp. "I just realized I had this lamp, too. The outlets work, but I usually just use the camp light out of convenience. But if you're going to be keeping residence here, seemed a thing to do."

He looked around. "Decent work. What can I do to help?"
 
Lyla stared in stunned silence until T.B. was out the door and, most likely, down the block. It wasn't until that moment, when the books went skidding across the floor like a strong gale had just blown through, that she was actually forced to believe everything T.B. was telling her.

It could have been T.B. playing tricks on her. There were no less than a hundred explanations for why the stacks had toppled, actually, none of them any more bizarre than the idea that Lyla had moved them with her mind, and no more than ten minutes ago, she would have gladly believed in the alternatives.

But she'd felt it. Not in the back of her skull, where T.B.'s presence hummed loud and content, but in her temples. There was another, less subtle sensation. It extended beyond her physical self, but she felt it like a phantom limb, reaching out across the empty space of the room until it smacked against the stacks. She'd felt that, too, and in the split second before they all crashed to the floor, she'd known, instinctively, exactly what would happen.

So. Lyla was a little bit telekinetic. That was all right, no big deal. She could handle telekinesis. It wasn't as if anybody could look at her and just tell that she had this power--at least, she hoped not. T.B. knew, but then he'd gone and witnessed her moving things. So she just had to make sure never to move things again, and she'd be fine.

Having finally come to terms with this new development--and in record time, she thought--Lyla returned to the task of moving all the books up against the wall. When she slept, she wanted a clear view of the doorway. When that task was done, she dragged the mattress a little ways, so it was pressed up to the wall beneath one of the boarded and blanketed windows. There was no practical reason for this. It just pleased her eyes.

During the course of her work, she became uncomfortable with the silence and, after a long internal debate, she went over to the turntable and did as T.B. instructed, lifting the apparatus she assumed to be "the needle" and laying gently on the outermost ring of the disk. It crackled and popped for a moment, and Lyla experienced a moment of sheer terror when she thought she'd broken his precious machine, but then the music started, and she began to smile despite herself.

Not long after, she began dancing, despite herself. With herself, in fact, and the realization made her giggle.

When T.B. returned, Lyla was playing with the light, trying to find a balance between lighting her main 'living area' and illuminating a bright, clear path to the bathroom. Although she could easily find her way there, she wanted to chase away every shadow along the way, and the light simply wasn't cooperating.

She wasn't surprised by his return. She could sense the warm vibration of his presence grow faint, nearly disappearing completely, and then she sensed it growing strong again, as he returned to her.

Lyla looked over at T.B., eyes smiling for the first time in their short acquaintance, and the record played on. She had figured out the volume control and now it was loud enough that Lyla didn't hear the wing back chair connect with the floor.

"Hey!" she called brightly, and then, after a moment of thought, added, "You can put that chair in the corner. Give the light to me."
 
He handed the standing lamp over, and set the chair where she had indicated. He found himself smiling as well; there was something about seeing her actually acting a little bit happy that was infectious. On the other hand, it had also been a long while since he'd had the opportunity to smile for an authentic reason, either, so perhaps he was more susceptible to the influence.

"Turns out there's a bunch of things over there; I had forgotten the kind of furniture and large items I have stored. I have some more lamps, if that's something you want, and some smaller chairs. Nothing as comfortable as this, but I think I'd appreciate at least one that I can use when I come over. I never needed one for this place before, but that's before someone was living here. There's a bedframe, but the mattresses rotted away years ago. You know, let me know what you want, I'll see if we've got it. Unless you feel like coming outside with me, then you can see for yourself. But that's your call."

He glanced at the doorway to the back rooms, still glinting from the ever-present gro-lights in the bathroom. "I suppose, regardless, I should give you the tour of the rest of the place. When you're ready. So that you can figure out what you want to do with it, if anything."

And now he gave her another sidelong look as she continued to putter. Had she experimented with here telekinesis yet? How should he broach the subject? Was it time, or should he let her start to feel more at-home before he began training? Should the front room, with all the books and the archaeological shop, serve as a dojo? Or should he open up another one of the vacant spaces for that purpose? Too many questions, not enough data, but his mind couldn't stop trying to plan, figure out the angles. When he knew which direction to go in, he's have some plans already thought out. But unlike his usual planning, he had to factor in an unknown influence: Lyla herself.
 
Lyla was busy with positioning the lamp exactly where she wanted it. She'd plugged it into one of the dusty outlets and now she was experimenting with placement, as far as the primitive little cord would allow.

She stopped abruptly, however, and turned to look at T.B., with a pointed, fox-faced expression that said clearly that the gears in her head were turning. There was a quality to the buzz, and she'd sensed it before, earlier.

"You're plotting," Lyla accused, ghost of a smirk dimpling her cheek just so. "Anyway, I won't be squatting forever, so I don't need anymore stuff, but feel free to bring a ch--"

Lyla stopped, set the lamp down very gently, and took a long, contemplative look around the place. At length she said, "You don't live here," mildly, with only a faint hint of surprise. "I never even noticed it before, but ..."

She looked at T.B. then, a curious frown replacing her smirk. "You live someplace else."
 
His monobrow raised when she called him out on his mental machinations. She could already tell when he was plotting? This telepathy thing was coming along reasonably well, then.

He nodded. "Yes, I never made a secret of it. I live nearby. My place is rather more inaccessible, for privacy." He favored her with a sidelong glance. "I would not be opposed to your visit, but... you'd either have to trust me enough to hang on to me while we climb the walls, or you'd have to be good enough with your telekinesis to handle yourself climbing or falling. Both of those will come in time."

He gestured about. "It doesn't have quite the scholarly ambiance, but it serves."
 
Lyla considered this, lips pressed into a tight line. T.B. had said he would only be around as much as he wanted to her be, but she hadn't realized he actually had another residence.

Did this mean she'd actually have to invite him if she wanted to see him? She didn't like the sound of that prospect, but nor did she relish the idea of clinging to his back as he climbed up walls and swung from platform to platform.

She was also suddenly insanely curious to see where he actually lived. This place served fairly well as a living space, as it stood. T.B.'s actual home had to be much better. It probably even had a bed, and maybe a faucet with more than a trickle. Lyla found herself growing irritated, that she had to stay in this dump while T.B. was living large in his super secret bachelor pad.

"No," she huffed, sounding plenty annoyed. "This place is fine by me. It's got everything I could possibly need."

She stood there, momentarily awkward. She looked around the place again, and with her fresh understanding of her situation it all looked different. The books weren't charming, anymore, they were just excess clutter that had no place in T.B.'s apartment. Same with the music, and the mattress, and the ancient chair in the corner, and ...

Well. And Lyla. Not that she cared.

Across the room, the record player skipped, screeched rather unattractively, and stopped altogether. The player was undamaged, but the needle had been quite mysteriously forced off the record. Quite mysteriously, indeed.

Lyla turned red.

"You should go, then," she spoke, exasperated. "I'm fine here, and there's lots to reorganize. You kept this place in a shambles. It'll take all day at the very least."
 
Her shift in expression, her shift in tone, and her abrupt dismissal would have been signifier enough, even if the record player hadn't suddenly and "mysteriously" stopped. He couldn't help a wince at the screech of needle across vinyl; he hoped it hadn't actually damaged anything, as she seemed to actually like this record. He took a deep breath and considered what he could do as far as damage control.

"Lyla," he said softly. "I brought you here at first because it was closest and easiest to get you into. I thought it might be a good place to turn into a place of your own. I had never had the need to make it anything more than it was. But now..."

He squared his stance to face her more directly. "Now, it's your home. Assuming you still want it to be. And you are under my protection, which means it's my responsibility to help you get yourself established. You want this to be your place? Let's do that together."

"How about this: how about I take you over to the storage place I use, and you can see if there's anything you want to use. And then, if you're still curious, I'll take you up to see what my place is like. It's not much, but it's been home for a goodly time. I... I would be happy to show it to you."

He wasn't actually all that enthused about showing his most private lair to someone else. It had been decades since he was close enough to someone to even let them know whereabouts he lived, much less show them the place itself. But now, she was feeling slighted, for some reason, and he knew he had to try and do something to reverse that because...

...why exactly did he want to do that? He could just as easily let it all blow over, let her stay and stew until she felt better. But that would be a bit too much like running away. And running away wasn't ever a plan, running away is what you did when a plan failed. So if he was going to deal with her, he needed to actually do something, and that meant sticking around and working through it.

So he held out a hairy, calloused hand, palm up, fingers gently spread, inviting her to come with him.
 
Lyla stared a long time at the offered hand, her own mortification slowly sinking in. She'd behaved like an ass, and now she was obviously paying for it, because T.B. was being so godawful nice.

Eventually, she folded her arms across her chest and her eyes went cold and expressionless. "I don't need your pity invite. I am not curious. About anything. I won't even be staying here that long, anyway. Just until I figure out how to control the brain thing. Then I'm out of here, back to the upper levels where I belong. So I won't need any more of your stuff."

Lyla gestured with a nod to the doorway. "Now, I'm sure you have a busy day or whatever, so just go. You can come back when you think you've figured out a way to fix me."
 
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