He found shelter beneath the trees. {Open}

[Manslaughter]

He lost his shoe.

It must have been when he went sprawling in a hole, frolicking through a flock of black birds that scattered at his presence. When he lost his shoe, he kicked off his other one, and hung his sweatshirt over some spindly, dead branches. Then he rolled his jeans up past his shins so he could wade into some shallow water, feeling the mud between his toes and tadpoles curiously ghosting against his skin.

Roger still has grass in his hair, mud and dirt at his knees, and he still can't find his left shoe. But it doesn't matter; he would look for it later on his way back to the Brotherhood.

He stretches his thin arms that are like spiderlegs, jumping at a low-hanging branch until his hands wrap around it. Roger's tounge is trapped between his teeth in intense concentration, and he scrabbles wildly with his feet up the side of the tree trunk until his weight teeters over the edge of the limb. Then he sits up, balancing precariously on the edge and letting his eyes rove over the course of the relatively empty field. Sunlight glints off his hair that came in strips between the leaves, and he bats at a butterfly playfully.

He had been trapped--caged, and like a desparate prisoner Roger had escaped with ease, not bothering to tell any of his comrades where he was going and why. The forest had been calling to him, calling him to play.

In the distance, Roger can see his sweatshirt waving in the breeze like a flag.

[Primer]

There are some things that can make anything better. To Primer’s mind the three absolute fail safes are pheromone emission, a good workout, and sex though not necessarily in that order at all times. He’s currently returning from his first trip to the Brotherhood’s gym after a very good workout. Sure the equipment isn’t straight from a catalogue untouched by hands except his and therefore always on his settings, but realistically one has to give up certain things in these sorts of ventures and the equipment is really quite functional, or at least the weights are, he never jogs so he wouldn’t know about any of that.

Nothing, he reflects as he crosses the lawn back to the main house, clears your system like repeated, controlled, exertion. Puts an honest sweat on you. that was his father’s expression, “an honest sweat” and Primer had always rather liked it, nicely distinguished the greasy, gasping sweat of fear and ugliness from the sheen that cooled you after a good effort. Of course his father had never sweated an honest sweat in his life, but that doesn’t stop Primer enjoying the turn of phrase.

Lost in these placid, self-satisfied thoughts he almost misses the sight of the sweatshirt hanging from a nearby tree, fluttering in the breeze like a flag. He has no pressing concerns back inside and so he meanders towards it, then passes it when he sees the boy he assumes is its owner hanging off a tree in the distance, grass stains on his knees and dirt on his face. Well, how very wholesome this place is today. Having just accomplished the President’s recommended dose of daily exercise I encounter a boy hanging from a tree like some 1950’s picture of American childhood.

He reaches the bottom of the tree and glances upwards, shading his eyes with his hand,
“Well hello there.”

[Manslaughter]

The pulsing of a heart is near, and Roger can tell, but he makes no move to regard whomever may be in the area. Instead, he sprawls across the branch in a languid fashion, stretching his body much like a cat would do and settling quite comfortably on the limb, as though it were made for his body. His eyes flicker in mild interest over to Sean, slowly taking in this new face and tilting his head curiously to one side. He has one leg dangling from the limb, curling and flexing his toes in an almost unconscious way. Well hello there. He arches his eyebrows gently and a slow, almost maniacal grin spreads about his expression.

"Hi."

With incredible ease, Roger arches his body over the branch and dangles by his knees, almost staring Sean directly in the face from his position. "Who are you?" he asks, seeming to study the man's features with incredible interest. Did the man live around here? After a moment of blinking and staring, Roger decides that this is not the case. He had come from the main road. He must be new to the Brotherhood, at least that was what Roger supposed. It was unlikely that there were any other houses nearby.

[Primer]

Primer watches the boy in the tree, his languid facial movements, his slow as molasses gestures and smiles. He’s not quite right, the realization comes quickly but carries no alarm with it; Primer’s always been rather fond of the mentally infirm- they’re like animals, easily susceptible to his particular brand of control.

"Hi."

Having greeted him the boy does some acrobatics to come eye-to-eye with him, and Primer watches with relative interest the slow-motion movements of his body, wondering if that’s where his mutation lies. No, he decides after a moment, he’s just an eerie little thing.

"Who are you?"

“I’m Primer. And who are you my good sir?” he asks in pleasent tones, a smile making his face handomse. He's sending out little whiffs of friendly (pack is the primal word for the feeling) pheromones in hopes of producing better results than he can achieve with his honeyed tones and easy smile alone. The other mutant- or so he assumes- is interesting. At this stage in the game every new mutant is interesting but the contrast this slow-smiling distortion of a boy makes with his initial picture of a carefree youth hanging from a tree on a sun-shiney day is amusing enough to capture his attention. “Are you a member of the Brotherhood as well?” he asks, not particularly worried about covering for the secret organization. If the boy turns out to be just an odd human wandered away from his home he can be easily killed.

[Manslaughter]

I'm Primer. And who are you my good sir? The man's tone is pleasant.. almost a little too pleasant--like the group counselor that always sat next to him during group support. Roger blinks and sways a little on his perch, resting his hands on his thighs and continuing to study Primer. And though he is suspicious, he can't help but feeling an odd liking for the man, although a nagging thought in the back of the mind tells him that something is at work here, even despite the fact that he can't exactly figure out what. Taking it as nothing for the moment, Roger stops his swaying and blinks. "I'm Manslaughter." Roger's voice didn't even quiver with the power of his new name that always seemed to tingle his lips and tongue when he said it.

Are you a member of the Brotherhood as well?

"Yes," Roger answers in an almost sing-song tone,"and you are too," the boy suddenly finishes without waiting for Primer to explain himself. Without skipping a beat, he suddenly says,"Primer is a funny name.." He leans forward and whispers,".. are you explosive?" He arches his eyebrows and then shrugs, lurching upright until he is back into a comfortable position across the branch, his leg dangling again and peering over the limb.

[Primer]

"I'm Manslaughter."

Primer raises his eyebrows slightly, well then, I suppose his mutation isn’t being extremely agile in trees, unless someone has an interesting sense of humor.

"Yes, and you are too,"

The sing-song tone the boy adopts makes Primer smile. Far from scaring him the incongruous mixture of innocent child and sinister lurker sharing one form is quite endearing. Any fellow mutant is, of course, superior to a flat-liner but he’s found in his few days at the Brotherhood that they can be just as disappointingly boring as any human. This boy will certainly be anything but boring.

"Primer is a funny name…are you explosive?"

He gives a genuine laugh, not his artificial one, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut until his mirth is complete. “Under the right conditions I suppose, yes, I could make a rather impressive bang. You wouldn’t want to do anything like that to me, assuming you could, though. I’m more fun whole than in pieces and I like it better this way.” he says pleasantly. “And ‘Manslaughter’ isn’t the most common of names either you know. If you want me to explain myself it’s only fair that you do the same. Perhaps adding an explanation as to why a Brotherhood member is hanging about in trees. A reconnaissance mission perhaps?” he says, raising his eyebrows enquiringly and keeping his tone serious and his amusement out of his continuous pacifying pheromone emissions. It can't hurt to keep one's thumb on someone named Manslaughter after all.

[Manslaughter]

Under the right conditions I suppose, yes, I could make a rather impressive bang. You wouldn’t want to do anything like that to me, assuming you could, though. I’m more fun whole than in pieces and I like it better this way. And ‘Manslaughter’ isn’t the most common of names either you know. If you want me to explain myself it’s only fair that you do the same. Perhaps adding an explanation as to why a Brotherhood member is hanging about in trees. A reconnaissance mission perhaps? Roger peeks over the edge of the limb like a curious kitten, biting his nails a little as he seems to think. Shrugging, the boy peels off a few pieces of bark from the branch, kicking his legs a little. "It's a secret," he says wryly with a sigh, letting his eyelids fall halfway and peering at Primer from beneath them. "But I'll tell you.. 'cause you're nice.." He hums a little, picking off another piece of bark and watching it flutter down to the ground.

"The trees were talking," he says after what seems like an eternity of heavy silence. "They said,'Roger, come play!' So I did. And here I am." He tilts his head a little and sits up, brushing his hands off. Glancing down, he looks at his left foot, wiggling his toes excitedly, as though he just noticed that he no longer had his shoes on. "I lost my shoe..," he notess with a disappointed voice. He liked that shoe. Roger suddenly tips over the side of the branch, his arms catching his weight at the last moment and letting him hang well above the ground. He swings slightly, the muscles in his arms used to supporting his meager weight.

After a few moments of just hanging there and swinging, Roger drops to the ground gracefully and settles on the upturned roots of the tree. The boy obviously feels at ease enough around Primer to approach him, his entire frontal body exposed and fingers spread. "Magneto gave me my name," he suddenly adds, plucking a dandelion up from the ground and ruffling the bracts surrounding the head of the shoot with his fingers. Then he blows on it in a single breath, as though blowing out a birthday candle. Only a few are left.

"Three o'clock," Roger says as he waves the dandelion in Primer's direction with a grin. "Tea time for the Queen."

[Primer]

"The trees were talking. They said,'Roger, come play!' So I did. And here I am."

Primer grins, rocking back on his heels. Maybe that’s his mutation. He plays with trees. “Very good then, all terrorism and no play makes you dull I suppose.” he remarks. “But why does that have to be a secret? Are the trees so very selective of their playmates?”

He watches the boy swing about on the tree branch for a bit and lament his lost shoe before dropping down lower on the branch and swinging about, evidently thinking of descending. Primer waits, neither moving back nor stepping forward to meet him, letting the boy swing about all he pleases before dropping to the ground and hovering about the tree’s roots. He has all the time in the world today and humoring this boy is turning out to be rather entertaining.

"Magneto gave me my name,"

“Perhaps that accounts for its ominous nature then. I gave myself my own which may be why it is rather subtle.” he replies, the words a sort of mental preen, “And why, pray tell, does he call you Manslaughter?”

"Three o'clock. Tea time for the Queen."

Primer waves away dandelion seeds as they drift towards him. “Well, no Queens here.” he pauses and shudders fastidiously, “Hopefully anyway.”

[[pun!]]

[Manslaughter]

Very good then, all terrorism and no play makes you dull I suppose. But why does that have to be a secret? Are the trees so very selective of their playmates? Roger nods knowingly and childishly at this query, as though this had always been true and that Primer should know that much. Perhaps that accounts for its ominous nature then. I gave myself my own which may be why it is rather subtle. And why, pray tell, does he call you Manslaughter? Roger tilts his head at Primer's words, curious as to why he spoke in such a way. He sounds like Magneto--at least to him. Blinking his rounded blue-grey eyes, Roger grins a little at the thought, playing with the head of the dandelion, the last fluffs flying off somewhere. "Because...," he says, as though it is the best answer one could give. He drops his voice to a low whisper, as if this were a secret. "Because I hurt people." Roger holds a finger to his lips, preventing him from saying anymore, or keeping the rest under lock and key for Primer to figure out himself.

Well, no Queens here. Hopefully anyway. Roger hums a little and bobs his head, seeming to find this a suitable moment for sing. "Ding dong the mean, old queen is deeead..," he sings it softly, airily, as though it were a ballad. And then he stops suddenly, arching his brows and looking Primer over from head to toe. He feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle and the skin tighten in suspicious warning. There was something about the man that he didn't like.. he was too.. likeable.. friendly.. like Big Bird.. or Elmo.

He gets up, batting at stray blades of grass that had stuck to his jeans like chicken feathers. Roger does not bother with the grass stuck in his hair or the dirt on his knees or his rolled-up jeans. Plucking a few premature dandelions that are buttery yellow, he clutches them into his hand, but not so hard as to crush the stems. "Time to go," he says, nodding towards the sun. Roger traces imaginary words on the tree bark with his index finger before putting his selected dandelions on the base of the tree for safe-keeping. He then turns on his toes smartly, as though called to an about-face to the field. His eyes flick over the tall, waving grass and his sweatshirt still rippling in the breeze.

"I have to find my shoes," Roger announces. And quite suddenly he bounds off down the slight slope like a deer, fleet on his feet and nimble on his toes.