Cheerios, milk, and underage killers.

[Manslaughter]

His spider leg arms are spread out clumsily across the table, the fingers of one of his hands wrapped at the base of a cheap, plastic bowl and the other halfway clutching a spoon. Thoughtfully, Roger stirs the remainder of his milk dotted with soggy Cheerios in a counter-clockwise motion, his eyes fixed on an imaginary point in empty space. Every now and then he kicks his feet beneath him, as he is perched precariously on a stool--most likely a chair that had once had a back but had previously had it ripped off.

Lazily, he blinks his eyes, as though it takes utmost effort to even bat his eyelashes. Making a 'hm' noise in the back of his throat, he kicks his feet a little harder until he is almost in danger of propelling his slight figure backwards over the chair. Roger then goes still and gazes down into his cereal, taking out his spoon from the milk and drawing the head of the utensil into his mouth. With an index finger, he begins to push some of the circular bits across the milk as if they are tiny boats charging out from their dock. He starts to loudly cluck his tongue against the metal, murmuring something unintelligible around it as he continues to make his cereal his plaything.

After what seems like ages, he finally takes the spoon out of his mouth and starts playing with it again, his blue-grey eyes flicking up every now and then as though he keeps hearing some sound over and over again. "Cheerios are good for you..," Roger says to himself, distinctly remembering repetitive commercials that claimed it would protect your heart.

[Tony Masters]

"You still here, kid?" Taskmaster asks, walking into the worse-for-wear kitchen.

He had no real reason as to why he decided to sport his navy blue jacket today; it was usually saved for his 'jobs'. But, he supposes, living in this house is almost like one of his jobs; danger lingering around every corner. Roger, or Manslaughter, was included in that danger as well, no matter how harmless he seemed to be.

"Cheerios may be good for you," He says from behind his skull mask, "But bananas have potassium. Cheerios do not." Taskmaster doesn't know why he's humouring the child, he has a feeling that Manslaughter can do that his own. "And Cheerios always taste better with some sliced banana on them. You want one?" He holds up the bunch of yellow, elongated fruit and rips one off for himself.

Breakfast was something he rarely engaged in, but after hanging around with the Brotherhood, Taskmaster realized that he needed all the energy he could get.

[Manslaughter]

You still here, kid? Roger does not even so much as twitch at the suden entrance of Taskmaster, merely tilting his head back until his eyes meet the ones of the other male's mask, his gaze seeming to search past it and within him. Roger arches his eyebrows and then cocks his head to one side, as if to say,'am i?', as though even he did not know the answer to this himself.

Cheerios may be good for you. But bananas have potassium. Cheerios do not. He bobs his head in agreement as his gaze flicks away, staring down into his bowl again, murmuring in a chant,"And Vitamin C and Thiamine and Riboflavin...." He hums to himself for a moment, as though thinking this some sort of game where he knew all the rules.

And Cheerios always taste better with some sliced banana on them. You want one? Roger shrugs and lifts his gaze again, setting his gaze on the banana. "Yes..," he starts but then suddenly stops, looking up to the far left of the room as though attempting to remember something. "..please." The boy finally finished in a childish, shuffling manner, seemingly expectant not to recieve one if he didn't ask nicely.

[Tony Masters]

Taskmaster knows full well that Manslaughter is a full-out mental patient, and that the look that's given to him shouldn't faze him.

But it does.

"And Vitamin C and Thiamine and Riboflavin...." Taskmaster can't help but nod briefly at the teen's rambling.

"I know what vitamin C is, but damn if I know what the other two are." He peels back his banana and removes the faceplate on his mask. After pulling back the spandex covering his mouth, he takes a bite of the fruit.

"Yes...please." Well, at least the kid has got some manners. Grabbing another banana from the bunch and a knife, Taskmaster pulls out the chair and sits across from Manslaughter. Just as he's about to pass the two items over to the teen, he stops and eyes the other mutant carefully.

After a moment, Taskmaster decides that letting Roger use a knife is definitely a bad idea.

"Pass me your bowl," He says through a mouthful of banana, tearing the peel half way down his other piece of fruit.

[Manslaughter]

Roger tilts his body over the edge of his chair to pick up the box of Cheerios still on the table, hesitantly shaking out a few handfuls into his bowl to sample the taste of it with bananas. He puts it back after the said task and then commences to watch Taskmaster, seemingly in awe by the spandex covering over the man's face, undoubtedly in his mind creating a face that was underneath it while he stares with a mingling look of curiosity and thoughtfulness.

Pass me your bowl.

Roger. Roger, look at me. Finish your lesson and then you can play with your flowers all you want. She is trying not to shout, but Roger just stares blankly, as though she has spoken Mandarin Chinese. He frowns and almost crushes the tiny green shoot he has been petting with his palm.

I don't want to.

He blinks slowly, eyeing the knife and the banana, respectively, before lifting his gaze to Taskmaster's face. His thumb traces the rim of his plastic bowl and Roger lowers his brows slightly at the command. The boy's chin juts out in defiance, and for a moment he very much resembles a disgruntled child. "I can do it myself..," Roger suddenly says quietly, something inside of him not liking the idea of being told what to do. Expectantly, he stares at Taskmaster, holding his bowl close to himself as if unknowingly taunting the man to try and take it from him.

[Tony Masters]

Taskmaster holds out his gloved hand, waiting for Manslaughter to pass him the Cheerio-filled bowl. But the flash of defiance in the teen's eyes catch him off guard.

Damn this kid has issues.

"I can do it myself..,"

Pausing in thought, Taskmaster twirls the knife in his hand, the point pressing against a finger. He watches as the reflection of the dusty, old light fixture flashes from floor to ceiling over and over again with each rotation.

The way Roger huddles over his bowl, Taskmaster knows that this is a loosing battle. For one, the kid was obviously very stubborn. And two, who knows what he'd do if he didn't get what he wanted.

Not wanting to find out (he likes his pain level kept nice and low), the older mutant flips the knife around and slides it across the table, handle first. He places the banana next to it.

"I have no doubt that you can, Manslaughter." Taskmaster says, slow and careful. No need to start the day off with a psycho after his ass (he's had that happen one to many times already, thank you very much). "Just don't come crying to me when you slice your hand open." And you just had to add the snarky remark at the end, didn't you? Idiot.

[Manslaughter]

Roger's eyes glint with each rotation of the knife, the light refracting from the fluorescent lighting and glimmering in the hollow, blue-grey irises. I have no doubt that you can, Manslaughter. He watches as the knife and banana are pushed towards him, both his hands still protectively clutching his bowl. Tentatively, he reaches for the knife first, using an index finger to press the handle into the table and pull it towards himself. Just don't come crying to me when you slice your hand open. The boy blinks, letting his gaze tilt upwards to meet Taskmaster's, slowly reaching for the banana at the same time.

"...I won't," he says, although it is unclear of whether or not he meant he would turn to someone if he were to cut himself, or if he would cut himself at all..

Slowly, Roger strips the peel from the banana with akward precision, then laying the naked fruit horizontally on the table. Taking up the knife clumsily in one hand, he brings the sharpened edge close to the banana a few times while alternately drawing it away. He suddenly jerks the knife down until it cuts straight through with a loud shinckt! forcing a hairline gouge into the already battered table. Pulling the knife back, Roger repeats the process at least a dozen times. "All done...," the boy finally says in an almost purring tone, one that would seem alien for someone to use when holding a knife. He pauses and catches Taskmaster's gaze again before pushing the knife away to one side, eerily close to himself and within reach as he starts to eat his newly-spruced cereal.

[Tony Masters]

God this kid is unnerving. Taskmaster isn’t one to let a lot of things bother him, because if they did, he’d never have become a gun-for-hire. But there’s something definitely bizarre and unsettling about Roger. Whether it’s the insistent child-like behaviour he constantly portrays, or the general air of insanity, Taskmaster doesn’t really know, and he doesn’t really want to know.

"...I won't,” would be ironic, to have someone who could control pain, succumb to it himself. With that thought in mind, Taskmaster doesn’t doubt Roger’s small, confident statement.

He leans back and continues to eat his banana as Roger chops, rather brutally, through his own piece of fruit.

“Careful, kid. I don’t think Mags would be happy if he had to replace the table.” Mind you, it probably wouldn’t hurt. The table, like most of the other pieces of furniture in the rickety old house, was definitely on it’s last legs. Taskmaster smirks at his pun as he finishes his banana.

"All done...” Expecting the knife to be returned to him, Taskmaster hesitates when Roger keeps it with him, disturbingly close. He knew he was by far the faster of the two, and a handy Jackie Chan move would ensure that he’d get a hold of the knife, but speed wasn’t really an issue. If Roger was intent on hurting him, the knife probably wouldn’t be his first choice, and Taskmaster’s speed wouldn’t counter-act a mental attack, should that happen.

Opting for ultimate safety, Taskmaster decides to play up Roger’s immature quicks, while getting the knife back at the same time. Not that he was worried about the knife, but it would just be one less thing to keep an eye on. He puts his feet up on a neighbouring chair, tipping his own back onto two legs.

“You want to see a trick? Pass me the knife.” Photographic reflexes weren’t only good for fighting; they were also at providing distractions.