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Tate really wished she hadn't gone and made it known to her boss that she didn't mind doing after-dark deliveries, because she'd get home so much sooner if she hadn't had to turn that last group of receipts in. Especially since dark fell so early now, with the sun setting at four in the afternoon and full dark descending at five. She didn't have access to her powered form any more, and she turned her mind with more than a little annoyance to the apple tree that would be growing back on Avalon. Patience was a particularly Avalonian virtue, and she was trying her hardest to espouse it. The thought of calling Camelot and making him take her to Avalon just to see if the tree was growing at all was tempting.

And growing even more tempting, she thought, as she shifted her backpack, by the moment. It was getting colder every day, and Tate piled on layers like she was turning into an onion--being so tall and so skinny meant she was especially susceptible to cold. That necessitated an undershirt, a turtleneck, a button-down, and then over top of it all another sweater in the same vein as her kitten sweater. It was much less figurative, but the eye-searing burnt orange shade of the cable-knit was especially offensive when paired with the umber accenting.

Winter was the season of ugly thrift-store sweaters, as far as Tate was concerned, and she had three of them with snowmen on them for just that purpose. However, it hadn't yet snowed, making the brown sweater much more appropriate. Or so she'd thought that morning; now, she wished she'd just thrown on her peacoat instead of avoiding the heavy coat for as long as she could. Because damn it, the way home took her through a part of town that didn't shut down until two in the morning, and people were staring.

People were staring, but she hadn't anticipated anyone approaching her, much less out of an alleyway. Tate startled badly, she always had, and when Howlite approached her and spoke she gave a brilliant example of it: She jerked her shoulders up and in and over the course of two long strides set a good three feet between them.

Personal bubble: Established.

The dark eyes--in the light the brownish-gray shade couldn't be accurately distinguished--raked over the blonde woman who had approached her from the toes of her boots to the top of her head, then settled back on the eyes. Might be a Negaverse agent. With those boots, actually, almost certainly. And in the condition Tate was in (physically fine, supernaturally disabled) she was in no place to start a ruckus of any kind. "Hi," she returned, cautiously; there was no answering smile, and Tate was too off-balance to even try to muster up a quirked lip to suggest she just didn't usually smile. This person was... well, possibly a threat. She had no way to tell.

"It is, how did you know," she said, wincing a bit as soon as the sass-fuelled words left her mouth. She'd been lucky with Zinkenite and, okay, she wasn't really worried about him because she could possibly still rely on Wolframite's protection, but this Negaverser was new. "As if you're not going to make something happen to me yourself." This, said into the collar of her sweater, was not exactly a stealthy way of getting her fear out through sarcasm. "But why not, it's not as if I can stop you."

Her eyes narrowed microscopically; Tate was especially gifted that way, having practiced it before she'd developed a minor phobia of mirrors. (One that served her well now, might she note, because of those Dark Mirror senshi.) She didn't know if the stranger had been about to say her name, or if it'd just been a little click of the tongue in a disapproving manner. Tate didn't want to find out, either, for once. Knowing that someone she'd never met knew her name would probably send her bolting, and that was one way to get a predator to single you out. (If the Discovery Channel was to be believed, anyway.) Still, the auburn-girl's grip on her bag was turning white-knuckled with strain.

As ordered, she glanced over to the face, and forced down that butterfly feeling she had begun to associate with Kess. On cue, she flushed a little around the cheekbones; then she shook her head. "Course not," she said, her tone doubtful at best. A fly? No, but civilians weren't flies and neither were any of the people who might come to help a civilian.

"Don't you have something better to do," she asked the night sky, tipping her head back. She couldn't quite keep the resentment out of her tone as she slanted a glance back at the pale-haired possible Negaverser. "Like fighting senshi, or something?"

Tate gave the blonde a very annoyed look that quickly smoothed out into what might be most correctly called a poker face. This poor soul was either a Negaverse agent who thought they were clever... or someone who just had very good taste in boots. (She envied some of the Negaverse their uniforms. Not Wolframite, though, even though she liked his best, because she felt certain that he'd be better off without it.) "That," she said, with some asperity, "is a sensei. Meaning 'teacher'. Senshi means 'soldier', but for some stupid, completely dumbass reason they're called 'sailors'. You can't have been here long without knowing that."

This was why Tate would be the absolute shittiest tutor or teacher in the world.

The stranger's hypothetical elbow bump brought Tate to a complete stop for a moment, and then after the stutter in her step she hopped back into motion, putting some hustle into her steps. Hopefully the blonde woman would get bored before Tate got home, she didn't want to have to walk around the block of her apartment all night. And she didn't want this person to know where she lived. She found herself hoping for senshi interference, and missed having that aura sense of her powered form.

"Sort of," said the brunette begrudgingly. "Bad week. Bad month." How long had it even been? It seemed like a lot longer than two weeks since she'd buried the apple in Avalon's hopefully-fertile soil. Her hands itched for the weight of an apple in her hands, one with no give and an unnatural red sheen. Unfortunately, not even a moment's hard concentration would bring her weapon to hand, and she sighed, abruptly irritated. Or, more than she had been, anyway. "Also, maybe I like being grumpy, or I don't like strangers accosting me, no matter how fabulous their boots are."

She turned red. It wasn't just the cheekbone-blush of before. No, Tate could feel this blush spreading down to her collarbones, over her ears. It turned what had been a nice, comfortable walk into one which was decidedly too warm. If she'd been wearing a scarf she might have adjusted it, but as it was she just bit her lip on any number of protestations. It was not the time to tell a stranger to pull the other leg, was it?

"Basically," she said, once she was back in control of her voice. That predatory smile had sent shivers down her spine and a shudder that was visible in her shoulders, even under all those layers. Clearing her throat, she decided to address another subject entirely. A much safer subject; the subject of the blonde-haired stranger's boots. "They're different," she said. "Unique, I'd say? I don't think I've seen many like them."

Was this a good time to take a gamble of any kind? She considered, chewing her lip and letting her gaze drift to the other side of the street. "I know I haven't seen any like them. Where'd you get them?" If the blonde woman said the internet, Tate might scream. She didn't know if she was that good at controlling herself.

"Sure," said Tate, now that she had swallowed the frustrated noise that had been about to come out of her throat. One hand pressed against her mouth and she was giving her walking companion an irritated glare. Of course they'd say from the internet, what had she been hoping for? An admission of being a member of an evil paramilitary group which desired the swift death of all things good and pure?

Okay, basically yes, that had been what she was hoping for. Obviously she had not gotten it, but she'd hoped. "It's always the internet," she said, clearing her throat and leveling a look at the blonde that said obviously it was always the internet.

What was she even supposed to do now? She shoved her hand into her pocket, adjusted her grip on her bag, and huffed out an irritated sigh. "So what were you doing before you decided you were bored enough to harass a civilian?"