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If Slate was unlucky enough to miss out on any opportunities to spot a youma in its natural environment, he was at least lucky enough to have a close encounter with a Negaverse lieutenant in the wild.

The night was young, by Quartz's reckoning -- hours till last call, yet -- and he was only halfway through his energy collection, the club he usually frequented being rented out for the night for a private event. He'd considered trying to get in -- as Lazarus, he thought he might be able to swing it -- but he doubted the private event was the kind where he could easily blend in in his lieutenant's uniform. It didn't exactly scream Rich Kids' After Prom Party.

He wasn't too keen on draining kids on prom night, anyway. It was a good night to be at your best, in case someone with you wanted to do something unsafe.

Instead he'd been collecting his energy catch-as-catch-can, snagging a little from this passerby here and that one there. He'd expected nothing additional, walking in a shortcut through the park -- and was surprised to find a person there, sitting all casual on a park bench like he was waiting to feed pigeons.

Quartz quirked his head. "Might want to make yourself scarce," he recommended. "Cops're cracking down on drug dealers these days. This time of night, hanging out in the park, you look like an easy collar. You waiting for someone?"

Quartz snorted. "Nothing in this world is pure. Youma dust least of all." This was some kind of code, obviously -- but not one Quartz particularly knew. Was this a fellow Negaverse agent, not powered up for some reason? A knight, maybe, or a sailor scout? Why out himself as being party to knowledge of the war when he wasn't in a position to defend himself?

A test, maybe. Like with Stroud's cousin. A weird scenario to see what Quartz would do, how he'd adapt.

Training suggested he should consider this a potential liability situation -- that he should wrap his fingers around this young boy's starseed and flood it with Chaos energy till he warped into a youma. Morals, however faintly, recommended against that course of action . . . and fortunately wisdom did as well. If this really was just some joe schmo, he'd become a youma, but he was also not much of a danger -- lots of reasons someone could've heard the word youma or become aware of the war that weren't necessarily red flags. If, on the other hand, there was a senshi or a knight behind the mask -- if they powered up and outranked Quartz, they'd easily mop the floor with him, and he didn't have access to teleportation to cut his losses. That would've been a stupid risk.

There were other approaches.

"Me?" he said nonchalantly, propping a foot on the edge of the bench and leaning his weight on his knee. "Nah, I've got an in with the fuzz -- ex-girlfriend who's still obsessed with me. What's your name, junkie?"

"Slate," Quartz echoed quietly, testing out the name. "Not usually what you see on a birth certificate, tradition or no tradition." He toyed with one of the rings on his left hand, spinning it in circles. It was a soothingly repetitive motion, the metal shaped smooth and soft. "I'm called Quartz," he offered. "Also like the rock -- not like the, ah, unit of measurement. Though, honestly, if that's what floats your boat, go for it. It's not like I'll know the difference."

He studied the seated boy. There was no outward evidence of an actual junkie -- nothing telltale or subtle. He just seemed . . . curious. Intense. Maybe a little demented, considering the circumstances.

"What's your poison, then, Slate? You looking to get blank, or to fill yourself up? You want to see pink elephants on parade, or stop seeing them?"

Quartz hissed a breath outward, utterly displeased by this development. This little s**t was sitting around not because he was something normal, something regular, like a junkie -- he was here, hanging out like an idiot in the park, because he was hoping to just spontaneously develop magical powers? Quartz stared for a few seconds -- just stared, gobsmacked. Then, with nothing else for it, he stepped away from the bench, turned on his gold-booted heel, and started to walk away. He was absolutely not doing this.

He made it about fifteen steps.

Then he turned back.

Quartz stopped when he was standing over Slate, looming irritably. "Let me give you some advice," he said sharply, no more hint of casualness or good humor in his tone. "And listen closely to it, because I can promise it's the best advice anyone's going to give you in this bullshit town.

"Don't make friends. Don't make enemies. Don't go looking for youma or powers or leprechauns or whatever it is you think turns all this from a nightmare back into a pleasant dream with a happy ending. Take the people you love, pack up your stuff, and get the hell out of this city. Go to California . . . whatever. Leave. Get as far away as you can. And don't ever come back."

Quartz saw fear -- his own fear, reflected back at him in this young, delicate face. The kid was afraid . . . well, good. Some fear would do him some good, if it motivated him to listen.

There were no safe places in Destiny City. No friends worth having were capable of protecting you, and the people capable of protecting you weren't friends you wanted. The only way out was out -- and fast.

If he took Quartz's advice even slightly, he'd be better off for it. Quartz felt sure of it.

"You're safer during the day," he said. "Stay off the streets at night -- don't do anything as idiotic as this again. Lock your doors, and don't get chatty with strangers."

He leaned away, but didn't step back. "Give me your hand," he instructed in a way that indicated this wasn't really a request.

It would, Quartz hoped, come as a lesson of some kind. He fixed the redhead with a look. Quartz's own long fingers closed around Slate's, one hand holding his hand to steady it, the other ghosting down to rest against the inside of his forearm. "I don't plan to hurt you. My consulting fee," he explained, shifting his fingers a little to start the flow of energy between Slate's wrist and Quartz's light fingers. He had a quota to meet, after all. And miles to go before I sleep.

"Hold still," he cautioned, intending on drawing enough energy to leave the younger man exhausted, but still able to get to his feet and make it home. "Otherwise I'll pin you down and take what I need anyway. People like you are chattel to people like me. Don't forget that."

Quartz favored Slate with his best sneer. This required less acting on his part than some interactions did, but it was still work -- in fact, it felt like more effort to push his genuine emotions to the fore than it would have to make up something fake. "You wouldn't like my pimp," he promised, straightening up and backing away a few steps again. "She drives a hard bargain. I doubt you could afford me, junkie."

The energy sphere was sizable; he curled it into his side pocket where it was visible at his hip, but secure.

"Don't get smart with people," he recommended harshly. "You're not smart. You're a ******** dumbass. Always remember that. Internalize it. Say it to yourself before you go to bed, and again when you wake up. 'I'm ******** stupid. I am a cockroach scuttling between shadows, trying to eat and ******** and not die. I hope I don't do anything ******** stupid to get myself killed today.'"

He swept out a hand to gesture away from the park bench, back toward the street. "Now get a move on, Sleepy, the other six dwarves are all in bed. Next time I catch you clogging up the park with your bullshit youma ideas, there won't be any helpful consultations."