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It's Saturday night, and where's Mree? At work. It's not like he has much of a socal life, given everything, but he's not going to complain. He has a job where he is occasionally helpful and where his skin color and extraneous appendage do not offend anybody, so this, in his opinion, is about the best place to be. It doesn't stop him from turning up a little portable radio, the antenna stretching skyward from the third floor balcony, and swaying his hips and tail to the beat of the latest tunes while he dances around a table, taking one piece of paper from this pile, another from another pile, a third from a third pile, stacking them neatly with a smack of their bottom edge on the tabletop before he staples them together with a metallic twang that hits right on the beat and sends him off again on his rounds. One of these days a copier will be made that will collate and staple on its own, but until then Mree's here to staple thousands of informative packets together! And with such flair.
*
Saturday night and where is Jennifer Walters? Living the high life around Manhattan's classiest bars? Hardly. Drinking with a delegation of K-Street lawyers about to investigate the doings of certain state officials? Nope. Instead she stands in front of her desk, staring at an invitation delivered by courier, courtesy of Latveria. She might ignore the banker's box full of casework, files that have been regularly sliced, diced, and prepared for the week's affairs.
The life of a lawyer is not glamorous, no what they tell you in shows and movies.
The seven-foot-tall woman turns and heads through the door, ducking out of habit. Brooklyn isn't built for her scale, but nowhere is. Maybe Asgard. All said and done, she heads into the records room to fish around for another manila envelope indexed in the inscrutable, arcane methods beloved of Lieber. It's always Lieber's fault.
*
A Saturday night is not generally when one would expect to be able to consult with his or her lawyer. They keep banker's hours, after all. But there are those who make themselves an exception to the rules of convention. Those who slink around on rooftops in fantastic costumes are precisely the sort to become such exceptions. When said personage can see inside said law firm from another rooftop to confirm the lawyer in question is in are doubly so. Add being the head of state of a country, and all bets are off; there is no such thing as a regular schedule for such a person.
Hence why there is a soft thump on the roof, some skittering over the rooftop and then down one of the drain pipes. And then a firm knock on the door. Yes, at this hour, a firm knock on the door. Perhaps a bell is rung, if there's a button for such.
Standing outside the door is a very tall - but not quite Jennifer tall - African woman with her hair nearly shaven bald, dressed boldly in black with purple accents. She stands there waiting as if it is the most common thing in the world.
*
The table providing space for Mree's stapling exploits is about equidistant to the records room and to the open doors out onto the balcony where his radio's picking up some good signal, giving him something to caterwaul along with, hitting the chorus with a saucy, "Be my, be my baby… my one and only baby… be my, be my baby…" while his hips pivot left and right and send a whipping motion up through his tail in turn. KLANNNGK! comes a staple, and it's followed by a thump. That wasn't supposed to have a thump come after it. He looks up to the ceiling, then across toward Jennifer when she comes across toward the records room. "I think someone's on the roof," he comments, not sounding at all put off by the prospect, just being informative. He takes a moment to set the packet tidily atop the two hundred and thirty some odd ones he's done so far, then he heads over toward the doors out onto the balcony, where he leans over to see who's ringing the doorbell at this hour. "Oh! Hello!" he waves an arm down toward Queenie. "I'll be right down!" he calls.
*
GLK&H serves the mutant community, those pesky metahumans, and occasional aliens from other dimensions claiming their organic ships told them to take a shortcut where the star path wasn't actually drawn, and bam! Into Earth they crash, all dead. Defense and the occasional precaution for odd visits are necessary, even if it's just stopping an explosive package or kids from spray-painting 'mutie lovers' on the side of the brownstone. Brooklyn has its rough edges. Human purist factions have nasty opinions. Goodman and Lieber have an irradiated woman in a skirt-suit who ought to moonlight holding a tablet and a torch over the intersection to watch what happens.
She steps out from the records room, box in hand. The banging sound will be later to reach her than the first thump, but Mree's warning halts Jennifer in her tracks. "Have you" A pause follows at his excitable reaction. "if that is Victor Doom of Latveria, you will not let him in. Or that man from Stark Industries. The older one; I'll take Tony, but not his father." A look cast around assures the room and the building at large are nearly empty, and that requires a bit of sighing. Time to suit up and be attorney Walters, and she follows Mree towards the door.
*
"That fellow from the conference?" Mree asks about Victor, whom he's heard the members of the Fantastic Four make mention of since their return to the states. "Oh," he sounds moved by the second prohibition, at least. "Mr. Start let me drive his car," he returns, in defense of the elder Stark. "What did he do?" he wonders. Presumably 'to be banned from the offices.' "Anyhow, it's Queen T'Challa!" he bounces along down two flights of steps to open the door for her. "Hello! Miss Walters will be right with you," he smiles, chipper. "Want me to make some coffee? Or get you a soda pop or something?" he asks.
*
The nearly bald African woman nods towards the palely green face that appears over the balcony, and then she waits until the door opens. "Good evening." she offers, that accent of hers as always plainly obvious, but with such clean diction that she's still perfectly understandable in what is surely not her native tongue. "Pardon me for showing up at such an hour. But as it seemed that you and Miss Walters were in, I thought I could perhaps prevail upon a bit of your time?" Yep, as if it's the most normal thing in the world to be peering through the dark at rooftop level into a lit office building to identify those within and then scamper over the rooftop and down the drainspout to say hello. Nothing strange here. Not at all.
Let in, T'Challa follows Mree, and nods to him, only a tiny bit of a smile briefly gracing her lips; her highly expressive face still tends to default to a stoic expressionlessness, which is clearly a defense mechanism. "Water, Mister Mree, if it would not be too much trouble. Thank you." T'Challa doesn't mind coffee, not one little bit. But she's not going to have them brew a pot when neither was drinking it before her appearance. She follows to an appropriate spot and stands, waiting until Miss Walters has time to see her.
*
"The elder Mr. Stark and the partners have very different opinions on the constitutionality of detaining and incarceration of American citizens. I've been working mostly through the Stark Industries lawyers, which is somewhat compounded, all things considered, by my other clients. Notably they are one," Jennifer says in a low murmur for her. Not that there really is a murmur where she is concerned, every word mildly edged in that primordial fear-raising purr that goes straight to the part of the brain that remembers what it is to be afraid in the dark. The slower approach on her part isn't due to being stately but the simple matter one doesn't bound down the stairs when weighing as much as said statue. Property insurance is an important factor here.
Proper order in the world starts with proper introductions and the rest. "Your Majesty," she calls out, still very, oh so green. Her wild hair has at least been tamed, ironed smooth, and still it wants to curl. Let the whole world shriek about black and purple natural texture; hers is the shade of a forest with equally odd highlights, trending the bruised black shade of a plum. "How good to see you again. Vienna seems a lifetime ago, doesn't it? Mree, we can go into the smaller conference room. No need for us to stay in the foyer, unless this is a short social call?"
*
"No trouble at all, Queen T'Challa," Mree answers, waiting just until Miss Walters shows up so as not to leave their guest alone — for courtesy reasons, not out of lack of trust — and then scurrying off to go pour a cup of water, pausing to give a brisk and silent nod with a big smile to Jennifer to affirm he knows where they'll be. It's a small thing, two glasses, three ice cubes each and a pour of water from a pitcher, but he'll also go ahead and put on a pot of coffee while he's back here. It's as if he could sense that Queenie might want some if there was some to be had. And it'll give them time to get settled into the conference room before he comes in with their water.
*
The Wakandan queen offers that tiny grace of a smile towards Jennifer, and gestures her on to follow towards this 'smaller conference room'; having not been to Jennifer's offices previously, she is learning and exploring by doing, it seems. "It is true; Vienna seems a lifetime ago. Thank you, for being able to see me without an appointment at such an hour. I do appreciate the flexibility." And, though she says nothing about it, perhaps her silence on the issue makes a clear point of her appreciation of the unusualness of the staff here. "Please, lead on. You may call me T'Challa, if you wish. I appreciate the respect for my title and my people. But the topic I wish to discuss this evening is, though related, still a matter of myself, rather than advice for Wakanda herself."
When they do arrive in the conference room, T'Challa takes a slow turn around the room, as if settling it in her mind, exploring it before she finds a seat. She thanks Mree for the water when it arrives and is poured, and sips lightly at her glass while she allows for Jennifer to get herself settled; the woman is in a skirt and heels, after all, and T'Challa knows she herself has it easy, 'cheating' in slacks as she is.
"Given your assistance with the police," T'Challa begins, "I thought I might seek your advice and legal understandings on a related matter. With the recent upswell in anti-mutant sentiments, and how that seems to be affecting matters within this City, I am wondering how you see that affecting law enforcement responses to what they are now calling 'costumed vigilantes'. I myself am not a mutant. But I have noticed some I have encountered seem to place little if any distinction between one such as myself, and someone like yourself, or Mister Mree."
*
The staff does not constitute odd, except these two. Perhaps others show weird and strange talents, but for the most part, it's merely the attorney and her lone junior clerk placed into the realms of metahumans. Sometimes it helps for the metahumans to see their own gainfully employed, fighting for the matters applicable to them. Others, it fails to make a dent in the legal system. Sex, as much as race, stirs up heavy discrimination among the old boys who rule the bar, and they are no more enlightened in New York as anywhere else in the United States. "Jennifer, then. Or Jen, as you prefer. I have little need to stand upon the formalities, especially given the hour." Her skirt suit gives her a smart appearance, though the skirt hobbles her steps from lengthy gait to practical. The route straight back around the stairs leads to the cross-shaped intersection, and the conference room in question is a small chamber off the right. Scandinavian preferences for design show here, a certain minimalism.
Being seated anywhere in here, however simple, is going to be tricky. Given her height and proportions, Jen hardly complains at carrying in a chair for herself; she wields it as though it's light as a child's stool when, in fact, it's made of reinforced bars and joints that could tolerate a VW Beetle, if they were even available yet. Setting it down, she settles upon the seat with a creak and an ominous grit of metal. Things could be much worse.
"A related matter with the police. Thank you, Mree, you're very kind." His efforts do not go unnoticed by the attorney, though her attention is squarely on the queen. Queenie. Take your pick. "As far as the law is concerned, at this time there is no distinction between any of us. You take up arms against the law, whether a 15-year-old boy or a twenty eight hundred year old denizen of the Null Dimension of Farka'rhz, you are treated much the same. Collateral damage and property damage or legal status as a citizen tend to be the main points of contention. Certain members of the public and government are working to change that, of course, bringing in recognition for metahumans. And many proposed bills winding their way through Congress or state houses aren't good."
*
The small vinous whiskers which dangle from Mree's jawline rise and curl in joy when Jennifer thanks him for bringing in the water. He appreciates her appreciation, that's for sure. He sets out the Queenie's cup before her, first, and then one for his boss. He murmurs a gentle little you're-welcome, nothing to disrupt the conversation between the two. Yes, it's true, he gets lumped in which those who damage property and take up arms. But he's never taken up an arm in his life, nor put on a costume, nor even vigil'ed one -lante. He's got a tail, though, and that counts for a very great deal, somehow. He's very glad to have a real job, and he does his best with it. An example for the community, if anyone were looking. But they're not. The best he can claim to be doing for people like him is to put on a show of subserviance and compliance for the people of Brooklyn, to inure them to a population who looks different to them but proves consistently good-natured and harmless. And, of course, stapling and filing and making coffee for the good people here at Goodman & Lieber. Who do much more important things for the community. "There's also a pot on if either of you'd care for a cup of something stronger," he adds, mutedly, by way of an offer.
*
T'Challa listens quite attentively as Jennifer settles in and discusses the point in question, nodding intermittently as something Jen says hits a high point of recognition or enlightened understanding of others' motivations. "Obviously, then, my own position as foreign head of state with diplomatic immunity affords me a greater latitude than most would or will enjoy." Already, T'Challa has pretty much gotten away with murder, and she knows it. She did what she felt was right and necessary, and she doesn't regret her actions. But she knows that having owned up to it, attaching it firmly to herself, her persona as Queen T'Challa, has affected the efforts of international relations. She is quite well aware that it will continue to do so.
"I am not so used to this view Americans have of those who are different or exceptional." T'Challa comments. "In Wakanda, those with talents and gifts are praised and welcomed, encouraged to find ways to use their talents to benefit themselves and all of Wakanda. This upswell of fear and intolerance …" She does not finish the statement, but clearly it bothers her. Whether or not her counsel is wise enough to realize how it is affecting T'Challa, or what might it be motivating her to consider is an open question.
"Thank you kindly, Mree." T'Challa offers when he softly mentions the coffee. She does not ask for any; not yet, at least. But clearly she too appreciates his efforts, and is well-mannered enough to make a point of showing that appreciation to the young man himself.
*
"Yes, you obtain a higher degree of protection thanks to the proposed accords. On the other hand, Americans are notoriously touchy about foreign leaders wandering around on their soil like they own the place or disregard the sovereign laws." Jennifer holds up a hand, unless she should be misconstrued in purpose. Her long fingers brush under her jaw, the pristine lines of her statuesque frame bundled up in a pretty wrapping and bow, but still implicitly full of violence and perfected wrath. It might make her calm, steady language and reasoned considerations all the more jarring by comparison. "Only a caution given our history. I would be very much hesitant to pursue a course of action with your fallback being 'I am a leader, you cannot stop me.' It will upset quite a few people who otherwise have no opinion on you, because I fear most of them couldn't tell you where Wakanda is or why it matters. They might think you are from somewhere outside Phoenix."
Mree's offer of coffee seems a fair thing, and she nods; this is her home turf. "Do you want any of those cookies I baked? Chocolate chip and macadamia nut for the others." A box of them practically poisons the air with temptation in her office, a reason why she might be outside of it. Otherwise Shulkie becomes Cookie Monster, OMNOMNOMNOM.
"This upswing in fear follows a number of trends. Growing media coverage and general awareness among the populace they aren't alone. Mutants raised as regular people discovering they are subject to harm, and disregarded by the very laws and protectors — police, especially — who used to guide them. Jobs and housing shut off to them. It mirrors the civil rights movement, where people of colour and other minorities are struggling to be recognized and treated the same as the majority. As the daughter of a police chief, I understand the difficult balance. As a lawyer, I insist the laws must lead the way to maintain an orderly, safe society inclusive to all. As this lovely green girl in front of you, I'm really not likely to listen to some yahoo waving a shotgun around saying I don't belong on this planet. So we have mutual interests, there."
*
Mree beams mildly, eyelids half-shrouding his warm hazel gaze in a contented expression. He waits just long enough to hear whether he should bring cookies, then is skirting his way out of the room, body first, then all eight feet of tail raking against the doorjamb. It's not as fluffy as the last time T'Challa saw it, the feathery white fluff having gone away and left a sleek green surface behind. Jennifer herself is no doubt accustomed to his cyclical sprouting and shedding of the stuff by now. He'll go check on the coffee, first, then go fetch cookies, if required.
*
T'Challa frowns thoughtfully, nodding as she listens to Jennifer, clearly considering the implications of her words. She does not speak up right away, either, but mulls over the concept of discussion for a bit before responding again. "Unfortunately, I am the leader of my own people, and that requires me to take certain actions to protect my people, my country and our interests, regardless how those may be perceived by others. I have no desire to engender ill will or war. But I cannot afford to shirk my duties, either." And it doesn't help that even in the US State Department, most diplomats honestly have never heard of Wakanda, let alone have any idea why they should pony up and work with Wakanda on a matter of international importance.
"I had no real intention of becoming a costumed vigilante in this country. Your laws, your society, is your business. I am here merely to seek to improve and complete my education, and perhaps to build connections with some in the world beyond our borders to help facilitate my country's goals in the future." T'Challa explains. "But having remained here as I have, I have seen how the people are treated, here. Women, certainly, and those of African descent. And I must say there is a limit to the injustice I am capable of witnessing without taking action."
*
To be fair, the US State Department is full of people who are confounded about the location of Rhodesia and those changing maps full of colonial jigsaws being cut up out of the developing parts of the world. Jennifer is not going to crow over her own cookie baking talents by eating the entire box in a go, her nightshade lips better suited towards hiding behind a cup of coffee rather than exposing the sharp edges of canines and a baited smile. But the temptation is there, even if she might inadvertently end up patting that tail of her junior assistant sort's. "There is a limit to how much one can take. However, our society's foibles and mistakes are the product of many years. Change comes. Sometimes it comes rapidly and sometimes slower. What are you anticipating? Are your actions bound to take a further stand against the perceived inequalities in a different form?"
*
Mree slips back into the kitchen and looks to the purring coffeepot with some fondness. He lowers tail to the floor and pushes up off of it with a gentle hop that seats him on the counter next to the pot itself while he pokes around in the cabinets up top for a container of sugar and two mugs. He doesn't know what Queenie might like in her coffee, if anything, so he'll gather together all the needfuls while the coffee brews and the Queen and Lawyer talk. "Be my, be my baby," he sings lightly to himself, almost on tune, while he puts things together.
*
T'Challa considers Jennifer carefully, with the stoic calm she seems to project almost constantly. "The inequalities I have seen, in sharp contrast as they are to the overall greater freedoms and liberties of the perceived top-tier citizens in this society rather than in others I have seen around the world, even our own in Wakanda, are disturbing. I have felt … drawn? Drawn towards taking action here, in a country not my own, to stand up to these injustices." These words coming from a woman who took on two whole cars full of armed mercenaries, all to kill one man. And she succeeded and escaped relatively unharmed. Imagine what she could do to a cop who decides someone has been driving while black.
T'Challa pauses, and glances past Jennifer's shoulder, head tilting slightly in a rather feline mannerism, tuning into something else for a bit, before turning her head to once more focus on the emerald-hued lawyer.
*
Jennifer has her coffee, eventually, and that will make the world perfectly. Mree is probably well aware she drinks it in any form, in horrifying quantities, in proof that her metabolism can burn through damn near anything regardless of temperature. He can deliver it heated from a volcanic caldera and she will down it as if there's no tomorrow because there are benefits to being as green as he is, a jade jotuness.
"You see an opportunity to lead by example, or at least introduce a different kind of thinking, if I hear you right," she chooses her words with judicious care. It cannot hurt to that. "What happens when you encounter resistance? It will happen. It already does. How do we lead responsibly and bring about change in a way that does not cause complete disorder? Because the fears of vigilantism stem from that, the breakdown in the way society operates when we go outside the laws. Yes, the laws aren't perfect and they have a lot of areas that are still new and nebulous. These don't change overnight. Believe me. I get a mouthful of slurs whenever I go into a courtroom when just my regular self, and I can't imagine a bailiff or a judge will like me like this. If I try to litigate or act as prosecution, the defense will motion for my dismissal from the case for intimidating the jury." That brief sudden flash of a smile is more than scary. Without even trying, it embodies the pitiless view of a volcano, a glacier.
*
Mree has heard his share of slurs, himself. But they never seem to phase him much. Maybe that's why he's never thought to fight against it in more violent wise. It rolls off of him, as water off a duck's back, the words, the looks, even the stones he gets hurled in his direction. Bruises fade, but his chill is eternal. And coffee takes time to make a good pot, so Miss Walters will have to wait. He swings his legs a moment or two, continuing to sing as he collects the paraphernalia. Then, with a thought, he disappears with a POFF that echoes through the halls of the mostly-empty law-firm. Another POFF sounds when he turns up in Jennifer's office and takes some cookies in a napkin and walks them back downstairs. By the time he struts back downstairs with them, the coffee's ready to pour into a tall carafe, and he arranges the cookies tidily on a tray with a bit of milk from the fridge, the ceramic container of sugar with the bitty spoon, the two mugs. Tray in one hand, carafe in the other, he sways sinuously through the corridors, opening doors with his hips as he slides inconspicuously back in and sets out the tray and carafe.
*
T'Challa nods, accepting Jennifer's premise, even if her own words give a more 'direct approach' as her motivation of the moment. "That is the question that arises. I do not believe I could bring myself to ignore such injustices before me. I feel that these attitudes should, must change. At home, I would simply issue an edict, and if others chose to object to the edict, their redress would be to challenge me for leadership of the Panther Cult and the country." And given T'Challa has emerged victorious - the first woman to EVER do so in the storied history of Wakanda - one can imagine she would fight rather hard to make sure she remained victorious in such a case. "But while here, the problem seems the opposite. I have no desire to declare war upon the law enforcement organs of this country, nor upon any of its citizens. But like as not, I agree with the philosopher. All that is necessary for evil to emerge victorious is for good folk to do nothing in the face of that evil."
"Thank you again, Mree." T'Challa offers when he appears with the cookies and coffee. She will take a few moments, rather than belabor her own point, to take up a cup and pour herself some of the coffee. She does not bother with sugar or milk, but inhales deeply from the heated mug between her hands, and then sips slowly, relishing the flavor. She'll probably grab a cookie soon, but not quite yet.
*
"We unfortunately like to say the opposite of progress is Congress." Old joke, but no less accurate today than it was twenty years ago. Jennifer sits back in the chair, and she rests her hands in her lap. "Objecting here involves many different instruments. We have a good many people who might be up to dueling for control and presidency, but I rather prefer voting." Maybe because her particular advantage might net her something like Secretary of the Interior or a vice presidency, if only because what is anyone going to throw at her which particularly hurts? "But redressing the issues goes through courts. It goes through the media, the court of public opinion. That might be where you want to focus your efforts, if you're looking for suggestions. Court the fourth estate, who can push or shove opinions much better than any one politician ever can. People here read and think, they certainly appreciate different points of view. I think that's unfortunately where we have to start with. Or a full-scale invasion by a pile of aliens giving us all the chance to show we can hold our own with any other citizen, but I might be tempting fate a bit suggesting that's a good idea. It probably isn't."
*
Mree smiles sweetly at the Queenie, giving her a girlish flutter of eyelashes in gratitude for her recognition. They seem all set, here, so he's going to slip out again unless they task him otherwise. He's got stapling upstairs to finish. Or he'll just dance by himself in the entry hall, humming that song he's got stuck firmly in his head by now.
*
Something quiet and dark glitters in T'Challa's deep brown eyes as she listens to Jennifer speak, something about her even joking mention of an alien invasion as a unifying force sparking something dangerous within the depths of this young monarch. Yet she clearly holds herself back, not allowing herself to give an expression or words to voice her feelings about this. Instead, she waits a bit and then offers, "Then you think I should become a more public figure, and use that as a platform to court the media and press for the world to hear the message of my opinions on these matters?" It all seems so terribly roundabout to T'Challa. She would much prefer to leave a dirty or racist cop dangling from a lightpole with a paw print burnt into his chest as a message to others. But she's at least listening and considering. Right?
*
Jen nods to the suggestion, and says, "Think about it. Those who go behind the scenes making changes often do so for good reason. Others don't. They are hard to tell apart, and the police or the rest of the city won't know whether a blue outfit or a black outfit means anything. The bad guys do not helpfully wear their flag on their chests anymore, they often fail to have any sort of way to tell them apart from the general populace. Fear already abides in the streets because it gains a cradle where distrust grows. We can't wipe that away." She swishes her hand from side to side. "Someone speaks badly about a mutant, putting them away or punching them through a wall fixes nothing. It only reaffirms the opinions and biases they have, rather than showing another path, and if nothing else ours is an adaptable species. I think that you would be best taking a direct role rather than an indirect one, and trying to pursue a policy of showing what good you can do by reasonable and open means instead of doing it in the dark, yes." She puts her hand on the table and stands, no doubt happy to sniff out that coffee. A whole pot. "Mree, would you like to share your thoughts and entertain our guest? I do need to make sure some of those files are put back. If Phoebe can't find them in the morning, Mr. Lieber will be distressed."
*
Jennifer has disconnected.
*
Mree peeks back in when he's called. He very nearly volunteers to go tend to the files himself — he knows where everything goes up on the third floor — but how often does a guy get to hang out with an actual Queen person? He slips back in, midway betwixt giddy and shy. "I don't know. I mean, I guess it makes sense for people to be afraid. Things are changing quickly, and it's hard to have a real sense of security if you don't hardly know which end goes up anymore," he offers in his mild, prim little Londoner's accent. "I try to have patience and to put myself in their shoes, if I can." A pause, and a big grin, "Which isn't to say I'm a shoe thief," he laughs at his own not-that-funny joke.
*
T'Challa listens to Jennifer, and says nothing, though despite her silent stoicism, her eyes say more than she likely wants them to, and she remains silent and largely unexpressive as she listens then to Mree tell his perspective and feelings on the matter. She offers a nod towards Mree. "Thank you kindly, Mister Mree, for sharing your thoughts. Please, thank Miss Walters for her time. I am sure I will have more questions, but it can wait for another time. Have a good evening." She finishes her black coffee, and sets the cup back on the tray where she found it as she arises and prepares to head out. "Good night. And good luck with your collating."
*
Mree does his best. He's not an educated man, but he offers what he can, and smiles kindly to the Queenie when she takes her leave. He'll tidy up, but later. "Thanks, Queen T'Challa," he tells her, going to open the door for her, then to follow her out and do the same for the main doors. This way he can make sure everything's locked up again for the night. "Heh! I don't think it'll cause me any trouble. I hope to see you soon. G'night!"