Isaiah closed his eyes and sighed as his partner made his less-than-polite entrance. If he was being honest with himself, Isaiah sort of expected these types of things from Fletcher but the rigid set of manners his parents had drilled into him still shuddered on occasion at his Fletcher's behavior. The Asylums sitting around the table seemed healthy enough. Isaiah didn't recognize any of them right away but they seemed formidable enough. As a sniffer, and a highly trained one at that, he knew better than to judge alchemists on first impression alone. Any one of these small women could easily wield incredible power, but the presence of the tattooed and fierce-looking Asylum settled his uneasiness just a little bit.

When the Gemellie entered the room and the insults began flying, Isaiah did his best to keep his head down and focus on his breakfast. He was pleased that he wasn't singled out for any particular biting remark, not because he couldn't take criticism but because his retorts tended to be intellectual and esoteric; Isaiah found it was best to give no hints as to how intelligent he was. Any strength at all, he felt, should be hidden to encourage underestimating. 

When all the theatrics were through, he rose from his place and followed the other sniffers and hunters to the room where they would plan their next attack. It was time to see how competent his fellow Asylums truly were. He just hoped Fletcher wouldn't make much of a mess. He did very much like ice cream.

Fletcher's sarcastic remark went unanswered, save for the glare from one of the female asylums. Normally he would have allowed that to lead to irritated behavior but Angel and the twerp stalked into the room and began the most textbook display of Narcissistic Personality Disorder Fletcher had ever seen. He had once been forced to become familiar with the DSM-IV in brief stint as a resident at a psychiatric hospital. The kill had been a glorious one - right before the guy's first day of medical school - and taking his place during rounds had been easy enough. The irony of a psychopath treating the mentally ill was not lost on Fletcher. Of course, when he had killed again, he went from impersonating a resident to being an actual patient. That hadn't suited him and his stay was rather short.

He grinned stupidly as some small girl unleashed her tirade against the asshat in the red coat. Fletcher didn't like him. And this girl seemed to think she was putting him in his place. Fletcher liked that. Her mannerisms were most interesting. More importantly, she had talked about shedding tears. Tears were the one thing he just couldn't master. Maybe he could pick it up from her. As soon as the rant ended, Fletcher began to take a step towards her but an announcement for ice cream was made. But only for silencers. 

"Shit fuck! Damn it! Shit on my fucking dick. Why do the silencers get to get ice cream? I'll come up with your plan right here and now little bitch," eyes that were usually calculating even when his face was manic took on a storm of intensity. 

"We go in, see?" Fletcher had transformed into a member of the Italian mob,

"We make'm an offer they can't refuse. We kill every mutherfuckin' king," Fletcher had riled himself into a bit of a frenzy, the veins in his neck standing prominently out against his skin. His breathing had become heavy and and quick. 

"We kill their families and their dogs and their neighbors and their paperboys. Then when their all dead, we take what's ours. WE TAKE BACK WHAT'S OURS BY RIGHT!"

The room stood in silence. Any theatrics that had taken place before paled in comparison to the show this madman was putting on. But as quickly as the rage had come, it departed. The cold, calculative eyes returned and with a stupid smile he put forward, 

"So can I get some of that ice cream now? Ooh and with some of those little crushed up candy bar. That's the good stuff."