Pi is to Pie As Rue is to Rupert (Open Spectator)

There was a small washing machine in Rupert's apartment, able to take about a 40 liter load. It was tucked into the closet next to his bathroom. It lurched and shuddered and growled, as its locked lid buckled under the force of the monster inside.

James Delray was sitting on an arm of Rupert's couch, staring down the hallway. He was wearing a pair of boxers and a white shirt, borrowed from Rupert's closest. There was a small gnash over his right eye, freshly washed and newly scabbed. The way he was holding his steaming coffee, the way he was looking down the hall, he looked a little like a kid waiting for the monster to come and get him.

Tink.

The cheerful noise of a glass fragment dropping into an empty can of tomato soup. Less mess than dropping it into the sink, easier to dispose of then dropping it into the plastic trash bag. Rupert stood in the bathroom in his own boxers and shirt, using a pair of tweezers to extract the last of the translucent shrapnel from his right arm. All and all, not bad for an early morning's work. They'd done the hit neatly, on the back road the woman always took on her commute; it was well outside of the city, and ideally deserted. It was amazing how many people would pull over for you, if you were dressed sharply and looked like you knew what you were flagging them over for. The fact that they both still carried themselves like cops helped.

Glass Manipulator

A clean shot. She'd looked surprised, but in a surreal way; like she expected candid camera to be filming from down the trees. A sort of half-smile had come to her face through the rolled-down window. "Is this a jo-?"

Cough, the sound of a silenced gun.

Killer of Hernando Gonzales, human, age 47.

Self-defense does not justify murder.

The backlash of her powers had been weak, and without control; it made him wonder if even a shot to the head wasn't instantly fatal. The glass in her car had shattered; a few shards had flown outwards, but most had simply collapsed down. Rupert's gun arm had gotten the most damage. None of the little shards was dangerous, but they all hurt like a--

"Son of a--!"

Tink.

"You need help in there, Rup?" James called out, over his cup of well-earned coffee, as the washer growled and lurched.

"Shove it, James."

"How long until the clothes are done? I've got a job interview at one. My wife thinks I'm there already."

The facet ran, as Rupert washed the angry red dots off of a multitude of pinprick wounds. He ran a hand over his skin; flexed the arm. That seemed to be all of them. "Don't you have another dress shirt you can pick up from your house? Just grab some of my junk clothes to wear over there."

"Yeah. That's great, thanks. Except that my wife is home with strep, Rup, and it's a little hard to explain walking in the house with another man's clothes on." He stood up, and started heading down the hall to Rupert's bedroom. "I'm going to borrow something else. I can't be late for this."

"Yes, you can borrow something. Thanks for asking," Rupert called. "Toss something on the bed for me, would you? I've got that contest at Central Park, soon."

James stuck his head out the door, hopping slightly as he got his other leg through a pair of beige trousers. "Are you seriously still doing that, Rup?" His voice changed, imitating that of a high-class butler: "Would you like a little pie with those flesh wounds, monsieur? We also have a fine sherry, vintage 1783..." He disappeared again, to rummage for a shirt. One with a high-collar, to hide the last traces of a fading bruise around his neck. Near-strangulation: it wasn't pretty. Explaining it to your wife: priceless. He'd gone with 'vicious mugger that had gotten what he had coming'. She'd bought it. New love was great like that.

"Of course I'm still doing it." Rupert growled, pressing a paper towel against his arm to help the little wounds clot. "It's called a hobby, James. You should get one."

"Yeah," James reappeared, straightening a blue tie. "I can tell that having one's done wonders for you."

---

It was the Second Annual "Pi is to Pie as..." Amateur Pie Baking Contest to benefit the New York City Public School System, and Rupert wouldn't have missed it for his own grave. He'd been looking forward to this ever since he'd pre-registered for it, over a month ago. This was exactly what he needed. This was a day--or an afternoon, at least--without having to worry about the freaks. This was all about the baking. This was the cure to high blood pressure. It was better than any tropical vacation or night on the town; this, friends, was how a real man relaxed. Never mind that most of the contestants were female, gray-haired, and cheerfully rotund.

His own baking spot for the day was next to one of those rare like-minded men. He sensed a kindred spirit, even before he sat down. The day was a pleasant heat wave, setting winter back into early fall, temperature-wise; the sun was pounding on the top of the canvas tent, and lighting up the inside. James just didn't understand what he was missing. The man in the sunglasses clearly did. He set his paper bag of pre-selected ingredients next to his plastic chair. He knew what he'd be cooking.

>> "Hi… I’m Luke Jacobs. I’m beginning to think I’m a little out of my league. Did you do this last year?”

"Rupert Kelley." He offered the man his hand before he actually took his seat; there was an innocuous band aid over the back of it. He was wearing a casual pair of jeans, and a long-sleeved gray shirt. Light enough so that, even with the warm weather, he wouldn't have to roll those sleeves up.

"I didn't do this one last year, but I've done some of these through the church circuit. Trust me--don't worry about being in anyone's league. Just bake. The rest will take care of itself."

"What about you--have you competed before? What draws you to the amateur baking scene?" He asked that last question with an honest, good-humored grin.

It was a gorgeous day outside. Too cool to go without a coat, but warm enough that the coat didn't have to be buttoned up. As was often the case, Sebastian had his small summoning device attached to his hip, supposedly it would beep if he was needed back at the infirmary. He walked out of the Sanctuary and turned towards the park. It was one of the only green places in the city, and one of his favorite places to stroll.

The park was much busier than normal, and a large section of it was corded off and guarded by uniformed officers that looked to be on edge. Was it just him, or did their uniforms look rather bulky, like they might be wearing some sort of armor underneath the top layers of matching clothing? He could have sworn that at least one of the uniformed officers gave him a funny look as he passed, as if he wasn't quite welcome to be walking in this public place. Or as if his horn and tail were unwelcome. Such glances were not uncommon these days. The unicorn man wondered what on earth they could be guarding when he walked around a bend and saw a large striped tent rising above the trees.

Workers in button down shirts and colorful smocks were taking tickets and money at several entrances to the roped off areas. A sign by each entrance read “Second Annual Pi is to Pie as... Amateur Pie Baking Contest”. It also proclaimed that tickets were a mere five US dollars and that all proceeds were to go directly to the New York City Public School System. It seemed like a worthy cause, and Sebastian was curious to see what was hidden within the colorful circus tent, so he paid for a ticket and wandered his way through bustling people toward the central attractions under the canvas canopy.

There were all sorts of interesting things to look at, from vendors selling special pie plates to a pushy man trying to get everyone in sight to order a copy of the book publishing the winners' recipes. There was a table stacked high with every kind of ingredient imaginable for the contest, and there were lots of chairs were spectators could sit and watch the chefs in action. The chefs themselves each had a station with all of the devices they would need to make their pies. Sebastian wondered if there would be samples later as he found himself a seat between two matronly women in a row that faced two of the younger candidates, both male. One of them had short brown hair and wore sunglasses, even indoors, while the other had curly black hair and an eyebrow ring. They were both kind of cute, though if he had to chose between them, the one with the interesting piercings was probably more his type. He was always fell for the curly haired ones, and this particular one had such a carefree and pleasant looking face.

The conversation between Luke and Rupert had dropped to a rather comfortable silence. They were two men that had similar opinions and could enjoy competing against each other with no hard feelings developing. If Luke lost, at least he was losing to a man that cared about the art of baking and he was sure that Rupert would feel the same way.

"Welcome contestants and spectators to the second annual "Pi is to Pie as..." Amateur Baking Contest!" A female voice rang through the tent from where she had grabbed the microphone where Rupert had observed her standing a few moments earlier. Immediately a smattering of applause filled the air as she continued to speak. "It is an honor to have so many skilled amateur chefs here under one roof. The rules are simple... bake the best pie you can in an hour and a half. After the pies are done our judges were move through and score each pie on appearance, taste, and originality."

It was a standard rule set and none of the competitors should have been surprised... after all, the information had been clearly stated on all the fliers that had been spread out over the city for the past month. Remaining in his chair in a rather relaxed post Luke waited... his sonar had been pulled in tightly so that it wouldn't disturb any of the other competitors. He wasn't out to get any unfair advantages after all.

"Now... if all the cooks will stand and get ready, we can begin!"

Rising to his feet Luke walked forward to his preparation table and just waited. Extending the sonar just far enough so that he could 'see' the full table he mentally prepared himself. More than likely all the other contestants would be rushing to get their main ingredients so instead of having to fight through the crowd he would focus on getting his pecans chopped and his semi-sweet chocolate squares beginning to melt. After the crowd cleared he would head over to get the ingredients for his crust and the other major components for his pie.

"On your mark... get set... BAKE!"

Appearance, taste, and originality. Standard enough. Rupert cracked his neck as the announcer spoke. He surveyed the competition. A few faces, he recognized: there was Sandra Francis, three time survivor of a stroke, with her gray hair cut so short it might as well be an army buzz. There was Tracy Hughes, sophomore in high school, who had two sisters and five brothers, all of them picky eaters. And there was Mrs Jenkins, with her spatula. The bulging bag at her feet told of an apple pie; her specialty. The spatula wasn't used in cooking. The spatula was used in what came next:

>> "On your mark... get set... BAKE!"

Only the unwise or the inexperienced rushed the ingredients table in that first moment. The rest, like Rupert, waited until after that spatula had gotten the first pick. A man learned a lot, on these baking circuits. He'd had a welt on the back of his hand for a week after his first encounter with Mrs Jenkins.

After she was back at her station--and only after--did Rupert rush the table like an undignified puppy. Yeah, he had time to wait for the initial rush to die down; his pie was a fast cooker. Yeah, there wasn't any real rush to pick up ingredients; the organizers hovered nearby, ready to restock anything that had gone out. But honestly, why wait? Half the fun of these competitions was quick-drawing ingredients out of the hands of people you'd baked against before. Baking wasn't just a hobby, and it wasn't just an art: it was an Old West showdown. May the best woman--or man--be left standing at the end, with the blood of filling on their hands.

He took an elbow to the ribs, but he escaped with everything he needed in one go; eggs, sugar, milk, vanilla, cream of tartar, chocolate of the semisweet variety; he unceremoniously deposited the heap at his station, then ambidextrously sorted it into an order clear to anyone familiar with his recipe: filling layers to the left; crust front and center; toppers off to the right. From his personal bag came one of the three ingredients he himself had brought: a package of Oreos. The recipe had originally called for chocolate graham crackers. The recipe had originally called for a lot of things. Let's just say that the recipe was back in its book, and Rupert was here. He emptied the Oreos into a plastic bag, and--with a certain content set of his eyes--took a rolling pin to the top of it. Let the pie crust begin.

As he rolled the cookies into crunchy submission, he cast a question to the next station over; "So what do you do for a living, Luke?"

Coraline had been wandering the edge of the park for a few minutes now. She was dressed in a long green wintercoat that accented her eyes. She'd stolen in from a children's department store a few days ago. It wasn't that Coraline considered herself a theif... it was just freezing out and she couldn't go to any shelters without being placed in the care of children services- or so she'd found out the first time she'd gone.

It was easy to bypass theft detectors if you could simply teleport out of a store. There wasn't even a chance for an alarm to go off. Her porting had come in handy getting out of the fat lady's office for childrens services as well.

Since then she'd been taking to porting into people's garages, attics, and spare rooms. She was a light sleeper and could easily port away whenever she heard a noise. She'd often patrol the neighborhood looking for places that would be suitable for sleeping. Occasionally she'd hit the park and watch for big families... people she could follow home and port to their fridge when they were sleeping. Big families tended to have more food and weren't so supcious when it went missing. She might like the cooking at a specific household and stay for a while.

She wasn't ever really all that worried about getting caught. Even if she did she could port away, she could port away from jail as far as she cared too. But she couldn't just go into someone's house and steal a coat someone was using. Enter the department store. It wouldn't be missed and they could write it off.

She was happy with the coat, as winter was setting in it was keeping her warm. There wasn't much snow in New York but it could get seriously chilly.

On this particular stroll through the park Coraline picked up a wafting smell. Clutching her little purse in her hand she followed the smell until it led her to a large group of people. It only took her a few minutes to understand this was a contest. It even triggered a small memory of her mother baking pie which excited her even more.

She surveyed the people and mapped out her plan of squeezing through unnoticed to get to the front for a better view. After a bit of squirming and "excuse me, pardon mes" Coraline was able to get relatively close to the competition. It smelled mouth watering. Pie. She loved pie. All sorts of pie. Her stomach agreed as it gurgled loud enough for those close by to hear. The child blushed embaressed hoping no one noticed.

Pie was something she'd never taken from a fridge, It would always go noticed. People always knew exactly how many pieces of left over pie or cake their was. She'd start an argument and perhaps a lock on the fridge if people were extreme so Coraline never took pie. She couldn't remember the last time she ate it.

She decided to stick around. Maybe this contest needed an official taste-tester of pie. She was pretty good at knowing good pie from bad pie. Afterall, Mum's lemon pie always trumpted daddies awful experimental meat pie. Oh! Another memory. That settled it. If at least only for the small memories she was regaining Coraline was sticking around.

Hey, if she was lucky maybe they'd be giving out pie when it was over!

Rupert heard the quick, even chops of Luke's knife; it didn't take turning his head to know that the man was fairly competent. It was no surprise--the only thing rarer in these competitions than a male competitor was an amateur male competitor. The ones who didn't have both guts and skills usually just stared from the sidelines, pretending they'd only wandered in to see what was going on. Witness exhibit B: the man in the purple business suit. Rupert shot a slight grin his way as the guy watched the Oreo-crushing process with fascinated attention. He promptly started walking again, his mask of feigned disinterest back in full force. Somewhere nearby, a little girl's stomach growled like a bear. Rupert left his crust crumbs in their bag for the moment, and started his pudding. Chocolate pudding: the first layer.

>> "I help manage my family's security company. My Uncle does most of the work but I try and help at least a little."

His attention drifted slightly as he stirred, following the course of the horned freak across the tent to Mrs. Jenkins' table. Good riddance. He nodded distractedly as Luke excused himself off to his own ingredients run. A less observant individual might have noticed by now that his fellow competitor was blind. Rupert, however, was like a focused hawk: as his ingredients came together and he set the pudding to cooking, he saw that the freak had turned its attentions on the little girl with the loud stomach. Now just what would a man with a horn want with her? He pulled a block of white Godiva chocolate out of his own ingredients bag, beginning the prep for layer two as the pudding cooked, dividing his attention between what the unicorn wannabe wanted with the kid and what he was actually doing. Part of that attention went back to Luke, as he spoke again.

>> "So what do you do Rupert? Obviously you're not a homebody or student like so many of the other competitors."

"Ah, no. No, I'm not." He laughed a little, moving to stir the pudding again. "I'm a cop, actually--well, retired. Had one too many run-ins with the muties for my health. I work at a coffee shop, currently." He tried to keep the wince out of his voice. Insomniacs Anonymous was a great shop to hang around, don't get him wrong--he'd just liked it better when he was a customer, rather than an apron boy.

"This is taking so long." Coraline moaned from the front. She had now wormed her way to the very front of the crowd as was leaning over the banister meant to keep the crowd backed up. She tried to make it look effortless but she was pretty small and it required standing on her toes. She leaned her head against her propped up arm.
"Ugh, I need a bath." she told herself. Coraline knew back home in her own time she had sibblings. She didn't know if they were older, youngers, boys, or girls but she knew there were a few and narrating her thoughts out loud was a habit that had stayed with her- she was used to saying all of these things to whichever sibbling was around to hear it. Catching herself doing it while she was alone now was a little sad but strangley comforting at the same time. "...I wonder if I can port to someone's bathroom?" she asked herself currently occupying her thoughts with plans.

The two men closest to her were working away on their pies and talking about boring things. She liked to listen in on people's conversations... she was a bit nosey that way. But nothing they were saying was intersting. The chocolate however was. Coraline loved chocolate.

She pulled at the coat a bit. She was feeling nervous being out in the open so long. She wished she had even a dog or something with her. She was getting used to porting everywhere and not being seen by people. Maybe she should cut and dye her hair to make sure nobody here recognized her? Then maybe she could follow someone home and steal a sleep in an attic. Yep. That's what she would do. It would kill time while she waited for the pie. She'd scope out a family to follow home.