I’ll Rue Your Pie (attn: Luke)

Rupert nodded in easy acceptance of Luke's story. "That makes sense, that the security business would be booming during that. Seems like the mutants we didn't catch just got angrier. Did you make any trips to Florida? My parents moved there a few years back. I don't think their Camp had any big issues, that I remember--definitely not to the scale ours had." As a federal law, just about every state had its own version of the Camps. Still, it always seemed like New York got more than its share of troublemakers. The violent freaks attracted each other like flies to a carcass, and it was hard to deny that New York City had been rotting for years. The constant stream of police deaths sure didn't help on that front. That's why Rupert had to do what he did: someone had to cut out the rot, so everyone else could try and survive. As for himself, he'd given up on survival a long time ago. It would be nice if he could remember when. That seemed like something a man should remember.

>> "But since you were there, maybe you can tell me something. Were all of the mutants in the camps criminals? Did they all deserve to be there?"

Luke's candor was a welcome change from the usual reactions he got for admitting he'd worked at the Camps. Freaks and bleeding heart supporters booed him for it; turn coat bandwagon riders shook their heads disapprovingly to try and negate some of the enthusiastic nods they'd given while the Camps were popular; his friends on the force gave him that 'you did what you could' look that never fixed anything. Luke Jacobs here was just accepting it. Some part of Rupert was grateful for that.

He ran a hand through his curly brown hair. "That's one of the things that should have been changed, if the government had actually wanted those places to work. I don't know if you saw the pic--" Pictures. Right. That was a 'no'. "Don't know how much you heard about the inquiry reports afterwards," he changed to, "but it's all true--the abuses, the kids being imprisoned, the damn unnecessary deaths. Those places were set up to fail. The law was made by zealots, enforced by zealots, and supported by mob rule. That's not how the legal system works. It's not how it should work. They turned a good idea into a witch hunt. Some of these freaks are perfectly capable of staying below the radar--some of them even prefer it. Towards the end, the Camps turned into a place to shove every mutant and their cousin; some of the ones that registered voluntarily even ended up getting tossed in. And the only people they hired to work there were--"

Rupert cut off into a short laugh. "--complete zealots," he finished, entirely aware that he was describing himself, now. "They certainly had my number. They just forgot that not all zealots are sadistic sociopaths." Not all the time, anyway. An incident with a coin game and a girl's life reared its head in his memory, but he shoved it to the same corner that he'd shoved a girl with dyed red hair and a voice that could cut a man's soul with ice.

"I did what I could," he repeated, "but there's only so much you can do when most of your co-workers should be off in their own prison." Real guards. That would have been a great start to making the Camps legitimate.

"What's your take on the Registration Act and the Camps?" Rupert turned the conversation back towards the other man. "Do you think it was a horrible idea from the start, or a decent enough idea that got put into place by indecent people?"

And now they were talking. Rupert gave a sharp nod as Luke stated his own opinions on the issue, forgetting that the man couldn't see. Damn straight, that the freaks needed their own prison, and damn straight, their criminals should be every bit as accountable as humans were. More so. The greater the power, the greater the responsibility. They could abuse their abilities all they wanted, but at the end of the day, they had to be held accountable. Rupert would see to it. And if he died, someone else had damn well better take his place, or things would never get better.

"I'm with you there," he replied easily. "What do you think about how the justice system should handle them?" He asked, turning the subject to an area quite close to his heart. And his lung, for that matter. "For me, I can't see the judge-and-jury system working with the muties. It doesn't work with the muties. Having a facility to hold them in is one thing; getting them in there in a way that the human rights--" He had to pause to snort a chuckle at that one. 'Human rights'. That was a good one. "The rights groups don't protest is another. Like I said, though, trials just don't work with them. Not when there are mind manipulators and telepaths and emotionmancers out there. Any murderer with a brain-bending friend can turn a jury; how do you counter that? You could try a closed trial, but some of these damn things can turn invisible--can turn others invisible, too. And phase through walls, hide in shadows--you name it. There will always be a way for them to win, even if the blood is still dripping from their hands." Rupert grew silent for a moment, a 'Not Guilty' verdict lancing through his memory. Isabel Duskmoor, cleared of all charges. "It doesn't work," he said, with finality.

"I can't help but think," Rupert stated, with brutal simplicity, "that the biggest mistake we made at the Camps was letting the freaks live. I'm not talking about the kids, or the ones that got shoved in there by some idiot who couldn't tell a butcher knife from a spoon with a magnifying glass; but the honestly dangerous ones... If we'd just killed them, things would be a whole lot better now. As soon as they got out of the Camps, they just went straight back to killing. The best thing to do with a rabid dog like those things," he finished, like a perfectly logical man, "is put them down."

Rupert nodded his head thoughtfully. A military tribunal... now that wasn’t such a bad idea.

>> “If you or I were to kill someone in an accident or out of a fit of rage, we would serve jail time, perhaps even a life sentence, but not the death penalty. The death penalty for humans is reserved for those that intend and or plan to kill another individual. I honestly can't see why those same standards shouldn't apply to mutants.”

“I do, unfortunately,” Rupert said softly. “I can see two reasons, even off the top of my head. The first goes back to one of the same issues as with trials—other freaks intervening. Did you read about that break-out a few weeks back? A group of mutants broke into a prison; slaughtered the staff and released the prisoners, simply because some of the prisoners were mutants, too. And these were mutants that had actually stood trial, the same as anyone else—they were sentenced there. It was a maximum security place. They let serial killers loose, just because they were mutants—if there’s one thing mutants can’t stand to see, it’s us mere Homo sapiens locking away their kind. You know what they call themselves, right? ‘Homo superiors. The more mutants we put in a prison, the bigger a target it becomes for terrorists like that. If we’re going to have break-outs, I’d rather be letting the petty thieves back out, not the killers.”

“The second reason,” Rupert continued, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees, “is this: do you know how many mutants leave things at one murder? Accidental, self-defense, spur-of-the-moment, premeditated; I don’t care which kind. And I don’t know how many leave it at that, myself; rhetorical question. All I know is that there seem to be a high proportion of freaks who kill once, and then go on to make a game of it. I swear, sometimes I think they’re recruiting each other—making some kind of mutant gang to try and teach us our damn place.”

“Besides,” the Italian man gave a half-shrug, “if we cull out the murderers, won’t that make it a better place for the muties that just want to live their lives? With great power comes great responsibility, and all that jazz—if these things choose to kill with their powers, then they’re not exactly giving us an option. Not if any of us want to survive.”

“If this turns into a war,” Rupert finished, “then we’re all dead. Mutants and humans both. I know for damn sure that I’ll go down fighting.”

>> “The tragedy of the situation is for those that just want to live in peace. Once the war truly starts, there will be nowhere to hide.”

“That’s a third reason for the death penalty,” Rupert spoke quietly, his gaze down on the grass between his feet. It was just starting to grow back in. “Take out the enemy’s army, and they’re not much of a threat.”

Did he really believe that? Damned if it mattered; it was true.

>> "Well, if you believe in the death penalty for the mutants then you have to believe in the same for the humans that intentionally go out with the sole purpose and intention of killing mutants."

A sardonic smile lit on Rupert’s lips, not that Luke could see it. “Ask anyone who knows me,” he self-deprecatingly jested, “and you’ll find out real quick that I don’t ‘have to’ believe anything. That’s another thing about I think the Registration Law did right—set up a precedent for treating humans and mutants differently. We are different. Idealist rhetoric isn’t going to change that, any more than a DNA test.”

Rupert was firmly in the camp with those who’d accepted the fact that mutants and humans were a different species. Yes, you could talk about Mutant Rights all you wanted. You could talk about Animal Rights, too. At the end of the day, Human and Mutant Rights were not the same thing. Not at all. And if they conflicted, Rupert knew which side he’d be on. Though it had taken him damn long enough to make up his mind.

Luke’s next statement caught him entirely off guard. Rupert couldn’t help it. First, he straightened up. Then, he gaped. Next came the laughter. “I’ve been accused of a lot of things,” he grinned, “but never of having a good mind. Thanks, Luke. Though the world would probably be a happier place if I just stuck to cooking.”

Speaking of which: the judging was probably wrapping up, back in the land of horned men and mini-ovens.