Clip-On Ties (solo)

Rupert placed the hat over the freak's face, covering the final bullet wound. If his eyes weren't glassy like that, and his mouth wasn't half-open with the same intelligent look he'd had in life, Lawrence Barry could have just been sleeping. Right. Behind him, James Delray gasped in his first breath in over a minute. Coughed. Gasped again. In his hand was a Swiss army knife Rupert had hurriedly tossed his way, once the freak was down. On the ground were the raggedly hacked remains of a classy red tie. James dramatically collapsed on his back on the pebbled roof, arms spread-eagle, as he continued his fish-on-land imitation. "Clip--" he coughed; "Clip-on ties, Rupert. We are investing in mother ****ing clip-on ties."

They had literally walked to the apartment building wearing their own nooses. Lawrence Barry had illustrated that point, quite neatly. Rupert had gone quietly up the fire escape; James had gone to the door marked 305, and knocked. They were both wearing suits. Rupert was comfortable in his, from day after day of breaking it in as a Detective. James, used to his beat officer uniform, looked like what he was: a man dressed up in a suit. It wasn't the same suit he'd worn to his wedding, even though that was the only suit he actually owned. It was one of Rupert's. They were the same size, and Rup didn't have a new wife who was liable to notice bloodstains or dry-cleaning bills. On that first hit, they had no real idea that this would become their uniform. On that first hit, they just felt like they should look respectable. They were going to kill a mutant. Not to talk to it, not to arrest it: to kill it. They'd known many men and women who had been murdered while having far more innocent intentions in mind. If they were going to die tonight, then it went without saying that they would do it with dignity. They were dressed for their own funerals.

James raised up a black gloved hand, and knocked on the door. He didn't hear the man on the inside creep over to peer through the peephole. He did hear the sudden rush as the man sprinted across the apartment for the fire escape. Another bonus of the suits: it really helped to instill that 'here to arrest you' fear. That wasn't what the mutant should be worried about, but they'd been counting on exploiting it.

Rupert greeted the man as he tumbled out of the window. The gun gave a soft cough through its silencer; the bullet stopped in mid-air an inch from the mutant's dazed face. Bleary eyes, red lines tracing through their whites, gave a slow blink as something was pieced together behind them: "You're not the cops," Lawrence Barry said.

Rupert answered with a move a little freak named Tarin was familiar with: a pistol whip. The freak didn't block it. Then again, there wasn't any need to block it when your best defense was a good offense. Rupert's back hit the metal railing of the fire escape with a wuff of forced-out air.

Cough.

Another soft, innocuous sound. The third that night, though only James had heard the one that took care of the lock on the apartment door. Rupert saw the telekinetic's eyes go wide, as a spot of red bloomed through the white T-shirt over his left shoulder. He didn't scream, or shout. That was nice. He did wheel around and throw out a hand: inside of the apartment, James' back made its own acquaintance with a coffee table. The coffee table lost. The telekinetic didn't wait to see how soon his pursuers would be back on their feet. He turned, and ran away from Rupert: up the fire escape. Gorgeous. Rupert hauled himself back up to his feet with a wheeze. "You alive in there?" He called softly, through the window.

"Yeah," James coughed, rolling out of the wood splinters and back to his feet. "Thanks for that overwhelming concern. Did I hit him?"

"You hit him."

"Which way'd he run?"

"Up."

Up: it was a lot more convenient than down. Down, they might have lost the guy on the streets. Up? A lot less likely, unless Lawrence Barry had learned how to fly since his last run-in with the police. Up wasn't too friendly on a man with a limp and scar through his lung, though. Rupert was a full flight behind James when another cough sounded. And then, with understated eloquence, James came to a dead stop where he stood, right at the top of the fire escape's final step. His gun arm swung out wide to the side: the fingers shook as they were uncurled, one by one, from their death grip on the pistol. It clattered harmlessly to the pebble rooftop. James' head snapped back. His feet kicked; that's when Rupert realized that his friend wasn't touching the ground anymore. James Delray was wearing a classy red tie. One of Rupert's favorites, actually. Its red length was currently stretched out into the air above James' neck, held taunt with the weight of the man. It was a good tie. It wasn't likely to break over something as little as a life.

Rupert edged his sights above that last step, as James' legs kicked in front of him. He took the shot.

Cough.

Lawrence Barry and James Delray dropped at the same time. Rupert tossed James his keys, complete with Swiss army knife keychain, as the scarred man wordlessly clawed at the fabric that was still digging into his skin. Then he strode past him, to the freak.

It was still alive. Its eyes were wide, and already glassing. "W-hy? Who...?"

"For Karen," Rupert answered the first question. The man didn't need that second answer where he was going.

Pain flashed through the freak's gaze; pain unrelated to the shot in his shoulder, or his gut. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident."

"It doesn't matter." Rupert said, lining up the shot.

"I loved her."

"It doesn't matter."

Rupert squeezed the trigger. Lawrence Barry's neck gave a reflexive jerk, as a red dot opened up on his forehead. Gunshots always looked so small from the front. Rupert dug the crumpled hat and the neatly folded note out of his pockets; gave the hat a few shakes, to get it back in order. Tucked the note in its band. Then he crouched down, and set it over the mutant's face, covering that final wound.



Behind him, James Delray was past the life-saving gasps, and into the melodramatic ones. He flopped back onto the pebbles of the roof.

"Clip--" he coughed; "Clip-on ties, Rupert. We are investing in mother ****ing clip-on ties."

Rupert stared down at the black hat, with its white note. Lawrence Barry had a brown stain at the bottom of his white T-shirt, like he'd used it to wipe his mouth. He was wearing a pair of red checkered boxers; no pants. Now that was a man who was not dressed to die. Rupert put his gun away, straightened out his suit coat, and turned back to the wheezing James. "Huh," he said simply, smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. "You're still alive?"

James lifted his left hand off of the roof, back pointed towards Rupert. He let one concise finger do the talking for him.

Clip-on ties. You live, you learn.