Rupert was about eighty, eight-five percent sure he was cursed.

There was the obvious, of course: the whole 'came over to this universe once, happened to pick the exact day the portal shut'. But it wasn't just that. He was—used to was way to strong a phrase, he wasn't used to anything about this, but maybe he was in kind of the unreal dream-haze giddy phase of the whole denial process? Yeah, he'd go with that. He was no longer yelling at women who knocked on his door, at least. But.

But!

He was definitely, almost certainly cursed.

And though a god-fearing Catholic like himself (and he had been really, really relieved when he'd confirmed that both Christ and the Catholic church existed on this side of the portal) was not one to ascribe dark magic interpretations to his life, both his universe and this one were full of mutants, and he knew the Rupert on this side had ticked a fair few of them of.

So. Curses. Might just be a thing. Or was it a haunting? Those could also be things.

The first few nights he'd had the nightmares, he'd figured it was just normal. New universe, his subconscious was just as upset as his conscious, nightmares were going to happen. But he wasn't having nightmares of a portal closing as he did that slow-mo dream run towards it, or anything like that. Uh-uh. He was dreaming about looking down the barrel of a gun. And on the other side, the guy who was holding it? Him. A him with a lot more gray hair than he really had, and about two decades of frown lines creased into his face.

Also, things in his apartment kept tipping over, like someone was backhanding them. The first time it had happened, he'd assumed the Mirror woman was back. To be honest, he'd kind of assumed that the second and third time, too. Pranking the 'new' Rupert just seemed like something she might do. But he'd covered up every mirror in the place, and it still happened.

And then he'd found the guns hidden in the apartment vents. Filed off serial numbers, and he doubted there was any legal bill of sale lying around.

Right, then. He'd called the people that had been helping him out over at the station, and let them know he was bringing in some probably illegal guns. They hadn't seemed surprised. "After I get them exorcised," Rupert had said, and they hadn't seem too surprised by that, either.

The folks on this side kept saying how bad his side of the portal had it, but they didn't seem to realize what a piece of work theirs was.

He'd gone to the priest at his church, first. Same building, different name on the sign, different priest, but Rupert had already introduced himself last Sunday after the service and asked about what volunteer work they had open, so the guy knew him.

The guy had given him the phone number for a medium in town.

"Really?" Rupert had asked.

"You recommended him yourself," the priest had said, doing that thing people did on this side of the portal, where they kept thinking it was clever to compare him to the other guy.

The joke was getting old fast.

And so Rupert Kelley, but not that Rupert Kelley, used his shoulder to push open the door to an honest-to-god spirit medium's shop, because Rupert Kelley's arms were full of Rupert Kelley's guns. No relation.

He dropped the box on the counter, and looked around. Tacky books, tacky crystal balls, classy place no doubt. He didn't see the proprietor.

"Hello? Mr. Brooks?"

Mr. Tarin Brooks. His name was on piece of paper the priest had scribbled out for him. It was also on a box of bullets rattling around with the guns. Rupert wasn't so sure this was a great idea. But apparently the old Rupert had been a walking ball of bad ideas, and he'd managed to survive talking to the guy.

What was the worst that could happen?

The little bell over the door to the shop jingled its merry tune and Tarin cracked open an eye from behind the arm he'd slung over his face. Maybe it was time to replace the camp cot that had lived in the little sleeping nook of the shop since God knows when… Then again, maybe it was time to stop sleeping at the shop when he had a perfectly good apartment. Tarin shrugged and groaned at the ache in his shoulders. When had he gotten old?

Someone was at the counter and the Medium pushed himself into a seated position, wincing at the aches and pains that came along with the years of rough stuff he’d put his body through since moving to New York. Granted, the last several years had been rather quiet, and he’d finally learned to keep a low profile...but still.

Mr Brooks? Tarin’s nose wrinkled like he’d smelled something bad as he approached the curtain that separated the shop proper from the, “living quarters” in the back. Who the…

Oh.

Tarin almost pushed the curtain shut again and went back to sleep. Something seemed...off though. Detective Rupert Kelley was definitely standing at the counter of Tarin’s shop. There was a box on the counter, and he had to have been the one who had called out.

What was it? Something looked different about the man, but something definitely felt different too. The spirits in the shop had been their usual quiet din of constant voices, but they were louder...nor more now. Something weird.

”What do you want Rupert? I don’t have any scotch right now, I got an apartment when Lee brought Kevin back to New York and for some stupid reason I moved all the booze over there.”

The medium’s eyes travelled to the box, ”What’s in the box?” Always an ominous question. No less so now.

There was a very distinct pause as the shop's proprietor pushed aside a curtain from the back room, and stared at him with bleary eyes. It was a look Rupert was starting to recognize, a kind of curious 'who's there' that got immediately snuffed out on sight of him. The Oh, it's Rupert look.

Rupert was getting a little sick of that look. So if his own face took on a little Yeah, it's me, whatcha gonna do about it? disgruntlement, excuse him.

"Lee and—" Confusion for half a second. Then he snorted. "Are you her ex? What, did you and the other guy bond over scotch in the deadbeats club?"

As far as he knew, the other Rupert hadn't managed to reproduce. It said good things about the intelligence level of this world's women, really. But there was more than one way to be a deadbeat, and this Rupert was pretty sure that the other guy had been playing bingo with them.

Time to nip this in the bud.

"Listen. You heard there was a whole dimensional rift thing? About yea big, open for a year, snapped shut one day without giving any polite warning?" He pointed at himself. "Different Rupert. Don't know where yours is. But hey, while we're on the subject," he reached into the box, "I think these were for you, Mr. Brooks."

He dropped the box of Tarin Brooks ammo on the counter, along with its matching gun.

"I take it he was a good friend of yours?"

Whew.

There was a whole lot of information to process from that little turn of conversation.

Something was different. Rupert was different. Huh.

This Rupert knew Lee? His Lee? Lee from the other side of the rift?

Other Rupert was MIA?

That was a gun on his counter. And some bullets.

Tarin couldn’t help it...he started laughing. It was all just too much. In some random definition of the word, he and Rupert had been friends. It had been a weird friendship full of contention, bitterness, violence, and the occasional odd moment of camaraderie, but still…

The Rift...that goddamned rift. Tarin had avoided the place like a plague. One day there had been an odd feeling, like all the spirits that usually followed him around were pulled away by something more interested...but it had passed and Tarin hadn’t dwelled on the event. That whole...doppelganger thing was weird.

Realizing that he was laughing like a loon in front of what amounted to a practical stranger, Tarin took a second to pull himself together and focused on the box sitting on his counter. More guns?

”I hope you don’t think I’m touching any of that with a ten foot pole. Those need dropped off on the doorstep of the cold cases department in the dead of night...while wearing a ski mask so nobody knows you dropped them off.”

Moving closer to look at the gun on the counter, Tarin could make out is name on the gun itself and the case of ammunition next to it. More laughter, this time more of a chuckle and a bit sad.

Friends?

”Better friends than I thought if he had that.”

There were more questions to ask, and who knew if they’d get to them, but Tarin nodded towards the box.

”What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

The guy was laughing. Laughing a lot. …Still laughing.

Yep.

Rupert's eyebrows climbed up his forehead by slow degrees, and he started seriously wondering if the other Rupert had been on to something with that Tarin-gun. Was this guy… a little off his rocker? Actually dangerous, somehow? He hadn't exactly been handed a user manual with this new life of his, but he was starting to think that if they other him had literally left a gun with someone's name on it, he should maybe take that as a clue next time.

He wasn't a cop yet, in this world. The interview had gone well enough, but he wasn't in yet. HR needed some time to figure out whether he was an American citizen or an illegal immigrant from another dimension.

No cop status meant no service weapon. No permit to carry, either. And none of the ones in front of him were either legal or loaded, he'd made sure of that.

The guy was winding down. And staring at the box of guns, which was less reassuring than it could be.

"You… doing all right, there?"

>> ”I hope you don’t think I’m touching any of that with a ten foot pole. Those need dropped off on the doorstep of the cold cases department in the dead of night...while wearing a ski mask so nobody knows you dropped them off.”

"Fuck no, I'm not taking a fall for your guy. I just got here. These are going straight to the station." Open and honest, and if they wanted to try pinning anything on him–

"Did you just say cold cases?"

He'd suspected. Box of guns, and all. But having someone else put it that way, like Tarin expected him to be just as numb to it as the medium clearly was, that was a whole new level.

"Anything you need to tell the police, Mr. Brooks? If you were such special friends, I'm sure he told you all sorts of things."

Or maybe the guy had helped. But not even Rupert was stupid enough to say that out loud to the mutant's face. No, he'd just mention it at the station as he turned these in.

He nudged the box a little more to Tarin's side of the counter. "You need to… work your voodoo, or whatever… and make sure I don't turn the station into Poltergeist III when I drop this off. There's been some weird things—"

A crystal ball hit the floor behind them, and smashed.

"—happening around them."

Was he doing alright?

It was a bigger question than New!Rupert knew. On one hand, Rupert was gone. It seemed as though Tarin would never have to worry about the guy showing up at his place with that gun and the ammunition that went with it.

Then again. Rupert was gone. Tarin couldn't count on him to show up at his place with that gun and the ammunition that went with it.

It seemed as though the cold cases...joke(?)...hadn't gone over very well and the medium held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of his obvious innocence.

"Anyone who knew the guy would tell you the exact same thing." It was true, and in no way a betrayal of whatever semblance of friendship he'd had with the other Rupert. Everything about the guy had ended up being shady. "I'll bet you dollars to donuts that not a single one of those things has a visible serial number."

There was also the more obvious fact, Tarin mused as his crystal ball hit the floor and shattered. He turned his head and scowled at the spirit standing there. "There's absolutely no reason to get destructive. I'm not the one who shot you." The spirit had the decency to look mildly abashed and bent, trying to gather the shards of glass. All he accomplished was stirring them up and making them tinkle menacingly. The presence of the guns explained the uptick in spiritual activity quite neatly.

"Besides. If you brought the guns here to be exorcised, you have to at least have some sort of idea what I can do. The cops don't like me, and I don't particularly like them. We keep our mutual distance."

That said, Tarin nodded to the box. "I'll take care of it. You're welcome to stick around if you'd like. I was telling the truth about the booze, but I've got bottled water in the mini fridge."

As he moved to get himself a bottle Tarin ignored the glass shards that had started to float in the air. To anyone but Tarin they'd seem to be doing it of their own accord, but the spirit had simply managed to scoop some of them up and was offering them to Tarin as if they meant something. A thought occurred to the medium and he groaned slightly.

"Other Rupert was Godfather to my kid." he called out. "Did you want a water or not?"