Tyson listened to Elliot, but he had not heard of Sam. The institute was a big place, and honestly he hadn't made an attempt to learn everyone on the staff or even the students. His temperament had scared most of the students into giving him a wide berth, while the incident with him throwing one of the staff across his room had probably made him none to popular with them either. "Hrrrrrr haaaavn't heeearrrrrrrrd of hiiim," he said. Honestly he wasn't sure how he felt about a cop at the institute either given the last incident in the city, given he had mauled three people, and had no idea if they had survived, he could very well be in trouble. While Tyson was definitely not the type to go looking for trouble, trouble seemed to have a habit of finding him now, and his lack of control over himself when threatened made him dangerous even if he didn't wish to be. Just one of the 'joys' of being him.

The biscotti and coffee hadn't lasted as long as he'd expected. Apparently, he'd been in a hungry mood. He had just wolfed them both down.

"Big mansion," he commented. "How is the Mansion, by the way? Comfortable? Nice people?" He didn't know much outside of the fact that APPARENTLY, some of them worked with the cops. And there was that whole "X-men" thing he'd heard of in passing.

A bell rang by the doors as someone came in. A big hairy man walked in. He looked around, then glared in their general direction. His nostrils flared. He didn't seem to be a mutant. But then, so did a lot of people. The main thing about him that seemed obvious was that he was looking for trouble. One could tell, because of the fact that he shouted something that sounded an awful lot like ducking mutants. The cashier didn't look pleased. Especially since he was pointing at Wolf and Elliott.

Tyson thought on his feelings about the mansion. All in all he couldn't really feel comfortable anywhere anymore, the mansion was no different. He was constantly assaulted by smells and noise his senses had yet to adjust to, his instincts didn't simply turn off while he was there, so he still found himself reacting to things with his more animal side. Still, it was the only real safe place to be, if not for himself then for the safety of others. There were a good deal of people there who could, if needed, take him down if he went wild. "Hhrrrrr, it's ooookaaay I guess." He growled, though it was tinged with an obvious discomfort he wasn't saying.

Tyson didn't really pay much attention to the man who walked in. He had no real reason to, he could smell him of course, but had no real interest in him. However the shouting couldn't go unnoticed, it may as well have been a megaphone to his ears, which twitched in a combination of pain and plain grievance against the comment directed at them. He didn't say anything though, the last thing he needed was to get involved in something that could lead to him losing control. He sipped from his straw in silence, waiting for the deal to blow over.

'Okay, he guessed' seemed like code for 'Not really my thing...' Elliott suspected Tyson didn't really like the mansion. After a moment's thought, he realized that that made a lot of sense. It seemed to him like the guy wasn't used with being a large wolfish mutant. Scratching tables, and having troubles with straws were pretty good clues towards that. Having never been a mutant, Elliott didn't have much experience with adjusting to something new like that... but he'd grown up with less digits than others, and that was similar. So there you go.

The conversation went down like the Titanic the second the guy came in. The guy seemed drunk, but then, he wasn't reeking of alcohol. Maybe that was just an assumption. One doesn't make assumptions lightly. It's a good way to make an ass of you and me. So he figured perhaps the guy could be reasoned with. It was worth a shot. Before the lady behind the counter could move, and before any other employees could stand up to the hairy man, Elliott stood up from his table. The guy was pointing at them. It only seemed fair.

"Do you have a problem?" He asked.

Usually, standing up to big idiots wasn't his cup of tea. He simply didn't do it. Standing up to angry people had a tendency to make angry people take note of you. It made them want to do things like punch you, or just maybe consider you an enemy. And making enemies, as we all know, is just bad for business. He wasn't sure quite why he was doing it, aside from that the people at the coffee place had been good to him. They were good people. Maybe today, he didn't want good people getting harassed on account of people like him.

The big hairy man stopped what he was doing. It took an eternity for him to react properly, but when he did, it was a big, doe-eyed blink. Elliott could practically see the gears turning in his head. For someone as big and hairy and quick to anger as this guy, that seemed an anomaly. "Duck mutants," the man repeated, as if that explained everything. Then, he pointed at Elliott and Tyson again. Or so Elliott had thought... he followed the pointing finger further, his eyes settling on a person at a table just beyond theirs. The man was 5'2, with white downy feathers and looked like a humanoid duck.

"So maybe he wasn't swearing about mutants..." Elliott thought out loud. Ducking mutants. Duck mutants. $%#@! "What do you want with--"

The duck mutant bolted. He was wearing a bluish cotton set of coveralls, like an auto mechanic. There was a name tag on his chest that said Howard. He shoved the hairy guy on his way towards the door. Harry guy didn't budge an inch though. He caught the duck man by the wrist and pulled him towards him in an aggressive move, shouting "C'mere you!"

Elliott didn't quite know how to react.

Today was turning out to be a very strange day, green steampunk mutants, a mutant apparently posing as a pet dog, and now a giant duck man. So far Tyson had managed to keep himself in line against the unfamiliar, territorial instinct, and being around a crowd. However this one came unexpected. He had been bracing himself for a possible conflict, a belligerent person who was about to confront them. but when the duck man made a break for it, he was hit with something completely different. He watched for a moment, caught in the moment of contemplating the fact that there was a giant duck running past him. Before he knew what was happening, he had jumped off his seat, landed on all fours and leapt at what was apparently a giant walking meal. Running prey, the wolf in him reacted to it's basic hunting instincts and took over, teeth bared and ready to bite.

The man looked over his shoulder as this happened, a look of realization across his face as Tyson took the leap. He let go of the duck, who himself had a sudden look of terror on his face, and grabbed the closest thing, a bar stool, and brought it around like a bat, slamming it into tyson and knocking him out of the air mid flight. The duckman took the opportunity and fled out the door, not looking back. Tyson was knocked into another table, his weight knocking it over and sending him sprawling on the floor. The wolf hadn't been expecting something to come between it and his meal, and the sudden shock was enough to bring Tyson back to his senses.

He shook his head as higher brain functions kicked in again, and realized he had just went feral again. He grumbled a curse directed at himself, furious at himself for loosing it again. Chalk up another failed attempt to integrate back into society. Seriously, what was wrong with him where he now was hunting people? Yeah, it had been a a giant duck, but why couldn't his instincts give him a break and not turn him into a wild animal at any given moment?

The last thing he had expected was Tyson to jump at the duck. The man looked like he hadn't expected it, either. He seemed to handle it well enough. It looked like Tyson wasn't in the same weight class as some of those other dangerous werewolves. He was no loup garou. Duckman fled.

Elliott gawped. He glanced at the aggressive man, just as he went out the door. The bells on the door jangled as it swung shut. The man's footsteps clapped against the pavement as he took off after the duck. Elliott turned and bent to offer Tyson some help getting to his feet.

"You okay?" He asked.

The people in the cafe were shooting them looks. Some were accusatory. Others were cautious. Some were neutral, maybe even understanding. The girl from behind the counter was walking towards them.

(( OOC : It's up to you how the people in the shop ultimately handle this. Full control of shop NPCS, granted! ))

Tyson reached for Elliott's hand out of instinct, but stopped just short when he remembered his claws, which would likely shred Elliot's arm if he tried pulling him up. He pulled it back quickly and pushed himself to his feet, more embarrassed and ashamed then hurt. The soreness of where the stool had hit his face was fading quickly, his healing at work. "Hrrrrr fiiiiine," he said to reassure Elliott that he wasn't hurt. To bad his insides were a swirling mass of guilt, fear, and disgust at himself.

He glanced about, seeing the looks of the other customers. Fear, anger, pity, those were what he saw. He was ashamed, angry at himself, angry at what he was and hated everything he was becoming. He could imagine the thoughts going through everyone's heads, was he dangerous? Was he going to attack again? Was he feral? Should they call the police? Or animal control? Why was he here is f he couldn't control himself? Why was he risking their safety instead of locking himself away?

He felt like screaming or crying, neither of which he was capable of anymore. Instead he could only reflect on his lack of humanity, the monster he was becoming. They were right he shouldn't be here, he should be locked up somewhere. A growl started in his throat, directed at himself more then anything. Who was he kidding, even here he was a danger to everyone. He saw the woman from the counter heading towards them. She was probably going to ask him to leave, and with the way he felt, with everyone eyeing him like an animal, he couldn't stand it.

"Are you..." Started the woman, but Tyson bolted, running out the door, ignoring it when the girl cried, "Wait!" He didn't know where to go, so quickly ran around the building to the alley, huddling down and clutching his head as he continued processing the events and loathing himself and what could have happened. The woman turned to Elliott, "Was he okay? It looked like he was having trouble, I know a few support groups that could help with that." She showed more concern over Tyson then the damage to the cafe.

Okay, no help up. He retracted his offer and his hand politely. Claws, he got it. At least he didn't seem to be hurt more than his pride. "Okay," Elliott replied mildly.

People reacted as people do, in a variety of ways. Elliott took note of how Tyson handled himself in the situation. Some mutants don't react positively to things like that. One example was Aura... who liked shooting at harmless little old ladies because they were rude. He could think of several other examples like that from the news. New York certainly didn't have a monopoly on the violent mutant market. It wasn't only mutants who were violent, either. He heard a faint growl coming from Tyson. He waited, and watched.

The woman talked to him, and-- Tyson ran. He went too quickly for Elliott to react. The green man blinked his second set of eyelids. Antennae twitched.

Elliott looked sideways at the woman. "I don't know," he said quietly. "Seems like he's new to the 'being a mutant' thing. Something like that might not be a bad idea. You okay?" He added the last part after a moment of silent consideration. "The cafe okay?"

She acted like she hadn't even realized anything had been damaged. A quick look around showed nothing beyond repair. "It's fine," she said. "We've got insurance."

Elliott spared a moment's thought on how Mutant Insurance could work, and decided not to dwell on how high their rates must be. He set a trio of $20 bills down on the table, and went for the door without another word. For good people, he could spare money, even when it was tight. He wasn't so mercenary that he was beyond that. He didn't go around doing good deeds, but... when the situation was right, he wasn't opposed. The woman picked up the money and watched as the door swung shut with a jingle of bells.

He looked around, outside the doors, then started walking around calling out "Tyson, it's okay. She was just going to tap your nose lightly with a newspaper!" and hoping he'd hear and come back. If not, he would simply move on. Que Sera, Sera. Whatever will be will be.

Tyson's ears twitched as he heard Elliot, still growling a curse at himself for not being able to cry like a normal person. Instead all he got was whines mixed with growls. He didn't know what to do, he felt lost and overwhelmed, constantly trying to act normal when he wasn't, trying to hold onto his humanity only to have it pulled out from under him yet again. God he was really just hopeless wasn't he? He couldn't even have a friend without ruining it.

The inhuman noises he was making echoed in the small alleyway, it would be easy to hear despite himself. But he couldn't stop it either. What good he had been feeling had just been crushed, and he was back to square one, feeling as if his life was over again. Why couldn't he have this? Just this one little thing, just this tiny bit of normality? He felt a warn trickle down the side of his face, and released the grip he had on his head, and saw the tips stained red where he had dug into his skin. He didn't worry about it, he had cut himself plenty of times on his own claws, and it would heal soon. To bad he couldn't heal what was going on inside of him. He felt like he was drowning, like somehow the tear he wanted to shed were just piling up on the inside him and filling up his lungs and heart instead.

He heard the sounds, and followed them into the alley. There Tyson was, upset, stuck in his own little world.

"Easy," Elliott held up a hand. He approached slowly, taking note of the situation. He could see something red in the fur. Had Tyson been hurt more than he'd let on? "You okay?"

It stunk in the alley. Since this was New York, that really didn't change the smell of the area by that much. There were some wooden crates, and cardboard boxes. One was empty, but it looked like it had once had 'free kittens' written on it in black marker. Since then, the marker had faded. It was black licorice scented, but Elliott couldn't smell it. In the alley, the sounds of the city were muffled slightly.

He waited until Tyson spoke to him before continuing. He wanted to hear what Tyson had to say.

He got it, really. The whole 'power, overwhelming' thing. Not personally, but it bore repeating. The guy was in a new situation, with new powers. New responsibilities. He got that. He could wrap his head around it. He could also wrap around the fact that he was really going out on a limb, here. Strange because he wasn't usually all that good of a guy. He supposed the big wolf had just brought the friendly side out of him. Sort of like when you see a scared dog, and want to help it out. That was a terrible comparison. Absolutely terrible to compare a human to an animal like that. But he wasn't ashamed, because it was inside his own head, and therefore subject to his own rules. And the intent behind the thought was good, so nobody needed to judge.

Tyson looked at Elliott not sure what to say. Elliott was also physically mutated, but had control of himself. It always seemed to be the case that everyone else had control of themselves regardless of how animal-like their abilities were. Why was it that he was the one who kept regressing to the mindset of an animal? It wasn't fair. None of it was, but that was how the dice rolled. He couldn't change it, and it seemed he couldn't fight it either. He hated it, he hated himself for everything he did when he lost control. He was still letting off little whining noises like a dog that had been kicked, but he tried to pull himself together, if nothing else then to be able to talk, which with his speech impediment would be impossible if he was still whining.

"Hrrrrrrr no, nevvvvvererrrrr oookaaaaay," he said, trying to keep his whines from further distorting his words. "Hrrrr, caaan't beeeee norrrrrmaal, keeeeeep huuuurrrrtinnnng peeeeooooppllle." It was a bit of an understatement, he had likely killed people, not just hurt. Mauled would be a more appropriate term. He didn't say as much, he didn't know how Elliott would take it, and he seemed, at the very least, willing to tolerate him. He knew a few mansion dwellers who more or less accepted him, but Elliot was the first outside of that who didn't have any obligation out of shared space, this his acceptance was completely of his own volition. Tyson at least appreciated that.

He wiped her s claws on his jacket to remove the blood, and wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. The wounds were already starting to close up. His healing factor in action. He wondered momentarily how bad a would he could survive, what it would take to silly end his existence, but the thought passed as he was afraid of the answer.

"Okay, so. Yeah." His hand found its way to the back of his head. Scratched it. His arm felt too long and awkward, or maybe it was just 'the talk'. "This thing where you lose control and blame it on the mutation. That's dangerous. Everything went okay today. Nobody at the cafe was upset. Mainly, they were just concerned about you. If you need help dealing with it, there are people you can talk to." 'Though maybe not me' Elliott thought. "But you really do need to learn some control. Because you're the only person that control yourself, Tyson. And. I feel like you don't want to be losing control and 'hurting people', like you said." He put air quotes around the hurting people part. Was that disrespectful? Maybe. But he felt like this pep talk was probably something the man needed to hear. "It's a hard truth, and it sucks, but-- that's why I'm telling you this. Because you seem like a nice guy, and you're in a tough situation, and I hate seeing nice people get hurt." Especially by themselves. Elliott fell silent after that massive monologue, and just let Tyson digest what he'd said.

He meant it. There's this proverb someone once told him, or maybe it was a bible verse. Or maybe it was something from some anime or tv show or comic book or sci fi Star Trek Star Wars Yoda Wisdom someone had built up their belief system on and decided to espouse. But it generally went like this. To those much is given, much is expected. The idea it was trying to express was a little hazy, but he understood the message. If you've got a talent, if you've got power. If you're in a position of authority, or if someone depends on you. Looks up to you. Needs to be able to count on you. You don't freaking run around stabbing cops. Or doing things to attract needless attention. His reggae dreadlocked buddy had explained it thusly: "To who much is given, much is expected. Great power, mon. Requires great care. You gotta be responsible. You dig?" He'd dug it. He'd dug it very much. It was part of why he tried not to get a lot of power in life. So less would be expected of him. But also because he had enough trouble being responsible for himself. Looking out for others is hard work. Yet here he was, trying to look out for Tyson.

Why was it Elliott was being so introspective about morals and where he stood lately? First, with Rachel and Barry, and now this. He figured maybe he was simply growing up.

Elliott's words cut like a knife. It was things he had heard before, he had to control it, he was responsible, these things he understood. The problem was every time he thought he was getting a handle on things, his body threw him a curveball. Every time he thought he had taken a step forward, he suddenly stepped back two. He was trying as hard as he could to control himself, but it just didn't seem like it was ever enough. Every time he had failed, every time the animal had won. He didn't want to lose control, he didn't want to hurt people, he didn't want any of this, but he didn't have a choice, just as he didn't seem to have a choice when his instincts overrode his humanity. And so it hurt especially as Elliot told him these things, as if he wasn't trying everything in his power to keep the beast in him from taking control. He knew Elliot didn't know what was going on inside his head, he didn't know how he was always fighting against the instincts that acted upon him like a constant pressure. He didn't know how much this was torturing him, how it felt like he was falling apart piece by piece.

"Hrrrrrr doooon'tt knoooow whaaat iiiit's lliiiiike," he growled as he tired to piece together an explanation that would make sense with his limited communication skills. , "Loooosiiiing myseeeelllf... hrrrrr noooo chooooiiice, allllwaaays fiiiiiigggghhhtting," he hated it, being swept aside, not even being able to realize it until it was too late regardless of how much he remained on guard. If he lost it completely, it wouldn't matter if no one was upset today, he almost killed someone. He may have already killed someone. He wasn't upset about them being upset or not, he was terrified that he was going to lose himself completely. What would he be then? Little more then an animal? Or a monster? He didn't want that, but as more time went by he seemed to just getting closer and closer to that outcome. He didn't know if anyone could really understand how it felt losing your identity without experiencing it first hand. It was easy for others to say control it when they didn't seem to have their own mind rebelling against them and turning them into something else.

"No," Elliott held up his hand in concession. "I don't. I don't know what it's like." He didn't. He had never dealt with something like that. And it was pretty rude to say things like he'd said to a near-complete stranger and then lie to their face and say that he did.

"What does one even say in a situation like this?" He shook his head. Thought about it. Talked some more. "There are groups." Yeah. Groups. "Support groups. I know it isn't a great option. It's honestly a bit of a lame suggestion. I kind of hate myself for making it. But I've never dealt with the sort of things you're going through. I'm not a mutant."

It would be irresponsible of him to say anything more here. These were all Tyson's calls, and Elliott couldn't make them for him. He couldn't stand on a soapbox and talk at him. Or, you could take the sensible option, you dummy. "I can listen." Elliott's voice was quiet.

Tyson had not considered support groups as a means of helping him. Honestly he didn't know that there were any. Even with that knowledge now he was afraid of what he may do, so far he had proven untrustworthy around people despite his best intentions. He felt he was a danger to anyone who got near him at this point since he never knew when he would lose it again. What's to say something like today wouldn't happen if surrounded by others who were like him? He had just tried to kill a duckman, he became territorial around canines, he couldn't imagine how he would react to a large group of such people.

Tyson had to think about Elliott's last comment about not being a mutant a second time, at first thinking that that couldn't be right. Elliot was clearly not human in appearance, or in scent. Then he recalled his own experience with his transition. He had thought he wasn't a mutant, but it turned out different. Elliott may be a mutant and just not identify as one, or, by chance, it could be the reverse, and Elliot was not a mutant and had just been changed the way he thought he had been. Though curious to know which, he was in no state to follow through with this line of thought.

When Elliot said he could listen, Tyson thought about it. Too often when he had talked to people they merely offered him advise that in reality would not work for him. He still remembered when Danica had said try getting laid. The only thing that talking really did was just get things off his chest, which he supposed was better then nothing. "Hrrrrrr whhheeeen iiit haaappeeeens,' he tried to explain, "iiiit doooeesn't rrrrrregissteeerrrrrrr hrrrrr, nooooo iiiindiiiicaaatorrrrrs, rrrrr ooonnnly rrrrrreeeaaalllizeee aaafterrrrrr." it was hard to describe, how did you explain something that blended it to your thoughts? It was like trying to explain how you breathe, it just happened, it wasn't something you thought about, it was just instinctive and your body reacted without thought. Yeah he could stop it if he was consciously trying, but like breathing, it just happened if he wasn't actively trying to prevent it. Like with the duckman, he hadn't been prepared and trying to prevent hunting instincts from kicking in, he had been focused on keeping his fight or flight instincts in check. If he didn't know it was coming he couldn't stop it. Or it overpowered him, when he had attacked the men assaulting him, he had been trying to stop himself, but eventually his instincts overpowered his will. Hold your breath and eventually you either breath, or pass out, and start breathing anyway. "hrrrr allllwaaaays trrrryiiiing to beeee hhhrr on guuuarrrrrrd, buuuuut toooooo muuuuuch hrrrrrrrr toooooo maaannyyy trrrrrrriggerrrrrs toooooo keeeeep trrrrrrack of." He didn't know if that would make sense to Elliott, even if he could follow his slurred speech patterns.