Rabid Dogs (open)

Laughter wasn't the response he was looking for. Neither was having one freak try to pound the snot out of the other. Rupert liked one of those actions significantly more than he liked the other.

It started with a life story:

>> "You're right Rupert, I wasn't there. I was in a comma during the time, put there by your damned robots. It's where I got this scar."

The mutie pointed to his face. Really? That scar? Gee, Rupert had thought that the thing meant that other ugly, highly visible gash.

>> "You did right by helping the mutants, I'm sure you knew it then. But what did you expect them to do when they got free of their imprisonment? Walk out calmly as if nothing happened?! They were pissed and hurt and scared! Then vented on the people who did that to them! Humans once again hurt mutants because they're scared and don't understand or want to understand mutant, and mutants again retaliated. You people did it to yourselves again."

'You people', 'did it to yourselves', 'again'? Rupert's mouth snarled open--

>> "Though it may not mean anything to you, I'll be honest and tell you, you're the first human who's gained my respect. It'd be no fun if you put your tail between your legs and gave up. It's nice to meet a human that has a brain and the balls to bark and act without an army backing them."

...Rupert's jaw hung limply. He'd raised a finger at some point, in a self-righteous point; said finger limply fell back to his side. A corner of one eye twitched. Respect. He had the respect of an elf. A dark elf, at that. He didn't ask for the man's respect. He didn't want it. He wasn't sure if having a mutant's respect even meant anything to him--or should mean anything to him--but he was sure of this: somehow, on the inside, he felt a little violated. So violated, he thought that the darkening atmosphere and the chill on the air might just be the shock setting in.

And then there was a puddle of moral jelly trying to wobble its way into his face. If the teen was going for the intimidation factor, he should have tried pouring some concrete into his personality, first. His little spheal about Zealot Loathing, right on the heels of his little attempts at playing 'Save the Misguided Human', was a lot like watching a badly directed movie. Complete with Hitler references, even:

>> “I sicken you? Ha, you make me laugh other way around, you and people like you sicken me, so ignorant and fearful from other who aren’t like you it does make me happy to show that people like you often die out when any real situation presents itself for you to rise up. You remind me of dumber version of Hitler…”

"Ignorance is a lack of knowledge," Rupert leveled replied. "Way to pull out the three-syllable words, I Am Sam, but try checking a dictionary first. Fear isn't always a bad thing, either. Like right now--it would be pretty damn smart for me to be afraid of you." His deadpan tone and level stare made it clear that he wasn't doing the pretty damn smart thing right now. And if he'd known that the teen's name really was Sam, it would have made him a happier man on the inside. Relatively speaking.

>> “People like you give a bad name to the human race. You’re just like the people that kidnapped me when I was five ****ing years old and raised me as a weapon. I may be a monster, but only because monsters like you made me his way.”

The scripting might suck, but the special effects weren't half bad. Rupert gave the thing a glance over as it suddenly grew its very own low-temperature exoskeleton, like a plastic-wrapped chicken that's been in the freezer too long. Head to toes, and back up again, ending on that I'm-so-great smirk. "Cute," was all he deemed fit to say, with a little smirk of his own. "And as heart-warming as it is to get your vicarious blame laid on me, I'm not that kind of monster. You see," he explained, leaning his arms against the counter again, "I believe in humane treatment. Hand me a five year old freak, and I'm not going to 'raise him into a weapon'--I'm going to euthanize him. Like a dog at an animal shelter that bites people, and has to be put down." Rupert added a heart-warming smile to this, as his unsmiling eyes drifted to the creature's tail. Over-long, dramatically razored, and flashy. "Cute," he repeated again.

>> “And Second off, you’re an idiot, it’s not that damn hard to add extra ingredients to a sandwich, must suck working here day in and day out. What are you 50 years old and alone right? Must suck living alone, maybe that is the motivation you need to stop being such a little bitch…”

"You've obviously never made a sandwich." Was all that deserved. Really--you put too much on them, and they're just a mess. That aside, if you started mixing sandwich types to create that fabled 'with everything on it', all you ended up with was pickles and sauerkraut on your grilled cheese. Also, he was twenty-eight, and he lived with his cocker spaniel-poodle mix. Thanks.

He was still leaning against the counter at that point, and wondering exactly which of these freaks was going to snap on him first. His current money was with the kid who flipped morals at the drop of a few blunt words of truth, but the dark elf had certainly shown himself unopposed to violence. 'Respect' or not. There was no way Rupert could keep talking like this and expect to walk away from the conversation in one piece. Part of him knew that. The larger part of him didn't actually give a damn right now--what did he have to lose? The only plans he had for the week were wakes and funerals. The only thing he'd be leaving behind was Flipsy, and he was pretty sure that Captain Myers would take the little dog in. He was only speaking the truth, and there wasn't anything that could shut him up while he could still physically speak. If the freaks wanted to pound him over it, than he hoped he'd at least get blood on their cloth--

The elf turned on the ice brat, with a suddenness that actually made Rupert jerk.

Well.

Now might be a good time to keep his mouth shut, actually.