One eye opened. Then the other. Wallace looked around. This wasn't where he had gone to sleep. Was it? All he remembered was lots of noise. And not being fed for awhile. He looked around, and realised the important difference between where he had gone to sleep and where he had woken up. Here, it was outside. Last he knew, he was in his bed. He started to stand up, then fell and rolled down the pile of rubble that he had woken up on. One of his legs didn't seem to work. He tried to walk again, but his rear-right leg didn't move with the rest of them. He sat down, the leg twisting painfully, and barked. There seemed nothing else to do, as he couldn't move and his mother was nowhere to be seen. Or anything else, for that matter. All he could hope for was something hearing him.

Rupert was, strictly speaking, in the area on police business. Ever since the Mansion raid, the station had been receiving reports on and off about shady characters lurking in the ruins, or stopping briefly to stare at the Mansion gates before hurrying off. He’d come to interview some of the witnesses in the neighborhood, and to basically canvass the area with “if you see a freaking mutie, call us” cards.

No matter how a person looked at it, Rupert didn’t have much business going to the ruins themselves. There he stood, though, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the place. They’d left the gates ajar when they’d carted the last load of muties off, that night. It had still been raining. Miserable. Above all—above everything—it had been cold. He had no business being here. Interviews and canvassing complete—it was time to head back to the station. He turned on his heel—

bark

--but he didn’t get far. He turned back and walked through the gates without hesitation. One would almost think he’d been looking for an excuse; but that couldn’t be right. He, after all, had no business in this place. This was a place for mutants and liars.

He followed the piteous sound to a pile of rubble, and... a puppy. Rupert stared down at it for a moment without doing anything at all. This might seem a little cold-hearted, but the last time he’d dealt with a dog that wasn’t Flipsy, it had been going for his throat. And oh, yeah—it had turned out to be just another lying mutant freak. He watched the puppy try to walk, and something on his face cracked.

If it was a mutant, then this was possibly the most pathetic excuse for a mutation that he’d ever heard of. Rupert knelt down, and offered his hand for the little guy to sniff. “Hey,” he asked softly, “what are you doing here, little guy?”

Wallace looked up hopefully as something came over. It wasn't his mother, and whilst the smell was completly dofferent, it didn't automatically try to kill/eat him. Always a good sign. He looked up with injured puppy-dog eyes, and the thing came closer. It extended it's front leg toward him, which were rather like his mother's, only smaller. Wallace sniffed. It wasn't bad. Well, not compared to anything else he knew of. Which wasn't much, but that wasn't important. He slapped the thing's paw with his own, to see what the response would be. Maybe it would take him to his mother?

Rupert looked down at the puppy paw that had slapped against his own hand, a little bemused. That... was almost unbearably cute.

Since the puppy seemed friendly enough, Rupert made an imperial decision—“This is going to hurt, little guy”—he scooped it up in his arms, and held it against his chest, trying to support its injured leg with his arm. “But we should really be getting you to a vet. Guessing your owner is getting collared right about now, huh?”

Then he was flying. And it hurt. A lot. Wallace decided to make it obvious to the Thing; in a loud manner. Which involved growling. And barking. And a little mewling thrown in there too. The Thing made it a little better by supporting his leg, but it still hurt. Wallace increased the volumn. And nibbled the Thing's paw. Not alot, not like drawing blood or anything, just enough to make a point.

Puppy teeth. Quite possibly the worst weapon ever. Rupert shifted his grip so that the worst thing the lab puppy could maul was his coat sleeve. “Point taken, little guy: no unnecessary movement.” He started carefully picking his way back over the rubble pile, to the gates. “Had to get you to the car somehow, though. Nice growl—you’ll make a good guard dog someday.” The mewling would have to go, though.

His own words—the casual phrase ‘guard dog’—stuck in Rupert’s head. That’s exactly what he’d been looking for when he went to the pound... and came home with Flipsy. Honestly, how that had happened, he still wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like this pup’s owner was going to be missing him—no doubt, that individual would have quite a few other things on their mind. An actual guard dog... now that was a thought...

((ooc: Shall we fast-forward past the vet visit to Rup’s apartment? You can meet Flipsy. Because this wasn’t cute enough already. ))

OOC: feel free to fast forward away and no stealing Ted's guard puppy!

IC:
Wallace nibbled at the thing, though it moved so the new part was of a different texture. It was still fun to nibble, though. And nibble he did. Nibble.

((ooc: Now Ted, would Rup steal from a mutie freak? *bats eyelashes sweetly*

Continued in “Rupert’s Apartment”.))