Her hand. Was coming. Closer.

>> “Just because a shoe store gets in a new shipment doesn’t mean that they stop selling the older, functional brands. Mutants are like a marketing experiment, if anything humans are more likely to be around for longer, you’re tried and tested.”

A shoe. She had just compared him with a shoe. And not just any shoe: an older model. He was 'functional.' That's all real humans were to her: 'functional.' The girl's hand patted the air above his shoulder, as if she was afraid to catch his retrofitted genetics by touching him. Sympathy, pity, and a dash of condensation. He was literally being looked down upon by this teenage freak.

Rupert burst into tears.

"Why can't you all just die?" He sobbed, well-liquored tears rolling from his eyes. "I just... I just want you all to die. Is that so bad?"

This is why Rupert was a scotch man. Dammit, Gawain.

The emotions on the man’s face seethed like a nest of vipers, and, for a moment, she thought he might just latch on to her fingers with his teeth and maul away until he found the offending gene and destroyed it. Instead the grimace turned into a scrunched-up-paper napkin and tears began to stream from his eyes.

~~"Why can't you all just die? I just... I just want you all to die. Is that so bad?"

Verdigris was almost surprised by how little she was surprised by this statement (try saying that ten times while as drunk as Rupert) and she slipped back onto sitting on the couch while she pondered an appropriate answer, apparently her metaphors we’re the best thing to have employed. She let the cushion of protective air between them shrink and shrink until her fingertips brushed the shoulder of his t-shirt soothingly. A split second pause, and then the repetition of the action. He was sad, and it was her fault. He might have been sad before she arrived, but at least he didn’t know it at the time.

“If we all died out, people would turn on each other again, more ferociously because for a time they grew accustomed to having something to hate en masse. Nothing brings people together more than a common enemy, and by that token, I think nothing would drive them apart like the removal of it. So not bad to want it, but bad if it actually happened I suppose.”

After a moments thought she came to a shaky conclusion, this man didn’t like mutants, for whatever reason, well- multiple really, as he ranted earlier, but it wasn’t the shell he hated, not really. It was the X-gene, so tiny it was impossible for him to see, and yet provided a release for all his bottled up anger and hurt. Her fingers tingled with the danger of touching someone who wanted her dead (or perhaps it was the alcohol) and she dug with her other hand into the pocket of her jeans and removed a clean(ish) handkerchief. It had been washed fairly recently, and only really carried the slightly greasy streaks where she had rubbed her fingers after dinner. She offered it to the man, dangled between finger and thumb. A tiny white flag of peace.

>> “If we all died out, people would turn on each other again, more ferociously because for a time they grew accustomed to having something to hate en masse. Nothing brings people together more than a common enemy, and by that token, I think nothing would drive them apart like the removal of it. So not bad to want it, but bad if it actually happened I suppose.”

Rupert glowered over at the girl, as she resettled herself on his couch. "We do that already," he sniffed. "S'not gonna change, whether you freaks are here or not. But if you're not here, see, if you're not, then you can't kill us back."

He took the hanky, wiped his eyes, and blew. Then he handed it back, his shoulders slumped under her patting.

~~"S'not gonna change, whether you freaks are here or not. But if you're not here, see, if you're not, then you can't kill us back."

She waited for him to blow- quite enthusiastically actually, surprising how much snot could come out of one nose, especially considering how dehydrated he must be from all that alcohol- and took her damp hanky back without comment. ‘Ewwwww!’ She shoved it in her pocket, she would deal with that later.

“And you would just go back to killing and suppressing people who are gay, or black, or female, or different, who don’t come equipped with the occasional steel plating and ability to breathe fire. Yes?”

Which was kinda strange to be saying, seeing as she had yet to meet either of those particular ‘gifts’. She continued to pat the man’s shoulders, curiously she wondered how long since he had spoken about this to anyone. Were there councillors that dealt specifically with those who had irrational (?) fears about mutant supremacy? How ironic it would be if it was a mutant councillor. Did mutants get high-profile jobs like doctors and lawyers or councillors and teachers? Surely there was some form of equal opportunity laws in place, ignoring the prejudice that cannot be swayed, no matter how many forms are filled and signed. She really needed to splurge on a newspaper once she got her glasses fixed, catch up on what was happening around her.

Rupert's tears stopped (and dried up, with the help of her handkerchief). His face slowly darkened as she spoke.

"You little racist," he accused. "What, do you think all humans run around killing people who are gay, or black, or female, or different? Do you think I do? Last I heard, mutants could be damn supremacist pricks, too."

He stabbed a finger at her chest. It missed somewhat, and ended up heading more towards her shoulder. "Don't think you're any different than us. The only thing that makes you different is how dangerous you are. It's... it's like the difference between a damn housecat and a leopard."

Housecats. Rupert didn't actually like housecats, much, but it was still an upgrade from being an old brand of shoe.

~~“Do you think I do?”

She raised an eyebrow, the revelation of homophobia and a whole bunch of other different-phobias probably wouldn’t have surprised her all that much. The man hadn’t seemed… accepting, per se.

Now he was finger jabbing her. Whoever decided punctuation could only be written had obviously not met our dear friend Mr Rupert Kelly. Although, she wasn’t entirely sure if it had been a period-jab, an exclamation-mark-jab, or a question-mark-jab. Whatever it had been it left a little smarting spot right on her collar-bone.

He. Made. His. Point.

~~"Don't think you're any different than us. The only thing that makes you different is how dangerous you are.”

Which is why he felt compelled to kill them, despite the fact they were the same, even if they were children, or had children, or didn’t have any offensive mutations at all... Who would want to kill a mole-shifter anyway?

~~“It's... it's like the difference between a damn housecat and a leopard."

Nice kitty, put your claws away now.

“Who in their right mind would want a leopard curled up on their rug? Or sitting on their lap? No, they’re hunted to near extinction for destroying crops- which monkeys do- or for killing cattle- which happen to be on their territory which has been cleared for farm-land. It doesn’t matter if they are just cubs, or if it is a young male passing through to develop his territory somewhere else. People like to kill things that threaten them. Even if they weren’t going to do anything.”

Point in case, earwigs. Who had ever been attacked by an earwig? And yet people were insistent on squishing the poor things.

“But for the friends I’ve made being a leopard, I think I’d rather be a puss-cat.”

Because puss had a friend at home, true, they had never attacked giant clay monsters together, or anything quite like that. But she still missed the walks on the beach and the swimming all day long… She really had to get back in touch with her boss and take him swimming, maybe that would satisfy the fishy nature.

Leopards were hunted to near extinction. For destroying crops. Rupert took a sip of his glass; still empty. Huh. Hadn't he refilled it? He reached for the bottle, but it was empty, too. Huh. He sat back, glass still in hand. Then he opened his mouth, and said these two profound words:

"You're stupid."

It was a revelation. He grinned at his discovery.

"What, did you drop out of school? Or--no, let me guess--did the big mean human kids bully you out? Or maybe your parents tossed you out with the freak trash, and you've been living on the street, too traumatized to go to school?" Grin, grin, grin.

Rupert's good mood was back.

~~"You're stupid."

The man was grinning at her. She decided to let it slide and grin back.

“And you’re drunk.”

She raised her eyes at the guesses, some were pretty close, some not even in the same state. She held back comments about the reasons he was home alone with a poodle while any self respecting woman was out with a carrier of the X-gene in the hope that at least a little of her genes would be passed on to the superior race that was evolving ever more rapidly. The safest bet was to grin back.

“School is only compulsory to year ten, and they didn’t know, bullies or parents. Traumatized, no, busy trying to survive in a stingy city, yes.”

She eyed up the grinning man before her.

“So where are your parents then?”

A quip about kicking out their outdated son was pondered, discarded and brushed silently under a mental rug. She was out to prove there were good mutants, the same way he was out to prove humans were genetically racist… genetic-ist? She eyed his empty glass, then the highly diminished plate of muffins.

“Want me to make you some coffee?”

Who’s home was this again? And how drunk was she, would she be able to aim the stream of boiling water into a mug? Not that she knew where kettle, mug or coffee lived in this apartment. She made a mental note to think a little on what she said before she decided to say it.

>> “So where are your parents then?”

"In Florida," the thirty year old said. "What, did you think I lived at home?" He hicced a laugh, looking around his apartment, then back to Verdy with another grin. "You're so stupid."

>> “Want me to make you some coffee?”

"Stupid," he laughed giddily. "Coffee doesn't make you somber. Sovereign. So-sober." That was the word. "Coffee makes you a caffeinated drunk. Trust me. I know." He hooked a proud thumb at his chest, then leaned in close. Maybe a little more close than was socially appropriate, but he had to whisper in her ear. Which… was not on her shoulder, but he couldn't quite figure out where it was supposed to be, so he stayed there. "And that showering thing? Just makes you a wet drunk. And the exercise thing? A wheezy drunk." He laughed, and fell over.

Now he was a lap-drunk. Not to be out done, Flipsy jumped up with a yip and joined him, prancing over both of them. He grinned up at Verdy.

"What are you doing in my apartment, anyway? Who let you in?"

Yip yip!

This was good whiskey. Gawain was such a good kid. Rupert was glad he hadn't shot him yet.

~~"What, did you think I lived at home? You're so stupid."

Stranger things had happened, although if he had been living at home at this age she was dimly aware that she should have spotted some form of gaming console, at the very least an overworked PC. Also note the apartment's size and the lack of a doting mother and it was pretty much a given. He lived alone. At least it had turned the subject away from her lack of schooling, not, apparently, her stupidity. She tilted her head as he tried to mumble out the right word amidst giggles, gurgles and other noises she wasn’t quite sure should come out of a man his age, parents in Florida or not.

He was in her personal space, way in her personal space, breathing his whisky breath all over her face. The idea that this was how some people dated made her feel a little squeamish. Now he was whispering on her neck, she swallowed the urge to shudder, or was it shiver. The apartment wasn’t exactly warm, perhaps he was saving some cash on the heating bill, but still.

Drunk-man laughed his way to rest in her lap, face-up thankfully. Well, it was not her fault she hadn’t been drunk enough times to test all these sobering theories. Drink was expensive, damn it.

Now fluffy Flipsy was yipping and waggling her way over the lap-drunk-man. Verdigris patted them both for good measure. Flipsy on the wriggling, squirming, yippy-yappy back, lap-man on the scruffy black hair.

Memory was apparently not a drunken strong point and she pondered the question herself for a moment.

“...You… did? Because you were lonely maybe? I’m not sure… you wanted to share your muffins?”

"I did not," Rupert insisted, struggling his way out of her lap and back to sitting. "No way. I don't let muties walk in. They break in all the time, but I don't invite them in."

He wobbled uncertainly for a moment, then found the back of the couch. The back of the couch was nice. It didn't move much. Unlike Flipsy, who was moving too much--his eyes couldn't seem to keep track of all that bouncing and between-laps running.

He raised a finger. "Unless," he said, "they're pathetic. Are you pathetic… little freak?" He might have used her name, then. But he couldn't remember if he knew it. Another clear sign that she'd broken in.

His eyes narrowed at a sudden realization. "You stole my whiskey, didn't you?" That explained where it had gone.

Damn freaks. They'd pay for stealing his whiskey. Each and every one of them.

Flipsy was in her lap. Now in Rupert’s, now back in hers, now leaping off to do a victorious lap around the couch before launching back onto her lap and from there to Rupert’s. She felt a little sea-sick from all the runnings and bouncings and general fun-havings of the dog and she opted to study instead the knee of her jeans. There was a faint blood stain there, and scuffs from the cement, but mainly what drew her attention was the unbidden jiggling. It was not the same frantic tempo as the fluffy dog, it was steady, reliable, she had had it happen before. This, ladies and gentlemen, was restless leg, one of those stranger forms of hyperactivity and she stared it down until the jiggles froze under her forceful glare.

~~“Are you pathetic… little freak?"

Verdy pondered this for a moment, forgot what the question was, remembered, then pondered some more. What was the best way to answer a drunk mutant hater? If she agreed, she merely fed his superiority (or lack thereof) complex, if she disagreed, his fear of the power she contained within herself could turn him against her in a far more violent way than collar-bone jabs.

“I think… You think I am… and that sometimes I think… you think right.”

That had made quite a bit more sense in her head. So much more sense in fact that the stumbled, bumbled, slurred and otherwise fumbled sentence was delivered complete with grin.

Followed swiftly by confusion and eyebrows moving together like angry fuzzy caterpillars in a staring contest.

~~"You stole my whiskey, didn't you?"

Did she? She wasn’t entirely sure, the blurring in her head must have had some trigger and she was faintly hearing an echo of ‘drink, drink!’, so she supposed she must have had at least some of it. There were two glasses nearby, each carrying that tell-tale glisten of moisture in the bottom. After considering the question for as long as seemed reasonable she tilted her head slightly and looked at the man as levelly as she could, which would be more steady if the room and the man himself didn’t continue that annoying tipping thing they were doing.

“Borrowed, with permission, and I’ll get you another bottle… later”

Once she found or earned enough money to pay for one that is… probably only a small one though, to make up for what she had personally drunk.

>> “Borrowed, with permission, and I’ll get you another bottle… later”

“No you won’t,” Rupert said, gesturing with his empty cup in the vague direction of her face. Her face being in a vague location, that is. “ ‘Cause you know what? You’re going to go and make my day. You’re going to get out of my apartment, and you’re never going to come back.”

He tried to drink, but his drinking arm got interrupted by a bouncing poodle. That was okay: he remembered, again, that his glass was empty. Anyways, there was a mutie that needed his hating.

“You know why you’re not going to come back? ‘Cause you’re going to get hit by a bus. I’m going to stand at that window. Over there—there—” It took two tries, but he remembered where his window was, “and watch. And I’m not going to call an ambulance, when you do.” He grinned at this new entertainment concept. Reality TV, in the comfort of his own bigotry. He set down the cup, scooped up a poodle, and aimed to scoop up the girl’s elbow with his other arm. From the couch, it would be a straight wobbling shot to the door.

“Come on, git, shoo—bye bye. Remember, I’ll be watching!”

Flipsy yipped, her body wiggling happily under the zealot’s arm.

Somewhere inside she resolved to choose better drinking buddies. Rather than calling a cab and checking up on her in the morning to see if she was ok, he was hoping she would get squished. She grinned at him.

“Ok Mister Rupert, bye Flipsy-dog.”

She considered puking on his couch before she left to give him something to really hate about her but common sence, and a strong stomach, denied her that. Then she’d just have to walk home all smelly and not feeling any better.

“Have fun with your hangover tomorrow. Hope you remember me.”

Perhaps it was just the alcohol but she was fairly sure she liked this man, for some inane reason… Which she couldn’t quite remember right now. Oh well.

Her elbow was being scooped and she was shovel/shooed out of the apartment. Pausing for a second to blow a kiss to the bigot and his pet she zig-zagged to the elevator. The stairs, while heathier, seemed like a dangerous idea and she had no intension of granting Rupert’s death-wish. She would pay him back yet.

And double check the road before she crossed it.

Whistling happily she inspected the keys with squinty eyes, perhaps she should sit for a while and have a drink of water before she continued with her do-gooding.