Allison had not, much to her regret, learned any form of martial arts. Which was quite a shame, as it would have drastically helped with a number of things; stress relief and fighting with a certain army-trained cousin among them. At this moment, however, stress relief was the issue.

Allison’s landlord did not approve of mutants. Not enough to hunt them, but more then enough to make life difficult for them. And he was businessman enough to convince other landlords to agree with him, and force mutants into a resulting choice: pay extra fees, wait months for one of the rare mutant-friendly apartments to be open (and, coincidentally, probably be living only with mutants; prejudice or not there were some issues that came with that), fake humanity or don’t rent at all.

He was also smart enough to include a line stating that fees could be added or increased at any time for any reason in the rental contract, and make sure to inform all his landlord friends of the total fees for any given mutant who might be looking to move elsewhere.

Allison had a job, and at times had had two, but even with two she wouldn’t have been able to pay for her (really quite miniature) apartment after the first few increases. Her parents had money, and were willing to spend some of it on her, but the last increase had apparently been too much.

That the ‘too much’ line coincided almost perfectly with one of her mother’s favorite nephews starting college neither surprised nor amused Allison in the least.

There was not, however, much she could do. She couldn’t stay in the apartment she had, anyway; it was too expensive and getting worse. She could move, but the fees would carry over to any new apartment, and she couldn’t come close to what she’d need to buy anything outright. Her options were basically limited to dropping out, going home for a semester, and going back to school somewhere else, cutting off contact with her parents and living with a friend, both of which would probably require her to fake being human, or dropping out, getting more jobs, and maybe being able to stay where she was. Even that might take faking being human to get the jobs. And the second option would be easier if she actually had friends in New York, rather than the array of acquaintances she’d so far managed to acquire.

So, drop out temporarily and go crawling back home, or drop out apparently permanently. If she’d been less angry, Allison might have been amused at what it said that she considered the permanent dropping out option better than going home. Not that she was anywhere in sight of happy with that, either.

So. If Allison had been trained to fight, she probably would have gone and found a fight, or at least a spar of some kind. The fights she’d gotten into recently, while still fairly unskilled on her part, had at least been satisfying. But she wasn’t trained; probably even a punching bag would only manage to break her fingers before she calmed down at all.

So, instead, Allison ran. Without bothering to change, still wearing jeans and a tee shirt and even a hat. She had running shoes, but no socks, and by the time she reached an empty park she certainly had blisters already, and wouldn’t be surprised in the least if some of them were bleeding. She’d be more surprised if they weren’t.

Allison stopped, gasping for breath, shoved some loose hair out of her eyes, dropped the hat she’d had to pull off and carry on the ground, kicked her shoes off and began climbing. If she couldn’t get into a fight with people or punching bags, she could at least go to war against gravity. The branches weren’t low enough, and the trunks were too smooth, so it was difficult, and Allison fell as often as she reached a branch. When she did reach a branch, she either aimed for a higher one or, if she wasn’t too high to have a chance at not breaking her neck when she fell, attempted to lump or climb onto a branch from a nearby tree. Once or twice she even managed it.

Fifteen minutes after reaching the park Allison was covered in sweat, scratches, bruises, and blisters, her hair was tangled, she was still panting, and her clothes were themselves thoroughly dirty and probably unsalvageable from dirt and grass stains and small tears.

She was, however, at least calm enough that the anger was no longer making her want to cry. Just strangle a few people. She kept climbing.

CRASH.

The puppy’s ears gave a flick where it slept. One of its hind legs kick-kick-kicked, as if to reach a scratch.

THUMP CRASH.

It was gray with darker spots, and a few months old. A big puppy for all that, though: great danes tended to be.

CREEEE--

It was sleeping under a bush, because it didn’t have opposable thumbs, and Lisa had on her mean pants last night. Also, he might have peed in the Sanctuary foyer. What? Puppy bladders were hard to control.

—EEEEEEAK—

It flopped on its side, letting out a little whimper.

…snap!

And then a very, very large YELP.

It was raining women.

Allison could take human obnoxiousness. She’d spent all her life dealing with it, and anyway, at least then she had something to blame. And possibly remember and later take revenge on, should the opportunity present itself. It might make her want to strangle something, but at least she had something to strangle.

When the trees started trying to make her life worse, however, it was probably time to just go home and hide for a few days.

...That thought might have been more cheering had it not led her back to why she was mad in the first place.

Allison snarled, at the tree branch that had broken--despite being quite large enough to take her weight, and having leaves growing on the end, so clearly alive as well--and the bush that she’d fallen through to acquire further scrapes and bruises and land on a fairly large stick that was digging into her back.

...A very loud, protesting stick. And possibly moving a bit. Allison blinked, turned her head, sprang onto her feet, tripped from the excess momentum and entangling bush branches that she hadn’t yet managed to crush, rolled to her feet again and leaned over toward the puppy whose tail she’d landed on, holding a hand out for it to sniff. “Sorry puppy, didn’t know you were there. You okay?”

Insert gratuitous whimpering here, to the point where even Calley was finding himself obnoxious. But… his tail! She’d landedonhistail! And it hurthurthurt—

(and he hated being a puppy)

--and there was a hand coming towards his head was she going to hurt him again?

The puppy sank submissively to its belly, sore tail curling up under its body as it looked up at the girl. (Whimper, whimper.) She smelled like human and female and tree sap and leaves and clothing and detergent and ink stains and—

The puppy was sniffing her hand. He tentatively licked it, to let her know she was in charge (please don’t hurt him again).

Okay enough to lick, anyway, which Allison normally disliked in dogs but could happily put up with if it meant the dog she’d nearly crushed was okay. Whimpering, so presumably in pain, but okay. Still, though, she didn’t really want her hand covered in slime, so she started petting the puppy’s head and scratching around its ears instead. “What are you doing here, anyway, puppy? Not too many houses that close, and I haven’t seen anyone around recently, so no one to be your owners. And you must’ve been here longer than I have been, which... how long was I here?” The petting paused for a moment as she dug out her phone, checking the time. “Most of an hour. You don’t look like a stray, so where’d you run off from, puppy? Who's looking for you?”

Talk of owners and houses. Oh no. Those lead to poundspoundstrappedneutered—

The puppy knew what the proper response to this threat was. With a great bound, his overlarge paws slapped against her knees, and merrily rebounded a few steps away. His rear end was wiggling. (Why was his rear end wiggling? Only tails were supposed to move, and in a much more dignified—stop that--!)

The puppy frolicked a few more steps away, then came back. Then away. Then back. Then wiggle-wiggle-wiggle.

(…Having a puppy form had better be worth this indignity.)

Allison raised an eyebrow as the puppy bounded back and forth, clearly wanting her to follow. Well, that’s a bit of a change from the scared whimpering fur blob ten seconds ago. “I talk about where you belong and you start leading me somewhere. You’re either a very intelligent puppy, or coincidence is trying to mess with me again today.” I’ll go with the second. It really likes messing with me. Normally Allison would be quite amused by either option, but....

Nope. Still pissed off. Distracted from it, but pissed off. Hopefully I won’t meet anything, ditzy-Alli would be hard to do today. She stood up carefully, working around the bruises that were beginning to set in, and followed the puppy.

Said puppy was indeed a very intelligent puppy. He was the smartest puppy ever, oh yes he was.

He bounded left and right and—stop!—looked back, to make sure the girl was following. Then right then left then STICK! Perfect. The puppy picked up the stick (which was about as long as the puppy), and started—

No! He could not bring it to the girl. Because he was the smartest puppy ever, and he was not playing. He kept trotting along, dragging the STICK! (stickstickstick) behind himself with his head held high and proud.

The puppy plopped his feet into a particularly muddy patch of the path, and then—

--up and right and down and up and dot! And down and dot!—

He stood over the muddy spot, his entire rear wiggling, for he was the smartest puppy in the world. Oh yes. He was.

Hi!, said the mud, as the puppy wiggle-wiggle-wiggled above his muddy paws.

...Okay. Allison had been surprised at the puppy simply carrying the stick instead of chewing it, but that, that went well past smart puppy. It was somewhere around smart five year old, probably, but five year olds--regardless of intelligence--did not have paws, or choose to write when they could speak. Allison looked from the mud to the puppy to the mud and back to the puppy. “...Mutant, huh? Hello. How old are you?”

She was saying hello back. She could understand him, because he was so smart.

Hi! He said again, and, Hi! Hi!

He did this by circling the muddy patch, dragging his stick behind him.

How old was he?

21! He replied.

But it was sort of a small mud patch, and he didn’t have a way of smoothing it over between writings (nor did he think to try), so that came out more as 2H1i!! (circlecirclecircle). The puppy sat down, panting around the stick (stickstick!) in its mouth.

Allison was, fortunately, watching as the puppy wrote, so she could figure out what he intended to write, instead of the odd internet or chemistry symbol it appeared to be. Twenty one. And acting like... that. “So, the form you’re in affects how you think, huh?” She reached down and scratched around the puppy’s ears again, figuring it was safe enough. If he was puppy enough to bounce around and carry sticks, he was probably puppy enough to enjoy being petted. “So then, where do you live?”

The puppy found its foot thumping against the mud patch. Thump thump thump! It seemed to be a—thump!—allergic reaction to—thump!—the hands tousling his ears.

Where did he live? Oh boy! Was that ever a long list. The puppy zigged and zagged around its mud patch, stick (stick stick!) still in mouth. Where to start? Where to where to start?

Oh!

The puppy dropped its stick (stick stick inane stick!), and dodged off down the path. About ten feet away, it wheeled around to bark! Why write, when he could just show her? The Sanctuary was super close!

And oh boy he hoped she was a mutant, because she was probably going to die if she wasn’t.

Bark bark!

But she’d asked!

Allison blinked as the puppy apparently gained far too much energy to be contained, and darted out from under her and around the mud patch. Note to self, be careful what questions you ask hyperactive puppies. Particularly when they can understand you.

After a bit of quite confusing movement the puppy ran a bit away and barked, and Allison raised an eyebrow. “Follow you again, huh? Looking for a bigger mud patch?” Two more barks. “Alright then, I’m coming.”

Allison took a second to pull of her shoes and pick up the stick, carrying the (indeed, slightly bloody on the inside) shoes in one hand and the stick in the other, and wandered down the path after the puppy. The blisters were, fortunately, placed on the tops and sides of her feet, so she could walk without too much pain, and could certainly avoid limping at all.

She was following! She was following because his communication skills were unparalleled in the world of dogs. He was a smartdoggooddog, and she was following.

The puppy squiggled out of the park and onto the sidewalk, then off the sidewalk and into the street. (Cars squealed and stopped for him! Honk if you like puppies!) Across the road, he turned a corner and—was she still following him? Was she following fast enough? Bark bark!—he ran ahead.

(She was barefoot. He was barefoot, too!)

Finally after hours and days and a good ten minutes of dodging-running-turning-looking-running-more, they arrived. In front of the doors. They were a shiny gray! He was color-blind! Bark!

The sidewalk was a bit less kind to Allison’s feet than the grass and dirt of the park had been, and made it clear that while there may not be blisters on the bottoms of her feet, they were still rubbed raw. The street was even more painful, and probably would have involved a lot of flinching, hesitation and limping had she not been otherwise occupied with swearing and running after a puppy whose intelligence had just dropped quite a bit in her mind.

At least she didn’t have to wait to cross the street. And wasn’t really in the mood to care about the drivers that had been cut off or run into each others’ bumpers or whatever else.

The (menace!) puppy finally stopped in front of a set of gold doors, which might have looked impressive had she not seen similar things at the house of every businessman and politician and nonprofit organization that was trying to seem impressive, rich, and important. As it was, she mostly just noted that whoever this was had enough money to pay for it (or else a rich enough friend or patron to get it for them, which was close enough to the same thing for now), knocked, and when no one answered, tried the--it turned out, unlocked--door, reasoning that if this was where the puppy belonged, she was sort of justified in coming in to bring the puppy, and if not, she could blame it on the puppy misleading her.

Incidentally, she decided that her cynical side had gotten a bit too much of her mind, and did her best to firmly block it from claiming any more as she pushed the door open.