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"Live a little, Rup," they'd said. "It's a freaking alternate universe that you can walk too," they'd said. "My wife and I took the kids last weekend, of course it's safe, you really think it's going to start turning people to jelly? Thing's been open a year, it ain't going anywhere," they'd said. "Bet it's got coffee shops you haven't tried," they'd said.

And that's how, on the first of July, Rupert Kelley, thirty-nine year old bachelor, Sergeant in the NYPD's Mutant Relations and Support department (yes that made them the mutants' MRS', shut up conservative newscasters), found himself staring at a closed portal from the wrong side.

"Huh," he'd said, holding his coffee. They'd he'd taken a sip, and helped the police on this side settle down an increasingly agitated crowd. They'd seemed a little surprised to see him. Correction: a little surprised to see him in uniform. He'd come after work. Just a quick stop over, just a few blocks in. It'd been weird and he'd been ready to go home.

On this side of the portal, apparently he'd been on disability for years. Something about a stabbed lung. And leg. And… everywhere.

On this side of the portal, apparently he'd been a Detective in the Mutant-Related Crimes department. And if "MRC" was really any better than "MRS", he'd eat his hat. Which was a flat cap, why was everyone so confused by that?

Oh, of course: because on this side of the portal, he'd worn a fedora.

He didn't find the fedora in the other Rupert's apartment, but he did find a mini-poodle. He'd filled her water dish, and followed her to the cabinet her food was kept in. Then he'd cleared some trash off the couch and sat down. He just... needed to sit a minute.

"Huh."

His credit cards didn't work here. The bank he used didn't exist. His driver's license was the wrong color. One of the guys at the station, a friend who didn't know him at all but knew the other him, had put him up for a few nights while they tried to get in touch with the Rupert here, because what do you do with an alternate universe doppleganger? You try dumping him on his other self, apparently. But the Rupert here wasn't answering his phone, wasn't answering the door, was letting his mail pile up while his poodle whined inside. They'd gotten the landlady to let him in.

"Your name's on the lease," she'd said. "You pay the rent, you keep the place."

Wherever the other him had ended up when the portal closed, Rupert hoped his coffee had been worth it.

The poodle tried and failed to jump up on the couch. She was… pretty old. Rupert picked her up, and stared into her cataracts as she squiggled in his hands. "Flipsy," the name on her collar said, and he wondered what awful ex he'd let name her that.

"Listen, dog," he said, "I don’t know you, you don't know me, but I've had worse roommates in my life. Don't make a mess and I'll keep your bowl full. Capisce?"

The poodle licked his chin. He set her back on the floor, and she went tottering off into stacks of garbage as tall as she was.

…Other Rupert was a real winner.

This Rupert sighed, and dug out the trash bags. They were right under the counter where he always kept them. Wouldn't have killed the other him to use them.

This Rupert rolled up the sleeves of his uniform—the only clothes he owned here, the only thing really his—and got to work.

Two hours later found him yelling loud enough to be heard in the hall.

"Are you fucking kidding me."

A statement, not a question. Flipsy barked in cheerful agreement.

Rupert's power during the M drug plot:

Mutations
He has no X-gene. When under the influence of the genetics-altering street drug being turned out by a certain pharmaceutical company, however, he manifests the following ability.

Drug-induced mutation description: Mutant allergies. Having an x-gene... makes Rupert allergic to having an x-gene. As a survival measure, his x-gene constantly seeks to disguise itself in an effort to fool his body’s natural immune reaction. It takes its cues from the mutant abilities around it. In short: Rupert is a power mimic in need of a Benadryl.

Strengths: Rupert can copy another mutant’s power, if the carrier is within fifteen feet of him. He gains the same strengths, weaknesses, and power level as the power’s original holder, and temporary allergy relief. In a trade off for the short time each ability lasts in his system, Rupert’s power seems to make him a naturally quick study: he picks up on the broader points of each power’s control intuitively... minus a bit of trial and error. If he copies the same ability a few times, he might start getting the finer details, as well. He has a limited sort of mutant sensing, in that when another x-gene (natural or drug-induced) enters his range, it gives him something of a “pre-symptom”—like there’s an itch he can’t scratch, or a sneeze that just won’t come out.

Weaknesses: It starts as a rash, or a runny nose, or just feeling a bit under the weather. It gets worse from there. The longer Rupert maintains a single power, the closer he comes to putting himself into anaphylactic shock. His limit for any one power is approximately two hours and a hospital trip; allergy medication can double it to four hours and an ambulance ride. If he changes to another ability within that time frame, he can reset the effects: if
he doesn’t change, he’ll be in serious need of medical care until either the drug runs its course or he shifts.

His power is semi-involuntary: while he can choose to shift to another power, choosing not to shift can take a great force of will: his power will naturally seek to change itself as his symptoms start to peak, unless he consciously stops it.

His body only remembers (and uses) one mutant ability at a time, and naturally tries to find another to shift to before the first has made him significantly ill: to hold onto a power after about three and a half hours requires a great force of will, a sprinkling of stupidity, or the absence of a convenient mutant to copy. While Rupert can voluntarily shift to another power at any time, the only way to control what power he gets is to have only one mutant within his range when he does so. Otherwise, the process will randomly choose from the abilities around him, with preference for whoever is closest. He has no power-based way of knowing what a mutant’s ability is prior to copying it. Long term or heavy drug usage carries the risk of temporary or permanent damage to Rupert’s DNA.

Secondary mutation description: Half and half. During the time that Rupert’s power is switching from one set of genetics to another, he manifests traits from both. This is a brief window, lasting approximately ten to fifteen minutes. It can neither be prolonged nor hurried.

Strengths: Rupert gains temporary access to two sets of abilities. This allows for greater versatility than the typical mutant has access to. That’s right: be jealous, freaks.

Weaknesses: This only occurs when his x-gene is shifting—as such, the original ability wanes in power as the new ability strengthens, like lines crossing on a graph. At mid-process, Rupert has access to both powers at about half the strength they appear in their normal hosts. Rupert cannot try to change powers again until after this process has run its course: as such, the maximum number of times he can change powers per hour is 4-6, spaced out at 10-15 minute intervals.

Riots. Goddamn mutants were always rioting. This time, Rupert had the foresight to bring scotch and a twelve gauge. Not many people messed with a man carrying scotch and a twelve gauge. Idiot inquires like 'Mutant or human?' from the so-called protestors crawling the streets had been met with eye contact and a slow swig. All in all, he was feeling pretty damn good by the time he made it to the shop.

“Medium,” the ex-cop called, rat-a-tat-tatting a friendly pounding fist on the man's door. “I've got the hooch if you've got the hardware.”

Hardware, as in the boards they were going to use to block off the shop's windows before some idiot smashed them in. Not. A. Euphemism. Today was about booze, rioters that were just asking to have their heads knocks together, and commiserating over their mutant ex's. In whatever order the mutie felt like.

On Tyler's note was drawn, with a hand clearly better suited to homicide than to art, a wobbly smilie face.

One floor up, the third door on the left. I'll be waiting. The precog had written, for the postcog's eyes alone.

If he steps into that room alive, we're both dead.

----

Rupert read his note with a certain detached air; he picked it up with one hand, and flicked it open with a thumb; his eyes traced back and forth below a sardonically arched eyebrow. His expression didn't change. When he was finished, he tucked the paper into his pocket.

The zealot took his gun out of its holster, and moved further into the building. The old wooden steps creaked as he joined the fatherless boy on the second floor.

Either 'she' had an invulnerability mutation, or Ty Fisher was in denial. Either way, Rupert let it stand. There either would or wouldn't be a dead body waiting for them at this place: he'd given the kid fair warning. If the kid wanted to rule out that possibility—to assume Simon was bluffing, or that the man had some reason to keep this girl alive—then Rupert would let him keep thinking that. Believing it, even; from the way he was smiling, and from that brief burst of laughter, it was clear he really did believe it.

God, the kid was young. It must be nice, to live in a world where people you cared about couldn't just die without a reason. Once a man left that world, there was no going back: that kind of naivety was brief, and beautiful.

"Sure, kid," the zealot said as he closed his car door. "Whatever you say." So the postcog wanted to pretend like he was in charge here? Why not. And why not go straight through the front door? Given the power they were up against, the fire escape wasn't any less transparent of an entry way. He briefly contemplated going around to the back, as the kid scrambled up his own route of choice, but decided against it: there really wasn't a point to playing hide and seek with a precog. They could have landed on the roof with a helicopter and a SWAT team, and it would have been just as easy for the psychopath to foresee.

Front door it was. At least that didn't require any more running.

He opened his note like a good little pawn, and read it with a certain detached interest. He learned three things: the precog liked over using baseball metaphors, the girl he'd threatened was Tyler's sister, and the psychopath had no fashion sense.

Mr. Fisher wasn't man enough for this hat. It might fit his head, but it wouldn't fit him until he had a little more experience under his belt.

Rupert opened the door, and went inside. He took in the scene at a glance: dusty trinkets, enough old blood on the floor for a double homicide, and his next note, sitting inside of an open trunk big enough to use as a coffin.

What a nice little store. Even nicer that it fit both Tyler and Simon's tastes. Rupert adjusted his hat, and went to pick up his next breadcrumb.

On the window ledge overlooking the fire escape, Tyler's own note read like this:

Sorry about your sister. As you know by now, it was a ruse to get you here. She's safe.

You're not.

And written in another time in place, on the page facing this one, were these words:

I saved your life last night, but the zealot is going to kill you today unless you kill him first. I'm not the cold blooded killer he wants you to think I am. He was a policeman while brutality against mutants was legal. When the Registration Camps opened, he became a Supervisor so he could hurt even more of us. When they closed, he started hunting us for sport.

I've killed, but so have you. Sometimes it's necessary.

There is a gun on top of the shelves to your right.

Kill him before he kills us both. Then we can talk.

"No," Rupert causally agreed. "Off the top of my head, I can't say I give a damn. I know it, and you know it. What I don't know—and what Simon does—is how much it's going to **** you up in this fight. Are you going to be able to think, or are you going to be trying to play the hero?"

The light changed. Rupert put on the gas; at the next intersection, he turned.

"Tyler. You need to be prepared for one possibility, here: that you won't be able to save this person. Every serial killer has a way in which they operate; things they always do the same. Things that make it not just a murder for them; things that make it fun. Part of Simon's is killing his victim before help can ever get there."

They might walk into this building, and find Tyler's loved one tied to a chair, their body still warm.

If that happened—if that was what was waiting for them---he needed Tyler to not be ****ing child about it. Children didn't make good backup.

In this order: cold, "Rupert?", oww, dark, light, "Rue?"

No. Not... No. More like: dark, oww, "Rue?", light, cold, "Rupert?"

The light had gone out, with a sharp pop and a tinkle of glass.

"Rue?"

Light: light curling and flashing out, like from an old sparkler toy.

It was cold on the floor.

"Rupert?"

A hand patted at his face. Rupert's nose scrunched; he lifted himself up, just enough to relocate his head and shoulders somewhere more comfortable: Lori's lap.

Oww. He would just stay right here, for a moment. It was... less disorienting. And warmer.

"Roger's crying," the zealot croaked. The rabbit was crying. The dog was barking. And he was pretty sure Lori's mouth was made of fire.