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About the only things that he heard past the sound of his own breathing were ‘assassin’ and ‘killing’. Oh, and her attempt to psychoanalyze his past from his punch. That was a brilliant science, right there. Rupert forcibly tuned her voice out of his head, and turned back to the stairwell. “Like I said,” he stated tightly, “this conversation is over.” This time, he actually started walking down. The stupidest thing he could do on a flight of stairs was fall and break his own neck.

The stupidest thing he could do once he was out of her sight was go back down to his apartment and call Stalkers and hellfire down on this rooftop. It sounded smart in theory, but he trusted in himself to screw it up, somehow. Since he hadn’t considered the implications of dragging someone off to the camps who knew he was a Resistance member, he clearly hadn’t even begun to understand how stupid that would be. Fortunately, he would have several flights to think about just that, since he was rather brilliantly forgetting the cell phone in his coat pocket. And all that was assuming she didn’t try and follow him.

A cold shiver ran up his spine as the freak spoke. There were reasons that it had taken the shooting of his own lover for him to rethink his own stance on mutants. One of those reasons was standing in front of him, right this moment. She and the atrocities of nature like her were the reason Congress had passed the law that was keeping tamer mutants like Raina locked away in that damn camp. If he had a stun gun and a collar, he might just try to take her down.

That, however, would be very stupid. He was working on his chronic stupidity. Now seemed as excellent a time as any to practice thinking before he acted. He counted to ten, and then he turned around, and opened the door back into the building. His voice was pleasantly composed. “This conversation is over. Goodnight, Ms. Cyra.” He did not wish her luck: he wished her imprisonment and the hell that she’d earned. Murdering freak.

"I highly doubt you are considered lowly, Sir."

He highly doubted she knew him worth beans.

"Unfortunately I must say yes that I do need to contact this person. As much as it sounds like I wouldn't want to do that."

Rupert nodded simply, scrounged in his coat pocket for a certain crumpled slip of paper, and handed it over to her. On it was written the phone number of Naveed. He hadn’t even glanced at it. He really just had the one coat; it was no surprise, then, that this self-same black dress coat which was beginning to look rather worn, particularly under the arms and on the cuffs, was precisely the same one he’d put on after obligingly breaking his own coffee table with his back. It had also pressed itself against an alley wall with him at King Pharmaceuticals, and witnessed a few well-advised—and one very, very ill-advised—shootings. Actually, he was pretty sure that it had seen his college graduation. It might be time for a new coat. It wasn’t like the camps weren’t paying him out the rear to smoothly sit back and write everything the guard’s did off as necessary evils committed to subdue the evil muties.

"Why would someone like you be helping out mutants? From the way you talk, you aren't one, so why help us?"

On that note: “Guilt complex,” he answered simply, and matter-of-factly. “Really, really big guilt complex.”

"Rupert, did you know of anyone that was in the camps that went by the name Shrapnel? He would be of Asian descent as well." Rupert’s breath briefly caught in his throat. This was a very bad idea, given that he’d needed the breath in question. A cough and much wheezing followed. "Might you have any clue where the resistance is located? The hq perhaps?"

He held up a stalling finger to hold off any more questions while he got his breath back. “Shrapnel. Yes, Shrapnel was at the camps, up until a few days ago: your boy staged a two-man breakout, and good for him. Since he hasn’t been back to visit, I can only assume he hooked up with the Resistance somehow.” A few more wheezes, but they weren’t quite as desperate. It was official: he was getting his breath back. Slow and steady. “To answer that other set of questions: not a chance. I’m not the most trusted member of the Resistance.”

He offered his hand up to her, still not bothering to stand. He did grin, though. The story of his life was just too much of a comedy: how could he not be a happy, grinning little camper? “Kelley. Rupert Kelley, Miss...?”

“You didn’t deny the mutant thing,” he observed candidly, “so that was one for three. We’ve still got time for the life-threatening and the apartment-sleeping, so I might just be three for three, yet. To answer your question:” And to ignore that comment about how he was threatening his own life, while he was at it. Not to mention her little speed show. Honestly? He wasn't too impressed. “I’m a very round-about part of the Resistance. Are you?” Wouldn’t it just be unfathomably fantastic if those freaks actually contacted him? That would make him just chipperly cheerful.

He kept wheezing. Okay, he could admit it: the stairs? Not a good idea.

((ooc: Continued in “Rupert’s Apartment”, 1st post on page 5.))

((ooc: A favor returned—? Nooooo!)

Rupert nearly had a heart attack when the youth director joined them. Surprisingly, though, Ian handled it rather well. It took Rupert a long moment to realize why that surprised him: it was because the kid was a mutant. Not just any mutant, either—one who was obviously a mutant, if you just looked under that trench coat of his. Here he was, standing next to Ian’s side, knowing what the kid was. Yet there was the youth director, entirely unaware. That just felt... unsettling. Mutie freaks should not be able to fit in with humans so easily. They should not be able to hold normal conversations, they should not be able to lie as easily (and as lamely) as normal teenagers, and they should not talk about mothers and subways as if they fit as easily into that world as true humans did. Rupert’s skin began to crawl, where his arm was close to the kid’s. That slightly smug air of a lie well told that surrounded the dark haired boy seemed too normal, as well. It was hard to swallow the fact that he wasn’t human. He wasn’t, though—Rupert might be willing to help the freaks, but he could still clearly see the line in the sand. Humans were one thing. Mutants were another. He’d be very happy when they had made it to his apartment, and the kid could take off his coat and start looking like what he was again. The wings were not nearly as unsettling as this... this... ‘human teenager’ act.

Well, at least the youth director was off their scent, and they were making progress down the hall. It wouldn’t be long until they passed the sanctuary, and then it was a clear shot out a side door and into the parking lot. They were just passing the side doors into the sanctuary, when they burst open, and an enthusiastic ball of pure energy in a blue velvet dress with a silver bow wrapped itself around his waist. “Mr. Kelley! Hi! Hi hi hi!”

Rupert patted the eight-year-old’s head. “Hello, Martina. Who gave you sugar?”

“You did! You put it in the Kool Aid and then I drank three cups and now I can’t stop talking and Pastor Darren told me to go for a walk around the building and come back when I could sit-still-for-five-seconds-striaght-because-I-was-distracting-BillybecausehewaspullingonmybowandthenIhithimbutit’sokaybecausehesmellsbadanyway—”

The little girl stopped for breath, gulping in air like a guppy. It’s then that she noticed Ian. “Hello!” Rupert caught her by the bow as she lunged at the teen. There would be no wrap-around hugs for the boy with the concealed wings.

“Martina, what do we say when we met new people?” Rupert asked the girl.

She stood still for a moment before turning to him, and intoning solemnly: “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Right. Well.” Rupert used his free hand to motion at Wings. His other hand stayed on the bow on the back of her dress, effectively using it as a leash. “This is Ian. He’s thinking of joining our congregation. Ian, this is—”

“Martina Marie Rosemary Marshall!” She interrupted. Loudly. A blush crept up her face. “Hi,” she said, a little more quietly. “I’m not supposed to have sugar,” she confided.