So she had no choice but wrap the towel all the closer around her and open the door to reveal two angry men glaring her down. Well, at least one was, but he was glaring enough to make up for the increasingly perplexed expression of the other. These, she reasoned, were the occupants of this place. Dang, it's like the "Odd Couple," she found herself thinking despite her unfortunate predicament.
And they were. One of the men was swearing at her, asking her questions and rocking back and forth in anger. He was dressed in sloppy "business casual," all stretched over and unironed. He must have been keeping a long day at work, because he was definitely overreacting to all of this. Obviously the high-strung lawyer of the study. And the other one? His unlikely renter. The guest room had been his, of course. Fortunate, she thought, that she hadn't ran into him when he flopped into bed. Then again, she wasn't exactly certain how far he would have flopped. His elbows rested on the armrests of his wheelchair and his hands were folded in his lap. Thus the elevator, she felt almost with relief at having figured out the place all the better.
She ignored all the questions that the lawyer was asking her. This wasn't just shock. If they saw that she was a horrible freak, maybe they'd assume she was also stupid, if she didn't react to them. They'd see it was all just some mistake and maybe the young girl needs to be sent to a place that could give her mental counseling, but there was no need to send her off to jail, or shoot her, or dissect her for scientific study or anything rash like that. So she set her face on "neutral" and, instead of looking at the crimson-faced lawyer, she watched the bald guest as his expression changed from initial surprise (eyebrows high, mouth slightly gaped) to confusion (brow furrowed, slight frown) to amusement (chin tilted up, curve of a smile threatening on the edges of him mouth). It was this last expression that confused her the most. But that wasn't all that she was dealing with mentally.
She couldn't identify if it was the mix of emotions of having been caught in such an unusual situation, or her own exhaustion, or from watching the bald renter's expressions so closely, but she felt like someone was flipping through her thoughts as if they were library catalog cards. This was such an unexpected sensation that she realized she was squinting at the fellow in the wheelchair as he began chuckling, first softly, but with more and more emotion, until his shoulders were shaking with his amusement.
"What's so funny, Charles?" The lawyer snapped at his companion. He didn't seem to like his questions being ignored and was obviously too upset to just leave her there while he called the police.
The bald man smiled at his friend. "She wasn't after your stereo, James. In fact, she was just dropping by for a bite to eat and a nap." Adain felt her jaw lower and unabashedly stared at him. He addressed her. "I have to admit, I've never heard of something of this sort occurring, young lady. You gave my friend quite a surprise." She glanced over at "James" and found that he wore a similar dumb-founded expression. They were both staring at the bald man. "Why don't you get dressed, Adain, and we'll talk."
James found his voice. "Talk?" he almost squeaked. "She broke into my house, Charles, breaking and entering; do you know how many years I could put her away for?" He shook his finger at her as if she were a disobedient dog.
Charles shook his head slowly. "There was no harm done, James. I'm certain that you'll feel differently once we talk." James seemed to trust his friend a lot. Adain didn't blame him—the guy knew so much about her; could it have been he riffling though her mind? But that, she figured, is impossible. Charles shut the bathroom door on her while she stared at him transfixed, and she heard them quietly discussing between themselves in the hall.
Adain heard James say something like, "How am I supposed to be defending mutants when…"
She would have liked to have dressed quickly. In her head, she knew that she was getting absolute charity any second that James could talk to Charles without her being present, was a second wherein his interests (ruining her life) would have precedence over her interests (getting out of this unscathed). In short, what if they call the cops?
While she was all aware of this, she felt very numb. Maybe she was still in shock, but as she redressed into her work clothes, she couldn't help moving slowly and deliberately, like sleepwalking. Though she was dazed, she consciously wished that she at least had been washing her work clothes rather than her dress and she could appear for her hearing looking marginally normal. With her dress on, she could pass as a hunchback. Maybe they'd forget everything they had seen when she was in the towel. That would have been the decent think to do.
Charles led the way with James standing close to her (in case she ran for it?) as all three of them went to the guest room. Once there, the bald man gestured for her to sit on the bed. She sat carefully, with her best posture: knees together, ankles crossed, legs to one side, wingtips crossed and tilted to the opposite side, shoulders back, hands resting crossed in her lap, tail resting to her side. She couldn't keep her chin up to look her questioners in the eyes; she couldn't do that.
"Adain," the bald man was saying. "I'm certain James would like to hear the specifics of why you broke into his home tonight." It was like getting chewed out by a kindergarten teacher. She inwardly sighed.
"I just needed some place safe to sleep for a few hours…" She muttered lowly, "and the jam sandwiches, but I can replace those. There's no need to press charges…"
"Well, she does talk then." James glared at her unforgivingly.
"James," threatened the kind bald man. "For the last time, she didn't have any intention on stealing your stereo system."
"What's a mutant?" Her curiosity somehow burst through her shock and as she blurted it out, she realized both of them were staring at her.
"You really don't know?" asked James, regarding her more closely. "I mean, you have been living under a rock, right?"
"Adain, a mutant is a person who possesses, for whatever reason, unusual attributes that make them special." Adain wondered if Charles thought she was stupid or if he talked this way to everyone. "For example, I'm a psychic. I can tell you think I think you're stupid." She was instantly ashamed. This was the guy defending her, after all, and she couldn't afford to antagonize him. "That's how I knew your name, that you were scared and that you didn't have vicious motives when you broke into James' house."
She was about to inform him that what he was describing was impossible when James spoke up again.
"There are unknown numbers of mutants. The civil rights crap alone raised up by dealing with them is enough to employ a legion of lawyers. How could you just not be aware of this?" On the plus side, he didn't seem to hate her anymore; he just thought she was brick-dumb and ignorant.
"I've been living under a rock," she murmured. She looked up at them and explained before Charles could get into her head again. "I spend my time hiding in the Museum of Bibliology."
"When you're not breaking into people's houses…" remarked James. Everyone ignored him.
Charles looked two steps away from a gloat. "And why do you do that?" he asked her, even though she was pretty certain that he already knew the answer.
"So that no one tries to hurt me." She had to be honest with him; there wasn't any other option.
"What makes you think they'd do that?"
She wished he'd get to the point and stop wasting all their time. She made her point at least. "Because I'm a hideous freak that deserves to be tested upon until I can't take it any more and everyone's favored with an autopsy." Maybe she spoke louder than she needed to.
They stared at her with pity.
Charles cleared his throat. "I think you should come with me to visit my Institute."
"Your what?" Nothing good could come of any place called "my Institute." Institutes, nine out of ten times, are the subjects of conspiracy-theory. She was tired. Not only was this the most emotionally demanding thing she had had to deal with, but just as the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, she was hitting the most "staying up" time she had hit in a long time. A yawn forced its way up her throat and pried her jaws open.
"You're tired, aren't you?" James stated the obvious. He took his keys out of his pocket and stared at them forelornly. "Better there than sleeping here…but this couldn't have chosen a worse time…" As Adain felt her eyes drooping, she noticed roughly the same thing happening with James. Charles on the other hand seemed downright chipper considering the inhumane hour. "What the hey…I'm taking Charles back anyway… Well, come on." He seemed to think she had a good reason to follow him when he turned away.
"I wish I knew a quarter of what was happening," she realized she was saying aloud when Charles promised that he would explain in the car on the way back to this Institute. James put a pile of folders in her arms and told her to carry them to the car for him. What choice did she have?
All of this was a daze to her. They were making no attempt to call the police, they weren't calling her mean names and they certainly weren't trying to kill her. She didn't expect this at all. How could someone meet her face to face, as she was, and not want to hurt her? This wasn't what she had been told. This wasn't what she had imagined. She allowed herself to be herded to the Beetle convertible and she dully struggled to get the seatbelt around her properly. It wasn't until they were going 64 mph down the interstate that it occurred to her that she may have gotten herself into something very, very bad.