Grut looked out across the group of people and had to smirk at the reaction his shout had caused. But it was short-lived—and didn't look anything like a smile. A smile, however—a large one in fact—was what he got from the dementia kid as he climbed past. Taking another step on the staircase, Grut simply frowned at the kid's total lack of appreciation. Of what, he wasn't fully sure, as he had no idea what he meant, but he now found himself frowning with loss at whatever came out of that mouth. Turning back to the uniformed man who had also responded to him, Grut noticed that there was now another man, although a bit worse for wear, with Brenna. He recalled from what he had overheard of their conversation with the redhead that the two men had called themselves Rodney and Reardon. Which was which, he had no clue. He didn't bother to offer them his own name. "If star jumps take your fancy, mate, then I for one will not stop you—I will simply look at you with distaste," Grut responded to the comment the man with a shoulder patch had made. He sounded like a Reardon. "Eh, and why do you think this so-called killer would be around here to hunt us down, Mr. Reardon?" He looked directly at the man—there was no mistaking who he was talking to. "Perhaps you would like to tell us what you were doing the night of the murder?" Grut ask suspiciously, as what the man had said earlier caused him to return his pipe to his mouth. The tidy uniform was getting on his nerves, as was the reason why he was wearing it. He could only assume the worst—that he was a stuck-up army reject that attempted to wow his imaginary friends with his clothing. Glancing at Brenna, he saw more clearly the man that had entwined his arm with hers. Looking up at this Rodney, he gave him a sly wink.
Brenna cocked her head at Quincey's statement she untwined her arm from Reardon and began to tap her finger on her lower lip " I agree that some of us are of importance, but I am just a reporter and as far as I know no one would have reason to kill me. Why would they want to kill you? In fact why doesn't everyone give me a reason why they believe someone would want to kill them?" She glanced at Mr. Grut and, Reardon, the doctor and Quincey, Were they just here to be picked off one by one? Would thye be a help or a hinderence? That was what was going through her mind as she began to naw on her lip and visualize the deringer in her purse.
"Heh, the world wants to kill us all, my dear," Grut responded with disinterest to Brenna's general question. Looking across at Quincy, he let out a wisp of smoke from his mouth as he removed his own pipe from his lips. He limped up another step, as he saw that they were now towards the rear of the group. "I suppose this killer might have reason to gain from some of our... deaths. But how could he know that so many of us would be here on this night?" Grut wondered aloud. It gave him a bad feeling. "If he wants to kill me, come do it now!" he rumbled. "I have nothing to fear in this pitiful life." Grut started to make his way up a few more of the steps. "Eh, it could even be a 'she', my mistake," he amended his earlier statements. He wondered if any of them were even listening to him, as this dishevelled Rodney fellow and Quincy seemed to be in a staring battle of some sort. He let a frown appear on his face as he leaned against his cane. No respect, these young'uns....
Brenna just shook her head and mentaly smacked evryone upside the head, there was no point in all this supposing. They needed the cold hard facts and they needed to find out who did it before they all killed eachother. Pretty soon suspicians would fly and more and more people would brandish their...er...weapons if that is what McKay had in his hand and than things would start to get ugly. She offered her arm to Mr. Grut," what say we get to our destination without any further..interuptions?"
