The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Welldrinker Cult
A shadowy group is gaining power, drawing in people who are curious, vulnerable, or malicious, and turning them into Mystics. They are recruiting people into their ranks to spread the influence of magic in the world, but for what end goal?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
= = This personal plot was Mod-Approved. If in doubt about your plots – always ask the Mods. = =
Granny Stephens had moved out of her Hotel. Yes, she had. There was a bit of cursing as that event transpired. Not by her of course, she would never use words like those that had found vocalization in that fight. Cursing at and by the unable and inebriated (so it seemed to her) hotel staff, including middle management. Cursing at a guest. Namely her. Her floating trunk, the old wooden thing from at least a hundred years before, had been quite unimpressed by all the noise. The staff had been impressed by it though. Thoroughly impressed. Against a wall. Not that she had seen the need to punch one of them over the head with it, but had she been younger and a bit more adventurous she might have done so. Young people sometimes got in over their heads. She knew that from experience. Well there had been this time once when she... But this had not been a good time to reminisce about the olden days. The adventurous and very brave young people had seen to that, shoving at her. And they called her old and ill. She was working great! And after Cursing and Screaming was over with she now needed new lodgings. But first she would need something else.
A stiff drink.
Because nothing picks you up just like that. Not that she needed much picking up, mind you, but she needed a drink. Because lifting a trunk was work. Because being old and frail was work. And because she had finally found that bar again after half-a-century.
~ ~ ~
There was a time in America when Alcohol was in strong demand. And available only via prescription from your local MD or Pharmacist. Pharmacies had dispensed Beer and Wine, yes. On Rx status nonetheless. Back in those days – it was before Granny had seen the light of day – there had been a few special places dispensing the valuable commodity illegally. Such locations were in the speech patterns of those times, called speakeasies; places where one could find their fix of drinking and dancing. Places of light talk and hushed whispers, objects of desire, valued commodities.
With the end of the Prohibition of these ventures quickly disappeared into the mist of illegal activities no longer profitable. Quiet rooms in corners of the city gathered dust, counter no longer productive, entryways to occluded to be of use any more. Some though survived by converting into legal liquor dispensaries, commonly called bars.
'Smiths', such a simple name. The brick of the house in one side-street simply painted. Nothing more, only the name, just as if this was a reputable import-export business. It was probably one of the oldest bars of the city. Change was slow here. The walls were hung with posters from the twenties and thirties, with metal sheets that doubled as advertisement and billboard (thanks magnet!) and a counter that stood the whole length of wall. Some bottles behind it were probably as old as Granny herself. The man behind the counter wore one of those fashionable lip-beards from the thirties, combining it elegantly with an appropriate uniform. Mixing drinks looked so effortless with him.
~ ~ ~
The old woman entering was something unusual here, though going by the small crowd the Smiths had become a place for the Hip and the would be Hip to gather. Since these people tended to distinguish themselves by wearing outrageous clothing or their outrageous mannerisms (or a combination thereof) an old woman entering caused only half-a-stir of polite interest. Said interest waned somewhat as people became aware of the wooden trunk trailing her that was wrapped in an emerald glow that pierced the shadows cast by the dim light of bulbs overhead easily. Eerily as well it settled upright in front of the bar, just settling down. The old woman sat upon it, motioning the stools around her out of the way with a dangerous-looking swipe of her cane. They dutifully obliged, whether people sat on them or not, just glowing green and liftg up. The Bartender took things in stride. “Hello Ma'am, what would you like to drink?” The old woman nodded once to herself and then removed a flowery hat from her head, settling it beside her on the counter of the bar. “Heya young one. Whiskey please. And a smoky one at that.” She flashed him a smile that said she knew her stuff after taking a sip of the thing that was provided to her. An approving smile. The Smiths did not disappoint. Even almost a century after its conception. It was a wonderful place. And she still was a wonderful woman.
Smiths was a foundational element on the street where it resided. It had outlasted every business nearby whether they were some sort of retail or entertainment establishment. Those that knew of it or resided near it trusted it as something that wouldn't change. The prices were fair, the staff was courteous, and the alcohol was good quality. Sure, they had the typical beers on tap that any place would have but rarely did they get ordered. Smiths was known for the quality of its bottled beverages.
Paul had not been a big drinker since the late sixties and early seventies but on the rare occasion when he did want a stiff drink to relax, Smiths was his most likely choice. It had been there when he arrived in the sixties and when he returned to New York it was still there. It was a stable place that was a refuge he could retreat to. He didn't go often enough for the bartender to know him by name but his face was recognizable and the man behind the bar was experienced.
Walking through the front door, Paul made his way over to the bar with the casual stride of a man that felt at home. Giving the bartender a smile, Paul slid into a stool that happened to be only two seats away from an older woman that was sitting on a trunk instead of a stool. A part of him noticed that her seat was slightly odd, as was the distribution of patrons at the bar. Normally they would be scattered around the whole bar but today everyone was toward the other end apparently given the older lady a wide berth. "Good afternoon ma'am." Paul said pleasantly, nodding to the woman before turning back to the bartender who was setting a glass of scotch right in front of him. "Thanks."
Lifting the glass, Paul took a moment to simply enjoy the aromas that were coming from the glass. This was one of the other things that set Smiths apart from other establishments. Instead of only having brandy glasses for their drinks of that type, Smiths had actual Scotch Whiskey nosing glasses that funneled the aromatics to allow one to appreciate the subtle fragrances before the alcohol had even touched their lips. Lifting the glass to his lips, Paul finally took a small mouthful, allowing the scotch to dance over his taste buds and palate before swallowing. Sighing to himself Paul couldn't help but smile as he lowered the glass back down to the counter. THAT was the way to end a day.
She casually sipped from her glass, appreciatively eying the almond-colored liquid inside. The she gave the strong alcohol a whiff of her nose. Laphroaig if she was not completely mistaken. Or out of her senses with age. But really, a good year. Smokey and Misty, like Scottish mists indeed. A good pick-me-up indeed. One that had decades of experience at doing that nonetheless. “Hello young man.” Her voice, once a rich thing, now was thinned by age. Not quite frail, but definitively old. Just something that had once been a nice Soprano. A voice that had entranced men. Men like the one sitting next to her at a near-deserted bar. (Pff the youth today, no balls any more. They always look at me like I'm some monster) She eyed him up and down once. Ok maybe twice. She might be old and her eyes not what they once were, but she still could look. And she could still smile. White teeth lit up in that face.
Indeed he had something familiar about him, something that tickled the back of her overstuffed memory banks. Something that made her think of days long past, when her joints had not begun to ache at the cold outside or at the changing weathers. But those times were long gone. And the man was maybe 50. But he was... Something that wanted to make her smile.
Slightly waving with a hand, she pointed along. A small sweet smile, one that old people usually sported for the visit of their favorite grandsons. “Do come over here and keep and old woman company, will you?” Not that she left him much of a choice at that. The emerald color was already beginning to wrap around him, a very gentle grip. Nothing to fear. Nothing violent. Just as the others had been, he was simply lifted off the floor (complete with stool under him) and deposited neatly by her side, the other stool swapping places with the one he occupied. Of course the glass bobbed along neatly. Not a drop of liquid was spilled. No need to waste things after all. And no need to call her sloppy. She was only half-conscious of what she had done. After so long working with her power things jut came to her, things just happened around her. It was as if one possessed another pair of arms. Appendages that you had grown used to so much they worked without so much as second thoughts. She wasn't even aware any more that some people would have called this an impressive display of power. Not necessarily the carrying along, but the control she exerted. They were only her viridian arms after all.
She had even enough free mind-time to note that he was also drinking Whiskey. And a good beverage at that. The man had taste. She blinked at him, nicely. "A man with taste." Smile, Granny, smile. Something itched her memory again.
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"Do come over here and keep an old woman company, will you?" The lady said quite pleasantly. Since he wasn't expecting anyone and didn't have anywhere to be he probably would have said yes but the choice was taken right out of his hands. With no warning he suddenly found that his stool, his lower body, and even his drink were all enveloped in a gently pulsing green glow. For a brief moment Paul was simply surprised to find himself being moved in this way but the look of the emerald light triggered memories from long ago. Back before the name Paul McCoy had even entered his mind, even before he had usurped the identity of one Jack Covington.
As his stool settled down beside the older woman, Paul focused on her with amazement and perhaps just a touch of shock. It had been so many years... was it even possible this could be the same woman? The woman he had come to known so well while working with her in France? The memories were flowing from their storage place deep in his mind and a younger version of the face in front of him seemed to flash to the forefront and overlay it in his vision. "Emilie?" Paul McCoy, no, Andre Blaise asked softly, the touches of a French accent returning to his speech, "Bon Dieu, pourrait-il être?"***. For a moment he lost himself in the memories before forcing himself back to English, the language spoken in America. "Em? Is that you?"
For the moment his drink was forgotten where it sat in its glass. Instead he found himself focusing on the woman in front of him. Due to his mutation the years had been far kinder to him than they had been to her but when she looked at him he could still see the sparkle that had been so familiar to him sometime long before. She had been one of the first to learn his secret after he realized she had a secret of her own. Paris... the city where anything seemed possible. What a place.
That voice. The old woman stared at the gray-haired man. Blinked twice. The light in her eyes changed. They were sharper now, but unfocused. Focused on something different one could say, not on the face. To her old ears his voice sounded different, and yet not. She knew now. And proceeded to down her glass of whiskey in one long gulp. One comfort was that her mind still was working perfectly. It was a small comfort. After all these years she had found him again. At a Bar no less. Andre. Such a long time ago she had been in Paris. Such a long time ago it had been they met. Such a song time that now it was only:
Memories.
~ ~ ~
Paris – 1958
The woman named herself Emilie. Not that it was her real name, but men ogling at her tended to forget whatever they had been thinking at her pronouncing it. Well they were normally ogling at parts of her, but that did not keep her from feeling a certain smug satisfaction at wiping their minds. The name had traveled with her to Paris in one uncomfortable, clattering metal something named an aircraft. Machine from hell that it was. It had shaken her, cost her hours of sleep and actually made her hair look like something an exorcist might take interest in upon exiting into the sunlight of France.
Her legs had taken a slight wobble that her make companions were only too glad to steady. Proactive as they were they had not even let her step down the ladder onto the airports field alone. And the stewardesses had only looked mildly horrified at a group of three men escorting a single woman. Mind you, all three men were of the dark-and-handsome kind. Be-suited as they were it was somewhat of a mystery to the stewardesses why they did not support the usual mix of folders and file-coffers. The fact that their eyes went down to where her dark red dress clung to Emilie's figure leaving only a semblance of modesty was fine with her. But maybe not with the watchers. She did not care. Especially since the looks did not have to travel far down. Her equally red lips here curved into a sensuous smile and her dark eyes looked straight ahead. A car was waiting for them. Something expensive no less. She faced the companion to her left.
“This looks quite good actually. I think I could learn to live like that.” Her voice was rich as her lips, curved around his ears with a smile in the tone. A teasing smile. He gave her a laugh back. “You live like that since I know you. And that is half a year today.” His voice said it was an accomplishment that he had not found another during that time. Her smile knew better. Her hand knew better, petting the chest lightly.
Half a year since Antonio's – Not his real name, but who needed those – fortunes had changed. Half a year since the former petty criminal had found the perfect woman in a very much unwomanly establishment. She had sat at the bar and drunken a man under the table. The literal table. There were several bodies strewn around the one she was lounging at. Sitting was too common a word for her. And much too civil. She could make ones blood boil with her legs. In the end he had only been left sitting because he had cheated as those eyes and her voice asked him for a drink together.
And now he was in Paris with her. And two companions. For the heist of their lives. They sat in the car. The woman laughed again. It was a Royce. Because nothing would go quite like it. It smelled of leather and tobacco smoke. Everything was perfect. Nearly.
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For two years he had been working on making the identity of Andre Blaise his own. It was his third identity and thus far one of the more annoying though at least it kept him out of the French Army. Even now when he thought back to the war in Algeria it could send shudders up his spine. He was ready to get away from France but his savings were not quite large enough for the trip. After all, he wanted to make sure he had enough to live on once he arrived in the land of opportunity. Why be just like all the other travelers that spent their last shilling simply to go to another land and try to look for a job. No, he was going to be smart about it and be ready to survive the moment he touched land.
Work had been slow the past few weeks and so Andre had fallen back to the old stand by that allowed him to live without dipping into his savings. Being a pick pocket was far from glamorous but it put food on the table and when handled correctly could even be somewhat lucrative. It was all about picking the right targets. Everything about a criminal enterprise had to be weighed between risk and reward. The air port provided a great place for making huge rewards as travelers were always arriving with plenty of money to spend but it also came with plenty of risk since there were always police and security personnel hanging around to try and protect those that had traveled to beautiful Paris. However on the other side, a high end hotel provided much of the same reward without quite as much risk. For today the hotel was by far the best option and so he found himself standing casually outside the most expensive hotel within several kilometers of the airport, waiting for an attractive target to come by.
Dressed in the standard charcoal grey suit (narrow pants and suit coat), with white dress shirt, white undershirt, and thing black tie, Andre did not stand out at all. His hair was still dark brown though the slightest hint of gray was beginning to appear here and there. As with most men he kept it cut short in the post war style that was so prevalent.
After hanging around in several different locations over the course of a couple of hours, Andre spotted his whale for the day. A Rolls Royce was pulling up to the hotel and he sprang into action. Moving forward before any attendant could do anything he gripped the handle of the rear door and opened it with a welcoming smile. Inside, he was amazed by what he saw... a dark haired woman with a clingy red dress and not one, not two, not even three, but four escorts. It was obvious that there was no way she was hiding anything of value in that dress... "She's barely hiding herself." He thought with both amusement and a touch of admiration, but it was also clear that her four guardians had to be carrying something of value. That must be their reason for being there.
>>>"Mademoiselle, bienvenue en France! Notre pays ne peut être améliorée par ta beauté arrivée et au départ va nous faire pleurer." Andre spoke smoothly as he held the door open solicitously, apparently ignoring her escorts and giving all of his attention to the ravishing red lips and impressive physique that was right in front of his eyes. He did not worry about whether she could understand what he was saying or not. There was reason that French was known as a romance language and almost anything sounded complimentary to the untrained ear.
Her lips curved up into an inviting smile and as she turned to exit, her leg extended, revealing far more skin that was acceptable by current standards but far less than Andre would have liked. This was the type of woman that could have tempted even a man of the cloth and he was far from that pure.
"Back off bub... we don't need any more company." One of the burly escorts snarled as he quickly followed the woman out of the car. Punctuating his comment with a poke to Andre's chest gave Andre the opportunity he wanted. Stumbling back into the door he rebounded forward into the man with a frantic apology in French, even as his hand darted into the man's pocket retrieving a leather wallet. With a snarl and one final shove the man moved on, trailing behind the woman like some sort of puppy. Escort two, three, and eventually four followed suit though not before Andre slipped the wallet out of the last man's pocket as well. All in all, it was a good showing and he couldn't help but smile as he pushed the door of the Rolls closed with a firm shove. Two wallets and a lot of skin... things were looking up. Turning, he sauntered down the street, whistling a jaunty tune, and soon disappeared into the streets. He didn't realize how quickly their paths would once again cross.
OOC: >>>Mademoiselle, welcome to France! Our country can only be improved by your beauty arriving and departing will make us weep.
She was greeted at the Hotel by a rouge grinning in her face. How she knew he was a rouge? Well by his words for one, for another by his looks. Not by his suit, that fitted him quite well, it was something about him that made her thing of something she could see in the mirror sometimes. Mischief. She gave him a very knowing smile. One very calculated smile. Not necessarily just for him but also for the others that had just been sitting in the car with her and promprtly begun ignoring her as soon as the door had closed. They had talked so much of business it was tiresome. Them it had made somewhat irate, herself it had made somewhat bored. These men were really slow sometimes. They had talked about this for a while now. Half a year in preparations. And now a rouge grinning in her face. She gladly took his hand to get out of the car and escape the aura of boredom. The man holding her hand even had the manners to make indecent compliments to her. Now this was a game she could play.“Now, now, there are other ways I can make you weep. You might even enjoy it.” Her French was – oddly maybe for the American she was – perfectly accented. She had had time to prepare herself for this gig. And Antonio had not squandered money on having her taught. He had thrown it out so that she might be a valuable member of the crew. A perfect high-class accent in that voice, that was whispering in the ears of the stranger. A perfect pair of legs she showed him. She would be the interpreter, or so the others thought.
Maybe they thought something more about her, too. Something less than savory. If she had cared about such things as taste. Or what other people thought of her. She was a woman. She was mind-foggingly beautiful. She knew it. And she used that to her advantage. She would not rot in some island-hell while the whole world waited for people like her. Men looked for beauties like her to carry home as prizes. Or to Paris, the city of love. Only that she was more than just a prize. And only Antonio knew that yet. He might reveal it to the others soon. Or might not. Their alliance for this job was tenuous, as these things went.
Such thoughts on her mind she stalked into the hotel like a predator on prowl. Let the man deal with each other. Especially the pretty ones. “Antonio Meraz and companions. We have booked the suites.” Again her French was flawless. And the livered person behind the entrance-counter, an old man with stately aura, smiled brightly. “Of course, Madmoiselle.” He did not even look twice at her scandalous dress. This really was a measure of the quality this lodging offered. Another indicator came in the form of an errand-boy, also in Livery. Several others were fussing over her companions and her luggage already. This one though nodded to her and asked her to follow. Not without eying her dress though. In an appreciative manner. The very flat stare from behind the counter was everything to get him running though. She did not do this intentionally... most of the time. Now was not one of them. The men could follow her like lost puppies. Now she would take a bath. Have some champagne. And finally fix her hair properly.
A bath had rectified many ills indeed. Her hair had its lustrous shimmer back and was now piled on her head in a bun. She had taken on the appearance of a secretary. Complete with rimmed glasses and rhinestones around her neck holding them. The blouse and skirt molded to her form but obscured rather than revealed. In a most calculated fashion. It was business time. The men had been arguing louder since she had gone into the bath, all crowding in the sitting room around glasses of liquor, filled with slowly melting Ice. “We need to find us a local, Ben, we really do. Otherwise we have no chance at this.” The speaker was one of the more qualified members of the group. Emilie was inclined to trust his judgment. And what they were doing here? They were going to rob a grand show of Jewelry that had been assembled for only this once. A show of wonders in Gold and Silver, Gems and wood. They were going to rob several of the worlds best goldsmiths. At once. In the city of love. Emilie was quite excited about the prospect. But now they had another problem on their hands. And if she knew her bickering companions she would have to solve it for them.
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OOC: French in italics for the rest of the thread.
IC: The fact that the beautiful lady had been able to speak French had been a wonderful surprise but thanks to the lumbering behemoths that were so protective of her, Andre had not gotten a chance to enjoy conversation with the woman. While she might not be the type of woman you take home to mother, she was most definitely the type that could hold your interest while sharing a drink or meal. It had been some time since he had found such a woman to enjoy an evening with and so it was somewhat sad that he would not have the opportunity this time either. Thankfully he did have a consolation prize. Two rather thick leather wallets that he planned to open as soon as he arrived at the seedy apartment that he currently called home.
Both women and men prowled the streets near where he lived, trying to make a living by selling anything the might have or stealing anything another person might have. Andre was one of the few that could pass with relative safety. He was one of them, a brother that understood the world better than most. A brother that was willing to share when he had a particularly profitable day. However, today was not a day for sharing. Today was a day for discovering. Something that Andre found out as soon as he was in his apartment, sitting on the bed and flipping through the wallets he had lifted.
The first wallet held nothing particularly odd. It contained a couple hundred dollars in currency, identification papers, a few notes, and a picture of a woman that was in particularly poor taste. After pulling out the cash and putt it in his own pocket, the dropped the leather wallet into a metal trash can by his feet, already filled with old trash paper and smelling slightly of kerosene. Opening the second wallet he continued his inventory, cash (slightly more than the first wallet), papers, movie ticket stubs, and a carefully folded note that was tucked right in between two twenty dollar bills.
After tossing the second wallet into the waste basket as well, Andre opened the note and read the cryptic information. It listed a location in the warehouse district where he was somewhat familiar and a date and time which corresponded with later that very evening. "Now why would such well dressed individuals be going to the warehouse district so late at night?" Andre mused to himself as he casually lit a match and tossed it into the bin, igniting the paper and beginning the destruction of evidence, "Are they simply buyers who have a late night meeting with a supplier or is there something else going on..." As a man experienced in the darker side of the streets he had a feeling... a feeling that the lovely lady and her three companions were your normal business operators. No, there was something else going on and his curiosity was beginning to be piqued. "Well... I guess I'll just have to attend this meeting as well. I hope there's an extra chair." Suddenly a thought occurred to him and looked back over at the trash can that was crackling merrily. "I hope they didn't want those back..."
After the bath she had had the most unpleasant talk with her three men. Two of which had actually managed to loose their wallets on their first day here. Loose them. Phaw. They had been stolen of course, which very much made Emilie grumpy with her companions. They were supposed to be the thieves. Admittedly not entirely shiny nails in the box though. This made her realize how much she disliked stupid men. And considering that one of them had wanted to kiss her, this had led to s series of words spoken, which had led to a series of shouts made which had led to said man hanging facedown under the ceiling. She was so not into stupid men. Thankyouverymuch. Now that cute Frenchman from the entrance to the hotel. Now that had been something to think about. While letting her man beg from the ceiling. The other two had been approximately as useful as the walnuts they had for brains in that situation. How she hated amateurs.
She had gone shopping. On his money. To cool her head. He had been quite in agreement about that.
Later:
Said warehouse had two rooms that were used tonight. One where people came in. This was the larger one where crates cast wide berths of shadows. The invited locals would walk through there and enter the small office at the back of the complex to have a talk with three foreign men. Talk in English. A certain woman had dropped off her things there before interviews began and, after kissing the lead on the cheek, disappeared again to lurk in the shadows of a crate in the first room. She was security here. And not the three lumbering idiots. And why that was that was soon to be seen.
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Andre stood outside of the warehouse in the shadows of a nearby alley simply watching. People entered and after different periods of time, some only ten or fifteen minutes others more like thirty minutes, they would exit and once again head down the street. Most of those that came and went he wouldn't have known from Adam but one or two had been recognizable. Men that knew specialized trade craft having to do with the acquisition of valuable items, normally by illegal means. To put it bluntly they were burglars and damn good ones. The few faces that Andre recognized confirmed his earlier suspicions. The foreigners were up to no good and if that woman was up to no good then he was VERY interested.
It took a few moments but eventualy Andre had the timing. These men seemed to have appointments spread out over twenty or thirty minutes periods and when he saw a noticable gap between arrivals he made his move. There was no slouching, or creeping, or hiding. Instead he chose the bold approach, walking across the street and through the warehouse door as though he owned the building, the crates, and even every person that happened to be within its confines.
As soon as he stepped through the door, Andre began to whistle a jaunty tune. On another day he might have been slightly more cautious but today he was just feeling lucky. He had flirted with a very attractive woman, snitched not not but two fully stuffed wallets, and even discovered the location of a secret gathering that was probably going to lead to a very big score. If his luck held out then he would also make it onto the team and end up with a large chunk to place in his next egg as well as some more time with the woman from earlier. Making his way through the crates toward the light he could see coming from a room in the back, Andre could almost feel his steps getting lighter. Things were most definitely looking up!
The light at the end of your path. Its an illusion. Always. People say things about not going into the light for a reason. Reasonable people that they are. Here now was something that was quite unreasonable. And quite strange. The crates, in their shadows, waiting, sat a woman. From behind them she watched the new arrival enter. The new arrival that was most certainly not the one called now. One had probably decided the venture was too risky and abandoned his slot after all. Bad for him. Good for her. And somewhat fateful for the man that had decided on walking in on this business occasion. “Now what have we here? It seems France will weep after all.” A female voice, an alto, sounded playfully through the room. Her voice. For the Frenchman had come indeed to the right place. And this one might actually be the last one. For him. Or the last man for her to greet tonight. Green was the glow she had wrapped around a knife, sharpened like a scalpel. To surgical precision. Gripping up a human was serious work. Holding up a knife was not, not by her standards. And so Mr would find out that she was a very special woman indeed. The knife went first, shooting out before her. Time to dance. She came erect behind her crate. Inside they would only argue and continue until she found the right man for the job. They were arguing already, judging by the sound of raised voices that drifted over to her. It was always the woman who decided in the end. And they had not the strength to oppose her anyways. The floating knife nicked lightly at the intruders throat. It was wrapped in an emerald hue that seemed to hold it quite tightly. Both her hands were free, coming from the shadows, peeling out of them actually. Pale they were, snaking, moving lightly, as if casting away the cloak of the night took some kind of effort. Her dress was immaculate despite the dark places she had been staying at. She was immaculate. The smile on her lips, tingling. Her eyes searching for Paul’s. “Now, what is handsome doing here, tonight?” In truth, her grin, that very small one, said very much she knew about the wallets. But maybe he would like to add something. Or maybe lie to her. That smile invited it. Her hips, swaying as she walked around him in a closing circle, did too. The knife never budged. Not by an inch. Blood was slowly running along the edge, dropping down into the shadows. Disappearing. Maybe fatefully?
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He was walking completely focused on his goal when he heard the voice that he somehow knew would haunt his dreams for nights to come. The alto that was playful, seductive, and dangerous all at the same time. The type of voice that drew men to itself just like a moth was drawn to a flame. A voice that was only enhanced by the beautiful vessel from which it uttered. Pausing his stride, Andre smiled and turned to face the voice, expecting yet another pleasant exchange but that was not what he found.
All thoughts of speech were lost as he suddenly found a glowing green knife hurtling toward him. Stumbling backward Andre tried to escape the knife but to no avail. Suddenly he found himself with the knife just resting against his throat, almost caressing but with the icy edge of death behind it. The blade was so sharp that he almost didn't feel the cut but he could feel the blood that began to slowly seep out and run down his neck. Not a gushing wound by any means but enough to let him know that the knife meant business or, at least the woman behind the knife meant business.
The temptress moved closer, lips and hips both inviting but unable to cloak the danger of the knife at his neck. Things were moving so fast that he only now began to wonder about how the knife was being controlled. Perhaps some type of magnet or maybe a new machine that had been invented during the war. Andre wasn't sure but he knew he did not particularly want to taste death yet again. He had survived two brushes with death but maybe for him it would be as the Americans said, "Three strikes and you're out!" For a moment Andre watched the woman, doing his best to tamp down the fear that was fighting to rise in his stomach. He had to focus on the opportunity he was being given. Obviously the woman could have killed him outright but instead she was giving him a chance to speak. For the briefest moment he considered lieing, something in her playful gaze almost begged him to, but he had entered with all the boldness of a true veteran so why should a knife at his throat make any difference?
"I've come for an interview." He responded, a touch of the brashness returning to his voice even while he tried to keep his throat from moving and causing the knife to cut deeper, "You're putting together a team for a job... a couple of the men you've seen are my friends and they're good but I'm better. You're guards aren't good. They don't know to watch their pockets, I was able to get two of them and I might have even been able to get the third if I'd tried a little harder. I found the address and came to see what it was about. You obviously want someone talented though it seems you're not without your own talents."
The knife still confused him. The idea that this was something she could simply do with her mind and that her ability might somehow be connected to his own wasn't even feasible. The war had led to an arms race in all countries so this had to be a prototype of some sort of super weapon. A weapon that could be used to take out combatants without risking a soldiers life. That had to be the answer... didn't it?
Her walk was swaying, sensual, dangerous. She was. Coming close to him, being so close. And her eyes, so close from his. Something was wrong in them, slightly, for the situation. There was amusement. Certainly there was. Rare, to be truthful, were the times when there was not. But there was also this: A hinting of assessment. Only a small measure across from him. On the other side. “What is she?” Her lips were near his ear. Whispering. Intimate things, exchange of thoughts. Speaking. Was this not? (Not the same: Indifference, Roles, Standard((s))) “You're asking yourself that right now. “And the answer even is” Breathing through the mouth. Tasting him, his eau de toilette. His hair maybe, tingling across her the sensations. I am close//d//not// to you. Consider possibilities. Tasting salt. Sweating, slightly. An open book are women, are they not? Do you want me to be one? “I don't know.” Yes: Unknowingly stumbling. Blunder. In worlds of hurting. Because youth does not care about pain. She did not know who she was.
This was truth. The knife was there. Almost forgotten. So she made it seem.
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Posted by Phoenix on Sept 10, 2011 20:23:58 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
280
1
Apr 11, 2014 12:58:23 GMT -6
She made no response to his statement, instead she sauntered closer with that same smile that never seemed to go away. Her eyes and mouth were both laughing at him without uttering a sound as though this were all one big game to her. Apparently holding a life as a prize was nothing new to her and perhaps not even anything important.
"What is she?" That tantalizing voice whispered in his ear as she moved around him, to the side and slightly behind. He could no longer completely see her but he could feel her presence, hear that voice, and even catch the wafting scent of her perfume in his nostrils. "You're asking yourself that right now. And the answer even is, I don't know."
Raising an eyebrow ever so slightly Andre tried to process what she was saying. How had the conversation even taken a turn in that direction? He had been trying to sell himself as a valuable member of her crew and here she was talking about who or what she was? But why would he be asking the question about what she was? Who, perhaps, but what? What would only apply if the knife hovering at his throat was being held not by some new technology but by the very will of the woman behind him.
"What is not an important question to me as I've spent years asking myself the same question." He replied, his voice dropping slightly lower as well as softening slightly, "People talk about how it can take years for a person to find out who they are but no one understands the question of what. Am I fully human? Am I something more or perhaps something less?"
If his deductions were right then he had met someone that might understand what he had been dealing with for years. Someone who might actually in some strange way be similar. It was time for him to make a move instead of simply sitting back and waiting to see what she did or how she reacted.
Slowly he lifted his hands, palm out to make himself as non-threatening as possible before slowly pivoting around to face the woman. If the knife wanted to follow his movement he was going slow enough to make it possible and if she wanted it to simply slice in and kill him... well he'd find out if three was the limit or if his strange gift/curse would kicked in once more. "I was born in 1919. I died for the first time in 1944 in war torn Italy. I died a second time in 1956 while serving in the army during the Algerian War." His spoke softly in an even voice that was dead serious. If she chose to believe him then he just might survive this and if she didn't then she would have to wait to find out if his words would be proven true. "I don't know how or why but both times after dieing I was reborn... renewed."
Andre was hoping that he would survive this encounter but even beyond that he hoped that perhaps this woman would have some answers. Perhaps she would be able to give him some sort of explanation for what had happened in his own life. "Does that mean anything to you?"
She listened most attentively, her knife still floating directly at his neck. As his story progressed though, her eyes got wider and wider. Almost incredulous, the big expressive windows to her soul parting in something akin to... horror? And beyond that there was something else. Something cold. Calculating.
The knife fell to the ground, its clatter reverberating through the dark hall. "It means that you are hired. And that we will have a drink now." She pronounced and then proceeded to turn around to where the light of the meeting room shone into the hall. "I have found us a local. And I'm leaving now. See you tomorrow." Her voice was sharp and bellowing. Not mellow, not reduced, not even hinting at some subservient femininity. Nope that was not her. She was presently grabbing for the hand of her new acquaintance. "Let us go, talk. I am sure you know places." Her voice was a whisper, shared between them. And then something proceeded to nudge Pauls backside in a most complimentary manner. Only that her hands were both quite visible. And they did nothing.
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