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.
Maya decided to celebrate her arrival to New York City with a night in The New York Palace. She didn't usually go for such luxury; even though she had the means to do it, even by her standards (those of a sixteen-year-old mutant runaway) it felt just a little bit over the top. Just a little. But still, this was New York City. And she has been going in and out of crappy bathroom mirrors for weeks now. She'd probably seen enough stuff that she didn't want to last a lifetime. She shuddered at some images that surfaced in her memory, and waved them away. Walking in was easy. They had mirrors. Big, fancy ones. After some careful exploration - during which she decided people in posh places were not at all better than people anywhere else - she found a luxury suite that miraculously was not rented for the night. The teenager clambered through the glass with a wide grin spread on her face. Sweet. The only thing that kept her from jumping on the bed was that she was panning on sleeping in it. Later. First there was the hot bath that lasted for hours in romantic darkness - she knew better than to turn on the lights. There was soap and bubbles too. Then there was the fluffy bathrobe that covered her skinny body as she walked up and down the suite, enjoying the feel of the carpet under her bare feet. The only thing lacking was food. She ate her last sandwich in the king size bed. Then, there were cool pillows and warm blankets and a good night's sleep.
Gawain woke up at the first light of dawn. Time to go - he'd learned long ago that it was not wise to sleep in at a place that does not belong to you. Or in a bed, for that matter. Do not eat where you slept, Mom used to say. Quite a piece of advice right there. The bathroom, on the other hand, was an opportunity he simply could not resist. Getting up on B-days has really become a nuisance lately. Even a crappy day starts better with a nice long shower. And then the maid walked in.
He could have tapped the bathroom mirror, and be gone in an instant. Problem is, that would have meant leaving all his earthly belongings behind - backpack, clothes, music, photo. Photo. Muttering curses under his breath, he ran for it. The maid screamed bloody murder as the lanky teenage boy in the bathrobe bolted across the suite, grabbing his backpack and his clothes along the way, and melted a moment later into the mirror on the wardrobe door. Half a second too late. WHAM. The object - paper weight? vase? shoe?... - collided with the glass, sending the shattering pieces in every direction. Gawain ducked out of the way, and out of the frame of the mirror's remains. An annoyed voice could be heard from the mirror in the hall. "Shit!" And then: silence. Except for the maid weeping hysterically.
Gawain ran a couple of blocks before he finally stopped in an empty vanity mirror to examine the wound. He could feel blood dripping down his shoulder blade and soaking the left side of the fluffy robe. Leaving the mirror for better view's sake, he dropped the robe and sat on the chair, turning to see how bad the cut was. There was a long, broken glass-shaped cut across his shoulder blade. Gawain frowned. Why can't he ever get a cool, heroic kind of scar like other mutants? On the forehead. Or on the shoulder. Across one eye, maybe. Why does it have to be in a place where he can't even reach it properly?... Stitches. Please God don't let it need stitches. He hated stitches. "Dammit." So very not cool. Frowning, he put on his clothes, then rolled the robe into a ball and stuffed it into the backpack. Merging back into the looking glass, he walked away. His T-shirt stuck to his back in an annoying, wet kind of way. He'll need to find a changing room and get himself a clean one. Later. First things first. He needs to find a bathroom with a first-aid kit. New York City, here I come.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 1, 2009 5:38:35 GMT -6
Haven
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Aug 29, 2018 17:15:00 GMT -6
Calley
As first aid kits went, Rupert’s had seen its fair share. You couldn’t go to the hospital after killing someone, after all. Not even if it was a freak. Not even if they deserved it.
It was a big one: after the first few ‘hunting trips’ with James, his fellow disgruntled ex-cop... yeah. Yeah, Rupert had splurged. It looked like a small duffle bag; a lesser version of what an EMT would carry around. Not that he knew how to use everything in it by a long shot, but he’d been learning. There was a sharp learning curve involved, when you were hunting glassmancers. Psychics. Shifters. They were all mutant criminals; all freaks who had killed a human, and dodged out on the legal repercussions, like having a power entitled them to do whatever the hell they wanted to poor genetic peons like him. In short: the kind of muties that breed human vigilantes. The kit had bandages aplenty; gauze, disinfectant; hell, it even had that liquid stitches crap.
Today, all Rupert wanted was a damn aspirin. There had to be one in here. He did not pay that much for a damn kit that didn’t even have any damn aspirin. The hangover pounded in his head remorselessly: dark shadows festered under his eyes, blending in with the growing shadow of the stubble on his cheeks. He needed a shave. He needed a shower. He needed a damn as—
Thank.You.Lord.
The aspirin came in a little sheet of individually packaged tablets; next to them were ‘non-aspirin aspirin’ as well, whatever the hell that was. Rupert tore out one of the real ones, popped it in his mouth, and dry shallowed.
Tried. Tried to dry shallow.
A fit of choking and a handful of water from the bathroom faucet later, that sucker was down his throat. He took another for good measure. He met his own muddy hazel eyes in his reflection, and gave himself a cheerful morning sneer. Yeah. Good to be you, too. He needed breakfast. Eggs: eggs would be safe. The Italian man stormed out of his own bathroom, leaving the open first aid kit sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and the toilet seat up. The hallmark of a bachelor.
As the smell of eggs wafted down the hall, a little dog trotted into the bathroom, and—tail wagging—put her paws on the toilet seat, and leaned in for a drink. Her name was Flipsy. Her collar was pink.
Gawain loved King Arthur stories. Mom used to read them to her weird but beloved child - there were knights, and ladies, and battles, and magic, so very different from the world they had to live in. When he was little, he thought that other world of miracles was hidden beyond the mirrors. When he grew up, he checked. It wasn't. He suspected Mom gave him his B-name after Sir Gawain, and he was happy with the choice. Arthur's cousin was the king of cool guy who would ace any evil knight, and show up in time to charm the ladies. He would also bear any terrible wound without whining. He was still working on this latter part. "Ow, ow, ow." he growled as he walked from one mirror to the other. He checked a couple of bathrooms for first aid kits, but he suspected mere band-aids won't do the trick this time. Blood was dripping down his back, drying into dark brown mess on his T-shirt. B-days tended to be like that. Still. Damn.
Talking about knights and legends: the open bag of first-aid stuff really seemed to glow like the Holy Grail (maybe it was the blood loss?). Gawain stopped in the bathroom mirror, blinking - sudden luck on days like this always came with a twist. Carefully, he pushed his nose against the glass from the other side, and looked around. The bathroom door was half open, but there was no sign of anyone. And that bag was really not that far away... He wondered what kind of person would need a huge bag of bandages like this. Just the second he decided to leave the mirror, the tiny dog-like creature entered the bathroom. Gawain stopped, careful not to draw its attention. Pets tended to bark at him, at best. This one hardly seemed capable of any noise above a chirp, but still... His head felt light; he leaned against the frame of the mirror. Damn all Scrats to hell. He decided to make it quick. Taking a deep breath, he jumped off the mirror; his feet and left knee collided with the bathroom floor. The frightened poodle jumped two feet in the air, yelped, and turned before landing; unfortunately now it was standing between Gawain and the bag. "Move it, rat." he growled, trying to step over the tiny creature. Bad idea. Flipsy moved in the same time; Gawain, the caring child he was, tried to avoid stepping on it, and fell flat on his face, inches short of the bag. 'Ouch' and 'Damn' seemed to be the words of the day.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 1, 2009 6:42:00 GMT -6
Haven
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Aug 29, 2018 17:15:00 GMT -6
Calley
The gun was in the second drawer from the left, and third one down. Behind the paper towels.
Rupert had a nice kitchen. There might be boxers and shirts strewn about the rest of his apartment, but he kept his kitchen clean. His refrigerator was stacked full of leftovers: French silk pie, lemon poppy seed muffins, eggplant parmesan. He liked to cook.
The gun was perfectly legal. It wasn’t the same he’d had when he was part of the NYPD; not the trusty one that had seen him through the Mutant Registration Act, and his role as a Camp Supervisor. He’d turned that in months ago, when he retired on disability. This gun was just a standard handgun, with all its paperwork in order. He kept the one with the silencer in his bedroom, around a corner in the heating vent.
Fried eggs didn’t take much culinary expertise. He was flipping one with a plastic spatula when the light tha-thud came down the hall. Something hitting a tile floor. Rupert looked up.
Flipsy yelped. He reached down, and clicked off the heat.
Another thud. Much harder, this time. Rupert pulled open the drawer. Second from the left, third one down. His hand pushed paper towels out of the way, with the air of a man far too used to this kind of thing. If that was a mutant, so help him—
> “Ouch.”
The hallway back to the bathroom was short, even for a man with a limp in one leg.
> “Damn.”
Amen, you genetic miscreant. Damn. Rupert leaned against the doorframe, gun in hand and aimed with all the casual certainty of experience. A vein on his forehead pulsed unforgivingly.
“Is there a reason,” Rupert asked stonily, “that you’re bleeding on my floor?”
Flipsy tentatively trotted forward, trying to lick the kid’s face. Rupert cocked the gun.
Gawain tried to get up off the floor - unfortunately he tried with his left arm first. He'd been hurt before, even worse than the cut on his back; but when the movement opened the half-dried wound once again, he cried out in pain. The poodle was in his face in an instant. The tiny pink tongue danced across his nose and his cheeks. He could hear the footsteps, and the click. Somebody was home, after all. He used his right hand to push the over-friendly dog off his face, in order to get a clear view of whoever's home he invaded. The first thing he saw was the gun. He panicked. Kneeling up, the kid stared at the man with eyes wide in fear. He'd been shot at once before, but not like this, not face to face, not by a person with that look on his face. (Besides, that shot didn't hit him) He fell backwards, trying to crawl away, till his back hit the bathtub, and he winced again. The crazy pounding in his chest was mirrored by the pulsing of the wound. "I'm... I'm..." I'm Gawain, he thought. Shit. Maya would do a lot better. Scared, hurt teenage girls usually got more compassion than scared, hurt brats. He glanced at the mirror. Too far. He wouldn't make it in time, and even if he did, the bullet would still fracture the glass. And him inside it. He was vaguely aware of the tiny dog following him, resting her front paws on his knee. He stared at the strange man (and the gun. Mainly the gun.), gasping for air. "I'm... I'm sorry."
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 1, 2009 7:38:04 GMT -6
Haven
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Aug 29, 2018 17:15:00 GMT -6
Calley
>> "I'm... I'm..."
Eloquent? Still bleeding on Rupert’s floor? There were a lot of ways to end that sentence, really. Rupert’s eyes narrowed as the kid skittered back from him, bleeding; hit the tub, still bleeding. He wasn’t looking too hot, actually. Flipsy seemed to find the blood loss quite beneficial: it made it harder for her prey to escape her affections. She followed at a merry dance, tail wagging. The muzzle of Rupert’s gun followed, too. The good thing about having a small dog: she wasn’t exactly blocking his shot.
>> "I'm... I'm sorry."
The Italian man either winced or sneered: damned if he knew which, either. What was this brat, fifteen? Sixteen? Some kind of teleporter, no doubt. Not the instantaneous kind, though: either that, or he was just too beat up to do it at will anymore. Was that a knife cut? Glass? The punk had probably been out picking a fight. Or getting picked on.
Didn’t matter either way to Rupert. Asking him to care about some mutant kid bleeding on his floor was like asking for his damn aspirin to actually kick in: it just wasn’t happening.
The gun barrel twitched from the boy to the first aid kit, and back again. “If you’re here for that, you might as well get started cleaning yourself up. Damned if I’m going to bandage you up, kid. And I don’t see your mommy here to do it, either.”
Thus was the kid invited to use Rupert’s first aid kit. At gunpoint.
The man didn't shoot him. Not yet, anyway. Gawain took a deep breath to calm himself down. So far, so good. He slowly stood up, pushing the tiny dog off his knee (gently; there is no need to make the lord of the house even angrier). Once on his feet, he glanced at the mirror again. Then at the bag. Not a chance to get to both. And first aid was a priority. Walking over to the bag, he knelt down to examine what was inside it. "Damned if I’m going to bandage you up, kid. And I don’t see your mommy here to do it, either.” Gawain winced at that last part; he shot a glance to the man behind the gun. How dare you... Turning away from him and back to the bag, he hid the angry blush in his cheeks. Grow up, Sir Gawain. Rummaging blindly among the bandaged and various items he had no idea about, he sighed. Finding some kind of disinfectant was easy. Now came the hard part. Glancing at the man-and-gun again, he slowly took of his blood-soaked T-shirt (and now he was glad this was not Maya's day). The cut was half dried again, messy, and hidden under layers of brown and red. At least it was a clean cut. He can trace it with his fingers if... He reached behind his back with his right hand. No use. He frowned. I can do this on my own. The man staring and the gun pointed did not make it any easier. He looked up as a thought occurred to him: the stranger never wondered how he got into his bathroom. So either he is that stupid, or... "Are you a mutant?"
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 1, 2009 8:23:23 GMT -6
Haven
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Calley
The boy flushed at the mention of his mother. How sweet. Was he going to defend her honor? Rupert was keeping the gun out, but he wasn’t exactly worried. If the kid had an offensive mutation, chances were good he’d have shown it by now. These things were always ready to pick a fight, in his experience—even the ‘good’ ones jumped on self-defense as an excuse, as if violence were going out of style.
The shirt was blood stained. Under the shirt was worse. It was a pretty clean cut—long and a bleeder, but clean. It could probably use stitches to heal more neatly, but it wasn’t in a place that a scar would matter.
It wasn’t in a place the kid could really reach, either. Flipsy whined for attention on the floor, one of her paws raised in the air. Her tail swished the tiles, picking up a few blood spots. Great.
>> "Are you a mutant?"
“No,” Rupert answered, with a low growl. That just didn’t cover it. “**** no,” he rephrased, gripping the gun more firmly. That was better.
He kept watching for a moment more, before snapping an order: “You’d better clean off the rest of the blood first, kid. Then put on pressure to stop the bleeding, then disinfect, then bandage. You can’t damn well get clean after you bandage.”
Not without having to start from scratch, after you accidentally got your bandage soaked and the water teased open the scab again. Not that Rupert was talking from experience. His jaw clenched caustically; then he lowered the gun.
“Hold on. I’ll get you a damn towel.” An old towel. This kid wasn’t getting one of his good towels to bleed on. Rupert ducked into the hall, and grabbed the first ratty thing he could find from the linen closet next door. He tossed it in the bathroom, towards the mutie’s face. “After you clean yourself up, you’re cleaning up this damn mess you made, understand?”
Rupert put the safety back on the gun. That included giving his damn dog a damn bath, dammit.
“**** no” was an elaborate answer, and contained a whole deal of information in its shortness. The guy does not like mutants. He has one in his bathroom. He has a gun. And a poodle. He nodded at his answer, not wanting to pry any deeper. He apparently was not fond of the mutant topic. "My bad." Flipsy pawed Gawain's knee, begging for attention. The boy eyed the little creature suspiciously. He just couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of this dog being owned by that man. Maybe he has a girlfriend. He glanced around in the bathroom. Nope, not a chance. He'd been to bathrooms so clean he could walk out through the floor tiles without a problem. Here, unfortunately, that was not an option. Definitely a bachelor. Too bad. Girlfriends were usually much more compassionate towards lost boys than their grumpy mutant-hater other halves.
>>“You’d better clean off the rest of the blood first, kid. Then put on pressure to stop the bleeding, then disinfect, then bandage. You can’t damn well get clean after you bandage... Hold on. I’ll get you a damn towel.”
And he did. Gawain knelt on the floor, twisting around as carefully as possible to reach to wound. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom. Gosh I look like crap. He stopped thinking about the bathroom mirror as an escape route momentarily. There will be time after he gets cleaned up. The towel landed in his face. He picked it up and held it under the tap till it was wet enough to clean off the dry blood. That took some minutes and a lot of stretching, but Gawain bit his lips and dealt with it in a silent, stubborn way. Just to show him he was not a brat. Which he was, by the way.
>>“After you clean yourself up, you’re cleaning up this damn mess you made, understand?”
"Aye aye, Captain." he muttered, concentrating on disinfecting the cut and putting pressure on it and putting a bandage on. It didn't look as good as it should have, but it will have to do, for now. He swayed a bit, blood loss and exhaustion getting to him, but refused to care. Sir Gawain wouldn't.
Once he was done, he tossed the blood soaked towel and his shirt into the sink, and looked around. The bathroom really was a mess, with a slightly bloody poodle on top. Gawain sighed, and looked at the man with the gun. He looked serious about making him clean up. He didn't know Mom gave up those hopes years ago. Mom, however, didn't use a gun. "I think I'll need to give your... dog a bath."
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 2, 2009 3:19:29 GMT -6
Haven
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Aug 29, 2018 17:15:00 GMT -6
Calley
((ooc: Nice avi/sig. )
>> “Aye aye, Captain."
That little half-hard mutter just about earned the kid a snapped, What did you say? As it was, he let it slide. This time. Arms crossed, he took up his role as prison warden in the doorframe. At least the boy was doing a proper job of dressing that cut, now. In-between his sways towards unconsciousness. The former cop tightened his jaw.
At least the aspirin felt like it was kicking in. Finally.
>> "I think I'll need to give your... dog a bath."
“Damn straight you will,” Rupert snapped. “You’ll be mopping up this floor, too—and you’re going to put some damn bleach in the bucket. Damned if I know what diseases you’re carrying.”
He pushed off from the doorframe with a scowl. “Have you had breakfast?” That wasn’t to be confused with an actual question. It was more of a ‘follow me and shut up’. The brat needed to rest, if he was going to get any work out of him. Damn mutants looking like they were going to pass out on his damn floor. Rupert’s eggs were cold by now, but he could fix that quickly enough. He had some bacon somewhere, too. The freak better not be a vegetarian.
>>“You’ll be mopping up this floor, too—and you’re going to put some damn bleach in the bucket. Damned if I know what diseases you’re carrying.”
That earned him another stubborn look from Gawain. He'd had his fair share of mutant haters, but that did not mean they didn't piss him off. He picked up his backpack and pulled out a clean T-shirt - the only one he currently owned. It was light blue, and belonged to Maya's outfit. Oh well. He's not going to walk around in the psycho's apartment half naked.
>> “Have you had breakfast?”
Gawain picked up on the hidden message, and didn't comment. His stomach did. One sandwich in the last day or so didn't nearly cover the needs of a rapidly growing teenage body. The situation seemed to be progressing in a curious way. First he threatens to shoot him, then gives him breakfast? Do I look that pathetic?...
He flung his backpack on his right shoulder, and followed the man to the kitchen. The poodle ran circles around him, playfully jumping on his knees. He was very careful not to step on her. Gawain sank down on a chair at the kitchen table, dropping the backpack on the floor. Leaning on his elbows, he looked around for exits. The kind this weirdo would not think about as one. Just in case.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 2, 2009 4:33:22 GMT -6
Haven
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Calley
The kid put on a girlie shirt, then followed him.
...Right.
Rupert flicked back on the burner under the eggs, and got them heating up again. He heard the scrape of chair as the kid sat down at the little kitchen table, and Flipsy’s trimmed toenails prancing around the floor: he didn’t bother actually looking. He just went to his refrigerator, and pulled open the door. Bacon. He remembered buying— there it was. He got out a half tray of muffins and a bowl of oranges, too. The eggs got flipped and the bacon got dropped on the counter in passing, on his way back to the table: the muffins and the bowl got slammed down in front of the kid. He gave the boy a good, hard glare. The table was polished to a reflective shine: it put that glare into stereo.
“What do you want to drink?” He grumbled.
Yeah. Yeah, the little freak did look that pathetic.
Gawain's palm flattened against the cool surface of the kitchen table. His face glared back at him with dark circles under his eyes. Surprise, surprise, Mr. Bachelor did have a spotlessly clean surface in his apartment. There is an escape route right there. The muffins got slammed on top of his reflection, and he jumped back into reality. Now that he had a way out if he needed it, Gawain relaxed. Flipsy was still pawing at his knee, threatening to scratch his jeans and his shins to shreads; he leaned down, and picked the dog up with one hand. He was never one for pets, especially lap dogs. There is a first for everything. While the poodle whined happily, licking his hand, he picked up a muffin and finished it off in three bites. Well, if you are playing Oliver Twist, do it right. Picking a second muffin off the plate, he watched the man prepare breakfast. He was good at it. Actually, 'good' didn't seem to be the right word. Try 'effective'.
>>“What do you want to drink?”
"Whatever you have" he shrugged with one shoulder, swallowing the rest of the second muffin.
"Name's Gawain, by the way." he added after a minute of pondering. If this guy really hated mutants, he wouldn't care. But a person labeled as 'freak' is still worse than a person with a name.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 3, 2009 3:26:46 GMT -6
Haven
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Calley
>> "Whatever you have."
Rupert grunted, and turned back towards the refrigerator. Milk. The boy was still growing, right? Then he should be drinking milk. He opened the fridge door. Didn’t they give you orange juice at those blood donation places? The kid had lost a lot of blood. Damned if he actually knew what orange juice did, but that’s what he poured. Orange juice in a clear glass for the brat. Coffee in a mug for himself. He set them down on the table with a sharp click click, and went back to the stove. The eggs were done: overdone, actually. That’s what happened when you had to cook them twice. The kid better not complain. He left them on the hot pan to keep warm while he started the bacon snapping.
>> "Name's Gawain, by the way."
“Do I look like I care?” Rupert didn’t even glance at the mutie; he just kept prodding at the bacon, with the greatest of spite. “...Rupert. Rupert ****ing Kelley. So what the hell did you do to get hurt like that?”
Meanwhile, Flipsy's true intentions were beginning to show through: her tail slowed to a distracted wag as her eyes cunningly tracked Gawain's muffinly eating. The slightest bit of inattention on the teenager's part... and the mini poodle would have her breakfast.
Sir Gawain lost a fight. He'd been fighting silently for the last couple of minutes too keep his mind from bringing up memories. Finally, the orange juice, the muffins, the smell of eggs and bacon, and the clean kitchen proved to be too much, and he gave in. In a weird, only-in-the-crazy-mutant-world way, this whole place reminded him of home. Minus the grumpy mutant hater in the place where Mom should have been. Gawain frowned. Flipsy tried to lick the frown away. The kid stuffed a piece of muffin into the poodle's mouth to keep it occupied.
>>"Rupert ****ing Kelley."
Nice middle name. The corner of his mouth twitched. The guy's gonna go all 'big softy' on him.
>>"So what the hell did you do to get hurt like that?”
Gawain picked up the glass of orange juice and drank more than half of it before he felt ready to answer.
"I slept in the New York Palace."
There was a great deal of stubbornness in that sentence. Rupert already hated mutants, so what the heck.
)