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.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 3, 2010 9:05:19 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Winter days.
Well it was almost spring now, but it seemed that winter was quite intent on living up to its calendaric boundaries for once and did not let the snow disappear on New Years Eve, but city life had had other plans with the white falling from the sky. Once white snow was lying in the streets, ground to gray slush by tires, trampled beyond recognition on the sidewalks tempting people to slip, to take a careless step, to fall into each other, the few that were left walking, going by foot in these conditions. Their dwindling number was the only thing that had been able to get Martin out on the streets in this conditions, his ever persistent instincts nudging on him, nudging him, not to go. Something bad might happen.
It might always happen. Or so he had tried to convince himself, quite successfully apparently, for he was walking down an avenue, big and heavy with goods from a grocery store in his hand, pulling him down. Of course he could have asked Mrs Dumonde to get him the things he needed on her latest shopping trip, but he rather did things himself for several reasons. He liked the feeling of fresh air, the blowing of the wind reminding him of the sea, though the snow was somewhat uncharacteristic of watery places. And the cars driving by, spitting their soiled and sorry excuses for leftovers of waters on every side. So in his other hand there was an umbrella fighting, its structure barely winning the fight against the blowing winds, while it was not protecting him from the snow from above, but rather from the slush that was thrown at him every other second.
And he was not the only one. The few people around seemed to have adopted similar fashions for not getting an unwanted shower -at these temperatures something one should avoid for fear of infections. And he, like most mutants, was not immune to the common cold. There were just some that could make it disappear on a whim. Not that he feared the common cold very much. Just the usual care of not touching. Gloves on and everything, but luckily this made him much less outstanding in a crowd during winter then during summer. Most people thought you were strange when you wore your leather gloves at 30°C. Not that that concerned him.... The should think what they must. Only what was sticking out was something that made stealth more of a challenge. He liked challenges. One he had right now was keeping upright on the slippery ground, balancing the umbrella and the grocery bag at the same time.
Garrett had a slight drinking problem. While it certainly wasn't full blown alcoholism yet, he could surely see the road to that bleak existence. At first, it had been liquid bandages for the scrapes and stings felt at the Csendes' and their nuptuals. His own mutation was a conspirator, as enhanced sensations seemed to fit well with artificial euphoria. He had felt the effects of a night with Johnnie Walker throughout his day, mostly during the certification pre-tests he had been given in the wee hours of the morning. His exam for EMT certification was looming on the horizon and he had to remain vigilant and clear eyed.
The Iris Clinic van, while being four wheel drive, was hardly winterized. Another thing to take care of for the cavorting couple. He tried hard not to think of the two of them sipping tea and eating oranges somewhere, while he slogged away at the endeavors of assembling tenants and preparing himself for work. His own driving history had been brief, so brief that he hadn't conceived of insurance yet, though it glared at him from his eligibility paperwork. The sheen of black ice mocked Garrett's lack of preparedness by not catching tires that swerved into them, the novice driver underestimating their treachery.
" Oh...shhhhhhiiiiiiii......" The van floated and completed a full three hundred and sxty degree turn. Time seemed to slow as the scenery spun and Garrett's features cringed. Mostly due to the umbrella armed folks walking the sidewalk, since they would reap the inheritance of his winter driving fail. Time returned to its seat after its brief bio and resumed where it left off, kinetic energy picking up the slack. The van slammed hard into a pole, backwards. Garrett looked up and down the street. No wandering cops, eager to catch such an event. Undoing his seat belt, he began to open the door when a sight sickened him. An umbrella. Beneath the back tires even.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 11, 2010 6:25:04 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The balancing pedestrian was vegetably -pardon- veritably unaware of the looming danger that was present (Or in case of good judgment - absent) behind the stirring wheel of the white van, coming up from behind and swinging over him like Damocles's sword, busying himself with acts of equilibrium and concerns of condiments, almost dancing on the sidewalk, his umbrella swinging, then with the social activities of teachers at the Sisters School, be they marriage or matronage. Therefore it was only the screeching of the brakes and a swooshing sound that made him turn on the spot. Turn around to see, what was happening, expecting, maybe, a lost puppy or irate businessman having stopped a car in its tracks, but a strange feeling of foreboding was heavy on his shoulders.
What he found was a van. One that was there much too close for his comfort, spinning, then -abruptly- not spinning. Someone had pressed the pause button one a very big remote. He was so small against his power, wasn't he? The sidewalk, it was spinning towards the sidewalk, having left a rather odd round track in the dirt of the streets, like a tumbling animal, that was no on its was to -concentrate Martin- crush him between itself and the lamp post behind him. That hit might hurt if the van ever connected. His heart was beating rapidly, panic was building in his chest, swelling, fingering worms gripping coldly for his sanity, as the surface thoughts subsided. But it was already so close to him, and his powers only managed to stem the tide of time from him, so that he was now less ignorant, but had the same problems as everybody else in his situation. How to get out of the way of a speeding, spinning truck?
Concentrate Martin. Extrapolate trajectories, think about the possibilities. Its was all so quick, so soon. The truck was much too close. He feared what was apparent: There was no was out. Tears would come soon now... but he still had to make the right decisions. The claws were driving down into his heart, plunging, searching, for the source of his life, as his mind was still searching for ways to sell it to the highest bidder. Fate? Were there others in the way? He checked and could see some, but none as close as him to the danger. It was only him, his umbrella, the groceries.
The decisions were painful. Which part would he like to be hit? Which limb was expendable? He could not get away... but he would minimize damage to his body by all means given to him. The groceries bag settled to the ground, contents braking, spilling their red and green, their yellow lifeblood, as the umbrella was lost from his grip. One backflip. That must be enough to gain him space. Then it was done, the young body, the small one, moving with an acuity that seemed supernatural.
He spared the last few milliseconds, just standing there, wasting time, for a long look into the drivers eyes, his steel being reflected in mirror, before the car connected. His left arm was caught. It broke with a crack.
The bitter cold whistled into the van as the door opened. Eyes. Had Garrett seen eyes in the mirror? If so, it was only for a brief split second. Hopefully it was only his conscience, chiding him prematurely for his novice attempt at taking a winter turn. Garrett's jangled nerves quickly took care of the pain in his back, though he noted it. Pain was a good indicator of where not to stress injured body parts, so fix and forget was rarely something that he signed up for.
Scuttling quickly out of the van and waving off the onlookers, Garrett moved toward the back of the van. An insistent busybody, camera phone clicking away, stood a bit too close to the post. Concern written on the young woman's face, her eyes turned toward him and the face disfigured into a scowl. " Are you crazy? You almost killed this guy!" A lump couldn't decide if it wanted to be in Garrett's throat or stomach, the movement becoming increasingly nauseating. There was someone behind the van. The eyes had indeed been real. Man of concern traded places with man of caution.
Garrett promptly swiped the phone from her hand, giving it a good toss into traffic. The look of indignant anger quickly became shock and fear as she recoiled and began to make irritating clucking noises for help. The other bystanders, being good New Yorkers, promptly found other things to do as the situation began to escalate. Fortunately, Chicken Lady made it too easy, grabbing Garrett's arm with ungloved hand, demanding he compensate her for her phone and wait for the police. As if. Her body soon dropped to the snow like a limp sack of potatoes, a shivering and jerking sack at that.
Garrett stepped over her to find a young man behind the van, his arm hanging limply by his side, his face painted with Garrett's favorite hue. Pain. " I'm really sorry about that. Do you think you could get in the van with me? I work at a Clinic in town and can get you straightened up in no time." His eyes scanned the sidewalks. Still no black and whites. He stepped around the remains of the light pole to the victim's side, hoping that he would come along quietly. " Usually people get in the back, but that's a no go. Mind getting in the passenger side?" His eyes casually glanced over at the semi conscious woman in the snow and then back to the young man before him. " Quickly, please. Before the police arrive?" He opened the passenger door for him, regardless of his answer.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 15, 2010 3:09:42 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Sadly there was no unconsciousness that expelled the roaring pain from his mind but for a few minutes. He was very well aware of the fact that one of his appendages had become useless as a few tonnes of weight had been bent on crushing its internal stabilizing structures. And succeeded. Only that every last neuron seemed to be intact and shooting a firey message into his mind, hammer it into his brain with all of the chemical force necessary to implode a building. Adrenalin was beginning to replace his blood, liquid fire being caught in battle with grinding ice.
The argument between the passerby and the maybe bald driver – a film of tears was blurring his vision- was something that barely touched the periphery of his sensations, not even the small object that started to suddenly defy gravity was enough to disrupt the chasing thoughts, all centred around burning, internal events being of far greater importance then anything on the outside world, that was until the passerby dropped to the floor convulsing. He blinked several times to clear out his eyes and even then it was, as if he was sleepwalking, shaking his head lightly. His body was quite bent on not listening to him. All movements seemed to take exceedingly long until completion, and so it was that he found a bald man standing in front of him, asking him to come to a clinic.
Clinic sounded good. Or the Mansion with its prominent healer. But clinic. Yes.
He got to his feet and wiped off his clothes with the gloved hand that was still under his control. It was a casual movement, bent on introducing a stranger to the slightly odd conversation. Normality. Not that he really cared bout the condition of his garments, but something he did care about was, that all parts of his skin that were immediately accessible were covered in thin folds. And then he followed the look of his seeming helper to the person laying on the ground, twitching. One of his eyebrows escaped his control and wandered up into an arch, despite the pain in his arm. Why only him? Why was that person laying there? Why was that man so calm? Had he?
“I will comply.” The words were dry, almost bar the pain that throbbed in his arm. They were words spoken in respect to the fact, that apparently there was no choice involved on his part. And the fact that he anted to get into that clinic now. Better sooner then later. He would not be able to keep himself upright for long. He grabbed for the mans arm and placed himself in the truck. With a grimace.
It hurt. From the distance was carried to them the sound of alarm on the wind. They were coming. They would be here soon. He would not like it, would he?
The victim wasn't angry. He certainly didn't seem to be, anyway. He did seem to be in a staggering amount of pain, though he was shouldering the burden well. Garrett watched his movements, from ensuring he was covered up to his double take at the twitching bystander. Did this one know about him? Was it just a natural way to make sense of the situation? It didn't really matter. He agreed to comply and get in the van. Compliance worked.
In no time he had shut the door for the man, as his shattered limb wasn't much use for door closing or anything else. Still no police. He jumped in on his side and started the van up, pulling away from the pole and off the curb in the same reckless fashion that had put him where he was out. Time was now a factor though, as another pedestrian could easily take up where the floorbound woman had left off. Trailing glass and metal pieces, he quickly turned to side streets, making a zigzag line toward the Clinic and relative safety.
" I appreciate your compliance with the situation. I work at the Iris Clinic, a facility run by mutants. We serve the general public as well, but use our abilities to heal rather than science, for the most part. Unfortunately, our resident healer, Sebastian Csendes, is on his honeymoon. I will get that bone straightened out once we get there and splint it. Then I can take you over to Mondragon Medical. Doc Ingram is filling in for Sebastian in the meantime." The van made it into the alley next to the Clinic and Garrett quickly turned the van off and made his way to the passenger door, opening it for the man.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 20, 2010 15:45:43 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The fact that the driver had escaped detection by the police didn't mean that he had escaped Martins attention. His actions were suspicious to say the least, the sudden seizure. He was, as far as he could say with a mindscape in which pain and logic were fighting a furious duel, in the company of a mutant who could do things to him that would not make him happy at all. They only drove a short distance and ended in an alleyway. Why was it that these passages always had something to do with unfortunate events for him? Words drew his attention away from the alley, from dark thoughts that were so comfortably warm, he could nearly have forgotten the pain in the arm he had now placed in a protecting posture to minimize the discomfort emanating from the useless limb. And the Clinic Owner even did him the courtesy of confirming it right there. He was a mutant. Martin considered the kinds of actions that were to be pursuable, until another dropped name made him stare at the man in blinking confusion.
Dr. Ingram at... Mondragon Medical. Sebastian... Csendes. was it not? He had heard both of these names before. Somewhere a tail was flapping in his mind. A long white tail.
Could it be coincidence? Was this man part of the same organization he was employed in? was this clinic... A sigh of pain escaped his lips as he moved his arm. After a while he caught himself, caught the confusion, the recognition behind a sparkling mask of blue, the pain in a corner of his mind that was flooded with adrenaline. His voice was still shaky as he left the car and talked on the way into the building, another sigh escaping as his feet touched the ground, the impetus moving the fragmented supports of his flesh again and again. red was behind those blue eyes as they turned watery. "I happen to be an acquaintance of Mr Csendes." He therefore dropped his first bit of information, almost like a tear that managed to find its way out of his eye. "Id be quite happy if you could give me an analgesic before proceeding with your planned operation." A rather difficult way for saying: Heck I'm hurting, get me some codeine NOW!... But somehow he managed to remain civil. After all... Csendes or not, this man was a mutant and a quite dangerous one at that. A voice in the back of his head said: Aren't you too?
It was too bad that this man was so standoffish. Garrett could understand, especially considering that he had mentioned being a mutant and certainly being in congress with others of his race. Hopefully, if the man did have any reservations about mutants, he would remain silent about those feelings and allow Garrett to help him on his way. He was certainly stubborn to the idea of help until the mention of Sebastian seemed to illuminate the man. An acquaintance of Sebastian's? Terribly interesting as Garrett never believed in coincidence.
As they entered the sterile confines of the Iris Clinic, Garrett flipped some lights on in the first exam room he came to, gesturing for the possible friend of a friend to take a seat on the exam table. "An analgesic? Sir, I am a living analgesic. My own gift is that of neural manipulation. If you would allow me to touch you, I can totally eliminate the pain in your arm. I do find myself impressed with your pain tolerance though. You'd be surprised just how shallow most people's tolerances really are when tested." Most big talkers were little babies, mewing and gurgling when the pain came. Garrett suspected that this quiet man was different.
" Also, my name is Garrett Wills. I apologize for hitting you, first and foremost. I also appreciate your compliance with my hurried demeanor. Keeping mutants out of the public eye and the police blotter is usually a good thing, for now. I'm going to go get a splint and a sling. I can brew you some coffee up as well, if you like. " Garrett surveyed the man who seemed somewhat at ease with the mention of Mr. Csendes. Perhaps he would be understanding and forgive the accident and save the Clinic from a lawsuit. If not, there was always an accident ready.
Posted by Martin Stein on Feb 1, 2010 14:35:37 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Clinic. Smells of disinfectants always seemed to be the first thing what came to people if they entered one. Then came the brilliant white of the doctors gowns... or the green of the surgeons clothes. Both of those were not here. But the smell of the disinfectants remained, a lingering reminder of the fact, that it took only a few microgram of cells to kill a human body. And a mutant body. His doctor had on working clothes, his operating table now being occupied by the seemingly young man. Boy. Manboy. Something along these lines. He had followed the motion and started the notion of settling down without further aggravating the wound at his side. A slightly complex process, requiring him to take his eyes off the daydreaming driver. It was quite comfortable that way, too. So he did not have to look him into the eye as he listened, let him speak, only to raise a hand before his own voice spoke.
“I am profoundly sorry, but my own gifts necessitate that you do not touch me.” His voice was shaky, while he sat down on the operating table. Was it from the pain? Maybe … but which one it was... that was hard to tell. No touch. Ever. Really? “My Name is Martin Stein. And though my tolerance for pain may be slightly above average, Id very much appreciate that medication now.” His voice was steadier, more sincere, his lips pronouncing his own name with the foreign accents that befitted it. That it called for. Tolerance... was it really tolerance? The pain was there, but he willed its red color under control with every bit of power that he could muster. He would not be caught off guard. Never. Again.... Then there were other memories, memories less dark in a way. Memories of a cell. A holding cell. Was there an analgesic around? A fast acting one? He hoped so, because his mental barriers would not last long any more.
“I am profoundly sorry, but my own gifts necessitate that you do not touch me.”
Interesting and unfortunate. Not only was this man an acquaintance of Sebastian, but he was also a mutant, unless his use of the word gifts was misunderstood by Garrett. It looked like coffee was out, as the man before him was slowly devolving from quiet and reserved to that look of madness that extreme pain could bring even the most stalwart. Of course, Garrett was no one to measure against in the pain department. Having each and every individual nerve in your body scream until they seemed they would snap free was probably on a different scale than what sat here before him. It still looked painful, though.
“My Name is Martin Stein. And though my tolerance for pain may be slightly above average, Id very much appreciate that medication now.” Garrett's eyes rolled around in their sockets as he avoided a laugh. " Well, that could be a problem. I am sure we have some generic acetaminophen or ibuprofen, but see, since Sebastian and I aren't actually doctors, we don't have any real medicines here. While I am sure that doesn't relieve your pain nor sanity, that's just how it is. I suppose we will have to settle for the bare minimums now and then you can get fixed properly at Mondragon. I'll call a car for you." He turned and walked into the Clinic's office, pulling a bottle of Excedrin from the top drawer and cracking open a sling bandage. Glass of water in hand, he sat the items down on the table. " I'd be happy to help you, but if you are going to be stubborn about it, you can just apply that bandage yourself." He walked out of the room again, picking up the phone and calling Doctor Ingram.
Posted by Martin Stein on Feb 16, 2010 4:21:38 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
White was the color of the things he was handed, bottle and bandage, Innocence pending FDA approval, hopefully with few adverse reactions, yet quickly a great number of the small white bits vanished down the hole of his mouth, his esophagus, down to his gastrointestinal tract, where they would, in due time, dissolve to release their components into his bloodstream, wrecking the complex equilibira, tipping balance toward numbness, dumbness, liver failure and such petty things. Innocence in Bottles. Gulped down with a glass of water. Using the healthy arm. And only the healthy arm. The other hurt him still. Still healthy, wrapping the other, without comment to his helper, his injurer really, and quite intently staring -silently- around the victim of violence, which, instead of thanking him in kind, proceeded to avenge all movement with bursts of blisters popping in his mind. An unkind reaction really.
But not being a child any more had its advantages, disadvantages too, but now they were minor compared to the benefits. Especially if you were thought a little weaker then you were. And more inexperienced. But right now his rather young body proved just about able to withstand the shocks he was administering with the turning of bandage around the purely white flesh of his arm. Such was the vivid uncoloration, that the veins and arteries were clearly visible under his skin, which tingled slightly being exposed to the rather cold air of the room. How would such skin be created? How it was covered was the easier question to answer, because quite soon it was immobilized by a tight white wrapping around the arm, a cover that did not look like it had been created with the use of only one hand. A rather perfect cover he had made. And the medication finally began to work too.
He lifted his head up and removed himself from the operating table. Moved himself in an upright position and let a sigh escape his mouth. “Much better.” It really was. Now where had his reckless neuralmancer gone? Off to the phone? Approval pending, Martin looked around a little. Maybe he could find something useful here ere he returned. Like a scalpel. If that man was really as dangerous as he thought. Just a little precaution. It could save lives.
Ingram seemed to be surprised at the mention of this Martin Stein. Even more curious was that he spoke of him as one would an acquaintance, not a random person. He seemed genuinely concerned about Stein and let Garrett know that a car was indeed en route to the location. The mention of Stein's disapproval of tactile contact was waved off, Ingram using the word 'gift' as well. That settled that. He made his way back to the small exam room, finding the patient resting uncomfortably, still in a seated position. Garrett joined him in said position, though he chose to take a seat next to the door, looking slightly up at this man of mystery.
" So, Ingram is sending a car for you. I suspect with the road conditions and the traffic this time of day, it might be a bit. Let's have a chat in the meantime." He crossed one leg over the other, his expression one of digging and pointedness. " It seemed when I spoke to the good Doctor that he knew you as well. What kind of business are you involved in, exactly? Pardon me if I seem to pry, but your presence seems to be a bit too close to home, literally. Knowing both Doctor Ingram as well as Sebastian, while apparently lacking in any kind of medical knowledge, that raises some flags. Add on to that both your own and Ingram's mention of 'gifts' and I believe we can assume you are either extraordinarily talented in a very specific field.....or you are a mutant, like me." Garrett had poured his own cup of coffee before entering and now took a few sips of it, placing it on the small table next to him.
" Don't get me wrong. I am certainly fond of my own kind. However, considering that I do get around and haven't seen you among the major gathering areas for mutants, my logic points me to two conclusions. Either you completely keep yourself off the map, which thereby makes you some sort of professional, or the idea of the three of you working together brings to mind some sort of organizational principle." His hand reached for the coffee and brought the steaming drink to his lips, his eyes focused on the subject. " Now, do tell me, Mr. Stein. Which story is the real one?" Touching or not, his arm could get much worse soon should the answers not come in a precise and speedy fashion.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 17, 2010 17:22:08 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The metal implement, chromium-vanadium steel of highest quality, shaped to needle point and edged just right, thanks to the hundreds of years of professional development on tools as this, to cut and separate human flesh lay lightly in his palm, while his captor was still on the phone. A small thing it was, he retrieved from one of the drawers, packaged in green plastic, indicating the implement had been sterilized before packaging it into the hull of processed oil, which was discarded immediately onto the ground, as he heard the steps of the approaching host in the hallway. Just as he labored to conceal his small weaponized tool, his foot managed to displace the foil a little out of the immediate line of sight of the incoming unpredictable. By the time he had reached the immortal with his eyes, said one was already in the exact position in which he had been left, only that his arm was now covered tightly by the bandage. And in the folds of that was idden the small cutting tool.
His hand just finished the last fixing movements of the makeshift woolen cast and his eyes managed to look up to neuromancer in expecting confusion as to watch and record his approach, while he registered the words coming from his lips with some concern, he did not quite manage to keep out of his face. Especially the last part was troubling indeed. The one about possibly secret organizations. It had some quite uncomfortable implications. First: Sebastian, the unicorn healer had not confided in this man the secret nature of the Kabal. Second: This in turn begged the question why he had not done such a thing despite the fact that he was a possible recruit as well as a working companion. Thirdly followed the conclusion: This man was obviously deemed unfit by the healer to know about the Kabal for some reason unknown to him. But since the white-haired man had the far longer standing relationship, Martin assumed that there was a reason for said action. And he had already endangered the group that employed him by revealing what he had. It followed that efforts had to be taken to occupy this analytic man with something else, redirect his train of thoughts to some place they could safely burrow without disturbing something that would be called a reason to force his hand.
One thing was clear though: Martin would not endanger his employer further. He would also not be the operative that unveiled the existence of the Kabal to anyone that had not been designated trustworthy first, either by him, or far more likely, by some of his superiors. He would not be the one that made the Kabal fall. They were paying far to well for that. And they had a purpose. “Ah very good. Thank you for calling him.” He therefore stalled, just to gain some more moments, just a little more. The man was close enough for physical action, but he was injured and though the pain medication had begun to numb his senses he doubted he could stand in a longer fight against this man, be he mutant or not. The fact that he was a mutant only further diminished his strategical choices. So his voice was raised again, this time with a slight argument in the direction of his accent, it falling a little heavier than before. Just a little bit. The sound of the consonants, the vocals. It shifted.
“I fear none of the options are the right one, though your reasoning is quite impressive.” Maybe a little heavy on the paranoid side. He didn't say that of course, but he most certainly looked it, lips perched in small but distasteful expression. He was starting to feel his pulse heighten. “The correct observation, that I have not been visible around many of the premises in this city may simply lie in the fact, that I have not been here for long.” It had been quite a while now actually, but he could not prove or disprove his statements, could he? He was a neuromancer after all. “I recently moved to New York from Europe... Dr Ingram and I are old friends. He's one of the more distant relatives of my late mothers'. And the only specialty profession I know of is steering boats. The bigger ones. Ive trained for my patent grade A2.” So there it was. Nothing that could be checked right away, nothing all to clear. Factual information limited to only the things that he could talk about right away to further dissuade his dears, he hoped. Otherwise he would have to use the thing he had procured from the drawer, which was now resting hidden on him. And the inquisitive one was so close, he even had hopes of making quick work of him... if he would force him to. He would regret that. Quite severely actually, but he had to do it if the circumstances warranted it. His eyes somehow managed to retain a shred of hurt dignity, while the cold was slowly building up inside him. “And yes, I'm what you call a Mutant.” That much truth had been quite clear already. And it might serve to protect that poor mans internal jugular vein from the bite of the scalpel. No medical knowledge at all.... He just knew how to hurt people. Badly if need be. Thank you war times.
There were quite a number of gears turning inside the head of the man before Garrett. It took no special senses or mutation to glean such a thing. Just the look in his eyes. Garrett had seen the same look in his own eyes often in the mirror. They move on their own accord, accessing information visually from the subconscious, sorting and filing lie and truth, sometimes placing one in another's basket. His answer seemed to be convoluted, but an interesting one at least. Too often it was paranoia and stammering, a flash of mutation and the air of violence hanging heavy. He was glad that this man seemed civilized.
He hadn't been here long. That was why he hadn't been seen anywhere. Fair enough. All would be as it should be until Stein began blathering about some familial connection to Doc Ingram. Some professional jargon about boat piloting. Garrett's nostrils flared in dramatic opposition to such balderdash. He was offering answers as they were given. Yes, yes, he was cooperating. But why? " Why are you telling me all of this? It doesn't make any sense." Garrett had his steaming cup still in hand, taking a few steps to ensure he was out of the good arm's reach. Never assume a mutant was safe. No one would assume such of him.
" I mean, if you were in some sort of interrogation room or had reason to explain yourself, your explanations would make perfect sense. However, I am a mutant who hit you with a vehicle, fled the scene of the accident to avoid the police and brought you here, to what appears to be an unmanned clinic. Surely you can see how your hospitality might seem out of place. I fully expected you to snub me and tell me it wasn't my business. Which it isn't." The cup took a resting place on the counter, which Garrett soon leaned on, looking the man over further.
" However, since you are feeling so revealing, I will share something with you as well. I know Mr. Csendes from his work at my former residence. The Sanctuary. It is a haven for those mutants among us who do not see themselves as equals to the human masses. We see ourselves as superior. Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that would you? Considering you just fell off the turnip boat." Be it knives, guns, or casted arms, there was no mistaking a standoff in the world of mutation. Garrett's own nerves were chomping at the bit to inflict some pain to an already wounded individual. It really was too tempting.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 21, 2010 14:25:49 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Ahhh. Martin closed his eyes for a second, hid himself from the observer, who had now positioned himself at a counter, while he, or rather the unfortunate he, as still sitting a good few feet away. It seemed as if he had gone a little overboard in spinning tales. But what could a poor seaman do? They liked spinning tales after all, those people like him, the ones that were the template for his existence, had been long ago a template, an aim to strive for, before he had happened to stumble over the intricacies of his genetic makeup, a template spinning tales. Even under threat of death for some of his colleagues during the ages. There had been many brave ones in manned ships. As well as cowards. But they all liked the tales. And not threat. Or maybe just under the threatening eyes of a fellow mutant with quite unhealthy interests.
Just a few feet, the distance between them. And just a few things he wanted to do still. One last chance for good Mr. Wills. One last chance for his aberrant mind, the questioning one, to be pushed, nudged, back gently or harshly into realms where his paranoia could spread out and blossom in any way it wanted. Just not... that close to home. The steel jewels appeared again on the stage of events, having shifted expression, but ever so slightly, a nuance added here and there, the painting shifting, coloring in darker colors, the red and black of fear. Supposed fear. And a little bit of concern maybe. The first part, of course being fake, while the latter being an honest expression. Poor, poor Mr Wills. If the child wouldn't listen to the tales, then reality might be found to be not at all what he had sought for.
“You think after seeing what you did to that woman there is no incentive for me to tell you whatever you wanted to know? Heck, I would even sing and dance for you if you asked me to.” Not a good idea though, considering his present condition. Not at all. Singing. And dancing. Especially the dancing. He would have to put that off for a while at least. Until he could get the Mansions doctor to see to that broken limb. Not that he sung much. And he most certainly never danced. Not once. Ever. He had had no reason to, though. Before today. “And no, I don't know anything about the Sanctuary.” Which was not true at all. Nothing was true. Except maybe the lies. The building with the golden doors. He had naturally heard of it quite soon after he came to this city. And he was warned off it. Not that he heeded many warnings except the ones he gave himself. But that place was noisy, drawing attention from all sides of the political, the social, the cities spectrum, a spectacle of colors, mutants dancing, waltzing on the laws and regulations that governed this society. He disliked noise. This kind of noise. A distasteful bunch. All of those Orderlings. Otherlings really. He had heard rumors, nothing more. And good Sebastian had kept with that bunch? A curious choice of companionship for a healer. Though, he was probably much needed there. Patching up people after they killed policemen. Or some other offending homo sapiens sapiens. He would have to remember that. And ask 'Mr. Csendes' about it.
Those eyes of his, they had not blinked, continued to refuse the drag of time on them as they stayed open. He watched the man. And the faked scare slowly vanished. He got up from his seated position, nearly avoiding to even flinch at his broken limb and made its way slowly up to the neuromancer under his supervision. Parental control is watching you. Just one last chance. Take the bait. Please. Or... bear the weight. His hand, the uninjured one... it was still uncovered. And white.
