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 Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
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 Zinnia on Apr 27, 2017 5:43:08 GMT -6
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The Syndicate
Soldier of The Syndicate
179
29
Jun 20, 2020 5:09:16 GMT -6
Zinnia was locked in a staring contest with the statue of death. She somehow thought she was winning. His scythe gleamed at her menacingly. Was he stone? Or hardened plastic? It was difficult to tell.
Maya's voice came through to her like talking down a length of pipe, or calling into a fan that was running. But she heard drink and please and caught the waving credit card with the corner of her unblinking eye. And blinked.
"Yes please, that would be good."
Drinks yes. Talking yes. Babies no. She squashed that thought before it spilled out of her eyes and took the proffered arm with a dip.
"even if it's just herbal tea..."
Like peas in a pod. Cafas had turned to tea as well. Having a British parent she was well versed in the good old cuppa, but it wasn't something many people in the States seemed to partake of, unless it was chilled and full of sugar.
"I'm more of a coffee type person, but let's see what they've got?"
It seemed like a quirky enough place that they could have anything within reason. She let the air elemental guide her through the press of people until they found themselves at a booth which was more akin to a bubble. It was an amazing sight, almost lost on Zinnia, but not quite. The briefest of smiles flashed across her face as she surveyed the lights dancing across the plastic, shimmering on the raindrops, it was lovely. What a shame to not be able to see this from below. Or at all.
Once inside their bubble she skimmed the drinks menu half heartedly before glancing at Maya.
"Anything take your fancy?"
As she did so one word jumped out at her, the word that meant so many comforting things. Coffee. They had a coffee flavoured cocktail.
"I'm going to have the coffee crema... then maybe some tequila."
She had never been a big drinker, too studious, too poor, too dating-a-bouncer... but if ever there was a time for drowning ones worries it was now.
‘To victory’ apparently meant ‘to the edge of the parking lot’. Just when she thought she had the hang of it the car went from making the correct car sounds to a whine, followed by several coughs and a bucking motion. This was a vehicle, not a horse! It wasn’t supposed to buck?! She knew something of clutches and gears from the racing games her brothers played, so she pumped the spare pedal and coaxed the stick to shift. It made a very unhappy grinding noise and grunted, jerking a few times before coming once again to a halt. Jac peered out, and Zinnia followed suit. She was sure they hadn’t run over anyone… but the thought did make her feel a little green.
She took a deep breath and very carefully, very deliberately, put the truck into reverse and crept it backwards so she could see what they had hit. Thankfully not a person, just a marker for the end of the parking space. The little concrete trapezoid seemed to gloat at them. She backed herself into a space (well, technically it was two spaces, but both of them were empty) and put the handbrake on.
“Well, that was quite the adventure… Tutorial video?”
She killed the engine and fished her phone from her bag on the back seat. There was nothing the great all-knowing ViewTube couldn’t teach. If it could teach her to French braid it could teach her to stick-shift.
A few videos later she was feeling more confident. She re-buckled, carefully started the car in neutral and then shifted to first and crept it forward. The car rumbled like an oversized cat, but it did as it was told. She guided it out of the lot and onto the road with no issues, and made the turn onto the road back to their section of city without causing any accidents or losing forward momentum. Her fingers were clutched so tightly about the wheel they were almost white, but she spared a glance and a hopeful smile for her girlfriend.
“See, no sweat.”
The little beads on her brow made her a liar. It seemed to be getting easier, at least.
The persistent bell tone told her she had an unread message. It repeated itself every few minutes, until she finally dragged herself off the couch and found it where it was wedged under a plate from the evening before’s dinner on the floor. She eyed it blearily. A meeting. She shut it. Then opened it again. At what time? Sh**. She kicked at the piles of clothes as she searched for something respectable enough to wear. These things were always so damn fancy. The call tone sounded on speaker as she dug through, finally finding the items she was looking for; black leather shorts, a sheer black mesh over shirt with embroidered flowers, and the under corset. It was risqué enough that she didn’t feel like a cz dressed up as a diamond. She knew what she was, and what she was good for. It was why she had this job at all.
The baby sitter answered after a few more rings as Zed was smudging heavy makeup onto her eyes. Confusion abounded as it was neither a regular day or time. But after a few repeats of the phrase “you want the money or not?” the girl was on her way. Zed made the effort to pull back the tarp and check in on Peony, fast asleep, before yanking on her combat boots and heading out the door. She met the sitter on the stairs and handed over keys before heading out to hail a cab.
She dragged on lipstick in the taxi, and her look was complete. It wasn’t a long ride, but she wasn’t exactly early. She slid from the cab and across the street despite the cabby’s insistence that the bar was closed, that he had brought five people here already and had to take them away.
A light jacket was draped across the crook of her arm as she flashed what passed for ID to the doormen. If this meeting was invite only, what better proof than the invite. She held the phone up to the nearest bouncer with a smirk.
“The VIP section, lads.”
It was all VIP section on a night like tonight. But that didn’t stop her from enjoying saying it.
The club was gloriously accepting of smoking, and she had a cigarette in her hand before you could say ‘no lighter’. She patted herself down, cursing slightly, there was nary a nook nor a cranny in this outfit that could have concealed a lighter. Glancing around the room she made a bee-line for the man with fire fingers.
“Got a light?”
Saying no at this stage would just be rude. It wasn’t nice to be rude in such a place when everyone was just so fancy. Barring that she could see that bigboss had a cigar, though she would be sure to try for Hel in the first instance.
Tears rained down on the screen, making it hard to choose the right letters. Zinnia clutched her bag to her stomach as she sat on a sheltered bench in a tiny scrap of green that passed for a park (but was really just a place for people to bring their dogs to stretch and relieve themselves), it was close to the clinic, but not too close. She had wanted to get away from the people hanging around the front who judged without knowing her. Without knowing her story. Even though most of their judgements were correct, it still burned like acid, like the churning in her stomach. Her empty, and doomed to be forever empty belly.
She had thought about calling her Mom, but it was too much. She already hated the scumbag, she didn’t need a reason to go out looking for him. Plus now Zinnia was living back with them she didn’t want her to fuss, to be too kind, to coddle and cramp and be overbearing.
She had thought about calling Jac. But calling your female lover to tell them you were upset because you could never carry their child seemed backward, and presumptive. They’d never even spoken about having kids… much less who would be the vessel. Apparently not her. The tears continued streaming as she reached out to the only other woman she could think of. A woman she had seen cry while CPR-ing an infant dummy. Someone who could possibly understand.
A brief phonecall later to organise a time and place, she shouldered her pain and dried her eyes. She was dressed well enough, she had worn comfortable but classy clothes, to give her strength for what the Doctor might say. She hadn’t prepared herself for if he actually said it.
She arrived at the bar some time later, the Yin to Maya’s Yang, wearing black jeans and boots, a black and white shirt and an umbrella against the rain. The umbrella was far more colourful than she felt.
“Hi.” It was a weak excuse for a greeting, delivered weakly. “Thanks for meeting me.”
The barman knew better than to stutter his disapproval about the smashed glass. It wasn’t a smashed face, so he couldn’t be that upset. Nothing a broom and mop couldn’t fix.
Zed resisted for a millisecond to the pressure against her chest, holding Cheekbones back for an instant to see the flash of warning in his eyes. It was the type of look that promised a lot of hurt in payment of disobedience. She almost wanted to provoke him, just to see what might happen. But then her shirt was tightly in his grip (and there really wasn’t any spare material to be gripping, so it was quite the show) and they were on the dancefloor.
He teased about her stamina and she stepped in close to hear him well above the music.
“Well, that’s easy when you’re not in heels! I guess they’ll just have to come off once I get tired,” she dropped her voice to just audible above the beat, “or they can stay and everything else go.”
It might be better to leave them on, actually. The floor was somewhat sticky and she hadn’t been on the lookout for rooms-by-the-hour on the way here. If it ended up being an ill-gotten bathroom stall she still would have had worse in her past.
Having hips at equal height made dancing a lot easier as well. She closed the distance between them as he took a cigarette from the pack and tilted the box towards her. Taking her own deathstick with one hand the other snaked around his waistband and into the pocket she saw the lighter disappear into earlier.
Well, there it was. Oooh, and a nice shiny lighter.
With a minor flick the flame sparked to life between them and lit both awaiting ends. She clicked it shut with the barest of winks and slipped it back into his pocket, her hand lingering there for a moment before moving back to his waist, pulling him against her to sway with the music. She was no distance-dancer, up close and personal, in range of hands and lips and breath was her M.O. She had somewhat of an unfair advantage to keeping her partners breathless. But she’d take what she got.
There was a whole discussion she wasn’t interested in having about whether it was better to be born unwanted than to not be born at all. It was too close to home, too raw, too real. The bang of mug on metal drew her away from the edge of the spiral her mind threatened to throw her into. With a final sip of water she let her own glass settle into the sink. With a hasty wipe of her face on her sleeve she turned to face the pinkermint man as he supposed on the Big-brotherness of it all.
“Just give people a selfie-stick and they’ll do all the work for you.”
She had heard of mutant-spotting groups, who tried to gather information on mutants much like a watered down version of the registration act, filing their photos away like butterflies pinned to a board. Plus with all the people advertising themselves on ViewTube and the like, not to mention the blogs, dear lord the blogs ‘my life with an active X-gene’, ‘stay-at-home-mutie’, ‘homosuperior gainz’ and countless others filled the internet, everyone hungry for their little slice of fame.
“Yeah, my little brother drowned, I un-drowned him. He shouldn’t have lived, but he did.” For which she was eternally grateful… well, maybe not when he was teasing her and her girlfriend mercilessly. “both parents straight homosapien as far as I know, carriers… not sure about my brothers, if they’ve got X-genes they’ve been playing them close to their chest so far.” It wasn’t the sort of thing teenage boys would hide she thought.
“It’s weird how it turns up from dormant sometimes. Hard to predict whether the gene will show up or not. I don’t know if… I guess I’ll never know if my kid would have had x-genes.”
The loss weighing heavily on her mind from their earlier discussion of screening she spoke more than she should have. A moment later she snapped her eyes up to meet the steely grey ones of the metalmancer.
“Please don’t tell Jac, she doesn’t know yet… there hasn’t been a good time.”
A good time to dump on your lesbian lover that you were so badly damaged from being kicked down the stairs while carrying, that the doctors were certain that you could never carry to term and to try was to risk tearing your own insides out and dying. Was there such as thing as a good time? It was the sort of thing that didn’t come up very often. And yet here she was, sharing it with a practical stranger.
Posted by Zinnia on Apr 7, 2017 21:20:43 GMT -6
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The Syndicate
Soldier of The Syndicate
179
29
Jun 20, 2020 5:09:16 GMT -6
She sipped her drink without shame as he weighed her up once again. She’d passed before, she’d pass again. She’d call him anything she liked and he responded to. She doubted there’d be that much conversation, more like instructions. That was her preference for a single night kind of gig. No point getting into the deep and meaningful with the shallow and meaningless.
Magic fingers met the skin just above her knee then went exploring. She inched forward into the touch until she slid off the stool and was standing. They weren’t that far apart in height, and the heels pretty much closed the distance. A small swift step brought her hips between his knees (of course he was a man-spreader) and she tipped her face up to meet his smoulder with her own. He wanted a smoulder-off, she could give him a smoulder-off. There wasn’t much she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give, actually. Her glass somewhat forgotten on the bar her hand met his own joints, knee, elbow, shoulder, sliding around to the back of his neck and leaning in to breathe against his ear.
“Hey, Cheekbones?” she let the pseudonym hang as a question for a moment. “You dance?”
The music wasn’t anything special, but then neither were they, and it had a good beat.
She poked her own arm for comparison. Despite her regular swimming and helping lift patients on and off gurneys her bicep was a little baby compared to the guns of the metalmancer. Suddenly she realised that it wasn’t the best of looks, so returned her hands to herself. Both of their partners, plus dozens of impressionable kids, were on campus. All it took was one misinterpretation for feelings to get hurt.
Thankfully he took the offered topic. It was a dangerous, dangerous concept, to have a cure readily accessible. Even Adapted humans were worrisome enough, particularly to mutants such as herself which relied on their mutations to survive. What would happen if someone like Jac was hit with the cure? Was there even a human form to shift to? Would Zinnia want to see it if there was?
“You know they have tests for pregnant people now. To see if the baby has an X-gene. Like gender it’s too late in the process to terminate, but I know people will try.”
People would always try. She of all people knew that. Hit with a sudden wave of nausea she made her way to the sink and filled a glass with cold water and sculled it, trying to wash away memories which she had brought on herself.
Now was not the time to be thinking on such things. She was going to see Jac tonight, and for sure there would be a mind reader or emotion sensor in the mansion. She needed to get herself under control. She rinsed the cup slowly and purposefully and set it back on the drainer.
"No way to tell what type of mutation though, could be dormant, could be deadly, could be skittles."
Posted by Zinnia on Apr 7, 2017 7:38:41 GMT -6
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The Syndicate
Soldier of The Syndicate
179
29
Jun 20, 2020 5:09:16 GMT -6
There was a certain fire that came from a dangerous game of words. One slip and she could be dashed against the edge of the blade. It was what made bad relationships so damn good. The danger. She ran a hand along her hair and to her hip, the path it tracked a less than subtle hint of future intention.
“…Still, his loss, eh?” (more than cheekbones could possibly know). She dipped her head in agreement, a ghost of a smile tweaking across her face. His loss of time, his loss of life, his loss of wallet. All of his losses, but most of all his loss of air.
“And our gain.” No backhand to that compliment.
He made the move for a name and she swirled her glass slowly, watching his attention pointed so clearly anywhere but her. She wanted it pointed at her.
“How about a letter? Zed.”
The fact that it doubled as her name was simply a bonus. A little mystery never killed anyone. Well, the guy who tried to catfish her, but he didn’t really count.
“And you? I can’t call you cheekbones all. night. long.” Thank you, implication.
Her smoke done she stubbed it out against the sole of the toe of her heel (how’s that for a description?). The band was starting to make actual tunes now, rather than unmusical tones, and the whiskey was burning a trail through to her fingers.
It seemed brutal to say, but she had never thought to ask. It wasn’t the type of thing that went on a name badge either. If she had to guess she would guess she knew five co-worker surnames at work. A dull clinking came from a nearby drawer which she assumed was either a. a mouse-shifting mutant (speaking of less than awesome powers, you’d be too small to be effective at anything but squeezing, and you could totally fall into a bowl of popcorn and be engulfed…), b. sentient spoons (stranger things have happened in tales as old as time) or c. the proximity of the metalmancer. Put it on c. and lock it in, Eddie.
Healing was a good one to go for, probably would be what she would like as well, she knew there were healers around, so the X-gene had to work in that way… how much easier her job would be if she had healing. Or how much harder, if she had limited charges and had to decide who lived and who died. She shook the thought away, no maybe not healing.
“I think energy generation of some kind probably… Our area suffers a lot of black outs when the summer hits.” Older buildings, not built to withstand the heat, full of people who believed in air-conditioning. “Or perhaps painkiller. Lots of people hurting out there.” Not all of it physical, not all of it healable. At least then she could ease the passing of those too far gone to help.
“Though maybe I’d like mega-muscles. Boom boom, gunshow.”
She poked the nearest arm. As she suspected all gainz.
“And the cure? If they ever made it safe would you take it?” Hitting with the hard questions today. “I’m not sure I would… Who knows if I’d be able to breathe at all, it seems like Adapted in a bottle and last one I met nearly killed me.” Innocently and by accident of course. Poor kid.
Posted by Zinnia on Apr 7, 2017 6:40:55 GMT -6
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The Syndicate
Soldier of The Syndicate
179
29
Jun 20, 2020 5:09:16 GMT -6
Oh-hoh, so he’d practiced this little lighter trick before. Well, if he was that dexterous perhaps she was in for a treat. She held his gaze and drew deep as the flame took to the tightly wrapped leaves. Oh yes, this was going to be fun. He performed a head-to-toe sweep and she tipped one foot onto a toe and bent the knee, twisting slightly at the waist to give him something to properly appraise. It made for a better ‘line’, calves accentuated by the heels, curves such as they were accentuated by the outfit. She’d made the first move, so she had to pass the inspection. That was how the game was played.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Ding, that was a pass. She smirked into her drink as she took another swig.
“Date stood me up,” (died) “you were the closest thing that didn’t reek of lame.”
Speaking of lame, Mr special lungs gave her a look as he coughed indelicately into his hand. She blew a plume of smoke and dead air in his general direction and he took the hint to skedaddle.
“Freaking special snowflakes, so unique, but put a little heat on them and they freaking melt.” Except she didn’t say freaking.
She tipped another measure (eyeballed) into her glass and tilted the bottle towards him. If he nodded she would dole him out the same. A shake would mean more for her later. She didn’t need the dutch courage, but it had been a while since she had gone toe-to-toe with someone with so much game. Not since little Pea came along that was for certain. A little push over the edge, to silence the voices that pointed out every stretch mark and dimple from where the parasite had stretched her skin to improbable lengths. It was dark though, and even in the light her tone mostly disguised them.
On consideration he would do the same. Somehow that made her feel a bit better, that even an Xman, one of the goodiest goodies there was, would rather not be out all the time. Sometimes she just felt so privileged to have a passing exterior. Particularly now she saw what kinds of things were said about Jac (and sometimes to her face).
“Yeah, like the skittles. Freaking Bertie, our maintenance guy has some kind of candy summoning ability. Don’t ask me how, I have no idea… but he promises it isn’t taken from babies. But I have never seen so many radiators that needed checking since that came out…”
He did some sort of hand-wavey magic, now you see it, now you don’t type thing and candy would suddenly appear in his cupped hands. Usually it was skittles, occasionally something more unusual like mint leaves. Once it had been jelly ears, which would have been cool, unfortunately that had been in the wing for hearing impairments and deafness rehabilitation.
“A little envious of that one I have to say… though I can’t imagine how sticky you would get.”
She had declined to touch Bertie, nor try any of the ill-gotten candy. She would stick with her individually wrapped lollypops thank you very much. Because germs.
“If you could have any magic power, any mutation other than current of course, what would you choose?”
M had been a hell of a drug, but the number of people she had treated for wanting to taste just a little of the powers they were low-key whining about was astounding.
Posted by Zinnia on Apr 7, 2017 5:55:28 GMT -6
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The Syndicate
Soldier of The Syndicate
179
29
Jun 20, 2020 5:09:16 GMT -6
All the clocks said it was still daytime, but it felt like night pretty damn fast today. It didn’t bother Zed, in fact getting more bang for her babysitter buck was a pretty sweet deal as far as she was concerned. Rather than swinging home, or to the store for groceries (ugh, who even needed dish soap, run the water hot enough and everything nasty would wash away, grease, experiences, the works. Plus the landlord paid for water since it wasn’t separately metered, so screw that guy), instead she took a hard right into the nearest bar that looked open.
It was open, but relatively quiet. Looked like there might be something going on in a bit, but as of yet there was a lot of ‘one, two’ and sound-check strumming and not a lot of rock. She watched from the doorway as the almost altercation between the two men went down. Nice. She flatly ignored Mohawk as he made a pass on his way to the door and he exited, cursing their type.
It was exactly her type of place. Not too disgusting, but sticky enough that no one would complain if a bit of something got spilled. Booze, blood, it was all the same to the dark coloured floor. She sauntered to the bar and took the space next to the smoker.
“Got a light? House spirit, whatever’s closest.” One to the guy, the other to the bartender.
She turned to face the guy, unlit stick between her teeth, a wry smile across her face before you could say ‘hello, cheekbones’.
“Hello, cheekbones.”
Wasn’t this just quite the specimen. Perfectly coiffed, well, everything. From his manicured eyebrows right down to his expensive looking shoes. She shot a word of thanks to powers she didn’t believe in that her hookup had been a douche and she was out and about primped, preened and plucked at this particular bar at this particular time. With any luck this guy could scratch her back and she’d scratch his. A rumble and a tumble all in one afternoon. She glanced at her nails to ensure there was no lingering signs of her disposal of the unsatisfactory date. She looked the picture of coy.
And her nails were clean.
The drink arrived as quickly as could be expected for a bar of this repute and she tipped her glass towards cheekbones.
It probably wasn’t, most mutations were pretty good at not hurting their owner, at least when used at the lower levels. She knew for herself she was easily able to switch without care several times, the risk came when she had already expended a lot of her power and was trying to make a change. It was easier just to travel through life just photosynthesising. But without the chlorophyll. Or the leaves. She didn’t question the time frame it would take to achieve such bleaching, she figured being partners on the field and off meant it was inevitable.
“Is that why Maya’s hair is white?”
She had assumed it was just a trend, silver had been all the rage for a while, and knowing that she and the pinkermint before her were a thing it wasn’t such a large leap to assume they had similar hairdressing preferences. For herself it was basically as harshly straightened as possible and otherwise left alone. She didn’t have the strength required to wrestle it into complicated braids or the cash to pay a stylist to make it into fabulous colours.
The Xman noted the range of occupations held by the others and shifted his position so he was even taller than her than he had been on the stool. It was ok, she was getting used to being the shortest what with dating Jac and her brothers springing up like young trees that just hit groundwater.
“Hmm, more of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ type deal.”
Legally neither of her workplaces could insist that she provide proof of X-gene status, nor could they legally discriminate against her for any such declarations or non declarations. She knew there was a clause in the paperwork that would provide her with a better insurance were she to provide the required papers, but it just reeked of registration and she knew enough about that to not be interested.
“I guess part of it is discrimination” she waved a hand to indicate her whole self “got enough of that going on as it is. I think part of it as well is because it’s not a flashy power. When people talk about mutations they want to see it, to feel it, to experience it in some way. To see the fire melt something, or touch the wings, or taste the rainbow. Pretty much best I can do is give you the oxygen giggles and smell like the ozone. Not very cool.”
Who was jealous? She wasn’t jealous. Stupid candy powers.
“You mentioned that the more you used your powers the stronger they got… Is that a common experience from what you know?”
She imagined being cooped up with a bunch of other muties would give him some idea. If the X-gene was actually a muscle, could it be flexed to improve?
It was true, she could eat the deep fried death and leave the footwear to the prawn… but then she would be barefoot, and too greasy for kisses, no that really wouldn’t do at all. They would need to figure something else out for lunch.
“Hasn’t ‘een in a car in years.”
Zinnia fixed a gaze on her girlfriend. Sometimes it was hard to really appreciate just how big she was. Until moments like this, where she was squeezed into a space which to others would be positively roomy. Or sometimes when Zinn went to kiss what equated to her cheek, if Jac wasn’t ready and assisting there was no chance of getting near her face. Her chest, maybe, but her secondary arms presented their own challenges. What a funny life they led.
After a few deep, soothing breaths Zinnia reassessed the situation. Unless the seller had been some kind of car-sentience creator (which well may have been the case, it was difficult to rule out anything in a world where you were dating a giant shrimp and people were generally ok with it) then there must be a simple explanation for the noises. Said giant shrimp offered a suggestion which was as beautifully horrifying as it was simple. Neutral. This was a manual.
And she could only drive auto.
“You are a genius my dear. And I am an idiot. I haven’t driven with gears before.”
Well, not really, she had had a couple of lessons, but it was a bit advanced and the roads near their house didn’t exactly lend themselves to learner driver comfort.
“Still, no time like the present!”
She critically observed the stick looking for the lowest number, and with a bit of grinding and groaning, coaxed it into place.
“Onwards! To victory!”
The vehicle hopped and shuddered, but began moving in a consistently forward motion with the engine still running. So far, so good.