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.
In one of the many training rooms of Mondragon Labs, there existed a rather extensive gymnastics room. Balance beams, spring floors, parallel bars, foam pits, the works. On one of those balance beams, there existed a teenage boy. He was of an average height for the East Coast, and his features had a strong flair of Italian mixed with something else—obviously a healthy dose of Irish, probably a little German, and perhaps a little gypsy blood tossed into the mix for... creativity. Which family line his blue eyes were descended from was anyone’s guess. This teenager was a little underweight, leanly muscled, and obviously wearing a larger man’s clothes. He looked a lot like Calley, actually.
He walked the beam barefoot, to its end. Then he performed two back flips, a hand-spring, and landed on one leg on the blue-matted floor. The one-legged landing was not to be confused with imperfection. It had been quite planned. After all, this particular teenager was wondering how much impact force it took to break a human leg.
This particular teenager was not acting much like Calley.
“Hmm,” he commented, shaking out his leg. It shook. It shook in places it didn’t have joints. Well, then. That answered that. He took a few steps, limping only slightly. “Hmm,” he said, with a rising intonation. Pain was a curious sensation. He couldn’t fathom why that clutter of voices in the back of his mind was so upset with him. With a last shake and a crick noise, he simply healed the bone. No harm done. He walked back to the balance beam. Did his other leg have the same breaking point? It was simple enough to find out.
-------------
It was Calley’s fault, really. Not that he’d take responsibility for it. But it was pretty hard to place the responsibility with anyone else, when he’d done it himself. Or himselves. Or... Or Slate. Freaking Slate. Calley was very willing to blame this all on Slate.
Though naming him probably wasn’t a good idea, actually. It was probably part of the problem. Maybe. But that didn’t mean it was Calley’s fault. He’d just been trying to heal. He’d shifted to that broken owl form, and when he’d shifted back to human... well, he’d taken the breaks with him. Two badly-healed arms and a leg that didn’t love him. This had been a problem. This had been a problem Calley had really, really wanted to let someone else deal with, but he hadn’t really wanted to explain it to the Scary Violent Abusive Boss Man, with the asking of the questions and the throwing into the wall when the questions weren’t answered neatly or sincerely or non-flippantly. So Calley had resorted to the tried-and-true method of smothering himself into his own pillow and hoping the bad things would go away if he ignored them.
Stupid. You broke yourself, you can fix yourself, he’d mentally yelled at himself. This was a habit of his. The trains of thought in his head raced around in their disjoint circles, trying to think of a way he could fix himself. Obviously, if he could break himself, he could fix himself. This was something he held to be true. But how how how how how stupid brain why’d it do that in the first place crap he hated himself—
On of the trains of thought finished its loop, and answered quite simply: Just focus. Shift to heal, like you shifted to break. It’s all the same.
Uh-huh, Calley’s main train of thought answered. You suck. And he’d gone back to sulking, with his face shoved into his feather pillow. His various thoughts kept racing. Except for one, which already had its answer. Stupid answer. Stupid thought. It’s not that easy. Even if I focus on healing, I’m going to focus on busting myself up again, and there’s going to be a vicious painful cycle of vicious painful pain. To repeat: it had its answer. Yah-huh. Great for you. If it’s so easy, why don’t you just do it?
This was probably the first mistake he made. Besides consistently addressing the various thoughts in his head as being separate from himself. The train of thought that had its answer, with the full knowledge and consent of Calley, effectively shut the rest of his thoughts up. It was a strange feeling. For the first time in a very long time, Calley’s brain could hear itself thinking. Compared to the usual clutter of thoughts competing for space, it was like someone had wiped a scribbled-upon blackboard clean. His brain... blank slated.
The train of thought that had its answer simply recalled Calley’s normal un-busted-up state, tapped into his shifting abilities, and instead of shifting into any sort of animal... it simply shifted things back to normal. Fixed. All done. Easy. Then it let the rest of Calley’s thoughts flood back in to mess things up, as all of Calley’s thoughts were quite confident they could and would do, in some way, shape, or form. The blank slate filled with scribbles again. Calley propped himself up off of his pillow, admiring his newly healed arms with much pride. Cool, he thought. I can heal.
I can break, too. It would probably be pretty easy to bust these again, just like—
Shut up, the blank slate train of thought said simply, effectively squishing the errant thought under its thumb.
Cool, Calley kept thinking. I can maybe not hurt myself for at least five seconds. Good job, Slate.
It’s never a good idea to give nicknames to the voices in your head.
------------
Things might have been fine from there. Calley could have practiced the whole healing thing, by shifting to the broken bird forms he’d acquired and fixing them up for future use. In retrospect, maybe that would have been a good idea. The whole “assuming responsibilities for this new growth in his powers” thing. Yeah, that—good idea. What wasn’t such a good idea? Pretending to himself that Slate was someone he could call on to do it for him. And he did. With around twenty-some bird forms.
This was enough to even annoy Slate, who wasn’t anything except a train of thought that had made the mistake of speaking up. It took several weeks, actually, because Calley didn’t like the whole passing out thing that happened when he shifted too often in any one day. And he certainly wasn’t dedicated enough to do the same thing on any consecutive day. But eventually, around bird nineteen or so, and around day seventeen or so, Calley called in his happy little blank slate frame of mind to do his healing for him again. Again being the key word. And Slate had done it. Again. But he was getting pretty sick of himself by this point. How much was it to ask, to get a little peace and quiet in his own idiotic mind? The blank slate rather loathed the clutter of other thoughts. Simply put... they never shut up.
So just for a few minutes after he was done healing this latest form... he didn’t let the other thoughts come back. He just kept them tucked up out of the way.
....
.....
.......
It was very nice. He spent the time gazing out of the window, being content to focus his entire attention on a tree across the street.
Then he let the rest of the clutter scribble out his nice meditative state again. Calley kind of liked the blank slate state—it was certainly useful—but he felt at home with the clutter of thoughts that was his normal mind.
This was another element of the problem. Calley—the part of Calley that thought of itself as Calley—didn’t associate itself with the blank slate. That was what Slate was for, wasn’t it?
This brings us to a few weeks later. This brings us to a teenager on a balance beam, very content to practice his acrobatic skills, and adding efficiency to the routine by testing out the extent of his healing abilities, as well.
This brings us to Slate, taking a minor vacation from the rest of Calley, and borrowing Calley’s body for the excursion. He was only going to do it for a bit. Well, a bit longer than a bit, because he’d already been at this for two hours. But when you’re focused on an activity, time does fly, doesn’t it? He’d never known that before. Curious, curious. It was very curious. But he didn’t particularly wish to think about it. One thought at a time—that was bliss. And really, it was quite negligent of Calley to know he had some acrobatic ability, but to leave it untrained. Slate was fixing that.
All he heard in his mind as he started a routine on the spring floor was the creak under his hands, the ticking of a clock on the far wall, and the slightest of clamors from the rest of the clutter. This was nice. Relaxing. Wonderful. And a few hours certainly wouldn’t hurt the rest of Calley’s mind.
Hunter walked into the training room. He didn’t know how long it would take Syn to phone back, so he had his phone close to hand. Having heard that Calley was down here he had changed into his training outfit and decided it was time to teach the boy some hand to hand combat skills. While he would be unlikely to have need to it would be useful for him.
Also Hunter hoped it would instil some mental discipline in the boy. Calley had shown an unprecedented ability to let his mind wander to the most inane things, and in one instant it had nearly cost him a mission. “Calley,” Hunter caller out as he entered, pulling off his sports jacket, “time for some training.”
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 10, 2007 14:35:44 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
The teenager was doing a headstand when Hunter Antonescu entered the training room. Calley had heard, somewhere, that doing a headstand for too long would lead to blacking out. After ten minutes of feeling his blood pool, his scalp numb, and his neck muscles tense against each other, Slate was quite ready to rule this a myth. He noted his employer enter the room, but did not respond beyond moving his eyes until the man spoke.
“Calley, time for some training.”
Slate rolled forward, and came to his feet. A little too quickly for his body's liking. For approximately the next five seconds, his vision turned to black, and a roar of white noise filled his ears. He was quite surprised to find himself still standing when the blackness checkered, and finally cleared. ...Now that was interesting. Slate was smiling to himself as he walked closer to Hunter.
"Good afternoon, Mister Antonescu." He nodded to the man, making the gesture resemble respect. It wasn't respect Slate felt for him--more of a fascination with the man who had single-handedly been responsible for all of the most traumatically painful experiences in Calley's life. 'Respect' was a close approximation to what he did feel. Perhaps. Was he capable of traditional emotions, or were those in Calley's realm? An interesting question. He would analyze it later; for now, one thing at a time. "What did you have in mind?"
Hunter was surprised by Calley’s calm and polite manner. The boy had a habit of panicking slightly whenever Hunter entered a room, so the fact that he’d managed to roll up to his feet, nod respectfully and refer to him by his name was a big change, and Hunter for one liked it.
“I’m going to teach you some hand to hand combat skills,” Hunter explained, “As you would never be looking for a prolonged fight and intend to fight only to allow escape I will teach you some judo, as all the moves will result in your opponent on the floor, allowing you a chance to run away.” (OOC: and as I do judo irl it’s going to be easier to explain)
He went over to the wall and tapped on a panel. The wall slide back to reveal several judo gis. Hunter picked out a jacket that would fit Calley and tossed it to the boy a long with a white belt. The trousers that they were both wearing would be fine for now. He put on his own jacket and tied his black belt around his waist. Typing in a command to the console a large area of the floor fell away, to be replaced with judo mats.
Hunter walked to the edge of the mat, removed his shoes and socks, bowed, then stepped on. “We will train barefoot so as to avoid damaging the mat,” Hunter explained, “and you will bow before stepping on as a sign of respect to the mat on which you will be training.” The first part of the mental discipline that he planned to instil in the boy.
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 11, 2007 9:01:16 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Slate left his socks and shoes in a neat arrangement next to the wall--the shoes with their toes pointed parallel, and the socks, folded, to their immediate left. He put on the offered jacket only after this was done. Putting away his socks and shoes first had allowed him ample time in which to decide whether to comply. While it might be interesting to experience being thrown into a wall, floor, or other unforgiving surface, he already had Calley's memories of that. Several of them. Learning to do the same to others was far more novel. He tied the belt neatly, and stepped up to the mat. All of this was done without saying any of the commentary that the clutter was clamoring to say. Silence was far more appealing.
Hunter had said to bow to this floor. "Hmm," Slate said simply. Calley's clutter cheered him on as the seconds passed, and he did not bow. That was the deciding factor, really. He squashed the other thoughts down, and bowed to the... floor. He felt no respect for it, just as he felt no respect for Hunter, or for anything else that readily came to mind. But he had no qualms with feigning respect. Particularly if the clutter disapproved. He straightened slowly, and stepped onto the mats.
They certainly didn't feel particularly respectable, under his feet. "May I ask why you insisted upon that?" He asked levelly, calmly looking the man in the eyes.
Hunter seriously considered reprimanding the boy for that, but as it was not on a mission he decided to answer instead. “It is tradition to bow to the mat to show your respect,” he explained, “It’s a way of asking the mat to look after you and stop you form getting hurt. It is etiquette, and something that helps you focus your mind on the forthcoming training or fight.”
Hunter suddenly heard something in the discreet earpiece he was wearing. He heard voices, some he didn’t recognise, but he did recognise Syn’s and Kaz’s. Kaz must have activated the microphone on his watch, allowing Hunter to listen in on the Order’s conversation. This was very useful, but didn’t mean he should abandon training Calley, he could do both.
“First thing that you need to learn is how to fall without injuring yourself,” There was no point in teaching Calley if he got injured every time he was thrown, “This is the most vital skill, and can be applied to many situations outside of judo. This is a forward rolling breakfall, or zenpo kaiten ukemi.”
Hunter dove forward rolling over his right shoulder. Before his back hit the mat he slammed down his left arm, which was completely straight, and his feet. This absorbed the impact so when his back hit it did so lightly. Rising to his feet Hunter indicated for Calley to try.
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 11, 2007 11:24:15 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Tradition. Etiquette. Focus. Slate tilted his head as Hunter answered. It was, without a doubt, a good answer. Slate looked down at the mats again, and gave the slightest of nods to them. The small gesture was backed by vastly more sincerity than his previous bow. Tradition, etiquette, focus--three of the facets of order. Congratulations, the clutter burst into their mind with all the energy of a game show host, Your kindred spirit is the floor! Slate squished it back down, feeling no particular response to the words. The floor was every bit as real as he was. Perhaps more.
“First thing that you need to learn is how to fall without injuring yourself." A small smile settled onto Slate's lips; he was as amused as he was capable of being. He, the embodiment of healing, was not afraid of breaking a fall with a few of his bones. In fact, he'd been doing just that all day. Useless, he ruled it. "This is the most vital skill, and can be applied to many situations outside of judo. This is a forward rolling breakfall, or zenpo kaiten ukemi.”
The motion itself, though... He humbly retracted his ruling. There was such form, control, and intent behind it--order, again. He realized, with something very close to self-loathing, that the nearly randomized motions he'd been engaged in earlier were nothing more than the clutter's thoughts, expressed through actions. His actions. It was a disgusting thought.
As Hunter motioned for him to try, he replayed the man's actions in his head. Hmm. He'd never done anything of that sort, and neither had Calley. It wasn't the sort of motion that a cat frequently practiced.
He stepped further onto the mats, and dove forward. He rolled over his right shoulder, but failed to get his left arm down in time. And his footwork was not even worthy of mention. He sat back up, feeling a bit sore. Nothing worthy of healing. That was terrible, he noted, and stood up to try again. Putting into his own actions the form that Hunter had so casually displayed--that was his focus.
He was going to keep trying until he performed the move perfectly, or was told to stop.
Hunter watched Calley step up and perform the breakfall without so much as a word. Puzzled by the boy’s sudden silence and focus he eventually dismissed it as seeing what had happened to Kitra that Calley had finally come to accept that hunter was in charge, and would not suffer fools lightly.
The first attempt was poor, arm late and legs crossed in a manner that almost squashed his gentleman’s area. However, rather than complain Calley stood up and tried again, showing improvement. He continued to repeat the breakfall, and Hunter was impressed at the boy’s newfound focus. Soon enough Calley was getting the timing of his arm correct, followed by his legs apart and aligned to absorb the impact.
Having finally deemed Calley’s efforts adequate he motioned for the boy to stop. “Good,” he said, “next is side breakfalls, yoko ukemi. First do it like so.” He squatted down with his right leg extended out in front of him. Holding his right arm horizontally above his leg he fell to his right, slamming his arm down moments before his body hit the mat. He then repeated the movement but to the left.
“Once you are comfortable with that you can do it from standing,” Hunter explained as he rose to his feet. Swinging his right leg across in front of his left he fell to his right, but once again hit his right arm flat to the mat before his body hit. He did it again to the left to show it was to be done on both sides.
“You must ensure that your arm is flat when you hit the mat, or you risk breaking your wrist, elbow or shoulder if you are throw with force.” Having given Calley the demonstration and warning he motioned for the boy to try. Most people struggled to get their arm correct, causing uncomfortable landings. Until Calley could do it with his arm flat they would progress no further. A spy was much less useful with a broken arm.
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 11, 2007 16:07:04 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Slate remained unsatisfied with his performance of the forward rolling breakfall, but he deemed Hunter worthy of his attention. When the man called for him to, Slate stopped practicing, and focused on the next move he was shown. Side breakfalls.
Two things that Hunter soon said started the trouble. A suggestion: “Once you are comfortable with that you can do it from standing.” And the reason that seemed to be behind it: “You must ensure that your arm is flat when you hit the mat, or you risk breaking your wrist, elbow or shoulder if you are throw with force.” It really wasn't trouble, per se. Not for Slate. He looked at Hunter for a moment, and then tried the move from standing. Quite naturally, he failed to perform it correctly the first time. Or the second. Or the third. Intriguingly, the pain in his arm seemed to be cumulative.
The problem was with Calley. As Slate picked himself up to attempt the move again, he noticed that he couldn't actually move his legs. He got into a sitting position, and no further.
Nu-uh. Nu-uh, nu-uh, nu-uh! The clutter protested. Random thoughts of pain and breaking arms and pain and unhappiness and pain and mostly pain but also--
Random thoughts crept up, but Slate crushed them back down. He stood, and prepared himself to--
"Oh, f*** this. I'm done." Calley wrestled his way back in control, effectively drowning Slate out with his own myriad thoughts. That's about when he realized who's company he was in. And what he'd just said. And what those words probably sounded like the Scary Violent Boss Man. Oooooh crap. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, Boss Man, I was talkin' to the voice in my head?
...He settled for looking a bit like a deer caught in headlights. Bright side: he had his mind back, for the moment. Down side: Slate was the healer. But Calley was the one about to get broken.
Hunter watched the boy attempt to start from standing as opposed to from lower, and was impressed by Calley’s disregard for pain. After his Third attempt Calley said something exceptionally unwise. Hunter considered what form of bodily harm to subject the spy to, but decided that due to his earlier good performance and that the comment could be attributed to the pain form doing the side breakfall from a standing position he would let it slide, but Calley was down to his last life. Slip up again and there would be consequences.
“What did I say?” Hunter admonished, “Start from the squatting position like I showed you until you can get the arm right, like so.” Once again Hunter did a side break fall from squatting, showing Calley how to do it. “Until you can get the arm right don’t try it from standing.” Hunter motioned for Calley to continue. This would be the real test. Could the boy maintain his focus or would he revert to the small bundle of randomness that he normally was.
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 11, 2007 16:34:30 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Oh crap. Oh crap oh crap oh crap. The Boss Man was doing his nice thing again. Calley hated it when the Boss Man did his nice thing. It usually meant he was one stupid word or deed away from getting picked up by his throat. It always started with him getting picked up by his throat. Always. "Ah... yes, Sir!" Calley sat down, and started practicing the move from sitting. Because he'd recently developed an aversion to getting picked up by his throat.
It was much less painful tryin' it from sitting. Go figure. But considering his arm and a good portion of his body felt like they were big bruises in the making, he wasn't exactly enjoying himself. But he kept practicing. Even if his form wasn't showing even the least improvement. Which wasn't his fault, because he was rather busy concentrating on singing fifteen different songs off-key in his own mind right now. A teen's got to have priorities. Calley's current priority: keeping Slate disgusted enough that he holed himself up in a far, far corner of their mind. And making only minimal unhappy noises every time he tried the side breakfall, and landed on his quickly blossoming bruises. Freaking Slate. The least he could have done was put that healing to use and--
I still could. Be quiet for a moment.
...Calley added a sixteenth song to the symphony in his head. He did not want to be here, and he did not want to be practicing stupid moves he'd never use unless he was about ten seconds away from having Doc Jimmy explode him, anyway. But most importantly, he didn't want to find out what Hunter was going to do to him if he stopped practicing. So even though he'd stopped trying... he kept practicing.
Hunter frowned in annoyance at Calley. Since his outburst he had stopped improving. Now he landed on his elbow every time. After the twelfth failed attempt at what was a relatively simply move Hunter signalled for him to stop. Something was up with Calley, and he wanted to know what.
“What’s going on?” Hunter demanded. He didn’t elaborate, the boy lied more easily than a gambler. It was one of the reasons he made such a good spy. If Hunter offered his speculation at what was going on Calley could use it to effortlessly spin a web of lies. Although at this point Hunter didn’t have much of an idea as to what was going on, only that Calley had suddenly gone from intense focus to complete lack of focus. Hunter wanted to know why.
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 11, 2007 16:54:20 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
"Urk," Calley answered. Which probably wasn't what Hunter was going for. "Umm, hard to explain." That probably wasn't acceptable, either. Calley sat himself cross-legged on the floor. Sitting kept him out of easy throat-grabbing range. And made him a smaller, even less intimidating target. "Err, there was this hawk, and then this owl, and--oh! I went to the raptor center, and I can fly now, and I've got about a gazillion bird forms!" He beamed proudly for a moment, before wisely shrinking back down. Getting off topic was probably not wise. "But the hawk was--well, all the birds were--sort of messed up. That's why they get sent to the raptor center, you know." He might or might not have been trying to get out of this by talking at length about nothing. Even he wasn't sure. To be honest, it was really hard to think with sixteen songs simultaneously stuck in his head. And annoying--let's not forget about annoying. "So when I flew as the hawk for awhile, I felt like my arm was hurt, and not just the usual shifting-uses-weird-muscles hurt, more like a I-busted-something hurt, and..." He gulped under the man's gaze. "...and long story short," he concluded, "I apparently hate myself. And I hate me back. Literally. Apparently." He gulped again. "So in conclusion: I don't really know. 'Cause it's confusing."
I have a theory.
Seventeen songs. He had seventeen songs going in his head. If the Scary Boss Man was going to kill him, now would be an excellent time. It would be a mercy killing.
Hunter listened to the boy prattle, trying to decipher any meaning from the mindless drivel. As best he could surmise something had happened when he had learnt the new bird forms. They were injured, and so it was possible that the injuries had caused whatever had happened to happen. What seemed to have happened was that Calley gained the ability to focus. Time to test that theory.
Springing forward Hunter grabbed the boy’s wrist and spun it into a simple, yet painful, wrist lock. As he finished the move he asked, “What was the Japanese name of the first technique I showed you?” If he was right Calley would be able to give him the right answer.
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 11, 2007 17:12:37 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Pain.
Pain startled seventeen songs into shutting up.
Pain didn't even leave Calley time to curse before Slate blinked down at the arm curiously. Hunter was clearly working on his limited information and observations to trigger Calley's focus. It had worked. Really, Slate was quite impressed with the man. He looked up at him, and said simply, "Zenpo kaiten ukemi." He nodded to his arm. "If you would kindly break that for me, I believe we would have a more productive conversation. I can assure you that the damage will not affect my capabilities as a spy." The clutter had clearly defined broken limbs as Slate's realm, after all.