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.
((ooc: Takes place after Bucks, Birds, & Bugs in Slate's timeline; aka, Calley is wandering in his own body, elsewhere, and isn't here to provide back-up.))
Another day, another few hours Slate had spent warming his chair in the Board Room. He gave Noin Mortman a grateful glance as she gently escorted the jittery Dragon Speak out of the room. The omnilingual gem producer that Aiden and Giant's Bane had rescued was distinctly useful in more ways than one, but he did not react well to any form of authority figure. Not coherently, anyway. Slate had been hoping for a briefing on Colombia's complicated situation from a man who had lived it; what he had received was two-thirds carefully worded statements and one-thirds lies designed entirely to please him. It was somewhat less than helpful. There was just enough potential fact in the man's words to aid further inquiries.
Slate's first move had been the coup. An addendum to that had been all this: re-contracting, financial take-overs of assets, reorganization, and recruiting. Simple stabilization of his new possessions. That was quite nearly complete.
It was just about time for the Kabal to move.
First, though, he had one last lose end to tie. Trista Evans, Kabal employee under Antonescu, was scheduled to meet with him next. It was a simple re-contracting; at this point, it barely warranted any mental preparations at all. To be honest, these meetings were beginning to merge into one very long, very similarly-toned meeting in his head. Miss Evans had been rather pro-Hunter, as he recalled; not to the extreme that Kitra Maverick had been, however, and that meeting had gone extraordinarily well. He predicted this meeting to take approximately a half an hour; afterwards, he was to receive a briefing on the decade-long La Violencia, Escobar and the Medellin drug cartel, Plan Colombia, and the waves of turmoil that still crashed through Colombia's people. The FARC, the paramilitants, the military and police force, the justice system; the drug trade that permeated the background of it all, and overrode morality with money. Necessary information, to formulate proper plans. A mere brute force attack would make no difference in a country which averaged seventy-one massacres per year.
To Slate, this meeting was a mere footnote to a rather busy day; nothing more. Miss Evans, perhaps, held a differing view.
High-healed boots clicked in an impatient and echoy way on the cold, concrete floor as a slight, red haired figure hurried up another of the innumerablely long corridors of the familiar Mon Dragon lab complex. These rather stylish boots, while not having traversed this halls for many months (in part because of a holiday on a golden Australian beach, and in part due to an ex boyfriend named after a planet, and in part due to plain ‘I just haven’t got around to it yet’ ness), still found they’re way unerringly towards the dark paneled and slightly foreboding doors of the now dubbed Board Room. The pace of impatience could be explained if you knew the owner of these boots- Trista Evans, had not long before received a summons from the leader of the Kabal, whom she was rather anxious to meet again, as she had not heard from him in months. It had to be said, Trista Evans, the small but tough looking red head, with twinkling dark eyes and a wicked smile, had a definite soft spot for the Kabal leader- Hunter Antonescu, a man (or mutant) with many roles in her life- at once being her boss, a good friend, and a person she looked up to with almost daughter like devotion since he had first found her and helped nurture her growing abilities with a guiding and accepting hand.
The aforementioned boots, along with their black skirt and top clad owner, now had the big, double doors of the Board room in sight- the girl in question’s face breaking out into an uncontainable grin at the thought of this well deserved reunion with her unofficial father figure. She was at the doors now, sweeping one of the expensive and engraved wood panels aside- not bothering to knock of course (Hunter wouldn’t expect that of her). She, speeding into the polished and sophisticated room like a whirl wind of joyous energy, looking towards the table, to the big chair at the very center where she knew he would be….. ….where he wasn’t…. The bundle of happiness and light and almost loony toon level energy that used to be Tris, halted, as still as if she had got caught in Medusa’s glare- disappointment seeping in. Hunter wasn’t there. The only other person in the room to be disturbed by the chaotic sight of her whirlwind, rapid presence was a slight figure to the left of ‘Hunter’s’ chair. Tris spoke, slightly apologetic to have burst in on someone else, with whom she did not have such a familiar relationship. “Oh…..ummm, sorry.” She started- eloquent as always in her confusion. “I was looking for Hunter. I was told he wanted an appointment with me here….and now….and its now, but I can see he’s not here…..so, I can wait outside.” She gave the adolescent figure another apologetic look as she turned to go- and stopped again, looking harder, as her mind waved a card of recognition for her brain to see. “Wait- Calley?….Its Calley isn’t it? Look, sorry again for barging in, but I was told Hunter wanted to see me- do you know where he is?”
The red-head's confusion was understandable. The way the grin on her face died an abrupt death as she entered was somewhat troublesome to the eighteen year old seated at the table. All of the Kabal's employees had been somewhat surprised to find him here, rather than Antonescu; none of them, however, had looked like their puppy had just been suffocated. Not until this young woman had entered the room, that is.
Troublesome, indeed.
>> “I was looking for Hunter. I was told he wanted an appointment with me here….and now….and its now, but I can see he’s not here…..so, I can wait outside.”
He could see the exact moment the recognition lit in her eyes.
>> “Wait- Calley?….Its Calley isn’t it? Look, sorry again for barging in, but I was told Hunter wanted to see me- do you know where he is?”
Unfortunately, as was often the case, it was the wrong recognition. Slate stood, and made a polite sweep with his hand towards the seat across from his own. "Please, have a seat, Miss Evans. The matter of Hunter Antonescu is what I have called you in to discuss."
He would retake his own seat, if she took hers; otherwise, he would continue standing. "My name is Slate Swartz, actually. I see you have met my brother. We have been told that the resemblance is striking." A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
The initial look on her face had been troublesome, but Slate had not yet realized his mistake.
The not quite ‘Calley’ stood, polite and gracious in offering her the seat opposite him.
"Please, have a seat, Miss Evans. The matter of Hunter Antonescu is what I have called you in to discuss."
Tris quietly strode across the room- a feeling of unease creeping delicately down the back of her neck. She slid silently into the offered chair, her expression of concern and confusion unhidden from her expressive features. "My name is Slate Swartz, actually. I see you have met my brother. We have been told that the resemblance is striking."
“Oh, sorry, my mistake.” She offered in a distracted way- in not such a fit state right now to be totally focused on civilities and introductions. Tris’s eyes flickered towards the door and back, not wanting to appear rude, but wondering when the boss would get here- it wasn’t like Hunter to be late. In a completely failed attempt to appear as if she was infact focused and in on the conversation, she commented; “So, what were we discussing?”
The young woman took the offered seat, but continued to seem rather... distracted.
>> “So, what were we discussing?”
What were they discussing, indeed. Slate approached the issue with his usual directness. "I am now the leader of Mondragon Labs, and Antonescu's other assets," he stated simply. "I have called you here to ask whether you would like to renew your contract with the Kabal, given this leadership change. The terms and pay will remain the same; please do not concern yourself on that subject. You may, of course, voice any questions or concerns you may have."
The brown-haired teenager sat calmly in his seat, his face and tone composed; those were words which had come from his mouth many times in the past few weeks.
It was the first time he had spoken them to someone who was entirely loyal to Antonescu, however. Loyal in the same way as the Mondragon Labs staff had been: loyal in the way that went far beyond reason, choice, or rational thought.
"May I also have a description of your powers?" Slate continued, with the calm professionalism of naïveté.
Tris was in the process of distractedly thinking about Hunter, not really inclined to listen to the calm tones of the youth before her when she had the disharmonious thoughts inside her head to contend with as well. Yet that instinct, that little auditor in your mind who’s job is to watch out for you, scanning the environment for possible danger and if necessary forcefully redirecting your attention to something of importance seemed to think she should tune in right about now to whatever the young man was blathering about. She replayed the composed words in her mind…..
"I am now the leader of Mondragon Labs, and Antonescu's other assets. I have called you here to ask whether you would like to renew your contract with the Kabal, given this leadership change. The terms and pay will remain the same; please do not concern yourself on that subject. You may, of course, voice any questions or concerns you may have."
It was like a shock of icy water to her system. "I am now the leader of Mondragon Labs…… She was focused now….
Tris blinked slowly, her entirely self frozen as she tried to come to terms with the rapidly rising emotions that were threatening to swamp her being. “You……you…….how could you?……..why?…….!” She stuttered, confusion abundant in a tone that was desperate trying to get a handle around such an alien concept.
Emotions flooded her mind, and she was not able to control them
Confusion- how could Hunter have allowed this?
Fear- what if he was hurt?
Betrayal- how could this slip of a boy just waltz in here and take something that was not his to take?
Vengeance- Hunter, to whom she owed so much, must be avenged!
Anger- The familiar rage that boiled inside, just begging to be released to work some explosive havoc on so unworthy a foe.
Loyalty- the unshakably loyal vessel that was Trista Evan, bound by shackles of devotion and product of psychic imprinting teetered on the brink of an emotional abyss….
…..She couldn’t bear this….
…..She couldn’t take this….
…..She snapped…..
“You Did WHAT?!” she hissed in a icy voice of steal.
The robotically calm little punk seemed unaware of her emotional turbulence, seemed unaware of how close he was to turning into pink mist. His serene tone went on, not knowing the dark wrath it had awakened.
"May I also have a description of your powers?"
Tris smiled grimly, the dark velvet of barely contained fury making her tone low and musical; “Of course.” she acquiesced, pushing her chair back and stepping away from the table.
There was a sudden, loud WOOOSH noise, then a CRACK , as the force of Tris’s emotion compelled a wave of rapidly expanding air molecules to expand in an invisible and outwardly moving circle of very hot air, causing a concussive blast that would ‘slam’ into anything in its way.
Her intended target was to use the burning air to ‘throw’ Slate’s chair and the person residing in it to the ground very very hard. It was a satisfying bonus though, when a number of expensive and delicate computer screening equipment along the wall was shattered on impact as well.
It was also interesting to note- had Tris been in the mood to note such things, that she hadn’t even had to use her hands, her burning anger and outrage at such an injustice was enough.
“But I’ve always been better at show then tell” She went on, her expressive eyes dark and deadly.
It was like watching a nature documentary with the narrator's commentary turned off. The lion was resting in the grass, paying no particular attention to the gazelle that was grazing so near to it. The gazelle was peacefully unaware of its presence. The situation hinted at a particular outcome, but there was no overt sign of it--no voice from the background, speaking with the wisdom of one who has watched the scene to its end.
Miss Trista Evans was paying no particular attention to the Kabal's new leader.
And then, like a sudden shift of paws into a hunter's crouch, she was.
The gazelle caught a whiff of breeze, and raised its head in budding suspicion.
>> “You……you…….how could you?……..why?…….!”
Slate tentatively began to speak again. "Miss Evans, I believe there are some things you were unaware of, regarding Anton--"
>> “You Did WHAT?!”
The gazelle wisely tensed, every muscle prepared to launch it into the first leap of flight.
Slate gave a blink at the woman's unexpected force of emotion. She had not truly been that close to Antonescu, had she? Not that he had been aware. No closer than Kitra, surely, and even the illustrator had suspected the man's true nature.
His question of her powers proved to be most unwise. The gazelle was fleeing already; Slate was only now tensing, a reactive tightness building in his arms where they were folded on the table as the fiery haired young woman stood. Stood, and spoke two words which should not have been so unsettling.
>> “Of course.”
There was a wooosh, and there was a crack; the young woman's stand was all the more warning Slate received before he was living those two noises.
The heated air slapped him in the front, tumbling him backwards and taking his leather chair with it. His right shoulder and arm jarred against the floor, a shot of gray pain shooting curiously up their length before exploding into a fantastic stab of reds, blacks, and purples. While he was not opposed to pain, he knew that it was not generally dealt out in friendship. Slate stared under the table at a pair of high-heeled boots. Plastic shards from the broken computer equipment scattered across the floor; one bounced up against those boots. He could not help but wonder what they would feel like, crushing into a prone body on the floor.
Slate pushed his way to his feet, favoring his left arm. It was not that he particularly minded the pain; he had quite literally been born to deal with it. It was more that the arm was inconveniently refusing to carry his weight, but was not injured enough to warrant an immediate healing.
>> "But I’ve always been better at show then tell.”
Blue eyes sought to meet brown across the broad Board Room table. "That," Slate stated, his voice both cold and quiet, "was very rude, Miss Evans."
The gazelle was already dead. Slate stared at his own lion, his calm composure unbroken. He was a healer. What was the worst she could do?
Tris, a hunter watching her prey, had smiled a tight-lipped smile of a job well done, a surge of dark minded satisfaction tingling through her being at the effect her powers had had on the ‘target’. The boy had looked so helplessly amusing as the concussive force of her particular brand of abilities had blasted him forcefully back, he spinning sharply in the air to land in a, what Tris imagined, would be a particularly painful position. It had to be said, for one normally not prone to using her powers on the offensive (she was more a defense kinda girl), Tris was in a strange way, just alittle bit, enjoying herself.
This, this was justice, not a forceful threat, not an act of torture, she was going to get all the information she could out of this lowly fiend whom had dared too high, and she was going to avenge the rights of her mentor. Tris had righteousness on her side- and the right kind of attitude and capability to follow through. …And by attitude and capability, she of course ment; the ability to blow stuff up, and a turbulent sea of emotion with which to fuel such a desire. The way and the means to affect her desired outcome- the little upstart who dared to claim he had overthrown Hunter, was going to be in a great deal of pain very very soon.
If emotions were colours, Tris would by now have been covered entirely with an ominously dark aura- a storm cloud, flashing blacks and sinister grays, passionate reds and purples and the deepest midnight blue (her outraged emotions fueled, if only she knew, by the subconscious psychic imprint of undying loyalty Hunter had forged in her long ago). All Tris knew however, was she was so angry, absolutely pissed off, immersed and adrift on a violent ocean of rage- some little good for nothing upstart, whom Hunter had discovered and sheltered, had had the impudence to try take over her mentor’s role while he had been otherwise occupied, and now……he was going to pay for that mistake.
Loathing unhidden in her gaze, she watched the callous youth as he slowly and cautiously picked himself up off the floor- it pleased her to see him move that way; it spoke of the theme she had picked out for him- pain.
Nevertheless, the boy faced her with that infuriatingly cool look of his. His manner, when he spoke was the same as well- cool and quiet……and utterly irritatingly.
"That, was very rude, Miss Evans."
Brown eyes that usually sparkled with a warm wickedness, meet their blue counter parts across the long board table, detestation frozen in her steely glare. Voice still low and velvety threatening, she countered deftly with; “No Mister Swartz, what is rude is you taking something that does not belong to you.”
His gallingly controlled cool tone continued.
"If you are done throwing tantrums, may we talk?"
A quiet chuckle escaped Tris’s lips, a laugh that was in no way light, reassuring, or humorous. “And if you could have even contemplated that I was ‘done’, little boy , then you would be sorely mistaken.” Tris took a deliberate step forward, her left hand flicking out in a quick waving motion. The end effect of this shattering a container of pens by Slate’s carefully layed out place at the board table, shooting fragments of container and inky pen in Slates direction. She continued in the same deliberate tone; “You see, I think you need to be taught to not steal what does not belong to you……” A flick of her right hand caused a stack of folders on the same board table piled with geometric precision to abruptly disintegrate and vanish into dust. Her next words were slow, clear, controlled, talking to a 'little boy.' “So now, we are going to have alittle conversation, and if you do everything I say, answer every question I have, and are particularly luckily, you might just walk out of here with your life………now- I want you to tell me where Hunter is.” She waited- despite some dark impulses flooding her mind right about now, making interesting suggestions, she had to find out if Hunter was safe before anything drastic happened.
Miss Evans did not seem pleased to see him standing again.
>> “No Mister Swartz, what is rude is you taking something that does not belong to you.”
This was fair, since Slate found himself experiencing an intense dislike for the fact that the woman was speaking again.
>> “And if you could have even contemplated that I was ‘done’, little boy, then you would be sorely mistaken.”
The surprising splash of ink rain hit against the front of his shirt, staining a silver dress shirt beyond repair. Slate looked down at the stain with methodical care; his gaze rose again to the red-haired young woman, as calm as a storm's eye. He had liked this shirt.
>> “You see, I think you need to be taught to not steal what does not belong to you……”
This is the moment in which he was slapped in the face with her personnel file. What was left of it, anyway. The cinders left gray stains on his cheek.
A muscle on the corner of his left eyebrow gave a twitch. Blue eyes chilled yet further. "Those were in alphabetical order," the teenager stated, as others would deliver a threat. That was enough of that, surely. There was no need to tolerate this woman further. It was unfortunate, but her contract would need to be voided.
Calley, I believe it is time to escort Miss Evans off of Lab grounds.
That's nice. But I'm kinda in the middle of a math test, here.
...What?
At the Mansion. Different bodies now, remember? Oh, and thanks for forgetting to help me study, last night. That was real helpful of you. So yeah, have fun with 'Miss Evans' there, and how about we try something: how about you don't just talk to me when it's convenient for you? So yeah. Bye.
...[/i]
It was at that moment that Slate realized something that would have left a lesser teenager feeling outmatched: he had no offense capabilities what so ever.
...Or defensive, for that matter.
Slate stared resolutely across the table at the woman. Mutant abilities or not, he refused to be defeated by that. It was a tangle of chaos with an Australian accent. Australian. Surely she would be happier back in her natural habitat, making the trees rain koala ashes upon someone else's dress shirt. Slate would be sure to release her into the most remote and uncivilized of the bush lands, where she would clearly be the most comfortable.
>> “So now, we are going to have a little conversation, and if you do everything I say, answer every question I have, and are particularly luckily, you might just walk out of here with your life………now- I want you to tell me where Hunter is.”
Calley was not here to fight with him. Yes, he had forgotten that. Never mind that fact, however: he was his own person, now. He could deal with this on his own. He still had a capable weapon: logic.
"We cannot always get what we want, Miss Evans." Slate stated with a knife's simplicity. "I desire for you to sit down, and think about this calmly for a moment. You may continue destroying the room after I have spoken. There are many things about your former employer that I believe you are unaware of. I wish for you to be able to make an informed decision on this matter."
If he had spoken with Zephyr before meeting Miss Evans, perhaps the wind elemental could have told him just how effective 'logic' was against a woman who could explode things with her mind.[/color]
Tris sighed wearily at Slate's uninspiring comment and shook her head slightly- so this was going to go the hard way….surprise surprise.
Brown eyes sparkled with angry fire at her unflappable foe, yet she replied in a rather articulate fashion for the amount of justified anger that boiled within her mind. “Dear Mister Swartz, I do believe you are laboring under the misapprehension that you have even a minuscule amount of authority over me.” Tris stated, exactly mirroring Slate’s earlier simplistic tone. “…To set the record straight…… you don’t.”
A minute smile tugged at the corner of Tris’s lips as she thought of a superb way to illustrate her point. Her hands waved in a vague, open palmed kind of way- as if she was trying to erase something from an invisible chalkboard, and she concentrated, hard, screwing up her face as one does when trying to do a difficult mathematics equations. She had never tried this before, but in theory…… it was possible. Tris reached out with her ability, focusing, extending her control over just one simple area of Slate’s person, using her hands to guide her. She was now linked with the molecules she needed, the base product of all things. She, forcing their bonds out of order, detaching them from their ranks, and in effective, dissolving the objects she desired into fragmented dust. The object of her focus being of course, the front panels of Slates ruined dress shirt and pants. ……Naturally however, what with this being her first time literally ‘dusting’ the cloth off of someone’s back (or front as was the case here), there were bound to be mistakes- like the layers of Slates skin that had been involved in the process wherever Tris hadn’t quite been concentrating on the procedure of separate layers of molecules hard enough- Slate might have afew graze type wounds to heal over soon. …..oops…. Tris’s slight smirk had blossomed into a full on smug smile at the sight of the boy before her. She spoke with the confidence of assured power. “Now how far am I going to have to take this until you be a good little boy and provide me with the answers I seek?”
>> “Dear Mister Swartz, I do believe you are laboring under the misapprehension that you have even a minuscule amount of authority over me.”
She was laboring under the misapprehension that he did not, apparently. The source of her pointless actions was clarifying in his mind: she was--in the words of the great George W.--misunderestimating him.
>> “…To set the record straight…… you don’t.”
"No, Miss Evans," Slate began, "I believe I--"
...
...His statement cut off rather abruptly.
...
...His face remained entirely composed.
...
...Well.
She was just a little magician, was she not? With a wave of her hand, she had made his shirt disappear entirely. And his trousers. And representative patches of his epidermis.
The ashes seemed to whisper as they fell to the floor in a gray halo around his feet; 'real mature... real mature... '.
Her smirk complimented those words.
>> “Now how far am I going to have to take this until you be a good little boy and provide me with the answers I seek?”
"Now that you have given vent to your desire to unclothe me," Slate replied, rising up a hand to wipe some of the lingering dust off of his shoulder. At the same time, he gave a simple shift: all of his scrapes, and the angry red patch on his shoulder that would have bloomed into a most fantastic bruise, simply disappeared. It was his own magic trick. "Will you listen to what I have to say? Hunter Antonescu was a murder and a liar. Clearly, your volatile mind was deceived by him more thoroughly than most."
The echo seemed to linger after his own words: 'mature... mature... '
One of them had to be the adult in this room. Clearly, that fell to the brown-haired teenager in his blue plaid boxers. Polished black shoes. And white socks pulled up his shins, with quiet dignity.
Tris grinned in what some might describe as an evil fashion- this was justice. And so there he was- the impudent little upstart that had dared to flout Hunter Antonescu’s absolute authority as head of the Kabal, was now reveling quite abit more of himself in this particular meeting than he had perhaps assumed he would earlier in the day. There he stood, straight and tall, but rather pale looking, in boxers, shiny black shoes, and socks pulled up to his shins- appearing like this he seemed very much the part of the little lost school boy who had learned his lesson. So cute, so harmless, and hopefully alittle more willing to cooperate with the volatile red headed vixen in his presence.
It had to be said though, despite the mounting dislike Tris had for her current insufferable companion, she did feel the tiniest twinge of admiration for the youth’s complete and utter stone faced reaction to her little stunt- really, this guy could be big on the gambling circuit with that total lack of emotion.
…
"Now that you have given vent to your desire to unclothe me,"
That twinge of admiration, that hint of compassionate humanity, that minute particle of respect that had somehow managed to surface above the seething mental sea of emotion that was Tris’s brain right now, lingered only long enough for the intolerable adolescence to open his month again- it was then the slightly positive emotions abruptly evaporated and were banished forever, leaving not even a memory.
“Oh you wish!” Tris exclaimed in a very sarcastic, but not exactly original retort. While strong emotions like anger were, to her, the tools of the trade so to speak, the fierce sentiments that churned through her mind didn’t exactly give rise to calm eloquence of thought, or particularly witty come backs to such taunts as these.
Trista Evans, despite the dark emotional aura that clouded her thoughts, might possibility, given a minute or two, have come up with some better scathing reply to his inane comment before she did anymore damage to the aggravating child, yet it was at this point the youth in question did something rather surprising that completely derailed the perfect come back train of thought. Tris, staring darkly at the teen, had been able to see the incredible transformation all the way through from its abrupt beginning; Slate had stood in quite a lot of his glory, bruised, battered, mostly naked, and grazed red in places from the effects the difference ministrations of Tris’s powers had had on him so far. He had looked young and exposed and perfectly defeatable…..and then… It was a sudden shift, a rippling effect that flickered through the youths body, finding damage and injury and….Tris blinked so she could be sure she was seeing what she was seeing…fixing it, repairing layers of skin and resetting twisted limb, until the unmoving Slate was made ‘new’, still standing before her, and while still nearly unclothed and dusty from defragmented cloth and other miscellaneous objects, not quite as exposed as he had been. Tris was trying to maintain her own poker face in the face of such a feat, yet she could never be as good at the whole not showing emotion thing as Slate obviously was, and so she was sure some of her astounded astonishment had seeped through her guard on her expression. Oh frell. She should have remembered the adolescent upstart would not be here at the labs if he did not have abilities out of the ordinary. Tris rolled her eyes as she fully began to understand the implications of what was happening here- she was up against a healer….. She sighed heavily- well this should certainly up the stakes, making victory, while not impossible, at least alittle more difficult. Nevertheless, the situation did present some interesting possibilities she had been inching to try out.
Easily distracted as she was, Tris’s mind was calming down alittle by focusing more on the surprising scene she had just witnessed and not on the person she had witnessed it from. She was thinking alittle clearer and feeling alittle less out of control of her emotion…
"Will you listen to what I have to say? Hunter Antonescu was a murder and a liar. Clearly, your volatile mind was deceived by him more thoroughly than most."
….and that slight piece of serenity was abruptly washed away at Slates ill chosen words. The fury flared high again, consuming her thoughts, some deep and powerful instinct to defend her friend blazed within her, and before she knew it she was reacting to such untrue claims with over powering vengeance…..
BANG
The effect Slates words had on her powers blew out most the lights in the room, glass pieces that looked more beautiful than snowflakes now free to spin and whirl in a glorious but dangerous dance as they made their way swiftly but above all piercingly to the floor, or anything else that got in their way- Tris included. Tris suffered afew minor lacerations as flying glass flew past her, they weren’t deep and she couldn’t feel them now with everything else that was going on, but damn they were going to hurt like hell in the morning.
Barely aware of her actions, Tris particularly hissed; “LIAR!” Hurt and anger evident in her voice. And barely in control of her own emotions again, Tris’s hands flicked up and out, her teeth clenched as she consciously blasted the air molecules on her side of the long, wooden, expensive, and above all, very heavy table. The main effect of this was the table being scooped up and hurling itself through the air as if via telekinesis towards the far wall with rapid velocity. The only problem for Slate with this plan was that he was in the way of said table and wall.
Tris was incensed, her subconscious unconditional loyalty to Hunter triggering her actions almost without conscious help. The table was slammed into the wall.
“You are the one who is lying to me……!” She was yelling now, not exactly speaking alot of sense herself, sounding more like a petulant teenager teenager than she was accusing Slate of being.
Another flick of her hands and the infamous table exploded into very sharp splintering pieces.
“Trying to trick me!”
With another few flicks of her hands, a group of 3 chairs, were launched, one after another, at high speeds, targeted at Slate’s position. “And you are gonna pay…..” The last comment had a lower tone, a completely un veiled threat implicit in the words. The entire room seemed to vibrate slightly, a light shower of plaster dust raining down from cracks that had sudden appeared in the ceiling. Hopefully the room was built of solid foundations or it would not last long.
If Tris was in a more normal frame of mind, she, on assessing her actions, would have been severely freaked out by now in regards to her dealings and appalled about how completely out of control her powers and emotions were getting. As it was, she was kinda more focused on other things right now- Pain, Destruction, Vengeance being the main upon them. It could have been said by one who was watching the action play out from an impartial distance, that Tris, for some reason was acting far in extremes of her usual personality type.
Ill-advised. Something he had done... had been ill-advised. The Italian teenager could not quite remember what.
Where. 'Where' might be the more important question. Where was he? Baby blue eyes were staring at his own arms; they were crossed in front of his face, as if to guard against something. One of them appeared to be broken, yet it had not fallen from its place. Erratic spots of light flashed as he began to move. Glass? There was glass on his skin. In some places, there was glass through his skin. It was most uncomfortable. His legs could not move. His arms, likewise, were--
--Pinned. He was pinned? By what? A frown knit between his brows as some of the fog lifted from his brain. He felt something warm on his scalp. It moved like water. Blood?
>> “You are the one who is lying to me……!”
That voice. That yell. That distinctively feminine irrationality. It brought everything back into focus: he had been attempting to reason with the woman, when she had thrown a table at him. It had been at rather a close range to dodge; he had chosen to duck and cover, instead, curling around himself to put as much flesh and bone between that table and his head as he possibly could. He could heal anything; this was true. He could only heal while he was conscious, however. Or alive. It would be inconvenient to his plans to be killed by his own conference table. His body had absorbed the brute force of the inelegant attack as planned; the impact had slammed him against the wall, however. And now he was pinned, in something like a fetal position, in the suffocating triangle formed by the table, the wall, and the glass-strewn floor.
How very inconveni--
The table dissolved into a many thousand piercing pieces. Sharp lights lit up in Slate's mind; he did not really mind pain, but he still felt it; his body still reacted to it. The lights faded slowly into a pulsing throb.
Miss Evans had very nearly reached his tolerance level. He? Pass out from pain? It was unthinkable. Furthermore, it was intolerable. He healed himself. The bone in his arm set with a clish; splinters of wood and glass were forced from his skin by resetting flesh. His white socks were blood spotted, and his dress shoes beyond repair. Fortunately, his boxers had maintained their dignity by virtue of likewise being protected in his curl.
With a displeased glint in his blue gaze, Slate began to stand ag--
>> “Trying to trick me!”
Chairs.
Incoming.
He had been a hedgehog once, back when he and Calley had been training to hold separate forms. Perhaps that is why huddling was suddenly so instinctive.
>> “And you are gonna pay…..”
The finish on the walls began to vibrate off, showing the solid cinderblock construction beneath.
The door to the Board Room crashed open. The guard who came in had his gun drawn, and back-up out in the hallway. The voice from the floor nearly did not register with him. Something in his brain, though, could not defy it.
"I did not order that," Slate said, wrestling his way out from under the chairs. They were light, but cumbersome. He did not heal after their impact: there would be deep bruises, but they were of no consequence at the moment. "Leave," he ordered, quite simply. "Do not enter again unless I call for you."
It was impossible for the guard to disobey.
Slate ran his hand through his short brown hair, gathering out the clinging fragments of wood and glass as he faced the young lunatic again. It was blatantly obvious that he was out-gunned here. He was willing to wager, however, that her defense was not quite as good as his own. Yin and Yang.
He was standing in the Mondragon Labs board room: this was his fortress. It was the location at which he had the most power, and the most resources. The staff had been trying to teach him to fight, but he had been neglecting it somewhat, for other duties. Ones he had considered more important. He had forgotten that brutality was such an integral part of mutant life.
If he could not defeat an opponent here, he could not do it anywhere. It was time that he learned how to fight. Slate drew in a breath, his mouth parting slightly as if he was about to launch into another of his little speeches.
In a heartbeat, he was throwing the handful of glass and wood splinters in the direction of her face; without waiting to see its effect, he kicked into a sprint. Four steps; then he was close enough. He dropped forward, one palm striking the floor; from there, no action was necessary. His momentum carried itself. Though he did not know it, she had thought him to look like a school boy: he was now trying school girl on for size. A cartwheel. His intent was to simply crash into her. It lacked finesse, but at the least, it would close the range between them. She had long distance capabilities. He did not.
Two targets: the glass and wood splinters coming towards her face in a wide spread, and the teenager. Could she take down two targets at once?
With his own ability, he could afford to learn. All he had to do was not die. This should prove interesting.
The walls were still vibrating, and plaster dust still sprinkled down from the ceiling as the heavy double doors slammed open in a deafening crash. Oh FRELL! Tris, the Farscape watching drama queen silently cursed as she spun around to face the reinforcements that had just arrived at her and Slate’s private party. Shaking her auburn fringe out of her eyes she quickly assessed the new defenses; just one man with a gun at the moment, he shouldn’t present any trouble….. but the trouble with soldiers, and soldiers at the Kabal complex in particular as Tris had cause to know, was that soldiers were like ants, there was always more of them coming. Damn DAMN DAMN!….. Okay, so as far as Tris’s vengeance warped mind was able to think right now, she had to admit that despite the unintentional though therapeutic value of shaking the room to its very foundations, it wasn’t exactly the way to keep the beating up of the newest and completely wrong for the job boss man off the radar.
And now the ever impatient Trista Evans had more little annoyances to add to her ‘to do’ list today than the punishing of one little boy who thought he could sit in the big bosses chair. Her anger driven mind blazed red as the extra annoyance shoveled fuel into the already blazing mental fire, she sighed and raised her hands, aiming to deal with the future severely wounded solider type who had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time….
A muffled voice from under a tangled pile of chairs stopped the other two occupants of the room dead in their tracks; Tris in amazement, and the guard in, shock, maybe?
"I did not order that,"
The tangle of chairs became an erupting mountain of Slate as he struggled to free himself from the many-legged bog of furniture.
"Leave. Do not enter again unless I call for you."
Tris watched, agog at these mind-boggling circumstances… The guard, armed with a gun, and despite his obvious training for such an occasion, being ordered to leave a dangerous situation by some skinny little half dressed twerp who, while having his arse handed to him, was commanding his minors with stupid instructions with all the calm aplomb of the King of Spain. …..it was definitely bizzaro day here at Mondragon Labs.
Tris watched, open mouthed, still not quite believing her good luck, as Mister Armed Guard retraced his steps back through the door, politely closing the panels on his way out…… Still, while maybe alittle relieved, she was to some extent goaded to act at the submissive way of the guard reacting to Slates orders- he had been working for Hunter, and here he was in the ultimate act of disloyalty, calming conforming to a little boy’s directives. It was senseless. It was wrong. And since justice and vengeance were the order of the day, Tris felt no moral compulsions (not that she had any morality active at this particular moment) in extending hand and power to blast the large potted plant that was standing next to the door way into sharded pieces and clumps of dirt that forcefully showered on and at the man as he was making his retreat from the room.
That little interruption dealt with, it was back to the main event.
A crocodile smile appeared on Tris’s lips as she, the paragon of burning vengeful justice, turned once more to face the child that had stolen her beloved mentors throne. “Well thank you Slate.” She complimented him politely. “That was very nice of you to do……..didn’t want anyone witnessing your humiliation huh.” She continued, pretending to be understanding; yet the sarcasm couldn’t help but leak into her voice.
The not very clothed teen did not answer for a long while, instead staring into the middle distance, running his hand through his plaster, wood, and glass peppered hair. Was it too good to be true to assume he was getting ready to do what she had asked of him now?
He opened his mouth-Was he going to apologize? It had better be a damn good one. Did the child now find value in his own survival? …But no an apologies was not forthcoming, instead in a blur of action, a bunch of miscellaneous debris combed from Slate’s hair was launched at her. Tris inwardly sighed- Slate it appeared, was going to continue to be stupid. Reacting on instinct and hours and hours of just this type of lesson at the labs complexes, usually under Hunter’s competent gaze, Tris focused, aimed, and in less than a second had forced the offending sharp molecular structures of differing components to disintegrate into harmless nothingness before her eyes.
However, it seemed throwing glass and wood splinters at Tris, while rude, was not her cunning little companions only ploy. While she had focused on evaporating dangerous splinters, he had started to run; he was coming at her, he was a blur, a weird shape that was all flailing arms and legs. Tris was confused for precious microseconds, stunned to immobilization, and by the time she reacted it was almost too late. She threw up her hands, gathered the plentiful emotions in her mind to fuel her mental energy, and used her powers. The process another intuitive reaction.
…..The twirling Slate was abruptly frozen in his tracks as each and every cell and molecule that consisted of the annoying teen was commanded by Tris’s gift into immobilization….
Tris frowned, the frozen Slate before her was entirely too close, at this distance she did not have to try to reach out and touch the boy (not that she would ever want too)- why if her powers had not activated she would have been collected into a very messy, bruise inducing floor pile up, which would have hurt alot....no thank you. Tris was also frowning because of another minor matter concerning her abilities- she’d ment to blow Slate up, and while the whole frozen this was cool, she was, thanks to Hunter, usually much more in control than that- it was weird, she allowed to herself, as the unseen mental imprint silently gathered more control of her conscious and subconscious mental resources.
But now that the opportunity has presented itself, Tris wasn’t going to turn it down. Edging away from her proximity to the unmoving figure, she started to circle the immobile statue with assessing eyes, as one might do with a piece of art, a sculpture, which for now was exactly what Slate was. And for now she had time- was exactly had Slate been trying to do anyway? She looked. She comprehended. She burst out laughing- the laugh was alittle evil. Tris’s attitude went from confused surprise to snide superiority in 5 seconds flat as her eyes actually got around to convincing her disbelieving mind what the little pipsqueak was trying to do. He was trying to cartwheel her over? What a jerk.
Mmmmmm, he looks so must better this way, she smugly allowed.
“Hmmm, I think I will call this piece ‘Arrested Development.’” She said to a silent audience, with a slightly (though she did not realize it at the time) maniacal giggle.
Content in her justice, Tris positioned herself behind the figure, so his upside down momentum would carry him away from her. She admired the sculpture for a moment more. …..and let ‘time’, and molecular movement flow back into the object.
Slate had not been aware that Miss Evans could teleport.
He had been aware that she could freeze individuals. Had witnessed it himself, once, in a training room session at which she had used the ability against their mutual former employer. On a man with a super-speed mutation, it had rendered his movements akin to a very small beetle in a very large bowl of pudding. On an eighteen year old whose powers lay entirely in the mind, not the body? It took him a moment to realize what had occurred.
Cart-wheeling into the wall had not helped in speeding this conclusion.
A small groan came from the heap of bare arms and white-socked feet. There was nothing that required healing. ...Nothing that could be healed as simply as that, in any case. With royal composure, the brown haired boy climbed back to his feet, and dusted plaster flecks off of his boxers. So untidy.
He turned his baby blue eyes back upon the red-headed young woman. There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he was losing this fight; really, they could have been having a pleasant game of Strip Tea Ceremony, for all his face showed.
"This is quickly becoming silly, Miss Evans." The Kabal's young leader stated, with all the dignity in the world. "Would you care to talk reasonably about this, yet? Or are you not quite done blowing my possessions apart?"
Slate had wise moments to his credit. Asking rhetorical questions of a woman who could explode or freeze molecules at a whim was not one of them.