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.
SPF 30 had not been enough. In retrospect, Slate did not know why he thought it would be. He delicately picked up the green plastic bottle sitting on the table. SPF 60. That sounded like a much better idea. “Where can I buy this?” Slate asked, quite simply.
“Screw you,” the man spat. His shoulders sagged away from the back of the chair; the ropes and his pride were the only things that held him conscious at this point. Curious, how strong a force pride could be.
“Do not speak that way to me,” the blue-eyed teenager ordered. Simply. The man growled like a caged dog as the order hit his mind; he tensed the muscles in his arms and neck, as if physical force could stop the command from sinking so deeply that he could never dig it out again. Maybe for him, that was how it worked. Slate had never been properly introduced to another physic before.
The SPF 30 had sufficed for his face and the rest of his body quite well, though he was developing something of a bronze tan. His left arm, though... his left arm was the undignified red of a dying lobster from the tips of his fingers up until the short sleeve of his casual dress shirt began. From there, up until the shoulder, it was the rosy pink of newborn flesh. There had been a slight accident before he had come to Colombia, involving a certain Miss Evans’ and her explosive abilities. Misunderstandings were made by both parties. He had misunderstood the correct way to recruit her; she had misunderstood his fondness for having four limbs. Mistakes had been made all around. Fortunately, they had been able to reach a mutually contrite understanding in the end.
He set the green bottle back on the table, and returned to his seat across from the man. They were at a kitchen table. The man’s name was Hernando Herrera. This was his mother’s house. Eight feet away, the matronly gray-haired woman was chopping a carrot into thin slices with an adept hand. Slate’s back was to her, and the sharp knife she wielded.
“You should stay for lunch, Senor Swartz,” she offered jovially. “You can’t be eating well, in that backwater village. Just look at you—you’re thin as a rail.” Naturally, the exact expressions she used were slightly more local. The sentiment was the same, however. If Slate focused the power of Dragon’s Speaks gem, he could try to translate each word literally—when he simply listened, however, the expressions were switched in his mind with their English equivalent. Apparently motherly figures in every culture had an expression for ‘thin as a rail’.
Her son began tugging at his bonds again, fluently cursing in Spanish. Slate curiously noted that some of the graphic expressions he used had no equivalent at all. Behind the chair’s back, tied to its golden-brown wood, Hernando had rubbed his wrists the same color as Slate’s left arm. Mrs. Herrera scooped the carrots up, and dropped them into a pot. She paused a moment to frown over at her son. “Watch that mouth, young man,” she chastised the thirty-two year old, “and stop being so stubborn. Just give in. Senor Swartz is going to make this country a better place. Aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Slate answered off-handedly, blue eyes observing the way his fellow mutant remained so tense even when he slumped; how the hate in his eyes had long ago turned to fear, and a determination that struck the teenager as quaint. “I’ll heal your wrists after you submit,” the nineteen year old said. “Your head, too.” It was not any form of offer; this was not a negotiation. It was a statement. A particularly benevolent one. Given the state of his own sunburned arm, he was quite aware that red was only a good color for flesh when Abyss wore it.
Hernando’s mistake had been accepting his mother’s invitation. The woman had loathed him ever since he’d gotten entangled in the drug trade, back when he had first dropped out of school at the age of fourteen. He’d been a grunt, and a cop-killer; it was pretty common for the higher-ups to put bounties on police officers, to encourage their quick ‘retirements’. It was a small price to pay; their deaths, for food on his family’s table. He was the man of the house. It was his job. He just wished his ungrateful mother would have stopped telling him what moral filth he was, how badly he was going to burn and how many tears the Virgin Mary was crying over him; he wished she could have shut up just once. When he’d bought them their new house? That would have been a good time. When he’d sent all three of his sisters to college? Not bad, either. How about when she’d started working for the same boss as he did? ‘You’re the one who did this to me, Hernando,’ was all she’d said then, ‘We’ll both be burning for this, but your fire will be hotter.’ Thanks, mom.
That’s why her invitation to lunch should have hit him more bluntly than a bullet between the eyes. But her voice had been so strange; so welcoming. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. An apology? Try a frying pan over the back of his head. He had a vague memory of walking into the kitchen; of seeing the young American sitting at the table, sipping at tea. He’d done the stupid thing: he’d paused where he stood, and asked with all the hare-brained idiocy in the world: ‘Who’s he?’
Then he’d woken up, with a lump on the back of his head and something far worse inside his mind. Hernando Herrera hadn’t survived this long by being this stupid. He hadn’t climbed his way to the top by being this stupid. But here he was, sitting in the same kitchen chair he’d paid to furnish this house with, his wrists being rubbed raw by a clothesline his dear mother had brought in from the yard when she and the American had realized he wasn’t about to give in so easily. There was one word for that. One word for all of this.
Stupid.
Hernando’s chin sagged towards his chest. His breathing and heartbeat were both erratic. For the past hour and a half, he’d done something Slate had never seen done: he’d fought the loyalty command that had been placed in his head while he was unconscious. The word for that was ‘curious’. Quite curious. Slate had known the man was a psychic; a fair share of Hernando’s underlings belonged to him now, after all. He’d been under the mistaken impression that the man was a weak physic, however. The only thing he could do was a simple mesmer, and only after kissing his target. Clearly, Slate had underestimated just how strong the man’s mind would be. His mind, and his pride.
Hernando Herrera was not about to get mentally raped by a foreign kid with a lobster tan. He’d break before he bent to that. The loyalty command rode his mind, but be damned if he was saddled and bridled by it. Give him a few more hours, and he might even buck it off completely. Hours, or days. Not that he was in the mood to be honest with himself. Screw this. Screw his mother, and screw the American brat. Screw them all in an orgy. He was not going to submit to this. If he could just stay awake long enough to keep fighting, he’d show them all. And he’d sell this house to the lowest bidder. Mommy dearest could use her own dirty money to pay for things, from here on out.
Slate glanced at his watch. “As interesting as this is,” he stated, like the little punctual American he was, “I really must return to the village. They were under the impression I was only out searching for a few supplies.”
The brat rose from his chair. Hernando’s gaze rose with him. “What’s the name of that village?” He panted, blinking the sweat from his eyes.
Baby blue eyes blinked impartially down at him. “Why?”
Hernando gave the honest truth. “I need to know what to curse.”
A truth honest enough to make the Virgin Mary cry, anyway. Hernando’s chin bumped against his chest after the teenager had left. His eyes struggled to stay open. But that grimace on his lips would have been a smile, in happier times. He would show them all, all right. He’d show them that they hadn’t only underestimated his willpower; they’d underestimated who and what they were dealing with. With a kiss, he could mesmerize. With a bit more... he could open up a bond between two people strong enough to destroy everything that slate-faced brat was trying to do. More than strong enough. His telepathy alone would suffice.
Keep fighting, Hernando, his boss whispered back into his head, after a long moment. A long moment was what it took to process all that her second in command had just told her.
About the village. The little mind-manipulating American, and the take-over of their lower ranks that they hadn’t even noticed. About how they’d better get outside men into town, to deal with this little problem. First they’d figure out how far this weed had spread. Then they’d tear it up by the roots, and burn it from the ground.
Slate sat on the steps up to the make-shift infirmary, trying out what SPF 45 would do. Yes, he could simply heal the sunburn on his arm; no, that would not help it to become the same color as the rest of his skin. His head lifted up as someone walked by.
“Tarin,” he greeted, with a smile; “hello. How did the exorcism go?”
It had taken him about an hour and a half to drive back; add in another forty-five minutes for the shopping he had done afterwards. It had taken Hernando about ten minutes to brief his superior on everything he knew; ten minutes more than that for her to phone the proper people. Things had gone into motion before Slate had even gotten back into his jeep. All in all, that left... approximately fifteen minutes until the cavalry arrived.
Hernando Herrera’s cavalry. Not Slate’s. The Kabal leader was relaxed as he struck up an idle conversation with Tarin. They had a quarter of an hour left until his mistake swallowed them both.
Posted by Tarin Brooks on Apr 22, 2009 12:49:34 GMT -6
Mutant God
DodgerBlue
Straight
2,010
6
Currently Online
Jules
(OOC – Is this the same day as Those Who Died? I’m kind of leaving it ambiguous…because I have a feeling it’s not…let me know if I need to change anything.)
Exhilarated. Tarin was exhilarated in spite of everything that had happened. In spite of the building collapsing, basically on his head. In spite of the guerillas in the jungle that could have shot them all to death. In spite of the dead kids. All the spirits had found their way to…wherever it was that spirits went when they decided it was time to fly the mortal coop. He’d left Lee back where they were staying, she was a little more worried about the situation than he was, big surprise there, and he needed to walk. Needed to get out some of the nervous energy now that the spirits were gone.
Tarin was still stoked, he’d managed to use his powers for good. Real good. Those spirits had been grateful, and now the inhabitants of this little town would be able to live I peace, without the spirits wreaking their mischievous…and not so mischievous havoc. Not that the inhabitants of the town had been any friendlier. If anything, Tarin thought they were even more standoffish. Probably because of his powers, so many superstitious people seemed to have problems with his ability to contact the dead.
As he walked by the steps of the makeshift infirmary, Tarin didn’t even recognize the sun-darkened teenager until he heard his name. Stopping at the sound, Tarin turned and focused on Slate though his sunglasses, breaking into a grin as recognition dawned.
“Hey boss.” He said, moving to drop down on the stairs next to Slate, not missing the bright burn crawling up his arm or the high SPF sunscreen in his hand. Tarin couldn’t help but chuckle as he gestured towards it, “Lee douses me in that stuff before she lets me even walk outside…sometimes I think she forgets she’s my wife and thinks she’s my mom.” He said amiably, looking down at his arms, which were turning a dark, golden brown up to where he rolled the sleeves and between the tattoos. Conversation was shockingly easy with Slate, despite his sometimes overly formal speech and the fact that he’d saved Tarin’s life. But, then again, Tarin thought, that was probably part of why it was so easy. After the fact, he remembered Slate’s question.
“It went well…” Tarin said, barely able to keep a straight face as he realized how broad a definition of the word ‘well’ he was using. “You saw the cave in at the Town Hall? Yeah…that was us, and we had a little run-in with some soldiers in the jungle…but we handled them.” Tarin shrugged…shrugged like he didn’t feel like a total bad ass.
“How have your…administrative duties…been going? How’s the rebuilding process?” he asked, “Mine and Lee’s offer to help still stands, by the way, I’m starting to get used to dripping sweat twenty four hours a day. It would be a shame to leave now. Besides, those kids we cut loose today kind of asked me to make sure the new building got built.”
This was good. Talking to someone who didn’t know about the situation at hand. Someone who didn’t keep giving him those looks he was getting used to seeing from Lee. They were there on a humanitarian mission, after all. They had Slate, and people like Sara and Sebastian with them. As Tarin lounged on the stairs next to Slate, he could’t help but think, what could possibly go wrong?
((ooc: This is set in generic “sometime after Those Who Died” time. So yeah, probably not the same day. )
>> “Hey boss. Lee douses me in that stuff before she lets me even walk outside…sometimes I think she forgets she’s my wife and thinks she’s my mom.”
Slate delicately slathered more of the white liquid onto his skin, wondering idly if this was a situation where it would be appropriate to wince. “I think,” he replied with equal delicacy, “I could use a mother.” He wondered what SPF Lee had brought. Probably not 15. And she probably made Tarin use it all the time, even when it seemed inconvenient to put it on.
>> “It went well… You saw the cave in at the Town Hall? Yeah…that was us, and we had a little run-in with some soldiers in the jungle…but we handled them.”
Tarin’s shrug was casual in the extreme. The cool extreme. It made Slate blink, quite certain he was missing something. After surviving several life-threatening encounters and returning victorious, was it appropriate to shrug? Tarin certainly made it seem so. Unconsciously, Slate rolled his own shoulders, trying to emulate the unspoken badassery of that motion.
“That’s very good to hear, Tarin.” The name felt too informal in his own mouth, but ‘Mr. Brooks’ likewise seemed inappropriate. He had almost killed the man through novice ignorance of his own abilities. Tarin... deserved more respect than Slate could possibly give him.
>> “How have your…administrative duties…been going? How’s the rebuilding process? Mine and Lee’s offer to help still stands, by the way, I’m starting to get used to dripping sweat twenty four hours a day. It would be a shame to leave now. Besides, those kids we cut loose today kind of asked me to make sure the new building got built.”
“It is going well. The foundation for the new building has been laid. There has been a slight hold-up with the lumber we will use—the local timber would most likely be cut from the rainforest itself, which is something I would rather not encourage; I’ve chosen to import, instead. It should arrive within the next day or so. I expect construction to move very quickly, after that.” It was easy to tell that the teenager—now nineteen, though he had missed his own birthday—was pleased with how things were going. More pleased in certain other matters than in the rebuilding itself, but all things were moving according to plan.
In the distance, the sound of vehicle engines started to grow. Slate took no notice of it, yet.
“...How did the Town Hall collapse, exactly?” He asked, somewhat bemused. “The locals would not give me details, though several of them crossed themselves when I asked.”
Posted by Tarin Brooks on Apr 25, 2009 0:35:51 GMT -6
Mutant God
DodgerBlue
Straight
2,010
6
Currently Online
Jules
Slate pointed out that he thought he might need a mother as he smeared more of the sunscreen on his arm and Tarin visibly winced for him, "That's one hell of a sunburn...did you fall asleep with your arm in direct sunlight?" It was odd the way that Slate had pointed out that he thought he needed someone to fuss over him the way that Lee was fussing over Tarin. Suddenly, Tarin didn't feel so put out by the attention. It was easy to forget what it was like to not have anyone care what happened to you.
"If I were her, giving you advice on application...I'd tell you to put it on every time you walked out the door...and again every couple hours if you're sweating." Tarin paused and looked up at the cloud speckled sky, "and let's be honest...that's all the time..so constant application is a must." What a weird conversation to be having with one's boss. Maybe not though, when the boss was a more than solid decade younger and capable of things Tarin could only imagine.
Slate shrugged after Tarin did when he explained exactly how (not) well expelling the spirits had gone. How did the kid take everything so in stride? When Tarin had been this age he'd been hiding in a dorm room and praying that nobody would come in who had spirits trailing. Control over his power had been noexistent. It was no wonder that Tarin owed this young man his life, everything.
Apparently the administrative duties involved in rebuilding a school were more complex than Tarin had previous imagined because as Slate began to explain about the imported wood he was having brought in, the older man's eyes widened slightly and he let out a slow whistle. "Well, at least that'll give us time to make sure that the foundation is good and solid. It would be a real shame to go to all this trouble to rebuild only to have the foundation not be sound enough to hold it."
There were trucks coming in from somewhere and Tarin wondered idly as he heard them if maybe Slate had been wrong and the lumber was arriving early. Tarin kind of hoped not, after the last few days he pretty much just wanted to chill and enjoy the beauty of where they were. There was also this huge tree with a really flat place in its branches that he'd wanted to take Lee...
Slate spoke again, about the town hall, and Tarin had to chuckle when he mentioned the locals crossing themselves. "It really wasn't that big of a deal. The place had been pretty much shot to pieces..." he started, organizing facts in the most succinct order possible as he spoke.
"These paramilitary guys really did a number on the four people who ended up as the spirits." Tarin paused and frowned, "I don't know if I've told you that...when I link up with a spirit...I see what they saw right before they died..." he waved off his digression and continued, "Anyway, one of the guys...probably about your age...maybe a little older was still really angry that the other townspeople had left them to such a horrible fate. He was the one causing all the problems in the building. After I tracked him down and got him under control, I went to find the third and fourth spirits. I got lazy and let my hold on that guy slip."
Tarin paused and shook his head, reaching up to pull his hat off and run a hand through his shorter, sweat dampened hair, "He started throwing tables around...the other spirits decided they had my back and threw a few of their own. They hit walls, started pulling things down and the next thing I knew I'd been sucker punched in the gut by a table and was laying flat on my back, watching the ceiling fall down around me. Sebastian said one of the walls fell too..but that's pretty much the long and the short of it."
Tarin paused and chuckled as he thought about the locals, "I came walking out of there all covered in masonry. I probably looked like death, and then I started demanding for the location of several graves. I'm not surprised that their superstitions were offended...."
There was slightly more story to tell, and Tarin hadn't realized how much he'd rambled. What he did notice were the shockingly official looking jeeps that were roaring down the streets of the town. Tarin looked sideways at Slate with a slight frown on his face, the story completely forgotten as an unbidden tendril of fear worked it's way through Tarin's chest, "Slate? Were you expecting company?" he asked, sitting up just a little straighter as the vehicles got closer and closer.
>> "That's one hell of a sunburn...did you fall asleep with your arm in direct sunlight?"
“...I may have been somewhat lax in the ‘direct sunlight’ regard,” Slate agreed. “I think I underestimated this country’s sun. It seems distinctly different than New York’s.” The nineteen year old squinted blue eyes briefly up at the blazing orb in the sky. They’d all flown directly from a northern spring to an equatorial summer. Yes, the closest star was proving to be a more capable foe than he’d factored into his plans. He listened to Tarin’s entirely sensible advice, hoping that his new tan would hide his slight blush. Ah. That all made quite a great deal of sense, didn’t it?
As Tarin explained what had happened at the town hall, Slate’s blush faded, as did rather a bit more of his color. He had not been aware that the spirit medium had been in the building at the time of its collapse. And presuming that he was not joking about the run-in with the soldiers afterwards... those were two more incidents where he had put the man’s life in danger. His mouth opened to say something; an apology, perhaps. But the chaotic sound charging into town had become too loud to ignore. As was the tortured squeal of the lead jeep’s brakes as it stopped across the road from them, the man in the passenger side gesturing to the two Americans in a manner that bordered on lewd.
Slate’s first thought was that these trucks were his. Something had gone wrong, and his loyalists were coming to tell him. He had neglected to include his phone number with the implant in their mind, after all; a direct meeting was the quickest and surest way of contacting him. Baby blue eyes scanned each jeep for familiar faces.
The men were beginning to climb out now. Some fanned out deeper into the town; some simply took up sentry positions, weapons loosely kept at the ready. Guns and machetes; a strange mix of eras. One chewed his gum with loud smacks, and gave a warning look to a woman pulling her child inside a house.
As suddenly as the jeeps arrived, the town was as silent as death. Slate saw no one that he knew. ‘Tendril of fear’ was not a sensation the teenager was familiar with. He had never had much cause to be afraid, in his two years of existence. Therefore, the strange feeling creeping along his back went unidentified as he stood to greet the jeeps.
The leader was a man with long dark hair pulled back in a sweaty ponytail. He was around Tarin’s age, but his face looked more weathered. A light scar ran over the left side of his jaw. He walked over to the two men alone, with a certain swagger that Slate could not place. Then again, Slate had never run afoul of a biker gang, or a group of street thugs with something to prove.
“Can I help you?” The teenager asked simply.
“Are you Slate Swartz?” The man asked, in a manner that probably would have served as a warning to anyone but Slate.
The brown-haired teen simply gave a nod, his confusion showing in the slight hesitation that preceded it. His eyes were still scanning the faces around him, double and triple checking: surely he knew some of these men. He’d been quite diligent in his efforts at ‘winning over’ this area—
By the time the man removed his fist from Slate’s stomach, the Kabal’s leader was having a harder time seeing. Things were curiously gray-tinged as he sunk to his knees, hands reflexively clutching his stomach. His body was torn between the need to gag and the need to breath. This somewhat distracted his attention from the man’s next words.
“My boss humbly requests to know,” the thug leader began, “what the **** you’re doing in her turf, and how the **** she can undo those little mind games you’ve been playing with her employees.” The man crouched down, giving a friendly pat on his cheek. A curious fact: Slate’s healing did not put air back into lungs. His hand loosened around his stomach as the pain disappeared, but he was still gasping for breath when that pat came. “And you’re going to tell me everything, Senor Swartz. I usually suggest that gentlemen in your position talk ****ing quickly for their own sake, but I don’t think it’s really going to matter, this time. Mrs. Herrera’s orders were quite clear: we’re going to take our sweet time here, no matter how fast you—or your friends—” he flashed a benevolent smile up at Tarin, to make sure the other American wasn’t feeling left out, “talk.”
“You messed with the wrong woman’s husband, Senor Swartz. And for that, I am sorry.” The man stood up slowly, like a panther rising to its feet. Slate began to do the same, until a solid kick sent him sprawling backwards. “But not very.”
Posted by Tarin Brooks on Apr 27, 2009 7:15:30 GMT -6
Mutant God
DodgerBlue
Straight
2,010
6
Currently Online
Jules
(OOC – Enter moment of delightful misunderstanding and motive! Also, I didn’t know how far to take things as far as modding the actions of the leader dude. So I didn’t do much. Feel free to have them do whatever you think would be fun to Tarin in your next post. Lee’s got wedding party stuff this week so her posting will be limited. We’ve got a few more posts to play with.)
Tarin grinned when Slate explained about his arm. It was just like the kid to explain it in arcane terms that almost sounded like they belonged in another century. Lax in the direct sunlight regard. Well, at any rate, Slate had a sunburn…and from the looks of the thing, it was going to get worse before it got better.
Slate’s sunburn was far from Tarin’s mind, though as the men started to get out of the jeeps, fanning through the small town a lot like ants swarmed a picnic. There sure were a lot of them. Slate didn’t seem too surprised though, and despite the increasing feeling of unease that came along with the knowledge that one had allowed spirits to rip someone wearing these very same uniforms to shreds, Tarin tried to trust in the younger man. At least until the man who appeared to be the leader separated himself from the group. That guy meant business. The townspeople were scattering, in a much different way than they had when Tarin & co. had shown up. That was annoyance, this was fear. Slate was walking towards it. Tarin had seen guys like this before, standing in his shop in Atlanta with a gun. Standing on a high school football field in Texas rubbing his knuckles after beating Tarin to a pulp. Classic bully, this one even had a greasy pony tail.
Tarin moved a few paces down the steps as Slate moved forward, the kid had stones of steel if he was really just going to strut up to a guy that looked like that. Then again, maybe the swagger the military leader was exhibiting was a show for Slate. Tarin wouldn’t have been surprised. He was surprised, however, when the man asked if Slate was…Slate. Tarin recognized the warning in the man’s voice and stopped his progress down the steps, Slate either didn’t…or didn’t heed it as he nodded his head in acknowledgement.
The next movements were almost too fast for Tarin to process and before he could do anything, Slate was on his knees, gasping and holding his stomach. The bastard had sucker punched an obviously defenseless kid. Realizations crashed down on Tarin like waves, the uniforms…these guys had probably found the bodies in the jungle. This was his fault.
The thug was still talking, something about mind games. Well yeah…tearing a body into shreds did suggest something of psychological warfare. The body hadn’t been left as a warning though, Tarin just hadn’t been able to stomach the clean up. Now, as the leader of their humanitarian effort, Slate was getting paid for it. Some thanks for the guy who’d saved your life.
Talking? They wanted talking? Taking time. Oh…Tarin didn’t like the sounds of this at all and he scanned the area, trying to make sure Lee wasn’t anywhere to be seen and saying a little prayer to whoever that she’d use her head for once and hide. Up came the man’s head, he really was an ugly SOB, and Tarin locked eyes with him, trying to match the swagger while standing still. Well, the guy had suggested that talking wouldn’t help…
The man kicked Slate and the sound of boot connecting with flesh pulled Tarin from his inactivity. Moving forward quickly, Tarin reached his boss just as he sprawled. “You’re really something, you know..” he said, crouching down to check Slate. “Picking on a kid who’s trying to rebuild a school.” If there was one thing Tarin Brooks hated, it was bullies.
The leader merely raised an eyebrow, “I suppose you’re going to tell me to pick on someone my own size?”
Tarin shook his head, “Actually I was thinking something more along the lines of ‘Go **** yourself…’ “ he said, “I’m the one responsible for the dead soldiers in the jungle.”
As it turned out, Tarin thought a few minutes later from his vantage point on the ground, ribs hurting almost as bad as the side of his face the man’s fist had connected with. It was a bad idea to piss off the guy who controlled all the guys with guns.
“And I was going to ask you nicely.” The leader said, rubbing his knuckles and nudging Tarin in the ribs he’d just kicked, “Help these men up.”
Tarin didn’t feel bad at all when he didn’t help them with the standing up process. If this was going to end badly, he was going to go out with as much petulant resistance as he could manage. Besides, the more attention was focused on him, the less they’d worry about finding Lee.
He was standing, rather, being held up by a couple of foot soldiers who seemed awkward holding dead weight. It hurt to breathe. It was probably going to hurt more in a few minutes. It looked like Slate was getting some help up too, that was nice.
“Now Senor, what was that you said about my soldiers in the jungle?”
Tarin groaned, confusion filtering through the painful glow that surrounded him. They hadn’t known...but then why?
“Why don’t you go and ask them?” Tarin said, taking a little of his own weight on his feet and looking at the taller man who…just smiled. This definitely wasn’t good Tarin realized, casting a look towards Slate. This was a man who enjoyed his job...way too much.
It was hard to believe that things could get worse. This much, at least, Slate still believed to be true. He had failed to consider that things could get more personal.
>> “I’m the one responsible for the dead soldiers in the jungle.”
It was no surprise to find Tarin on the ground next to him. A slight cloud of dust lingered in the air, from the harsh impact of two bodies against the dry dirt ground. His chest ached where that kick had landed, but he did not move to heal it. Suddenly, he regretted even healing the punch. He suspected he would need every healing shift he had. He suspected that the damage he’d just been dealt was, what was the word? Trivial.
>> “Now Senor, what was that you said about my soldiers in the jungle?”
>> “Why don’t you go and ask them?”
Slate found himself on his feet, with the unnecessary muscle mass of two men helping him to stand. Cynicism wasn’t befitting to his cause, but he could not help but doubt the pair’s ‘helpful’ intentions. This was one of those times when he wondered idly if having a more combat-oriented mutation might, perhaps, have been a better fate. There was not much he could do on that front, however. All he could try for—all he could hope for—was damage control. Three times he’d nearly gotten Tarin killed in the few weeks since he’d first met the man, laying in the Mansion infirmary in a coma the likes of which the DocProf had never seen. He did not intend to make that four.
“Mr. Brooks knows nothing about what I have been doing here,” Slate stated, in an attempt to refocus the man’s attention on himself. “Neither do any of the others. I acted alone. If you take me to Mrs. Herrera, I can explain how to undo the—”
GAK. His stomach, again. Uncreative.
“No, Senor Swartz,” the man said simply, rubbing his knuckles as if he was petting a favorite dog as Slate doubled over, held up only by the Muscles; “you’ll be telling me. But first, how about you tell me about these ‘others’. So it’s more than you and my friend over here?” No possible good could come of the man calling Tarin his ‘friend’, or the coldly smiling manner in which he said it.
Slate had assumed that the man knew about them all; himself, Tarin, Lee, WereCat, and Sebastian. That had been quite a poor assumption.
“No thank you,” Slate decided upon replying, his voice a small wheeze. He was jerked back upright, his head painfully following the brown hair snarled around the man’s fingers.
“You don’t seem to understand what’s going on here, Senor.” The grip on his hair was loosed; his cheek got patted again. “But that’s okay. You’re a kid, right? Kids need to learn.” He stepped back from the teenager, his eyes smiling over at Tarin. “A lot of people need to learn. Fortunately, I’m a professional,” he took out a knife, “educator.” And began to calmly clean under his fingernails. He jerked his head down the road, to the village center.
“Bring them to the town square. And get the gawkers out of their houses to watch. The Americans are right—this place does need a new school.” He switched the knife to his other hand, and tracing it lightly up the side of Tarin’s neck, from collarbone to chin. “I think I’d make a damn good headmaster, don’t you?”
If the older American thought for a moment that the issue of his men had been forgotten, then he was a fool. He’d been sent here for the kid. But if what this man had foolishly blurted out was true, then he was going to enjoy this little excursion because of Tarin. His very special pupil had a lot to learn, and such a short time left to learn it in.
Posted by Tarin Brooks on Apr 28, 2009 12:09:53 GMT -6
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Things were getting worse by the minute and Tarin was getting more and more confused as the conversation between Slate and ponytail continued. As time passed it became more and more clear that this guy was employed as a full time sicko, an enforcer of some sort. He was here to enforce. Enforce what? Tarin had no idea. What kind of bastard would do this sort of thing to people just because they were trying to rebuild a school?
Slate spoke again, in that official business sort of tone that Tarin had heard very little of to this point. He also referred to Tarin as ‘Mr. Brooks’ a far more formal moniker than he’d ever used to this point. Slate was deflecting, and apparently Tarin was in the dark about what was going on here in Colombia . At least the parts beyond what he’d been specifically asked to do. Who was Mrs. Herrara? Tarin was staring at Slate when ponytail hit him again in the stomach and Tarin flinched for the kid. The guy wasn’t pulling his punches, and Slate was pretty slim. It had to be hurting and as Slate doubled over, Tarin clenched his teeth.
Intimidation, that’s how people and organizations like this one worked. They scared people into believing that they had the power to carry out the things they threatened to do. It got to the point where they didn’t even need the power to carry out their sick threats. People had seen enough samplings of what could happen that they didn’t even try to resist. It was like the elephants Tarin had learned about in college. When they were tiny they were tethered with thick chains to posts in the ground so that no escape was possible. As they grew, instead of using thicker chains, the keepers used thinner, until finally they only had to use twine. The elephants were conditioned to know there was no escape so early that once they grew, they never even tried.
Ponytail had a fistful of Slate’s hair now and as he spoke suddenly Tarin wondered if his blood had been replaced with ice. The others. Lee. Slate had inadvertently just given ponytail leverage. Tarin hoped again, almost beyond hope that Lee had the sense to stay hidden somewhere. There were so many men, and they had so many guns and those guns had so many bullets. In spite of the heat and the sweat running down his face, Tarin shuddered.
The man continued rambling, going on and on about how big his man parts were compared to everyone else’s and Tarin ignored it all…until ponytail’s eyes swung in his direction. Tarin looked steadily back, refusing to look away until the man swung his attention back to Slate. Those eyes were hard as stone though, this was going to be rough.
Ponytail gave the order to pull all the people from the houses. Apparently they were going to the middle of town. Tarin’s first assumptions had been right. They were going to be made examples of. So apparently there really was no escape. Knowing that made a man just a little reckless and he looked over at Slate. Slate had apparently been a little less than truthful, but he’d still saved Tarin’s life. He owed the kid something…and he had a feeling he’d taken far more beatings than his boss.
Ponytail chose this time to make a point with his knife and Tarin held stock still as the cool blade ran from his collarbone to his chin. His heart leapt and he could feel his carotid artery beating against the flat of the knife. “Could you be careful with that knife? I saw you picking at your nails with it and God only knows what was under there. I’d hate to get an infection because you were careless.”
Tarin saw the change in the man’s eyes, they flashed furious for a moment and he wondered if he’d pushed the man too far. Then he smiled, it wasn’t a nice smile.
“But of course, senor.” He said, and pulled the knife away from Tarin’s neck, only to jam it into his shoulder. “We wouldn’t want that.” He said, his dirty face now inches from Tarin’s as he pushed the blade further in. “Now, what did you do to my soldiers?”
If he’d been trying to get Tarin’s attention, he’d succeeded and as blinding pain lanced through his shoulder, he cried out, sagging against the arms of the men holding him up.
Out came the knife and Tarin yelled again as the man wiped the blade on his shirt, then stood to look at him, and Slate, not giving Tarin a chance to answer his question. “Never mind. A public confession will be much more effective, take them to the square! It’s time for class to begin.”
As they started walking, the men none to gently wrenching his arms backwards, Tarin decided that provoking the man had been a bad idea. Ponytail hadn’t hit Slate again though, so that was a bonus. His shoulder hurt like hell and he could feel blood trickling down his chest inside his shirt. Breathing even hurt as they were paraded down the street until they made it to the square.
True to their commander’s instructions, the other soldiers had pulled people from their houses and they surrounded the little square. His vision was blurred slightly from his swelling eye and the pain in his shoulder but Tarin scoured the crowd for Lee’s familiar figure. She wasn’t there. Tarin was relieved. At least if this was going to happen, she wouldn’t see. Tarin looked over at Slate as ponytail made his way into the middle of the crowd, and clenched his teeth, “If we manage to get out of this…you’re going to owe me one hell of an explanation.”
Ponytail was amused by this, to the point that he laughed out loud, “That, Senor Swartz, is one thing you won’t have to worry about.”
He turned to the assembled townspeople. “We protect you here in this piss pot of a village and this is how you repay us? By conspiring with foreign invaders? Now you see what happens." he turned back to Slate and Tarin, smiling coldly and reaching out to reestablish his grip on Slate's hair with one hand, the knife hovering in his line of sight in the other, "Now. Start talking."
((OOC: It's still going to take another post or two after this before Lee actually makes it to where Tarin and Slate are, before she's able to really do much to help them. So feel free to keep posting, not worrying about my turn, until then. I'm going to be slow posting for the next week, anyway.))
To be honest, their time had gone amazingly.
Well, amazing for her and Tarin, all things considered.
A spirit had thrown a desk at her, and she had hurt her shoulder when Tarin had pushed her out of the way, but it had been healed very shortly after that. A roof and part of a wall had collapsed on Tarin, and he had emerged winded and dirty, but otherwise unscathed. They had even run into guerrilla soldiers in the jungle, and didn't really have much happen to them as a result.
With their track record, especially with dealing with this many spirits, things had gone amazingly for her and Tarin so far. There were so many ways that each of those things could have gone so much worse, and yet virtually nothing had happened. Lee had even started to worry less.
It probably helped that Tarin was joking around and teasing every opportunity he had. Like the other day when they had been helping to go through crates for the rebuilding, and Tarin had come across this spandex body suit thing.
Lee had automatically refused any such thoughts that Tarin had been having at that point regarding her and the spandex, but as the days went on, she started to have second thoughts. Between the heat and the exertion Tarin was under doing his thing with the spirits, they hadn't exactly made good use of the small, but private, lodgings Slate had provided them due to the fact that they were married. She hadn't exactly packed any corsets in her bag when they had left home, after all. That body suit was looking better and better...
They were done for the day, though, and Tarin wanted to just walk around a bit, stretch his legs or something that wasn't hiking through the jungle. That worked for Lee. She told him she wanted to clean up a bit, not exactly the most surprising thing with how hot and sticky it was there, and that she would meet him back at their bunks later.
In reality, cleaning up was Lee's Plan B. Plan A involved going to see if she could find that body suit again. She figured that if it was still there, where she and Tarin had left it, no one would really miss it if she were to borrow it for a while.
Success!
Folding the spandex under her arm, Lee made her way back to where she and Tarin were staying to move on to Plan A Stage 2: actually getting the body suit on. And that proved harder than Lee would have expected. Not only was the suit a little small, not enough that it didn't fit, but small enough that it would definitely be snug. What was more problematic with getting the thing on was just the heat that was constantly present here in Columbia, and the sweat that was covering her entire body.
Finally, Lee managed to get it on just as she heard trucks approaching the village. It wasn't an extremely common noise, but it wasn't unusual, either. They were going to be rebuilding the school, after all, and supplies had to be brought in.
It was only once she had managed to get the suit actually done up that Lee realized it didn't sound like a supply delivery out there. There were doors being banged open, yelling, sounds of fear.
Lee shrank against the wall, not knowing what was going on out there. But the fact was that Tarin was out there, somewhere.
Moving to the door, Lee opened it an inch and peeked out. Sure enough, there were men with guns, dressed like the guerrillas had been out in the jungle, pulling the people who lived in the village out of their homes and dragging them toward the town square. This was so not good.
And then through that crack in the door, down the street and between a couple of buildings, Lee very briefly saw Tarin being dragged along between two much larger men.
Lee's heart felt like it had stopped beating for a good thirty seconds and she pressed herself against the wall just inside the door. This was not good. What was she supposed to do? She had no energy, these men had guns...
But they had Tarin.
She had to do something, though.
And then Lee saw, through that small crack the open door provided, a single man walking past. He was walking away, and Lee didn't see any other people around at that exact moment. Closing her eyes for second and taking a deep breath, Lee stepped forward, silently pushing the door further open. At least this man wasn't that big, probably only about six inches taller than she was, though he was carrying a gun.
She was going to have to be very quick. Lee knew that she could drop Tarin, could siphon enough energy that he was passing out in mere minutes, but Lee feared that wouldn't be even close to fast enough here. She had to try, though, she needed energy if she was going to have a chance to help Tarin, and if she could get at least one soldier out of commission, that was one less gun that could be used against them.
Stealing herself, Lee lunged forward, throwing her left arm around the man's throat, her right hand covering his mouth as she started siphoning as much as possible. And as she did that, Lee started pulling backward, trying to drag the man back into the small building that she had just stepped out of. It wouldn't do to have an unconscious body laying in the middle of the street, after all, would it?
((ooc: You redefine epic, Lee. Run away from Tarin and marry me. ))
>> “Could you be careful with that knife? I saw you picking at your nails with it and God only knows what was under there. I’d hate to get an infection because you were careless.”
Slate wondered for a moment about the wisdom of this statement. Not in the sarcastic sense: he honestly wondered. Was attempting to remain nonchalant, as it were, the best course of--?
>> “But of course, senor.”
Baby blue eyes widened. Ah. No. No, that attitude did not seem particularly wise, based upon the... the available dat... data...
He had never seen a fresh stab wound before. It would have been a curious thing, in a controlled environment, on his own body. Normal people were not particularly tolerant of pain, though, were they?
The knife dug further in. Slate’s eyes widened further at the sound from Tarin’s mouth. And the sagging. Ah. He had better find some way to save them, soon.
Some way.
Soon.
>> “Never mind. A public confession will be much more effective, take them to the square! It’s time for class to begin.”
Slate had to admire the efficiency of this operation. The villagers were turned out of their homes quickly and succinctly; no argument was tolerated on the subject. The terrified silence was not quite what Slate aimed for, personally, but it did effectively bring silence to the gathering. Even as the two Americans were dragged into the center of the square, there was only a bare minimum of whispers. There was no true need to whisper, when they already knew what was coming.
The blood leaking from Tarin’s shoulder was a bit... disorderly, however. Slate did not approve. He did not. He—
Was he shaking? No, that was—
>> “If we manage to get out of this…you’re going to owe me one hell of an explanation.”
--That was unacceptable. Because he would think of a way out of this. The blue-eyed teenager straightened himself up between the men who held him, and nodded evenly over at Tarin. “That—”
The laughter cut him off.
>> “That, Senor Swartz, is one thing you won’t have to worry about. ...We protect you here in this piss pot of a village and this is how you repay us? By conspiring with foreign invaders? Now you see what happens. ...Now. Start talking."
Slate fought against the man’s grip in his hair, attempting to keep his gaze level with the man’s own, past the glitter of the knife blade. A wet glitter; red. It had been used recently, of course.
“No thank you,” Slate stated, through politely gritted teeth.
“So, Senor,” the ponytailed man began, conversationally moving the tip of his knife to Slate’s chest. He began to run it downwards, lightly. Light enough so as not to cut. “I hear you are a healer.” The knife had reached Slate’s stomach, just below the ribs. The man’s thumb innocuously touched against Slate’s sternum, lightly measuring the distance to the knife tip. “Instant healing, yes?”
Slate’s blue eyes made it clear he didn’t intend to answer that. The man’s smile made it clear that that was precisely the answer he’d been looking for.
A slight shift in grip was all the warning Slate got before the knife was plunging upwards. And then a curious thing happened: it became too painful to breathe. Too painful for him to breathe. That was... quite interesting, really. Yes.
Perhaps he would feel more interested after his body stopped shuddering. His heartbeat screamed out at him to keep breathing, but each fraction of air he drew in came with lancing pain. The man had pierced his diaphragm. Deeply. Their eyes meet; with that same smile, the man pushed the knife in until its hilt dug at the teenager’s ribs.
“I’ve worked with healers before. Closely.” Slate gasped as the knife was jarred; a bad move. “You’ve all got such cock-sure wills to live. Ever consider the downsides of your power, Senor?”
Slate sagged in the grip of the grunts. As the man jerked the knife down—rather unnecessarily far down, by all accounts and measures—and out.
“Go ahead,” he said, “heal yourself. And then, why don’t you tell me about the rest of your powers?”
And Slate did: the pain was gone in an instant, replaced by a sense of dirt that he was not sure could be made clean again as he did precisely as the man wanted. The man had moved over to Tarin. With the utmost of casualness, he was using the edge of the Medium’s shirt to clean his knife. There was a conflicting air about him, that fairly hummed: he could wait all day. Indeed, he was a man of patience. But he wouldn’t. No, he would not be made to wait that long; because, friends, he was also a man of skill.
Posted by Tarin Brooks on May 5, 2009 14:32:21 GMT -6
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Things were definitely going from bad to worse, Tarin couldn’t help but think as he watched ponytail’s death grip on Slate’s hair. Tarin had to hand it to the kid, he was brave as hell standing there and not even flinching as the guy with a knife threatened him. If he’d been Slate’s age, Tarin knew he’d be cowering in fear by this point. Slate didn’t budge though. There was almost something odd about that, nobody was that calm in situations like this.
His shoulder was throbbing, and though there wasn’t a lot of blood flowing, Tarin thought that something minor probably would have stopped by this point. The stain on his shirt was slowly growing larger and he hoped that it would stop soon, otherwise they were going to have to deal with blood loss.
That, apparently was not something that ponytail man was concerned with. As he spoke to Slate and almost walked his fingers up the young man’s stomach, Tarin watched with horrified eyes. The man was talking about Slate’s ability to heal, then in went the knife.
Instinctually, Tarin tried to pull away from the meat buckets holding him as Slate gasped for air. “You sick son of a bitch…” Tarin yelled as he lurched against the hands holding him and all it did for him was encourage the thug on his right to dig his fingers into Tarin’s shoulder. Tarin cried out and his knees buckled slightly, the fight going completely out of him. He kept his eyes on Slate as the pain in his shoulder slowly receded to the constant burning throb it had been previously. Ponytail was still talking, pulling the knife out of Slate’s sternum.
It was almost instantaneous; the labored breathing of a few moments earlier was replaced by the almost silent sound of normal respiration. Tarin noticed the whispers of the crowd getting slightly louder at the teen’s seemingly remarkable recovery. Tarin couldn’t blame them, he was impressed too.
Ponytail man came back to him now, and for the first time, Tarin flinched a little when he reached out. The man only grabbed the edge of his shirt, though, using it to clean the blood from the knife he’d just shoved into Slate’s sternum. The guy was a professional. That much was becoming more and more obvious. Tarin was way out of his league.
“And what about you, my friend?” He said, intently studying the edge of the now, clean knife before looking up to meet Tarin’s eyes. The bastard was enjoying this, way too much. Tarin looked back steadily, then jerked instinctively as the knife followed the same path down his chest as it had down Slate’s. “Ahh…so you are not a healer. My soldiers are well trained senior, how did a cocky punto like you manage to kill them?”
Tarin was terrified, but what was the point in giving this guy what he wanted? He’d only die faster once the guy was satisfied he’d gotten all the information he was prying for. The really sick thing was, Tarin was pretty sure he didn’t know anything of value to the guy.
“I’d love to show you.” He said, his voice shaking despite the bravado of his words. The truth was, Tarin would have loved to use his powers. The problem was, they’d cleared all the spirits out of the village in the previous days. The only possibility that left for his powers was something Tarin absolutely refused to even acknowledge. There were way too many innocent people around, and Lee too, hopefully still hiding somewhere. At least she’d know that they’d done something good, and to Tarin this was so much better than going out the way things seemed to be leading back in New York .
Ponytail was not impressed, the pressure on the knife increased and Tarin held his breath. That would be it if the man struck, but he didn’t. “No, no, my friend, I told you that I am a patient man. You will sing as long and as loud as everyone does in the end.” Into Tarin’s other shoulder the knife went, only ponytail wasn’t as careful this time and it jammed into bone. This was followed by a fist to the gut. Tarin doubled over and coughed, the pressure his weight put on his shoulders making pain slash through him. Why wasn’t he a healer again? Tarin was definitely getting dizzy now from the pain and he wove slightly when he got his feet back underneath himself. Ponytail patted his cheek, “Now, about my soldiers?” he said.
Tarin shook his head, “Nuh uh.” He grunted, stomach still cramping from where ponytail man had hit him, Tarin wondered for a moment how vomit would look on his smart military shoes. Ponytail’s eyebrow rose and Tarin cringed as he moved forward again. This pleased the man and he chuckled, “We’ll let you think for a moment.” Apparently this man really did think that he had all day. Back towards Slate he moved, Tarin didn’t want to watch. This ping pong’ing back and forth between the two of them was obviously a practiced maneuver. Ponytail walked to Slate and used his knife to point at Tarin, “You can heal, Senor Swartz. Your accomplice cannot. He’s getting awful pale.” His words held a promise of more to come as he looked in Tarin’s direction.
Crafty bastard. Tarin hoped Slate was smart enough to see the game how it was being played, it didn’t matter what either of them said or did. Neither of them was going to walk away, all they were determining at this point was how quickly things would progress. Tarin turned his head to look at Slate, shaking it slowly from side to side. All that would happen if they gave this man what he wanted was that their friends, and his wife, would get caught in the crossfire. It was better this way if it was going to end poorly, the others could still get away.
Lee knew that she could drop Tarin quickly when she actually tried to siphon from him because he was merged. It was actually kind of scary to her how fast she could make him pass out. But this, with the man she had actually managed to drag into the small building, it was even faster. By the time she had managed to drag the body in through the door, the man was already dead weight in her arms.
Five steps into the building, Lee let the body fall to the floor and just stood there staring at the man. Never once had she managed to make Tarin pass out that quickly. But in the short time between getting her hands on him until she had dragged him through the door just feet away, he was already out.
But Lee had more serious things to worry about than the fact that she had made someone pass out in under a minute, such as the fact that she had seen Tarin being dragged through the village by other men dressed like this.
Taking a deep breath, Lee moved back to the door and peeked out into the village. The road right outside her door was empty, at least for the moment, so Lee poked her head out and glanced around, making sure that things were clear.
So out of the building Lee went, moving as quietly as she could along the sides of the buildings. Tarin had to be around here somewhere, it was just a matter of finding him.
Rounding a corner of a building, Lee stopped dead as she came up face to face with a man. A man quite a bit taller than her, with dark hair. Who was holding a gun.
Lee's eyes widened as she saw this, and it took her a couple moments before she was able to react. However, it also seemed to take the man who she'd almost run into a couple moments before he reacted, and thanks to the energy she had already siphoned, Lee was able to move faster.
Reaching out, Lee's left hand clasped around the man's wrist, pushing the gun in his hand out of the way as her right hand shot up to the man's throat. Squeezing slightly, cutting off his air so that he couldn't call for help, Lee pushed him up against the wall of a nearby building as she siphoned.
As the man's fighting grew more feeble, Lee couldn't help but wonder slightly about what she was doing. Shouldn't it be at least a little more difficult? Shouldn't there be more of a contest, more of a fight, as she went up against men who were at least a good six to nine inches taller than she was, who were much more muscled, who were much heavier than she was.
But other than the guns, Lee wasn't really worried. She knew that, with all the energy she had, she was stronger and faster than any of the people she would be running across. The only thing here that she wasn't faster than were bullets.
Letting the man fall to the ground, unconscious, as she let go of him, Lee turned. Was she shaking? Lee didn't think that she had ever had this much energy before.
Rounding another corner, Lee saw where everyone had been gathered; the villagers were all standing around, not looking at all happy to be there, soldiers were scattered throughout the square. And in the middle of the square Lee saw Tarin and Slate being held between four more of the soldiers.
And then Lee saw the man in front of Tarin stab him in the shoulder.
Lee's eyes widened in shock as she gasped, seeing her husband collapse in pain.
Managing to start her heart again after what she had seen, Lee started moving, not holding anything back, not caring whether people knew she was a mutant. Before she knew it, she was moving in among the group of soldiers, hitting them, punching, pulling rifles out of their hands. She had to be quick, the faster she could deal with these men, the fewer guns would be pointing toward her and Tarin.
>> “You can heal, Senor Swartz. Your accomplice cannot. He’s getting awful pale.”
Tarin was not the only one loosing color. Slate did not have much experience in these situations. However, he was beginning to understand something: this was not good. Was it? No. No, he did not think this was good at all.
Tarin was shaking his head; back and forth, back and forth. He did not wish Slate to talk. This was a reasonable request. In fact, it was the logical thing to do, even before Tarin made his opinion clear.
So why did he suddenly wish to speak?
There was a way out of this situation. Clearly, there was. He simply needed more time to think. It was unthinkable that he would—that he would actually die here.
Tarin was bleeding. The medium was bleeding, and the bleeding would not stop. Was it thinkable for Tarin to die here?
It looked that way. Yes.
His eyes met the eyes of the ponytail man. He found patience there; infinite patience, with a smile. Slate felt his heartbeat in his chest; each of his breaths wetly tugged at his shirt, soaked in blood from a wound that was no longer there. He needed more time to think. To plan. Neither of them could die here; it was not this easy to end a life. Someone he had been talking with less than an hour ago could not bleed to death next to him. His own heartbeat could not simply stop. It was...
...It was every bit as easy for this man to kill them as it had been for Slate to kill all of those men and women during his takeover. The only difference was that Slate attached rather more value to their lives. The man’s smile made it clear that he did not. Slate had never realized before that life and death were opinions. Opinions that could differ. It was merely a matter of who had the power to assert their opinion.
Fortunately, the fury of woman coming their way shared Slate and Tarin’s opinion.
The nineteen year old was pale under his tan, but a smile twitched at his lips. There were words for a situation like this.
Posted by Tarin Brooks on May 10, 2009 18:12:10 GMT -6
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The bastard continued to taunt, to point out just how frail Tarin was getting. The problem was, the sick son of a bitch was right. Tarin’s head was starting to swim, the only other time he’d lost blood like this Doc Prof had healed him only moments after he’d been conscious enough to feel it. He sagged more against the arms of the men holding him and Tarin’s eyes rolled slightly as the pain in the twin wounds his shoulders bore redoubled. His vision swam and the sounds around him faded in and out.
Tarin looked down and was slightly startled at the amount of blood starting to soak his shirt. Ponytail man had been careless with his second strike. Had he hit something important in there? The possibility of that being truth seemed more and more likely as Tarin’s legs grew more and more weak.
Slate wasn’t speaking, though, that was good. Lee was going to have a chance to get away then. Hopefully she was still hiding wherever it was that she’d hidden. There was commotion, much commotion and Tarin lifted his head to look through blurry eyes at what was going on around him. People were falling, not people, the soldiers were falling as a dark blur flew from man to man. Everywhere the blur went, men fell. Guns were raised now, but the blur was moving too fast for them to train on it. Who had come to save them?
The hands on Tarin’s arms released him and he swayed where he stood, blinking slowly and watching the blur as it took down man after man. The blur stopped to dispense with one of the soldiers and Tarin’s blurry vision focused for one clear moment. There was something incredibly familiar about the curves of the body under the tight fabric of the suit, Tarin’s eyes rose, locking on the face of their attempted rescuer and widened in surprise.
“Lee?” he gasped, then his knees buckled and the ground rushed up to meet him far more quickly than it should have.
As she went, taking down a soldier each and every time she slowed down as she crossed one, Lee noticed that the ones still on their feet were growing fewer and fewer in number. She also noticed that once the soldiers had become distracted by her, most of the villagers had run for cover. That was probably a very good thing. At least, hopefully, they wouldn't get hurt too.
Finally, it was down to just the four men who were holding Tarin and Slate, and the man with a ponytail who was torturing them. Moving forward, Lee saw the soldiers moving forward to meet her, drawing their weapons. Yeah, because that had helped their companions.
It didn't take long, far less than a minute, and all four of those soldiers were on the ground. Which left Lee standing there, still, for a couple of seconds, just in time to see Tarin's knees buckle and watch her husband drop to the ground as the blood from his shoulder wound started to pool in the dirt.
Lee's heart was pounding. Not from the exertion of all the running around among the soldiers she had done, she was barely even breathing heavy at all because of that. No, Lee's heart was pounding in fear, worried and wondering if Tarin was alright, how much longer he might have before he bled out. That was a lot of blood she saw there.
Which just left ponytail guy standing between her and Tarin.
Moving forward, Lee's eyes were intent; this was the man who had actually stabbed her husband, not any of those other men who had had guns. He was the reason that her husband was currently on the ground bleeding.
Reaching the man, Lee's hand shot out at lightning speed, just as she saw a red glint under her arm; he still had the knife in his hand. Lee dodged to the side a bit, but her hand had already closed around the man's throat. Next thing Lee knew, there was a sharp pain in her side, just below her bottom rib, as the knife tip made contact, cutting through the material of the body suit she was wearing, and into her skin.
Lee cried out at the pain, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the man. That was the last straw. Lee tightened her hand around his throat for a second, and with a flick of her wrist, Lee tossed him to the side, against a nearby wall. She didn't even hear the cracking sound as the man's spine broke, she was already moving forward and kneeling beside Tarin. Tears were forming in her eyes as she pulled him up out of the dirt and into her lap, her hand pressed over what she now saw was two stab wounds in his shoulder to try and stop the bleeding as she ignored her own cut.
"Slate?" Lee asked, called, as her teary eyes started searching for the younger man. "Please tell me you can heal him."