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.
> “Just fine, just fine, really, truly. If you could not talk for a > second... that’d be super. Really. Truly.”
Sonya/Teresa scowls at that. You’re a talking housecat, and you don’t want to talk about it?!? But she holds her tongue. If he’s as hung-over as she is, it makes sense that his hearing would be oversensitive… especially with the whole being-a-housecat thing.
But that doesn’t explain why he’s thrusting his neck against the mattress like that. It’s like he’s trying to trap something between the mattress and his collar. What, does he have a little mutant mousie caught in there?
A few seconds later, he shifts back into human form and stretches out. No mouse. In fact, nothing at all. So what was that about? Did he not want me to see his collar? It had shifted with him into the form she was most familiar with, but she hadn’t been able to see the front of it when he was a housecat. Maybe it’s a pink Hello Kitty collar, or something like that, she thinks with a giggle.
Or maybe he didn’t want his collar to see me? It’s an intriguing idea, but Sonya is distracted from following it up for the moment by the amusing and intriguing sight of naked!Calley squirming into his boxers.
> “Good morning. Are you wearing as little clothes as I am?”
She looks down to confirm her somewhat hazy recollection from a moment ago, and nods. "Less, now. More’s the pity." Behind the smirk, her mind is racing… why is she naked? She remembers taking a long, hot, blood-and-vomit-eliminating shower and wearing a bathrobe while letting her bodysuit dry, which explains why she’s not wearing it. But it doesn’t explain why she’s not wearing her bathrobe either.
A quick glance around the room identifies it, puddled by the door. Which is consistent with her not wearing it, but hardly an explanation. Calley’s nakedness almost makes sense, given his cattiness… er, that is, given that his clothes don’t shift when he does… but on further thought, that doesn’t explain where the rest of his clothes are.
Obviously, pipes up one of the annoyed voices in her head, we took our clothes off and went to bed. What are you, twelve? Except she doesn’t remember it. She remembers drinking heavily… she remembers Calley coming home… and a muddled memory of dropping him on the floor for no obvious reason… but she seems to have misfiled everything after that.
Still, the conclusion seems sound. Which is a little embarrassing… one is supposed to remember that sort of thing. She wonders if Calley remembers. She wonders if they’d had fun.
She’s surprised to realize she’s not particularly embarrassed about being naked... though it’s perhaps not all that surprising, given that it’s not really her body. Yes, it is. She lets the objecting thought go by unaddressed and climbs back onto the bed, enjoying the expression on Calley’s face as she does so. She’s idly considering a potential sequel when her attention is dragged forcibly back to the whole “housecat” thing.
"So… OK, I’ll bite. Was I… hallucinating? A minute ago? Or were you… you know… actually -- " (OOC: Going slow here to give Calley a chance to interrupt her if you want him to… otherwise the end of the sentence is “…a black-and-white housecat?” ))
Posted by Cheshire on Feb 16, 2008 11:58:44 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
"So… OK, I’ll bite. Was I… hallucinating? A minute ago? Or were you… you know… actually -- "
"A white tiger?" Calley interrupted, that being the first thing that came to mind. He was blushing furiously, and there was a naked girl who'd made with the climbing-into-bed-next-to-him, and that was all perfectly well and good: it made his sudden dive off of the bed just peachily well camouflaged behind his own random nature.
"Umm, yeah, sorry. I know you don't like animals and stuff, but sometimes I can't help it--the shifting, I mean--when I sleep. I've been trying to mess with my fur color lately. Isn't it cool?"
The shirt was in a lovely bundled heap next to the side of the bed. He wasn't sure where his pants were, but he honestly didn't care. He didn't really care about the shirt, either. In fact, he would have been quite happy to explore the intriguing possibilities of sexy sexy hungover sex, but there was something a little more important he had to do. So.
"But yeah, umm, sorry about that. So, speaking of waking up next to each other and all..."
He squiggle-twisted into his shirt, making very certain that its neck ended up bunched carelessly over his necklace. Next, he kept up his attempts to stall her from saying anything:
"Do you... remember anything?" He was searching for his pants while he did. "Because I'm sort of a bit foggy. I think I bought a fishbric--fishtank... and you..."
Pants acquired: they were by the door, right next to a puddled bathrobe. He could care less about the pants. The pants were only important because they had pockets. The pockets were only important because he was in the habit of taking the guards' stationary supplies for long walks around the city. He rummaged quickly and evicted a notepad and a really nice metal pen with the monogram N.B..
"And you... you did a stealth ninja roll? Did you really? Or is that the vodka-haze talking?" He grabbed the bathrobe, too, and came back to sit on the bed by the marvelous reclining lady. He wasn't blushing any longer. In fact, besides his rattling speech, he looked rather composed. He offered her the bathrobe with one hand, then he started scribbling.
"Or was it brandy? Umm, why were you drinking, again?"
This is what he scribbled:
please don't mention the cat thing out loud
please really
I think the apartment might be bugged
I think Syn is trying to keep tabs on the mansion people and I might or might not have played a prank on her a while ago
she's scary it would be great if she didn't know it was me and KILL ME
He underlined "KILL ME" three times, just to emphasize the dire necessity and melodrama of the situation. He paused for a moment, with a hesitant look her way. Then he added tentatively:
are you involved? (are you with the order?)
please don't tell her seriously she tried to brain me with her SHOE
Which was all very well and true. All he'd been doing was stealing the woman's hairbrush, and he'd been such a cute little monkey. The shoe-braining was entirely uncalled for. Particularly since the woman didn't know he'd been doing it so the Boss Man could find a way to negate her powers. Calley offered Teresa the pad and pen, in case she wanted to write back. He made amazing seventeen-year-old-boy eyes while he did.
Sonya is puzzled by the interrupting comment, and with the fuzz in her head it takes her a while to figure out that Calley's trying to keep her from talking about the housecat thing.
Which suggests that somebody is listening in, which is enough to shut her up, and also goes a long way towards explaining his bizarre behavior.
Of course, that doesn't explain his weird collar-hiding antics when he first woke up, though... unless it's his collar that's bugged? But that doesn't make any sense either... whoever made the collar obviously knows Calley can turn into a cat, since the collar has a cat-collar form. So why would he be trying to hide the fact?
Unless what he wants to hide is that I found out? Which doesn't make much sense, either. Unless he's some kind of top-secret cat spy and the NSA will kill her if she finds out, or something absurd like that.
She tries to focus her attention on that question, not entirely successfully, through Calley's babbling antics with his clothing. She notices his shirt covering the collar in question, though whether he's doing that intentionally or not she isn't sure. Then he's asking about her drinking and scribbling a very long note, and she decides to play along.
"It was vodka. That's what there was in the house. I was... I don't know, really. Trying to forget having been shot. Except that seems to be the thing I remember most clearly." Twice as cloudy as I'd been the night before, and I went in seeking clarity, a gravelly voice sings in her head, and she shakes her head to clear it, then clutches it in both hands and groans when she realizes what a mistake that was.
"Guess it's true what they say about drinking to drown your troubles... troubles float. Yeah... I remember the fish tank. No fish. Ninja roll. Not an appetizer at a stealth Thai restaraunt. Caleb fake-last-name. " She closes her eyes, trying to remember more, and blushes at the memory that comes to mind. "And I think I tried to seduce you."
It feels weird saying that when she suspects there's a microphone listening in, but on the other hand anyone listening in last night already knows. She's about to ask him whether she succeeded -- though the whole 'waking up naked in bed together' thing is a bit of a clue -- when he finally hands her the note he's been working on.
She reads it a couple of times, trying to decide what to make of it. She's pretty sure Calley's wrong about Syn bugging the apartment -- she'd seemed relatively surprised when Sonya had mentioned she was staying with Calley, and she'd noticed that Abyss' little void-space tended to make things like surprise easier to spot -- but that didn't mean the apartment wasn't bugged, and it didn't mean Syn wouldn't hold a grudge against Calley if she found out he'd done whatever it is he isn't admitting to doing.
"So, why don't you --" she starts, then stops. She was about to say "sweep the apartment for bugs?" but saying that in a bugged apartment seems dumb, and trading notes seems even dumber. So she finishes "...finish getting dressed, and we can go have breakfast somewhere and talk all about it?"
She gets up, still enjoying his reaction to that, and heads into the livingroom.
Posted by Cheshire on Feb 17, 2008 18:44:07 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Calley watched Teresa leaving the room, a whole new blush spreading over his face. It was more instinctive than anything else: pretty naked girl, right right. Go have breakfast somewhere with her. Right. Calley brought one knee up to his chest, and looked at the door.
You paid attention to that, Slate?
It would have been foolish to do otherwise.
Yeah. He balanced his forearm on top of his knee, and laid his chin down on it. So, the second we're out of the apartment, our pretty little bugging excuse goes out the window.
Yes. Though I doubt it would hold up to much scrutiny, in any case.
Options? It was a call out to the whole clutter, not just Slate. Calley knew what needed doing already. He just wanted some confirmation. The answers came back pretty damn quickly in a flash flood of buzzing noise as Calley stared at that door she'd gone through.
It's not our problem.
Let the Boss deal with it--what else is he good for?
If she's alive, she'll tell someone. That's what people do. They spill information like cheap wine.
Calley.
We'll leave the apartment. We'll take her to a nice breakfast. We'll pay for everything and be a perfect little gentleman. We'll let her talk about what she saw. Then we'll let Hunter kill her. Maybe he'll make it quick.
Maybe he won't. She's fun--let's not let this get messy.
We could do it ourselves.
That's true--if we went out there in tiger form right now, purring, she wouldn't suspect us until it was too late. And she's just a healer; we can take a healer. We could do it quickly--make sure she doesn't really suffer. Hell, Hunter would probably give us a pat on the back for handling it ourselves.
Calley.
Calley stood. Right, then. Nice and quick. It's better for everyone. She won't be at the Boss Man's mercy, and we won't have to worry about her wagging her pretty little tongue everywhere. No big deal. He took a deep breath: let it out. Then he--
Was vetoed. Slate went to the dresser next to their bed, and selected a pair of dress pants. He went to their closet, and chose a nicer shirt--a royal blue button-up.
Like hell! Slate, this is not the time for you to be playing King of the Hill. We've got to--
I would like to consider the issue further. So long as she does not relay the information, she is no problem.
Yeah. Exactly. And the only way to make sure she doesn't--
Slate slammed the mental barrier between them shut far more tightly than he ever had. There was not even a buzz from the clutter. There was only a smooth steel cage in the back of their mind, and a pleasantly silent void in the front. He selected a black dress coat to match the pants, and shrugged into it. His slate gray scarf, wrapped snuggly around their neck with its ends hanging out, one towards the front and one towards the back, completed their look. He had neglected to put on socks. Yes, shoes were necessary in winter: no, socks were not. Slate stepped silently out of the bedroom.
Sonya/Teresa stops hesitantly as she steps out of the bathroom, dressed in her usual jogging suit, and sees Calley dressed and waiting for her in the living room.
> "Are you ready?"
"I guess, yeah." She sidles toward the door, not wanting to take her eyes off of him. Something is different about him… he’s standing more confidently, purposefully. More focused. It’s still him, but… oh. Right.
After some careful consideration, Sonya decides that the spinning sensation in her head is more than just the hangover... dealing with Calley and Slate and whoever else is in that tiger/kitten/teenage-boy composite body is enough to give her a headache all on its own. If she were sensible, she'd just walk away and never see him -- any of him -- again.
The trouble is, she's curious. If Syn really is after him, which might be true, she could find out a lot about her new employer through him. And if she's not, then she wants to know what the real story is.
"So, did you like the Blackberry? I considered getting you some pancake molds, but I’d gotten the impression you were more interested in the process than the results." She opens the door and gestures him through.
Posted by Cheshire on Feb 18, 2008 15:02:54 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Slate nodded respectfully to Teresa as they exited, for three entirely worthy reasons: agreement to her 'process over results' assessment, simple thanks for getting the door, and for the fact that she had recognized him. Though it was a silly and hard to place emotion, he suspected that he found pleasure in being recognized.
"It is quite enjoyable. Thank you, Teresa." He answered simply. "Though I admit I am having trouble reconstructing it." Calley seemed quite insistent that Teresa not discover his careful dissection of her gift: Slate, frankly, did not see the purpose of hiding it from her. It had taken several very intensive hours. He certainly did not regret the experience. In fact, he was contemplating the purchase of a laptop to do the same.
He began to walk down the hallway, distinctly annoyed by the slight scuffing noise their shoes made against the thin carpeting. He attempted to shift from walking heel-to-toe to walking on the balls of their feet: that improved matters greatly. It was not as good as going bare foot, but it would have to do. Even without a layer of snow outside the concrete sidewalks were burningly cold, and quickly numbed the sensation straight out of the pads of their feet. It was impractical to forswear foot adornment in winter. Slate was nothing if not strictly practical.
The issue of their noisy feet settled, Slate looked to Teresa again. "Calley is overly paranoid. Please forgive him his... antics. Ever since an unfortunate... incident in the woman's room, he has been growing more and more convinced that she suspects he was the culprit. As I do not think she is capable of suspecting flies on horses, I am slightly less concerned. Naturally we would all appreciate it if you kept anything you learn about us to yourself." He tilted his head slightly. "I am curious, though--do you work for her?" They knew Teresa was from the Sanctuary, and they knew she knew Syn. They assumed that made her an Order member. Slate was tired of assumptions, however. They were unreliable, and not a little dull.
>> "So, did you like the Blackberry? I considered getting you some pancake molds, but I’d gotten the impression you were more interested in the process than the results.” > "It is quite enjoyable. Thank you, Teresa. Though I admit I am having trouble reconstructing it."
"Oh?” she replies politely as she waits for him to close the door, "I’m surprised, you seemed to have it down pretty well. Maybe you can make breakfast next time, give you more opportunity to practice." She’s puzzled by Slate’s ostentatious sneaking down the hallway, which seems to serve no purpose, and eventually concludes that he’s letting her know they are still being eavesdropped on, so she stays quiet and follows.
When Slate finally starts talking, though, his first comments confuse her. If Calley’s being overly paranoid, why is Slate playing along? She chuckles at the “flies-on-horses” line, though.
> "Naturally we would all appreciate it if you kept anything you learn > about us to yourself. I am curious, though--do you work for her?"
Sonya thinks about the question… it’s not a secret, really, and it’s not hard for anyone to figure out. She could just admit it… but she gets the feeling there’s more going on with Calley/Slate and Syn than is being explained. "She’s my primary Resistance contact, yeah. No surprise; nobody else ever seems to leave the Labs, and she knew me from Sanctuary. She handles my expenses and stuff. But that’s not what you’re asking… what you really want to know is if I work for the Order, right?"
She shrugs. "Which is an interesting question. Suppose that I did… why would I want to alleviate your curiosity about it? And why would I keep your secrets from my employer?"
Posted by Cheshire on Feb 18, 2008 20:05:50 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
"I’m surprised, you seemed to have it down pretty well. Maybe you can make breakfast next time, give you more opportunity to practice."
Clearly, there was a miscommunication: just as clearly, Slate was far too intent on walking quietly at the time to notice it. He had his priorities. They rarely included holding a normal back-and-forth sort of conversation.
Teresa, however, warranted some attention, at least while he had nothing better to focus upon. She was in the habit of replying to simple questions in curiously evasive ways. Did it take three or four times asking before they got her name from her, that first time they met? Not that Slate was entirely convinced that was her name. It would no doubt be quite amusing to have Hunter's experts run 'Teresa Willingscote' through their searches. Perhaps she was even a real person.
"She’s my primary Resistance contact, yeah. No surprise; nobody else ever seems to leave the Labs, and she knew me from Sanctuary. She handles my expenses and stuff. But that’s not what you’re asking… what you really want to know is if I work for the Order, right?"
He did not reply to any of her numerous statements or the red flags they briefly flashed up. He did not reply to her question, either. He had been working on identifying rhetorical questions, lately. That seemed to fit the characteristics of one. Slate held his silence as he pressed the 'down' arrow on the hallway elevator, and was rewarded as she continued speaking.
"Which is an interesting question. Suppose that I did… why would I want to alleviate your curiosity about it? And why would I keep your secrets from my employer?"
Also rhetorical, he diagnosed. He held his silence... which matched her own. Not rhetorical, then? How odd. Slate looked at his own reflection in the polished metal of the elevator doors. His face was split neatly in half by their opening. He stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor before answering.
"Curious is not the word, Miss Teresa. Cautious is the closer term. Still not correct, though." His head dropped a bit towards the floor, and his eyebrows furrowed. What would the correct word be? Perhaps--perhaps the square root of 144 was 12 and the derivative of log(x) was (1/x)dx--perhaps he should remain focused on this conversation, at least until he was finished speaking. His eyes refocused, and his head came back up. "We have been assuming you are an Order member. If you wish to correct this assumption, please do. Perhaps you are new to New York, and do not fully understand the threads of history at work here: several months ago, acquaintances of mine fought with acquaintances of yours. The injuries sustained by both sides were non-trivial. Prior to this, your acquaintances had abducted, imprisoned, and experimented upon some of my classmates, among others, if I understand correctly. One they returned to us... they had induced a form of insanity in her. The school I attend was nearly destroyed. Additionally, much media attention was drawn that should have been more wisely avoided. I believe it was used by some to hasten the passing of our current predicament. Curiosity," he finished as he had begun, "is not the word. I understand that belonging to the Sanctuary does not imply you belong to the Order. They are not mutually exclusive, either. Again: if you wish to correct our assumption of your affiliation, it is your right to do so."
He took the space of three perfectly even breaths to collect himself for her second question. A muzak rendition of Suicide is Painless chimed inanely out of the elevator speakers into his silence. When he was ready to begin, he did.
"Secrets are invaluable things, Miss Teresa. In our world, they can mean the difference between freedom and enslavement, life and death, or ignorance and... an unhealthy level of interest. Calley's paranoia over Syn is exaggerated, but not ill-founded. We lived for a very long time as normal. A secret destroyed that. We live now as something else. Specifically, as a run-of-the-mill 'something else' of middling ability. If we cannot be normal, then that is a fair enough arrangement. We do not want to be known. We do not want to be noticed. We would simply like to fade into the woodwork of the universe. Some secrets can draw unhealthy levels of interest from those who view myself and my classmates as potential guinea pigs." Some secrets could be very fatal when some employers placed value on them. He would like for the young woman to be alive tomorrow. He was still considering how wise that would be, however. Honestly, he did not entirely understand his sentiment for keeping her alive. Perhaps it was the mess Calley had intended to create with her on their white carpet?
As Slate spoke, he had simply been looking forward. Now he turned to her: "Miss Teresa, later today I will ask for your word that you will keep anything you learn about us to yourself. Please do not give me your word now, and please do not give it to me if your word means nothing." The elevator doors dinged open. Slate stepped out. "Where would you like to have breakfast?"
> "We have been assuming you are an Order member. If you wish to correct this assumption, please do.”
That earns a grin – it’s just about the most straightforward statement on the subject she’s gotten from them. She listens carefully through his summary of recent history, most of which is news to her, and frowns thoughtfully, wondering if she believes a word of it.
Slate’s story about Syn abducting and crazifying his teammates certainly isn’t out of character for her, but on the other hand there’s no particular reason for her to believe him either. The whole thing sorta makes her head hurt.
"OK, that was a lot to digest. Taking all that in no particular order…
First… I don’t really care where we have breakfast, as long as we aren’t being eavesdropped on wherever it is. If Calley hadn’t gone into that whole song and dance about the apartment being bugged and Syn killing him for a quote-prank-unquote I’d have been just as happy to stay there. So if you want to change stories – um, forgive me, if you want to correct your pal Calley’s unfortunate misunderstanding of the situation – we can go back to your apartment and talk there. If not, pick your favorite restaurant that isn’t bugged. It really doesn’t matter where.
Anyway… yeah, “curious” isn’t the word, though you’re the one who used it. “Cautious” isn’t the word either. The word you’re looking for is “frightened.” I know one of your secrets and you want me to keep my mouth shut. Great, I get that. Glad we’re communicating. As for the rest of your pretty little speech about acquaintances and unhealthy levels of interest and the woodwork of the universe and all those other lovely little ambiguous poetic phrases, I’m either too dumb or too hung over to make sense of it. You were pretty blunt when you were asking about who I work for, you think maybe you could keep that level of blunt going for the rest of this conversation?
Speaking of which -- much as I appreciate your gentlemanly offer to allow me to tell you who I work for, if anyone, I’m still waiting to hear a good reason for me to do so. Meanwhile, I’m assuming that Calley’s story about mean old Dad’s allowance is a baldfaced lie and your supposedly bugged apartment has other provenance, but… oh, how did you put it? Oh, right: if you wish to correct my assumption and tell me who funds your operations, that’s your right.
Or, to put that more bluntly: you don’t know what I know and what I don’t know, Slate. You’ve told me some things, and Calley’s told me some things, and maybe I believe every word of it. Maybe I don’t believe any of it. Maybe I know a lot more than you think I do. Maybe I don’t know anything worth knowing. Maybe I have deep dark secrets of my own, and maybe I’m just a ‘run-of-the-mill something else of middling ability’ like yourself.
My point is, this hasn’t been a full-disclosure relationship thus far, and I would have to be something of an idiot to think it’s going to become one now just because I’ve discovered one of your secrets. You want me to keep your secrets? Then tell me why you think you’ve earned my silence. Tell me why I should believe a word you say."
She’d thought she was done, but her mouth keeps going. I really need to stop doing that, she thinks idly as it yammers on a little breathlessly. "I’ll tell you this much for free, though… when I walked into this city alone and scared half to death, your mysterious “associates” didn’t do squat for me. Syn’s Sanctuary did, just before they got crushed. And for all his hanging out there visiting his girlfriend, Calley wasn’t there when it happened and didn’t give a damn, about it or her. Instead he got awful chummy with what, as far as I can tell, is the only mutant group to come out of that little war without a scratch. So if Syn's your enemy, I have to start wondering whether you and those crazy robot things are on the same side. Which means, if you want me to believe you about your poor innocent associates being picked on by mean evil deadly Syn and how you just want to be left alone, you've got a bit of an uphill climb ahead of you."
Posted by Cheshire on Feb 19, 2008 19:42:59 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
((ooc: The color-code, henceforth: Slate, Calley, Slate in-Sonya's-head-because-she-got-drunk-and-imprinted-them, Calley in-Sonya's-head-because-she-got-drunk-and-imprinted-them))
It began with a facial twitch. The corners of their mouth, to be precise. Slate was entirely baffled for a moment before he realized something quite simple: he was smiling. He had no time to digest this before, quite inexplicably, he was laughing, as well. It was a very bright noise. It did not sound like Calley's laugh. Since the strange convulsions of their diaphragm and vocal chords seemed to have a mind of their own, Slate had time to think about a very simple fact: he had never heard Calley laugh. Not really. This... was something entirely different. He rather liked it.
...First laugh. Lovely. You're cracked, she's suicidal, and we're all hung over. Would you please, please quiet down? I was sleeping.
I believe Teresa is a form of telepath.
That's... lovely. And unfounded. And again: the laughing. Annoying. Nine out of ten clutter elements agree: shut it.
...Calley, please take a moment to observe our surroundings.
Slate let the laughter run its course, because he did not know quite how one stopped laughing. When he was done, he founded himself leaning against the wall next to the elevator. He stood up straight again. A moment later, he looked for all the world as if that hadn't happened. At all.
Do you notice anything?
...The disturbingly out-of-body perspective?
...Indeed.
"Bluntness. Right." He did not particularly care to return to the apartment: it would be much easier to kill her there. He would rather like to avoid stooping towards that temptation. "In that case, we are going to a Vietnamese restaurant." He started walking towards the door. Really, it was in the best interests of all parties involved. "You work for the Order. It changes nothing." He shrugged that one off, and held the door open for her.
"It is not 'Dad's' allowance. We are currently... kept. I would rather not be either more blunt or more graphic than that. We are seeking to correct the situation."
Murder is the best corrector ever. Speaking of which: you were saying something about telepathy.
Yes.
Yes. About that.[/i]
He looked at her with his eyebrows raised in amusement (an action they took upon themselves). "I believe you already know everything about us, Miss Teresa. Please stop vaguely bluffing with knowledge that does not exist. It does not suit your hangover."
...Slate?
...I am trying to listen to myself. I am interesting.
Uh...huh. She better be a telepath, and she better be pullin' some kind of massive multi-orifice mind screw, 'cause this is a little more crazy than I'm used to.[/i]
"You should keep our secrets because Calley would rather have killed you this morning than allowed you to walk from the apartment. This is--please excuse me in advance--our life you are ****ing with, Miss Teresa. We value it highly."
He looked up at the sky as they walked. "Additionally," he said simply, "my associates are a load of bull****-stuffed crap violently relieving themselves of hypocrisies and ideals from their ends of choice. The fact that your associates only vomit ideals does not mean they spew less, only that they spew a more concentrated mixture. However, I rather like your friends better than mine. They did not have a school, however." He had addressed all of her points, he was fairly certain. Therefore, he was finished.[/color]
Experimentally, Calley tried to lift that strangely disassociated digit he thought was a finger, and poke whatever body this was between the eyes. Slate, meanwhile--the non-talking Slate--was complementing his own vivid imagery. Though he felt he could have said it better.
((ooc: Feel free to decide how much of that internal dialogue you actually heard, how loud it was, and if that finger hits. ))
(( OOC: ok, for no especially good reason I'm deciding Sonya can hear Slate but not Calley, at least for now. Feel free to have either or both of them hear her thoughts. They might also notice that she has her own version of "clutter" packed in her brain. ))
At first, the startled look on Slate's face is a bit disturbing, but eventually he starts laughing, which... doesn't really make it any less so. Especially when he doesn't seem at all inclined to stop.
"I'm glad you find the situation funny, Slate. Mind letting me in on... on... huh?" Her annoyed response trails off in the wake of an odd fluttering in the back of her mind.
> I believe Teresa is a form of telepath. Calley, please take a > moment to observe our surroundings. Do you notice anything?...indeed.
What the... telepath? I'm not --
> "Bluntness. Right. In that case, we are going to a Vietnamese restaurant."
"We're... what? Oh. Vietnamese. OK, sure." Sonya hasn't ever had breakfast at a Vietnamese place, she hadn't even known they served breakfast, but she'd meant it when she said she didn't care.
> "You work for the Order. It changes nothing."
Sonya shrugs, but says nothing.
> "It is not 'Dad's' allowance. We are currently... kept. I would > rather not be either more blunt or more graphic than that. We are > seeking to correct the situation." > Yes
Kept? Sonya frowns at Slate's choice of words, and his subsequent explanation. Well, at least he's being honest about it now. That's something. But... 'correct the situation'? So whoever he's 'kept' by... it isn't his idea. So, who's doing the keeping, and why? And why are they going along --
> "I believe you already know everything about us, Miss Teresa. > Please stop vaguely bluffing with knowledge that does not exist. > It does not suit your hangover."
He's kidding, right? Just to bring her mind into some sort of clarity, she starts listing things she doesn't know and would like to find out. His real name. Who he works for and why. What exactly he intends to "correct." What the limits of his shapechanging ability are. Why he --
> I am trying to listen to myself. I am interesting.
You're... what? Slate, are you trying to communicate telepath -- oh. She finally gets it, then. The experience of Slate-in-her-head isn't like anything she's experienced before, but it's just familiar enough for her to put everything together. You're not the same Slate who's speaking, are you? You're... I've got a copy of you in my head, like the others. Right? Of course, the others don't exactly talk, but Sonya's not as surprised by that as she could be... presumably he's had more practice being an independent personality than most of them.
> "You should keep our secrets because Calley would rather have > killed you this morning [..] I rather like your friends better than mine. > They did not have a school, however."
She looks over at Slate as they walk, trying not to look as bewildered as she feels. If she's right, then Slate -- the embodied, walking, talking Slate -- has no idea what's going on in her head... and she'd rather keep it that way. And, on further consideration, she decides she may have more luck getting a straight answer out of the Slate in her head.
So she doesn't ask any of the questions stewing in her mind out loud, just looks forward again and scratches the bridge of her nose thoughtfully. "OK... threat of murder, at least, I can understand. Died once this week already, after all, would rather not repeat the experience. You'll understand if I find my own apartment after this little chat, I hope? My momma made me promise never to live with a man who intends to kill me."
Posted by Cheshire on Feb 20, 2008 17:03:07 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Heheh. Mission nose-poke a scratching success.
..."Copy?"
Wait, what now? What'd I miss?
...Hmm.
"Hmm," Slate said simply. "Indeed, you could seek your own apartment. I do not intend to allow his success, however, even if it means keeping him contained until he agrees with my views on this issue." At the least, Slate intended to tactically avoid any conversation about the state of Teresa's non-murder until he knew, exactly, why he himself was in favor of letting her live. It was a hazy subject. Perhaps he simply felt it was... wrong? It was like the laughter: the feeling was there, but it seemed out of his control. How odd.
How odd. I believe she discovered something, and I disagreed with your reaction to that discovery. You appear to be rather tightly shut away.
...How do you figure that?
Look at our pockets.
Calley experimentally attempted to shove this body's hands in its pockets; it took him a moment to realize that Slate was talking about their other pockets. The pockets attached to the pants worn by their body. I'm not seeing anything.
There is only a bulge for our wallet.
...So what does that--NO LIME GREEN SQUEAKY HEDGEHOG!
Precisely. You had no say in our moves, beginning sometime before we got dressed.
You left him behind! You bastard!
...I do not think I am.
I'm pretty sure I do. It's one thing to take control, Slate. It's a completely different thing to leave the lime green squeaky hedgehog in our old pants, surrounded in day-old fabric, not able to see anything, just in the dark, all alone, waiting for us to come for him--
More importantly, I would like to know what she means by "copy", seeing as how we are currently in two disjoint places. It is... curious. ...Did I fail to comb our hair?
Focus, Slate, focus.
[/i]Not entirely sure of how one addressed the owner of the head one was currently living in, Slate decided for the polite approach. Miss Willingscote, excuse us for the intrusion. Assuming it was self-induced on your end, however, we would appreciate some explanation.[/color]
Either that, or I spend the rest of your life tripping you over invisible rocks.[/i] Just to prove that this wasn't the joke threat it sounded like, Calley did his very best to trip the good Miss Willingscote. Just a little trip. Just a little friendly warning, from the voices in her head.[/color]
> "Copy?" Hmm. > "Hmm Indeed, you could seek your own apartment. I do not > intend to allow his success, however, even if it means keeping > him contained until he agrees with my views on this issue."
"Contained? I – oh. I get it. That’s why you’re here now, instead of him." Geez. I knew Calley can’t be trusted, but I never thought he’d kill me just to keep my mouth shut… that’s a bit extreme.
> How odd. I believe she discovered something, and I disagreed > with your reaction to that discovery. You appear to be rather tightly > shut away… look at our pockets.
Sonya checks her pockets briefly, but finds nothing of particular interest. What do you mean, ‘shut away’?
> There is only a bulge for our wallet. .. Precisely. You had no say in our moves, beginning sometime before we got dressed… I do not think I am.
Well, I guess not… but – oh. Finally, the oddity of this semi-conversation comes together to form a pattern. Slate, who are you talking to in there?
It occurs to her that she hasn’t actually responded to outside-Slate’s revelation, which deserves at least an acknowledgement… though it’s the sort of comment to which a long thoughtful pause isn’t an inappropriate response. That is, if there even was a pause… somehow, the conversation in her head "Well… thanks. But, um, yeah, under the circumstances, continuing to share a roof would be pretty dumb." Not to mention a bed, she thinks ruefully. "Who knows when he’ll figure out a way to “contain” you, right? "
> More importantly, I would like to know what she means by "copy", > seeing as how we are currently in two disjoint places. It is... curious. > Did I fail to comb our hair? Miss Willingscote, excuse us for the intrusion. > Assuming it was self-induced on your end, however, we would appreciate > some explanation.
Oh… sorry. Thought you’d already figured that part out. Anyway, yeah, an explanation seems fair. Basically, you’re not the only one keeping the full extent of your powers a secret: I can copy people. Usually it doesn’t quite work like this, though… I don’t, you know, talk to them. I turn into them. The healing is a bonus. Anyway… I didn’t do it intentionally – or, at least, if I did, I don’t remember. It must’ve happened while we were, um… you know. Having sex. Which I still can’t believe I actually did with a guy who wanted to kill me the next morning.
Maybe they didn’t, she thinks. Maybe the reason she doesn’t remember it is because it never happened. On the other hand, Slate’s presence in her mind is a clear indication that at least something happened that she doesn’t remember.
A moment’s further thought brings a laugh, both mental and physical. Of course, the irony is that if Calley does kill me, he ends up killing you, too.
Her attention is brought back to the outside world when she stumbles over… well, nothing, as far as she can tell… and recovers. That’ll teach me to walk and talk at the same time… "So… do you have any particular restaurant in mind?"
Posted by Cheshire on Feb 20, 2008 21:27:28 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
((ooc: And now, for no particularly good reason, I have decided that Calley can't hear Sonya, either. ))
"Well… thanks. But, um, yeah, under the circumstances, continuing to share a roof would be pretty dumb. Who knows when he’ll figure out a way to “contain” you, right?"
Slate did not reply at first. He did not reply until after she stumbled slightly, and inquired as to his restaurant choice. "As you wish," Slate replied simply. "Though I imagine I will experience a form of separation sadness if you go. You were a pleasant roommate." He thought, but did not say, It will not help. If your death is necessary, you will be killed.[/i]
Slate did not reply at first to the revelation of her powers. He did not reply, in fact, until she fell for Calley's trip. It was not so much a reply to her as a reply to the situation. ...That will not help. If your death is necessary, you will be killed. Location is not a bar to death.
...Who are you talking to, Slate?
...Teresa. I am speaking to Teresa, Calley. It is her head we are in. Apparently, she made a 'copy' of our consciousness, in some manner. To answer your question, Miss Teresa: I am speaking to Calley.
Wait, wait. We're in her head, but she can't hear me?
As you cannot hear her, apparently.
That's hardly the point, Slate.[/i] It was hardly the point at all. The point was this: Invisible Rock #2! That'd teach her to mind-rape his consciousness into some sort of mental back-up-copy and then ignore him.[/color]
...You should suggest Vina. As a restaurant. It is close.
"Have you ever heard of Vina?" Slate asked, continuing to walk at their leisurely place. "It is a small restaurant. They have pleasant eggrolls."
> "As you wish. Though I imagine I will experience a form > of separation sadness if you go. You were a pleasant roommate." > That will not help. If your death is necessary, you will be > killed. Location is not a bar to death.
"That’s sweet, Slate." She’s aware that she should probably say something reciprocal, like “I’ll miss you too,” but she’s still struggling with the idea of matter-of-factly discussing her assassination. She settles for "Do you have any better suggestions?"
So, leaving aside for the moment the question of whether Calley can take me out if he tries, or for that matter even find me if I don’t want to be found… why exactly is my death “necessary”? I mean, OK, I know he can do more than turn into a tiger. Annoying, sure, I can see that… I don’t want anyone finding out what I can do, either. But what makes it a matter of life and death?
> Teresa. I am speaking to Teresa, Calley. It is her head we are in. > Apparently, she made a 'copy' of our consciousness, in some manner. > To answer your question, Miss Teresa: I am speaking to Calley.
Huh. Funny, I can’t hear him. > As you cannot hear her, apparently. ‘Her’ who? The simultaneous two-way conversation is definitely distracting, but she’s pretty sure she’s doing an OK job of keeping them straight. She stumbles again on the sidewalk and recovers with a small laugh. "Wow. Clearly I’m more hung over than I thought. Either that, or I put on the wrong pair of feet this morning." It’s a lame joke, made even less funny by its accuracy… she really is wearing a new pair of feet, in a manner of speaking.
> You should suggest Vienna. As a restaurant. It is close. > “Have you ever heard of Vienna? It is a small restaurant. They have pleasant eggrolls.” "Funny you should mention it, Slate… I only just heard about it recently from a friend. Sure, sounds lovely... lead on."