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.
It occurs to Sonya that there’s something different about Slate, and has been for a few minutes now, but she can’t quite place what it is. Before she can even really focus on it, head!Slate distracts her with an unexpected question.
> Miss Teresa, what are morals?
It’s an absurd question on the face of it, the sort of question a child would ask. She’s tempted for a moment to dismiss it out of hand, until she remembers his comment about only being seven months old.
But that’s still ridiculous… Slate talks and thinks like an adult, his vocabulary is more advanced than her own, not to mention Calley’s. He knows perfectly well what morals are.
Or… well, maybe he just knows what “morals” means. That’s not the same thing. Hell, come to that, Sonya’s not sure she knows what morals are. But there’s something plaintive in Slate’s question that makes her want to try harder than that for an answer.
Y’know, I’ve known a lot of folks who talk and talk about morals and treat other people like something they’d scrape off their shoe if they had some spare time. And the one thing I know for sure is that whatever morals are, they’re something those folks haven’t got. So, I dunno… maybe morals are what you get when you act like other people are worth something… like it matters whether they live or die, whether they hurt, whether they’ve got somewhere to live or are left out on the street… that sort of thing. Y’know?
On thinking about it some more, she decides the other thing she knows about morals is nobody really talks about them unless they’ve got something specific in mind. Why do you ask?
She realizes suddenly that she’s been nervously tapping the table with the fingers of her left hand, then frowns slightly behind her napkin and lays her hand flat against the table. Granted this whole morning has left her flooded with anxiety, especially Slate’s recent revelation about Vibe – which she still isn’t quite sure what to do about – there’s still no reason to act nervous.
Which in turn makes her realize what she’s been noticing about Slate – he seems nervous. Or… no, that’s not right, most of him seems just as calm as ever, the way he sits and sips his tea, his hands moving with no wasted motion, his eyes… ah. That’s the difference. Until recently, Slate’s eyes had been focused, clear, attending to whatever he was interacting with. Now, they flit around everywhere, the way they usually do.
> “"Perhaps you have spent too much time in the company of my other half, Miss Teresa. That answer... did not actually answer anything.”
Sonya isn’t sure which answer he means – the one about who her contact is, or the one about whether she’s psychic – but she supposes the comment applies equally to both, and she nods. "That’s true, it didn’t. But it has nothing to do with spending time with Calley – he would just lie about it, instead of not answering the question. Would you prefer that?" She smiles a little, and adds with a tilt of her chin towards Slate’s head "He’s back up in there now, right?"
> "Is this contact someone that only the Order is aware of, > or are the rest of us benefiting from this information, as well?"
"Honestly, I don't know. Here's how I understand it: there are several contacts in the Camps; some report to Syn, others to Hunter. For all I know, others report to other people. Come to that, I’ve made some friends of my own. Y’all could do the same if you want… actually, maybe you already have." Actually, she realizes, given his access to additional forms, Calley can no doubt peek into every corner of the Camps if he wants. "The stuff I hear, comes from Syn's contacts. I assume Hunter’s contacts have found stuff out too, but I don't know what. I don’t know how much Syn is sharing with him, or how much either of them is sharing with 'the rest of us', but if you want my opinion I think nobody's sharing much of anything with anyone."
The amusing thing about that answer is that it’s entirely accurate. She’s not sure why that matters to her, but it does. Not that she wouldn’t be willing to lie to Slate if it came to that, but she’s happier not having to.
All of which leaves her wondering how she could potentially communicate with the real Slate, without letting Hunter know anything… and what he would do with the information he gave her. Slate… if I could somehow get the point across to you out there that I was willing to help get him out from under Hunter’s thumb, without Hunter overhearing, would you – the you out there, I mean – believe me? Or would you just figure I was setting you up for a fall?
Posted by Cheshire on Mar 14, 2008 14:11:44 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
> ...maybe morals are what you get when you act like other people are worth something… like it matters whether they live or die, whether they hurt, whether they’ve got somewhere to live or are left out on the street… that sort of thing. Y’know?
Slate had been afraid of that. Hmm.
> Why do you ask?
It is a topic that I have found myself in a position to think upon lately, Miss Teresa. He answered her truthfully, and left it at that.
The napkin hand was behaving itself. No more suspicious movements... Which was almost disappointing, really. Enter hand number two. It was tapping. Tapping in a delightfully semi-suspicious-but-probably-not-really manner. Two fingers twice, one finger once. The one was that nice middle finger, come back to play again. Two twice, one once... two twice, one once... in-ter-es-ting...
Slate, have we ever told Teresa here about our sister?
...Not in the detail to which your thoughts are tending.
Didn't think so. Huh. But interesting, none the less. It almost looked like Teresa was trying to play Lump Charades, Breakfast-Style. The Lump being, of course, his step-mother, and Charades being their answer to being forced to eat meals with the woman. Breakfast-Style because in the morning, they'd had the legitimate excuse of being too out of it to speak. Never actually stopped them from holding full conversations... though he'd never been clear on whether they'd ever been talking about the same thing. That was hardly the point, though.
> "That’s true, it didn’t. But it has nothing to do with spending time with Calley – he would just lie about it, instead of not answering the question. Would you prefer that?"
A smile, a tilt of the chin towards their own fine head. Nothing else from the hands. Huh. I'm probably just going insane.
No doubt.
> "He’s back up in there now, right?"
"For the past few minutes, yes." Slate gave an assenting nod of their head. "I must admit, I am confused as to why sheer avoidance of a question is preferable to a lie. I am not entirely clear as to why a lie is considered an undesirable response to begin with. I have observed many occasions when lies are preferable to the truth, and many others where truth was used to much more deceitful ends than lies." He took another sip of his tea. "Is there some difference between a truthful and an untruthful response of which I am not aware?"
> "...but if you want my opinion I think nobody's sharing much of anything with anyone."
"Hmm," Slate replied, setting down his tea. Nothing much more needed to be said, on that topic. He picked up his chopsticks, and began methodically savoring his mock duck and potatoes. [/color]
> Slate… if I could somehow get the point across to you out there that I was willing to help get him out from under Hunter’s thumb, without Hunter overhearing, would you – the you out there, I mean – believe me? Or would you just figure I was setting you up for a fall?
...That is a curious question, Miss Teresa, with no definitive answer. I would be inclined to believe you; however, the me 'out there' is no longer who I am. He has distinctly better reasons to mistrust you than I do; most pressingly being your sudden and seemingly inexplicable gain in knowledge. However... He added cautiously, It may be worth a try. Do you have any ideas for communication? He asked, blatantly ignoring the short snicker that question earned from Calley.
Calley, meanwhile--the real Calley--had another thing in mind that might be worth a try. Mostly because it couldn't hurt anything. You mind if I...?
...I suppose not.
Taking brief control of their right hand (Slate was attempting, with a degree of success, to use their left hand to control the chop sticks), he did exactly what he would have done if Teresa really was playing Lump Charades: he tapped the first two fingers of his hand twice, the middle finger once, and then all five at once. Two words; second word first. Got it.
The Calley in Teresa's head gave a little mental grin. Good me. Second word first it was, then: he tried to put the napkin back down, and have its edge brush against at least two of the animal pictures on that paper Zodiac placemat they each had in front of them.
> It is a topic that I have found myself in a position to think upon lately, Miss Teresa.
Sonya responds with the mental equivalent of a grin. Perhaps you have spent too much time in the company of your other half, Mister Slate. That answer… did not actually answer anything.
> "I must admit, I am confused as to why sheer avoidance of a question is > preferable to a lie. I am not entirely clear as to why a lie is considered an > undesirable response to begin with. I have observed many occasions when > lies are preferable to the truth, and many others where truth was used to > much more deceitful ends than lies. Is there some difference between a > truthful and an untruthful response of which I am not aware?"
There’s something wonderfully ironic about Slate saying that in the same conversation that the other Slate just got finished avoiding a question, and she lets the mental grin show on her face as she answers. "Hm. That’s an interesting question. Actually, it’s… I think three interesting questions? Anyway… yeah, I guess if you’re deceiving someone just the same, it doesn’t really matter whether you deceive them with the truth or a lie or whatever. You’re right. As for avoidance and stuff… hell, I dunno. Let me put it this way: personally, I’d rather not be lied to or deceived, but that doesn’t mean you have to answer every question I ask you. If you don’t want to answer, don’t answer. How about you: would you rather be lied to, deceived, or just not answered, given the choice? And… hm. Maybe only two question: I can’t tell if you’re asking why deceiving someone is considered a bad thing. Are you? "
> It may be worth a try. Do you have any ideas for communication?
Well, if we could somehow convince him to cover up the camera on that collar, we could just pass notes back and forth. Actually, I’m surprised you… I mean, he… they… haven’t done that already.
Of course, that depends on the assumption that they actually don’t want Hunter to know what’s going on. Which, now that she thinks about it, is obviously false about Calley, at least: he’d had the chance to tell her, and had made up that stupid lie about Syn and the apartment being bugged instead.
And Slate-out-there had gone along… stopped Calley from killing her, or so he said, but done nothing to stop her from talking freely once they left the apartment, or to suggest there was anything listening. And he could have… all he’d needed to do was toss that stupid scarf over the collar and give her a silent signal that they were being eavesdropped on.
Oh, she thinks, too startled by the realization of her own idiocy to avoid thinking “out loud” as various facts slip into place. I’m being an idiot, aren’t I?
When Slate-in-her-head told her about the collar, she’d stupidly assumed that Slate-out-there would want her to know, if he’d been able to communicate it. But, of course, he was able to communicate it, just like Calley had been able to communicate the crap about Syn.
Without thinking about it, she’d assumed it meant Slate and Calley weren’t actually loyal to Hunter in the first place. She has no reason to believe that, really. She’d just been acting as if they were on the same side. Stupid. She’d said it herself, really… she’s not cut out for this life. She’s treating these people like friends! Hell, Slate-out-there had told her the Order was the enemy, and she just hadn’t listened.
The previous night’s despair returns, without even the buffer of alcohol to blunt it, and this game she’s playing with the Slates seems both altogether over her head and not worth the effort. They don’t have to put us in camps, you know that? They could just leave us alone and we’d save them the trouble. Just… just forget the whole thing, Slate. This whole thing was a huge mistake. You should've just let Calley kill me, put me out of my own stupidity.
Not for the first time, she wishes she knew how to purge a personality from her mind. She can walk out of the restaurant, of course, but there seems little point. So she just concentrates on finishing her noodles.
(( OOC: all the handplay works fine. And someone needs to put Sonya on antidepressives, quickly! ))
Posted by Cheshire on Mar 15, 2008 13:33:51 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
> "Let me put it this way: personally, I’d rather not be lied to or deceived, but that doesn’t mean you have to answer every question I ask you. If you don’t want to answer, don’t answer. How about you: would you rather be lied to, deceived, or just not answered, given the choice? And… hm. Maybe only two questions: I can’t tell if you’re asking why deceiving someone is considered a bad thing. Are you? "
Slate tilted their head to the side, suddenly quite entranced. Miss Teresa's words were... novel, to say the least of the matter. "I would rather be lied to. And yes, I suppose I am asking why lies and deceit are defined as bad." He answered. There was so much more that could be read from a lie than from a question successfully avoided; as for deceit, it was simply how people interacted--what, then, made it such a repulsive thing? Those questions of hers had not been the novelty, however. He asked, quite impulsively: "Have you met people who have not attempted to deceive you, then? The way you talk..." He allowed himself to trail off again; it was a method of speech he was beginning to see the merits in. It was particularly useful in situations where one really did not know how to complete a sentence. Her words seemed to take for granted, on some intrinsic level, that the entirety of human speech was not directed towards mutual deceit. Perhaps it was not even directed towards self-gain, in her mind. How fantastic that must be.
"Optimistic" is more like it.
Is that such a bad thing?
Yep. And you know it. Optimism is what had us stop pretending to be a cat. We were optimistic that things might work out better if people knew we were a mutant. You see where optimism gets you?
...People know we exist, now.
Is that such a good thing?
> Well, if we could somehow convince him to cover up the camera on that collar, we could just pass notes back and forth. Actually, I’m surprised you… I mean, he… they… haven’t done that already.
Slate hesitated to respond; without revealing that Hunter was a psychic--which, given that they just withheld that information, would put him in an awkward position--it was hard to explain why their real selves hadn't simply told Miss Teresa what was going on. ...I am afraid that the situation does not--
> Oh, I’m being an idiot, aren’t I?
...Pardon me?
> They don’t have to put us in camps, you know that? They could just leave us alone and we’d save them the trouble. Just… just forget the whole thing, Slate. This whole thing was a huge mistake. You should've just let Calley kill me, put me out of my own stupidity.
...Is something wrong, Miss Teresa? Slate asked, honestly confused, and possibly concerned. Since Calley found it seemingly impossible to be more than superficially concerned about someone else for very long, Slate found it doubtful that he was capable of doing better. He was fairly confident that it was some degree of concern he was feeling, however.
[/color]...What's with her hissy fit? Did I miss something?
...I do not know.
Okay. Well... meh.[/i] Really, it wasn't his problem. He had one more word to get across. To that end: he tapped her pointer finger, just once. Then he tried to get her to sit up straight. Given her sudden bout of whatever-reason depression, that might be tricky, but again: meh. It really didn't matter if she noticed he was messing with her at this point, as long as he got that one last word across. That would officially put the ball in his other self's court.[/color]
His other self was waiting for that last word. 'Cause he had some guesses about the first one, but they might or might not make sense. Right now, he was leaning towards 'not'. Discounting that earlier grin and a few other stray movements she'd done, he was thinking that the napkin brush was the signal meant for him. If she actually was trying to get across a signal. If she really had meant for the napkin to be his focus. If she really had meant to brush it across multiple animals. 'Cause multiple animals made him think multi-shifter. ...In which case he really was just reading too much into some stray twitches, because Teresa being like him really didn't explain anything.
> "I would rather be lied to. And yes, I suppose I am asking why > lies and deceit are defined as bad. Have you met people who > have not attempted to deceive you, then? The way you talk..."
Sonya squints, hard… she hadn’t expected that answer, and she’s not sure what to do with it. “Oh,” she replies, feeling foolish. “Yeah… I guess I have. I mean, not about everything, but about stuff that matters… yeah.” She shakes her head, ruefully. “Not since coming here, though.”
> Is something wrong, Miss Teresa?
Yeah, Slate. Something’s wrong. Your original out there just summed it up, actually.
She wants to explain… at least part of her does… but she’s not sure it’s worth the effort. After all, she’d agreed to this life. Not that she’d had a lot of choices, granted, but she’d agreed to it. So, these are the rules of that life: no friends, no family, just allies of convenience. Why complain about it now?
Besides, Calley and Slate may have the right idea. She’d stuck her neck out yesterday to rescue that kid and all it got her was a bullet in the spine. She’d thrown her lot in with Syn and the Order because she wanted to help get mutants out of the Camps, but it turns out Syn’s running her own game and they’re all happy to let the inmates rot, and it turns out everything she told Syn has probably been passed along to the guy she’s assigned him to investigate.
Maybe it was time she started looking out for her own interests. Lord knows nobody else was offering to. “I guess you’re right, Slate. Comes down to it, it’s kinda stupid to believe anything anyone says.” She sits up straight and rifles through her wallet; unable to find anything smaller, she throws a $20 bill onto the table as she gets up. “I should go, I think. ”
Posted by Cheshire on Mar 16, 2008 18:58:30 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
A squint. What did a squint mean?
I believe it is a facial expression in response to something I said.
...You're ruining my big "she's inexplicably trying to non-verbally communicate with us" conspiracy theory, Slate.
It deserved ruining.[/i]
> “Oh, yeah… I guess I have. I mean, not about everything, but about stuff that matters… yeah. Not since coming here, though.”
Slate's head was already tilted to the side, and tilted it stayed. "There is a difference between selective deceit and continuous deceit?" He puzzled. "Interesting. I was not aware of that."[/color]
Okay, she's shaking her head. Shaking her head... Well that's a "no", but what's she saying "no" to? Or maybe disappointment... Disappointment + shifting = bipolar?
...Did you wish me to give that guess merit by replying to it?
Hush, ye unbeliever.
> Yeah, Slate. Something’s wrong. Your original out there just summed it up, actually.
I am afraid that I do not understand, Miss Teresa. ...You do not sound well. Are you okay?[/color]
“I guess you’re right, Slate. Comes down to it, it’s kinda stupid to believe anything anyone says.”
Slate's eyebrows furrowed together. "That is not quite what I have observed, actually. It is not that you cannot believe that people are honest: it is that you cannot be disappointed when they are not."
So she's sitting up straight, messing with her wallet, throwing money on the table... is there something important with a twenty? That's a pretty good tip. Huh. If it's the sitting up that's important, than... I'm lost. Multi-millionaire? Pfft. My butt. Umm, the throwing it? ...Aggressive, angry, frustrated... The sitting up; good posture, proper, drawing attention to herself, herself, human, female, woman--
> “I should go, I think.”
--Wait, what? Hold up! Too many signals. What's the first word?
...You assume there was a second word. You assume there were words at all.
There were! Maybe.
...I don't think he's gettin' it. Or if he is, he's not confirming. I'm thinking of doing something less subtle. Are you up for something less subtle, Slate?
...Hmm.
Let's take her over, and just tell them flat out what she is. 'Cause let's face it: we probably won't be able to control her for long so she'll be next to useless as a weapon against Hunter, we've probably gotten the juiciest info out of her already, and she's pretty useless and whiny as a regular person. Plus she seems to be spiraling down a deep depressive hole, which probably will be boring. And she can't hear me. Which is annoying. Something else that's annoying: other-me doesn't know what me does. Seriously. Let's get some use out of her, and tell us what we know. Doesn't matter if the Boss Man knows it, just as long as we do, too.
...You are a wellspring of sympathy.
...Yeah. Well, in any case, launching that take-over now. Might need your help.
...I will not interfere.
Good enough.
He'd messed with each of her arms and legs already; it was just a teensy step upwards to mess with them all at once. And her vocal chords. Yep. Can you say "human shifter"? He aimed to turn her around, and get out those two words before she quite knew what hit her.[/color]
She turns away from the table, walks toward the exit, attempting to keep a composed expression on her face.
What she wants to do is make a scene, maybe throw a teapot in his lap, but that’s ridiculous… she’d been the one stupid enough to forget the real situation; he’d – they’d – just done been doing exactly what she should have expected… what she herself had been doing before she’d irrationally decided he could be trusted. Protecting their secrets, furthering their interests, cementing their alliances. She can’t blame him for that.
The only problem was her own, and Slate had just said it perfectly: she’d allowed herself to become disappointed that the alliance he had in mind wasn’t with her. So she restricts herself to walking away, pointedly ignoring his final comments.
> Hm… you are a wellspring of sympathy… I will not interfere
Oh… right. She’d forgotten, in the throes of emotion, that one pair of them was staying with her no matter where she went. She’s not happy about the reminder. She also wonders what it is that Slate isn’t going to interfere with.
A moment later that becomes somewhat clearer. Before she’s quite aware of what’s happening, she turns back to the table. "Human…
"relations, Slate. That’s what you don’t have any real experience of. People you can trust. Friends.” She feels strange, detached from her own body in a fashion that is at the same time frightening and familiar. "Never mind… it doesn’t matter. I should go.”
They are the words she would say, and she’s saying them the way she would say them, but… it’s not really her saying them. At least it doesn’t feel like her. At first she’d thought it was Calley and Slate trying to take over… and she’s somehow certain that it was; that that’s what Slate had agreed not to interfere with.
But she’s equally sure that they’re gone, now... not just quiet, but gone. Her mind is her own… at least, as much so as it ever is. And there's still just as little point to continuing this conversation as there was a moment ago.
Posted by Cheshire on Mar 17, 2008 12:35:06 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Calley was in the middle of free-word association time when Teresa so abruptly turned back towards their table. Money, financial security, throwing, wasting, blowing, sitting up--attention, focus, proper, woman, human--
> "Human…"
Human?
> "relations, Slate. That’s what you don’t have any real experience of. People you can trust. Friends. Never mind… it doesn’t matter. I should go.”
Two words, second word first: multi-shifter. First word: human. Now ain't that interesting.
Slate's hands tensed, then relaxed against the table. Miss Teresa turned again to leave.
That might actually sorta kinda make sense. Human shifter. We keep hearing about animal shifters that have instincts and stuff from the animals they turn into, and we know that we do some pretty funky copying things--she could have copied us, I guess. That might sorta maybe explain the fact she suddenly seems to know everything about us. What do you think? Slate? ...What are you do--?
He slammed the mental barrier back in place, quite effectively silencing the rest of his mind. Quite effectively leaving himself alone with only himself.
The table was now empty as well, except for him. An alert waiter bused Miss Teresa's plates. He never made eye-contact with the young man left at the table.
There was a faint strand of a song he did not recognize, playing from the kitchen: "Excuse me but can I be you for a while..." A brief burst of laughter from the cooks. There was the ever-present white noise of cars passing by on the street. Honking. Tires squealing. There was a young woman walking out the door of the restaurant. "I got something to say you know but nothing comes/Yes I know what you think of me--you never shut up/Yeah I can hear that." There was a bell at the top of the door: it shook and tinkled merrily as her hand pulled the door open.
It had been quite some time since he last found himself simply watching things. That was how he began: just quietly watching. The absence of internal noise, he remembered, was quite pleasing. He did not remember the silence being accompanied by the sensation of feeling ill.
There was a low knot of black discomfort just below his ribs, within his digestive track. It was not painful, but it hurt.
> "Human relations, Slate. That’s what you don’t have any real experience of. People you can trust. Friends. Never mind… it doesn’t matter. I should go."
> "it doesn't matter."
His left hand was shaking. Seeing the involuntary motion made him feel ashamed of it; he hid the hand in his pocket. Curious. Very curious. How very marvelously wonderfully curious that it did not matter to her whether he had friends or not. How very fantastically curious, since he had thought they had been in agreement that they were friends. As close to friends as he seemed capable of, in any case. How gloriously curious that his best just did not matter to the charming Miss Teresa.
He took out their wallet, and set down a matching twenty with his right hand. He did not realize until the plates left on the table jumped and shook that "slammed down" might be the better choice of words.
Am I angry?
His right hand was shaking now, as well. He angrily--yes, angrily; and wasn't that just the novelty to top all novelties--shoved it into a pocket, as well. Then he stood and stomped--he! stomped!--out of the restaurant, shouldering open the door, and searching his memory for the appropriate derogatory adjectives to describe the noise of the cheerfully tinkling bell. He made no move to catch up with the young woman. It was so much quicker to shout after her, and stay standing right where they were.
"I am sorry if I spoiled your day, Miss Teresa! I am sorry if the fact I have never met anyone who conforms to your standards of trustworthiness leaves you disappointed! I am sorry that you find my attempts at friendship disagreeable! I would be sorry if you felt it necessary to avoid us in the future! Goodbye! So long!"
I am behaving like an idiot. He knew that; he was blushing furiously because of it.
It felt good. He was smiling, as well, just the slightest bit.
"Additionally, it is a fish tank! Fish brick is merely the utterance of a woman who cannot hold enough liquor to match the water level of her personal issues!"
(( OOC: I don't think there's any way to improve on Slate's cash-slamming, fist-clenching, foot-stomping, lame-outburst-having, virginal breakup tantrum as a way to end this particular thread. * bows in acknowledgement of superior thread-ending technology and retreats * ))