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 Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
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.
She was eating. That was good. That was one bridge crossed. Sure, if she hadn't have wanted to take his charity she could have managed alright. God knows, Mat used to manage when it came to scavenging through bins and leftovers and scraps. You could survive on that stuff, but it was nothing compared to food prepared directly for you. Regardless of where it came from, a hot meal was a hot meal.
>>> “Five…maybe six months? I can’t really remember...My last day at home was…a little hazy. So I’ve been gone ever since. I had to get adjusted to the streets quick. I had to.”
“Sink or swim, huh? I know the feeling,” Mat replied. With one hasty decision, before Mat had realised it he was on the train to the city, with nowhere to go or stay. It seemed a thin line, at the time, between having a home and being homeless. More a state of mind, than a state of living. A simple choice with all sorts of consequences.
>>> “Yourself? Don’t exactly look like you have a house in ‘burbs. Why you in the street?”
“No, I guess I don't,” Mat chuckled in response. “Hmmm, Well I've been in New York for about...five months? Back home though...” Mat paused to try and figure it out. Truth was, he had stopped keeping track ages ago. “I dunno, 'bout four years?”
Had it really been that long?
“As for why...it started outta of fear, I guess. I grew up in a small town where everybody knew everybody else. When I figured out that I was a mutant, I panicked. I couldn't put my parents through that, especially not after...” He trailed off. That wasn't a story Agnes need to know, and wasn't one that Mat particularly felt like telling. “Anyway, I jumped on a train, headed to the city, and haven't looked back since.”
Mat's eyes flicked over to the girl, before returning to inspecting the garden. Now that he thought about it, Agnes was probably around the same age he had been when he had ran away. So young. Despite the fact that he was probably only a few years older, he felt like it was much more than that. He wasn't sure if it was living on the streets that had made him feel so old, or whether it was just looking at this girl, who reminded him of his friend, and in many ways, himself at that age. Maybe it was simply that the older you got, the older you felt.
“I dunno,” he continued, musing aloud, “I just feel free on the streets, y'know? Like I can live my life how I want to live it, without interference from anyone else.” There were times where Mat often wondered if he was being foolish, or naive. Whether there was any real freedom in self-imposed poverty. He was free to go where he wanted, and to sleep where he wanted. His name was not scribbled down on any contracts, leases, or other arrangements that he was bound to. He wore no shackles, other than the ones he placed on himself.
Surely, that was freedom?
Mat reached across and grabbed another fried morsel. “So how about you? Why are you out here?”
As he was setting up his things, Mat heard the sound of a harmonica drifting on the wind. It started out as nothing, just someone doodling on various notes and phrases. But soon it morphed into something familiar. A Christmas carol that Mat couldn't remember the name of. He could never remember the name of any carol, save one or two. The harmonica music soon began to alternate with a voice, both taking up the melody at different intervals. Mat smiled, the sound making him feel nostalgic for past Christmases. He spotted a woman resting on one of the statues he had passed, harmonica in hand.
“Hey Bass Man,” he yelled across the way to Derrick, “sounds like you've got some competition.”
“You watch me boy, I'll draw the biggest crowd you've ever seen. I'm the Bass Man!”
Mat laughed as he continued to stock his table. He had to admit, even though he had seen it before, watching Derrick perform was a sight and a half. The guy was half man, half instrument, and he played himself like a virtuoso. Mat knew there was probably a taunt there somewhere, but chances were Derrick had heard it all before. His music was impeccable, and the people watching had started to notice. And then the strangest thing happened.
People began to crowd around and watch.
Mat couldn't believe his eyes. People. Human people. Stopping to watch a mutant perform his art. No burning torches, no raised pitchforks. Just an open mind and an open ear.
“Bass Man statues! Bass Man statues! C'mon folks, who wants one?”
Hopefully, open wallets as well
Derrick finished his opening song and the gathered audience gave a great applause. He began to address the crowd, his mischievous charm and bluster coming through, telling jokes, holding the people riveted. Mat had to admit, the guy was definitely a great showman. .
A woman with long brown hair approached Mat's trestle and began browsing his sculptures. She looked to be a few years older than him, but that didn't stop him appreciating her...aesthetic quality. She smiled at him, and Mat couldn't help but notice her gorgeous blue eyes.
Always, the blue eyes.
>>> “G'day.”
Now that was interesting. Her accent was unmistakably British, but there was a familiar note to it, an unmistakable timbre. The phrase she used finished the puzzle. An Aussie accent. He grinned at the woman, that curious interest, almost pride, that comes when discovering a fellow countryman. Or woman, for that matter.
“G'day,” he replied brightly, heavily exaggerating his own accent. He hadn't realised until this moment, but he must have been quite homesick. More so than he realised. “How's it going today? Anything take your fancy?”
It was then that he placed her leather jacket. She had been the woman on the statue. The one playing the Christmas carol. He gave her a cheeky smirk. “You were the one playing the harmonica before? The competition?” he teased, nodding towards Derrick.
She led him on a merry journey, full of all sorts of twists and turns. They scampered through gates, and over fences, and around all manner of obstacles. This girl knew the alleys well. It didn't take all that long for Mat to lose his bearings. The longer Mat found himself spending in this city, the more he discovered that he really knew nothing. New York was a maze to him, a maze that grew larger every time you looked around a corner.
Still, he had his guide. That counted for something.
She navigated the path with no hesitance at all. Complete conviction and knowledge. She kept throwing suspicious glances over her shoulder, and all the while kept a significant distance in front. He grinned to himself as he ate another chip. She was more seasoned on the streets than he had first thought. And she was no fool. That was good. Too many people got into trouble on the streets because they were fools.
Eventually they came to a old wooden fence. The rusted metal screamed in protest as Agnes pushed it open, and the girl slipped through the opening. Mat followed her through the fence and as he looked around, his breath caught in his throat. It was the back garden of some abandoned old house, a hidden grove amidst the concrete jungle. Old growth of bushes and shrubs lurked from out of their resting places, overtaking whatever stood in their way. Grass had broken through the concrete and stone paths. A small pond, long forgotten sat filled with stagnant, algae-ridden water. It was an oasis long neglected, struggling to survive. It was beautiful.
It reminded him of another secret garden he once lived in.
>>> “You coming?”
Mat grinned and made his way to the bench she had sat on, easing himself down on the opposite end. He sat the bag of food in the middle, between them, and opened the packaging, letting the aroma fill the air. He sat the spare can of soft drink on Agnes side of the bench, next to the food.
“Help yourself,” he offered, grabbing a fried prawn for himself. Or shrimp, or whatever it was they called it in this country.
The greasy, battered morsel filled Mat with satisfaction, and he began to laugh. He couldn't help himself. The realisation of everything that had happened not long ago was just starting to sink in. And rather than fret about what may have happened, or what could have happened, Mat simply laughed.
“I tell you what, that was bloody close before,” he chuckled. “We did alright, getting out of that.” Slowly, he began to calm down. Maybe laughter wasn't the best reaction to have, but what was he going to do? If getting attacked, and escaping by the skin of your teeth is the worst thing that happened to you today, you should consider yourself lucky, right?
“This is a nice spot. Reminds me of a place I used to live. A secret little garden that belonged to a friend of mine.” Mat wasn't sure why he had mentioned that. Still, it wouldn't hurt to volunteer a little information for Agnes.
“You know the streets pretty well. You been out here long?”
May as well try and learn something about this girl.
“...and they're all gonna show up, right?” Mat asked as he strolled briskly, backpack hanging heavy from his shoulders.
“Of course they're gonna show, boy. Who do you think you're talking to here? We are going to make us some money today!”
“Okay Bass Man, I'll take your word for it.”
A gust of winter wind slapped Mat in the face, causing him to wrap coat and scarf tighter. Winter, it seemed, had finally laid siege to the great city of New York. Melbourne, as cold and unpredictable as it could get, did not see snow. He wasn't sure whether or not the snow was a lot for the time of the year, all Mat knew was that he didn't overly care for it.
For the last few weeks, Mat had been squatting with a group of vagrants whom he had met in various capacities. They spent most of their time in a burnt out old apartment, the very one he had been looking for when he had met Agnes and helped her fight her attackers off. The other squatters were all fine people, folk Mat could be happy staying with. One man, Mat had hit it off with in particular. The man who was now walking beside him, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a guitar case, taking long lazy strides. He had a small trestle table nestled under his arm. Not a care in the world.
A kindred spirit.
At about 6'6, and with a round gut and barrel chest, Derrick the Bass Man was a big man with a long neck, longer than normal. A neck that marked him out as a mutant. Currently, it was wrapped with three different scarves, but Mat got the feeling that Derrick didn't really mind the cold. They were strolling along a waterfront promenade of some sort, Mat wasn't sure what or where it was. New York it turned out, was on a whole other level than Melbourne and Sydney, and other cities he had been to. It was easy, far easier than he would have liked, for Mat to lose his way here.
Derrick, it turned out, was somewhat of an underground celebrity amongst the street performers and artists and alternative musicians of the city. On the first night they had crashed together, Derrick had told Mat about himself. Juliard trained, Derrick was a prodigious musician, who after several mishaps in his life, became disillusioned with the world. In fit of rebellion, he had turned to the streets as a means to free up his soul and his art. After a nearly a decade or so performing in various clubs, on the streets, and generally anywhere he could, the Bass Man had made a name for himself. Or so he said. With whatever word he sent out through his mystery lines of communication, Derrick had assured Mat that the crowds would come, and that not even the fact of his being a mutant would stop that.
Mat had to admit, he was sceptical. From Australia, New York had seen like a sanctuary for mutants. A place where liberal minded urbanites would accept the new strain of humanity with, at the least, a stoic tolerance. Instead, Mat had only seen the segregation, the mistreatment and neglect of his kind. It was no different here than at home. In fact, in many ways, it seemed worse. Still, if Derrick was speaking the truth, than Mat was curious to stick around and see.
Which had led Derrick to suggesting that Mat make some sculptures of him in action to sell to the crowd. Seeing the potential profit in this, Mat had agreed, and was now hauling the heavy load on his back. He had variety of smaller sized sculptures, as well as two larger ones. The plan was to hold back the originals and duplicate until Mat was unable to make any more. All in all, Mat was hoping to make a decent buck.
The waterfront, Mat had to admit, was a beautiful place. Over the railings to his right, the sunlight shimmered on the water like shattered glass. Tourist boats glided along in the distance, showing off the city to the world's denizens. To his left, cafes, bars and restaurants sat shoulder to shoulder. Some were clearly suited to the upscale market, fancy silverware and priceless glasses. Foie gras, and all that. Other places catered to the more common crowd, those of moderate means and larger appetites. Up ahead, Mat could see a line of sculptures lining the railings. He inspected them with interest as he passed. Some were more traditional, stone people in varying poses. Some were more abstract, various shapes and objects that either held some enlightened philosophical musing on the nature of beauty and aesthetics, or was simply made because it looked 'cool'. Either way, Mat was impressed. He made a mental note to come back here at night and make a few contributions of his own.
Ahead of the sculptures, Derrick finally stopped walking. He craned his long neck around and inspected the area. With a small nod, seemingly satisfied, he sat down the case and trestle and began to unwrap his scarves.
“This is good. You set up shop over the way, and I'll do my thing right here. Let's bring these cats in.” He gave Mat a wide grin, then began to take his shirt off.
When Mat had first met Derrick, he had introduced himself as the Bass Man. Assuming it was some nickname he had earned from the streets, Mat went along with it. It wasn't until a few days later, when Derrick demonstrated why he had the name, that Mat understood.
With his shirt on, Derrick looked strangely misshapen for a man. His shoulders sat too low, his waist was smaller than his hips, almost like an woman with an hourglass figure. His stomach and chest were almost squarely shaped. Very rigid. It was only when the man took his shirt off, that his shape took on that of a double bass. His belly button was larger than normal, an opening which resembled a resonating chamber on an acoustic guitar. Two more 'f' shaped holes sat on the bottom of each rib. Below his belly button, a bridge of sorts held up four thick membrane strings that were attached Derrick's hip, running all the way up his chest, up his neck and stopping just below his head. Now, Derrick's freakishly long neck greatly resembled a fingerboard. With a grin, Derrick slapped his chest. Instead of the meaty thump Mat expected, there was a wooden knock.
He literally was, the Bass Man.
Mat took the trestle and set it up on the opposite side of the promenade. Placing the backpack on the ground, Mat began to unload his sculptures. There were a few people here and there, not too populated. But they had all noticed Derrick now, and they were all watching.
COMPLETED - New York, New York, Baby - Arriving in New York City, Mat takes the time to muse on his new home, enjoying the opportunities and inspirations that come with it (Solo)
Autumn 2010:
COMPLETED - Fifteen Finger Discount - An attempt at shoplifting goes further than anticipated, leading to a 'hostage situation', police involvement, and a makeshift alliance with a woman who throws Mat into the deep end (Effigy/Cosmina)
continued in...
COMPLETED - On the Rocks - After the heist, Mat and Mute go back to her place for a drink and to lay low. Games and teasing ensue, treading the fine line between infatuation and possible death... (Effigy/Cosmina)
COMPLETED - No Peace for the Hungry - Mat's chivalrous instincts get the better of him, causing him to help out a fellow street rat who is attacked by a pack of thugs (Effigy/Agnes)
Snakes on a Bus - Mat literally gets close to a new stranger when he gets wrapped up by a Gorgon mutant's snake. (Effigy/Andrea)
COMPLETED - Songs of Wine and Home - Mat's drunken song and dance in public attracts a large audience, only they're not as appreciative of mutant powers as the performer. Mat does happen to gain a new home out of it all, though... (Effigy/Andrew)
Alright, another artist! We shall have to compare works. Here's my card *hands over a piece of paper he picked up off the street, the name Effigy scrawled on it*
She never took her eyes off him. Agnes stuck out a small, grimy hand, grabbed a chip, and all the while she never stopped watching him. Mat should have expected it. Parents always taught their children not to take candy from strangers. Just because he was using chips instead didn't change the fact that this girl and he were strangers to each other. Mat gave a mental sigh, a little ashamed that he hadn't though that through very well. Still, she took a chip and, judging by her reaction, enjoyed it.
It was a start.
When he asked if she knew anywhere they could eat Agnes did not respond. In fact, she had no reaction whatsoever. Except to stare again. This time though, Mat got the feeling he may have said something wrong. May have overstepped his boundary. Eventually Agnes nodded, and told him to follow her in a faint whisper.
“Lead the way.”
As Mat trailed along to wherever Agnes was taking him, he mentally berated himself. He was being too casual, too familiar. This girl, Agnes, she wasn't Bloom. She wasn't Trip. She wasn't one of his friends from the commune. She was a girl who had just been attacked. Who had possibly been attacked before. And who he had only known for less than an hour. All in all, he was probably doing a good job of freaking the poor girl out.
He resisted the urge to physically smack himself in the forehead, but only just.
He wondered what he could do to convince her to trust him. To convince her that he wanted to help, that he understood how hard it was. Deep down, he applauded her standoffishness. It was smart of her, and it meant that she understood how the streets worked. Yet it also meant that it would be tough to convince her that he wasn't trying to take advantage of her. That he was simply trying to help.
He idly wondered whether he had been that mistrustful when he had first started living in the streets.
Deciding that now wasn't the best time to start making chit-chat with Agnes, Mat stayed silent and followed her to wherever she was leading him, nibbling on his chips while he walked.
As he waited for the girl to get his food, Mat glanced back at the entrance. Agnes was still standing outside, waiting for him. That was good, she hadn't run. He supposed that she may have been shaken up about the attack, and he couldn't fault her for that. If the slight tremor that had sprung up in his hands were any indication, so was he. More than likely the adrenaline of the fight was wearing down.
“Here you go sir,” the girl behind the counter chirped. She handed him a plastic bag with his order in it, and Mat handed her the money. With a smile, and a thank you, Mat grabbed a handful of serviettes from a dispenser and strolled out of the shop. He briefly considered leaving a sculpture in his wake, just to mess with the clientele a little. However, figuring it would bring too much unwanted attention, Mat decided against it.
He stepped out into the cold night air and saw Agnes eating from an crumpled old bag of fries, most likely fished out of the bin he had hit his head on during the fight. He remembered her screaming something about the thugs interrupting her dinner, while she was pounding the crap out of one of them with her piece of pipe. She was probably scavenging for food when they came across her.
“Here, have a chip while they're still fresh,” Mat offered, holding the bag out to her. “I think they gave me too much food, there's no way I'm going to be able to finish all this.” He gave Agnes a wry grin, to show her that he wasn't offering out of pity. Even though, he kind of was.
“I guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach,” he smirked.
There was something about this girl. A timidness, a bitterness at the world, a sadness. He had seen it often on the streets. Downtrodden kids who had nowhere or no one to turn to. Betrayed by those who should be protecting them. He wondered about Agnes' parents, and whether they knew that their daughter was living in the streets. Maybe she didn't have parents. Or maybe her parents were the reason she was here and not at home.
Unbidden thoughts of Bloom suddenly entered his mind. When he had first met her, she was so scared and alone. So clearly a mutant, she had had nobody until the day Mat met her. The first mutant he had ever met, not including himself of course. Likewise for her. It all seemed so long ago. Another lifetime. Mat pushed the thoughts away. This was not the time, nor the place.
Still, he couldn't help but think that the only reason he wanted to help Agnes so much was to make it up to Bloom. For failing to protect her.
“So, know any good places we can stop and eat?” Again, if he gave Agnes the choice of where to go, chances were she wouldn't feel threatened.
Mat woke up with a jolt, and in a cold sweat. He had fallen asleep. He had let himself grow too complacent, had let his guard down, and had fallen asleep. Anxiety filled his chest and Mat began to feel the familiar tremors run through his body, the aftermath of his sleep phobia. His breathing was short, shallow, and fast, close to hyperventilation. It happened nearly every time, both before sleep and after. Those short moments of absolute terror, unsure of whether or not he would wake up again. Still, he was awake. Another day, and he was still alive. He had survived another night of sleep.
Two things he was acutely aware of upon awakening. The fact that his head throbbed in pain, the rushing of his blood like a piston bashing against his skull. And the fact that he was in a room, and more curiously, a nice warm bed. He looked over to the outline of sleeping woman beside him, and the memories came flooding back.
Mute. The robbery. The rum.
Carefully, ever so carefully, Mat eased himself from the bed. He didn't want to wake the woman. That would both complicate matters, and possibly be detrimental to his health and life.
He slipped into the living area, closing the door behind him, and made his way over to the corner where he had discarded his things. As quickly as he could, he threw on the rest of his clothes. He felt something bulging from the pockets of his trousers and jacket. The cash from the robbery. He had taken it on a whim, but suddenly it seemed too heavy. Seemed too tainted by the blood of an innocent police officer. Slipping his shoes on, Mat glanced around the room to see where he had left his razor. Without it, he couldn't leave.
He spied it on the coffee table, where he had left it the previous night, along with the stone arm and the glass couple. He raced over to retrieve it, placing it securely back in his sock, and paused. Maybe it had been a mistake coming back here. There was a chance that coming back to Mute's residence meant that he was never meant to leave. She had mentioned that Mat was the only person she had brought back here, so it was possible that she had intended to make sure Mat never revealed it's location.
But if that were the case, why did she bring him here in the first place?
It was the question that had been bugging him from the start. He had foolishly let his infatuation for the woman blind him to the fact. And that itself begged another question. What was it about Mute that Mat was so drawn to? Even now, as he was fleeing from her, he had half a mind to simply go back into the bedroom and lay back down next to her.
A peace offering was needed, Mat decided. Something that would show Mute that he wasn't a liability to her, that he would keep her secret safe. An idea popped into his head, and Mat carefully knocked against the glass table, forming the sculpture. Once it was done, he pulled some of the robbery cash from his pockets and stacked it next to the sculpture. He didn't need it all. Just enough to make do.
That task complete, his meagre possessions gathered, Mat made his way through the garage and slipped out into the cold dawn. The sun was only just beginning to rise, and the world was coloured with the pale, washed out tones of pre-light.
As he strolled briskly away from the warehouse, Mat hoped that Mute would take the meaning of his gesture. He was leaving for several reasons. The main one being that he didn't entire feel safe around the woman. But the other was something more ingrained, more instinctive. He simply didn't feel comfortable staying in one place, no matter how secure. It was still being tied down, regardless of whether or not his name was attached to the property or if he was simply staying for free. It was a gilded cage. No, Mat would stick to the streets. The streets were where he could find his freedom. That's why he didn't need the money. That's why he had left most of it, as a gesture of good will.
The sculpture, he hoped once more, would convey the rest. It was simple enough to his mind. A sculpture of himself, in the suit and coat he had stolen. With a smirk on its glass face, a finger was held up against its lips in a hushed pose.
He wouldn't talk. He'd keep her secret, as thanks for helping him out, and for trusting him enough to share the secret of her home. And if he ever saw her again, he would look her in the eye and tell her just that.
No sooner had Mat refilled her glass and asked about the TV, Mute leaned up against him and took a casual sip of her drink. Mat's eyes flicked across to her, watching her in interest. She told him that he could change the channel on the television, as she wasn't really paying attention. But any interest that he may have had about watching TV, which wasn't very high to begin with, had evaporated the moment Mute had snuggled up close. Seeing no other course of action, Mat dropped his arm from off the sofa and draped it around Mute's shoulders.
This game had just been raised a level.
Not for the first time since he had met her, Mat found himself wondering just who this woman was. What her deal was. At this close proximity, he took the time to really look at her. He had noticed that she was beautiful the moment he first laid eyes on her. That was half the reason he had gone along with her during the robbery. The death of the policeman had somewhat tarnished that beauty afterwards, but now that that incident was behind them Mat couldn't help but notice it yet again. She was sexy as hell, and she knew it.
A grin crept onto Mat's face. Mute was a dangerous woman. That much was abundantly clear. She was dangerous, shrewd, calculating, and ruthless. She had killed in broad daylight, then explained to Mat just why she did it. That it would have been too much of a hassle, not to mention a risk, to have handled it any other way. She was manipulative too. Had to be, for Mat to have fallen so hard for her charms. She was dangerous, ruthless, and manipulative.
And she fascinated him to no end...
They both sat in silence for several moments, gently sipping their rum. Mat continued watching her from the corner of his eye, trying to decide what he should do next. He had promised himself that he wouldn't be taken off-guard, and so he would bide his time and not do anything too rash. That was what she wanted him to do, what she expected. This was a battle of wills, to see who would break first. Through the pleasant haze of intoxication, Mat had the sudden urge to kiss her. Or maybe he had wanted to kiss her all along, and the rum was simply making that clear to him. Still, he wasn't going to fall into her trap. Not yet.
>>> “About sleeping arrangements. You can stay out here on the couch...or you can share with me. Either is fine.”
Well, damn.
Mute: 1, Mat: 0
He couldn't help it, he laughed. He laughed at just how helpless he really was. She was good. Every time he thought he was starting to get a feel for what she would do or say, she threw him for a loop. Every time he thought he was gaining an upper hand, she knocked him down a peg. She had manoeuvred him into a position where she had him at a disadvantage. If he accepted her offer, he lost the battle of wills. If he declined, well then, he simply lost.
Checkmate.
Still, he had been given a choice. And when you boiled it down, it wasn't much of a choice at all.
“Guess I'll share with you, then,” he answered with a smirk. “After all, it'd be rude of me not to, seeing as you offered so nicely.”
The glance the girl gave the restaurant did not go unnoticed. Mat had been on the streets a fair while now. Any shame he once felt about his situation had passed. Indeed, he even felt a sense of pride about being a street rat these days. Despite the cold, despite the hard times and the lean times, to Mat the streets symbolised the freedom he so desperately sought. He wasn't tied down to a mortgage, or to a landlord. Bills were of no concern. No need for him to waste his life away in the faceless anonymity of the 9-to-5 crowd. Money was not a concern for him. Apart from needing to eat, Mat honestly had no real need for money. He could find, or failing that, pilfer anything he needed. As long as he had enough to not starve he was okay. He was completely off the grid, unencumbered by society's expectations. He wore his homelessness as a badge of honour. So it was easy for him to forget that other vagrants didn't always share his sentiments.
The poor girl was probably too embarrassed to go inside.
>>> “My name is Agnes.”
Agnes. An old fashioned name. Mat gave the girl a friendly grin as he took her hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you Agnes, I'm Mat.” He glanced through the window of the store. There were several customers inside, but no one waiting in line. He released the handshake and wandered to the door, pausing before he went in. “I'll only be a sec, if you wanna wait out here.” She had chosen to follow him rather then go off by herself, so it was safe to say that she would stick around. If she bolted, then that would be that. But Mat knew that trying to force someone like her to stick around was an invite for her to run. By giving her the option to make her own decisions, Mat hoped that she would realise he wasn't trying to force her into anything.
He pushed the door open, and immediately all eyes turned in his direction. It was a common reaction. The general public often couldn't believe that a street person would have the means or the inclination to enter their domains. His very being was often an affront to their delicate sensibilities. Instead of shying away from the staring eyes, and twisted looks of disgust, Mat put on his winning smile and strode forwards, head held high. Every gaze he met quickly turned the other way.
As he approached the counter, he saw the serving girl struggling to put on her service smile. He widened his own smile and looked up at the menu trying to decide what he wanted. “Hi, can I get a box of fried prawns, two serves of chips, and...two cokes.”
“Um...sir? You're, uh, you're...”
“Bleeding?” Mat finished for the girl. “Yeah, I'm aware of that.”
The girl scurried off to place the order, and Mat fished out the money from his pocket. There was less than he originally thought, but still enough to cover the food. He had ordered more than he was planning to eat. Agnes may have declined his offer for food out of pride. If so, the option of 'helping' him finish his own meal was always on the table.
Just because she was homeless didn't mean she couldn't enjoy food from a kitchen, rather than the garbage.
As the water soaked into his skin and his muscles, washing away the filth of the streets, Mat felt content. That rum may have helped as well. The knot that he felt in his chest since the robbery, that ball of anxiety, was slowly beginning to unravel. The death of the cop had been a shock, and Mat had taken it upon himself to shoulder the burden of guilt. It was his natural reaction. Someone dies on account of your actions, or indirect actions, you carry it with you. Right? It was no different to the Melbourne incident. Except that Mat hadn't killed that cop. Carrying that guilt was pointless.
So he let it go.
Shutting off the water, Mat stepped from the shower, grabbed a towel and began drying himself. As be began to dress, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Pale and thin. He frowned at the reflection. The years he on the streets had taken their toll on him. With a shrug, he decided not to worry about it. It was the price he paid to stay off the grid. Spying a tube of toothpaste, Mat squeezed some out onto his finger and rubbed his teeth with it. Not a proper substitute for a toothbrush, but it would make do.
From the other side of the door, Mat could hear the sound of the television emanating from the living area. With a smirk, he decided against putting his shirt on. Mute had done her fair share of teasing since they had arrived here. Was probably due time he started dishing it back. She would either find it amusing, or she might kill him. And by coming back to her place, Mat figured he was already treading that precarious line.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
He slung the towel around his neck and lifted his shirt from the floor. As he opened the door a rush of cool air hit his naked torso, refreshing after the steamy humidity of the shower. He wandered over to his pile and discarded the shirt, his tattooed back to Mute. As he made his way back to the couch, he continued drying his hair roughly with the towel. More than likely, his hair was now sticking out all over the place. As he was passing in front of the television he stopped, smirked, and gave a mocking flex of his muscles. Well, what few muscles there were.
Making the rest of the way to the couch, he slumped back down next to Mute and reached for his glass once more. Another refill, another offer to top up the lady's glass. He rested his arm on the back of the sofa once more, this time slightly closer to being around Mute's shoulders.
