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.
Mat couldn't hide the groan, nor could he stop himself from rubbing at his face with the heel of his palm. She had stopped herself short, but in the moment Andrea said the half-word, Effigy's guts tightened into a ball, clenched like a fist. Fiance. Part of him wanted to spring back to his feet, to grab Andrea by the hand and drag her away. Keep dragging, until he was sure that she was safe. But the most he could manage was slumping where he sat, too deflated to do anything.
"Andrea..." he started gently. What was he supposed to do now?
Did he take Andrea's feeling into account and try to brush this all off. Some massive misunderstanding? Did he trust that she knew what she was doing? Surely if she was engaged to the man she would realise what he was... That he was an unhitched, unhinged nutbag.
And a drunk, to boot!
>>> "What... what did he do?"
Mat closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Her voice was small, and Mat could hear that she dreaded hearing the answer as much as Mat dreaded telling her. Regardless of the man in question, it was Andrea. Surely Mat should trust her judgement. And yet, it was a risk Mat wasn't going to take.
At worst, it would cost him a friend. His only friend.
"I don't... Andrea, listen to me, you can't... This guy, he's dangerous. If I hadn't told him where I'd seen you he'd have..." He wrung his hands together nervously. " I didn't want to tell him, but he there was nothing I could do... He had me tied, and everything I did he just seemed to shrug off... Please, tell me he hasn't hurt you? If he has I swear, I'll kill the son of a bitch myself!" Mat winced, took a deep breath, and tugged at his hair.
Calm, Effigy.
You're supposed to be the sane one, remember?
"He...interrogated me," Mat murmured softly. "About you.
It was amazing how convincingly a handful of stolen milk crates and black sheets could pass off as a stage. Indeed, it was impressive that one single hobo could amass so many milk crates. The height of his stomach, the stage was like half a pyramid, one side jutting out in a step formation. At the top were several books he had found carelessly abandoned in a library that served as stage flooring. Set out in the park, in the middle of a wide opening on the path, Mat had to admire his own craftsmanship. A diet of sleeping pills and however many hours (days?) sleep had helped tremendously.
He hadn't felt this clear in some time.
The weather was proving to be his ally today, a nice crisp, sunny day. Luckily for Mat, it was bringing out the crowds. Some had even began to linger, hovering in small clumps, pointing and whispering. The final inspection of his stage complete, Mat double checked the contents of the duffel bag he had found carelessly abandoned in a gym locker room. Several pieces of shoe lace, with ready loop knots on each end. Two solid pieces of coloured glass that he had copied some days ago from a church stain-glass window. One red, the other blue. Also, a portable CD player that had been laying around, unguarded.
He would be avoiding that neighbourhood for a while.
Everything prepared, Mat took a long, deep breath. Picking up the bowler hat that he had found carelessly abandoned in a hat store, Mat rounded the stepped front of his curtained stage, and put on his winning smile. Then he found his clearest, most charming announcer's voice, with just a tinge of accent to pique the interest of the natives.
"Lady's and gentlemen, g'day, and welcome on this bea-uuuuu-tiful day! My name is Mat, and if you would kindly gather around, I would like to treat you all to a bit of afternoon's entertainment. Yes, yes, crowd around, but be sure to stay behind the chalk line there. Yep, that's fine mate, let the little one plonk down on the asphalt there, he'll be fine. Mat gave the small child who was seating himself on the ground a wave, before giving the dad a thumbs up. A decent crowd was starting to build, if only to see what he was going to do.
With an old practiced hand, Mat flicked the hat up his arm, landing it on his head, thankful he hadn't stuffed that up. "This arvo, I would like to give to you...." He held the moment, reaching up to touch the brim of his hat as he eyed the audience. "A puppet show."
Rounding behind the stage, he quickly knelt before the duffel bag. Willing his images to mind, he gave each plate of glass several taps. Almost instantaneously, his 'puppets' began to grow. Two glass figures, in minute detail, right down to the fingers and the faces. A boy and a girl. One blue, one red. Slipping the laces over the arms and legs, attaching the other ends to his fingers. Taking out the CD player, he pressed play. Scratchy classical music began to play, tinny and distorted from the small speakers. Picking up his 'puppets', Mat placed them laying on the stage.
He was vaguely aware that Andrea was speaking to him in concerned tones, but her soft voice was competing with the distortion in his mind. A roar in his ears, like the hissing of the sea. He felt her arms snake around him once more, only this time he couldn't even muster the will to want to fight them off. This time, without thinking, he returned the gesture, still glancing nervously up and around. Held in Andrea's embrace, some of the haze seemed to lift. His mind seemed to clear, even if only by a minute amount. Calmed by her hold, Mat tried to fight down the mad twitches that were running through his body.
>>>"Maybe we should go inside, find somewhere to sit down, no?"
He felt himself drift along, guided by her hand. This time, she was dragging him along, and all her could do was nod dumbly, and focus on the small hand that was now directing him. They pushed through the door, which opened to a dirty, stained whitewash stairwell. Mat climbed the first three of the chipped-linoleum stairs, before turning on the spot and sitting on the fifth step. He noticed belatedly that he was still holding Andrea's phone. Like a guilty child, he offered it back to the woman.
"I, uh... I'm sorry." His brow furrowed as he tried to muster the words. "That guy..." he nodded towards the phone.
A creeping thought was worming it's way through Mat's head, burying itself. She had been ready to answer that psychopath's call, without hesitation. In fact, now that he was taking the time to consider, Mat could vaguely remember seeing a smile on her face as that ringtone had started up.
That didn't seem like the behaviour of someone who was afraid of a psycho ex. People didn't smile when being contacted by somebody they were running away from...
"Who is he to you, Andrea?" Mat asked, pointing a shaky finger to the phone.
Mat swung around, the rhythm in his head broken, the dance interrupted. The golems swung in unison, and together, they stared at their lone witness. A wide grin crossed Effigy's face.
"Welcome! Welcome, welcome, dear audience!"
All four golems bowed to the women, not quite in synch. His control was still a bit iffy. This could be a bad thing.
"Have you come to see our recital? I will admit, it was a mere rehearsal, but I'm sure we could make it a proper show. A flash of anger crossed Effigy's face, and he turned to kick the lead male golem. "If this one can get his act together!" A cheeky grin, and a hand run through his hair, and Effigy passed smoothly over his little outburst. "We were working on a waltz. D'ya wanna watch?" he asked, his accent slipping in the last moments, ruining his beautiful showman's voice.
((Didn't know if this was open, so I jumped in. Hope you don't mind! Let me know if you had something else planned for this! ))
It was time for some new clothes. The winter funk had finally become too much to bear, and the ratty flannels and threadbare woollen jumpers were due for an upgrade. Judging by the lightness in his pockets, chances were Mat was going to have to figure out some scheme. He could always try to pull the old golems-as-scary-mutants trick, but with all the anti-mutant sentiment following that gargoyle girl's assault, it was probably best not to stoke the embers too much. So he had decided to stroll the streets while he came up with a plan.
And found himself in a mall somewhere.
In Melbourne, when he was younger, he had enjoyed spending time in malls. Mostly, he had been checking out girls with whatever street rat he was hanging with at the time. Now, Mat wasn't sure when he had last stepped foot inside of one. He wasn't sure whether it was because he was older, or because of sleep deprivation, but he found a loathing rising the longer he spent in this place. A tension in his gut, that grew as he found himself surrounded by staring, gawking ants. People, like drones. The farther he walked, the more there seemed to be.
His face began to flush, and a nausea washed over him in a wave, gone as fast as it had come. Stepping to the side, in front of some store that looked like all the other, Mat took a moment to compose himself. He was pretty sure security would kick him out if he kept acting like a hobo.
It was then that he noticed the dispute coming from across the thoroughfare, a little old lady and a shopkeeper. Mat smirked, amused by the old duck's iron will. He didn't know what the argument was about, but he figured it was his duty as a bystander to stand back and be amused.
Until the little old lady got shoved to the ground.
Dulled reflexes meant that there was no way for Mat to realise he should try and catch the woman until she hit the deck. There was nothing he could do about that. What it did do, was allow Mat to react after the event.
”Oi! Tough guy!,” he shouted as he stormed towards the shopkeeper. Without thought, without consideration, Mat arched a fist back and swung.
Whether the man had just not seen him, or was whether he was so shocked by the hobo baring down on him that he couldn't react, the fist found itself connecting with the man's temple, dropping him to the ground.
”Big man on this side of the register, aren't ya'?”
He had no idea where he was, or where he was going. Or why he was going, now that he thought about it. How could he know where they were from just one phone call? And yet... Walking meant that he could buy time, delay having to explain anything to Andrea. Delay having to figure out just what the hell he was doing.
>>>"Matt..."
If he walked for long enough, and far enough, maybe, just maybe there would be a way to salvage this situation. He could explain that it was all part of his non existant opera, and that he was inviting her along to be lead soprano. She would have to pass the auditions of course, and...
>>>"Matt! What is wrong? Why did you grab my phone like that?"
He paused, turning around to look at the flushed, green gorgon. He tried to muster some levity into his voice, but found it spluttering out and dying, like an old motorcycle.
"It's, um.... It's..... Um.... Andrea, I'm sorry! I tried to stay strong for you, but he broke me, the...BASTARD! He broke me... Matt wiped at his face with the sleeve of his grimy flannel. "But I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you... Don't worry, I'll look out for you, Andrea. I'll...
He paused mid-sentence, losing his train of thought. He glanced up, peering over her his shoulder. Without thinking, his grip tightened on Andrea's hand.
"No, no, no. You got it all wrong! It's step, turn, turn, step, turn, turn, dip, step, dip, dip, bow, step, turn. How many times do I have to go over this?"
Boredom does strange things to a man. It makes him itch, makes his mind jolt. He recoils from the lack of stimuli. His skin crawls, and his limbs begin to tense.
Lack of sleep also does strange things to a man, especially when self inflicted, and for long stretches of time.
So, in a fit of boredom, and sleep deprivation, he decided that he should up the ante on his guerrilla vandalism scheme. Blocking traffic was beginning to lose it's zing, and people had been finding easier ways to dispose of the culprit statues. Instead, a live demonstration was needed. And since he couldn't think of anything better, tonight, he was practicing his routine.
A four golem waltz in the park. With Maestro Effigy at the helm.
"Right. Let's try this one more time. You," he pointed to the lead 'male' golem, formed with a stony tuxedo and no face, "Take the lead, and stop prancing around like a sissy. You," to the empty faced 'woman' who was partnered with the first, "Stop trying to take the lead. You're bullying him into horrific movement! Now do what you're meant to do, and follow! This is a waltz, not a mazurka! And you two," to the other pair, similarly designed but for the mutant proportions,Keep up the good work. Right, let's do this! Aaaaaand a one-two-three, one-two-three..."
As the golems lurched around, Mat gave an inwards sigh. As much as he wanted to deny it, his control was waning. His precision was weakening. A shudder ran down his spine, as the only remedy came to mind.
Arms snaked around him, tighter than Sloth's first embrace all those months—years?—ago. His slender frame froze, tightened, turned to stone. He wanted to squirm, to shake, to tear away from this strange, unfamiliar contact. To thrash, and flail, and rip himself from those small, caring arms. But he couldn't. He didn't know how. And even if he did, he was not sure he wanted to.
How long had it been since he had had contact with another person, that wasn't a fist, or a boot to the face?
When she released him, his chest seized up so hard that, for a moment, Mat actually thought he would have a heart attack.
And despite everything, despite his looks, his smell, his ramblings, and incoherency, Andrea actually invited him to eat with her. Like the first time, only with more company. Saphirus? What on earth was a Saphirus? His fingers tingled, and he became acutely aware of the money sitting in his pocket, burning, burning like a hot coal. He should have given it back, but his shamelessness won out. Besides, it would have drawn attention to...well, everything up to this point.
He opened his mouth to reply, and music came out. It's raining men? Mat blinked, once, twice, four times, before realising that Andrea's phone was ringing. Man, phones these days were a breed of their own. Where they used to simply ring, and maybe vibrate, new phones flashed up all sorts of crazy lights, and sounds, and pictures...
His blood froze.
That face.
That face...
There were many things in this world that Mat had forgotten. The sound of his sister's laugh. Pythagoras theory. What month it was.
But he wouldn't forget that face.
With a suddenness that defied his disorientation, Mat snatched the phone from Andrea's hands, and pressed the answer button, adopting an accent that belonged to no region, nor nation. He spoke into it, his voice tight, and frantic.
”Heeeeeello? You want pizza, yes? No pizza! No pizza! English, no, no, very bad! Okaythankyoubyebye!” Mat hung up the phone, not sure whether or not the other end had even tried to speak. Wild-eyed, Mat glanced around, craning his neck franticly. He stepped forward, grasping Andrea by the shoulders.
”We have to go, Andrea. Now. We gotta go. We have to leave. Andrea. We gotta go."
He had failed to protect her from that psychopath once. He moved his hand to take hers, to drag her away, the phone clenched tightly in his opposite fist.
He'd be damned if he wasn't going to save her this time.
She was doing that thing that people did. The stern, hands-on-the-hips faux-angercare that meant you were supposed to fess up about whatever was bothering you. A maternal gesture that usually meant you were supposed to open yourself up. It made Mat feel sick, ill in the gut. He didn't want to spill, didn't want to fess.
He couldn't help but shake his head when she had asked if he was sleeping, was eating, though. That little slip of information came unbidden.
What had he been doing the last... The last...
What was the date? How long had be been wandering the streets now? Somewhere along the line, hours had started running into days running into months. Had be been taking care of himself? Well.... That was highly debatable. He was alive, so there was some testiment to his duty of care, not counting the dubiousness of that claim. But, wasn't he living the dream? Didn't he have freedom, and no self imposed shackles to tie him down? Alive was alive, not dead.
He had a pretty good inkling that he wasn't dead.
So. Why did he feel bad all of a sudden. Why was the bridge of his nose tightening? Why were his eyes stinging? Why was his throat constricting? What was that moisture on his cheeks, in his eyes?
Was he crying?
He lifted a shaking (when had that started?) hand to his mouth, and chewed anxiously at his nails. Gnawed, bit, gnashed at them.
"I, uh.... I'm..." Softly he shook his head. "How are you?"
When in doubt, deflect, deflect, deflect the question.
Gaping dumbly, Mat gave a slow, stupid nod. "Of...course?
How could she possibly fall for that?
"I'm an....uh...sopranitone...
Was she taking the piss? Or did she honestly think that he was telling the truth. A leaden weight was growing in Mat's stomach. His mouth felt awfully parched, and he could feel himself sweating despite the chill in the air, his face turning red with shame, guilt and...some other indescribable thing. More guilt, perhaps. Who could be sure? It was getting hard to catch his breath. He'd thought to charm her with his comment, but it'd only seemed to make her anxious. Made sense. He wasn't the most flattering of sights.
"I've, ah...I've been around. Doing...stuff. Damn it, Macguire, put a sentence together. He sniffed and, tried to straighten himself, but wobbled and slumped back against the stone wall. The buildings were closing him, almost as fast as the concrete pavement seemed to be turning into quicksand. Or maybe he was sliding down the wall? Righting himself, once more, he tried to force a smile, but knew that it wasn't a convincing one. "You know how it is. On the movemovemovemovemove. Gotta stay busy or else... Or else... Idleness kills, and killing time is idle. Gotta stay occupied or else you'll fade away. Dust, you know? Dust! Fade away...to dust. I, uh... He was rambling. "'Cause, y'know... I've been so busy...opera...ing."
Things were unraveling fast.
"It is very good...to see you, Andrea. A sincere, coherent thought had slipped past his lips. A little slice of honesty. Mat glanced at his shoes once more, that pink sock taunting him, mocking him. "I'm glad you're safe."
Damndamndamn. The sleep addled mind is not your friend. The sleep deprived mind is not your friend. The sleepless mind is--
Why did she looked so sad? It hurt him to see that expression on her face. Hurt even more to know that he was the cause. What sort of sick hobo yells at a woman, at a friend? He stared for a moment, then looked at his feet. His Chucks were worn down, and the pink sock he had found showed through a hole on the side.
Then she did something that threw him. Something that made him, despite himself, laugh. She apologised. To him.
To be fair, it was somewhere between a laugh and a weep. A manly weep.
I, uh... It's a costume. I'm...auditioning...for....a.... Broadway show. I mean an opera. It's called...the Vagabond Jam-along....featuring....Robert....Cruise...Abdul'Jabar....
He felt his mind recoil as the words spewed forth of their own accord. Each one, barging past his tongue and out into the open. And each word was like a sharp, distinct kick in the groin. Pausing a moment, he tried to gather some form of cohesion, even if for only one sentence.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Gears ground, fighting the rust. His mind dragged itself to a slow conclusion. Green. Greengreengreen. He knew...deep down, recognised that colour. That distinctive colour...
Cash!
Grinning widely, maybe madly who could tell, Mat swiped the note from the woman. With a small giggle to himself, he stuffed the note into his pocket. How had that worked? In hindsight, it was a bold, some would say...unsettling tactic. But somehow he had scared a bill out of a woman. He had to be some sort of genius, it had to be said. His hand was still in his pocket when he heard something startling.
Matt?
Glancing up, Mat blinked the haze from his eyes, from his mind. Green. Green, with...
Sloth.
Tired eyes widened. Mouth twisted in sudden cold shame. A wash of sickness tided through his body. His knees buckles, and he was pretty sure he swooned a little. A manly swoon, it had to be said. When he spoke, he knew he had to handle this situation very, very delicately. As bad as he felt now, and he did feel bad, Mat had a shred of dignity left. He could smooth over this awkward situation with the one person he had considered some form of friend even though he had only met her twice and had accidentally ratted her out to a psychopathic son of a--
"I don't know you Andrea...I mean...lady! And my name's not Mat, it's..."
It had been roughly an hour, by his count, since he had last yelled obscenities at that cloud. It had been taunting him, and taunting him, and teasing him, and, every so often snickering at him. Figuring he was about due another go, Mat dragged himself up from his sprawl against the building. Staggering like a drunkard, Mat lurched to his feet. Maybe he was a drunkard. He couldn't remember. He tried to sniff himself, but his nose was too cold and stiff. Creaking a purple and black rimmed eye up, he squinted into the sky, and that damned cloud.
It was going to ruin his day, sooner or later. He knew it.
He raised a fist, all the way to shoulder height, before his arm began to protest. Deciding that the cloud had learnt it's lesson, he slumped back against the wall with a sense of righteous satisfaction. Blinking five times in a row, Mat decided that was around three blinks too many, and gave himself a sharp slap in the face.
Sleep was for the weak. Sleep was for the weak. Sleep was wor the feek. Sleep wa--
He caught a glimpse of something approaching in the corner of his eye. With a sharp glance at the poor, poor efforts he had produced today, a concrete log, and some sort of bulgy penguin, he decided that a more direct approach would be needed today.
He could boil the idea down to two inspirations. A quote he had seen, God knows when and where. It had been during some vague moment of delirium-inspired research, part pipe dream of artistic fame, part method of staving off sleep. Some famous Pom had been doing all sorts of graffiti around England, America, even on the Jerusalem Wall. Part satire, part protest, part...well, Mat imagined part of it was simply a bloke taking the piss. He couldn't remember the guy's name, but the quote had stuck with him.
If graffiti changed anything, it would be illegal.
The other thing that had inspired him?
Seeing footage of a young mutant girl having the shit kicked outta her by a pack of gutless cops.
Some folk'd been watching the video on a phone. It still amazed Mat how much technology had changed in the time he'd been on the streets. The last phone he had owned made phone calls, sent texts and played a black and white version of Snake II. Times, it seemed were a'changin'. He'd overheard them discussing the video, and when he asked, they had shown him. The footage was sickening, to say the least. He had known, second handedly, that American cops were full on, even before coming to the US. He had discovered it further upon arriving here. But seeing that girl held down, beaten senselessly?
Well. That one took the cake.
After that, he had tried to follow the case. It gnawed at him, like an itch that wouldn't go away no matter how hard he scratched. The cops, it seemed, had been let off. 'Reasonable use of force', or some crap. It seemed, they would walk. Just. Like. That.
So he had taken it upon himself to make a statement. He knew it wouldn't be much, but it would be a start. It would, hopefully, be enough for people to take notice. To realise that the bigotry and prejudice against mutants needed to end. Somewhere in that sleep deprived, addled thing he called a mind, Mat knew that he could be the voice to the masses. A voice of the mutants.
As well as a giant pain in the arse to the scumbag humans who let this sort of treatment happen.
Around New York City, on the busiest of roads, statues were beginning to appear. Some seemed to sprout, rooted to the ground, as if part of the very asphalt itself. Elsewhere, there were reports of concrete statues walking around, crossing roads and stopping in the middle, never to move again. Traffic was being disrupted all over, with cars unable to get around blocked lanes. Attempts at removal were difficult at best, each statue being a solid object, too heavy to lift. So far, proven methods were limited to sledgehammers and jack-hammers. Even the odd crowbar or two. More than one car or truck had been damaged in vain attempts at running the sculptures down.
Descriptions of these semi-living statues were all identical. Shaped to be people, only their faces were left blank. Each held a sign made of cheap plywood and canvas. And on each sign, in big scrawled letters done in spray paint, the same message.
'YOU THINK THIS IS INCONVINIENT? TRY BEING A MUTANT'
Somewhere in the city, Mat had long given up on trying to determine his exact locations, a man leaned up against the wall. A rattling cough came from the depths of his chest as he come around the corner of an alley and leant up against the store-front. If his cough sounded bad, then his appearance was even worse. Ratty clothing. Greasy, dishevelled hair that had obviously been hacked away in what could only be described as an attempt at a haircut. Unhealthily thin, to the point of looking anorexic. And the bags under his eyes? The less said about them, the better.
He scratched at his nose with a paint stained finger. A tiny smirk played at his lips. One of New York's mysterious statues emerged form the alleyway he had just exited not a minute ago, carrying it's sign. As onlookers all gawped and gasped, he joined. Only his was more amused, than shocked. Not that anyone would notice.
Who pays any attention to the homeless bum?
Rubbing his mouth to hide his chuckle, Mat commanded his golem to cross the road, paying no heed to any oncoming traffic. Tyres squealed and horns blared as the concrete man took position. Turning to face the nearest car, it held up it's sign, before offering a middle finger to the driver. Thoroughly amused and thoroughly proud, Mat broke his connection to the golem, before laughing out loud.
The symphony of car horns made this task all the more worthwhile.
Mat stopped himself from laughing, despite how adorable this lizard girl was. One minute, she's scolding him for being mean, the next she turns around and tells him she stole the woman's wallet. The sheepish posture she adopted when he called her out on her thieving was enough to make Mat grin.
The words that followed were enough to wipe it off his face.
It was like a floodgate. One simple confession lead her to rush everything out in one breath. The poor girl. It was a story he had heard countless times, both in America and Australia. And one that still resonated deep within his bones every time he heard it.
He looked the girl over closer now, trying to see any of the familiar signs of homelessness, but her lack of clothes and general lizard-ness made it difficult to gauge anything. Forcing a reassuring smile back onto his face, he let out a tiny chuckle.
“That's alright, it's hard to hold onto things when you're on the move, eh?” Reaching into his pocket, Mat felt the bundle of cash sitting there. “You know what, I am hungry! You wanna join me? My treat. Mean lady can pay for your meal tomorrow.” He smiled once more at the girl, trying not to come on too strong.
Good intentions or not, he was still a stranger to this girl. She wasn't Bloom, or Trip, or Downpour. Wasn't even Agnes. The last thing he wanted was to drive this girl further into the streets.
))