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.
Another voice addressed Mat, and he felt an inward pang of annoyance. As her turned his head to face the one that was chastising him, he couldn't help but blink and stare, transfixed. Instead of another pompous, pain in the arse patron, Mat found himself looking at a small, walking lizard-person. Swivelling eyes, horns, tail. Bright colours. Judging by the timbre of it's voice, Mat was being addressed by a girl.
A chameleon girl, waving a wallet around in her strange hand.
He couldn't help it. He chuckled. This was the last thing he had been expecting today.
“Some people need to be reminded that they're not as special as they like to think they are. Trust me, if she wasn't gonna have a go at me, she was going to walk into some other shop and hassle on of the workers there. At least I can't get fired for telling her to shove it.
As it turned out, Lil' Miss Chameleon had stolen the woman's wallet.
He grinned dryly at the girl, shaking his head and clucking his tongue sarcastically. “Now what's a colourful little thing like you doing stealing people's money, hmm?” He nodded towards the statue. She had said that she thought it was cool. That was good enough for Mat.
Mat glanced up, taking a moment to realise he was being addressed. A middle-aged woman hovered over him, one of his statues clutched in her bony mitts. Her thin lips were pressed together in thought, her beady little eyes staring down her beakish nose at the stone creation she held. Too much make-up covered her face, and despite the obvious expense of her clothing, fuchsia and mustard-yellow were not the woman's friend. Sniffing dryly, Mat rubbed at his eye and looked to see what sculpture she was holding.
"It's a hippo-man.”
The woman's distasteful stare moved from the piece of art to the man who made it. “A what?” She put far too much emphasis on the 'wh-'.
“Hippo-man.” At the woman's blank stare, Mat gave a long, and clearly impatient sigh. “A man,” he patronised, “that looks like a hippo. A hippo-man.”
“What kind of nonsense is that? 'Hippo-man'...” The woman turned the statue around in her hand once more, for the sole purpose of glaring at it.
Mat gaped at the woman, bewildered by the anger his statue seemed to be creating in this woman. “Are you going to buy something, or not? 'Cause if not, piss off. You're annoying me.”
The woman stared at Mat for a silent moment, and he could see the puzzlement on her face. Did he really just say that to -me- Finally, the insult clicked, and the woman's face darkened. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of whatever indignant response she was obviously intending to spout out, all that escaped her lips was an awkward croak.
“Wh-- Y--- Buh-- THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS HIPPO-MEN!”
Pulling his coat tightly around himself, Mat spat just short of the woman's feet. Pushing himself off the cold cement of the pavement, Mat snatched the hippo-man statue from her hands. “Lady, you're as stupid as you are ugly. Go away.” Lips curled into a satisfied grin as the woman huffed, puffed, and stormed away. Glancing down at the statue, Effigy let out another long, drawn out sigh. Setting himself back onto the ground, he sat the sculpture on his small, cluttered trestle. Despite himself, Mat chuckled.
Steve, the hippo-man who Mat had met months ago, would have pissed himself laughing if he'd heard that woman carrying on...
“Y’know, the idea had crossed my mind.” More than she probably realised. An idea had been growing in his head, one that had been taking shape ever since his time with the Bass Man, and his meeting with Raven. “But he’s too unreliable for show business. I’d have to replace him.”
A grin.
“Pretty much anything, so long as it’s natural. Glass, stone, rock… metal.” She seemed comfortable enough asking about his mutation, so Mat figured he could answer just like any other question. “I can’t work with plastics and stuff like that. Too complex. Can’t use living matter either, like wood. Can’t complain though, I get a nice variety of materials to use.”
Quin, it seemed, was not going to let Mat off with his wise-arse answer in regards to the smoking. In fact, she made it quite clear just how she felt about it. None too subtly. Mat could only smile sheepishly as the woman gave him a piece of her mind. When she was finished, he looked at her in wonderment.
Mostly, Mat saw how false people were in this city. Saw the fronts they put up, the roles they designated for themselves. Quin, it felt, wasn’t playing a role. She had told him what she thought, in no uncertain terms.
Mat could appreciate that.
“You reckon?” he asked with a smirk. Glancing over his shoulder, Mat called out over the din. “Oi! Anyone in here a smoker?” He felt the eyes shift his way, pairs of eyes, several still looking annoyed from his lighting up not too long ago. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silent scrutiny, someone yelled out, “I am.”
Looking over to where the voice had come from, Mat swiped the packet of smokes from the table and launched them across the room, over to the person who had answered.
“There you go mate, Merry Christmas,” he yelled to the puzzled looking man.
Turning his attention back to Quin, Mat sipped his beer and leant back in his seat.
“There we go. Good authority prevails.” Another sip. “So, Miss Quin, what do you do with yourself? Other than berate poor little artists and their tiny glass overlords?”
This guy…had snapped. He’d gone completely off his rocker. He wasn’t just some jealous ex-boyfriend. He was paranoid beyond belief. Mat’s vision swam from the slap he had received. It had felt more like a cricket bat than a hand. Before he could regain his senses, the man had him on the ground, shaking him ragged. Mat could feel himself being thrust into the ground, again and again, bruising his ribs. The drunk started squeezing Mat’s face, like it was a melon. Clenching his teeth together, Mat half expected his skull to pop like a balloon.
Through the pain and the man’s incoherent screaming, Mat became vaguely aware that his foot had come loose. Through the violent shaking, the rope had begun to slip. As he pulled to free the limb, his mind foggy, Mat felt a familiar tug from the concrete underneath him.
The man had been slamming Mat into the ground. Unbeknownst to him, he had been transferring Mat’s mental energy directly into the concrete.
The drunk had been doing Mat’s work for him.
Flapping his foot against the ground, as hard as he could, Mat began to reel his mind together, to reach out and take hold of his power. His ragged breath burning his throat, spit blowing on the gritty surface of concrete, Mat let out a pained cry, slamming his foot onto the ground one last time.
“F*** YOU!!!”
Bringing the image to mind, Mat felt the ground beside him begin to stir. Two stone hands, twice the width of an average man's, grew from the ground. Giant concrete hands wrapped around the man’s neck. The ground stirred again, the head and torso of the golem coming up to meet with the arms. The golem’s face was a twisted mockery of a face, distorted into a frozen scream of rage. With a scream that matched the golem’s stone expression, Mat commanded the hands to squeeze.
Mat watched as the guy held the flower, clutching it like some sick, obsessive stalker, trying to sniff a scent of the one he was pursuing. Despite the rising fear that was growing in Mat’s gut, he was still iron-clad convinced that there was no way he would betray Andrea. Not to this sicko.
He felt the guy press his fingers into his forehead, miming a gun. He told him to stop struggling, but all Mat could think was to get a foot free, no matter what. To get it free, and to summon as much of his strength into the concrete beneath his feet as possible.
So he kept trying to desperately wrench the limb from the rope.
“I made it. What the f*** does that matter to you?”
It was possible, just possible, that spitting in the bloke’s face was a bad idea…
Creaking one swollen eye open, light tearing at his pupils, Mat saw the drunk, pawing through some items on a table. Looking around, Mat frowned, confused.
Wasn’t he inside?
Like a drunk, Mat rolled his head around, his tongue lolling in his mouth. It was like…someone had smashed him in the chops with a steel crowbar.
Like a drunk, he quickly sobered up when he realised he couldn’t move. An inch. Anywhere.
The guy had tied him to a chair.
…
****!
Staring at the contents on the table, all Mat could see was the stone flower Andrea had given him. If his suspicions were correct, and so far all signs were pointing to ‘yes’, this guy would probably recognise such a thing. Wriggling his foot, Mat tried to pry it free of the ropes.
He needed backup, bad. And for that, he needed a free limb.
He looked at her, her words repeating through his mind.
”You saying it’s not gonna last?” He wore a smirk that said he doubted everything she said.
He wasn’t entirely sure that he did.
Since coming to America his life had consisted of mostly survival. Scrapping together a living in order to keep going, one more day. He had no friends, none within contact anyway. Most of the people he had met he had managed to alienate.
An idea sparked. A queer curiosity. A mad compulsion to do something daring.
“Not to be too forward or nothin’, but how do you go for dealers? I imagine you’d need some pretty…self-sufficient folk to move a drug that basically turns people into mutants. Not to mention a flair for sales and some pretty convincing…‘testimony’.” Another smirk, this time one that said he could back up what he was saying.
Truth be told, he liked the idea of this M. Let the humans gain an understanding, to know what it’s like to be a mutant.
It was like something Trip would have thought of.
“I’m not too worried about the cash or anything. I’m just a new fan of your product.”
Hopefully, she’d hear him out. Worst case, she’d fry him.
“’Til I tell him to stop.” Mat smirked and made the little glass man cross the table and bow to the woman, with none too much trouble controlling it. His control was lagging due to lack of sleep. Still, it got there in the end.
”Mat.”
Taking his fresh drink, Mat drank long and hard. It tasted so perfect right now. Though, that may have been due to the company. ”He’s a good bloke, does most things I tell him to do. Like, say I want him to stop…”
Mat leant across the table, and looked at the sculpture like it was just another person he was talking to. ”Oi! Stop dancing, idiot!” he directed to the tiny golem. In response, Mat commanded it to give back a rude gesture. He looked up at the woman in mock shock.
”You see that? Cheeky little bugger. He’s the reason I smoke, y’know. Bad influence. I used to be sweet and innocent ‘til I met him.”
“Someone slip you a bit of the ol’ Lucy in the Sky, did they? Nah, that’s me mate. He’s not much of a dancer. Too much beer and not enough sleep. Still, he tries his little glass heart out.” Mat grinned again, his cheekiest possible. His sculpture had caught the woman’s attention. That was enough to break the ice.
Much better than focusing on the cigarette.
He wondered how long until she figured out he was a mutant, and that the glass man was his doing. It may have been a tad foolish, in hindsight, displaying his powers so openly. But really, who could be bothered caring?
The bartender approached and sat a fresh glass of beer on the table in front of Mat. Reaching into his pocket, he paid the man with an apologetic grin. Then he turned and gestured to the bench across from him and the jug in between.
“Join me for a drink? My way of making up for the smoke.” Whoever this stranger was, Mat definitely wanted to get better aquainted.
Whatever his thoughts were about this woman when he had first started talking to her, he was now seeing this woman in a whole new light. She wasn’t some club bimbo, some ditz. She wasn’t a petty pusher, a low-grade thug. She wasn’t even a manager, or whatever the seedy underworld equivalent was.
From the sounds of it, she ran the show.
She owned a pharmaceutical company? One that had synthesised the X-gene? This was a woman way out of his leagues. She mentioned something about internment camps, but Mat didn’t know anything about that. Instead, he focused on the other things she was saying. For the first time since meeting her, Mat actually felt small.
Still…
”Can’t say money’s been all that much of a concern for me. I go wherever my feet take me, earn whatever I can, and sleep wherever my body lies. Don’t need much more than that.”
Idly, he wondered if she could make a drug that could help him stay awake for days on end. A legal drug. He took a long swig of his beer.
>>> “You do know that it’s against the rules to smoke in here.”
”Hmm?” Mat looked up from his dancing sculpture. If you could call the haphazard gyrations it was making, dancing.
The moment Mat’s eyes looked up, all he saw was red.
Luscious, luscious red.
Beautiful red hair.
He was entranced. Moments before, he had been sure that he was awake. But now, looking at this gorgeous woman, he figured he must actually be dreaming. Woman like this only appeared to him in his dreams, after all.
She had mentioned something about rules… Mat racked his brain trying to figure out what she was talking about. Thinking was becoming increasingly difficult, more so with this new distraction. This woman seemed to be the only thing keeping his eyes open at the moment. He looked back at the table and saw his figuring, still plodding on.
Was she talking about being a mutant?
Was it against the rules here to be a mutant?
Still staring at this woman, lost in his own thoughts, Mat took another long drag of his cigarette. As the smoke filled his lungs, his mind finally caught up to him, remembering the woman’s words.
”Oh, the ciggie? Oh yeah. Sh**! Sorry…”
Idiot. You weren’t allowed to smoke indoors. He knew that.
Sleep deprived idiot.
Taking it from his lips, Mat dropped the cigarette into his beer. May as well punish himself for being stupid. Figuring he could salvage this, he grinned sheepishly at the woman and let his full accent slip into his voice.
“Sorry ‘bout that. I, uh, haven’t been sleeping well. Forgot where I was for a moment, aye?” Mat looked down, then raised his eyes back up, coyly. “New to the city and all. Forgot about the smoking rules. I don’t even smoke, really.” He glanced over his shoulder and held his glass up to the bartender, signalling a fresh one. Once more, his eyes began to roam.
The guy was strong. And Mat was in more trouble than he wanted to admit.
Despite his valiant struggle, the man simply shook Mat stupid and wrenched his arm across his chest, pinning him to the wall. This guy wasn’t stuffing around. Whatever his relationship to Andrea, the statue had definitely been the trigger point. Adrenaline was pumping through Mat’s system now, causing him to shake and fidget against the drunk’s grip.
He looked the drunk in the eye, and a chill ran down his spine. It was that blank expression that drunks got, that blank look that said this situation could go any way. Which meant that Mat had to be very, very careful about how he approached this.
Very careful…
Hawking up as much phlegm as he could and gathering as much saliva as possible, Mat spat, straight at the man’s face.
And brought his knee straight up, towards the man’s fruits.
There was no reasoning with a drunk. Mat had dealt with enough, and had been dealt with enough to know that. Swift action was needed. Whatever this guy’s deal was, he wanted to get to Andrea. Was he some kind of psycho ex-boyfriend? Andrea, the first time he had met her, seemed like she was running from something. Was it this guy?
Whatever it was, there was no way in hell he would betray Andrea.
Staring at the tall glass in front of him, Mat debated with himself as to whether he was dreaming or not. Picking the drink up, he felt the weight of the glass. Cold, amber sweetness slid down his throat, filling the hollow gap deep down that seemed to be increasing as his time in America stretched on.
It was taking more and more to fill that gap, lately.
He decided that he was probably awake.
Downing the dregs of his beer, Mat slammed his glass back down on the table, harder than intended. Grasping the handle of the three-quarter full jug, he quickly refilled his glass, foamy head spilling over the rim. Smiling down at his beverage, Mat sculled the contents and repeated the process. Red-rimmed eyes blinked rapidly as he suppressed yet another yawn.
Sleep. His body demanded it.
He refused it.
How long now? Three days? Four days? Five?
A week?
What day was it?
One day?
He had lost track.
Every muscle in Mat's body ached, protested against movement. Demanded respite. Fog was filling his mind with every minute, like an early morning mist, impossible to penetrate. His sinus burned, his eyes burned, his throat burned. The beer wasn't helping, but at the moment it was the only thing keeping him occupied. That and the occasional cigarette. The effects of the shower he had taken earlier had long worn off. Now that the weather was pleasant again he had, once more, taken to the streets, occasionally returning to the mansion to eat, bathe, and very occasionally, sleep. The rest of the time, he found himself walking the footpaths of New York from pub to pub. Which is how he'd landed here, tucked away in a small booth at the back of the room.
The Black Horse.
It was a dank little place. Dirt, unwelcoming, and dingy. That was good.
Mat was in the mood for dinge.
…
…...
..........
He awoke with a start, beer still in hand. Micro-sleep. He had nodded off where he sat. That meant sleep was gaining ground. Frowning, Mat rapped his knuckles on the side of his glass jug and brought an image to mind. The glass began to expand, before peeling off. A small figurine stood next to the jug. It didn't have as much detail as Mat would have liked, but it would do. Smooth surfaced, the sculpture began to twitch to life on Mat's command. Reaching across the table, Mat's hand found the cigarette packet that sat there. Slipping one of the sticks free, Mat grasped it in his lips and lit it up, taking a long inhale.
Not that he particularly enjoyed it, but it was something to do. Something to pass the time.
Had he been a touch more alert, and a touch more sober, he may have remembered that smoking in pubs these days was frowned upon. Usually illegal.
Still, blissfully unaware, Mat took a swig of beer, let the cigarette dangle from his lips, and watched as his glass puppet danced away.
The sickly sliver of moon hung low in the sky, like a dirty yellow fingernail. The ambient orange glow of the city lights splashed and mingled with the midnight blue sky like paint, becoming a deep indigo hue that Mat adored. The air was warm, the summer nights now becoming pleasant enough to wear shorts and t-shirts. Melbourne would be growing much warmer in the following months, but for now, everything was great. As he lay on the concrete roof of the warehouse, Mat grinned up at the few stars visible through the light pollution of the city.
For now, everything was perfect.
The world glowed with a vividness, a sharpness and a clarity. Colours were drenched in vibrancy. Euphoric bliss coursed through Mat's body, relaxing his muscles and leaving him gladly content, yet surprisingly alert. Lines danced, and specks crawled. And greatest of all, the fear that ate away at his every sleeping moment were locked away deep in the recesses of his mind. Looking over at his partner in crime, Mat grinned dumbly.
Trip was an artist of the highest calibre with his mutation, in his own right.
Tall and lanky, with short, curly brown hair, Trip had become Mat's most trusted friend in the short time they had known each other. He had shared everything with Trip, everything about Lily and running away. Mat had told Trip secrets that he hadn't even shared with Bloom, or Downpour. That he may never share.
Like just how severe his somniphobia had gotten.
Thanks to Trip, and his ability to manipulate chemicals in the brain, Mat had been able to begin the long climb to conquering his fear. The first week at the commune had been the toughest, learning to adjust to sleep, getting away from his dependency on staying awake by any means necessary. But Trip soon proved to be a rock-solid ally in his battle against sleep. Against the lingering grief over his sister Lily's death.
“You've been thinking about her, haven't ya?” Trip look at Mat, with that half-lidded expression that said that he already knew the answer.
“Yup.”
A quirk of the lips, and a slight smile appeared on Trip's face. “Fair enough.”
And that was that. No need to press further, Trip was happy to let the subject lay.
Trip was good like that.
He had been thinking of his sister less as the years passed, and as he met new acquaintances. Bloom, he had to admit, was somewhat different, in that she reminded him so much of his sister. But the others, they were so far removed from his old life that Mat couldn't help but feel that it was no longer his own, that everything in his past had belonged to someone else.
Cool glass met Mat's lips, and as he sucked down the bitter beer from his stubbie, he decided that it was all far too complicated to worry over now. Off to the side, Mat could hear Trip chuckle to himself. He often did that, found something that nobody else could see amusing, or fascinating. The man lived in a world that no one else could fathom. Mat often found himself wondering just what it was that Trip saw.
To know what is was like to know the punchline before the joke had finished being told.
“Guess I'd better go in. Looks like rain,” Trip remarked, the usual knowing humour in his voice. With that, he pushed himself off the concrete and strolled back to the stairs that lead inside the commune. Mat watched him leave, bemused. Trip was a mystery, that was for sure. Looking up into the sky, he finally saw what Trip was referring to. Wisps of cloud and mist rolling in, congealing into a wide cloud.
With a grin on his lips, Mat laid his head back and closed his eyes.
He felt the droplets of rain begin to patter over him, heavy drops that felt like a caress as they burst over his body. He felt the gentle impact of rain on his face, each drop like a gentle peck from a lover. Opening his eyes a crack, Mat spied several falling drops above him, merging together and converting from water to skin. A sultry grin fell from the sky before planting itself on Mat's lips, dissipating in a burst of cool moisture.
A kiss in free-fall.
“How long have you been watching us?” Mat smiled, waiting for the intruder to answer.
“Not long,” the disembodied, sing-song voice replied. It dripped with innocent guilt, the reply of someone who knows they have been sprung, but knows they can get away with it. Puddles of water that had gathered on the roof began to shimmer and vibrate, slowly rolling towards one another. Gathering into one big pool, the water began to shape itself. Curves begin to form, slender limbs and a slight frame. Translucent liquid began to cloud and take on colour as it shifted back into skin, muscle and bone. What was once a puddle of rain was now a girl, watching Mat with hungry blue eyes, and a mischievous smirk. Blonde hair cascaded down her bare shoulders, drawing Mat's attention to the lovely ratio of skin to clothing.
So far, skin was winning.
Mat sat up, watching as Downpour sauntered over to him, kneeling down and running her fingers through his hair. Unable to resist himself, he leaned in and caught her lips with his own. A kiss that held equal amounts of lust and comfort. Mat wasn't entirely sure how romance fit into his relationship with her.
Wasn't entirely sure that it did.
“So, you didn't hear anything that was said? Didn't overhear anything that we were talking about?” He was teasing her now, playing into her little games. He knew perfectly well that she had. It wasn't the first time Mat had found Downpour eavesdropping.
“Of course not.” A pause. “Who was Trip referring to, when he who you'd been thinking about? Bloom?” Downpour's smooth brow furrowed with irritation, the way it always did when she felt out of the loop.
“No. Not Bloom.”
“You know she has a crush on you right? I've seen the way she follows you around, watches you when you're--”
“It's not Bloom.”
“Your sister?”
A nod. “My sister.”
Downpour stared at Mat with her scrutinising gaze, looking for answers she knew Mat wasn't going to give. Mat met her gaze with his own. He knew she hated it when he clammed up, didn't fully open up to her. But he also knew that Downpour was easily bored. If he told her everything, she'd probably finish up with him and move onto the next guy. Not that he blamed her.
Half the excitement of their relationship came from the drama and intrigue.
“Still doesn't change the fact that Bloom has the hots for you, Effigy.” Typical Downpour. When drama can no longer be found in the original topic, find it somewhere else.
“What about Pockets? You think I haven't seen how he looks at you? The poor bastard pines over you.” A cheap shot. Everyone knew that Pockets was madly in love with Downpour. Everyone also knew that he had no chance in hell of ever hooking up with her. He wasn't even in her field of vision when it came to potential partners.
Judging by the expression on Downpour's face, she felt it was a cheap shot too.
Leaning closer to her, feeling her breath on his face, Mat found her lips once more. Felt them resist, but ultimately relent. That seemed to be a recurring theme between the two of them, an attribute of their relationship. Hot and cold. Tit for tat. Fight and love. Love and fight.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the pair.
“Why do we do this?” Downpour's voice had softened. That meant she was sick of trying to bait Mat, of trying to get him to react in a way that would give her ammunition.
“I dunno.”
Mat felt Downpour nuzzle her face into his shoulder. She was done arguing. Now came the affection. The moments that made being with her worth the drama, worth the conflict and the trouble. Below the rooftop, down onto the streets, the constant thrum of the city filled the silence created by the conflict. Sometimes, Mat thought, he and Downpour made a better couple when they didn't speak to each other.
Turning his head, Mat planted a gentle kiss of Downpour's forehead.
“Stay with me tonight.”
It was a strange relationship, one that Mat often found himself questioning. Whether it was one of love, lust, companionship, or simply convenience. Certain times though, like tonight, he put all of his questions to rest and simply decided to take things as they came.
After all, there are only so many silent answers that somebody can tolerate.
>>> “Very interesting. How many can you make at a time?”
“Depends. I can make a whole bunch if I break the connection and don’t control them. If I want to control them, then it depends on size. Sculptures the same size as a person, about four. Anything bigger than that, two. Anything smaller, well then I can make a few.” Mat’s eyes flicked towards the girl, then down to the ground. “And I can’t control different sizes at the same time.
>>> “Nice to meet you Mat. I’m Lydia, but I give you permission to call me Lyd or Dia.”
Lydia. A cute name. Cute girl, too. Too young for Mat’s liking, but beauty was beauty, there was no denying that. More than likely, this girl had broken the hearts of numerous teenage boys. She had that air about her, like someone who knew they were good looking, and made no apologies for it. Confident and headstrong.
In a way, she reminded him of his friend Downpour, when he had first met her.
>>> ““Did you have anything in mind?”
Truthfully, he didn’t. He didn’t know this area all that well, nor did he know where a good place to eat and/or drink was nearby. Still, when in doubt, wing it.
“Well Lyd or Dia, not really,” he grinned. “I’m, uh, not really familiar with this place. You know anywhere good?”
Finally, the insult clicked, and the woman's face darkened. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of whatever indignant response she was obviously intending to spout out, all that escaped her lips was an awkward croak.