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.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 19, 2016 8:24:04 GMT -6
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Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Still July 8th.
The news cameras rolled, capturing the failed heroics of an X-Man movie star.
Calley didn't see them. Traffic would be a nightmare close to the scene, and transit redirected. Flying was out, because arriving without his badge at a precinct that far off from his own was a good way to not be trusted.
Calley took a horse. Namely, his own.
“The **** is mounted patrol doing here?” Was pretty much the reaction he expected to get when he reached the line, yes.
He dismounted. He also danced gingerly on sore hooves, because horses weren't made for running unshod across concrete, and he really needed to figure out how some other shifters kept their clothes because horse shoes would be dandy.
“Officer Swartz, 24th Precinct,” he tried not to sound half as winded as the black stallion next to him was making him feel. “Not mounted, just a mutie. Where do you need me?”
The officer in charge paused with his hand on his radio, giving him a long stare. The burns still fresh on his wrinkled hamper-rescued uniform weren't helping with first impressions.
Then again, maybe they were exactly the kind of first impressions an officer needed to make, right about now.
“Can you take on a META?”
“Not a chance in hell, Sir.” Honesty. Honesty sucked. “I can do surveillance without risking my own neck, though.” Much.
“Search and rescue,” the officer shot, and got back to business.
Calley joined the line. The stallion he turned to a crow. He scouted the alleys, the shops with broken windows, the little hidden-away places that might look safe to someone getting desperate. Some of them could be coaxed into following the gravelly-voiced bird to safety. Some of them needed a team to go in and get them, risking their own hides to drag out some shivering wreck and pass them off to the EMTs.
That's just how it was.
“--wartz! You seen an officer named Swartz? Shifter from the 24th, probably has cat ears--”
“Over here, Schulman.” He waved
The first thing his partner did was refrain from punching him. The second was hug him, and honestly, it was tight enough it hurt more than the punch would have. Never underestimate a Jewish girl who went to the academy instead of getting married.
“I'm going to kill you, Whiskers,” she hissed in his ear. “You do not. Stop. Texting. In the middle of an emergency. I thought you were going to run into the damn crossfire and—God, I don't know--die tragically all over Pink's lap.”
“It's METAs, Schuls. What can I do against METAs?”
She hugged him again. Then they got back to doing their damn jobs.
There was dawn slipping between the skyscrapers when everything was done. Slag metal pointed the way. Calley stopped, and leaned back on another ambulance, waving off the concerned looks of the EMTs. Out of sight, out of mind.
Cafas was fine. Just fine. Sitting up and—and texting, it looked like. All the rest could be healed. X-Men didn't bother with such archaic institutions as modern hospitals, after all.
Schulman peeked around the edge of the ambulance. “He looks like ****. Hey. Whiskers, wait. Aren't you even going to say hi?”
He waved her off, and kept clear of the X-Man's sight lines as he trudged back to the main streets. There was enough chaos on the scene that it wasn't hard.
His pocket vibrated.
>> 138th. Alive. Wounded. Not critical.
And again.
>> Sentry bots went nuts, opened fire on everything. There was nothing most people could do to stop them. Casualties TBA.
Get yourself to DocProf, he shot back, and slipped the phone back in his pocket. And nearly tripped over a motorcycle tire.
Schulman steadied his arm. “You suck at texting and walking, Whiskers.”
It was a familiar motorcycle. A hell of a lot more scratched up than he'd last seen it, and maybe not all from tonight.
It was also the epitome of illegally parked. He dug in his pocket. Pen and pad.
“Really, Whiskers? Really?”
And scratched out a ticket, slightly burned around the edges.
“You two need to bang and make up,” Schulman eloquently stated, as Calley tucked the parking ticket onto the downed bike. Badge 27182. Issuing officer: Swartz.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 17, 2016 9:59:30 GMT -6
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Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Late July 7th, or Early July 8th
The text startled him awake. His phone vibrated on the wooden coffee table, clattering across the surface a millimeter at a time. Behind it, the TV still played the news. Sports and weather. Sports and weather were good: they meant that whatever protests were going on right now, they were boring enough not to warrant coverage. Peace didn't make headlines.
Calley pawed at the phone.
>> Thanks Calley. You holding up okay? Stay safe.
Thanks for what. Holding up okay—did Cafas really expect an answer to that? Did Cafas really need an answer? Stay safe.
You too, he grudgingly shoot back. He didn't even wait a day or two first, to let the Aussie simmer. Clearly a sign of how exhausted he was.
He flopped back on the couch, phone on his chest. One of his cat ears was squished awkwardly against a pillow, and his tail was going numb where he lay on it, but moving didn't seem necessary. In a minute, he'd get up, and brush his teeth, and sleep in his bed like an adult.
In a minute.
Calley startled awake, phone vibrating on his chest. This is what he got for replying so quickly: now Cafas was going to think they were talking again.
s**** going down at 138th.
It wasn't Cafas. It was his partner.
They need more hands? He shot back, too tired to question the request coming through texts instead of a call, and from his partner instead of his sergeant.
Code Pink was there.
The TV was still on. It had been on the whole time. The apartment could get too quiet without it; one person didn't make much noise.
BREAKING NEWS, it blared in red scrolling banners, with a concerned female reporter in an artfully disheveled skirt-suit. He didn't know what had happened to the sound. It was just kind of… ringing.
Might not still be there. I heard dispatch routing him a few hours ago. Just thought you should know.
>>Thanks Calley. You holding up okay? Stay safe.
Reply.
Hey if you're safe at home now would be a great time to tell me that.
“We're live on the scene, as peaceful protest turns to--”
Whiskers don't just stop responding you know that freaks people out. You don't even know he's there. Maybe ask the Other Woman?
No. No he was not texting Ghost, because if Cafas was still out, even if he was just driving home or stopping for coffee or talking smack with Henricks, then he'd be worrying her for nothing. And if Cafas was already home, then there was nothing to worry about, and he'd reply the next time he got a chance. The Aussie wasn't the one leaving their conversation hanging for days.
Seriously Cafas this is a bad time to take petty revenge. Text me back.
“--reports of responding META bots exhibiting erratic behavior--”
There was something the NYC police academy taught. Rule one: it's the criminals who commit the crimes. There will be times when you are too late the scene, too slow to put things together, too naive to think they'd go so far. The blood is on their hands, not yours. Forget that, and you'll be talking with the department shrink while you get rotated into the items lockup for a little career break. They taught this from the beginning, every day, every lecture.
They were crap at teaching it.
And that meant that he was following Linely in, no matter how many fight dog snipes the man made. We need you in good order his ass. That earned a disdainful flick of ears, and no mistake. If the Brit was thinking about leaving the fighting to Calley, then he could get back on the other side of the pond.
He did get points for using the phrase vanilla humans with a bare minimum of relishing the novelty, though. Heh. As attempts to not be such a straight-laced HR representative went, it was a good one.
As the man explained his powers to the human half of his partner, Calley leaned down to pry the manhole cover off. It wasn't hard to do. They weren't kiddy locked in place, or anything. They were just heavy. His Rott half sat its butt on the street, and cocked an ear intently as the man explain.
Physical pain.
Memories of physical pain.
The shifter took a break, panting over the hunk of metal. Would have been nice if the rat could have chewed through a little more, actually. Would have weighed less.
He didn't look at Linely. Just at the task at hand.
“You can sense that, huh. Is that a passive ability, or do you have to concentrate? Get any memories with it?” Casual questions. Good to know. A guy should know how his partner worked, right? “How crippling is it to the rat?”
He wiped a hand over his sweaty brow, and rolled out some strain-related tension from his shoulders.
The base of his tail was foofed, but he was getting it back under control. Slowly. No need to draw attention to it. I make people feel horrible pain hadn't caused it. I make people feel horrible pain based on their own memories had.
Calley's first job had been for an immortal mutant who considered all this modern electricity quite the novelty. He hadn't responded well to insubordination.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 16, 2016 8:44:24 GMT -6
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Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
July 7th
>> Not what I was saying.
And what had he been saying?
Head in the game, Swartz. This wasn't time to be love sick or heart broken. Not that he was. That would require—something witty—something that he'd think of later and text back and it would be scathing. For now, head in the game.
Heads.
On the third floor, an English sparrow perched on the edge of a window, preening under a wing as it surreptitiously surveyed the scene.
“Why are you doing this?” One of the hostages asked. He was nineteen or twenty, clean shaven, dressed with that casual ease that spoke of both good taste and money to spare. His voice was even, calm, reasoning.
Even, calm, and reasoning were not factors that had led to this. The hostage got the response he would have seen coming, if he wasn't from a family that talked through its conflicts.
“What are you seeing, Whiskers?” SWAT commander Henricks asked. Some people called him Whiskers affectionately. His partner, people at the 24th who'd known him before he'd joined the force, rookies who'd picked it up after. Henricks used it because it was a rare day he could call a mutie a mutie and not have HR yelling in his ear. It was just a nick name; everyone used it.
Calley winced. “Well, they just punted a kid across the room. That… probably cracked a rib. They're sorting out the mutants from the humans, putting them on opposite sides of the room. Five attackers. Twenty-one kids. This is going to end about as well as you'd expect if we don't get in there soon, Henricks.”
Two days ago, a group of humans had held up an office building, rounding up the mutants inside. SWAT and a certain X-Man had saved the day with no casualties on the hostage's end of things, but it had been all over the news.
Someone had gotten the bright idea that revenge was in order. Because holding up a preppy liberal arts college would show 'em.
>> You know that.
Just what was he supposed to know? He wasn't a mind reader. His mind reader was out in Colorado with his illusionist. If Cafas thought he should know something—like, say, 'this is a sarcastic comment', or 'I think you're spending too much time at work'--how was he supposed to know unless the man said something?
“I'm a healer,” a blonde-haired girl was saying, her hands in the air. Demonstrate, they ordered her, and she did. The even-calm-reasoning boy from before looked a lot better after she did. He even sat up, with her help. There was something in his eyes that had broken a lot worse than his ribs, though. He stayed kneeling uncertainly behind his savior, and didn't try sweet talking their attackers again.
“Anyone else hiding abilities? Don't be shy, now, it's a perfect time to out yourself.”
When the office building had been attacked, they'd used guns. Calley had noticed that most mutants seemed to instinctively scorn such weapons. There was a pride in doing by nature's gift what Homo sapiens had to do by monkey tool.
One of the attackers was lazily rolling a white-hot flame over his knuckles. “Any takers? Anyone? Right, then. Mutants are free to go.”
“What are you going to do with them?” The healer girl asked.
“Mutants,” the fire dancer lazily repeated, with a grin, “Are free to go.”
And most of them did. Go, that is. Another attacker even held the door open for them, all polite-like, while the rest kept the humans cowering in the corner. It had been a philosophy class, as far as Calley could tell. He wasn't sure which one was the teacher; probably the guy in the crocs, but they were all so young.
“Go,” the firemancer repeated, jerking his head towards the door.
The healer stood. That was all the more she moved. The boy she'd healed stood up behind her, a bit unsteady on his feet, and even more unsteady in his role in all this. His first mistake: assuming he had any voice here.
“I am human,” she said.
“Leave. Last warning.”
“So are you. You don't have to do this.”
>> I didn't mean to…
They heard the scream from the street.
“I didn't mean to--” The pyro was trying to extinguish the flame on his fingers. He wrapped his other hand other them, but that just made it spread.
“What the **** man, what the ****--”
“Hostage down.” Calley confirmed, down on the street.
“Mutant or human?” Someone on SWAT asked.
Shut the **** up wasn't an appropriate answer. “Human.” Calley answered, because she would have said the same.
Henricks gave the order. Finally.
>> ...You know I'm not doing this over text.
Later that night, sitting in his apartment, his hair damp from the shower and his clothes smelling like smoke where they sat in the hamper, Calley stared at his phone. It sat on the coffee table. The TV talked and talked and talked behind it. Officer in critical condition at New York Presbyterian. One attacker killed, mutant. One hostage killed, human.
She'd been deep, deep in the closet. Her classmates had left her there. Out of respect to her family? To her? He wasn't sure. He hadn't said anything, either.
He reached for his phone.
I'm not dead, he texted. Just that.
They couldn't all charge in and save the day single-handed. Some mutants were only human.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 14, 2016 21:48:09 GMT -6
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Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
July 5th
Thank you.
Thank you for what? Seriously. It didn't mean anything if it wasn't for anything.
“You ******* traitor--”
Calley dug his knee into the man's back, and jerked a little harder on a blue-furred arm.
>> You need anything?
What would he need? Besides a little extra arm strength. If he could just—get this guy's wrists together--
“Why are you on their side? You think they're going to spare you, when they start rounding us up again? You're not better than me--”
“Let him go, you're hurting him, this is a peaceful protest--”
“Getting this all on camera. Hey. Hey cop. Turn a little this way, will you? Need to zoom in on your name and badge—there we go. Ladies and gentleman of the internet, I present Officer Swartz, Kapo Cat Cop. Got a ring to it, doesn't it? And here we have him in his native environment, brutalizing his own for the man--”
>> don't think we're getting anywhere over here without an Adapted
That, at least, he could agree with. He got the guy's wrists together, and slipped on the zip tie with practiced ease. Tightened it. Got his feet under himself, and dragged the blue fur ball to his feet.
One down.
>> And I'd have to be dating you again for that.
If you cheat on Ghost they will never find the body.
“And here we have the diligent Officer Swartz texting on duty. Sweet talking your girlfriend, Officer? Does she know what you do for a living? Will she be proud when this video reaches a million views?”
Calley slipped his phone back into his pocket. Then he waded back in. Another day, another protest.
Police brutality: it was getting harder and harder to remember why it was a bad idea.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 14, 2016 13:11:17 GMT -6
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Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
“I don't like this,” the Italian officer said, the bipedal half of him pausing a good ten feet back from the chewed metal formerly known as sewer grate. Suddenly, he felt much more forgiving to the guards who'd failed to notice the rat's efforts to chew out of his cell. Weeks, they'd been saying it took.
This hadn't taken weeks. This had taken minutes. Less, if they were unlucky.
His Rott half wuffed at the opening. The smell was sharp: ammonia and iron, like a pet store mouse case dipped in battery acid.
“We're talking a power growth here, Linely. Did you have a chance to talk to any of the other prisoners? Look at the footage? Do we have any idea what we're dealing with?”
The big Rott stretched out a paw, and gingerly touched the frayed edges of the rat hole. It held up the paw for the detective to see: a drop of blood was already welling up. These cuts were clean, and sharp.
Calley had known a mutant that went by Iron Mouth, once. The guy could eat anything down in seconds. This was too similar for comfort.
“I can't be the only one noticing that this trail went straight to the nearest grating,” he continued. “And I'm talking straight. He wasn't sniffing it out; he already knew where it was. Did he have any accomplices, any friends, any connections to mutant gangs?”
Baby detective seemed way to eager to go in there. Baby detective was either packing one hell of a punch, or he was still new enough that he was out to prove himself. And people looking to prove themselves loved to go things alone, or with a token shifter that had been forced on them.
If the detective wouldn't, then Calley would. He was calling this in. He clicked his shoulder radio.
“Dispatch, this is Swartz and Linely, in pursuit of the escaped rat shifter--” It sounded like such an easy chase when put that way, didn't it? 'Rat shifter' was doing the man no justice. “Trail leads into the sewers. Probable power growth, possible accomplice. Requesting backup, and not the kind that comes in a can.”
Hell if he was risking his life to put a new bullet point on Linely's resume.
His radio crackled. “Swartz, dispatch speaking. We can get you someone, but ETA is at least an hour. Protests are hot downtown. You're authorized to go in without backup if you think you can handle him. It's your and Linely's call.”
Hell.
Period.
...How many people had this guy killed, again? He wasn't sure about the rat's vintage body count, but the tally for today stood at one. One officer. If the protestors were sparking again, it might be hours until they had backup.
“...After you, Linely. And I think it's about time you filled me in on your power.”
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 13, 2016 16:22:05 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
...Oh dear god. The guy was a baby detective, wasn't he? He totally was. The blush, the apology, the this case made my career when this case clearly wasn't even lukewarm yet-—he was brand spanking new to plains clothes, wasn't he?
Calley had only been with the force a year. He'd just made probation a few weeks back. If Linely had joined the force at twenty-one, when he was first able to, then he'd have half a decade more experience tracking criminals than Calley had.
“If sewers power him up, then that's where he'd go first; then over to his hidey-hole, wherever it is.” Probably also in the sewers. “That what you're saying? Great.”
Sewers and him had a history. One that the background check hadn't turned up. The detective had crime fighting experience, but Calley was willing to bet he had more experience being a criminal.
“Let's get started, then. Don't freak.”
That was all the more warning the shifter gave. He stretched out a palm next to his side. The next instant, a rather large Rottweiler stood next to him, its nose touching his hand.
The instant after that, the Italian lost a shade of his tan, and the Rott nosily wuffed a cough out its nose. If it were human, gagged might be the better descriptor.
“Well that's pleasant,” the shifter quipped faintly.
Blood wasn't the worst part of a crime scene like this. Blood was coppery and flat, monotonous even to the human nose. Yeah, there was a lot of blood here. Sure. But not enough to cover up the other smells that came with death. Especially violent death. Movies liked to slather on the red. Their artistic directors forgot—or choose not to think about—the other colors. Yellow and brown, and whatever was eaten for lunch yesterday and was half digested now and should never have been shown to the world again if God had a sense of dignity, never mind decency.
It had been awful as a human. Having two noses routed through his brain, and one of them a hell of a lot more powerful, had just moved things up on a logarithmic scale of awful.
“Yep. Okay. This way.”
It was with fully foofed tail that the catty officer and his new doggy splinter led the way out of the room. Stiffly. And with as little breathing as possible.
Even mixed in with all of that, this rat still stunk. That didn't say anything good about what he had to look forward to at the end of this.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 13, 2016 11:19:59 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Caleb. Was the guy really calling him Caleb? Wasn't standard cop etiquette to go by last names until you knew a guy? Caleb. Really.
“The only one who calls me Caleb is my sister, Linely. Swartz or Whiskers, if you want me to actually respond.” Or Calley, but that was for friends and real cops. Not this baby face. He looked around Calley's age, but he'd already made detective. Either he was a British prodigy and the other officers called him Holmes, or he'd taken the MRC fast track. Within the NYPD, it was a well known fact that mutants got promoted fast in this precinct. Having mutant detectives made for good PR. And really, wasn't that what the MRC was all about?
“Sorry if the body language offends.” Sorry not sorry. “My partner's out at the protests while I'm here with you, and she's vanilla human.”
...Did they say 'vanilla human' in the MRC, or did they gasp and cover their mouths about that kind of thing? That lovely phrase, 'I will not give you special treatment because you're different like me,' make him guess the latter.
The sooner they found this guy, the sooner he'd be back parrying Nyugen's xenophobic comments with Asian stereotype snipes.
“Killer rat. Can you be more specific? What kind of mutation are we talking? Single or serial? Got an MO? What's the odds of him going to ground versus killing again? How smart is he—is this going to be a foot chase, or is he going to get cleaned up and get an Uber lift to the Canadian border?”
Calley's tail continued to twitch, but it was more the twitch of a cat stalking prey.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 13, 2016 10:10:45 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
“Really?” Officer Swartz said again. Because it needed to be said. “What happened to their bloodhound mutant? She's got ten times the schnoz of my Rott.”
“They don't have a bloodhound mutant. And if they didn't, she wouldn't be back undercover, and you shouldn't shut up.” Nyugen, ever the sympathetic sergeant, leaned back in his chair. It creaked. “Don't worry, we'll save some protestors for you. Get your game ears on, Swartz, and get out of here.” “One of these days, Nyugen, there's going to be an HR complaint with your name on it.”
The sergeant crossed his hands over his belly. “If you wanted to be treated like a human, you'd have signed up for the MRC's swaddling, Swartz. Now scat.”
Calley flicked a black cat ear, and scatted.
The crime scene techs were just getting done as he came in, filing out with their cameras and sample bags. Good: no need to tip toe around the scene, then.
First impressions: the rat was messy, whoever had let the guy gnaw through steel over the course of weeks was legally blind, and the detective in charge was having no luck finding the stick up his posterior. You could tell by the way he was giving orders that the techies would give in their own good time, and hiding his discomfort with gruff impatience.
“Your partner reporting, Sir.” A smart salute always helped to grease the wheels. If his tail was twitching a snarky beat behind him, well, mentioning that would be discriminating against his special snowflake powers. A MRC detective wouldn't allow that, now would he? Calley offered a hand, keeping his claws to a minimum. “Caleb Swartz. 24th Precinct's designated rat catcher. Pleasure to meet you.”
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 12, 2016 23:10:01 GMT -6
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Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
July 4th
The Jersey Turnpike. In the true Jersey spirit, it ran past industrial complexes and waste management facilities, under smog and over grass-covered mounds of trash, and spilled its offal onto the George Washington Bridge straight into Manhattan. On a typical day, it could take hours to get into NYC. Alternatives included the--
“All available units to the Lincoln tunnel,” crackled his shoulder radio.
Of course, if that was out, there was always the--
“Confirm that, dispatch? Lincoln or Holland?”
“Both,” came the clipped answer. No one near Calley reached up to their own radios to respond. George Washington Bridge had its own issues.
Three people were laying on the road in front of five hours of traffic. One of them was a shade of orange that clashed fantastically with her rose-print dress. One was holding up a homemade sign—something witty comparing traffic jams to the stalled progress of mutant rights legislation that he really didn't want to read, it was bad enough he had some of their anti-police chants running on repeat in his head--and if the kid's arms weren't starting to feel like lead by now, then that was some kind of mutation in its own right. The last girl was chewing gum and, Calley was certain, battling the local Pokemon gym from the safety and comfort of the cleared traffic lanes. She blew a pink bubble. It popped.
The joke went like this: how many mutants does it take to close down all traffic in and out of the city?
It would have been nice if the answer was in double digits, but no. Nine. Three each on both tunnels and the bridge. They could have done less, if they'd really wanted to show off. Calley had a feeling that some of them were just along for moral support.
The girl blew another bubble. It popped. The sound didn't leave the shimmering gray force field that neatly encapsulated all three protestors and a large swath of the central three lanes.
Today was going to be a long day.
>> I know you're mad, but I'm worried. Please reply.
Can't talk. Working. Calley typed back, a day or three after Cafas' message was first received. Feel free to break up with me again.
Posted by Cheshire on Jun 28, 2016 20:27:13 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
The desk sergeant was shouting orders before he was even in the door. This wasn't a new thing. “Swartz, we've got protestors blocking off Broadway. They need a mutie on site ASAP to defuse things, and the MRC's backed up.” “I appreciate your diversity too, Nyugen,” the cat-eared beat cop said, trying not to drip as he entered the station. “But the ones over in Midtown decided to, quote, 'drench me in the blood of our fallen brothers,' end quote. So excuse me while I get a new shirt.”
The not dripping was hard, given the red. So much red. He was pretty sure it was food dye, but he'd been wrong about such things before. Never taste something squirted by a mutant, even if it had come from a water gun. Never.
MacGillan looked up from her desk as he passed, and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “There are still bagels in the break room, Whiskers. Better take a detour if you want one.”
That was tempting, but. “I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather do laundry than eat, right now. Save me one, would you?”
He turned a corner, just as MacGillan was staring anxiously after him. He turned a corner, just as a door was opening.
What stepped out looked a hell of a lot like Cafas Johnson escorting the secret love child of Cold Steel out of a room full of scrapped META bot parts.
…
“Never mind bagels and Broadway it is. Say hi to Ghost for me thanks bye.”
Officer Swartz tail stood straight out behind him, as poofed as it could be given the food dye.
With the META's head went Panu's best eyes in the room. Now he had only the black-and-white ones in the corner of the station's main rooms, and also the phone in his hoodie pocket, which was currently looking at gray fleece. He surreptitiously scooted its camera outside the fabric. Now he could see everything in front of him in color and at waist height.
The knight bot was very sad and mostly dead. Panu asked its legs to please kindly stop twitching, it made his stomach feel bad to watch. “I am okay. Thank you. I hope it is not trouble for you to pick me up, I did not want to bother father--”
A cat officer turned very quickly on his heel and walked away. He was dripping all over the floor. Probably this is why it was a tile floor, and not carpet.
“Why is there a mutant working for police?” The boy asked.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 31, 2015 14:29:30 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
The packet seemed too thick for a rejection letter. Calley examined it carefully before opening it. Official NYPD seal, check. No mysterious white powder or ticking noises, check.
Congratulations letter. Academy schedule. Directions on ordering his uniform. Date of the swearing in ceremony.
“How the hell did that happen?"
He’d even listed the mutie hater as a reference. What did a cat have to do to avoid getting real responsibilities, around here? This is what he got for being helpful.
Not to say that he was unhappy. Shock would be a better term. He reread the letter twice, making sure it really was his name listed.
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 31, 2015 14:27:32 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
2014
“You know what he said when the MRC finally showed up to take the heat off us?” Sammy said. “ ‘About damn time.’ Summed up the whole situation. Five days trapped in that station. I know the rest of the city was getting hit hard, they were running around literally putting out fires, but… Whatever. ‘About damn time.’ You haven’t heard that said until a tiger says it.”
Sergeant Haversmith scribbled a note. “You requested a transfer to the MRC Precinct after the riots. That seems unusual for someone of your background.”
“For someone who volunteered as a camp guard during the Registration Act. You can say it. The Captain over here was thinking the same thing when she called me in to interview. But she approved it. As you can see.” A little show of jazz hands around the edges of her mug emphasized the point.
“What made you want to work here?”
“For one thing? Jimmy was putting in. You’ve seen the guy—send him for a cup of coffee, and he gets lost in the break room.” She shrugged. “And we work well together. Didn’t want to break that up. It’s tough enough, with all the turn over around here.”
All the disability leaves, she meant. All the funerals. Neither of them said it.
He waited.
She kept talking.
“And the other thing. When I said all those cadets quit back at the Academy? I stayed. The idea of the camps was disgusting, but you know what was worse? Letting them walk free. Do not quote me on this to HR, this is just so you understand, all right? Back then, the Registration Act made total sense to me. Every other day were were losing officers, we couldn’t protect anyone when one of those monsters showed up. It was like… the civilians were sitting there, watching their TVs, waiting for us to make it better, but what could we do?
“Then the Registration Act got passed, and boom—backup. Public support. Supplies. Government funding. Hell, those freaky stalker robots. We cops were the only ones who realized how close the city was to loosing any sense of law and order, and the Act saved us from that. I don’t regret them passing it. The Camps were ****ed up, but even when I had to go home and take a two hour shower to feel clean, it still felt like at least we were doing something.”
She sipped her coffee.
He clicked his pen. “An interesting stance, for someone recommending a mutant to the Academy. You’ve changed your mind?”
“Hell no.” She set down her cup, and leaned in closer. “You’ve got the same look as me. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I won’t go squealing to HR if you don’t. Mutants are… they’re freaks. Listening to the people in this Precinct talk is like… is like being the the middle of the Democratic caucus. Everyone’s trying to out PC each other. You mention the Sanctuary Police Massacre around here, they start talking socioeconomics. Disgusting.” Sammy leaned back, with a one-shouldered shrug. “But if we don't get mutants buying into the system, they're just going to keep killing us. And that kid? He’s all right.”
Haversmith put down his pen. He hadn’t written anything, not for the last few minutes. “Would you trust him at your back?”
“I did,” she raised her cup in a half-salute. “And I do. He still hangs around, anyone else mention that? Comes in to steal powdered sugar donuts in the morning. We’re trying to train him to use the front door, but it’s like… well, like training a cat. He helps, though. Goes on ride-alongs, unofficially. Mostly with the 24th--there's mutie cop here that has a beef with him. Apparently he punched the guy, awhile back. Didn't think muties were such crybabies. You know Elliot made him fill out the application, right? Said he couldn’t hang around if he didn’t at least try. She’ll probably try shoving him in the reserves, if you nix this.” She took a long, long sip. “Anyone else you’re talking to?”
“Just his teachers,” the sergeant said. His next word explained everything: “Mansion.”
Sammy smirked. “Is it even worth talking to them? Muties stick together.”
He didn’t agree, but he didn’t disagree. “Thank you for your time, Officer Regent.”
“You want my advice? Let him in to the Academy. If he can’t cut it, he can’t cut it. It’ll look good on our Affirmative Action hiring numbers, either way.” She stood up, and stretched. “And either way? He’s going to keep coming around. Better if we get him house broken.”
Posted by Cheshire on Jul 31, 2015 14:19:33 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
May 7th, 2013
Samantha Regent punched a tiger.
It was a surreal moment, even as she did it. The sort of thing that her own mind provided narration for: Samantha Regent, punching a tiger, in one of her more well-thought-out moments in life. And now the tiger is reeling back, reading itself to attack—
“Would people stop doing that!” A young man with a proper Jersey accent yelled, from another room. “I’m just trying to help! I really hope you realize how much I hate you all!”
The tiger was cowering at her feet. Its eyes were enormous, gold, and wibbling. Its paws were all politely tucked under its body, and it appeared to be trying hard to look as small as possible. Considering its body was longer than she was tall, and it weighed at least four of her, there was only one phrase that adequately summarized the situation.
“What the ****.” Sammy clambered to her feet. Wobbly at first, a hand to her head to stop the spike of pain lodged in her temple, but she made it. And she pointed with her free hand, down at those wibbly gold eyes. “What. The. ****.”
A crow landed on her shoulder. “Sss’okay, Sssamr. Sss’gud tigrr.”
“Gah!” She never knew she’d had it in her to throw a crow to the ground, but there it was. It bounced off the tiger’s face, pointy feet first.
“That’s it, I give up, I am so done with this—” The same young man protested, from the other room.
The crow, if anything, was looking even more pitiable than the giant tiger.
Tiger. Tigrr.
It’s okay, Sammy. It’s a good tiger.
“Jimmy goddamnit if you’ve been hiding that you’re a mutant now is not the time.”
Krawww, the crow answered, noncommittally.
“Officer Regent.” The sergeant’s voice snapped her to immediate attention. The lobby of the 24th had been set up in a rough barricade, she noticed, like kids making forts with couch cushions. The sergeant pointed towards the next room. “Go debrief.” He rubbed his temples. “Just… go debrief. They’ll explain it.”
“Yes, Sir.” She saluted smartly, then nursed her headache all the way into the next room. The tiger stayed behind, sitting up slowly in her wake. The sergeant scratched it behind the ears. Jimmy hopped after her like a bad history joke; Jim Crow hops into a police station and... The next room had been divested of its contents to furnish the barricade. She went to the only table left in the joint, and presented herself to the officers there. “Officer Regent. You’re the people that are going to make this make sense?”
“We’ll try, Regent. Sergent Watch. These are Johnson and Elliot. Elliot’s with the MRC. She’s our acting… shifter liaison. You’re from the…?”
“18th. You guys have been out of touch for a while, Sergent. We’ve been trying to route cars your way, but things are thick around this area.”
“Land lines have been cut,” the sergeant explained, “and something’s jamming cell reception. Some kind of mutie. We’re in a lull right now—”
As terrifying as the thought that this was a lull was, she found part of her attention distracted by the plainclothes detective in the corner. Elliot was talking to a pile of clothes. “Swartz, this is not productive.”
The clothes squiggled slightly. “Told you. I give up. People keep hitting me when I drag them out of death-cars. You ever tried being in three places at once? Punching doesn’t make your head feel better.”
“Swartz.” That voice, right there, made it clear how she’d made detective.
The clothing wiggled. A little white cat head with black spots on its ears flopped out of the shirt collar. “…I can still be productive like this. S’more comfortable than being human. All this woulda been easier if you hadn’t made me keep out my human form.”
The detective ran a hand through her hair. “Go take a nap, Swartz.”
That perked the cat up. It sat up straight, shaking off the last of the clothes it had been tangled up in. “What? No. I can still help. I can do a rhino. Have you ever seen how quickly people run from a rhino? Way more quickly than a tiger. And you need me in the air. Surveillance is my thing, you can’t just—”
“Lagarde has it covered. You turned him into a crow, remember?”
The cat listed a little to one side. “Oh. Yeah. I guess? Yeah, he punched me too.”
"You haven't slept since this started, Swartz."
The cat stubbornly hunched down. "Neither have you."
"Yeah. But I outrank you."
Sergeant Watch was still talking. “—get yourself checked out. If you’re up for it, we could use you on the perimeter after that. We’re rotating officers until we get a break in this.”
“Take this with you,” the detective said, shoving the cat in her hands. “Make sure it sleeps.”
