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 Rupert Kelley on Dec 2, 2007 16:43:59 GMT -6
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To be honest, the kid’s reaction was a lot calmer than Rupert had feared. A thought had crossed his mind: what was the quickest way to get rid of a human who knew too much? Make it look like the idiot had fallen off of a church roof, of course. He was relieved that Wings apparently hadn’t had the same thought. Actually, that made him feel a lot better about this kid, in general. There was a reason Rupert had been a zealot: mutants were cutting down the NYPD like well-sharpened scythes. He himself had a very nice scar through his side, given to him by a girl with a bow in her hair who was currently rotting in the camps. Now her, he was not planning to release. That little murderess was going to pay for all the cops she’d killed. Some mutants, though, didn’t deserve the bad rap that the rest of their species was building up. Apparently Wings—Ian Beckford—was one of the better ones. Good to know. Very, very good to know.
Rupert nodded understandingly at the kid’s words, and didn’t mention those few steps he took backwards. Honestly, Rupert couldn’t blame him. Turned on by his parents, currently in a city full of Stalker bots, and talking with a man who worked at the concentration camps and would have happily shipped him off to get registered and collared just a week or two ago. Yes, Ian was in his full rights to stand a little further back.
“The place I’m talking about is my apartment. The risks are that if you get found there, you’ll be shipped off to the camps, and I... well, I think they’ll have to make up new laws just for my trial. ‘Traitor to Humanity’ isn’t a charge just yet, but that’s about what I’m planning.” He gave a modest shrug. “I’m trying to stage a break-out at the camps. If someone finds out about you, they’ll realize I’m not exactly who they thought they were hiring, and that whole plan is going to fail.”
He gave another shrug, and a half-smile. “If things go well, though, the worst you’ll have to put up with is a little limited freedom, and my pets.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Somehow, I’ve become a boarding house for the pets from the Mansion. Don’t ask me how that happened.” Honestly, he was still trying to work it out. Especially that ferret. That ferret... in the jet-propelled cage. Yes, its owner was a genius electric fox girl. But... it was a jet-propelled ferret cage. Why had she built...? That was another thing he really just shouldn’t think about too hard. “You can take some time to think about it, if you want.” He paused, and looked around at their current setting. “...Maybe not too long, actually.”
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 2, 2007 16:09:25 GMT -6
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Clearly, this was a kid who understood the words ‘it’s the thought that counts’. Rupert let out a little sigh of relief. Apparently, his sentiment had gotten across, even if the words themselves weren’t exactly a poetic masterpiece.
“...Personally I would rather not spend my first trip to New York in a mutant concentration camp.”
“Fair enough,” Rupert said, nodding reasonably as he watched the kid’s pacing. Obviously, those wings were functional. Otherwise, he’d be showing a bit more concern for the drop. ...He probably wouldn’t be up here in the first place if those things didn’t work, come to think about it. Huh. Rupert was definitely feeling like a genius, today.
“That school you mentioned—it’s really not far-fetched. There were two of them, actually; Xavier’s, and Xavier’s Sister School. We, ah, we raided both of them.” He really shouldn’t have used that ‘we’. Now he felt the need to explain it. He scratched at the back of his neck. “I’m a cop. A Detective, actually. Well, not a Detective at the moment—right now I’m working at the—never mind.” He took a deep breath, and realized his credibility probably couldn’t get much worse, after that little admission. He might as well lay all the cards on the table; he only had a vague idea of where he was taking this, but he realized he was going to need the kid’s trust. He still hadn’t gotten his name. “Actually, never mind the never mind. Right now, I work at the concentration camps. The ones for mutants.” Because there were other concentration camps in the state of New York. Yes, he was really doing great, here. “Listen, though, I’m not going to turn you in, or anything. It’s very important that no one knows we had this conversation, though—I’m, ah,” he flashed a sudden grin. “Well, believe it or not, but the rest of the world thinks I’m a mutant-hating zealot at the moment. I’m trying to use that. And I’m rambling again.”
He cleared his throat. “The school is shut down right now. So are all the other places I know of that you could have gone, if you’d gotten here a month earlier. There might be one place left—but it would be really risky, for both of us. And you would have to trust me.” Standing there in his sweatpants and his Rolling Stones T-shirt, shivering slightly from the wind, Rupert didn’t think he was cutting the most trustworthy figure.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 2, 2007 15:28:43 GMT -6
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Calley
About the time that the kid’s head starting sinking lower and lower was when Rupert realized he was out of his league, here. Yes, as both a police officer and a volunteer at his church he’d gotten in some experience talking with kids in trouble. Just a few weeks ago, in fact, he’d talked to a kid named Kyle, who’d been in much the same place as... as Wings, here. The difference? Rupert was not used to talking to mutant kids. In fact, he wasn’t even used to talking with mutants without a gun at hand. Well, not if he knew they were mutants. This was... this was new territory, here. Rupert took a step closer as Wings moved towards the edge of the roof, then decided that wasn’t such a good idea for reasons of his own mortality, and stayed right where he was.
So this was his first conversation with a mutant as a non-zealot. Huh. Well, this would be... interesting. “Listen, freak—” He slapped his forehead, and ran his hand down his face. Off to a good start already. “Sorry—sorry. Didn’t mean that. I just—long story. Can I just try that again?” He took a deep breath, carefully planned out his next words, and then said: “My name is Rupert. What’s yours?”
“And no, I can’t imagine what it would be like to have everyone turn against you like that.” He could very easily imagine what it would be like to be one of the people who had turned, though. “If it helps... I think they’ll regret it. Your parents, I mean. They’re going to wake up one day and realize how stupid they were.” On that topic, Rupert counted himself an expert. You didn’t get more regretful than realizing you’d shot your mutant girlfriend. And locked her into a concentration camp. And... and he was going to stop thinking about that, now. He had sinned; he’d asked for forgiveness; and now he was working to correct things. That seemed like it should be enough. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it was all he could do, being the mere human he was.
He listened to the kid’s words about his faith, and his wings. He kept quiet through it all. What was there to say? ‘Why yes, it does suck to be you. In an ironic way. Ha! Freak.’ Yes, he was definitely keeping his mouth shut until he’d carefully planned out a response.
“I... can’t say that I don’t care that you’re different,” he began tentatively. That had sounded better in his head. Since he hadn’t used either the words ‘freak’, ‘mutie freak’, or ‘feathered freak’ in there, he was just going to count it as a win and move on. “I’ve got no clue what you’re going through, either. I do know, though, that there’s something separating you from your parents, and the people who ran you off. Besides the... the wings... I mean.” Rupert gestured lamely towards the boy’s raven feathers. This probably wasn’t helping. “What I mean is, you’re not at fault, here. You couldn’t help... the wings.” He gestured again. He really needed to stop doing that. “Them hating you, though—that was something they chose. You couldn’t control any of this; they’re the ones who did wrong. So don’t feel... bad.” He winced at his own incredible wisdom.
“Okay, sorry. That was long, and rambling. The point is: do you have any clue where you’re going from here? You can’t just go around in public with the... with the wings, and all.” He stopped his hand in mid-gesture, this time. What was a polite way to talk about someone’s mutation? He really didn’t know. For some reason, the NYPD didn’t teach mutant relations etiquette.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 2, 2007 14:25:16 GMT -6
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Rupert tensed at those first words out of the mutie’s mouth, warily watching the way the thing was holding itself; those spread wings didn’t scream ‘friendly’, and Rupert had no doubt that if it came to blows up on a rooftop, then the guy with the wings was at the advantage. Then—
—He watched the kid face-plant onto the roof. Suddenly, all the puffing-up, wing-spreading, and machismo words seemed to take on a new slant. And the fighting stance. Where had this kid learned to fight, in a video game? Nice pose. Rupert was only at street brawler level himself—he tended to skip the fight, and just shoot his target—but even he could spot about ten easy ways to drop Wings over there.
“Well what’s it going to be fight or walk away?”
Rupert put a hand over his mouth, trying to cover his sudden smile. If nothing else, he had a fine sense of the ridiculous. And this... was ridiculous. “How old are you, kid?” He finally asked. “Fourteen? Fifteen?” Besides the wings, he looked rather normal. More importantly, he didn’t have the look of someone who had been on the streets very long. He didn’t look like someone who’d been getting regular meals or showers lately, either. “You picked a bad time to run away from home. Couldn’t your parents hide you?”
He noted the cross. It was the sort of thing Rupert couldn’t fail to note. “Are you Christian?”
He kept his own posture relaxed, and made the screwdriver—the only claim to a weapon he had—disappear into a pocket. He was trying to take the kid off his little offensively-defensive stance. For one thing, Rupert had no intention of hurting him. For another thing, Rupert was one swift push away from a very messy end. Posturing had been known to escalate. It would be great if they could just avoid that.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 2, 2007 13:46:44 GMT -6
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Rupert was not going to fall. This is what he had decided. I am not going to fall. Repeating this aloud would make it more real: “I am not going to—woah! steady, steady...—Not going to fall!” Despite what the wind had to say—and it was being very vocal on the issue, he was staying on this rooftop.
“As for you,” he clutched at the spire the dish was attached to, and poked at the loosely hanging thing, “I know you hate me, and you know I hate you. So I’m just going to screw you, and then go back down, and we’re never going to speak of this again. Got it?” He paused a second, screwdriver poised artistically in one hand. “I didn’t just say that,” he decided, and set to work with a nod to himself.
He’d managed to wiggle the thing back into its correct location, and was setting to work on the first screw, when something large and metallic glinted from down on the street. Clutching at the spire, Rupert leaned slightly out for a better look. A stalker bot. Its head swiveled towards the rooftop. Rupert merrily raised a hand, and exactly one finger. Stalker bots. There was a very deep loathing for Stalker bots spreading throughout the NYPD, at the moment. For some reason, he and his fellow officers had been under the obviously mistaken impression that the things had been created to help them. Recent events had shown that, really, the NYPD existed as their cannon fodder. So many officers had been lost during the Mansion and Sanctuary raids because those walking tin lizards had gone off and done their own thing, while mutants had been cutting men down left and right.
Its head was staying on his location. Rupert made a shooing motion at it. “Shouldn’t you be off terrorizing the populace?” Finally, it turned, and continued down the street. Another thing: those robots had no concept of ‘collateral damage’. They’d been tearing up the city to bring in mutants who had been quietly laying low. Brilliant. Simply brilliant. Even if Rupert hadn’t decided he didn’t want to be a zealot any longer, he wouldn’t be in the fan club for those things. “Stupid robots.” He turned back to the dish, and set to work on screw number two.
Finally, the deed was done, and the youth groups were set up to receive their precious reality TV and bad sitcoms until Armageddon. Or until the next time this thing busted; whichever came first, really. Rupert paused a moment to admire his handiwork in satisfaction. This, friends, was a thankless job done well. He let his gaze roam out past the spire, to the city. That, friends, was a view. In this part of the city, mirrored windows and steel contrasted with the older, gray-stone masterpieces like his church. Not so far away, Central Park in the trailing days of its fall color was visible through the buildings.
“Give thanks to the Lord, call on his name; make known among the nations what he has done,” Rupert quoted contentedly. Psalm 105:1. “I love this city.” He tapped the screwdriver against his leg. “And now, to not die.” He looked back at the long stretch of roof between himself and the trap door. “Not going to fall,” he repeated once more, and started edging his way to safety. So help him, those kids better have saved some puppy chow and a Coke for him.
It was about then that a warning bell went of in Rupert’s head. He froze. Then, he tried to look like he hadn’t frozen. Very slowly, he turned his head back to that magnificent view. Mirrored windows showed something large, black, and feathered tucked away on the roof, not so far from where he was. Without turning around, Rupert let his mouth run: “This is a really stupid place to be just now, freak. Are you trying to get spotted by those robots?”
Immediately, his face flushed red. Okay. Bad word choice. He was a recovering zealot, after all. This... was going to take time. And some selective reconstruction of his vocabulary.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 1, 2007 13:38:30 GMT -6
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Former Detective Rupert Kelley, currently on loan to the concentration camps as a supervisor for the State of New York, was presently doing something quite stupid. It was okay—his pastor had asked him to.
Let us backtrack. Today was, quite clearly, Saturday. Saturday was, of course, the day that the church youth groups met to share their young Christian spirits, play ping pong, and drink root beer in the church rec room. Naturally, there was some watching of satellite television involved in all of this.
Quite naturally, the high winds they were having today had done something to the actual satellite dish. Up on the roof. Attached in a rather unholy fashion to one of the beautiful old spires. This actually happened quite frequently—the thing got knocked out of whack. All it needed was someone to go up with a screwdriver and face a forty foot drop in order to restore the youth groups to their TV viewing. The rational thing to do would be to call the repair man, who was paid for such things. The usual thing to do was to pick the first semi-suicidal sucker who volunteered, hand him the screwdriver, and point him towards the ladder to the roof.
As Rupert opened the trapdoor and got hit full in the face with a blast of wind that promised winter, he realized something: he wasn’t this suicidal. But he didn’t want to lose face in front of a group of pimply New York teenagers by chickening out. So he stepped out onto the tiled roof, and delicately, delicately, began to edge his way over the gently slopping portion of the roof towards the spire that held the dish receiver.
This, children, was not something to attempt at home. And if your pastor happened to ask you to do it: just say “no”. Despite what America’s youth thought, it was possible to live without TV. The church really needed to switch to cable.
He might have seen something moving in the shadows next to the spires, but he also might have been concentrating very very hard on not falling to his death at the moment. He had visions of landing on the screwdriver. Just to add insult to his pavement pulverized corpse, you see.
This was not a good idea, he told himself again. It wasn’t the best motivational line he’d ever started repeating to himself. This was not a good idea. Ah, there was the dish. Just a few more steps... he could do this. This was not a good idea.
((ooc: Just to give you a description: Rupert is 28 but looks more like 24, 5’11”, has a silver hoop through his right eyebrow, and is currently wearing a pair of coffee-stained gray sweatpants and a black Rolling Stones T-shirt. And he’s brandishing a screwdriver. One really mustn’t forget the screwdriver.))
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 13, 2007 17:31:19 GMT -6
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((ooc: Coolies; just wanted to check a bit, there. )
Rupert was no genius, but he did not have to be. There was one fact that was blatantly obvious: Cube was going to get on his nerves. Apparently the world at large had decided that he didn’t have enough to deal with, between housing two mutie’s pets and planning the breakout of an entire camp in defiance with national law. Oh, and making sure he was hated by all the people who he was trying to help, and friends with all the people he was going to brutally stab in the back.
Yes. Yes, Cube was that last straw that he really needed.
((ooc: I’ll continue this when the time wrap starts at the camps, methinks... since they’re still on day one, at present, and this takes place on day two.))
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 11, 2007 17:22:22 GMT -6
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Rupert stared down at the glorified box. The glorified box that had just belted itself in. “First off,” he said coolly, “I am not talking to you. Second, you need to look like a palm pilot. Now. I don’t know how far out from the camps the Stalkers patrol; probably not this far, but as we get closer, they will be around. I’m not going to have one of your big brawny cousins spotting you, never mind the people I have to lie my ass off to. I don’t care what your...” Father? Evil Scientist? “...creator said: you’re going to look like a palm pilot unless I specifically tell you to appear otherwise, or I am putting you under a wheel of this car and revving it.” He glared down at the thing for a moment more, and then thought up another very important guideline for their relationship: “Third: unless I talk to you, you do not talk to me.” Taken in conjunction with rule one, that might make this situation tolerable.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 11, 2007 17:05:19 GMT -6
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Calley
Rupert looked down at the small robot offering him his own gun. Nonnegotiable. Right. This... would be unnecessarily interesting. Because, truly, his life was so horribly dull as of late. “Thanks,” he stated, walking over to his newly righted car. If Vincent thought he was talking about the car, well, that was just chipper.
“Is there anything else, or can I get to work, now?” He was already in behind the driver’s seat. There were fewer things he wanted out of life, just now, then to not be dealing with the semi-murderous man in the robot suit.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 11, 2007 7:29:45 GMT -6
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…Admittedly, the shape-shifting abilities made it slightly more useful, but it was still something made by the Lupin family, and it was still a talking cube. It said it could be “inconspicuous”, but that “it said” part was half the problem, in Rupert’s mind. How did he know this thing wasn’t going to give him away just because its central processor got bored of being a palm pilot? He’d heard they’d employed some muties, to keep the other freaks in line—what if there was a technomancer on the guard staff, who could sense the thing’s existence? And no offence to the Lupins, but from what he’d seen, they redefined eccentric.
He might have a solution for all of this. He wondered, in a slightly surreal off-handed manner, if it was going to cause his car to get attacked by a robot on the way home.
Slowly, he raised his gaze back to met Vincent’s. He even put on a small smile. “Thank you... Mr. Lupin. I’m sure I can find something to do with this; in fact, I bet new uses are just going to come to me.” Uses the man probably didn’t anticipate. He was going to get his ass kicked if he did what he was thinking of doing, wasn’t he? Honestly, it was the best course of action he could see. Maybe he should discuss this with the somewhat violent man before him. Then again, maybe he only wanted to antagonize the violent man from a distance. “Not to cut this conversation short, but if I don’t show up for my shift, I’ve got a lot of explaining to do. That wouldn’t be a good omen for the rest of this.” He glanced back at his flipped car, and flicked his eyes back to the robot. “Do you think you could lend a guy a hand?” His poor car looked like a turtle who had given up on life.
“Oh, and a question—can I contact you through this thing? As in, can you hear what is being said around it?” That could complicate things, or make things easier. Which was going to entirely depend on Vincent’s reaction to what Rupert was planning to do, his first few minutes after stepping into the camp.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 7, 2007 21:11:43 GMT -6
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‘Bemused’ would be one way of describing the look on Rupert’s face. There were many others that were appropriate, at the moment. He was a regular thesaurus of facial twitches.
...An infiltration and sabotage mini-robot. Of course. Did its head fold open, and could a little mini-Vincent pilot step out? No doubt.
“Hi... Cube.” He answered slowly. “I’m Rupert. I’m sure I can find... something... for you to do.”
This was probably Vincent’s idea of ‘useful’. That worried him a little, but it didn’t surprise him in the least. An espionage cube. Great. Wonderful. Truly. Really. He could use this, yeah. If it didn’t stick out like a sore shinny robotic thumb, and if the risk of it getting caught was something he wanted to run. He hadn’t even assessed the situation himself yet, and he was being given one of the Lupin family’s eccentric creations to aid him? Lovely. Beautiful. Charming. Sure. Except that if he got caught with this, it was game over already, and it was only day one that he was out on the playing field. If nothing else, the Lupins had both genius in spades and a distinctly lacking sense of the practical.
Slowly, and with one eyebrow arched and worthy of many adjectives, he looked up at Vincent. “Actually, I’m not sure what I can use... Cube... for.” His other eyebrow shot up. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Never mind. I just thought of something.”
An espionage bot could take care of a ferret, right? Even a ferret that navigated New York in a jet-propelled cage? Let’s hear it for using two odd ducks as their own stones.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Dec 4, 2007 20:09:44 GMT -6
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So the anti-zealot vengeance-seeking robot-piloting father had a box for him; perfect. Still, the guy wasn’t threatening his life anymore, so this conversation was actually looking up.
“So,” he asked, trying to put a polite tint to the way his eyebrows had shot up his forehead as he stared at the... box. “What does this do?” Knowing the Lupin family... Rupert wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Nov 22, 2007 22:34:51 GMT -6
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Rupert had honestly forgotten that he was still holding his gun. Since it was rather a moot point, he didn’t mentally berate himself over it. He could do that later, if and when he grew tired of hitting himself over the head with the other things he’d been an idiot about lately.
The circular thing saw fit to release him, and Vincent stepped out of his robot. “All right. We’ll talk about this like rational humans. But I’d better like what I hear.”
Rupert rubbed the back of his neck. He appreciated that qualifier the man had just said. Really: no pressure. “Not to push my luck, but do you think you could go for thirty seconds without threatening me?” He dropped his hand. “Never mind. Okay, my big elaborate plan: this is my first day actually working at the camps, so I don’t have one yet. I don’t know how many Stalkers are posted there, I don’t know how many guards there are, I don’t know what the conditions are like at all. I do know,” he glanced meaningfully over Vincent’s shoulder to the tin man, “that if you were even thinking about driving that thing in like a conquering hero, the only thing you’re going to achieve is having your daughters see their dad get toasted. Not to nit-pick your plans when my own are...” He shrugged his shoulders. “I need to check the situation out. I’m hoping there will be a central control room where I can deactivate all the power-suppressors from, but I just don’t know yet. I need to get in touch with mutants on the outside, as well—once the camp freaks are free, they need somewhere to hide.” ‘Freaks’ might not be the best word choice, but old habits died hard.
He wasn’t feeling the urge to shout any longer, but he did feel the need to say a certain something. With a glance back at his flipped car, he informed the man of a shocking fact: “You know, if you murder a zealot, it’s still murder. Just for the record, they can change their minds. Killing them doesn’t miraculously transform the world, it just makes it a little more blood-stained, and robs them of the chance to redeem themselves.” Asshole, his mind added. Robot-wielding zealot-hunting vengeance-driven asshole. Just what the world needs. Hell, that’s even better than me.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Nov 21, 2007 13:21:11 GMT -6
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The fact that the distraught father had stopped spinning that gun in his face, and seemed to be listening, was encouraging Rupert to approach this situation in a rational manner.
The fact that he was talking at a giant robot while there was a non-spinning machine gun in his face was, somehow, detracting from that.
The added fact that his legs were cramping up from being forced to stand on his tip-toes by the random bondage droid wasn’t helping. It really... just wasn’t.
“This is ridiculous,” Rupert pointed out, in a manner that—he was proud to note—didn’t involve shouting. There was only the slightest of an end-of-his-rope growl in his voice. “Either we’re talking about this like rational human beings, or we’re not. So either you’re letting me down and stepping out of your mecca fantasy, or I’m not telling your jack-squat.” Rupert had lost track of the number of times he’d mentally reached his breaking point this week. Honestly, it was getting a little tiring. He gave the robot a dead-pan stare. A robot. He was still trying to wrap his head around that fact: Vincent was driving a robot.
)