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 Alma Elizondo on Jul 22, 2012 23:49:28 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
Yeah, Kait gave me a holler a little while after I posted this. Sooo, no need for any more invitations to le Sanc, but I still desire threads. >.> Because I am a glutton for... doing a lot of typing.
Profile Link Here Alma speaks in orangered. She also speaks French and Spanish. I don't. Google Translate makes mistakes.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 22, 2012 20:36:52 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
Alma was quite the sight to behold—she sat upon her largest bag, duffel bag on her lap, and backpack at her side, the image of either a lost traveler or a homeless girl with nice bags. She’d managed to acquire a map of New York City on her way out of the hostel, and was now sitting on the curbside a few blocks away, scrutinizing a map.
The hostel had had the best rates in the city—or so they claimed—at only twenty-five dollars a night. Though Alma wasn’t totally broke, the cost was beginning to impact her pocketbook. And, without a steady source of income, she needed to pace herself. This money would have to last her until she got a legitimate job. She couldn’t spend it all on a bed in a hostel. Thus, Alma was exploring her options.
As she sat on the curbside, perusing this map and book of places to stay (which was at her side—she was cross-referencing these places and their locations with the map, to see how far she’d be walking with all of her bags), the bodachs were finding other means of entertainment, and beginning to tarry. Alma had come to learn that, though they followed her while she was on the move, if she wasn’t doing anything worthy of their interest, they deviated. Some were attempting to (and failing at) scale a newspaper dispenser. Others were playing with broken glass, which shone temptingly in the sunlight.
A good chunk of the little ones, however, were focusing on living targets—humans, specifically—and causing problems overall. Though they could go invisible, it was far more fun to be visible and causing problems—which these smaller bodachs were doing. Somewhere, in the alleys, the big ones stalked. Alma, all the while, was wholly unaware of the behavior of her shadowy stalkers. She was more focused on finding a place to crash.
Homeless shelters… always an option. Thought I hardly seem the part. Do they reject people who don't look homeless from homeless shelters...?
Profile Link Here Alma speaks in orangered. She also speaks French and Spanish. I don't. Google Translate makes mistakes.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 22, 2012 18:18:53 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
I know I talked about this in the cbox last night, but I was immensely tired and only vaguely remember who said, "Steal my characters for this express purpose," so I decided to put this in a thread request.
Alma needs to get to the Sanctuary.
The issues?
1. Someone needs to invite her there, because she doesn't know about it.
2. For someone to invite her there, they need to figure out she's a mutant.
3. Alma's super secretive about her mutation.
Soooo, I'm obviously in-need of assistance and plotting. So, any Sanc-dwellers, Order or not, this is my plea-- drop a comment here if you're one of those that offered your services. ^_^ Or PM me~ if you've got an idea for a thread. I recall that there was a couple of ya, so... dunno how I'm going to do this and stay fair. Perhaps first come, first serve, unless the both of us are totally stumped on the "how" part of getting Alma Sanctuary-wards.
Thanks for the consideration and the read.
<3, Gina
EDIT! P.S. I also desire threads in-general for this sparkly new charrie. Something else to ponder, if anyone else is in-need of threads.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 20, 2012 18:58:52 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
Against her better judgment, Alma had gone to the City. Of all places—she could have high-tailed it to L.A., gone to Vancouver, or Chicago… could have ventured to a small town in the middle of nowhere, slipped into obscurity until things died-down. She could have, and probably should have, but New York City had felt the safest. If her uncle’s reputation didn’t save her, here, the tight-knit mutant community would, so long as she broadcasted the fact that she wasn’t exactly human.
Alma had caught a bus away from the airport, snuck onto it through the back door, got a ride to a hotel that she couldn’t afford. Alma had found somewhere with lower costs—a hostel where beds were twenty-five dollars a night, with amenities including an in-room locker for her to stash her things in. There were obvious priorities—find another place to go, if she decided to go elsewhere, or get a job and find a place to stay, if Alma stayed. But having flown-in to New York City the day before, Alma wouldn’t bother with the more serious matters, yet.
Today’s goal, scope the comic book stores. She’d already been to one, thus far, and was now venturing towards “One Comic to Rule Them All”. As she strolled across the parking lot, the smaller shadowy creatures trailed after her like ducklings, bustling into one another and occasionally stumbling over their own to feet, only to get up and continue to follow their master onward. Somewhere in-transit, the larger ones had been lost.
As she stepped into the air-conditioned store, Alma pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead, looking around shrewdly. It was clean in here. Professional. No extraneous boxes, or as she could tell so far, no bizarre stains on the thin carpet. These were surroundings that Alma could grow accustomed to. But what sort of selection do they have? Sure, the store was big enough to do any nerdy heart—however secretive it might be—proud, but were there as many books as there seemed to be?
The short, wooden heels of Almas’ knee-high boots gave muffled clicks as she strode towards the far wall, eyes skimming the shelves for a series with which she was familiar. She stuck-out like a sore thumb—fashionably-oversized blouse over fitted black jeans, brown leather boots, well-kempt hair and a face that was adorned with make-up seamlessly. She wasn’t exactly the image of your stereotypical comic-book nerd, nor did she look the part of a homeless person, either. Alma hummed, and began picking through what seemed to be a familiar series.
The bodachs preoccupied themselves clambering onto the lowest shelf, near Alma's feet, pushing off other bodachs that tried to cross into their territory. Alma did her best to ignore them as she continued her search.
Profile Link Here Alma speaks in orangered. She also speaks French and Spanish. I don't. Google Translate makes mistakes.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 20, 2012 1:04:50 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
By the time that the taxi-cab had rolled up to the curb of the airport, all of the smaller-sized creatures had caught-up with Alma. And, as the cab driver stepped-out to assist her with her bags, Alma spied the larger ones a good distance down the sidewalk. As if they hadn’t just flown down highways at between eight to one-hundred kilometers-per-hour.
“How much do I owe you?” the dark-haired girl inquired of her driver. In all the casual conversation, the cost of the trip or methods of payment had never arisen.
“The man who called ahead of time has it covered,” the cabby said reassuringly, “He’s paying me double virtually—as a matter of fact-” the man flipped open his phone, punched a few buttons, “-I just sent him our coordinates.”
The cabby held out his hand, a smile upon his face, “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Elizondo.”
“You as well, Mr. Paine,” she replied, shaking his hand. The cabby slid back into the driver’s seat, and pulled away from the curb, leaving Alma with her invisible little demons.
“Come along, pests,” Alma murmured, “Let’s see where we’re going.”
Alma strolled into the terminal, tilting her head back to look at the board listing times of arrival flights, and estimated departure times.
“Somewhere far away?” she asked the small creatures that mulled about her feet, “Vancouver? Los Angeles? Mexico?” Falcone held connections in the latter two, so it wouldn’t be unsafe to venture in those directions, “Santa Fe? Or… the City?”
She spoke the words “the City” with disdain, and perhaps a note of dread. Daniel had died in the city, as had her mother, and at the hands of humans. It was where Falcones’ power was most influencial, seeing as he lived there, and it was where Alma would be safest, but also at the most risk. Her phone hummed in her pocket, and Alma fished it out. Falcone, again.
She flipped it open, “Uncle Jack?”
“I hear you got to the airport safely,” he greeted calmly, “I was informed that you’d insisted upon getting your things first, though.”
“Certain stuff I didn’t want to leave behind,” Alma murmured.
“Understandable,” Falcone agreed, “Where are you headed? Your abuela has been worrying ever since I gave her word of your unfortunate circumstances.”
“Tell Lela I’ll be safe soon,” Alma murmured, “I don’t know where I’m going yet. That’s part of disappearing, tio. Not supposed to know where I go. How’s Grandpa?”
“He’s going on about the old days,” her Uncle Jack chuckled, his warm baritone rippling through the phone, “Your friends should be grateful, I’m sorely tempted to listen to your grandfather, for once.”
“No, uncle,” Alma chastised, “They all think I’m dead. It’s done. Just want to start anew.”
He didn’t need to know about Joëlle.
“Good talking to you, Alma,” he said warmly, “Don’t be a stranger.”
Alma grinned, “Take care.”
They said their goodbyes, and Alma shut off her cell phone. This was how she disappeared.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 19, 2012 13:49:59 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
Arrangements were made to have Alma leave Quebec, and likely Canada as well—her Uncle Jack had insisted that she leave without taking anything, take the first bus or plane out, and let the professionals handle damage control. Alma was nineteen, though, and wanted to grab some of her things. She couldn’t be told what to do by “professionals”. Besides which, Joëlle had bolted when Alma had arrived, like the coward that she was. If Alma broke into her own bedroom, she doubted Joëlle would do anything in retaliation.
It was two a.m. and Joëlle’s family was populated by those who got up early, and therefore never went to bed later than ten. All of the windows were dark. Alma glanced around her—the bigger shadowy things were down the street, mulling about slowly. The smaller ones trailed trailed behind her like ducklings, occasionally shouting, “Shoo!”, as they went.
Joëlle’s family lived in a spacious two-story house. Almas’ bedroom was downstairs, in the designated “spare bedroom”, along with the living and family rooms, the kitchen and dining areas, the garage, the laundry room, and the first of three bathrooms. Upstairs, there was the master bedroom, Joëlle’s bedroom, and their respective bathrooms. Alma walked towards the front door quietly, thanking the lord that Joëlle’s father had severe allergies to pet dander, and therefore they didn’t have a dog, a cat, or any other shedding animal that might give her away. All they had was a snake.
Alma drew out her keys, flipping through a few until she reached the key to Joëlle’s house. She slid it into the lock, and unlatched the door, swinging it open and stepping inside. Alma was greeted by silence. Such relief. Her senses on high-alert, Alma swung the door shut quietly and latched it again. She’d grab a big suitcase, a small duffel bag, and a backpack, and fill them with some of the necessities before bolting—important things, but things that no one would necessarily notice were gone. She kept her gaming system in a cabinet, for example, locked-up. That would be safe to take. The rest of her room was already in boxes, anyways.
Alma stole across the foyer and into her bedroom, through the closed door, which she shut once again behind her.
“Clothes,” Alma murmured, “Lots of clothes… toiletries, sentimental things, game system, laptop… just pack.”
Alma scurried towards her closet, pulling her two largest bags off of the top shelf. Her uncle would handle the rest, she would handle this. Alma couldn’t trust all of her things to the traitorous friends of her, could she? Alma packed quickly and efficiently, stuffing her favorite summer clothes into the bag. Uncle said someone from the family would be up here within a few weeks. They can grab the other stuff. Once through with stuffing the summery clothes, and pajamas, into a bag, Alma began to grab for possessions—she slid her laptop into its sleeve, tucked it in her backpack, grabbed the gaming system and tucked it into a box, continued humming about the room. Once her bags were stuffed, Alma grabbed a Mag Light, and turned towards the closed door. It was time to get make-up and toiletries. She bee-lined to the door, pulled it open—
And was greeted by Joëlle. The dark-haired girl lunged into action, taking out her former friends’ legs with a swift kick. Joëlle crumpled to the ground with a cry.
“You let out a single peep, I’ll knock you out cold,” Alma growled, bouncing the flashlight for emphasis, “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Je ne vais pas dire une âme, Alma. Pas une âme,” Joëlle whimpered, “S'il vous plaît, ne me blesse pas.”
“You’d better not tell a soul,” Alma hissed from the bathroom, “Falcone knows where you live, and he’s sending his men to get my things. You tell your parents—you tell Desiree or the others—anything more than they already know, do you think my uncle will spare you because of the way things once were?”
Joëlle began to cry quietly, and shook her head.
“Good,” Alma snapped, “Because he won’t. Falcone pays no kindness to anyone. He doesn’t know mercy. The only thing that’s keeping him from exacting his revenge on you, is me. Remember that.”
She finished filling her toiletries bag, and walked back out, facing Joëlle briefly, before trailing into her bedroom.
“Alma, I didn’t know she was going to stab you,” Joëlle whined, getting up sorely, “I didn’t know that she’d try and kill you. I thought she’d forgotten about that.”
“Apparently not,” Alma grumbled, zipping her bag. She kept the Mag Light in her grasp, wriggling into her backpack, shouldering the duffel bag, and grabbing her suitcase by the handle, fixing her friend with a glare.
“Where are you going?”
“Away,” Alma answered flatly, stepping out of her bedroom and closing the door behind her. She held the MagLight up to Joëlle’s chin, her expression cold, “Remember, not a word. Your silence is the only thing that’s saving you. Capisce?”
“Not a word,” Joëlle agreed. And, with that, Alma walked out the door, heralded outside by proclamations of “shoo” from the smaller creatures.
Alma strolled out of the cul-de-sac, down the familiar twists and turns of the neighborhood. The bigger guys, who were still lumbering along after her, saw that Alma was now walking in the other direction, and went to follow her again. Alma wove her way out of the neighborhood, and onto a main street. There, a cab was awaiting her, engine running—just as arranged. Alma walked up to the driver’s side window, which was open, and a clean-cut man looked back.
“Miss Elizondo?” he greeted, in English.
“Yes sir.”
“Good morning,” he greeted, “Shall I get the trunk for you?”
Falcone must have paid him handsomely. Alma nodded her head, “Yes sir, thank you.”
The guy got out of the taxi, and went to open the trunk for her. He slid the larger bag and the duffel bag into the trunk, while Alma opted to keep the backpack with her. She slid into the back seat, and the driver reclaimed his post.
“The man who paid your fare ahead of time instructed to drive you to wherever you needed to go,” the man explained.
“Quebec City, please,” Alma replied, watching as a few of the little guys wriggled in through the window, “The airport.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver replied. He turned the key in the ignition, and the yellow cab pulled onto the deserted road. Only four of the smaller things had slithered in through the window, the rest had been too slow. Alma said a silent farewell, and didn't look back.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 19, 2012 12:25:08 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
It was cold, and the air was sterile. Not clean, not homey. Sterile. The chill was an unmoving, insulated coldness, the air was not thin like the familiar Canadian air. Alma was inside. She shifted and her stomach protested, a cushion giving-way beneath her head. Blankets scratched exposed legs. A bed. Alma opened her eyes. A hospital room.
“I lived,” Alma murmured softly, sitting up quickly. Her stomach spasmed in pain, and she groaned, holding it as if to quell the rising pang. The teen pushed the blankets down—she was wearing a long pair of pajama shorts with a matching top—probably donated by the hospital—they weren’t cute, but they worked. Alma lifted her shirt marginally, and found bandages. She’d lived. There was a giggle, and Alma lifted her head sharply.
Alma’s breath caught in her throat. They were all standing at the foot of her bed, staring at her—the little ones, literally sitting on her bed, while the larger ones stood there, staring at her blankly. A chill coursed down Alma’s spine, and she flapped a hand at them.
“Go away, go away!” Alma shouted in English, “Go! Away! Now!”
When she received no reaction nor any response, Alma tried to kick at them, “Shoo!”
They exchanged glances, as if perplexed by the girls’ actions, and some of them began to mimic her.
“Shoo… shoo… shoo…” they chirped, “Shoo!”
Alma blinked, bunching her legs up to her chest, and a doctor came bustling in.
“Where am I?!” Alma demanded, her voice a little too loud.
The doctor winced, “Je suis désolé, mademoiselle. Je ne parle pas anglais.”
Alma stared at him for a measure, than glanced at the creatures at the foot of her bed… then back at the doctor. One of the things gave a timid “shooo” in response. He…. Didn’t see them. At all. A few more cries of “shoo” simmered up, shyly.
He spoke like a Parisian—so formal. Alma cleared her throat in embarrassment. Obviously, still in Quebec. Alma smiled apologetically and replied, “Pardonnez-moi. J'ai oublié que j'étais au Québec. Où suis-je maintenant? Un hôpital?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
He then rattled off of the name of the hospital, and began to explain what had happened the night before transitioning into an explanation.
“A man found you by the roadside,” he explained coolly, his French still proper and formal, “He brought you here, and when we examined you, we saw that the stab had managed to lacerate your liver, but dodged all other major internal organs. The bleeding stopped, internally, when we went to mend it, so the liver had begun to heal itself, and we were able to stitch the wound closed.
“How long will I be here, Doctor?” Alma inquired, “A couple of days?”
The doctor smiled, “You’ve already been here a couple of days. You will stay today, at least, so that we can observe you—take a blood sample, make sure the hemoglobin is where it should be… Then we may release you tonight or tomorrow morning.”
He lowered his clipboard and gave her a smile, “You should consider yourself very fortunate, miss.”
“I am,” Alma said lightly, bowing her head. The doctor departed. Alma glanced towards the creatures at the foot of her bed, puckering her lips contemplatively.
“What are you looking at?” she demanded, reverting to English.
She was answered to silence.
“Have you seen my cell phone?” she tried again.
Again, the crushing silence. Alma groaned.
“Great, I have these things follow me, and they’re too stupid to talk,” she grumbled. A few indignant proclamations of "shoo" answered her. Alma leaned to the right, towards the table that was beside her bed. It had two drawers—she opened the top, and found a Bible. Alma slid that drawer shut, and opened the second. A ha! Her cell phone was there, but no clothes.
Probably crusted-over with blood, Alma realized. Alma leaned over and retrieved the phone, flipping it open. There were fifteen missed calls.
She scrolled through the list, perusing the names—all of them, were from Uncle Jack or from her Grandpa Hector. Alma selected her uncle’s name, and held the receiver to her ear. The phone rang once…. twice…
Her uncle picked-up on the third ring.
“Alma-” he greeted, the lyrical cadence that usually colored his baritone tinted by worry, “Where have you been? You haven’t answered my calls in days.”
“Uncle Jack,” Alma greeted, exasperated. She covered her eyes, looking for the right words to say this. She’d nearly died for her uncle’s reputation, for Falcone, “I need to pull a disappearing act. Something happened.”
Profile Link Here Alma speaks in orangered. She also speaks French and Spanish. I don't. Google Translate makes mistakes.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 18, 2012 14:51:36 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
As Alma plodded on, the world began to tilt and bob and spin, much like an off-kilter merry-go-round. For a surreal amount of time, she was able to remain upright, but with a final pitch, the world tilted upwards, and the unyielding surface of the highway rose to meet her. Alma groaned—the highway itself was abnormally desolate this evening. No cars had passed her yet, and her escape on foot was now brought to a harsh stop.
She had to carry on. But, as she tried to push herself up with arms that were indescribably tired, her weight seemed to increase. Her body weighed a ton, and she was too weak. Alma sank back to the ground, and her eyes slowly blinked at the seesawing world.
Was this what it was like, to die? The pavement was icy cold against Alma's feverish skin. Each breath was a struggle, as if she were a fish who'd been dropped onto the deck of a ship. And, with how the world tilted and spun, it might as well have been one, enormous ship.
Alma lifted a hand, which had been previously been clutched to her stomach. Her abdomen spasmed in pain, and her hand came out red. Alma furrowed her brow. Since when were her hands red? Why hadn't-?
Pinpricks of light broke her train of thought, and they were expanding. Alma shifted, trying to sit up. Her grandma, in all of her spiritual wisdom, had always said that when one died, there was a tunnel of light. Alma tried to stand, but was too weak to.
As it drew closer, the sound of an engine became more apparent. A car? She was going to Heaven in a car? The thing rumbled closer, but as it went past, it came to an abrupt halt. Then there was silence.
Alma sank back onto the pavement, lifting her gaze as yellow lights flashed in her eyes. Hazard flashers. Two feet emerged from the car and rushed back. A man. A stranger.
At last, salvation.
He knelt, shouting something, but his voice sounded far away. Alma furrowed her brows, pressing her arms to her stomach. He shouted again, and his voice sounded closer, but was still garbled.
Finally, in perfect French, he yelled, "Ma'am, I'm going to get you to a hospital."
"Please," Alma replied. Then, the world went dark.
Profile Link Here Alma speaks in orangered. She also speaks French and Spanish. I don't. Google Translate makes mistakes.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 18, 2012 14:39:51 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
The pain was blinding and ice-cold, and Alma crumpled. The air had been pressing inwards as Desiree lunged, but with the piercing of the blade, the tension snapped— the cosmic rubber band that had been gradually drawn back was stretching to its maximum, and then—
SNAP!
All at once, a frenzy ensued—They were charging into action, and came into focus. Alma heard the shrieks of her friends, heard the crackle of motion amongst the shadowy things. The small ones were latching onto rocks and hurling them straight for the heads of their masters’ attackers, while the larger ones took to shoving at and boxing them relentlessly. Marcus and Benjamin lost their grips on the things, and Alma was permitted to collapse to the ground, hands blindly fumbling towards her stomach. Her shirt was gradually coloring with crimson, spreading from her abdomen outward—no.
The world around her blurred, shouts and cries of ”Monster!” and ”Demon!” cutting through the confusion. Above all, there was a single voice, Desiree’s, who screamed, “You’re dead, mutant! Dead!”
Alma staggered shakily to feet. Where would she take her chances? With her “friends”, the forests, or the rapids? Anything was better than the people who had tried to kill her. The world tilted as she stood, and she looked frantically towards the woods—how far could she run? Alma looked towards the rapids—how strong was the current? How well could she swim? How cold was it? Alma made a break for the woods, her legs carrying her into the trees.
“She’s getting away!” Marcel’s voice swam towards Almas’ ears.
“She won’t make it far!” Desiree snapped. Alma ran, adrenaline giving her an extra push, heart rate frantic. Her hand was pressed against the bleeding gash, trying to stop it without avail. The minutes melted together, all of the trees began looking the same. She remembered bumping into Joëlle, and her friend shrieking in terror. One of the human-sized creatures arose and, latching onto her hat, pushed her against a tree. Alma screamed too, continued running.
Time swam fluidly about her, and in moments, it seemed, she found herself at the edge of a wide road. The highway. The nearest civilization was… North of them, so she would have to cross to the other side of the highway, where the road ventured in the opposite direction. She had to put as much distance between her and her friends as she could, had to get help. She couldn’t die tonight.
Profile Link Here Alma speaks in orangered. She also speaks French and Spanish. I don't. Google Translate makes mistakes.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 18, 2012 14:32:28 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
In a moment, the two boys of the group—Marcel and Benjamin—were upon Alma, jerking her free of Joëlle’s hold. They grasped for her arms, but didn’t grab her quickly enough, and Alma was thrown to the ground.
“Hey!” Alma shouted, “What’s the big idea?”
They grabbed a hold of her arms, forcing her most of the way upright.
“Hold her arms behind her back, Marcel,” Desiree sneered, “Ben, bind her legs. Tightly. Don’t want her kicking.”
“What the hell is this!?” Alma interjected, “Guys, come on, this isn’t funny.”
“I’m sorry,” Joëlle murmured quickly, bolting back towards the tree-line. Alma fought against the hold of the two boys, but their grips held her like a vice.
“Joëlle has informed me of something that is rather disconcerting,” Desiree purred, “That there is a traitor, in our midst.”
As she spoke, she knelt in front of Alma, rolling up the leg of her her jeans. She rolled it over her red cowboy boots—one of Desirees’ prides, and tucked between the top of her boot and the light curve of her thigh, a large blade. Alma’s stomach dropped.
“Are you a traitor, Miss Elizondo?”
“No,” Alma said, her voice quivering, “I’ve n-n-never betrayed any of you. You’re m-my friends. Please.”
“Liar!” Desiree shouted. Her free hand connected to Alma’s cheek, the blow strong enough to leave a sting upon her cold flesh and rattle her teeth. Alma grit her teeth. She could fight her way out of this, but these were her friends. They surged closer, They approached just as the humans did, pressing in, sensing that something ominous was about to transpire.
“Our motto is, ‘Human and Proud’, Alma Nadine,” Desiree snapped, “Your entire dedication to our cause has been a lie.”
“I never was part of the cause,” Alma growled, “As soon as you had gained a cause, I knew it was a step in the wrong direction. I stepped back.”
“You confess that it was a lie?” Desiree said smugly. Murmurs unheard by the humans’ ears arose. They were conversing. They were planning their next move.
“No,” Alma avowed, “It was never a lie.”
“You, the niece of the current Falcone,” Desiree snapped, “A blood relative of an organization that stand for everything that is contrary to our values.”
Desiree used the flat side of the blade to lift Alma’s chin, forcing her to look her in the eye.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 18, 2012 14:26:10 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
The path to the Point was dark and densely forested, but Alma knew the path well. Her feet had traveled it numerous times, so walking it with nothing but a dying flashlight to guide her was rather easy. Beyond which, she had company—her best friend, Joëlle, was there to keep her company, and they were chattering about old memories oriented around the Point. The point was an exposed peninsula, surrounded by the surging waters of a river. Many nights, Alma’s former group of friends went there just to relax—occasionally, there was alcohol, your run-of-the-mill mind-altering substances, but Alma tried to avoid those. Her friends had cheap tastes, and beyond which, someone needed to be clearheaded enough to lead everyone else back to their respective cars.
But, ever since Almas’ mother had died in the Outbreak, ever since They had begun to appear, she hadn’t been to the Point.
Indeed, even They had followed her this evening. Their forms melted into the darkness that the weak flashlights couldn’t reach, but their glowing eyes were a testament to their presence.
“Remember when we were having a contest to see who could jump the farthest out?” Joëlle spoke-up, “And Marcel was so terrified, that Benjamin tried to push him in, and Marcel shrieked like a girl?”
“That was funny,” Alma replied in fluid French, laughing faintly. The trees were growing farther apart, revealing glimmers of the water before them, until the trees parted completely, revealing the scene before them in its full glory.
The river reflected the light of the full moon and the net of stars that supported it, scintillating in the light. The forms of five others—each of them, among Almas’ former and current friends—stood silhouetted against the night sky, their faces casted in shadow. There was no bonfire to be seen.
“Guys, where’s the fire?” Alma hollered at her friends, before smiling at her own wittiness. It was her own, personal inside-joke. In English, the phrase held connotations that it didn’t hold in French. As she drew closer, she noticed the grim looks that they wore. Had they forgotten firewood? The trees surrounding them were so accustomed to a damp climate, that it wouldn’t be effective to glean wood from there.
Desiree, the leader of the group, stepped forward, brown eyes blackened by the night’s weakened light.
Two, simple words parted her lips, spoken with an air of iciness.
Posted by Alma Elizondo on Jul 17, 2012 23:02:52 GMT -6
Delta Mutant
118
0
Jul 14, 2013 10:20:50 GMT -6
Individual
Character's Full Name: Alma Nadine Elizondo
Alias/ Nickname/ Codename: n/a
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Date of Birth: 10/10/1992
Nationality/ Ethnicity: Latina (Mexican, Spanish, Chilean… and a tiny bit of Basque) with Canadian and American citizenship
Birthplace/ Home/ Place of Origin: Born in Buffalo, NY; moved to Saint-Jérôme, QC, Canada in January 2000
Appearance
Hair Color & Style: Jet-black, silky spill of hair. It’s of an average thickness and bears a low wave. Hangs down to her mid-back. Only tied back when exercising or working, otherwise worn down.
Eyes: Hazel, farsighted
Height: 5’7”
Build: Lank-limbed and leanly-muscled with moderate curves.
Visible mutation: n/a
Scars/ Tattoos/ Piercings: A gash upon her stomach that is still in the process of healing, and a smattering of pale scars from her younger years. Tattoo of two eagle feathers on the left side of her neck, and a small tattoo of a compass on her right wrist, which around the edges reads, “To thine own self be true.” Alma has two piercings per each ear lobe, amounting to four in total.
Other features: Clear, warm tan complexion. Oval-shaped face and fine, elegant features—Alma’s range of expressions bear a light of mischief, and she has a fantastic poker face. Moves with an air of casual grace.
Everyday clothing style: Alma likes to look good, favoring attire that is urban, feminine, and flattering.
Uniform: Variable upon job (not yet applicable).
Sleepwear: Pajama shorts coupled with a camisole or light t-shirt. Wears a cardigan and flip-flops rather than a robe and slippers.
Miscellaneous clothing: Occasionally dons silver-rimmed reading glasses, adores sunglasses. Accessorizes moderately, but steers clear of frumpy, gaudy, bizarre, or second-hand articles of clothing or accessorizing.
Character
Personality: Alma’s something of a trickster, her personality split between intellect and impulse. On certain days, she can be cunning and wily, while she can be as foolish as a clown on others.
She is an articulate girl, stubborn about certain ideals, and a very private person. Never has been one to trust easily, but if she does trust you, you can trust her to be genuine.
Yet, there’s a flipside to her personality—however private she may be, Alma can’t keep away from people. She’s full of mischief and life, and boasts an intrepidness and spontaneity that, coupled with her way with words, tends to draw people in (particularly, the boys). Alma is all about seizing the day, and frequents the night scene. She’ll also lie reflexively if she thinks that it’ll prove advantageous to herself.
Alma’s of a very mellow disposition, and can be incredibly charming. But, if you manage to get her to lose her temper, it’s something to be feared. In Alma’s nature, there is the constant push-and-pull of drawing people in, but pushing them back when they get too close. Her lifestyle boasts plenty of shallow friendships and noncommittal romances.
Alma is an addict of coffee, a closet-nerd, and an insomniac. If she can’t sleep, she’s read, play video games, clean, or cook. Alma hates eating-out, and can occasionally be spotted talking to herself, and spacing-out. She has a horrible habit of changing what language she’s speaking at the drop of a hat, particularly when she’s anxious, angry, or sad. English is not her best language—it’s formal, and clipped. Her Spanish and French are far more casual, and she tends not to mess-up colloquialisms in those languages as she does with English.
Hobbies/ Interests: debate, talking, clubbing, cooking and baking, cleaning, reading (books and graphic novels), playing video games, exercising, playing piano
Job and Description: Not yet applicable.
Fears/ Phobias/ Concerns:
Special Talents: Trilingual (French, Spanish and English), good memory for books she’s read, passable chef, skilled with words/charming
Morality
Other: Ambiguous. Alma lingers in a moral grey. She’s out to save her own hide, first and foremost, and then those that she calls her own (family, friends, and fellow mutants). She won’t stick her neck out for a total stranger if it proves a disadvantage to her, and she is of the mentality that, “The end justifies the means.” Her morals are such that she is rather unpredictable, almost capricious in her whims. Alma avows that she can be good if she wants to, it just isn’t always beneficial.
Mutations
Mutation Description: Alma is constantly followed about by an entourage of inhuman creatures, which she refers to as “bodachs”, and often mistakes to be spectral. They are vague, shadowy creatures that skulk about silently, and transition from solid to fluid, visible and invisible, with ease. The darkest parts of their bodies are their heads, and their torsos, which are an inky black—as one moves outwards, their hands and feet become an opaque dark grey. There are two groups of shades, which are very distinct in characteristics—the first group, which has more creatures, is weaker and diminutive in size—the second, which has very few creatures, that are of average human height. These are explained in more depth below.
Within the first group, there are about twelve of sprites in-total, and they stand between 4-9” tall, with 5” being the average. They are humanoid in shape, but plump and incredibly disproportionate, almost to the degree of a chibi character. Alma refers to them as “pests”, “imps”, or “little guys”. They travel in twos or threes, have kleptomanic tendencies, and are attracted to shiny things and sugary food. On a good day, they have the intelligence of monkeys. They tend to chatter amongst themselves, but don’t make much sense. The little guys like to mimic sounds they find interesting, or emulate odd gestures.
The second tier is generally referred to as “creepers” or “the quiet ones” or “big guys”. There are three of them, and they stand between 3’ to 5’10”, with the average being just shy of 5’6”. For the most part, they are proportionate, though their torsos are smaller than a humans (because they don’t have any legitimate innards), and their limbs are oddly-shaped. They do not always touch the ground, and sometimes don’t even have discernible legs. Big guys are solitary in nature, and far less spirited than their counterparts—they are quiet and distant, and though they have the same fondness of shiny objects and junk food, they aren’t as given to thievery. They seem intelligent enough to understand complex verbal commands, but do not verbalize anything. They just sit and stare.
In general, they’re a little creepy, but can be quite endearing, particularly the little ones—they are mischievous, but innocent, unless they are sent into a rage mode (mentioned in strengths and weaknesses).
Strengths:
Fluid Composition:Can squeeze beneath doors and through small gaps (while instantaneous for the little guys, this can take big guys quite a while). Though bodachs are always visible to Alma, they can vary from being invisible-to-visible with humans. When invisible, the darkness that is congealed in their heads and torsos seems smaller and more concentrated, to Alma, but as they transition into corporeal forms, they must become visible, and the concentrations of darkness flower outwards, until they almost seem to be a solid black to Alma. As they are an inky black, transiting to a transluscent, dark grey at the edges, they blend into the darkness rather well, but their glowing white-blue eyes tend to be a dead giveaway.
Not Alive: They are not alive in the traditional sense of the word, so lack some of the weaknesses shared by the living—they have no recognizable musculoskeletal system, no legitimate digestive tract, they go into “stasis” but do not sleep, and they do not breathe. Therefore, bodachs require less accommodations then a pet would.
We Shall Obey… Once in a While: Even though they’re sentient creatures, they show an inclination to do what Alma tells them to. In high-stress situations, she can give them loose commands, or they will act on their own, in defense of their master.
Can You Feel Them Now?: They are capable of interacting with the physical world in short bursts and brief touches on their own accord, and can do so for longer if enabled to touch things by Alma. If and when Alma’s in danger, bodachs will fasten onto whatever they can and begin to throw things at the “attacker” and create a ruckus until the threat is removed. This emulates poltergeist activity.
Weaknesses:
Out of Control: Alma’s power only recently transitioned to this level, so to say lacks control would be quite true. Sure, the shades only answer to her, but they can and will disobey her. Yes, they have an “inclination” to do as they’re told, but this inclination is only a driving force when Alma goes from “frustrated” to “emotionally unstable”. Alma cannot command individual bodachs, but if she gets annoyed enough, she can get them to listen—occasionally resorts to bribery with Fruit Loops to get her way with them. She cannot directly control any of them, as one might do with a golem. She can only bark commands and hope they obey.
What a Nightmare: Though Alma considers the bodachs to be “spiritual creatures”, they are actually created by her, however unwittingly. Because of recent events, Alma has recurring nightmares, of which the bodachs are born. The stuff of which they’re crafted leaks from her palms when she has these nightmares, icy-cold but intangible, initially. Based on how long the nightmare lasts determines the size of the bodachs—longer nightmares mean bigger bodachs. When Alma awakens, the bodachs-goop sloughs free, and “ta-da!” you have a bodachs. There do seem to be subconscious size and head-count limitations, however, so she won’t be getting any eight-foot-tall behemoths, nor will she be getting hundreds upon hundreds of bodachs. Yet. The numbers she has now (twelve little guys, three big guys) is where she seems naturally inclined to stop, and they never get any taller than 5’10”.
Persist!: Shades will continue in their attacks up until either (a) the threat is neutralized or removed, or (b) Alma falls unconscious or is otherwise calmed-down. Attacks vary based on how stressed Alma is—if she’s peeved, they might tip something over. But, if Alma’s in a no-win situation, the bodachs will go into a frenzied defense, and will continue throwing objects or directly going-after whoever dared harm their master. When acting independently, bodachs can become corporeal (and thereby, interact with objects) in five second bursts, for five minutes each hour. The little ones find ways around this by working in teams to get what they want. The big ones solve this by just not touching things very often. HOWEVER, if Alma loses control, the bodachs get a boost in how long they can touch things. Rather than being able to interact with solid things for five minutes per hour, they can interact with things for fifteen minutes tops, which would hypothetically be enough time for them to rescue Alma, or for Alma to save herself.
Psychic Advantage: To a degree, psychics can sense the bodachs, or that there is something slightly-off about Alma. Some may be creeped-out by her, while others may feel paranoid, like they’re being watched—see flickers of motion out of the corner of their eyes, or a chill. Psychics whose powers are oriented around more than one sense (e.g., a medium) might be able to sense bodachs fully, as opposed to psychics with abilities that only focus on a single sense.
The On/Off Switch is Stuck!: Alma is always sensing the shades, fully and constantly. She cannot un-see or un-hear them. She also cannot ditch the bodachs, because they are honed-in upon her whereabouts (when she’s conscious), and are mildly reactive to her emotions.
Oh Look, Shiny!: Sure, the bodachs only answer to Alma, but there are two things that are the greatest weaknesses of the creatures. They love sugary foods, especially candy and kids’ cereal, and they are drawn to shiny or sparkly objects. While a curt reminder can get the larger bodachs refocused after being sidetracked by these weaknesses, little guys become like children in a toy store after downing three Pixie Sticks if and when such objects are offered to them. No, other people cannot control them, but they can be sidetracked and bribed.
Unliving, but Destructible: While bodachs cannot “die” in the popular interpretation of the word, they aren’t indestructible—when not corporeal, they are not wholly intangible, and bear the malleability of goo. It doesn’t hurt them to get squished, but it is an inconvenience for them to have to peel themselves off of sidewalks or out of carpets when they’re stepped on. When corporeal, they still bear a fluid composition, but are denser, almost solid. They can be killed by severing their heads from their bodies, or crushing their heads, and will dissipate if crushed or beheaded. Limbs will regenerate within a day. Also, when physical, they do not take well to fire or electrical shock.
Throwing Rocks: They can only interact with inanimate objects, which means there is no throwing housecats or squirrels, or roughing people-up directly. The bodachs seem to find ways around this, however, when assaulting people, by instead interacting with their clothes—therefore, even if they can’t pinch your arm or punch you in the stomach, they can punch your shirt, or pinch your sleeve, and get similar results. So, if you character doesn’t wear a lot of clothes, there’s less of a chance of a direct assault. But there are still the flying objects that they will have to dodge.
Other Limitations (Mostly Numerical Stuff): Little guys never venture farther than the same building as Alma, and will stop what they’re doing to follow her, if she departs. As big guys are more aloof, they usually linger within two blocks of her, but will not go to her unless they see her, or she calls them over. Little guys can only exert three pounds of force, and lift one-pound objects on their own, while big guys can exert forty pounds of force, and lift twenty-pound objects. Alma can only go into a rage once a day and rages can only endure for fifteen minutes, tops. If she gets slightly frustrated, and there is a single instance of a vase tipping over, this detracts from that time.
Secondary Mutation Description: Not yet applicable.
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Fighting Style
Explanation: Alma is actually something of a pacifist, in the sense that, if she can avoid crushing your windpipe, or avoid getting her own butt handed to her, she would prefer it. Alma will sooner talk her way out of her fight than partake in one. If that doesn’t work, she’ll let someone else intervene, take a cheap shot, or pull out her pepper spray. If none of these work, Alma will quickly and efficiently try to diffuse the situation by laying her attacker out flat. Her ultimate last resort is to let her bodachs go after them, and this will only occur if she can’t handle things herself. Her style focuses largely on kicks, punches and jabs, and relies on outmaneuvering the opponent as opposed to sheer strength. She learned from an array of styles from her uncle, the current Falcone.
Pros for Fighting Style: No one’s ever been beaten up in a battle they didn’t partake in. She tends to keep out of trouble, but if trouble comes to her, she isn’t totally helpless. Men will come to her defense, and there’s no shame in taking pepper spray to someone’s face of stomping on his foot. Alma isn’t concerned with morals, which gives her the advantage of being unpredictable, and she will run her mouth to get into the minds of opponents.
Cons for Fighting Style: Running away isn’t usually considered an act of bravery, even if running lets you live to see another day. Though Alma is not so proud that self-endangerment becomes second-nature, she can be egged-into fighting if you slander or threaten her friends, family, or mutant cohorts—either physically or verbally. Alma will not back out of a fight that she commits to, and she will not use her greatest strength—which is her mutation. She isn’t good at wrestling or grappling, relying on agility over strength. Also, her knowledge of fighting is relatively basic—just enough to get by on, and there isn’t much an opportunity for improvement, seeing as she’s a pacifist.
Faction Allegiance
Unaffiliated
History Of Your Character
Alma didn’t grow up seeing bodachs—as a matter-of-fact, she spent a good chunk of her childhood years aspiring towards a mutation and, when that mutation didn’t come, believing that she was human.
Yes, she aspired to be a mutant—her mother was the second of three children (and the only daughter of) Hector “Falcone” Merlo. He was a wealthy man, one of those “big business” sorts with money to spare—he was also the head of the mutant mob. Though their family wasn’t entirely comprised of mutants (genetics is so fickle with the X-gene), those who did have an X-Gene (and were male) went into the “family business” while humans were generally regarded as less desirable. They were never, officially outcast, but could never be as good as mutants. Jennifer Merlo met Alma’s future father, Anthony Elizondo, when this boy—her classmate—was employed by Falcone to keep an eye on his daughter during the school day.
Friendship became a relationship, and by college’s end, Anthony and Jennifer tied the knot. A year later, their first daughter, Sofia, was born. They left the city, trying to escape Falcone’s reputation by retreating to a suburb of Buffalo, NY. Two-and-a-half years later, Alma was born.
Alma wasn’t brought up in your stereotypical “criminal” home. In fact, her young life was nearly normal—she lived in a medium-sized house in a rather uneventful neighborhood. Jennifer was a physical therapist, while Anthony was a higher-up within a prestigious company. Alma was an introverted daddy’s girl, but at the request of their mother, Sofia would drag Alma to the next court over on a daily basis. Yet, unwilling to “babysit” her baby sister, Alma was generally left outside, at the mercy of the neighborhood boys, while Sofia went to play with the other girls.
A young boy by the name of Akshay took notice of her, and took the soft-spoken child under his wing. Alma quickly fell-in with the neighborhood boys, and slowly opened up.
By the time that elementary school rolled around, Alma was an all-out tomboy, rambunctious and full of life and opinions. Some children were intimidated by her rowdiness, while others were drawn in.
A lot of things changed, however, very early on—before Alma reached first grade, Akshay moved—when Alma was about to begin second grade, her sister’s mutation emerged, and she was shipped off to Xavier’s. And, later that year, just after Christmas, Anthony’s company expanded, and they offered him a higher-paying job, so long as he move to their newest location-- Saint-Jérôme, Quebec, Canada.
Alma didn’t handle the change well. Though her rowdiness had previously been the greatest thing that set her apart from her cohorts, when she switched schools, there was something else that presented an entirely different problem—she could not speak French. And in Saint-Jérôme, there were very few English speakers, and even fewer French-English bilingual people or even any Spanish speakers. Alma was at a total loss. And, with Sofia still in the States, Jennifer didn’t have her poster child to focus on. She therefore focused on reforming Alma. Alma pushed back, but with some help French-English bilingual coworkers of Mr. Elizondo, she slowly learned French. But, because of her ineptitude with the French Language, she was held-back a year in school. By the time she was twelve, Alma's French was passable. By fourteen, she was nearly fluent, but her writing skill took more work. Her mother, however, never managed to reform her.
With secondary school came new stressors—as Alma was now in adolescence, the talk about the family now was what mutation Alma would develop. Surely, with a personality as strong as her own, her power would be as equally as impressive. Yet, with each month that rolled by, tension increased—not everyone in the Merlo family was a mutant, but if you weren't a mutant, you were essentially not considered an adult within the family. Jennifer was disappointed, mortified even, and began to argue with her daughter about her lack of a mutation. Alma did as she had always done and fought back, seeking the company of "human and proud" friends. Together, they frequented the party scene, caused trouble around town, and were the crowd to avoid at school.
Little changed for her at the beginning of the Registration—Jennifer and Anthony made a mad-dash into the States to retrieve Sofia, who was in her senior year of high school at Xavier’s. The Merlos’ were considered “dangerous mutants” even when some of them were completely uninvolved with the criminal lifestyle. Thus, some of her family came to live with her—her Uncle Jack (the acting boss under Alma’s grandfather, and the heir to the Merlo throne, so to speak), his wife Cecilia, their children Daniel, Marcus, and Emily, and Alma’s grandmother, Leonor—to escape the situation in New York. Jennifer wanted to return to the states, to New York City, and to fight, but the conservative ideals of the Merlos' forbade it. Anthony, on the other hand, had grown comfortable with living the lawful life, and had no intention of reverting to his old ways. Outraged, Jennifer left, and Daniel went in his father's stead, to fight against human oppression in New York. Alma avoided her home, or tried to-- the anti-mutant ideology was growing stronger in her town, and all that her family ever spoke of was the "human oppression" and the changing relations. And Alma, being human, felt thoroughly out-of-place, thus took refuge with her school friends. They, all the while, sung a different song-- they saw the Registration as a great equalizer, and the imprisonment of "dangerous mutants" as a good thing. Alma kept her mouth shut. Whenever her uncle could snag Alma, he would train all of his children in hand-to-hand combat. (Even the girls'... he said that times were changing, so everyone needed to know how to protect themselves.)
It wasn’t until after the Registration that Alma’s mutation began to show through—Almas’ mother and cousin died in the Outbreak, Sofia left Xavier’s to be at home, and the extended family returned to the City. Hector stepped-down as “Falcone”, passing the title on to his eldest son, former acting boss Jacinto “Jack” Merlo. Alma’s Uncle Jack took on his cousin—Alma’s second cousin—as his underboss.
Anthony and Alma each handled the grief in very different ways—Alma cleaned herself up, focused on her studies, and got a part-time job at a local café. Anthony, all the while, plunged into a depression, drank, and started partaking in petty crimes (and getting very sloppy about it). From these two, different ways of handling grief, stemmed arguments—Anthony thought that Alma was unsympathetic, Alma thought that her father was acting like a child. With each argument that arose came new occurrences of “poltergeist activity”. A cup would tip itself over, a remote would hurl itself across the room. Both presumed that it was Alma’s mutation, finally coming into fruition. Anthony surmised that it was telekinesis. The Merlos’ were delighted.
Yet, when the bodachs began appearing, Alma began to figure that it was something else. All of them were passive observers, and no one else seemed to see them—so, Alma kept them to herself, masquerading as a telekinetic whose powers only arose in arguments. Because of her powers, Alma grew more distant from her friends, whose anti-mutant ideology had spiraled out of control in the recent years. She became an independent child—her father lost his job, and would vanish for weeks at a time, presumably frequenting Montreal, for the lucrative business of dealing “M” on the streets. In November of 2010, her father was finally caught—apprehended by the law, and incarcerated for his laundry list of crimes.
Her New York-based relatives insisted that Alma come back to the States, where she could be cared for, yet Alma refused, stating that she wanted to finish-up her last year of secondary school, only to come to the States after she graduated. She had to sell the home, even with allowance from her grandfather alongside the meager earnings from her job at the café by her school—Alma moved into the same home as her friend, Joëlle’s, renting a room from their parents, and continued living with them until the end of the year. She graduated in June 2011, and began to pack her boxes to return to the U.S.
Just recently, Almas’ former friends learned of her family’s reputation—of how they were a central feature in the mutant mob, which made Almas’ family (and Alma) their enemy. Using the excuse of “reliving old times”, Almas’ friends arranged to have a bonfire at one of their old, favorite spots. It was an isolated spot and, at this fake rendezvous, they cornered her, and attempted to kill her by stabbing her in the stomach.
This single event triggered her mutation, summoning all of the shades closer and rallying them into defense mode, beginning a frenzied attack. Because of the actions taken by her shadowy protectors, Alma was able to stagger to a nearby road, where she collapsed. Figuring that she would die before finding help, her friends did not follow, but a car that was passing by noticed her, picked her up, and took her to the hospital. [I’ll continue the rest of this in a solo~]
Roleplay
Where did you learn about this site?: Google, forever ago~
Do you have any other characters on MRO? If so, who?: Gina and Chase!
Sample RP: Was this what it was like, to die? The pavement was icy cold against Alma's feverish skin. Each breath was a struggle, as if she were a fish who'd been dropped onto the deck of a ship. And, with how the world tilted and spun, it might as well have been one, enormous ship.
Alma lifted a hand, which had been previously been clutched to her stomach. Her abdomen spasmed in pain, and her hand came out red. Alma furrowed her brow. Since when were her hands red? Why hadn't-?
Pinpricks of light broke her train of thought, and they were expanding. Alma shifted, trying to sit up. Her grandma, in all of her spiritual wisdom, had always said that when one died, there was a tunnel of light. Alma tried to stand, but was too weak to.
As it drew closer, the sound of an engine became more apparent. A car? She was going to Heaven in a car? The thing rumbled closer, but as it went past, it came to an abrupt halt. Then there was silence.
Alma sank back onto the pavement, lifting her gaze as yellow lights flashed in her eyes. Hazard flashers. Two feet emerged from the car and rushed back. A man. A stranger.
He knelt, shouting something, but his voice sounded far away. Alma furrowed her brows, pressing her arms to her stomach. He shouted again, and his voice sounded closer, but was still garbled.
Finally, in perfect French, he yelled, "Ma'am, I'm going to get you to a hospital."
"Please," Alma replied. Then, the world went dark.