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.
"Don't you know you can call me by my first name by now? We're beyond casual aquaintence." The man of the hour went on to say, leaning in as if to get close to the lady in red. She leaned back some, as his breath was laced with Scotch. Her nose wrinkled to some degree, and panic became a vice like grip around her throat. She felt her back against the wall soon enough, and reached behind her, fumbling for a door handle or something.
"But I hardly know you." she finally hissed out, managing to make her heavy tongue move. "And besides, I have things to do in the morning."
"Nonsense. I have already spoken with your employer and reimbursed him for any money he might be out for giving you tomorrow off. Now, you should come with---" He was clearly tipsy, that, she thought, and her eyes rolled. She cut him off mid sentance with a gentle shove, and a soft growl.
"Please, I want nothing more than to have a day off, but I cannot afford it... And you have NO business getting into my business. Thank you. Bye." And with that, she ducked under his arm and skirted around him, angry by that point. She didn't notice the stares, and nor did she seem to care. Though she had a feeling in her gut that someone was constantly eyeballing her at the moment, but she didn't bother to scan the room. It was probably just paranoia anyways, she thought as she closed in on her destination.
Layla thought she was home free. But to her dissapointment, the esteemed Dr. Lawrence grabbed at her again, his hand a bit firmer in grip this time. He had tossed another drink down between their meetings, and this time was a bit less... Embaressed about his actions. "You tease me so? Please, just hear me out, my darling. I need to speak with you!"
She shoved at him and snarled a little, "If you touch me again...I'll..."
"You'll what, dear? Freeze me out?" He snorted and dropped his hand, sighing dramatically and getting ready to storm off when some man nudged in and insert his two cents... He then huffed and did storm off.
She had a most relieved look upon her face, and hardly paid attention to what was being said until she heard that her performance was moving. Her caramels blinked a few times before she focused them on the stranger who made the host so pissed off that he walked away like the pansy that he was. Layla canted her head and mumbled a thanks, before saying, "I shouldn't have come here, though..."
She awoke with a start, this amnesiac woman who had yet to have a glimmer of her past. This soul had been wandering for quite some time with no hope for recognition, not one single glance of an end in sight. A heavy heart became a burden since her return to the states, scarred, broken, a misfit mutant with one too many pieces missing to her jigsaw puzzle. Unfortunately for her, the one thing she did not get rid of with her memory, was the dreams that haunted her at night.
Oh, these dreams weren't anything too frightening as of late... In fact, they were kind of monotonous. The same sights, SSDN, right? She awoke from the same dream she had seen for the last month. Fun. So why did she still break out into a light sheen of a sweat? Was it because she was running? So many freakin' questions, she thought as she lifted a hand and palmed the base of her neck. A heavy sigh huffed passed her sleep-swollen lips, flushed cheeks puffing only slightly with the passing action. The plant-girl pushed out of her cotton cocoon and bare feet hit the fine, burber carpet.
Her suite in the hotel she had been staying in had a teriffic view of the skyline. As always, she padded to the french doors that lead to the balcony, and out into the cold air, wincing at the sting of the wind against her tender flesh. She hadn't thought to don a robe, and now regretted it as welts formed on her arms and face. She retreated back into her room and looked for some layers to pull on over her filmy night clothes.
When she was bundled up, seemingly more than one would need for a simply brisk, autumn night, she headed out of her suite and into the hallway. From there, she took the elevator down to the lobby and headed out the revolving door, walking slowly through the courtyard and onto the busy sidewalks of New York City. Xavia shoved her hands into her pockets and shuffled down the walkway without a word to the random strangers and passerbyes. No, she simply walked and pondered in her usual way, about the things she did not know, the things she did not understand, and the things she wanted to find out. Such was the day in the life of Xavia.
On this particular night, though, things would take a turn for the interesting as she rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks... There was a pub, McCullin's Hole... It seemed to strike a chord with her more than anything had in awhile. Intrigued, she walked up to one of the windows and peered inward, watching silently as the crowd drank and laughed their pocketbooks empty. Something about this pub was slightly familiar, and she pressed her forhead closer to the glass, her breath fogging up the pane as she exhaled.
Squinting her eyes, she stood there like a fool, trying to tap into a distant memory. Xavia didn't know what it was about this place that could possibly be of interest. She knew that none of the occupants would know who the hell she was, and she just knew that they would probably laugh at her for standing there as she was. With a frown furrowing her delicate brow, the lass stepped back and turned to leave... But then, with her foot still poised, she pivoted and stared again. What if someone DID know who she was? Could she take the chance of leaving without ever knowing?
After a moment of indecision, she reluctantly, and timidly strode into the pub.
The woman gave a shrug when the other was disinclined to take the offered drink, and set the club soda on the coffee table for a refill for later. She then reclined some, and gestured toward a chair politely. She considered her questions for Ahorta for the time being and pondered upon the situation. Here she was, face to face with another of her kind. The woman hadn’t hesitated to show her powers of to Layla, it was precisely what she had hoped to achieve, but not in the lobby of the hotel.
“It certainly hasn’t been a cake walk on my end. I have a disadvantage.” She gave pause to take a long drink of her bubbly water, before setting the half empty glass down next to the half empty bottle. Layla leaned on her knees then, peering intently at her guest as she pursed her lips. How much could she confide in the other woman? All these questions swirled around in her head and she didn’t know which to ask first. “I don’t stick out because I intend on blending in. You are right in that I don’t wish to belong here. While I admire the beauty of this room, it isn’t a happy place, a home. There are no friends here, only people who think they know me, but how could they? Nobody knows me… Not even myself.” A soft snort is given, and she relaxed back tiredly.
It should have been clear at that point that Layla had no intention of attacking or causing trouble. She would have done so by now, but she didn’t have reason. Her powers weren’t all that strong in any case, so threatening was one thing the plant manipulator was not. Ahorta could have attacked her as well, but she hadn’t. Perhaps fate had a hand in their meeting and they were supposed to help each other.
“Do you know anything about mutants in Romania?” she asked then, and for the first time, had a child like hope in her gaze. Layla was desperate to know who she really was, what her life was, and why she was in Romania before she came to the states. It was a pretty blunt question, quite direct, but it meant business.
Her head was hurting more by the second. The hum of the crowd, the bright neon of the lights, and the sound of someone beginning to murder a song on the piano had her feeling like she had been hit by a Mac Truck. She set her empty glass on the bar and pushed away, thinking it was a mistake to have brought herself into the party she never wanted to attend in the first place. She moved back into the crowd, her destination was the door.
As she wound around one form or another, she could hear snatches of conversation, compliments to herself and to the host of the party. People speculated that she, perhaps, was in a relationship with the host, but it was false. She had no intention on addressing the gossip because she thought it was stupid in the first place.
It was when she was about to round a portly fellow who was blocking her path, that someone was shoved into her, and she nearly bowled her former partner over. She put her hands out to stop herself from falling and came in contact with Martin Stein, the incognito one. She didn’t touch skin; she merely had her hands flat against his back for a moment before she righted herself. “Apologies,” she mumbled, a hand rising up to rub at a temple before she skirted around Martin to head to the door.
Of course, she did not get very far before the host of the party curled his hand around her upper arm a bit too firmly for her liking and pulled her around to face him, “Layla, where are you going? You just got here.” His voice was chilled and caused a shiver of apprehension to go through her. An image of an old man came to mind, an old man with a leering smile and a roaming hand. But when she tried to break free from this one, he at least dropped his hand and had the decency to be embarrassed about his own actions. “I’m sorry, darling, maybe that was a bit too harsh.”
Layla didn’t reply right away, she was lost in thought. The man’s words faded from her mind as she focused on the first, clear image she had in her head since arriving in New York. She had no idea she was seeing Beledodia in her head. The jazz singer would have focused on it for awhile, but she heard her name being repeated, and threw out a reply, “Many apologies, Dr. Lawrence. I should not have come here tonight, I am not feeling well.”
As the other approached, the woman stopped. She put her arm out to hold the elevator open and watched the other and lifted both brows, not in surprise, and said nothing. And when the words stopped, the plant manipulator gave a slow smile, and gestured with the graceful sweep of her arm to the open space of the elevator. Not here, the gesture said. She waited for Ahorta to enter the elevator, and if she did, she stepped aside.
She didn’t trust the woman completely yet, though there was more there than before knowing that she wasn’t the only one who could do extraordinary things. Layla looked at Ahorta with a measured gaze, pondering what the next move would be. Of course, if she followed, Layla would take the woman to her own suite to speak with her in private. She didn’t even trust the elevator for this type of conversation.
The ride up to the top floor was a long one, and she remained silent in contemplation. When the doors were open once again, (if the other followed), she started off toward the suite she called home for now. She held the door open for her companion and closed it once the other was inside. “So I was right, I’m not alone,” she finally said, her back to Ahorta again as she opened the little fridge and pulled out some carbonated water, opening that with a hiss and pouring some into a glass she reached for. She turned around, offering the bottle to the other without expression. “You didn’t seem like the type of person who would be able to stay in a place like this. You stick out like a sore thumb among all of these blue blooded bastards.” She gestured to the garb the other wore.
Drink in hand, she moved to sit down on the oversized sectional, prim as a princess but without the disgusting attitude. “I suppose there are questions to be asked. No?” A plucked brow lifted inquisitively. She, herself, had questions.
Xavia/Layla sat within the vast expanse that was the New York Library, turning the knob of the machine that let you see negatives of old news papers and such. She had been there for hours, a yellow legal pad in her lap, the paper still fresh and the pen laying halfazzardly across the expanse of the object. And as of yet, nobody paid any attention to her except the occasional Librarian, stopping long enough to make sure she was alright where she was at and if they could help in any way. She declined politely every time, and they left her to whatever task it was she was setting herself on.
She reached a hand up and curled it around the back of her neck, her efforts proving futile. She started with the newest of the archives, and worked her way back through days, weeks, months, and years. She had gone through two or three years by now, but didn’t find anything that was worth marking down. Her eyes were tired, she most definitely needed a break, but she still stared at the projected print as if she couldn’t peel her eyes away.
The woman didn’t know if she was going to find anything, but she did know that she had to look…
Stuffing her belongings into her tote bag, she stood up with a grim expression on her face. She took care of the film she was looking at, and after putting it away, she roamed through the books, heading into the adult fiction section, thumbing over the book spines on her way down the row, eying the titles for something interesting, keeping pretty much to herself.
“Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone,” she sang, scanning the crowd with an easy sweep of her eyes, which had the peoples’ gazes plastered upon her. She wasn’t looking at any one person, it seemed like a fruitless effort, and she vented her frustrations in the song, “It’s not warm when he’s away… Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone, and he’s always gone too long any time he goes away.” Her eyes closed and she lovingly arched her fingers into the keys.
“Wonder this time where he’s gone…” Layla opened her eyes and saw a gentleman approaching, but he was just as unfamiliar to her as the rest. She gazed at the incognito fellow for a moment, then turned her head and sang into the microphone in a morose kind of way, and she wasn’t actually performing, this was the real deal. It was no wonder eyes were transfixed on the young woman, why she was the up and coming artist. “Wonderin’ if he’s gone to stay… Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone, and this house just ain’t no home any time he goes away.” Her playing became fierce.
“And I know, I know, I know, I know….” She felt anger that she couldn’t remember her life before waking up. Her search for the real her was fruitless and long. She knew she wasn’t who everyone thought she was, she just knew it. “I know I know I know I know!” Her body was getting into the playing, moving and swaying, beads of perspiration forming in her head as the familiar throb found her temples. “I know Iknow I know I know! Better leave that young thing alone, cause there ain’t no sunshine….”
She stopped suddenly and just sat there taking in deep breaths, licking at her lips and trying to focus on relaxing. The silence was suspended for a moment, but not too long, just a few seconds, and she played the last notes of the piano very softly, “When he’s gone…” The final measures sang out loudly, and then the applause seemed to burst from the mass of bodies. She stood up and bowed slightly, ignoring the offered hand of the good Dr. and stepping away from the Piano.
Layla found herself pushing her way through a sea of reaching hands, not making eye contact as doggedly moved toward the bar. She snagged the first available seat and asked the tender for soda water. With her drink in hand and money paid, she grabbed the bottle of asprin she kept in her hand bag, palmed two, and took them. And lucky for her, Dr. Lawrence was detained by one of the excited guests of his party, he could be seen craning his neck and standing on his toes trying to find her in the crowd.
Xavia woke in a film of sweat, tortured by glimpses of things she did not want to see in her sleeping hours. Her form heaved with gasping breaths, and she sat up, intent on clearing her head. It was for certain that nothing she dreamt about made any sense, whatsoever. Steeling herself, she got out of the plush, king sized bed she slept in, and padded across Berber carpet into the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long, intense moment, scrutinizing the slashes of healing flesh across her face. Whatever had happened definitely left its mark upon her.
Awhile later, she left her suite, dressed in a crimson evening gown. It was only 11 PM in NYC, and she had been invited to a formal party in the Hudson Bar by one of her fans… At first she had declined to go, but she was restless and needed to tire out somehow. So she decked herself out, wearing her newly cut hair down, the curls tamed into straight with a flat iron, and a sparkling designer number she had worn once for a performance. The scars were covered up and none were the wiser.
As she entered the ballroom, Xavia, or in this case, Layla nodded and greeted her way through the crowd, occasionally letting someone take her hand and give a gentle squeeze. She gave some smiles here and there, but they never really reached her eyes. She remained a mystery to those who shared the space of the charming bar with her. Her eyes wandered around, and she felt somewhat alien in this environment. Sure, she admired the mural on the ceiling and such, but the crowd was a bit fru fru and boring for her. The jazz singer always put on a good face though, these people paid her wages.
“Ahh, yes, Layla. I knew you couldn’t say no to my invitation.” Dr. Lawrence leaned in and gave her a kiss on each cheek, then took her arm almost possessively, his eager gaze drinking in the sight of her like the bubbly Champaign that was making rounds as they spoke. She ignored the heat of his stare as it found her chest and detached herself from the man, pretending excitement as the tray of hours d’vours came, and she picked up a little pate canapé from the tray, “Oh, this looks divine.”
The man smirked, she always played hard to get, didn’t she. He let her eat her little snack, and then returned to her side, placing his hand across her back, marking his territory. He then suggested she take a seat at the grand piano, which she did because he would have to back up so she could play. And so, Layla began to play and sing “Ain’t No Sunshine.” The esteemed doctor backed away as predicted, and as she performed, she let her gaze wander around the crowd, hoping maybe for a face to stir her memory.
She watched the other carefully, something she had learned to do after she woke up. There was always a fifty percent chance that a person could be telling a lie, the eyes could reveal just about anything. Layla never took a chance trusting someone right away, she reserved her thoughts for later in the game. What made a person tick anyway?
Her gaze was intense for a pregnant moment, the silence somewhat heavy as she openly eyed the stranger in front of her. Down, her eyes roamed, looking for identifying marks or objects, body language, and et cetera, while aware of the possibility that she could put the other at great unease. It wasn’t her intention, of course, it was force of habit more than anything. “If you say so,” she said quietly, choosing not to make for conflict.
Perhaps the younger one wouldn’t have the information she needed. She felt slightly crestfallen that she had nobody to confide in, she didn’t know who to trust. However, she softened and turned away to look at the streets once again. “Besides, everybody is the same somehow. Everyone has faults and secrets, gifts and the lack thereof.” Her accent thickened, as did the tone of her voice, which cracked slightly at the end of the statement. She did not, however, show any sign of emotion aside from that slight change in her voice. Her face was a mask of serenity, neither laughing, nor crying, no smile or frown, just a relaxed expression.
Odder still was the fact that she didn’t ask questions after her initial inquiry. She had clearly noticed the way the other was dressed, her manner of stance, and whatnot, even the mask that she had pulled down before approaching her; she hadn’t missed a detail. Layla didn’t ask what the other was doing at a high end hotel or why, though. She didn’t butt in and had no intention of doing so. There was enough of that happening anyways *If only the local papers knew, they would be in up to their eyeballs trying to sniff for more details.*
She pivoted and headed toward the revolving door of the hotel, pausing to say over her shoulder, “Perhaps if ‘they,’ as you put them, should learn to live with imperfection.” She gazed at one of the topiaries by the door, palming a wilted blossom. When she pulled her hand away to push the door open, the bloom was vibrant once more. It happened so quickly that it would most likely take a moment for the other to realize something happened, or she would simply shrug it off. Either way, she did it to test the waters with the other woman, see if she would follow, perhaps see what the next move would be, and it was done subtly so it could easily be passed off as a trick of the mind.
As she entered the lobby, the clerk gave her a bright smile and spoke to her. If Ahorta remained outside, she would see Layla gesture and shake her head, and if she followed, she would hear a brief conversation between the two, basically an invitation that she declined and then headed for the elevator to get to her suite on the top floor.
The “famous” one was silent in contemplation, paying attention only enough to know she was being spoken to, and what was being said, but staring off otherwise. A graceful digit lifted and began to tap at her lips, only for a moment, and she seemed hesitant to leave this state of manner for that time. It was only after watching a jogger clomp by toward Central Park that she finally replied, “I am just another, nameless soul who happens to be known for a talent that many other people have. Fame is an intrusion, really. I just try to work so I can survive in this world. One foot in front of the other, you know? I could care less for this…” she paused and pivoted to sweep her arm in a gesture toward the Hudson, which was one of the high end hotels in NYC.
The whole time she had been standing there, she never once looked at the woman who spoke to her. Sure, she made eye contact a few times, but it was more like she looked through her to another location. Unfocused was a good word to use for this circumstance. Yet she was calm and collected, put together, articulated, and sure she stood there in a designer blouse and slacks with those, patent-pizza-slice shaped shoes that looked like a pain, and though the pretty baubles at her throat and wrists and the pretty clothes covered her frame, she didn’t fit that mold. She certainly didn’t have the evil grossness that consumed a lot of those who had money and power. She wore the clothes like a uniform.
Layla turned and looked back at the passing traffic once more, tapping her lips with that same digit from before. “People dream of this…. $!@# (Crap). But there has to be something more to life than this…” The latter part of the statement was definitely directed at herself, but could be interpreted however the other saw fit.
The report of a car horn and the resulting, “Move it, A-hole!” Caused her to flinch and shake her head, as if clearing it. She blinked a few times and then, for the first time, focused on the other. There was no surprise or disgust in her gaze, no contempt, nothing of the sort. It took the jazz singer a moment of reflection to delve deeper into the innuendo that was the statement made about human kind. She tilted her head to the left, her eyes squinting only slightly. “You say ‘they’ as if you aren’t one of them…” Her comment was soft spoken, but not accusing.
She wondered what the other meant by saying what she did. Did she mean that she was like Layla? A mutant, something more than just a mere human being, she mused, someone called a freak even though they felt pain just as anyone else did. This bothered her. Nobody had the right to hurt another person the way they do, yet it happened every day, every turn.
Another thought that came to mind was the small scrap of paper that she found in her clothing after she had recouped enough to get out of dodge. A man had given her a passport and a fake ID, said to go as far away as she could from Romania. She never got his name, only knew that he had been watching over her for some time. She wondered if the woman in front of her knew anything about the symbol on that piece of paper, and what it represented. She waited almost anxiously for the woman to say something, maybe confide in her that she, too, could do extraordinary things.
Layla had the distinct sense that she had, indeed, stood in the very spot where her feet rested. Déjà vu? She felt as if she had stopped here before and stared off, but it was a mere glimmer. As she turned to go into the hotel, she stopped mid step and turned back around. Her head started to throb a little as a feeling of melancholy passed through her. It was only brief, but certainly made an impact. She tugged nervously at a strand of hair and let her eyes roam where they might.
Her feeling led her to believe that the key to unlocking her identity lay in the streets of the city that never sleeps. Central Park was the center of all of this, it was most familiar to her. Sometimes she would catch a distant memory of a large, red figure that felt important when she tried to focus, but it never panned out to more than just a blip. She was frustrated with herself, but never said a word about it. All she did was work, wander, and sleep. Every day was the same monotony: Get up, morning triple S ritual, eat, off to work, come back to her suite, sleep…
She lifted a hand to her throbbing temple and stood there, wondering if she would ever get rid of the 24/7 head ache she had going. All this pondering wasn’t helping, but what else could she do? She was somebody she knew she wasn’t, playing a role as if she was meant to be who she wasn’t. Who the hell was she? What was her purpose? Wh---
Someone cut her off mid thought by asking her a question. Her woolgathering stopped almost instantly, and she snapped back to reality. “Famous?” A look of genuine confusion crossed over her visage and she turned her gaze toward the female who made the inquiry. “I… suppose I am, but I don’t care for it.” She gave a slight shrug and turned her gaze to the street once again. “All they see is a stranger who they pretend to know, and then put them through the wringer when they aren’t the ideal picture in fanatic heads.” The Hungarian of her accent was slight as she spoke, her voice distant. “Why do you ask?”
Her mouth curled upward on one side as she gave a sloppy, but polite smile to the one whom spoke to her. She lifted her arms against her chest as if to hug herself while she waited for the other to reply. If the other looked closely, she would see the slight difference in color to the make up on Layla’s face, the sign of healing flesh covered with foundation and pigment, yet still slightly visible in the light, glowing from the lamps overhead.
“Ladies and Gentleman, I’d like to welcome to the stage our loveliest pianist, Layla!” The sound of applause was broken only by a few wolf-whistles. As the lights dimmed, the curved silhouette was seen entering stage left, walking toward center stage where the grand piano was positioned. The spotlight flared to life, illuminating the sultry woman who sat gracefully on the hard bench. Long, tapered digits caressed the faux ivory of the keys, and caramel eyes leveled on the crowd beneath devastatingly long lashes. With the felicitous smile upon her full, ruby lips, Xavia Warshalai, AKA Layla, nodded and turned her attention to the instrument before her.
The notes rang out at her fingertips, which looked like they merely floated over every key without touch. The sparkling black of the dress she wore, glinted with every sway of her body, and the enraptured crowd stared in awe as the musician played. And then she began to sing, her voice pure as gold, filling the auditorium with such a beautiful sound that was taking over the audience.
NYC was in love with the mystery of Layla, a woman who showed up in the streets, wandering aimlessly and not revealing much about herself. She was well versed in the art of the song, and auditioned for a jazz club and soon became a major contender among local celebs. There was something quite enchanting about the brunette, an ethereal typed air about her. Was it the graceful tilt of her chin? Or was it the smoldering brown of her eyes? She was much written about by local papers, the center of gossip that tries to explain her appearance.
To Xavia, she was just trying to make some money. She didn’t seem to care about the small amount of fame she was gaining with the public. This made for more talk. It didn’t matter to her, though; she just wanted to play the piano and eat. The only issue she had was her memory, er… the lack thereof anyhow. See, to her, she really WAS Layla. At least, she thought she was. She knew only that she could play a mean piano, and that she had a good set of pipes. Okay, so she knew she was a mutant too, and even found one clue to her identity, being a small scrap of paper with the Kabal symbol on it, what was left of it anyways.
As she finished her song, the crowd surged to their feet, and she got up to take her bow and exit the way she came. She headed for the dressing room, where there was a large bouquet of white roses waiting for her from one Dr. James Lawrence, PHD. Interesting, she thought, leaning in and sniffing the musky scent, curling her hand around the paper covered stems and heading to her dressing table. She gently placed the roses down and pulled out the pins that held her hair up. Letting out a sigh, she thought for a moment if she should approach her admirer. After all, he was handsome enough and had a kind smile. She shook her head and changed into a pair of slacks and a simple blouse.
“Layla” left the building, stopping by her employer’s office long enough to plead a migraine and get a nod of approval. He was most lenient with her, she brought in the dough faster than any of his other entertainers, so letting her go was his way of thanking her for the hard work. “Hey, get better, Kid.” He said, gave her a sweep over with his eyes like he always did, and then smiled like the cat who swallowed the canary.
She shrugged it off and walked toward the street, raising her arm to hail a cab. The plant mutant could now rest her eyes against the whir of lights that was New York, New York.
The long cab ride wasn’t enough, but she didn’t complain as the cabby pulled over on the respectable curb to the location she indicated when she first entered the Taxi, and politely handed over an even amount of cash, leaving the vehicle before he could get her change, lifting her hand to let him know he could just keep it. A $20 tip was always appreciated, and the Cabby was chipper as he left her standing in front of the Hudson Hotel, near Central Park.
She stood in the courtyard for the, gulping in the night air and gazing at the street, simply watching the world go by.
He seemed to stalk her like a feral cat would its prey, beady eyes peering at her, tongue slightly protruding passed his thick, tobacco stained lips and yellowed teeth. Beledodia was positively pleased with himself, that he had the freak right where he wanted her. She deserved every second of what he was about to do to her, the b**ch. No way was she about to get let off easily on this one. She was his to play with, a toy for his amusement, something to pass the time and then discard when he grew tired of her. Perhaps he would be merciful and let her live by the time he was through with her. Powerless, of course.
Xavia held her breath as she watched the portly old man, chin lifted slightly, but face expressionless, otherwise. Part of her did not want to believe the sudden turn of tables, yet the rest of her hoped it was so, that all she had to do was give it all she had to get herself out of the mess she was in. She did not want to imagine what would happen if that turned out to be false. But he HAD taken her collar from around her neck and put a different one on. Why hadn’t she just freed herself then? Maybe she wanted to face the man who held her fate in his clammy hands, the one who could snuff her out with the snap of fingers.
It would be oh, so boring if we just let it end at Xavia suddenly being freed by an unknown rescuer, now wouldn’t it? Yes, yes.
It turned out that she decided not to trust her instinct, the one that told her the so called hero was really just a goon. A bonafied, genuine, authentic, indisputable bad guy with the desire to be where the trouble was, that was what he was. The specimen in front of her, though, took it to the next level and beyond with his sick obsession to keep her, and fed the desire to be free of this place. There was only one way to find out, though, and she was not gifted to know what the future may hold, she had to try and get away.
As he closed in on her, his face stopped a mere inch away from hers. She could smell the stale scent of cigars wafting into her nostrils, along with the foul scent of his breath. He also smelled of rage, it seemed, pent up anger and some desire, musky almost with sweat. Fear pooled into her belly, closed her throat a touch and caused an audible swallow to issue, and a smirk slowly lifted the corner of his lips, as if he sensed her discomfort with the entire situation.
The proverbial shot heard ‘round the world.
She used all of her might to mutate and attack, sending vines out to coil around him, throwing poisonous berries in his face, doing this, that and the other thing, and the room suddenly turned cold just as she had him wrapped up tighter than a pig in a blanket, and freezing water was dumped from a compartment overhead, causing her to screech and recoil.
That evil little bald freak! She was weak to the cold, surely as he was amused by the situation. He was knocked on his ass and wormed his way up, stepping back some and eying her. He began to laugh, softly at first, and then began to clap. “Guffaw-haw-haw-haw… GUFFAW-haw-haw-haw… Did you honestly think I was so stupid as to give you the key to your freedom? GUFFAW-haw-haw-haw, utterly ridiculous,” he snorted, then wiped at a fake tear. “My girl, if you wish to play, we shall play. Be aware that I will win, and when I do, you will wish you had taken the deal back when you had a chance. Perhaps now you will understand that I have simple pleasures in life.” He started circling again, leering, wringing his puffy fingers in the sinister fashion. “Dominance, discipline, and inflicting pain, those are what I want for you. I want you to know that every morning you wake up is a start to every day that I will bend you to my liking; that you, the ultimate sin, the abomination, can be under MY thumb, doing as I say. And if you don’t, why, I will just have to MAKE you.”
The musty smell permeated through the dank basement, penetrating the carefully placed oblivion she’d cocooned herself in months ago. This wasn’t quite what you would call a coma. No, she could wake up whenever she desired, but she hadn’t. There was only peace in her darkness, and she liked it that way. Sure, she missed Jupiter, but he would understand, right?
A grating sound scraped nearby, rusty sounding creak to follow as a door opened. A light is turned on and, even with her eyes closed she is nearly blinded by the intensity. It was something she was used to at this point in time, the hot air rushing in, the sound of limping footsteps and heavy breathing.
Her arms cramped, wrists chafed by the manacles that bound them, just as her neck did by the shock collar that still curled around her delicate throat. She twitched a little, and the chains rattled accordingly, before she could hear the sound of a familiar voice reaching her ears. “Ah, so you finally stir, my flower.” The distinct Romanian voice came barreling at her, and then he laughed. Why was his voice so familiar? Who was this man? “Will you open your eyes for me, now? I have waited ages. Tell me, Gypsy, why have you denied me all of these months? Do you not know what I did for you?” Gooseflesh pimpled her skin as his voice lowered to that of something sickening, obsessed sounding. She was so confused. “I nearly died for you. That is the thanks I get for taking you away from the camp and that giant, red, oaf that you call your lover. Open your f***ing eyes, Xavia Worshalai. YOU OWE ME THAT MUCH!” She felt spittle fleck against her cheek from his impassioned speech, and immediately recoiled, turning her head against her arm and forcing herself to keep her eyes tightly shut. The cruel grip of his hand found her chin and turned her head vehemently back to where it was, before letting go, and finding her cheek with a stinging blow. “YOU B**CH! LOOK AT ME, GOD D**N YOU!* His voice was almost pleading by that point, but he impatiently used both of his thumbs to pry one of her eyes open. His face was a blur at first, but soon came into focus in its ugly and scarred visage. Mr. Beledodia was not in good shape after Martin had found him and nearly killed him. “You see me now, don’t you?” Beledodia became guttural in his ranting, “See what that weasel did to me. The man who came here after you, he almost killed me for you. He almost seems in love with you. You are a slut, aren’t you? HAHA, but you are mine, now, my flower…” The old man caressed her stinging cheek at that point. He laughed it up then, evil, menacing, disgusting… She strained against her bonds and whimpered, but that only fed his ego.
Lucky for her, someone else stepped in, “Sir, you are needed. There seems to have been a disturbance in the alley.”
And then he was gone. Xavia hanged there for the moment, swaying back and forth as her toes barely made contact with the concrete of the floor, the smell of synthetic flora slapping her in the face. Odd, but she was washed, and her long hair brushed free of tangle… She opened her other eye and looked down to find herself dressed in some kind of silky garment that showed off more assets than she desired to show off. Someone obviously took care of her all of these months. As she looked around, she spied herself in a cracked mirror that was out of place as much as she was in this basement. Her face was healed, she noted, no scars from the cold. What in the world was going on?
The same person who had taken Beledodia’s attention away from her was still standing in the doorway, watching silently for a moment, before he came fully into the room and walked silently over to her. “I have come to help, but you must listen carefully. Beledodia will be back any moment, so the only thing I can do for you this second is to switch collars. He will never know the difference…” And with that, she was free of the shock collar, and one that looked just like it replaced it. “You will have to free yourself from here. I have sent a trusted face to find others and let them know you are here. Now I must go before I get caught. Good luck.”
Confused even more as to the turn of events, she nodded toward the retreating figure, and then he was gone as fast as he came.
