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.
Slate found that the ice was cold, yes, but also very hard, and so smooth that it felt like water. The liquid sort: not the solid. Or perhaps that was just the warmth of his hands, melting it subtly as he attempted to tidy the heap he had landed in. With dignity.
>> "No I don't. But at least I don't go around pretending that I do."
Slate arranged his legs under him. When and only when he was ready, he carefully returned to an upright position. After a moment of careful consideration, he determined that he could maintain the state. Then and only then did he return his eyes to her face. Blink. "You have gotten redder."
That was a simple observation, however. The matter at hand was this: "I am not pretending. I am learning. Would you like to learn, too?" He politely offered his hand to her. "I am Slate. If you break anything, or impale yourself, I can heal you."
Slate found his coat being dragged upwards between two fists. The rest of him followed, until his blades were roughly under him, and roughly on the ground. She was a relatively strong young woman, he noted.
A strong, blushing young woman. Who was crossing her legs. Slate blinked mutely above the balled up hands near his throat.
In the instant his own eyes were closed, her black eyes changed to blue. Then black. Then yellow? Then back.
>> "Balance is not your primary mutation, is it."
"Your eyes are beautiful," said the mutant boy still dangling in her grip. "Do you know how to skate?"
It was a simple matter of balance and propulsion. Mere children seemed capable of it, as he was observing. He began to wonder who had first invented this 'recreational activity'; what man, woman, or lunatic had first attached kitchen knives to his boots, and thrown himself on top of a frozen pond? How many neighbors had his, her, or its voice drawn, and how much fun had the creature been having, for the idea to spread? What had passed it from country to country, elevating it to an international winter pastime and an Olympic sport?
The thought was cut short as Slate wind milled his arms, with dignity. There was clearly nothing undignified about it: this was a time-honored way of keeping one's balance. Even toddlers knew it. Though they seemed to be using it less than he was, out here on the ice.
Slate stoically held his arms out, thus increasing his balance, and again attempted to slide his right foot forward. Then his left. Balance and propulsion: that was all that was involved here, besides blade-endowed boots. It was all quite simple. He was certain of that. He merely needed to learn the trick of doing both simultaneously, and he would be moving as easily as--
One of the children bumped into him. Slate found himself sliding forward. This was not to be confused with skating. Having yet to go this fast, he was at a loss as to how to brake.
So it was that the Kabal's Leader found his face pressed against in someone's thighs. His wind milling arms had latched onto the wall; unfortunately, this particular part of the wall was occupied. Slate tilted his head up. The thighs (and associated body) seemed to belong to a young woman with brown hair and red--no, black eyes.
"I am sorry," the nineteen year old stated. "I am in your lap." He attempted to stand up straight, and move back: this led to his feet moving back, while the rest of him again slid forward. "I cannot seem to escape," he said, his voice somewhat muffled.
Slate faithfully lead the way towards the infirmary, taking them along the small hallways; those that didn’t run adjacent to any cell blocks. He suspected such areas would be high traffic, at the moment. This way seemed largely deserted: now and again he heard sharp and sudden commotions nearby, but they never seemed to be coming from dead ahead.
Then Lee’s hand was touching his arm.
>> "There's someone up there."
He allowed her to take the lead, and took up a silent position at her side just before the hall’s turn. The infirmary was very close by: they only need to take a left, here, and go another ten meters or so.
As they waited, he finally heard the footsteps. They were approaching the corner hesitantly, as if wary of what might await. That did not help much: both guards and prisoners had good cause to hesitate, just now.
The man rounded the corner in a blaze. Quite literally. Small balls of blue flame danced above his hands, ready to be thrown at any threat that dwelt just out of sight.
“Oh,” was his reply to seeing them, followed by something in Romanian. It was somewhat puzzled, somewhat scared, and somewhat hopeful all at once. If Slate had to guess, he would translate it as “Do you know what the (crude word) is going on?” And—for his words to Lee, specifically—“Are you with the Underground?”
She was clearly not a prisoner, after all. She did not smell.
The man juggled the balls idly between his hands as he spoke. A nervous habit, perhaps, or simple joy at having his powers back.
Blink.
Ah. So the Underground had taken out the collars. Yes: that would make sense, and explain what he had been hearing.
Tarin, Slate stated, half expecting his own collar to be triggered by the single word. Blissfully, it was not. I am with your wife. We are headed to the infirmary. Are you there?
He did not know how far his telepathy would carry; had no way of knowing, really, that his range was far larger than this simple compound, with its mere seven levels. He did not need to know such things, though, for it to work.
Several floors above, Tarin would hear the Kabal Leader’s voice in his mind. Perhaps a bit more quietly than usual, if he was standing too close to a certain Adapted.
It was not the most beautiful thing Slate had ever seen. That would be an insult to it: it was a plain thing, a simple thing. It happened in a million ways, all over the world. It had no pretensions. It expected no attention, and called none to itself: it simply was. That was what made it so beautiful.
Slate was crouched in the last of February’s snow. He had his back to the path, four feet away. Little clouds of misty white puffed out above his new red scarf; his hands, tucked into gray mittens, where resting on his knees. His eyes were riveted to the ground in front of him: to the lingering white snow as it melted in the gentle sunlight, to the slight shadow struggling to rise from it. White still capped its head, and bowed its back, yet it continued. The sprig of green continued, oblivious to its watcher. Slate himself was content to simply watch. With a flick of his hand, he could have freed it from the snow. It would be a very human thing to do. Impatient.
Slate had no lack of patience. The little blade of green would succeed, with or without him; it would live its life, with or without him. The snow would fall from its top, and it would grow. Winter would turn to Spring, Spring to Summer; it would be here, long after he had left.
There was a simple joy, in sharing that life with it for a time. He felt content, and happy; fulfilled, to be doing nothing more than this.
Their test for healers, Slate noted, was crude and ineffective. Not all healers did so involuntarily; not all involuntary healers could heal others. They were not going to get good results going about things that way—
...Though apparently they were going to get Ghost.
Blink. Slate stared across at the opposite cell, quite curious. Since when was Ghost a healer? He had heard she was an elemental (and seen some evidence to that effect). Those sparks crawling over her hand looked oddly like her husband’s.
And then Sam went somewhat insane. Slate was not an expert at surviving concentration camps, but he did not think that attacking guards was the best way to do it. Nor, necessarily, was leaving them alive: Slate quite sympathized with the man who had been stabbed. And he remembered what he had done to the man who had stabbed him.
No. If he were Sam, he would have attempted a more fatal hit.
>> ”Ghost, do exactly what they say! Slate, translate!”
The guards were cursing, primarily. They apparently had a ‘job’ for Cold Steel, and his little white-haired... Slate did not think that was an appropriate term for Sebastian’s wife. The stabbed man was more eloquent than the rest. One of the men left outside the cell insisted, however, that the white-haired... that Ghost be taken to the infirmary, as per the orders of their superior.
One of them glanced at the cell across the hall. Slate took his cue from the other prisoners, and shuffled backwards slightly. After a moment of observation, he directed his gaze to the floor, as well.
He did not translate.
It did not strike him as wise, to be associated with Sam.
The answer was no. No, the Kabal was also lacking in a plan, for this particular contingency. Like the X-Men, though, they did have some manner of command structure: not all of Slate’s advisors had been at the bombing, nor had all Kabal members. There were certain members he quite trusted to do something about this.
Theoretically.
“He is yelling about healers,” Slate translated quietly, through Dragon Speak’s gem. He wondered how many days its effect would continue to last. “He wants to separate out the healers.” Slate did not step forward to volunteer. There were two distinct reasons he could think that one would wish to remove the healers from the other prisoners: to make use of them elsewhere, and to make sure they were not being useful here. There were also several varying levels of action one could use, to ‘remove’ them.
The guard got a simple, impassive blink. That was Slate’s opinion on the subject.
Muscles in his body twinged as he followed Lee out of the cell, reminded by the movement that they should be sore. Moping was not a particularly strenuous activity: convulsions, it seemed, were. He had begun attempting to keep his body relaxed, when one of the guards triggered his collar; thus far, the experiment had proved unsuccessful. It was (retrospectively) intriguing, how effective the sudden pain was at clearing his mind of all thoughts. Still, he had not gotten the worst of it. The mop boy was generally called in after things had settled down, and after the guards had already gotten in their hourly quota of button-pressing. He was not particularly outspoken, either. It addition to the lack of common language, the clean up itself was surprisingly engrossing: though the floor rarely looked cleaner, the water in his bucket steadily turned darker—generally, even darker than the floor. It mystified him every time.
Aside from the lone guard who seemed to have some manner of quarrel with him (possibly related to the scar Slate had put on his face, the time he had barked at the man, or the mutual electrocution incident), the others found him largely unworthy of their attentions. There were more exciting victims to prey on. Ones who changed facial expressions in a slightly more satisfactory manner, when subjected to electrocution.
Slate himself found the other prisoner’s expressions quite curious. He had been observing, but he could not seem to replicate them. The loss of thought when his own collar was triggered, you see. It reduced him to his basic reaction.
In large part, that seemed to be locking up his muscles quite uncomfortably. Also, blinking.
The lights went out. Blink.
>> "Where's Tarin?"
Slowly, like tired moths, the emergency lights fluttered to life. They continued moving.
“Ah. He is... not here. He was taken a few hours ago, with Shin; I believe they were doing some sort of work near the infirmary.”
“This way,” he said, stepping over an unconscious guard further down the hall. He did not seem harmed; merely down, until further notice. Lee’s work, perhaps?
Shouts, screams, and disturbed clangings echoed from the floors above and below them. It was really quite unpleasant, such chaos: it was like a rather compact rendition of the rest of Romania.
The first thing he needed to do after leaving here was get within range of the Senators he had healed; their loyalty commands were in distinct need of triggering. No: that could wait. The first thing he needed to do was take a shower, and trim the goatee to a proper geometrical shape.
Going On Without You > Mid Flight Preparations (Circe, Cold Steel, WereCat, Kaz -- Circe doesn't want to go back to her home country, but two team Leaders are telling her to go > the flight)
Pax > revolution: ur doing it wrong (Slate -- Slate learns to tweet, and hits up connections in Colombia and Belgium before coming to Romania. Also, Red Bull.) [/ul] Arrival Threads (November 2009)
Party of 5... (Silver Streak, Jewel, Shin, Kasumi, Fade -- the main X-party arrives)
#Turbulence (Iron Mouth, Katrina, Zephyr -- Iron Mouth, displaying a strong wish to die at a healer's hands, sneaks Katrina into the country; Zephyr gets in on the plot)
Hoping for a Holiday > Extended Hugging Joke (Shin, Jaxon -- Jaxon, in Romania on family business, meets Shin... and kidnappers, and the police) [/ul] Parliament Bombing and Aftermath (December 1st, 2009)
[/url] (Roland, Iron Mouth – the Order/Resistance invites themselves to Parliament)
Having once been to Hell, Slate could attest to two things which ran counter to popular belief. Firstly, the Camps were not Hell. Secondly, he did not look like Hell. He was simply less clean than preferred. Daily showers were, it seemed, considered a luxury here. It had been two days since his last one. His clothes had last been washed... somewhat less recently than that. Yesterday, he had curiously sniffed at himself. He had not repeated the experiment.
As with many inmates, Slate had not been permitted access to a razor. He suspected this was more out of concern for his own safety than for the guards’: some of them seemed to think he was mentally... lacking. The result was intriguing. Contrary to his initial hypothesis, it seemed that his chin, left to its own devices, was not capable of growing a beard. He simply had a goatee. Also, a finely whiskered ‘stache. He somewhat liked how they made his reflection look: it was not Calley’s face that looked back at him, any longer.
To repeat, he did not look like Hell. He looked more like one of its young accountants.
Baby blue eyes blinked as the door suddenly opened to a familiar face. One that was not here to lead him to the latest hall in need of clean up, before the red stain settled into the concrete.
>> "Slate?"
“Hello, Ms. Brooks. Has the breakout begun, then?” The teenager rose from his thin bed, readjusting his olfactorially dubious sweater. “I am quite ready to go.”
I must touch all the injured Senators at least once, while they are unconscious, he stated, for reasons the unicorn already knew. After that, it would be best if we split the actual work of healing. I will focus on the ones you may not be able to help quickly enough. I... am not certain how many I can place the command in, as well as heal. Each action takes a toll.
He had done something similar to this in Colombia, after orchestrating the destruction of a military base. Then, however, the Kabal’s members had been under strict instructions to injure, but not kill. This was different.
The first victim made that abundantly clear. He was not sure if they had found her conscious or unconscious in the rubble; he was not sure which team had dug her out. They seemed to have forgotten some of her, though, back in the ruins. The woman was legless, her blood loss making it clear she would not recover. No hospital could fix this. There was barely a spark of life in her as the spirit set her down in front of him, and returned to the search efforts.
The teenager set his hands on the woman.
I believe I’ll take the first one, he stated simply.
A moment later, the woman gasped. Her body went rigid, then stilled; color began to return to her face. She did not wake yet. It was just as well. Slate took of his coat, and settled it over her bare legs. He swallowed, and looked back to his mentor. Yes. Yes, this was going to be quite different.
He did not understand. The Underground Leader’s was his, now. Pacifica was his. He had ordered these pointless attacks stopped. Perhaps the order could be misinterpreted on small matters; perhaps she still had some agents in the field, who had not yet heard the change of orders. But this? This should not have happened, without a direct order. The only one who could give that order was Slate.
Downed by a chair leg. Half a chair leg, no less. Some part of Slate’s mind hoped that this was not a foreshadowing of things to come, if Ms. Circe’s allegiances were to ever switch to yet another new leader.
The rest of him was feeling too satisfied to care. He released his grip on the woman as she crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The blue eyed leader found himself staring down with at her with a grin, as he stood panting. “Ha!”
>> “I’m going to help Sam.”
The grin was turned on Ms. Circe. He was not entirely sure what its purpose was, but his lips seemed quite intent on forming the expression, and he did not feel any particular urge to suppress it. This feeling, he suspected, was ‘victory.’ The use of the chair leg—the half a chair leg—somehow made it more satisfying.
“Very well, Ms. Circe. And good job.”
As his employee took off, the Kabal’s leader knelt at the felled woman’s side. Again, his hand lightly touched her arm. Her unconscious mind put up no resistance to his entry.
The usual swirl of memories surrounded him. As usual, he began pushing through them, seeking that particular spot in her mind where the loyalty command was best placed.
And then he saw the memory of Fausto Martense. One of the Underground’s newest recruits. Slate paused as the memory drifted past. In the world outside of their heads, his lingering grin turned into a slight frown. Iron Mouth had come here with the Kabal. Now he had infiltrated the Underground, it seemed. It was quite a good show of initiative. Curious, that he hadn’t thought to tell his Leader about it.
His own memory of surfaced briefly; Circe, taking out her former Leader. With a chair leg. Half a chair leg.
Mr. Martense had not told Slate anything about this. As Circe, no doubt, had neglected to inform Ms. Pacifica when she’d found new employment. Is this how such things worked? Shortly before they’d left the country for Romania, Iron Mouth had threatened to kill Slate. Repeatedly. Both with his mutation, and his knife.
Ah. Perhaps he should have taken that as a warning. His frown deepened. Once he’d left Pacifica’s mind, he would remember nothing of this: he never did. Another person’s memories were their own, it seemed, and he could not keep them. This was most inconvenient. There was nothing he could do about it, however. He pushed past the disturbing memory, and continued delving deeper in her mind.
That is where he found the plans for the Parliament bombing.
They were intensely disturbing.
Intensely useful, as well. If the Senators could be hurt, but not all of them killed; if he could be there in time; if he could heal them before he was imprisoned. If he could remember this—the date, the time, the plan—after he left her mind. If. It was not something he could do.
It was not something he had to do.
Slate pushed on, and found the correct location. He planted his loyalty command, at the seat of her consciousness: from now on, she would be his. She would obey his orders to the best of her ability. She would answer to him above all people, and she would keep her knowledge of the Kabal and its affairs safe.
Slate began to withdraw from her mind, doing one last thing as he went: he healed the minor concussion that had put her to sleep. It would not be long before she awoke. He could feel her consciousness stirring, drawing itself back to lucidity; its natural barriers began to come back, forcing him out. He stayed as long as he could. Until the first flickers of wakefulness started to truly drive up the wall between them. Then he gave his first order, to her waking mind, while he still remembered enough to give it.
Proceed with the Parliament attack, no matter what else I say. Send Iron Mouth with the bomber.
He needed the bombing to both succeed and fail: he needed the Senators injured, but he needed as many alive as possible. Iron Mouth knew he would not condone the bombing. If he was still loyal, perhaps he would try to stop it.
Slate had seen her memory of the true bomber, though. His face looked different than it had in Colombia, but no different than when he’d revealed himself to Circe at Sebastian’s wedding. Mr. Roland Turpit. A terrible employee, but competent. Iron Mouth’s distinct lack of professionalism would be no match for him. The bombing would succeed, in part or in full.
His hope lay with the former.
He could have simply ordered the woman to tell him all this, of course, out loud or through the telepathy they now shared. Then he could have controlled the details more fully. Slate suspected, however, that his advisors would not approve of a large-scale assassination of political leaders, on the chance he could gain control of a few. What they did not know, they need not disapprove of.
What he did not remember, he was not lying to them about.
Pacifica groaned, her eyes blinking open. His own baby blue eyes met her gaze. Slate found that, for some reason, his lips were set in a small smile. He did not remember why: something he had seen in her mind, perhaps. He saw no reason to remove the expression. “Welcome back, Pacifica. You will join the Kabal and the X-Men. You will immediately order all Underground members to cease their violent measures, unless so authorized by myself. You will join us in aiding the refugees for now.”
The woman returned the smile, her eyes still somewhat dazed. She sat up, finger-combing her hair. “Of course.”
When the others returned, Slate and Ms. Pacifica would be sitting at the table again, having a polite conversation about the best way to integrate the Underground to the X and Kabal’s plans. They were civilized people, after all, any unfortunate incidents aside.
((ooc: Tell me if I need to mod anything! Also, feel free to post for a few rounds without me, while you two deal with Loki.))
His attack was stopped. Or, rather, he simply did not attack her. While Pacifica had been focused on Circe and her knife, he had been able to start towards her: before he could truly start the move, however, it seemed she deemed him worthy of stopping. The Labs secretaries would be proud of him.
Slate froze, as her power demanded.
Circe attacked.
Pacifica's priorities changed, again. The knife at her throat saw to that. Still, Slate had no real idea of how to finish things: he required her unconscious, or willing. Willing, he doubted would happen. Unconscious... could yet be arranged. Slate finished crossing the slim distance between them, and grabbed the Underground Leader's wrist.
In Slate's eyes, time seemed to hiccup: things lurched forward, his mind no longer able to keep up with them. He rather needed the extra concentration, for what he was doing.
Ms. Pacifica would find herself sealed inside of her own mind. Her body would stay were it was; her breathing, her heartbeat, would continue. Behind her eyes, however, there would be only a dull glaze. He'd trapped her somewhere much deeper. And there she would stay, locked away from her powers, until his grip on her arm was broken.
He would be happy to oblige with that. First, however, there was a small matter that needed attention.
A long delay passed, as he gathered his over-taxed thoughts, and remembered how to form words.
"Ms. Circe," he said simply, when he could, "would you be so kind as to hit Ms. Pacifica's head with something heavy?" In the head, preferably. Other means were quite acceptable, as well: really, the Kabal's Leader was not picky.
Suffice it to say that Ms. Pacifica would feel like a new woman, the next time she awoke.
"I am a little cold, but otherwise unharmed." The blue-eyed teenager replied. "Who did you hit? And with what?" Whatever it was had landed her in a mutant concentration camp. He blinked his curiosity across the hall, to the white-haired elemental.
>> ”You get picked up right after the rescue?”
A nod.
>> ”You think they would be a bit more grateful, did you see anyone get away?”
A headshake. "I did not. I think I was unconscious by then."
The teenager stood quietly for a moment, then asked, quite tentatively:
"...I don't suppose the X-Men had a contingency plan in place, for if their leader was captured?"
The Kabal did not. He did not think that would stop some of its members--he was quite counting on it to not stop some of its members--but it still seemed like something of an oversight. In hindsight.
He would really have to correct that, the next time he set about acquiring a sovereign nation.
One of the guards did not like Slate. It was a curious feeling, actually: something in his stomach. It flitted about at odd times, then hardened into a stone; the stone found its way to his face, as a small smile.
‘Satisfaction,’ he decided to call it.
It had been three days since the bombing; since he had woken up in a cell block, near some of the others who had been caught. Sebastian’s wife was the most disturbing: Slate was not quite sure what he would say to his mentor, the next time he saw him. Or to Tarin’s wife, for that matter. Or was Lee here, and they simply did not know it yet? It was very hard to get information. Dragon Speak’s gems had worn off; with them, the teenager’s amazing language capabilities. This was the first thing the guard had not liked: one day Slate had obeyed him promptly, and the next, he’d simply greeted the man’s barked orders with a tilted head. He looked, the Kabal’s Leader determined, rather like a dog. With the meaning drained from his words, his sharp orders really did sound like barks. The man had hit him. He had not liked that: it reminded him of the man in Colombia. So he had looked in the guard’s eyes, and said, “Woof.”
It seemed unfair that he was the one wearing the shock collar.
He knew, of course, that had been a very foolish thing to do. He was supposed to be staying alive; that was the most important thing. He should be keeping as low of a profile as he could. And yet... it had felt very good in his mouth, that ‘woof.’ It continued to feel good, every time the bruise on his face hurt. He had not expected the man to understand him, actually. Apparently the man’s English extended to animal sounds: clearly, his kindergarten teacher had done a fine job with him. Slate made a mental note to have her found and executed, when he was free again.
(That was a joke. You should laugh.)
His job that day had involved heavy lifting, rocks, and picks. He had no mental conception of what the work was supposed to accomplish: some kind of quarrying, perhaps? Construction? Busywork? He did not have much experience with manual labor. This became quickly evident, to all those around him. He did not need to understand Romanian to understand that the inmates to either side where trying to work as far away from him as they dared. Nonetheless, it was a simple task: one that even a two-and-a-half year old could do. The physics were quite fascinating, actually. The manner in which the angle of strike interacted with the resulting rock shrapnel (and, to a lesser degree of interest, with the splitting of the rock) were complex. He spent a considerable amount of time theorizing on the topic, as the other prisoners edged away. (He did not always hit the intended rock, per se, when he swung.)
For reasons he could not fathom, one of the guards—the same one who had hit him and shocked him, earlier—stopped to bark at him again. It was quite unwarranted: he was clearly throwing himself into this task whole-heartedly. The guard pointed at a rock in front of him, then at the ones to the side, which Slate had hit instead of it. These had been careful experiments on angling, mind you: it was clear from the man’s face that he thought them mistakes. Slate attempted to be diplomatic. He smiled, and nodded. The guard was quite insistent, though, and even the prisoners to either side of him were mumbling something that sounded like agreement. To be polite, he raised his pick, and—taking careful aim—brought it crashing down on the rock. At approximately an eighty degree angle, the obtuse side of which faced towards the guard.
The resulting rock fragment split open the man’s right eyebrow. It was entirely unexpected: Slate thought it would hit the man’s kneecap, or thereabouts. Considering the guard didn’t even seem to understand Slate experiments, the resulting shock was clearly unwarranted.
Today, he had apparently been assigned a new duty: a different guard handed him a mop, and a bucket, and pointed to a hallway floor. This, Slate understood. All was going quite well: the floor appeared to be getting cleaner, judging by the color the water was turning. Then the other guard appeared; the one who had hit him. He had stitches over his eye. (Stitches were what people used, sometimes, when they were not healers.) He turned the corner, and came face-to-face with a mopping Slate. He frowned. Then, slowly, he smiled: his hand reached for his remote. Those controlled the shock collars, Slate had learned from experience. The guard met his eyes, making sure Slate fully understood what was coming. (Slate was beginning to suspect that, for some reason, some of the guards thought he was mentally slow.) Baby blue eyes blinked at the man, meeting his gaze. Then Slate lifted his foot, and lightly kicked the bucket over: black water washed over both their shoes. He did not need to understand Romanian to understand cursing. The guard stabbed his finger at the remote.
Then they were both frying.
Satisfaction. Yes. He was quite sure that’s what this feeling was.
