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.
The information on humanity’s ‘adaptation’ was new information to him. Distinctly new. Perhaps his reaction to it should have been something else: perhaps he should have felt troubled, concerned, worried, or any other number of synonyms he had learned directly from a thesaurus. Perhaps this was an inappropriate reaction.
There was a light, vaguely warm feeling in his chest. It seemed to reside somewhere just below his shoulder blades, though it was a rising sort of sensation. He decided to call it ‘elation.’
“Ms. Lenna,” he stated, the feeling creeping into his voice. It sounded somewhat silly to his ears, yet he could not bring himself to actually care. “I would be delighted if you would infiltrate, and do further research. In fact, I would quite enjoy if you continued to act with all the autonomy and wisdom you’ve had to this point.”
“As for the Sanctuary’s electrical manipulator,” he continued, the tingling feeling somewhat retreating, “please keep me informed of her movements. She killed me.” He added, by way of explanation. “It was uncomfortable.” It really was.
((ooc: Romania plot folks who didn't sign up for this thread: feel free to join in anyway, if you want.
There is no posting order on this one.))
Event, place, date and time. Slate was sitting on the steps outside of his hotel when the text came in. His blackberry gave a satisfying buzz between his hands. With a few (somewhat awkward) button presses and screen taps, Slate found his way out of Twitter and the blog he had been following recently, and into his phone’s inbox.
Time (and a glance at his watch to confirm things): quite soon. Date: December 1st. Today. Place: the Romanian parliament building. Event? A friendly bombing by the Underground.
...Slate tapped the screen, as if zooming the text size would somehow bring new meaning to the message. Suffice it to say: the message remained the same. The brown-haired teenager blinked. Well. This was most inconvenient.
Not to say he was opposed to the bombing. The current parliamentary members did not seem inclined to change their views, even for generous incentives—at this point, as the Underground’s public attacks escalated, they’d somewhat backed themselves into a corner. If they stood by their registration law, things would get worse: if they backed down, they’d be showing their jugulars to some strongly displeased enemies. Their political careers—if not their lives—were at stake.
No, clearing the table with a sweeping act of terrorism wasn’t a terribly bad idea. It was the timing that was inconvenient.
Slate was dressed in a plain pair of black slacks and a warm gray coat. His slate gray scarf started its cozy warping somewhere below his lapels, and ended somewhere just below the tip of his nose. He did not own a hat. He was beginning to regret that, as he’d sat on the stairs, waiting for his companions to arrive. Tarin Brooks and Ms. Sara Nobes: they’d had business together, today. They were going to give themselves an impromptu tour of this country’s old concentration camps, and see if Tarin’s spirits could confirm the rumors that one of the places had been retrofitted for more recent use. Ms. Nobes was going to act as their bodyguard. Not that the Kabal’s Leader and its esteemed Spirit Medium hadn’t proven themselves quite capable of self-defense in Colombia...
Slate’s nose disappeared into the folds of his scarf. Really, this was most inconvenient, indeed. They would simply have to re-schedule, though. Large-scale anarchistic actions, unlike mutant inmates, wait for no man. Slate tapped his screen (and pressed buttons) until his blackberry arrived on its contacts screen.
Then he began to compose.
Slate could feel the ground shudder, even through the frame of the moving car. He glanced to his watch first: ah. It was about that time, yes. He glanced to the sky, next.
A gray cloud was rising up in front of them. Another explosion followed. The cloud continued its spread. Slate craned his neck to see it better: he’d never witnessed a terrorist bombing, before.
When they arrived, it was to a scene of simple shock. People were frozen across the street, in the midst of their lives: some coughed, some screamed, some simply stared. The police, still mostly busy with the day’s parade and festivities, had not yet arrived. No one had been polite enough to forewarn them.
The Kabal and X-Men were not so unprepared.
Slate stepped out of the car, breathing the dust-choked air through the filter of his scarf. The visibility was low: a fractured building seemed to hang in a cloud of gray-white. Its roof had collapsed inwards, leaving the rough teeth of high walls pointing towards the sky. He could not tell where, exactly, the other explosion had gone off.
“Well,” the thin teenager said simply. “That could have been worse.”
Some of the screaming seemed to be coming from inside, after all. Survivors. Slate could use those.
Now if the other rescuers would be so kind as to bring them over, Slate would see about improving the parliament’s opinions of mutants. One psychic healing at a time.
Potential recruits? That she had interviewed? Slate blinked. Initiative. It was... quite a rare thing, actually, in his limited experience. More rare than possessing an x-gene, he realized: he had many mutant employees, but very few like the woman sitting in front of him. Unconsciously, he straightened the folders to a perfect ninety-degree relationship with the table. It was a more pleasing angle. He himself was quite pleased.
“Thank you, Ms. Lenna,” he said simply, “and welcome to Mondragon Labs. I quite look forward to having you work with us.”
“What information would that be?” He did indeed peruse.
((ooc: Jumping us ahead to the meeting. If either of you mind, tell me! I can rewrite. )
Phone calls were made, and the meeting’s arrangements were changed. Pacifica was polite about it, but her words carried a distinct undercurrent of not pleased. Though the new meeting place wasn’t far from the hotel, she negotiated an extra hour before their meeting time. Slate did not ask what the hour was for. It was only polite, after all, to let her set up her men again in peace.
The new meeting place was a somewhat deserted square; the police and mutants had clashed at a business near here a few days ago, and the public at large was cautiously avoiding the area. It was large, it was open, and it was relatively unwatched by outsiders. It was quite sufficient, for the needs of both sides.
Slate sat down at a table in front of a small cafe, the sign on its door turned over to ‘closed’. There were enough seats at the table for six. Like the square itself, it would do.
would you kill? would you save? are they the same action? people tell me they are not, but i think sometimes that they are. or maybe that they have to be, to really change things.
are mutants human?
i found your blog using google. you are on page thirty-two of the search results for ‘mutants new york’. i am a new york mutant, as well, but i am abroad right now. i think maybe that is why i am still awake. it is four in the morning. i think this is ‘jet lag.’
please forgive my lack of capitalization. i forgot how to do it on my phone. i am not very good with technology.
ps: who is silent hearts?
is ‘letters’ another name for ‘blog’? i did not know that.
also, if you want, there is a page i made with some friends that i am advertising on twitter. it has an e-mail to send to politicians to tell them to not support romania’s actions. my friends are good with the internet, and they made the page so that you only need to click on your country and your state, and write in your name and address (to prove you are a real person. politicians do not listen to anonymous trolls, they told me.) if you do that and hit ‘send’, it will send the e-mail to all of the senators in new york. if enough people do it, maybe they will listen.
this is the internet address. i copy-and-pasted it so it will be right.
Fausto smiled at him as he tucked away his knife. Widely. Slate decided, after a moment of thought, that this facial expression made him uneasy. His suggestion, however, seemed to go over well.
>> “Could you put glass on a knife and keep it still durable and sharp?”
Slate thought for a moment, then gave a tentative nod. “I imagine the edge can be kept sharp—glass certainly can be sharp, after all. As for durability... I imagine the blade will no longer be quite as good on its own, but with your saliva to help it cut, it will be far more effective than before. The metal inside should help to reinforce it... but I would still avoid dropping it, as much as you can. Also, hitting it with blunt objects.” He was under the impression that glass did not like that.
>> “You are a genius, that way I could keep more distance than when I try to bite and is more easy to see a incoming counter attack, it even make more easy to use my mutation to damage some specific places without the repeat bite to the neck or arms.”
It was nice that he wasn’t being threatened anymore. The praise on top of that was appreciated.
“I believe the scientists can have it ready within the next few days,” Slate stated. The corner of his mouth quirked into a small smile. “How would you like to field test it in Romania?”
His socks were noticed. He felt a familiar red warmth creep into his cheeks. Blushing: so far, the means of willing it on and off eluded him. He kept his blue eyes level, and did not follow her gaze downwards as she did not stare.
>> "Mr. Slate."
They shook. She was dressed better than he was. It seemed fitting, therefore, that she should sit at the table’s head.
Yet, perhaps... rude? That spot was generally reserved, was it not? One of the camera techs had told him as much, after his meeting with his new circle of advisors, where WereCat had done the same thing that Ms. Lenna had just done. Was there something about him that inspired women to—?
The tiles felt cold, through his socks. He retracted the question. In any case, he only minded her seating choice on an intellectual level: on a personal level, a chair was a chair, and he was happy she had not taken his favorite.
>> "It has been a while. I've done some thinking since then. I've made my decision. I came here today to discuss terms of employment. But before that, a present."
His favorite, of course, was the chair at Lenna’s left hand. He gathered the files, and took his own seat, curling his feet under him. (The floor was very cold.) Curiously, he opened the first.
A picture of one of the Order’s members looked out at him. He recognized her from the latest King Pharmaceuticals brawl. She was much less unnerving, he decided, when her body was not fused with construction equipment. The other folders were opened, and likewise examined briefly. The information was concise, but good. The targets... were diverse. An interesting present, that brought several questions to mind. When he was done with the unwrapping, he stacked them to be played with later, in a neat pile set at a precise ninety-two degree angle with the table’s edge. So as not to appear too orderly, of course. One of the guards had given him that advice, and he considered it quite good. His eyes rose again to the woman in front of him.
“May I inquire as to your decision?” He asked politely. She was here, and she had brought presents. It implied something. He would like to hear her say it.
Slate was not yet used to holding two conversations at once. Fortunately, it was easy to tell which was more important.
<<This is your answer, Slate. She won’t back off. As soon as I make a move against her, she’ll send Loki away because she’d feel threatened. And, let’s say that she has yet to know that I’m immune to her mutation. It will be quite a surprise, don’t you agree?>>
Ms. Circe, Slate replied, remind me to give you a rise.
For the sake of the other conversation, he gave a nod. “Even if this is a trap, I believe we’ll be able to bluff our way out, given the forces we represent. And we must at least attempt to change her mind. If that fails... then we can consider other options.” He met the X-Leader’s eyes. “Though I certainly must agree that murder is no option at all.” Not in any way tied to him, at least, and only if it showed a clear benefit. Sometimes taking the head off a beast just made its claws more dangerous. In this case, removing Pacifica from power would leave the Resistance in chaos. Chaos on top of violence did not equate to ‘beneficial,’ in Slate’s mind.
How curious, however, that the X-Leader had thought of such things. And been the one to suggest her ‘removal’, in the first place. It occurred to Slate that he knew very little about Sam.
“I fear I must warn you ahead of time,” Slate started, somewhat hesitantly, “if things come to a fight... I am rather useless. I can heal myself, and I can heal either of you. That is about the end of my combat abilities.”
Being useless, it was quite natural that when Loki ran off, it would not be Slate who chased after him.
>> “Yeah, I’m positive, Alex proved herself time and time again here and I want her to be a part of this.”
“If you insist,” Slate replied, attempting to sound reluctant. Later, he would have to ask Ms. Kettler how she had gotten this far into Sam’s confidence. He quite approved.
>> “Anyways, do you have any ideas on how to convince her actions are counter productive?”
>> “Pacifica doesn’t want the Registration Act to end. This is her reason to gather more adepts to her cause and attack. So… I doubt that she’ll listen to any of you.”
“I hope to convince her with proof.” Slate stated simply. “My people are starting to have some success with their briberies, whereas Ms. Pacifica is steadily loosing both members and potential recruits to the police. I hope that we will be able to negotiate somewhat—to convince her to hold off on attacks while my people work, and open the possibly that we will help to free her captured teammates, as well as give other mutants the choice between fleeing the country or joining her. I hope that the possibility of reinforcing her troops will appease her: at the same time, we can ask that she put her own troops towards our ends, both in helping to get mutants to safety and in approaching politicians. We could get much done on many fronts, if we were all coordinated.”
This was true. However, baring complete coordination—including coordination with the Order—Slate was quite willing for things to remain as they were. The threat of imminent social collapse and grievous personal harm was quite motivating to politicians, and the Order and Resistance were quite good at providing it. The Kabal, in turn, was working to use that relatively mindless fear-mongering towards productive ends. And the X-Men were nobly shuttling the innocents to safety. The innocents with x-genes, in any case. Someone really should help the humans. Something to worry about another time, perhaps. For now: Circe was saying very important things.
Troublesome powers, and the way around them; back ups, seconds in command, and former allegiances. Interesting.
>> “My assumption is that Pacifica agreed to meet the two of you so she could convince you that she’s doing the right thing. Get you on her side. Also. Pacifica won’t come alone. Probably she’ll bring her second in command, Loki, with her and some back-ups won’t be far away.”
“I can see why you brought her to this meeting, Sam,” Slate said, giving an approving nod to his fellow Leader. Even though, perhaps, his fellow Leader was also hearing some things for the first time.
“What would do you advise that we do?” He asked Circe aloud.
In the comforts of their more private conversation, he said, I would prefer if Sam does not learn about my command ability. What would you suggest we do, to trigger Loki’s leaving and Sam’s pursuit? Being completely honest with the X-Leader was not an option.
The mail had arrived at nine-thirty in the morning, as it usually did. The white envelope addressed to Caleb Swartz had promptly been filtered from the rest, and delivered by hand to the library, where the blue-eyed teenager was looking at a world atlas. Romania. It was very small. India. It was very large. China, even larger. Russia: large, but surprisingly unpopulated. Mostly, though: Romania. (And a little of Israel. It claimed a surprising amount of news time, given that it was smaller even than Romania.)
It took two tries by the guard to catch his attention: the brown-haired teenager looked up with a blink, and uncurled himself from the chair long enough to accept the letter. It was not appropriate to say that Slate ‘lit up’ upon seeing it: besides the general physical impossibility of that expression, Slate’s face did not really change much at all. But he did put aside his atlas promptly, and he did immediately open the letter, with all due neatness and care not to rip it. (And minor annoyance when it refused to open for anything but simpleton-style ripping. Envelope glue companies: they were training the world that destruction reaped rewards.)
Or.
Perhaps, not rewards.
Slate blinked down at the piece of paper in his hands. His face did not fall. That was a silly expression. But he did, perhaps, grow even more still than usual. The guard excused himself from the library.
In May, upon his return from Colombia, Slate had found another white envelope waiting for him. His Mansion grades. Suffice it to say: he had done poorly in the previous school term. To state it with complete honesty: he had failed every class. It had occurred to him then that, perhaps, traditional high school enrollment was not appropriate for Faction leaders. Still: education was an admirable thing. While high school did not strike him as particularly exciting, there were many courses offered at universities that he would like to pursue—such as higher mathematics, medicine, and Latin American politics. Many of these were offered as online courses, if one had a staff that could look hard enough. He could not legitimately enroll, though, without graduating high school. Or the equivalent.
“Sir?” Another guard interrupted. “There’s a woman here to see you; a Lenna. from Colombia.”
“Ah,” Slate replied.
“...Sir?”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he stated. A dismissal. The guard nodded, leaving him alone with his atlas, his cozy library chair, and his GED exam results.
Fail. In every category except mathematics and science.
...Slate tucked his feet back onto the chair, and sat for a few minutes. Apparently, he was not as smart as he thought he was.
Ah.
When this fact had been properly filed in his mind, he made his way to the board room, and sent for Lenna. She entered.
“It’s good to see you again, Ms—” Slate began, rising to greet her. It was at this time that he realized something: he did not know where his shoes were. They had not been with him in the library. Perhaps in his room? This was the problem, with living at one’s place of business.
“Ms. Lenna,” he finished, offering out his hand. His socks were blue and chosen with the cold Lab floors in mind. They were new, and had no holes. They were polite socks, for entertaining polite company.
He was not as smart as he thought he was. It was, perhaps, a lesson it would take some time to digest.
Someone was thinking of cutting him like a cake, but it was hard to tell who—Slate was somewhat disturbed by the number of potential candidates. Presumably it wasn’t Sebastian. Though Ms. Csendes had been extremely close to his backside when the groom had first approached. Given the bride’s reaction, Slate gathered this was an inappropriate action to commit upon a stranger. On your sometimes-cat Master, it was perhaps acceptable. Less so upon your husband’s employer-student.
In addition, Koga had tried to avoid his gaze for a time. Slate met the child’s gaze again, and narrowed his eyes further.
Simultaneously, Shin was saying: “Pants?”
“Yes,” Slate replied, looking back up. Though he was not entirely certain why the word was spoken in a questioning tone. Perhaps the man was asking for more context? Helpfully, he summarized the situation: “She has mine. She could not find hers, and she had to leave in a hurry.” To return to the battle, of course.
Also, the woman Sebastian had brought over was making her reply.
>> “I’m willing to work wherever I would be of most use in whatever position you have available, Sir. I could touch type three years ago and I can read and write fluently once I get my glasses fixed. I know… some about computers but not a lot. I don’t mind manual work but I’m not great at lifting heavy things. ...I have a live mutation, the ability, to fire objects from my palm, but I have never killed anyone and I don’t use it except in self defense.”
“That is good,” Slate said, meaning the not killing. Also, the touch-typing. “Would you be interested in secretarial work? Among other things, we offer our employees good medical coverage. Optometrics included.” That could be useful, in having glasses repaired. “We can always move you to another field of work at a later date, if it seems more appropriate.” In particular: to the Kabal. He would prefer to discuss such matters at a later time, however. With somewhat fewer people around, saying somewhat fewer things to him, in somewhat fewer ways.
>> <<Do you remember the guy you teamed me up in Colombia?>>
The paranoid ingrate? Slate had saved the man’s life: immediately afterward, the man had quit the Kabal mid-mission on the grounds that Slate might be trying to kill him. In the Kabal leader’s mind, if he’d truly had an interest in the man’s death, there seemed a readily available link in that chain which he could have utilized. After all, if he wanted someone dead, it was more beneficial to let other organizations order it.
>> "Thank you for being generous in Columbia."
“You’re welcome?” Did she have relatives in Columbia? They must not fare well in the southern sun, if their skin was as fair as hers. The Kabal’s recently tanned leader would know.
>> <<It’s the one I’m talking with.>>
>> “I also have two left feet.”
What? “What?” Slate repeated himself, his headache spiking somewhat higher. Roland did not look the same. Two left feet was a very strange birth defect. Was that dried blood on his future employee’s clothing? Slate took a deep breath.
“Would whoever is thinking of killing me please stop it? Or do so more quietly, if you can.” He requested, of the crowd in general. To the underdressed young lady in front of him, he asked, “Would you care to dance?”
Dancing. Away from the current crowd. Slate needed a slight mental reset, as it were.
Very many things were happening around him. Slate was not good with very many things, when they happened all at the same time. Particularly when they all required his attention.
The bride stiffened on his back, then shook shook shook his hand.
Kokoro’s knife disappeared from Circe’s hand and appeared in the too-close man’s.
Imposter and Master were in his mind with a continuing shake shake shake.
Also, Katrina was speaking in his mind still (and sounding somewhat odd). And it occurred to Slate then, as it hadn’t in months, that he had the power to make people simply... disappear. The blue-eyed teenager looked at Koga. His eyes narrowed in clear evaluation. For starters, there would be backgrounds checks and interviews: this was the price of pressing one’s wet lips against Katrina’s innocent face. They would see about the need for disappearances, later.
Hmm. If he was disappearing someone on a non-Kabal related matter, should he still run it past his advisors for approval? His eyes blinked back to Sebastian, who was suddenly here with everyone else, bringing another person to his attention: a girl who, perhaps, was not dressed for the occasion. Employment?
“We have many positions available,” he stated neutrally. “What kind of jobs do you prefer?” Was Sebastian recommending her on a Labs basis, or a Kabal basis? Was it appropriate to discuss Kabal business while the bride was still shake shake—
Oh, she had stopped. His hand felt tingly in the aftermath, as if it were still in motion.
>> "I don't have your pants right now, but I'm sure we can arrange for your pants to find you again. They're all mended and pressed, ready for delivery."
“I would appreciate that, Ms. Csendes. Though if you need them again, feel free to ask.” It was true. She could ask. He would make certain to always wear boxers, just in case; if there was anything he had learned from the King Pharmaceuticals fight, it was the unpredictability of one’s state of pantsfulness.
>> “So uh-what do you do, Mister Slate?"
“I run Mondragon Labs. Also, I rebuilt a school in Colombia. I was attempting to go to high school at the Mansion, as well, but I failed all my classes.” He blinked, and took another sip of his punch. “I am not an imposter. Why is Calley your Master?” He did not think to mention his power, but a partial answer had still worked its way in.
>> <<Houston. We have a problem.>>
What is it? Slate asked, his head beginning to hurt. It was then that he realized he hadn’t yet replied to Katrina.
Is Koga someone you value? It was not the most relevant question at the time, but he would keep her answer in mind if and when the background check returned poor results.
Slate did not know much about knife fighting. At all, really. The only time he could remember seeing a knife in action outside of a kitchen had been when one had stabbed Tarin. Also, himself. The blade had slipped under his ribcage with surprising ease: it had been well kept. Or had it been? Would a more honed blade have gone in even easier? Would he have felt more than a cool touch where hands should never go—would the pain have been almost an afterthought, starting only after the blade had been removed?
Or, if it had been dull. Rusty. What would that have felt...?
Suffice it to say that a slight trace of unease showed in Slate’s eyes. He did not know whether Iron Mouth’s movements were skilled or not. He did know, however, that the teenager’s knife was uncomfortably close. He decided that he did not like knives being so close.
>> ¨Yes , i am . Of course i am . My skills are only surpassed by my master.¨
The final thrust was not appreciated. The lowering of the knife was. Slate watched it for a moment more: then, with a force of will, he returned his thoughts to their former subject.
“...Have you considered making your weakness into a strength? If we put a glass coating on that blade, would it be able to carry your saliva on it for a time? If your saliva can indeed cut through anything besides glass—wouldn’t that give you a much stronger edge in a fight? You would have a knife that could cut through any armor.”
Armor-cutting or not, Slate would appreciate it if the knife were put away. He kept his eyes on his fellow teenager’s face: this seemed like a better place to look, than at the sharpened edge.
There was nothing but a polite nod in reaction to her request. And a slight head tilt, as his eyes puzzled over her facial expression. It was quite curious. He’d never seen one quite like it. He did not understand her feelings: his loyalty command had been less than perfect in her; thus, he could not rely on it. In his mind, she was simply a free agent. With, perhaps, a reduced inclination to backstab him. That was also something he would not rely on.
“Of course, Ms. Lenna. Please, take all the time you need. You can find me at Mondragon Labs Medical, in New York City. Simply request a meeting at the front desk.”
It really was that simple. She could drive onto the grounds; walk up a lane planted with young trees; enter directly into the main building itself. A nine-fingered secretary was likely to greet her, with all due professionalism, in a brightly lit foyer. There was nothing shady about Slate’s operations. They were... straightforward. One simply had to know where that line lead.
)