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.
“Glass?” Slate repeated, with a blink. Really? Glass? It was so... simple. Common, even. Slate’s surprise showed on his face. Fausto may have seen it; the younger teen blushed. “Ah,” Slate repeated, with a bit more confidence. “Glass. That would make sense—your saliva is akin to acid, is it not? I believe glass is used in laboratories to contain acid.” Or so he had read. Doctor Ingram really did not appreciate him experimenting with such things in his lab; nor, really, did the Labs’ other researchers. They seemed to think he was a—what was the word?—hazard.
>> ¨I’m trained in close combat especially in locks and disarmament, I also use the knife quite well. ...Hey boss, I am incredible, awesome, fast, agile, trained to hide and seek—¨
The corner of Slate’s lips twitched as Iron Mouth spoke; ‘incredible, awesome, fast, agile, trained to hide and seek’? Was he sure he wasn’t missing a few more descriptions? Really, for such an extraordinary teenager as the Great Fausto, that list was surely far too short.
>> “—but ya know everything of this is useless against ... I felt so useless in Columbia among all these guns ... Can I have one ... ? ¨
His lips returned to their usual level line. “A gun?”
And why not? Really, it made perfect sense: Iron Mouth’s mutation was built for close quarters; he was not well suited against long-range attacks. Yet it seemed, somehow... like Kaz. A mutant who felt so insecure in his own abilities that he carried a full set of battle gear in the trunk of his car at all times, on the off-chance he saw battle. Or, perhaps, like the security he had seen at airports—strict checks and a grand show that really, in the end, did very little to protect people. There was something to be said for preparing for every foreseeable eventuality, to the point of burdening yourself down; likewise, there was something to be said for being able to simply shoot your opponents.
These things were not, perhaps, what Slate wanted his employees to say.
“Do you really have such little pride in your abilities, Fausto Martense?”
[/b]: There is no need to rush the communication. One would not want him distracted while on his business trip.
perfectprime: Simply send the itemized bill to his apartment; he can review it at his leisure after he returns.
deadhand09: Understood, Sir.[/i][/ul]
E-communications. Slate had developed many metaphors (and similes) about them, since leaving Belgium. Two seemed particularly fitting.
Crackberry. An alternate name for Blackberry. E-mail, Slate had discovered, was the gateway drug. From there, it was a slippery slope: first one is innocently e-mailing graduate students in Belgium—what’s the harm?—but then, before one quite knows what has happened, one is procuring their head secretary’s IM address, stalking twitter topics, and using ‘friend’ as a verb. Crackberry: Slate had one. He’d had one for months. He’d once dissected one, and left its electronic innards on the floor when he was done with it: such blasphemy left an unholy taste in his memories. He had treated a blackberry—a blackberry!—like a cadaver; he had poked and prodded at its parts, innocently ignorant that he was vivisecting something of greatness. Technology was more than the sum of its circuits. And the internet itself...
The internet was a psychic. He could only stand in awe, as a grasshopper before the sun. Its communications were global, and near-instantaneous. Its knowledge vast, and cumulative. A few clicks and keystrokes could affect the physical world: packages could appear at doors, rice could be mysteriously earned for third world nations by playing word games. Google ads knew what he was reading. To any mutant who thought of humans as inferior, let them simply ‘log on’ to this simple fact: humans had created the internet. Into the internet, Slate tread, reverent.
He had not used his mutation. He had not sent a letter, nor picked up a phone. And yet—days or weeks from now, when Zephyr returned to America—he would find a letter waiting at his apartment, deducting from his mission paycheck the cost of several VIP memberships to intercontinental airlines. Travel expenses, these were not. Noin Mortman had narrowed her eyes at a bill in New York: Slate had checked his e-mail in a hotel in Romania. They had ‘chatted’, without ever moving their lips, yet their words had set into motion an action that could very well bring a ‘RL’ scowl to an opportunistic mercenary’s face.
Thus was the power of ‘teh interwebs.’
[/b]: Do the same with any other odd expenses, would you? Again, no need to bother him until after he returns.
As the airplane waited for its turn on the runway, Slate found his leg moving of its own will: up and down, up and down, up and down. He seemed unable to stop it; after a brief struggle of wills, he simply let it be. The man in the seat next to him eyed it with grave suspicion. The blue-eyed teenager looked fairly respectable. His clothes were business casual and clean; he had the meal tray down, and was intently switching his attentions between a stack of typed notes and his blackberry. He just... wouldn’t stop twitching, though. Was he going to do that for the entire flight...?
Slate had never had a Red Bull before. Perhaps he should not have had two.
“My theory,” the grad student continued, undeterred by the fact that no one appeared to be listening, “is that people are inherently good, but lazy as all pardonable French.” His long legs tried to swing under the table, but ended up just scuffing at the carpet. His name was Emile Verhulst. Twenty-five years old. Currently pursuing a Masters in International Relations. Blood type: O. A Virgo. Single, for the record.
“What does ‘CC’ stand for?” Slate asked, pointing at the screen again. He was careful not to actually touch it. The Com Sci majors had reacted poorly to that.
“That’s ‘carbon copy’—you can put other e-mail addresses there, if you want; they’ll also get a copy of your message.” The black-haired one explained patiently, over the teenager’s shoulder.
“Kind of useless, though,” the brown haired one chipped in, as victorious pinball music streamed from his laptop. His feet were up on the desk, near Slate’s mouse. Tables, Slate had observed, were not subject to the same sacred standards as computer monitors. “It does the same thing as just typing all the addresses into the usual send field. BCC, now—” A pause: a riotous clacking of keys. Level-up. “—BCC, that’s blind carbon copy. Any address you write in there won’t show itself to the receivers.”
The teenager blinked amiably. Music filled the stretching silence.
“...Just try it. E-mail yourself. You’ll see what I mean.”
Slate now had not one, but four e-mail accounts—Gmail, Yahoo, AOL, and Hotmail. This was to acquire usernames, he had been told, that would work with Trillian, so that he could IM using Yahoo IM, AIM, and MSN simultaneously. Though Gmail’s chat was better if you wanted the autologs, and both Facebook and MySpace had messages systems of their own. Additionally, his blackberry could send text messages, which were not to be confused with IMs, because they only traveled between phones (though some phones, like his, could also use IM). And he should always, always, always use his Gmail account as his default, because AOL was meh, Yahoo even thought its own mail was spam, and Hotmail—as the name suggested—was a subsidiary corporation of Hell.
Also, ‘spam’ was not a food product produced in Minnesota, but a term for undesirable electronic mail. It was to inboxes what trolls were to message boards, and even-though-he-was-a-newb-he-should-not-be-a-n00b: no trolling. If he wanted to be eco-friendly, he could use Blackle instead of Google (skcik rof, Elgoog esu dluoc eh ro). Ask Jeeves was dead. XKCD was pwn. YouTube was useful, Skype was l33t, l33t was dead, Pirate’s Bay rocked socks, and non-native English speakers were generally more understandable than twelve year olds.
Also, Twitter.
“Since people are good, they want to help,” Emile continued, as Slate switched FireFox tabs to check his Yahoo account. His message sent from Gmail had not arrived yet. Considering it was only moving from one page in his ‘browser’ to another, he was not sure what was taking it so long: it seemed a very short distance to travel.
“But since people are lazy,” the grad student continued, “they don’t want to help that much. Do the thinking for them, though, make it easy to be good, and they’ll hop on your cause. It’s like having an island of baby-eating cannibals. Most people are going to go ‘oh, that’s terrible!’ if you tell them, but they aren’t going to get on a boat and go baby-rescuing anytime soon. If you shove a petition into their hands in support of non-baby-eating-measures, though, they’ll probably sign it.”
Ah, there it was. Slate clicked and stared: the black-haired student patiently pointed his attention to the ‘receivers’ field. Ah. Indeed: the message didn’t show that it had also sent to his AOL and The Devil accounts. BCC. He paused to type a note of this, in Google Documents (which auto-saved three times in the span it took him to chicken peck).
“You, however, are not lazy. You’re like the anti-lazy. You flew on a plane from America just to talk with someone you thought might be able to help: that’s like the opposite of lazy. You, Swartzy—do you mind if I call you Swartzy?—are the guy who goes around starting petitions. So all you’ve got to do now is figure out your plan. Then make it really, really easy, and shove it in front of people. That’s where Twitter comes in: you’ve got thousands and thousands of people, all willing to click at least once for a good cause. Give them something clickable, and they’ll change the world, mindless-multitudes-style. Am I right? Right, right?”
“Did I do that right?” Slate asked, as the screen in front of him turned blue.
“...What did you just push?”
“What did he just push? Wasn’t he opening a Facebook account?”
“...If a fail is possible, a newb will find a way.”
“Yeah. So...” Emile said, rubbing one hand in his hair. “I’m going to get me some vending machine lunch. Who wants ramen cups and caffeine?”
Two hands went into the air. The black-haired student instructively grabbed Slate’s wrist, and hoisted it up: make that three hands. Ramen cups, caffeine, and system reboots for all.
“Hello, Iron Mouth.” If any disrespect had been given or intended by his fellow teenager, Slate did not notice it. He was far too busy studying the young man. Iron Mouth looked... healthy. He did, didn’t he? No particular bags under his eyes from an unfortunate lack of sleep, no stray sniffles of impeding colds or flus, no overt signs of poisoning?
Visually, the teen passed Slate’s inspection. Good. When and if they had to go to Romania, Iron Mouth should be ready. Hopefully.
Therefore, Slate needed to know precisely how the teenager could fit into his plans. Therefore, Slate wanted to know everything he could about Iron Mouth’s abilities. Never mind that he had no clue what he would do with the information. He needed to be prepared.
“It has occurred to me,” he started, now that their two lines of greetings were safely out of the way, “that I do not know much about the specifics of your abilities. For instance, what materials can your saliva not cut? Do you have any way to attack without using your mouth?”
He had an entire list of questions, actually. One of the younger secretaries had shown him how to create it on his blackberry. She had not, however, shown him how to open the file back up again.
>> "That bastard! That bastard... He doesn't deserve compassion. Let go of me. Let go of me, so I can kill..."
Slate had very little intention of letting go. Compassion, likewise, was not at the top of his priorities. His clinging to Lenna’s arm—with all of its elbow-wrapping and feet dragging across the floor as she flailed—was for purely non-altruistic intents.
“A corpse helps no one,” the teenager stated, quite practically, his chin on Lenna’s elbow. “I can make use of him. Leave him alive.” His orders did not seem very effective with her; he strongly suspected she had some manner of untrained psychic abilities. That did not mean it was not worth trying.
It did mean, however, that further incentive would not be ill-advised. “Allow me to make him mine,” he said, “and you can know the truth. He will no longer be able to lie.” Not if Slate ordered the truth from him. Not unless he was someone like Lenna.
Slate blinked over his shoulder. The grad student, despite his long legs, was not very fast. It took him quite a bit of time to trip between the flocks of undergrads, and make his way across the campus lawn. His ratty backpack bounced on his back.
“May I help you?”
“Ah, yeah. That is to say—” Here, the twenty-something year old paused to rest his hands on his knees, and catch his breath. “Damn, you walk fast.”
The teenager gave a patient blink.
“Heh. So. You’re American, right? What are you—twenty-one?”
“Nineteen.”
A low whistle. “Wow. That’s even worse.”
Slate began to walk again.
“No, I—hey, wait up!” The grad student settled an elbow on his shoulder. Not a hand: an elbow. This did not improve Slate’s opinion of him. “Twitter.”
“What?” Slate asked, to be polite. He kept walking.
The elbow followed him, riding high on its perch. “Twitter. You know—Twitter. Why did you even bother with an old fogey like him in the first place? That’s not how you’re going to get things done. You’re nineteen and you didn’t think of Twitter? Or are you already doing something there?”
“...Twitter is what?” He choose this sentence construction because it suited his mood more closely than ‘What’s Twitter?’ would have.
“You’re nineteen, and you don’t know...? Okay, so. What kind of cell phone do you have?”
Slate gave a small shrug. The elbow resettled, as if to make itself more comfortable. “I do not have a cell phone.”
“You’re an American teenager, and you don’t have a...? Okay. PDA? Netbook? Anything?”
He gave a more pronounced shrug. The grad student seemed to interpret this as ‘no’, rather than a ‘please remove yourself from me’. The elbow, indeed, moved: unfortunately, it only sunk far enough to latch itself around his arm. The grad student changed direction, rather abruptly. So did Slate’s biceps. The rest of him, after a brief time delay, stumbled after.
“Where are—?”
“Computer lab.”
Computer lab, indeed. Slate was not quite certain how he came to be sitting down. It had involved more manhandling.
“Twitter,” the grad student declared, as Slate blinked at a cartoon blue bird on the screen. How very... sophisticated. “See the tending topics? Click RomanianReg. Behold: Twitter.”
The grammar was appalling. The pound signs were pervasive. Names involved an unwieldy amalgamation of letters and numerals. The time stamps were listed, against all desire for conversational context, in ascending order. Truly, there did not appear to be ‘conversation’ at all.
But there was a topic.
And there was a lot to be said, for that.
[/b][/i][/ul]
“This is your audience,” the grad student said, with a broad sweep of his hand. “Dr. Engel does what he can, but he does it like it’s still the nineties. It’s almost two thousand and ten. Twitter isn’t one Englishman in Belgium—this is thousands of people all over the world. They’re listening. You want to make a change? Try it here."
Slate blinked at the screen. “Can I access this from my blackberry?”
“You have a—?” The grad student ran a hand through his hair. Dead-pan facial-twitch style. “Yes. Yes, you can access this from your blackberry. What, you need to leave?”
“I have another plane flight soon.”
“All right. Hang on—I’ll give you my e-mail. I’ve got ideas: you’ve got motivation. I think we could make a good... Okay. That look on your face. Tell me you know—”
“How do I use e-mail?” Slate asked, with a blue-eyed blink.
Words cannot express a wordless scream. Technological face fault head desk parse error. “...How long until you need to be at the airport?”
“Approximately an hour and a—” Slate’s arm found itself moving again. The rest of his body had to hastily vacate the chair, lest his appendage leave without him. “Where—?”
One would think a doctorate in the social sciences would imply some manner of caring, in such matters as these. One would underestimate the comforts of the mundane.
Slate was at the Université Libre de Bruxelles, in Belgium. He had been here a few months ago to speak at a roundtable discussion on the future of mutants and humanity. At that time, Professor Engle had been quite outspoken, to the point where he had to take a deep breath while the technicians adjusted his volume’s microphone. The squeals of feedback had been somewhat undercutting his oration.
“There is no way forward but together,” he had passionately argued. “As humans, we cannot ignore these new quirks to our genetics—we cannot pretend they are the same as us, nor can we safely label them the ‘other’. History has shown us what we do to the ‘other’—Hitler was very fond of them. As human beings, it is our decency to recognize them as our brothers, sisters, and equals: our future in this world is shared.”
“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Dr. Engle accepted the teacup from his graduate student; the boy went back to his cluttered table in the corner of the man’s office, and kept grading term papers with a despondent red pen. “It’s coca tea; imported from Colombia. Have you ever had it?”
The blue-eyed teenager had a cup of it yesterday. In Colombia. It was, perhaps, the jetlag speaking, but he felt the need to question: “Isn’t that illegal to export?” It was, after all, made from the same plant as cocaine.
The professor gave a good-natured chuckle. “Some laws make no sense. Who was it that said it’s our responsibility to disobey unfair laws?”
It was a very loose paraphrase of Martin Luther King, Jr’s Letter from a Birmingham Jail. The Revered had been quoting someone else, in his turn. The idea sounded familiar to Slate. He searched his memory for a moment, but all that came to mind was fragments of a dictionary he’d once read.
(n) a person who pretends to have moral standards or opinions that they do not actually have.
He sat in the chair across from the professor’s weathered old desk, and stated simply: “You are a hypocrite.”
The professor’s cup clicked against its saucer. “And you’re naive. What do you think I could really change? We are in Belgium. I am a citizen of England. This Registration Act? It is happening in Romania. They are a sovereign nation: I am a university professor. I do what I can. I make speeches; I write papers. What more do you expect of me?”
Slate’s hands curled into fists on his lap. The clock above the grad student’s head ticked. “Schedule a press conference. Bring the other professors together. Speak out.”
“What would it do?” A benevolent smile twitched on the man’s mouth. “A table of moldy old men, saying they don’t like how the world is changing? Even if the press humored us, who would care enough to flip the channel off of their precious sitcoms?”
“I don’t know.” Slate said. “But you cannot stay silent. Everyone else is. You can’t.”
The professor raised his cup, and blew across it. “I’m honored that you thought of me. This thing, however, this law—it is bigger than us. Perhaps it’s because you’re a mutant; you’re used to doing extraordinary things with your own hands. I am human. I fear I must be a realist.”
“...Thank you for your time, Dr. Engle.”
“A pleasure.”
As the door shut behind the American teen, the graduate student fidgeted. “Sir? Can I take my lunch break yet?”
The professor eyeballed the pile of graded papers, weighing it in his gaze against the mound of ungraded ones. “Half an hour.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“A press conference.” Dr. Engle repeated, as the student grabbed his bag and fled the room. His finger traced around his teacup’s handle; a repetitious loop. “Hmph.”
General Morales was making the students nervous. He sat in the back of the room like a hibernating bear, one wrong footstep away from waking up in a truly foul mood. The students directly in front of him sat with their shoulders locked, and their gazes straight forwards. More than a few of them could have sworn they’d seen a glint of ferocious recognition in the man’s eyes; they were wishing now that they hadn’t listened to that band singer who’d come. School. Suddenly, it didn’t feel quite as safe as the jungle.
Alba Herrera-Cortez bravely taught on. This was supposed to be the senior class; younger students were mixed in, however, helping their older siblings and cousins. It was a basic reading lesson. Most of the older students at the Pax Academy were illiterate.
Half way through the lesson, Morales stood, and stalked unpleasantly off to haunt another classroom. Waves of relief rippled in his absence.
“How many of these kids are soldiers?” He asked gruffly, staring with distinct displeasure down at the omelets on his plate. Omelets. For lunch. They had been made in the home economics classroom by the students—which meant, of course, that some had been sitting around longer than others. The General took a lukewarm bite, and harrumphed.
“What does the President think of the proposal?” The blue-eyed American countered levelly, experimentally drowning his omelet’s top in ketchup. The General eyed this move critically. He did not approve of unnecessary condiments.
Harrumph, he said again, in reply.
Since April, there had been a nerve-wracking silence from the drug cartels. Worse than that: polite correspondence. No new hostages had been taken. Old hostages had been released, unconditionally: simply let go. One every two weeks, with the same message: ‘We want peace.’ The media, so long an advocate for the hostages’ freedom, was in a frenzy. He could not turn on the television or open a newspaper without seeing another former captive embracing their wife or husband: kissing their children.
‘We want peace.’ Clever, really. By releasing them one by one, the cartels still kept the others as shields. The people and the media, however, were captivated by the stunning generosity of it. After long years of the usual back-and-forth jerk of negotiations, the bodies dumped to be identified later, it was easy to forget that generosity had nothing to do with it. There would be months still until the last hostage was released. Plenty of time for them to change their minds—and their demands—as they always did. Or plenty of time to win the people over to their cause.
Donations from unnamed sources, the money laundered untraceably clean: enough so that the government could not confiscate the funds, but it was clear to everyone who their source was. Some of the cartels—or one of the cartels—or all of the cartels—were paying to rebuild the communities they had shattered. Homes were being rebuilt. Schools. Hospitals.
All in all, it was enough to make the government look like an ass. The president’s stance of non-negotiation was witling away his popular support day by day. Over cups of brandy shared across the General’s desk, a senator had pointed out to Morales an interesting fact. It might have been meant as a joke.
‘At this rate,’ the man had said, with a laugh, ‘they have enough hostages to last through the next election.’
It was not lost on the General that this had all started when Senor Swartz had come into their country, with his perfectly accented Colombian accent. The teenager noticed the General’s frown, and blinked up at him, fork in mouth. Harrumph, the General said. Any time he thought to prod deeper into the American’s doings, he found himself turning his thoughts to other matters. In this case: back to the proposal. A general pardon for all former child soldiers, so long as they were enrolled in school, and could pass the next few years without any criminal violations. A fairly reasonable proposal. Given the age group concerned, it was gaining much popular support.
“He thinks what he always thinks,” Morales replied, pushing the omelet across his plate. “We’ve spent decades trying to negotiate with these people. We are not playing their games any longer.” Even if they are playing us.
The boy swallowed. “I am sorry to hear that. Is there any chance I can meet with him?”
Morales’ moustache twitched above his lips as he stared the boy down. “He has more suspicions about you than interest, Senor Swartz.” The suspicions were mostly the General’s own, though he had never been able to find the words to voice them to the President. As far as their nation’s leader was concerned: the young American Senor was, like many men before him, simply a pawn in this game between the government and the cartels. It was for the young man’s own good, really, that he be kept out of things.
“How unfortunate,” the boy commented, and took another bite. “Concerning your embassy in Romania...”
“It will remain closed to refugees,” the General said.
“Israeli has opened theirs.”
“And America has closed.”
“Venezuela is considering matters.”
“Hmph! Because the President and Venezuela get along so well.” Venezuela. The President of that country was quite outspoken on the matter of the cartels. He favored negotiations. And, should their own President continue to resist, a trade embargo. Colombia had earned its reputation as a pawn of the Americans. Some other nations in Latin America would not mind reminding them of their proper geographic location.
“It could help with relations,” the teenager mildly pointed out. “A united South America—”
“Hmph!” A united South America was not something for the little New Yorker to suggest. Still. “I’ve already mentioned that to the President. If Venezuela does open their embassy’s doors...” Then they would see. Until then, there was no need to aggravate the rest of the teenager’s nation.
They continued eating in silence. The courtyard was bright, and hot. Since the first time they had met in April, the teenager’s burned skin had settled into a tan fit for the Colombian climate. Around them (but none too close to the General), the school’s children chatted and played. Like many schools in the area, there would be a long break between morning classes and the next session; many of the students would go home, and eat with their families. The gray-haired man scrutinized the new school building in front of them. The philanthropist had invited him here today to observe his pet project in action. It seemed decent enough, as schools go. Though he wasn’t quite sure why they needed so many televisions. And computers. And—what were they called, those white boards with the moving pictures? Fairly useless, whatever they were. It seemed to him that a board with simple markers (or, Heaven forbid, chalk) was good enough for any child.
“Pax.” He stated. “Why did you name it that?”
The teenager gave another of his unassuming blue-eyed blinks. “Because,” he answered simply, “I want peace.”
That answer greatly unsettled the General, though he did not think about it for long.
Mondragon Labs. The Kabal’s base, if such a group really had a ‘base’ of which to speak: in truth, Slate was the only one who regularly came here, and that was mostly because it was quite conveniently quiet for getting planning done. Also, when he forgot to eat (or get sunlight), the secretaries generally reminded him (by kicking him out of his office). He had a very comfortable bed in one of the guest rooms, as well. And, truly, the maze of white hallways was only confusing until you memorized their layout.
Something that had become readily apparent, after he and Zephyr—Lily, that is—had arrived: there was nothing physically wrong from her, aside from slightly elevated blood pressure. That, perhaps, could be tied to recent stress. Ahem. In short: the doctors at the Labs took a few samples, but made no promises about quick answers.
Which had, of course, lead them to this. A somewhat more straight forward action. Slate handed the phone to Zephyr’s body, politely.
Missions updated. Check to make sure I listed your character correctly!
Iron Mouth -- would you mind being A) a rescuer, or B) pretending to switch allegiances with to the Order, as we chatted about on the Cbox? Since the Order and the Resistance are so kindly offering to do all of the dirty work this takeover, Slate wouldn't mind the Kabal walking away without any blood on their hands. Especially with those cute little X-Men watching... (Speaking of watching. You should be watching Katrina, not blowing things up. *_*)
Giant's Bane -- will you be out of jail in time for Romania? *was under the impression you wouldn't be, from earlier chats* o.O
Circe -- is that an escaping from camps experience, or a rescuing both your silly trapped Faction leaders experience?
Kitra -- I'd recommend a bribe mission, if you're up for it. Though getting yourself re-established in the NYC boards might be the better idea... *snuggles*
safe house are police trap. real safe houses DO NOT post their address to internet. govt is using twitter. be careful who you listen to. plz RT!!! #romanianReg
American embassy is CLOSED. who do you think our govt got this idea from? #RomanianReg
hitler #RomanianReg
RT help add govnt employee addresses to google maps. they attack our homes we attack theirs. #RomanianReg, #RomanianRevenge
survival of the fittest. #RomanianReg, #RomanianRevenge
