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 tried to be discrete about watching the feline's technique with the chopsticks. She moved them with the effortless precision of either one with long practice, or a near-master flaunting a technique in front of a mere apprentice. Perhaps both. He knew, in theory, that many people all over the world successfully substituted forks for chopsticks on a daily basis. However, it was good to see proof in front of him. Proof seemed necessary, given the struggles he was having with his own food. Like a toddler learning to reach the top shelf, he tried to imitate her manner of picking up a clump of rice.
...His clump of rice was significantly smaller than hers, but it was a start.
Needless to say, he made no move to stop her from inspecting the gems. That is way he had brought them. She should be given a fair opportunity to inspect what she would be carrying, if she chose to accept this commission. It did not even occur to him that she would have reason to hesitate, so he did not move to reassure her; he simply kept speaking as she picked up a diamond, as if the move was so natural it did not merit any comment.
She returned the uncut gem to its place in the small box, and resumed her own dinner before replying. He waited patiently.
>> “Is that why you’ve seeked out me specifically?"
Slate tilted his head for a moment, then shook it suddenly as he realized what she was getting at: had he picked her because she was a mutant, and such an obvious one, at that? "No; my contacts did mention you were a mutant, but it is more due to your reliability and discretion that I chose to seek you out. They... did not actually mention your feline features." A sort of amused smile came to the corners of his mouth. "Though in retrospect, they were a bit sly on the exact subject of what you looked like. I believe they wanted me to be surprised. I suppose it is safe to say that you get many ridiculous reactions, the first time you have the occasion to meet someone?"
"To be entirely honest," he continued, "I would have sought you out even if you were human. I do want to show mutants that they can be self-sufficient, but--and forgive me if this sounds contradictory--I do not want to exclude humans from anything simply because they lack an x-gene. Human supremacists and mutant supremacists are about the same, in my mind: what they are doing, and the goal they are seeking, is equally pointless and poorly reasoned. I want mutants to have pride in themselves, but I don't see that as necessitating any stripping of human pride or dignity. Or work opportunities, for that matter. Unjust discrimination is unjust discrimination no matter who it is directed at." There was a small red flush creeping up his neck. "Again, please excuse me: I am still trying to find the correct words for my 'philosophy', as it were."
>> "Don’t get me wrong sir, but if you really are concerned about this mission being done correctly, I’d think you’d send someone you had dealt with before. Someone already employed under your company.”
He gave a slight shake of his head. "I fear I must disagree. Again, any easily traced tie between these gems and my company would put the man I rescued at risk. He has been a captive since his powers manifested at thirteen, Ms Sara; he is twenty-five now. He is trusting me--with as much trust as he can have in anyone, after what he has been through--to keep him hidden. It might be more convenient for me to send someone already on my payroll, but if hiring an outsider can add even a hair's width more to his safety margin, then it would be beyond negligent for me to do otherwise."
Slate blinked baby blue eyes, as he remembered something he had clearly forgotten. "On that subject--part of this mission will involve memorizing a fake set of company and employer details. In the unlikely chance you are intercepted and cannot escape, it would be most convenient if you could give your captors this information. While seeming suitably reluctant to do so, of course. It will lead them to a dummy location I have chosen; any suspicious activity there will serve as my signal that you are in trouble. I will not leave you in an adverse situation, Ms. Sara, particularly one of my own making. I do not anticipate any trouble on this mission, but it is a possibility. We will stand by with back-up, should you need it. If the drug lords know enough to intercept you, then they are closer to my doorstep than I could have feared, and holding back my hand would be meaningless."
>> “Egypt is a long ride. I don’t speak any foreign languages, and I don’t see commercial air lines allowing me past the front doors of the air part. I’ve traveled but I’ve no experience out of the US. ...I’m still interested in the commission if you still want me.”
A small smile twitched at the corner of the brown-haired teenager's mouth. "I believe I can help you with three of those problems, Ms. Sara. Egypt will still be a long ride... however, chartering a jet through third parties is a relatively simple affair. That will take out the hassle of commercial airlines, and make the customs procedures more expedite. As for your lack of experience outside the US:" his smile twitched another notch fuller, and his eyebrows gave an almost-teasing twitch. Not that he would ever tease a feline. That was a losing battle, to be sure. "There is no way to fix that besides sending you on additional commissions, is there? Assuming, of course, that you complete this one up to expectations, and remain interested."
"As to your lack of foreign languages, Ms. Sara," Slate set down his chopsticks, and reached for the box. His hand hesitated over a small ruby, roughly the size of a bead. "Does our waiter speak Chinese?" He asked, wondering idly if that question was terribly racist. "Or does anyone else here? If they do, I'll have a rather strange demonstration for you."
It was not Dragon Speak's treasure hording ability that had attracted Slate's interest. The Kabal and Mondragon Labs were not short on funds. The Colombian man had a much more useful talent. The Italian teenager wondered if the queen cat was familiar with her dragon lore. In particular, the rumored properties of a dragon's blood.
It was safe to say that Slate heard her coming. He turned to watch the blonde haired woman making her way across the grounds, basketball and all. Ah. That would be useful. Why had he not even thought to bring one? He'd had quite a bit on his mind recently, but that was no excuse for overlooking practicalities. He raised his arm, and gave a small wave back to her.
>> "Hey Slate! It's been so long, I hope you aren't as busy as I am."
He grinned slightly at the sprinting girl as she joined his side. "A bit busy, I fear. Nothing I cannot manage. How about you? How have you been, Leila? You are looking well."
>> “Hey!”
And then there was another presence announcing itself, and joining them with a sprint. Slate blinked at the Asian boy. He had not met him, either around the halls or in classes. A new student?
>> “Yo…”
A student who was in all likelihood taller than Slate was--most mutants tended to be a bit taller than the average Jersey boy--but it was rather hard to tell, given that he was doubled over. Panting. What a curious way to introduce one's self: with a 'Hey', a 'Yo', and a 'pant pant pant'. Slate's eyebrows inched a bit higher in clear amusement.
"Hello," he greeted the newcomer. "My name is Slate. Are you looking for a game? I fear it may not be very good--Leila is going to teach me how to play today." He wondered idly if that was normal: an eighteen year old who really did not have the faintest clue of how to play a common sport. He blamed it upon Calley habitually playing either sick or hookie during his grade school gym classes.
"You are welcome to join us," he added, suddenly realizing that his last statement could have been taken in a 'butt out, new guy' context. "What is your name, if I may ask?"
((ooc: On the bright side, the worst you have to worry about is sleeping with the fishes, Ms. Cat.
This got huge. Tell me if you'd like me to cut it down a bit to give you more of a chance to work in replies!))
>> “The name Were is a name created by other people. Not by me. It comes in handy, but I prefer the name Sara.”
Slate gave a nod. "Sara, then. Thank you for meeting with me, Ms. Sara."
>> “No. I’m not happy with the world as it is now.”
Her answer to that was hardly surprising. Even among mutants, those like Ms. Sara stood out as targets for suspicion, ridicule, and attack. He seemed to recall her reacting rather defensively some months ago when Calley made too much of her looks; that seemed to hint at discrimination even from her own kind. Or just too many bad experiences all-around to welcome any sort of attention to her looks.
>> “If you really want to commission me, I’d like to hear about the job, and you’re company, that you’ve inherited.”
Slate was formulating his sales pitch when a flicker of her eyes to the side alerted him to the footsteps. He turned slightly, moving his lips into a grateful smile as the boy from earlier brought his meal, ice water and all. "Thank you."
He was again on the verge of filing her in more properly when he saw a smirk on her lips that he did not think was for him. He had not done anything particularly smirk-worthy in the last few moments, had he? Yes, he had chosen to try using the chopsticks, but he was fairly certain that his discrete check of the directions on the back of their paper wrapper had gone unnoticed, and he was fairly certain he was now holding them correctly. His baby blue eyes flickered back down to the bright red paper the chopsticks had come in. He moved the top chopstick experimentally. Yes; yes, he did seem to be doing this correc--
>> “Johnny. Can I have another order of egg rolls.”
Ah. So it was not him, after all, that the smirk was for.
>> “Ah, Sure thing Sara.”
Slate had no means of enhanced hearing, but the boy had no means of advanced stealth; this time, now that he was paying attention for it, he heard the boy's footsteps moving off.
"He seems like a good boy," Slate commented, attempting to pick up one of his pieces of chicken. A slight battle of wits ensued between himself and the sauce-covered poultry, but he prevailed on the third try in bringing it to his mouth. Chew, and swallow. He reached his free hand into the innermost pocket of his coat--he was rather loathe to set the chopsticks down, and lose his careful hold on them--and brought out a black box, a little smaller than his hand. He gently set it on the table. Unfortunately, he had to surrender his chopsticks to open its lid.
Inside was the unmistakable sparkle of diamonds. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and other precious gems, uncut and unset, but unmistakable. He left them on the table between them, and resettled his chopsticks into his grip.
"There is a Colombian mutant who makes these," Slate explained simply. "He, like many of our kind, was being held captive by those interested in his abilities. Colombian drug lords, to be specific. I presume you can see why they were interested. I had him rescued; he is currently recovering at Mondragon Labs. Unfortunately, due to the fact the drug lords are still rather interested in getting him back, I fear he will not be able to lead much by way of a 'normal' life."
"This is what I want to change," he continued, with a small believe-it-or-not shrug. "For all of us. Mutants should not have to hide themselves away for their own protection." He maintained eye contact with the queen; his heart beat had the steady rhythm of sincerity. Everything he was saying was true, after all. He did not find it relevant to mention that Aiden and Giant's Bane had been somewhat less than delicate in their handling of Dragon Speak's captors.
He began to battle with another piece of chicken, but his foe was wise. He conceded the fight, and stilled his chopsticks. "Do not get me wrong; I am not a believer in pounding sense into the humans until they bleed, nor am I a supporter of indiscriminately defending the ones that wish us dead or worse. I am not 'good', as it were. My goal is to change their perception of us; to make our talents into something that they appreciate instead of fear. To that end, there are quite a few things I wish to do. One of the first, though, is to establish a stream of income that does not relay on my company's holdings, but rather comes from mutants using their gifts. It is a symbol of our self-sufficiency and our commitment to use our abilities for constructive purposes rather than street brawls and petty squabbles."
"To that ends, I have set up a meeting with a reputed international gems dealer. His daughter is a mutant, and it has made him sympathetic enough to our cause so that he is willing to put our gems into the market." A slight frown came to the teenager's face. "Unfortunately, he also lives in Egypt. More local dealers... were somewhat less sympathetic, as it were. The meeting is a week from now. The primary aim is simply to deliver this sample so that he can examine their quality for himself. As I said; it is rather low-risk. All I wish you to do is travel to Egypt and deliver these stones. Your reputation speaks highly of your trustworthiness, and your discretion. Needless to say, if it becomes public knowledge that these gems are coming from a mutant rather than a mine, our contact might find himself facing a boycott and the loss of his livelihood. Likewise, if Mondragon Labs were implicated as the source, the Colombians would know where I am hiding the man I rescued from them. It is for these reasons that I have decided to contract you to handle the matter." He gave a half-shoulder shrug, and a slight smile. "If you are interested. Please forgive me; that was probably more of an explanation that you truly required."
More of an explanation that she required to deliver a box of gems to Egypt, but that was not his only reason for being here. Something else he had learned from his contacts, simply from the way they talked: Ms. Sara had been in New York for quite some time now. Through his spies within the factions, he knew that she was not yet tied to either. She seemed to be a competent and independent mutant who had found herself displeased with both the Order and the X-Men. Somehow, he found that situation familiar.
Slate allowed her time to process that information and reply, as he began hunting his elusive sweet and sour chicken across the natural habitat of its sauce-slick plate. Perhaps the crab rangoons would be easier prey... The young Kabal Leader's attention was fierce, and not to be underestimated. His dinner would be eaten. Make no mistake of that. And he would do it without resorting to the fork that so mockingly sat by his plate.
((ooc: Thread open for two other players, after Leila posts. I'd love to meet some of you fine folks who haven't run into Calley/Slate yet. )
There was a curious expression: 'Time flies when you are having fun.' Slate had never quite understood it, as time was scientifically measurable; outside of the high speeds that broke the line between Newton and Einstein's physics, it was not a particularly relative thing. Yet it had been several weeks since his date with Leila. His first date, in fact, and one that had taken an odd but not unwelcome turn to simple friendship before its end. Friendship, and a rain check for tutoring in basketball. He had meant to call in that check within a few days; a week, at most. But the time--as they say--had 'flown'
They had not really seen each other in the intervening weeks; it was as if they were both traveling in worlds so distinct that their elliptical orbits rarely crossed. The Italian teenager who approached the chilly courts wrapped up in a black coat and a gray scarf did indeed feel rather different than the last time he had been here. This was his first time back on Mansion grounds in over a week. The last time he had been here, he had not been the new leader of the Kabal. The last time he had been here, he had not ordered the deaths of every element within Mondragon Labs that was not loyal to him. These two events were hardly disjoint.
And here he was, white breaths puffing into the air as he looked around to see if the blonde dolphin shifter and Marine Biology major had already arrived. He was going to learn to play basketball, on the courts of the X-Men's stronghold.
It was a curious feeling. The Mansion had not changed; he had. And time had truly flown. When he saw Leila, the small smile on his lips also touched his baby blue eyes. Let the games begin, then. As they say.
((ooc: In Slate's timeline, I'm saying this takes place after Aiden and Giant's Bane successful completion of "A Pair of Aces".))
>> “Take a seat.”
The feline waved him to a seat; as he nodded his thanks and took it, however, he could not help but noticed her lean to the side. She was looking back out the doorway he had entered through, he assumed, though he did not turn to follow her gaze specifically. The action did not really express an overwhelming interest in his proposition. Neither did her next words.
>> “I’ve got a few hours free.”
Again, no particular interest. It was a start, however. His food had not yet arrived; he laced his hands together in front of himself, thumbs together, and attempted to pull off looking slightly more mature than the average eighteen year old in front of the first woman in weeks who hadn't seen him order the mass killing of all those who were disloyal to him. He found himself wondering if the collar of his dark blue dress shirt was straight. It had been ironed, but car rides tended to reverse all the effects of such care.
He cleared his throat. "First, would you mind if I asked your name? I heard of you from various contacts; they say that you are reliable, and confidential. However, they also called you 'Were'. Is there any name you would rather I use...?"
"My name really is Slate," he added, in case she had her doubts. "Slate Swartz. My caretaker, as it were, recently passed on, and left me with the family business." As it were. "There was a matter I was hoping you would handle for me. It is quite low-risk, but it is rather outside the field we usually do; I am not sure that the Board of Directors would really approve. To be frank, though, our company--my company, now--is quite financially stable, even with the market the way it is. I would like to begin allocating some of our resources to where they can do good."
"If you do not mind my asking, do you like the world, as it is now? Because... I do not. Not really." He allowed a slow blush to creep up his face. "My apologies. That was rather much. And the job actually has a concrete aim, not mere idealistic fluff, I assure you. Would you like to hear it?" His baby blue eyes blinked across the table at her. While he looked like a normal teenager, he supposed, it might be easier to not try to repress his age. There were only a few years in every young person's life when they can behave idealistically without people wondering what they are selling. He might as well take advantage of them, and hope that by the time they had passed, he would still have his ideals. And nothing in particular to sell, for that matter.
"Excuse me?" Thomas blinked upwards at the light haired teenager standing above him. He set down his pencil for a moment to rub at one heavily shadowed eye. It was well past midnight by the local time, and anyone with any sense was already sleeping unless they had a very good reason to be awake.
In the stone base carved into the hidden crevasses of Mount Everest, there was enough noise to keep anyone awake. It came from all sides: above, below, the room next door and far down the hall. The members of the Tibetan Mutant Resistance were acting like a beehive that had lost its queen. Not that the six Pax Seniors could have slept, in any case. Even the large gray wolfhound in the hallway twitched with unpleasant dreams. This was the buzz of something much worse than mere failure.
"Let's fight," Lucas repeated, nearly shoving his white Game Boy into his human classmate's face.
Thomas was already holding his own game in his left hand; the hand not currently preoccupied with picking back up his pencil. It rested on his knee, its green power light showing the active status of the cartridge within, even if his habitual key strokes were somewhat slower, more disjoint, than usual. The dark haired boy matched his Game Boy: black, muted, and over-prepared to the point of fatigue.
The light haired teenager matched his. White, and moving to his own fight theme song. Lucas' eyes flashed. He was the only one of them that still had energy. The drain of the past few days showed on him as well, though. Unlike usual, his fearsome stance was not spreading to those around them. The energy raiser was running on low, power-wise. Again, like his Game Boy. The green light flickered, threatening to change at any moment to a warning red. Save your game; change your batteries; take a rest.
"Go to sleep, Lucas." Thomas said, turning his gaze back down to his tightly spaced notes.
"I don't take orders from you," Lucas said, in a tone that made Zakiyaa glance briefly over their way, and slide one headphone off of her ear to hear better. The Sudanese teenager did not move, otherwise. There was a Korean American girl on her shoulder who was engrossed in a book. The fifteenth Twilight sequel, or perhaps prequel. Just the sort of fluff a girl needed to take her mind off of things. To fill it with something else, before she tried sleeping again. Anything besides the screams. The dark, then the lights--from every direction, the lights.
"I'll love you forever, Bella. You know that. But I think we need to be apart--to grow as people."
My mouth couldn't move. Inside, I felt like screaming, but no words came out. What was wrong with Edward? Why would he say these things? There was a pit of black despair opening up in my chest where my heart should be--
"Let's fight," Lucas repeated again, putting one hand down on top of Thomas' notes. The dark haired teen looked up again.
"If it will help you," Thomas replied, setting his pencil back down. Judging by the tch that came out of Lucas' mouth, he didn't think that had been the answer his classmate had been going for.
"Six on six," Lucas outlined, sitting on the floor a good distance from Thomas' chair. After a moment, Thomas slumped down to join him, his thing legs crossing. "No switching."
"Switching is a basic--"
"Only cheaters switch." Lucas' eyes flashed across the very small distance between them.
Thomas slumped further, his tired expression complemented by his shrug of indifference. "If that's what you prefer," he agreed. "Anything else?"
"When I beat you," Lucas demanded, "you tell me why you did it."
Thomas looked up at him. Dark brown eyes met light hazel before going back to the small screen in front of him. "You need to get that out of your head," he replied simply. Both of his hands settled onto the sides of the Game Boy. From where River was sitting with her sketchbook doodling a sketchy, surrealistic outline of Felix as the bloodhound mutant glared upwards at something offensive on the ceiling, this seemed odd. It took her a moment to place why. Then it came to her: she had never seen Thomas use two hands to play his game. He always had it with him; he was always playing it. While taking notes in class, while helping in the kitchen, while discussing their plans to move the largest group of Chinese refugees yet along the dangerous trek out of Asia and into Europe. One handed. He always played one handed.
Lucas didn't miss the significance. "I'll still beat you," he said.
"Six on six?" Thomas confirmed, in place of reply.
It began.
It began nearly a month ago. It had been Thomas' plan; his brainchild. He had put it forth. He had won the others over to it.
"You sabotaged it," Lucas growled across the distance between the two teenagers on the floor.
It was a Starwee from Luca's corner. Water/Psychic; the final evolution of Staryu. A classic move, even in the days when Starmie was its highest form. With the moves Thunderwave, Surf, Psychic, and Recover, it had been dubbed the "Deathstar". It could cripple entire teams without ever needing to be switched out. Not that switching was allowed, in this match.
Thomas' first up was a Destroyite. Starting out as a low-stat Crushate, evolving to a Killiyate, it was a Ground/Steel. Immune to the crippling Thunderwave. Its ability was Fracture Faith; it reversed the effect of any attack launched. Thomas used Heal Bell, and Lucas' Starwee was inflicted with Paralysis, Poison, Freezing, and a Burn. It was the only time in the game that such a situation was possible.
"Fracture Faith, huh?" Lucas asked, his voice oddly victorious for someone whose Pokemon was both crippled and immobile. The Destroyite used Moonlight; at this late hour, the strengthened healing effect was reserved, leaving the Starwee unable to survive the combined effects of Poisoning and Burns. It fainted. "Appropriate."
"We've been over this, Lucas." Thomas said, his voice not trying to defend. He was just stating it like it was truth: "It wasn't me."
Someone had told the Chinese authorities about their plans. Not just a tip-off: not just a "there's something going on, guys. Why don't you march your dictatorship over to take a look?" No. Someone had told them the exact details of the plan. Time, place, initial route, contingency route. Strength of numbers, mutant abilities, names.
Zakiyaa struggled to keep from frowning down at the seated battle on the floor. Someone had told the authorities everything, and that someone had been discrete about things. Discrete, or they had waited until the last possible moment. She--the rumor sensor--had caught no hint on the winds from any direction about the coming betrayal. It had been perfectly executed. Perfectly planned. Every strength had met its weakness out in that night.
On her shoulder, Lynn's eyes drifted closed for a second. Then she was awake again, with a whimper. Zakiyaa stroked her straight black hair away from her sweaty forehead, and stole a kiss from the part in her hair. "Read your book, Lynn. The memories will not get smaller; they never get smaller. You will get bigger, and it will not be so bad. Read. Make your new memories; make yourself bigger."
Lynn gave a nod, and sat herself up a little straighter, though she kept her head on Zakiyaa's shoulder. In the book, Bella was sulking; idly, Lynn thumbed through the pages, looking for the next chapter with dialogue.
Thomas' Destroyite hadn't lost a single hit point. With a jab of his thumb, Lucas sent out a Glory. One of the rare dual-mono elementals: it was a Fire/Fire. And it was fast. Lucas risked the inaccuracy of a Fire Blast, and watched as the 120 strength attack hit the Destoyite with a x6 bonus in strength. It was an instant KO.
Thomas, taking one hand off the game to rub at his eyes again, sent out TheAtlanticOcean. His nickname, of course, for his own Starwee. It was holding a Mystic Water. Lucas tched as his token non-fire attack--a Mega Kick--took off only a fifth of the Deathstar's power. TheAtlanticOcean used Surf for a x8 bonus. Lucas' Glory drowned. Or "fainted", to keep with the game's quaint terminology.
Lucas had been on the front lines. Except they weren't supposed to be the front lines. Thomas' plan had been perfect: just as expected from Mr. Swartz favorite student. The most logical of them. Human or not, he was a genius. He'd presented the plan to them fully formed, down to the last detail; they'd had no choice but to accept it. It was just too damn perfect. A way to move more than a hundred mutants out of China right under the noses of both the Chinese and Russian militaries, with no one being the wiser. It had all the hallmarks of a plan they would make in some hypothetical class at Pax: it dodged all conventional thought, it promised causalities minimized beyond all reasonable hope, it required both human and mutants to work together for a common goal, and it placed faith in people of all races and species being good--honestly good--without actually relying on it.
Lucas had been so pumped. He'd spent at least eight days pulverizing Thomas' back with a hearty slap every time he saw him. Everyone around him had caught the energy, and the enthusiasm, and the dead certainty that they would actually pull this off: that was Lucas' power. He spread his own energy and emotions. Like a virus.
"You were counting on that, weren't you," Lucas accused. "You were counting on me to make sure no one had any second thoughts."
Thomas didn't look up from his screen; he did, however, give a persecuted sigh.
"Never mind," Lucas said. "Atlantic? Meet the Pacific."
ThePacificOcean was one of the few Pokémon whose image had been drawn so intentionally large that it did not entirely fit on the battle screen. In fact, all that fit was one colossal tentacle, wrapped loosely around the reclining figure of the Greek God Poseidon, carrying his trident. ThePacificOcean was just one of the hard to obtain evolutions of the apparently useless Unown. Much like a Magikarp, Unown was a bit more than it seemed. This evolution was an Electric/Water type with the ability Gods Walk.
Thomas gave a low whistle of appreciation as his Starmee was utterly and completely annihilated. "Nice, Lucas. When did you get one of--?"
"Shut up," Lucas interrupted. "Just shut up, and fight."
Thomas sent out a DittottiD. Making a Ditto evolve was a trick, but well worth it. The bubblegum blob of a Pokémon had two dumbly smiling heads. Its only move was Splash, the most infamously useless move in the game. Its ability, though, was TransformrofsnarT. As soon as it hit the field, each of its dumbly smiling heads copied ThePacificOcean. Lucas' ThePacificOcean? Meet ThePacificOceanaecOcificaPehT. Gods Walk? Met Gods Walk klaW sdoG.
Lucas was down one extremely rare and powerful Pokémon, and Thomas was up two of them. It was a good strategy. Perfect, you could even say. "You like being perfect, don't you." Lucas asked. "So why did you do it? Why ruin your own plan?"
"I didn't have any reason to," Thomas replied levelly, which was not the same as 'I didn't'.
It wasn't the Chinese military that found them. Oh no. Things would be so much easier if that was the case. There would have been a mass round up; a mass grave; an ending, without possibility for a beginning. Mr. Swartz had told them once, during some cooperative training session or another, after someone or another did something particularly stupid: he'd told them, "You can never unstart something that's been started." He'd said it like he was quoting someone else.
Felix, at least, hadn't understood that line before now. "You can never unstart something that's been started," he whispered to himself, unaware that he was being sketched by River. "Ain't that the truth."
If they'd all been killed, they would have started something, and ended it. In retrospect? An ending would have been fine. He wasn't a fan of being dead. Definitely hadn't been keen on it that night, as they'd all run--as they'd followed Thomas, who seemed to know just what to do and where to go so that all seven of them--the six Pax Seniors, and Mr. Swartz--survived. But looking back? That wouldn't have been so bad. What they had done was a lot worse. They'd started something. And now they couldn't un-start it.
It wasn't the Chinese military that had found them. It was the Russians. They'd been across the boarder, breaking the uneasy truce between the two Super Powers. Whether they'd just been some group of young soldiers goofing off, egging each other on, he didn't know. Whether they'd been something more--some part of a plan much bigger and much more perfect than any of them had bargained for, like Lucas was claiming... He didn't know that, either. He wasn't a super genius. His only power was to smell. To track. What was he supposed to track here, the truth? Yeah. Right. He'd get right on that. Just as soon as he was done glaring at this rock ceiling.
Lucas sent out a Magiless. The baby form of a Magikarp. Its ability was Useless.
"Seriously, Lucas?" Thomas asked.
"You think I didn't know you had that Dittott-whatever? Give me some credit, Thomas. I can handle basic strategy."
"Yeah," Thomas winced. "I can see that."
Useless negated any and all Pokémon abilities on the field. Gods Walk and Transform were both rendered moot. The DittottiD returned to its natural stupidly grinning form. A war of Splashes ensued.
Magiless used SPLASH!
But nothing happened.
DittottiD used SPLASH!
But nothing happened.
Magiless used SPLASH!
Splash has 40 PP. 40 turns later, they were both out of said PP. A Pokemon without PP uses Struggle.
...It was a Struggle, all right.
When all was said and done, DittottiD fainted first. Lucky critical hit. It was the kind of battle that makes any serious-minded trainer want to scream.
Lucas glared across the floor at Thomas' thoroughly mortified face. Maybe now he'd feel just a sliver of what everyone else felt. It wasn't like he cared for anything besides his game. "Those were real people," Lucas growled.
"Who?" Thomas glanced up, with the distracted blink of a boy coming out of a long and repetitive nightmare.
"The people you got killed," Lucas drilled home. "They were real. This isn't a game, Thomas."
With a half-shoulder shrug, Thomas looked back down at his screen. He was down to three Pokémon; Lucas, to four. That Magiless hardly counted, though. With a disgusted flick of his thumb, he sent a Decadence out onto the field. It was one of the few Pokémon with a four step evolution; Dying, Death, Decay, and finally Decadence. A Dark/Poison type, with the ability of Soul Rot. The Magiless died from the Rot before Thomas even had to waste PP on it. Good. That was the way a Magiless should die.
A few feet away, Lucas shifted his legs to a more comfortable position with a short laugh. "You can stop sending out ironic choices any time now, Thomas."
"I'll keep that in mind," the dark-haired boy evenly replied.
Lucas sent out a Puren. Its White Veil ability canceled out the Soul Rot. They were left to have an honest fight, Dark/Poison to Normal/Flying. Puren was faster and had more strength, but Decadence had defense and HP in spades, backing up a cutting special attack. Puren fainted. Thomas had always smirked at that--"fainted". How childish.
He looked up, and caught Lucas glaring at him again. He looked back down at the game, in time to lose his smirk. He'd known it was coming, but that didn't mean he would have liked for his Decadence to face it. Magic, Lucas' prized AveMachina. The final evolution along the path from Deus through Exdomine. Steel/Psychic. The only Pokemon in the game with the From Above ability. Decadence died a swift death, though not before Soul Rot had eaten away a third of precious little Magic's Hit Points. His Miraichu hit the field next; the final evolution of Pikachu's line, it was a pure bundle of Electricity and speed. It left Magic paralyzed and down below the half way mark before it succumbed.
Things were one on one, now. A flick of a pale thumb sent Thomas' Necreon to the field. The Ghost evolution of the expansive Eevee family tree. Its ability? Things That Crawl. From Above met its match. Steel/Psychic met pure Ghost. And Thomas watched Magic "faint". "Fainting"--really, what a joke. Lucas thought so, too. It took all of his force of will to not hurl the game across the room as Thomas stood, stretching legs that had gone to sleep somewhere between "But Nothing Happened" and "Magiless used SPLASH!"
"Good match, Lucas," he said without a trace of condescension. That's what really got Lucas: the dark haired teenager sounded like he meant it. Like he meant every word. "You've come a long way."
"Still not up to your level, though, am I?" Lucas asked, staring upwards from the ground. Thomas was looking down at him, and Lucas knew that he was the only one in the sleepless room that could see the smug glitter in their classmate's eyes.
He wasn't quite sure when his fist collided with Thomas' face. He remembered the blur of motion as he brought his legs into position, and launched himself upwards off the stone floor; he remembered the satisfying crack. He didn't really remember deciding to do it, though.
He did decide not to regret it. As Felix and Zakiyaa pulled him away from the downed teenager, and River and Lynn rushed to help the ever-innocent, ever-perfect Thomas up, he decided: he wouldn't regret it.
He wouldn't regret it because he'd fallen for that perfect plan that had really been planning something they couldn't even imagine.
He wouldn't regret it because good people--mutants and humans he'd been working side-by-side with the past few months on this mountain--had died. Not "fainted"; died.
He wouldn't regret it because what they started out there, they couldn't un-start.
He wouldn't regret it because he was the only one who really believed that Thomas was responsible, and that kind of perfection--the perfection to get away with it--deserved a black eye.
The Russians had been over the Chinese boarder when they'd discovered the refugees. They'd tried to entice and plead the Chinese mutants over to Russia, but Mr. Swartz and his students had brought with them some of the rumors that were coming out of Russia. The Russians had tried to threaten and shout. And finally, the Russians had decided to make a few examples. That had been terrifying. But it had only been one layer of the plan.
The Chinese military had found them. "Found them", like they'd ever been lost--there had been no surprise in the eyes of their commander as he smiled down at the group. Just like there had been no surprise in the Russian commander's eyes as he'd first spotted them. It was layers and layers of perfection: the perfect escape plan for the refugees. The perfect recruitment plan for the Russians. The perfect capture plan for the Chinese. The perfect proof that Russia was stealing Chinese civilians, and the perfect proof that China was unwilling to submit to diplomacy.
It was all over the news. Zakiyaa had been wearing her headphones even when she slept, to block out the whispers as they grew louder and louder. The captured Russian soldiers were a media spectacle the world over. And they were exactly the excuse that two governments had been waiting for. Two armies were on the move now, and soon to be more.
"Why did you do it?" Lucas shouted across the room, as Felix and Zakiyaa dragged him back. "Why?"
In Pokémon White and Black, the player can choose to go good or evil. Thomas had chosen to go evil. Why? Because it was more fun, that was why. More of a challenge. There was no better reason in this world. That was just a game, of course. In the real world, he would never do anything of the sort. Clearly, Lucas was mistaken.
Only a true sociopath would want to start World War III.
>> “Yes Sir. That order would be just fine. We do have that Ice Cream. Please follow me.”
Ah, excellent. Slate had read that both the flavor, and the odd manner of serving, were quite good. Fried green tea ice cream was indeed on his list of new experiences to acquire.
Obediently, he followed at his fellow teenager's heels, as instructed. Out of the main serving area, behind the counter... through the kitchen... and to what he strongly suspected was the other side of the building entirely. This was not normal. Slate suspected as much, in any case. Should he be following? He was the new Leader of the Kabal--it would look very bad if he voluntarily walked into his own kidnapping. It occurred to him, quite suddenly, that he had no means of defending himself; Nicholas was down the block, awaiting his reemergence. The solider would not worry if an hour or more passed with no sign of his new employer; he was eating dinner, after all, and seeking information. These things both took time. The idea was... alarming. Yet the boy did not seem particularly ill at ease as he lead Slate further into the restaurant, and the cook they passed did not look particularly like he was in on some nefarious and inexplicably well-coordinated plot. In the end, it was the logic of the situation that kept him at the boy's heels: there was no fathomable way that this was a trap. And if it was, the mind behind it was clearly so great that it deserved its prize, and Slate would be rather curious to met with them.
What he met with, instead, was a cat. A rather large cat. There was a cell phone in one of her hands--(paws?)--and a shrimp half-way raised between clean plate and her maw (mouth?). There was little doubt in his mind that this was the Were of which various voices on the street spoke. The fact that the boy set the seat across from the feline for him, as if setting a perfectly normal table out in front, further confirmed it.
>> “There you go, Sir.”
"Thank you," Slate said simply, blinking slightly at the boy. Apparently the answer had been 'yes'. Yes, he did indeed know where to find Were. As the boy left the room, presumably to either get his order or eavesdrop outside the door, Slate approached the table. He gave a respectful nod to the queen cat before him. "Good evening," he greeted her simply; "my name is Slate. Please forgive my intrusion; I was not told that you were dining." He had not been told that she was here at all, if they wanted to be specific about things.
He also had not been told that the 'Were' he sought was the same woman that he and Calley had met at the Sanctuary, nearly a year ago. The meeting had been brief, but the queen was rather memorable. He tried to rake through their memory, but he could not come up with the name she had given then; if, indeed, she had given a name at all.
"Please, would you mind if I joined you? I had some business I wished to discuss, if you are not too busy this evening." He waited by the bench seat across from her for an invitation to sit. Idly, he wondered what the appropriate action would be if she did not invite him to sit. As he recalled... she did not particularly like him. Not Calley, in any case. Slate was not his brother.
>> "You have a point. I guess we can be just as bad. It's just like Animals, fighting for their territory. That's how I see it."
Slate nodded his agreement. It was a distasteful idea, but entirely true. The X-Men and Order fought over New York City like two competing packs of wild dogs. Their fight was about as meaningful as such, as well. Less: the wild dogs probably would have been fighting to survive. The X's and O's were fighting merely to fight. To show each other, with unnecessary violence, that they were in disagreement. It was nothing a civil conversation could not have accomplished, and the conversation could have lead to something much more.
>> "I tend to be a bit competitive. But dirty? I wouldn't say that... I just don't like when I don't get my way. I'm nearly as stubborn as you are Slate."
To her grin and head tilt, he smirked quietly back with a glint of baby blue eyes. " 'Nearly'," he parroted, "being the key word."
>> "Yeah, you really know how to keep a woman interested. You know, I think if we leave right now, we'll be just in time to miss the rush of people. I saw a Basketball Court at the Mansion... Maybe I could give you your first lesson tonight?"
"I fear I must take a rain check on the lesson for tonight," Slate said simply. He and Calley had managed to book the Training Room for tomorrow, but the time was obscenely early in the morning. It was best to not go into power training sleep deprived. "Another day, though." He flashed a grin. "This is a serious matter, after all. It cannot be left undecided."
Slowly, they made their way off of the beach and back to the car. Naturally he held her car door open for her, and shut it lightly after she had slipped inside. Friends could have gentlemanly manners, too.
((ooc: Tell me if I need to mod anything there, like if you'd like to get in another post or two. Otherwise, continued soon! I'll link the basketball thread to here. )
The young man who came out was more of a 'boy', really; he was shorter than Slate, even. This was a strange feeling, given that the people he had been around for the past few days had been significantly taller than him. Adjusting to looking down, rather than up, was a curious feeling. The boy was both well groomed and dressed, of which Slate approved. One cannot expect that of every random New York restaurant that one enters. It gave him a good feeling for this 'Were', if she frequented establishments like this.
There was no immediate verbal reply that the boy did know of the feline woman, but there was no disagreement, either. What there was, was a raised eyebrow. Slate interpreted this to mean that he was in the correct location. His intentions to order, however, clearly put the current matter to business rather than a cat hunt. Again, Slate approved: business did come first.
>> “Well that depends on how much your willing to spend, Sir.”
The hand sign for money was clear, but rather misplaced. Slate blinked curiously at it. Why would the boy make it, just then? People really were curious.
>> “If you really want My Opinion, I Can tell you to order something off of the dinner side. With an appetizer. The more Expensive the better."
Slate nodded in amiable agreement. Is was about time for dinner. Additionally, some of their appetizers looked quite good. He stared up at the menu for a bit longer before reaching a decision.
"May I have the sweet and sour chicken," he asked, "with the white rice and a side of crab rangoons?" He looked to the boy for confirmation that this was an acceptably appetizing order. Presumably, he knew his own merchandize. "Is there anything else you world recommend? Do you have that 'fried green tea ice cream' I have heard of? Additionally, I will simply have water to drink, if I may." Slate liked water.
Slate had been spending too much time indoors. This is what his staff had been gently trying to tell him, in any case. It was true that he had not left Mondragon Labs since his take-over. It was likewise true that he would have to return to the Mansion for classes on Monday; calling in with a particularly bad case of the flu can only work for so many consecutive days. He should have said he was out of town, in retrospect. A dead grandfather would have done the trick. A dying one would have bought him even more time.
...But all that aside, there was a reason he was here, opening the door of the Dragon Inn. The reason traced back to his employees' concern for the fact he had done little more than make a circuit between the Board Room, the Archives, the Library, and the Canteen over the past days.
Therefore, when he had attempted to delegate a mission to Melissa Rivers, he had somehow found himself being convinced to do it himself. His employees' concern was quite touching, if mildly annoying. He was at the Dragon Inn to humor them. Look: he was outside of the Labs. He was going to eat a meal not prepared by Lab staff. He was a functional eighteen year old boy.
Sure he was.
Slate let the door close behind him and approached the counter, where a young man was coming out of the back to meet him. Slate attempted to smile, like a normal teenager.
"Hello," he began--in a manner so normal that his employee's unease for him was clearly misplaced--"I'm looking for someone. I heard a rumor this might be a good place to find her, and that she, ah..." He could even use inane little un-words like 'ah' like a normal teenager. "...She can get jobs done. I think she goes by 'Were'. Would you happen to know where she is, or how I can find her...?"
"Also," again with the normal teenager grin, "I would like to order. For here." If he ordered 'to go', he would simply end up back at the Labs. This would produce frowning, he assumed. It was best to humor people. "What do you recommend?"
>> “Ah, I see, how careless of him. ...How about Mr Antonescue’s assets in other countries? What has become of them?”
There were many things that the man could have been referring to; that paperwork Slate had been sifting through despite the secretarial staff's assurances that they would alert him of anything interesting, had included such things as weapons stashes, other projects, antique collections, Tibetan missions, and Projects "Invierea" and "Paragon", among other things, and there was still quite a bit to go. He had largely left the video logs untouched thus far, though he was certain that there were many things the man did that had bypassed the paperwork.
His answer was an easy one, however, and rather an honest catch-all. "They appear likewise neglected," he stated levelly, "though I feel they will soon be given a proper steward." Even if he did not see an immediate use for them, there was no sense in leaving them lying around in case certain immortals wished to take them back again. Anything he discovered a trace of would either be claimed or annihilated. He was taking the man's capital city, as it were, and burning the empire. Those things of no interest would be eliminated.
He was still unclear on Hades' place in things. The man's answer did not help much. The corner's of Hades' mouth twitched as he replied; it was the first sign of emotion Slate had seen thus far.
>> “Among the terms of contract, were; continued funding for possible research projects, a relatively high degree of freedom when not on a mission, and the guarantee of interesting and challenging missions in my area of expertise. The only other note was complete confidentiality of all information pertaining to myself, which I am happy to hear that he held to. I hope that answers you question.”
Again, Slate nodded the barest fraction. It was not so much a sign of agreement to anything in particular as a sign that he had heard that man's words; he suspected that people appreciated such tells in behavior, and so he had been cultivating this one. "As for the research projects: as we already have a highly trained staff, I am not entirely certain that I would wish to employ you in that capacity; you make it sound as if you have considerable skills elsewhere. I have no desire to waste a tool doing something a hundred other tools already do." Additionally, he was as of yet unsure whether he would continue funding most of the Labs' projects. Antonescu had been overseeing some very strange things; things which he himself did not see a particular use for. While blast cannons and vampire armies could be one man's dream, Slate's... differed somewhat. To say the least.
He continued. "The freedom when not on missions is something I can assure." It was, in fact, something he extended to all Kabal employees. It had not occurred to him to do else wise. When he had no immediate use of a person, random wanderings in the field was the best route. As Calley had proven many times, this could lead to useful--though previously unforeseen--results. "Confidentiality is also guaranteed."
"As for missions," again, his gaze drifted down to the file before him. "I can indeed assure you that I will provide you with ones of interest and challenge. May I inquire as to the past missions you have run?" It was rather hard to match interests and challenge levels without knowing a bit of the man's prior history. It would be interesting to see what he mentioned. Slate did not have a complete file, but he did know some interesting tidbits.
)