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.
As some of you may have noticed by now, Slate has taken over the Kabal. As such... the Mods are toying with the idea of updating the Faction colors. It seems unanimous that the Order keeps red. Slate's color is gray; that would be best for the Kabal.
But gray is the X's color.
So, let's hear it: would you guys like the colors to stay the same, or would you like the X's to get a facelift?
If you think a facelift is appropriate: what color should the X's be? (Kat provided this awesome Color Maker. If you take use the "HEX" field as your color here, it will show up.)
It was a room with two doors. This had been a very important point in its selection. Over the course of the past few days, every member of the extensive Mondragon Labs staff had entered through the door at Slate's left. Lab technicians, guards, professional soldiers, janitors. Each of them had left again, after only a brief time, through the door at Slate's right. He spoke only two things to those exiting; "Are you sure you will not reconsider?" or, simply, "Thank you."
Currently, there was a man sitting in front of him, across the small table. The man looked slightly shaken. He was the new chef in the Canteen; he had formerly been employed as the butler of a certain Senator Dumonde, according to the file Slate had open in front of him.
"Will you join me?" Slate repeated, as he had repeated often over the past few days. Many people needed to hear the repetition before they seemed capable of processing an answer.
The former butler's gaze switched to the man who stood by the leftmost door; Nigel Banks gave an encouraging nod. The man turned back to Slate. "This doesn't change the terms of my employment?" He asked, with a composure befitting of a Lab employee.
"No," Slate answered, not even the barest traces of amusement in his baby blue eyes. "It does not. Your contract remains the same; your employer has simply changed."
"Well then." The man said, straightening his shirt with dignity. "That's hardly a problem, is it? You can count me in. Sir," he added, as if getting used to the idea.
Slate nodded, and gestured the man's dismissal. "Thank you," he said simply, as the man's hand landed on the doorknob. The chef gave a nod back to him as he went through the door at the right.
Nigel opened the left door, and waved in the next employee. A soldier: not one that Slate knew, however. Nigel Banks handed him a manila folder as the soldier got settled uncomfortably into the still-warm chair that the cook had just vacated. Slate read it, silently, briefly. Ah. This was one of the men that had been captured from the imp that had shown up on their doorstep awhile back. That explained the nervousness--a true employee of the Labs generally sat in the chair with stoic pride. Imp's men, however, as well as some of the newer employees, were still feeling the waters. In particular, Imp's men had all been pressed into service for the Labs under fear for their lives.
There was no particular reason to discourage that fear. Slate set the file down and stretched out his hand towards the man, as if to shake. "I require you to take my hand, and grant me permission to enter your mind."
"That's an order, isn't it?" The man asked. Slate simply stared at him. Yes, it was easy to tell that this one was new to Mondragon Labs. The man gave a sigh that was almost a wince, and stretched out his hand to meet Slate's own.
The process was quick. He had become quite experienced at it, in the past few days. The new employees were more of a drain, however: unlike the original Lab employees, they had never met Hunter, and had not had the mental command inserted into their mind. This had been a problem, at first; he had put them at the back of the queue as he sorted through the others. In the past few days, however, he had seen the structure of Hunter's mesmer order hundreds of times, and edited it precisely as often. He knew what to do, now.
In quick order, he formed a small part of the man's mind into the same thing he had seen in the other Mondragon Lab employees' minds. It was a simple copy and paste, if you will. Perhaps it was impolite to place the order into minds that had not previously contained it. Perhaps it infringed upon their free will. However, he was taking over an entire organization here, and he was not inclined to do so in a slip-shod manner. And he was still willing to give the man a choice.
The soldier jerked back. A standard reaction, to the sudden changes in his mind. Slate folded his hands on the tabletop. "I am taking over this organization. Hunter Antonescu is no longer your employer: I am. What I just did to you will ensure your loyalty to me. It is a standard security precaution which Antonescu himself used. I have merely... copied it. You cannot disobey my orders; nor can you carelessly mention information about myself, the Kabal, or Mondragon Labs.
"However, I have no interest in an employee who does not wish to work for me. I know that you were forced into this service." His baby blue eyes met the man's brown ones, across the table. "If you wish to discontinue your services with us, you may."
The man gave a cynical laugh. "Just like that? No offense, kid, but I don't think you'll let me go as easy as that. That 'Hunter' of yours didn't."
Slate shook his head, the slightest bit. "You never met Hunter. He has been attending to business in Europe for some time now; the orders to capture you and enforce your service were given in his absence, by the man standing next to me." A slight nod towards Nigel Banks. "As I am the new leader of Mondragon Labs, it is my orders that now matter. I would not have given the order to recruit you unwillingly. I am recruiting no one unwillingly--I only have an interest in people who are honestly loyal to me, outside of any psychic tricks. If you leave now, what I have done to your mind will only prevent you from speaking about what you have seen during your employment here. So long as you avoid me, the loyalty clause is a moot point."
The solider squinted at him, as if looking harder would let him see past the act to whatever trick was here. "So that's it, then. You'd actually let me go."
"Yes," Slate replied.
"No offense," the man laughed, "but I don't believe you."
Slate's reply was level: "Yes. You do."
The soldier stopped laughing. Disquietingly, he did. There was something sincere in the teen's complete lack of humor. "So I just walk away? That's it?"
"Yes," Slate said, for the third time.
"No watching my back on the way out the door? No daggers in the night?" The man clarified.
For the first time, the corner of the teenager's mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile. "No."
"Well." The man said, his eyes flashing to Nigel. There didn't seem to be any tricks hiding behind that man's eyes, either. "Good luck with your little take-over, then, but count me out."
Slate nodded, and motioned for the man to take his leave through the door at the right, to make room for the next employee. As the man's hand settled on the doorknob he asked, true to his pattern: "Are you sure you will not reconsider?"
"No," the man said, with a half-laugh. "No, I think I've had enough of this place. But... thanks."
Slate nodded. The door opened and shut. Nigel Banks showed in the next person: one of the secretaries under Noin. She was just getting back from maternity leave. A 'no' from her as well, unfortunately--by the report of Noin, she was quite a hard worker. And so they continued. Many more people said 'yes' than 'no'; it was the nature of most Mondragon Labs employees to not particularly care if who their pay came from, so long as it came steadily.
The last employee in line--the very last employee Slate had to deal with, outside of those on the Kabal--gave a 'no'. Slate nodded his acceptance of this answer. "Are you sure you will not reconsider?" He asked faithfully, as the man's hand reached to open the door. Still a 'no', but asking one final time hurt nothing, in his mind. He closed the final file, and rubbed at his temples.
"So," Nigel Banks said, his eyes on the closed door; "that's done, then. It's just the Kabal you have to talk to. Are you planning on doing the same thing?"
Slate shook his head. It was partly a 'no', and partly to clear out his budding headache. "No; I do not think it would be wise to attempt such with them. They don't know quite the level of secrets that the Lab employees do, in any case. There is no real need for such theatrics with them." He stood, placing the closed file neatly atop of the others. Noin and her crew would return them to their proper places later. For now, it was time for him to rest again. He'd had to rest frequently since all this began. Fortunately, his first order of business had included Nigel Banks, Melissa Rivers, Noin Mortman, and the others who kept order and calm in the Labs: while he had slept between recruitments, they had maintained the situation amongst the uninformed with a simple lie that the teenager had been sent by Hunter to decide on a few employees to be transferred to an operation of his in Spain. It was unusual, but all the high ranking employees told the grunts the same story: therefore, there was no need to question further. By and large, the Lab staff was very good at accepting what they were told, and not asking too many questions. It was how Hunter had trained them.
Slate stepped out through the rightmost door a few paces behind the last man. Apparently he was several seconds too soon, however. The fine wash of red sprayed across the side of his face, and ruined the collar of a perfectly good shirt.
"Sorry, Sir," Nicholas Williams apologized, panting slightly; "he was a quick draw."
The body had crumpled to the ground near the door; a gun clattered to the ground from his slackened grip. Nicholas put up his own gun, silencer and all, before clamping a hand down over the bright spot of red on his arm. Slate stepped around the body, moving past the injured Triforce member without a second glance. Nicholas fell into step behind him, as did Nigel Banks. "I assume everyone has been assembled?" He asked, in a manner that was not truly a question.
"Yes, Sir." Nicholas replied, with a nod. "Permission to go to the infirmary?"
"In a moment, Nicholas," Slate replied coolly. He had come to the door he wanted. He opened it, and stepped in on a full assembly of the staff who were loyal to him. They had been talking amongst each other; they came to attention as the brown-haired teenager stepped into the room. Slate stepped in front of them, as the bleeding Nicholas and the silent Nigel Banks took up positions by the door.
"From today onwards," Slate addressed them, simply; "I am your leader. You are to answer to me, and me alone. My name is Slate. I thank you for your loyalty to me. Our aim from this day forwards is simple: we will bring order to the chaos. You can rest assured that I will take care of my own." It was a dismissal. They had not worked for him long, but already, they were beginning to understand such cues as that. A buzz of low voices started again as Slate walked from the room, the face of every employee loyal to him burned into his mind. Likewise, each man and woman in that room had been able to see who was present. Those who were not present were no longer an issue.
Slate had no interest in those who were not loyal to him.
Out in the hallway, he motioned for Nicholas to stop. The man was looking a bit pale, but it was hardly the first time he had been shot. Slate turned back towards him, stretching out one hand towards his face. He paused before actually making contact. "Do I have your permission?" He asked.
"Of course, Sir." There was no hesitation to his answer.
Slate touched the man's face. He was tired, but he had the energy for one more thing. When he lowered his hand again, it was with an unmistakable touch of exhaustion. Nicholas blinked: it was his only sign of surprise. He was a professional, after all. He dropped his own hand back to his side. It wasn't needed anymore. The bullet wound was healed.
"I take care of my own," Slate repeated simply. Nigel Banks watched, with a hint of approval in his eyes.
Mondragon Labs belonged to Slate. There was no element of it which did not. His next task was to approach the Kabal members Antonescu had recruited, and to begin fleshing out its ranks with members of his own choosing.
Slate was a psychic, and a healer. He had been uncertain why he existed, in the past; it seemed that there was so much in the world that a healer was useless to fix. Truly, though, nothing was gained from surrendering to chaos. He would simply take care of his own. All that remained was to bring everything the same order to everything that he had brought to the Labs: once the elements he had no interest in were removed, all that would be left was peace.
The X-Men and the Order could bicker over New York City. Slate would let them have it, for now. The world was a very large place, and the Kabal had much work to do.
Slate wiped the spots of blood off of his face with the sleeve of his shirt, and went to wash up before his nap.
The look on Nigel Banks' face was unreadable. "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Newton."
"Trust him," Frank Newton replied, in the bare minimum of words necessary to convey the thought, with an unreadable look of his own.
The 'him' in question was a boy shorter than both of them, at 5'8". Younger, as well: a mere eighteen, and that was only if you were being biological about things. His age was closer to two, for any who wished to be technical. His hair was brown, short, and unkempt by no fault of his own: combs simply did not have an effect upon it, and taking gel to it would be an admittance of how much the disorder irked him.
The 'him' in question brought the total of unreadable expressions in the room up to three. It was one of the smaller conference rooms in the Labs; he was seated at the generically rectangular table. He was the only one who was sitting. Frank Newton was standing behind him, on his right side, at the shoulder. Nigel Banks could not miss the symbolism in the positioning.
He had received a call on his cell phone from Frank. The call had led him here. And now he was being asked to trust one of the Kabal's oldest and most unwilling members; Calley. This is a problem onto itself. What compounded it was that Calley's face was unreadable. Calm.
This was not the Calley that Nigel Banks knew.
"Trust him." Nigel Banks parroted, his steady gaze shifting between the seated teenager and the member of Hunter's army. One of the three members of the colloquially dubbed 'Triforce'; the personal guard team that Hunter Antonescu had placed under Calley, to assist him in missions. Mostly, they had seemed to be used as chauffeurs; they shuttled Calley here and there in the pursuit of new forms. It was a less dangerous job than they were trained to handle. The look on Frank Newton's face right now was a throw back; a reminder of how dangerous he really was.
"Since when is Calley a psychic?" Nigel Banks asked, as if the question was a light matter.
"Just trust him." Frank Newton repeated, steadily.
"I will not enter your mind without your consent," the teenager stated simply. What he left off was the fine print: he could not enter the man's mind without his consent. Saying it the way he had, however, gave the words an almost benevolent feel that the complete truth lacked.
Nigel was not looking at the teenager as he made his decision. He was looking at Frank Newton. The man had been an employee in Hunter's private army long before Calley had come onto the scene. Nigel knew him. The large man was built something like a tank. His gaze was steady, and clear. It did not look like he was being controlled by a psychic as he stood there, or as he spoke. To the degree that Nigel trusted anyone, he trusted Frank Newton.
Nigel Banks sat down across from Slate, after a last glance at Newton. He offered out his hand to the teenager. Slate took it.
And then Nigel Banks was knocking over his chair as he backed away, his hand reflexively drawing his gun. He was not sure which of them to point it at. Frank Newton had a gun, as well: more disturbingly, Frank Newton had not drawn his gun. The teen and the large man were as composed as ever. It was only Nigel Bank's heart rate that was suddenly racing in his throat.
"What did you do?" He demanded.
It was a simple enough question. The Italian teenager answered, simply enough. "Hunter Antonescu placed something in your mind, Mr Banks. He has done it to every member of his staff, I suspect. It commanded your loyalty without your knowledge. What I have done," he said, his baby blue gaze ignoring the gun pointed in his direction, and meeting Nigel's gaze, "was edit that command. I have brought it to the forefront of your mind, where you can see it. I have also modified it slightly. Your loyalty is to me, now. Lower your gun, Nigel Banks."
Nigel lowered his gun. He stared at the teen. A certainly coalesced in the sudden chaos of his mind. "You aren't Calley, are you?"
"No," the teenager replied. "I am his brother, Slate. As of today, Mondragon Labs and the Kabal are mine. Will you help me?"
Nigel's gaze flicked to Frank Newton, whose answer was obvious, then back to the teen. "Do I have a choice?"
"To the extent that I can grant it," Slate replied, "yes. I do not know how to remove the command entirely from your mind, Mr Banks. What I have done is to bring it to a place where you can see it. You may fight it now, if you chose. That is more than Antonescu gave you."
((ooc: This takes place after the Kabal takeover in Edit.))
A thin Italian boy watched from a bed across the room, one bare foot casually on the mattress in front of him as the other daggled towards the floor. His arms were propped over his knee. He was dressed comfortably well, in light khakis and a silver dress shirt. His baby blue eyes showed no particular reaction as he watched his fellow Kabal member collapse on the floor. He made no move to help her.
"Good afternoon, Miss Circe," he simply said. "You have been out for a long time."
They followed the crowd out into the entryway; the line for intermissions snacks was as incoherently put together as one would expect from a group of art patrons. Slate approached the counter from the side, and was served nearly immediately. He attempted to lead Leila towards the edge of the crowd, towards the windows. He split the cookie roughly in half as they went--the lack of precision was irksome, but unavoidable, given the circumstances. The larger half, still in the paper wrapper it had come it, he offered to Leila.
Intermission was ten minutes. Slate stared back at the doors into the orchestra hall, and the clock above it. He was not the fidgeting type. He was, however, the type to wonder if the sound of the second hand was comparable to that of a prison cell door shutting.
"It occurs to me," Slate said conversationally, "that given the volume of the music here, we may very well be able to hear it from the beach." Given her mutation and aforementioned assessment that the ocean looked appealing tonight, he presumed she may wish to go there. Given that the music was nice, but he was eighteen and had not been particularly inclined towards classical music when he first set foot in the building, he would very much not mind accompanying her. Out of here. Before they were settled in their seats for the next hour of the performance.
She continued her attempts to convince him that there was nothing between her and Sam. A phrase came to mind, though he did not know where it was from: Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Every word out of her mouth only made him more certain he had made the right choice. With every word, as well, she seemed to relax--whatever had been going through her mind seemed put at ease, with his words.
And then, all at once, she was actually back with him: she was there again, mind and all.
>> "Yeah, well at least our Couch Cushion will always be the link that brings us together. Just friends, and we'll see where it goes then?"
He gave a solid nod. Indeed: that was a good plan.
As the orchestra silenced its warm-up, the crowd's attention was drawn back to the front of the hall. The conductor strode out, and took his position. To a backdrop of an ocean stained with the colors of sunset, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony began.
It was not entirely unpleasant. The manner in which each individual instrument, carrying a raucous melody of its own, yet somehow contributing to a sound that crashed through the hall with distinct order, was outside his prior experience. He found that he did not mind it.
The sky outside darkened; segmented lines of clouds were broken by strips of black with flashes of white pricked through. How curious it would be if the black night sky was a lining, and stars simply holes; if starlight was merely something much larger and much brighter shining through.
The conductor's baton stilled with one last sweep, coming to a vertical stop that seemed to quiver with energy. Intermission.
Slate rose from his seat, and stretched upwards; balancing briefly on the tips of his toes as his spine arced. It was a motion not unlike a cat's. He landed back on the balls of his feet silently, and turned towards Leila. Not his date; simply his friend. He did not have many of those, either.
"I believe they had cookies in the entry way. Would you like to split one?" Not to suggest that either of them could not finish a cookie: merely to point out that the cookies had been approximately the size of his face. He was not usually drawn to food as Calley was, but the chaotic manner in which the large blocks of chocolate they had used as chips rippled and broke the dough's browned surface somehow asked to be put into proper order in his stomach.
The young woman sounded teary. Alarmingly teary. She did not look it, and yet, Slate sat down as suggested--one did not wish to disobey a potentially teary woman. An obnoxious woman on a couch, he could deal with. A day dreaming woman in an entryway, he could manage. A teary woman? That was outside of his experience, and he did not truly wish to put himself through such a test. According to the literature on the subject, such a situation was the antithesis to every male's natural intrapersonal skills.
>> "His name is Sam."
Slate blinked. Sam? From the Mansion, he presumed? It was not an uncommon name, but mutants did have a tendency to travel in their own circles, he had observed. Witness their current date.
>> "Look, there's nothing going on between the two of us. It's just, when I looked into your eyes... It's nearly the same color and I just..."
Nothing at all. Yes. Clearly, he could tell. One eyebrow raised in a mildly cynical manner as she drifted off.
>> "I'm really sorry Slate. I don't mean to hurt you or anything. But there's nothing going on between me and Sam. You don't need to compete with anyone."
The way she bit her lip, the way she had chosen the words 'I don't mean to hurt you'; these did not hearken well for his chances at winning her heart. The way she looked into his eyes and was reminded of the ice user's was an added piece in the data set. His chances of winning her were slim, indeed.
...Was relief the appropriate emotion to feel, in this situation? Somehow, he suspected it was not. Yet he could not seem to prevent his shoulders from relaxing. He went with the motion, and curved it back up into a shrug. For the first time that night, he smiled.
"Would you like for this to not be a date, Leila?" He asked, not entirely certain what the etiquette was, here. He was not breaking up with her; he was merely... acknowledging a mutual mistake. "Friends are allowed to go to the orchestra together, as well." He gave another shrug, his baby blue eyes watching her reaction to see if that threat of tears she had carried in with her from the hall would finally dissipate. "Friends also have the option to become something more at a later time and place, if neither is taken, and they find they have more in common than a couch cushion."
For tonight... no, he would not particularly mind if they were simply here as friends. At the least, he would stop having to see the comparisons behind her eyes at his every gesture and word. Slate's entire life had been spent in the shadow of another. He was quite ready to be his own entity, thank you. He had only just met Leila; she was pretty enough, but he still did not have a feel for who she was; he only knew that she liked Twilight, she had a stubborn side, and she did not feel the same curiosity about him as a person that he did about her. Perhaps that was because she already, on some level, had decided on who her love interest would be. Perhaps if he removed himself to the friend category, she could look at him as what he was, rather than who he was not.
>> "What? ...I'm sorry, I have a few things on my mind. That's all."
Yes: yes, he had gathered as much. This was a less specific answer than Slate had hoped for.
>> "And do you really want to know what's on my mind?"
"Yes, I--"
There was something pressing against his parted lips. It was warm, and it yielded softly even as his own lips yielded to it. By the time his mind processed the sensation; attributed it to Leila; attributed it to Leila kissing him, she had already moved back. Slate was left simply blinking where he stood. Still leaning against the wall with his tough posturing, but not quite remembering why he was there anymore. Was that... his first kiss?
>> "I was just wondering if you're as good of a kisser..."
His lips closed into a line, attempting to press the feel of her off of them. Yes, that had been his first kiss. And, apparently, it had been a means of comparison with a former--or current--lover. He felt somehow... used.
>> "You know, I think it's time for the Orchestra to begin."
Arm in arm again, they went into the orchestral hall itself; he silently produced their tickets for the usher to check. The seats were good; slightly off center on the first balcony, overlooking the main floor. The ceiling above was a masterpiece of flat planes set at angles that looked to be chaotic, but which served to amplify the sounds from the stage to the point where the orchestra did not need to employ the use of microphones. The seats were a posh red fabric that imitated velvet.
On stage, in front of those famous windows that looked out over the gray ocean, the musicians were warming up; chords of disjoint melodies rose into audible hums in the air, then fell back in volume, replaced by another rising sound. The conductor had not yet stepped onstage. Programs and coats rustled and entire rows stood to allow fellow patrons access to inner seats.
As Slate stood, graciously waiting for Leila to take her seat first, he asked one simple question: "What is his name? Is there a particular reason that I am competing with him?" Two questions, actually.
((ooc: This seems like an epic point to end an epic thread. Sound good? ))
>> "I hope that we will be able to continue fighting side by side in the future. And God willing, we will continue this tradition of victory that we have began here this day. But there is the small matter of him."
A small matter, indeed. Slate stood silent vigil over the defeated general with Nathan, until its jailers came. He watched without mercy as it was caged and carted away.
>> "No. No you won't."
Though the jailers look momentarily confused, Slate understood perfectly: he, too, saw the look in the old general's eyes. He squared back his shoulders. "No," he agreed; "because if he does return, he knows we will be ready for him. And next time," he met the vanquished warrior's gaze levelly as it was loaded into the back of the truck; "we will not be so merciful."
The doors shut with a final clunk. Red and darker tones slowly painted their way across the sky as the truck drove off, its prisoner secure. Slade nodded to Nathan; man to man, and victor to victor. Then he turned and walked towards the Mansion, into the sunset.
>> "Why I chose Marine Biology? Well, I guess it was just my abilities. I could converse with the Sea life, and turn into a Dolphin... I guess at some point Marine Biology became obvious. At some points in life though, I was sure I'd become an Artist. I really love art, you know?"
She met his gaze as she spoke, her own eyes again showing her to be somewhere else; somewhere closer this time, and quick to return, but still... not altogether here. When they came back, it was almost with a slight tinge of judgmental disappointment. She approved of the interior of the building, but not of his eyes. It was somehow... unappealing. He nodded simply as she spoke. Her answers made sense. Somehow, they even reminded him of the answers in the back of a math text: they made perfect sense in their perfect place, as they were wholly and entirely constructed to.
>> "And you, what do you plan on doing with your life?"
His own mind seemed to wander slightly as she returned his question. His gaze, as well. Her clothing complimented her figure: at the same time, however, it was a discordant note. They were at an orchestra; everyone around them was dressed similarly to himself, in formal attire. Though his was, admittedly, somewhat at the extreme end of the spectrum--it was not out of place, however. Leila had swung to the other end of the pendulum, though--she was dressed for a movie or a coffee house, not for their present upscale location. Other things about her were equally at odds. She attended college, yet she socialized with--and fit in quite nicely among--mere high schoolers. If he had any way of knowing her fondness for incorrectly labeling all sea life as "fish", it would have likewise fit the strange contrasting image she seemed to create around herself--a Marine Biology major, a dolphin shifter, and an adult who still called dolphins fish was a tri-fold rarity. Most bewildering, however, was this: she had chosen to go on a date with him--had instigated it, in fact--yet she was not truly with him.
Why had he agreed to this in the first place? Pride. That aside, what had made it more than a joke of an idea, something easily scoffed aside?
She had irritated him. Her mind had been present during that childish spar on the couch--her personality, as well. It was that person he had agreed to go on a date with. He would rather like for that person to be present.
It was with this in mind that he answered. They were close to a wall; he put out one arm in front of her and leaned heavily against it, both blocking her path and allowing himself to quite easily encroach deep into her personal space. His baby blue eyes--which might not be as intense a shade as some, but which held a certain sharpness of presence that their childish color was at odds with--locked on hers, trying to draw back out the person he had first spoken with.
"My life," he answered her question of his future, in a manner more confrontational than she may have wagered on; "will not be lived on autopilot. How about yours? Do you always treat your dates this way? Tell me what you are thinking of." It was not a question; it was an order, voiced as their noses were nearly touching. Assuming, of course, that she was not the type of woman to back down or shy away as he came closer. Physical proximity was something she had seemed to respond to, in the past.
Slate suspected that he may have hit a nerve when the teenager began to blink in excessive amounts, and reel where he stood.
>> "You are right. Right about that thing being external. Right about me being disgraced. I want to tell you something though, you hypocritical son of a bitch,"
...Suspicious confirmed.
>> "you know nothing about what happened to me in the camps. Of course I refused to assist them at first. A gun was turned on me. When I refused still, preferring death to becoming a torturer, they turned those guns on children until I did agree. I even got so far as to trade off a child's life for the pain of the parent. Do you think that was easy!?!"
Decreased proximity. Was he about to get punched? Possibly throttled. Garrett's breath was warm against his face; Slate blinked slowly against the force of it.
>> " Who are you to judge me, especially when it comes to splintered personalities?! You are a splinter yourself. You have no birth records or childhood. You are a puppet yourself. "
Touché, and yet not: the point was both entirely true and entirely moot. It was nothing that either Slate or Calley could fully admit without compromising their individualities. All he could do was let the point slide past him, unregistered.
The teen stepped back. Curious--he even began to walk away. Slate adjusted his gray scarf around his neck; apparently there would be no throttling, today.
>> " I really want to thank you for opening my eyes. However, you might want to turn that laser of illumination on yourself sometime, so the X-Men don't have to make two separate uniforms for both of your royal highnesses."
Slate nodded simply; again, man's point was valid, but he could not risk internalizing it. The 'laser of illumination', as it were, had been his gift to Garret--like most ill-planned gifts, however, it was not one he wished to receive himself. It would have been better if Calley and Slate had simply remained Caleb Swartz; however, there was a strangely retching feeling in their stomach when either of them pondered going back to that. It was what they had been, and it was what they could be, but it was not what they were.
He gave one last nod the defoliated teenager's way. "One more word of advice, Garret." Though he suspected it would be even less favorable than his other words. "There is always a choice. You said that you preferred death to becoming a torturer. If you had truly meant those words, then you could have chosen death. They would not have killed children if you had killed yourself, nor would you have become a torturer. Please do not hide behind phrases like 'I preferred death to becoming a torturer' when they are not true. You chose to become a torturer instead of dying. That is the choice you made. That is what you need to face."
There were other choices, as well: there were always other choices. To not play their game: the children had only been killed because he had reacted to it; no reaction, no dead children. To work with the victims: draw them onto his side, into an act that simulated what their captors wanted to see. To give the captors precisely what they wanted, to an extreme: he had little doubt that the man could, if he wished, execute enough pain on a person to render them unconscious nearly instantaneously; if he played at that being all the more control he had, then he would have been useless as a torturer. However, as the teen had said, Slate did not know his situation at the camps. He did not know how applicable each of those options could have been, or how many more had existed, if the man had refused to be trapped behind his own lies.
He readjusted his scarf again, flattening out the wrinkles around his throat so that it would not chafe terribly if the man's twitching hands did decide to come calling. Chaffing was healable, but irritating.
Simply backing off the man did not actually occur to him.
The Evil One was vanquished. Vanquished like a tree branch to the head; struck down in mid-gloating-tail-twitch. It lay on his back on the ground below his former prideful perch, all four paws in the air, tail stretched out behind him. Only the oddly ominous rising and falling of its small chest showed that it was merely unconscious, and not dead enough to haunt them to the end of their days with ghostly acorns thrown at all hours of the night.
The battlefield was quiet. A hollow wind rustled the bur oak's few remaining leaves; several briefly flared from smoldering to flames, then died again. On the lawn, the black patches of grass that Nathan had put out smoked dismally. Angry red spots on exposed human flesh promised bruises in the near future. The Mansion had seen many battles in its time on this earth. None of them had been on quite the same level as this, however.
Slate turned towards his fiery comrade in arms, a satisfied set to his grim face. He offered out his hand, with a certain solemnity befitting of this situation. "I believe," he said, "that the battle is ours. It was a pleasure fighting at your side, Sergeant Seraph."
