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.
There was only one way to do this, Roland thought to himself. He had put his ear to the proper grapevines to glean what the fixer was doing. As luck and destiny would have it, there was a job underway this very evening. Destiny was good like that. The occupation in question involved jewels. Gershon loved shiny things. His large eyes would often sparkle like the gems themselves as they scanned over facets. The scene was unfolding in a perfect, nostalgic way. It was a diamond wholesaler, so it would be three. One lookout , one handling goods, one driver. Roland dialed up the police, leaving the anonymous tip needed to get the ball rolling.
An archetypal black BMW sat outside the back door of the place. Roland watched from across the street. Looking up a block or so, he could see the tactical team preparing themselves. It was like watching a video of one's past, as he imagined the driver was informing his compatriots. He had waited long enough to allow the cronies to get the job done, as a bust would be useless without the stones. The lookout came first, making his way to the backseat, his little bird-like head twitches fitting for his position. A moment or two more passed, tension mounting in Roland's neck muscles. All was well once the bagman appeared.
The sound of police boots became clear as a bell, forcing Roland further back into the alley's shadows. As long as there was light to see, it made little difference. The driver was gunning the pristine engine, its pistons firing away like a thoroughbred eager to be released from the race gates. The frenetic lookout was the first to act. He was probably a rookie, eager to bust his cherry. Reports of gunfire echoed through the streets, answered with a cacophony of the automatic variety. His cherry was busted, its crimson juices flowing over the back lot of the place. The driver decided that his escape was still viable and tore out of the lot, smoke from the tires clouding the scene briefly, to Roland's annoyance.
A brief reenactment of a battlefield ensued, smoke and gunshots clouding the senses. Once it cleared, it appeared that the BMW was no longer beautiful, its engine smoking and its windshield shattered. The driver left his remains in various parts of said glass. French police, gotta love em. The bagman was just the man now, his bounty placed on top of a police car along with his sidearm. The look on his face was priceless, revealing his fear. Not of the police, but the jail where his employer had problem solvers. Keystone coppery soon took place as the bag of stones mysteriously vanished. One moment they were there, now they were here, in Roland's pocket. Though his French was basic at best, he could pick out the inflammatory words quite easily as he disappeared.
As the plane taxied the runway at Charles de Gauille in Paris, Roland looked out toward the city's low skyline. As his new reflection gazed back at him through the cabin window, a smile crept over the man's face. It hadn't taken him long to decide to take advantage of his new look. Paris waited for him patiently as a man no doubt polished newly pilfered jewels at his large mahogany desk out there. A man who needed help. Roland was certain of it. The man in question always needed professional assistance.
The world's fifth largest and busiest airport seemed even larger now, though Roland had been in it several times. With a third face in place, there were no reasons to worry. The thought even crossed his mind to allow an eager pickpocket to have a touch. Not that it mattered. The stern eyes were still the originals and they remained focused sharply on an invisible point in the distance. To a casual observer, Roland might look lost in thought or simply mean He was, on both counts, though the intensity on his face heralded a reckoning.
It was as if that mahogany desk and the out of shape fixer behind it were magnets, seeking Roland and drawing him unavoidably. Simple professionalism was the only thing that sent him to a nearby hotel. As the usual business, he had about three false identitites to work with. This time, he would have to keep them close. His source for new identities would be dead tomorrow.
Roland stared into the mirror of his suite at the Hilton Tokyo Bay in Chiba. The woman responsible for the image that stared back at him was truly a genius by all measures. His hands felt the strong jawline and creased over the equally direct brow that now seemed as natural as the day he was born. Though, in hindsight, that was two faces ago.
Normally the clinic which housed the face shaper took cash or offshore account transfer only. The fee was usually exorbitant enough that one would never bother with that amount of paper cash. The weight alone would cause enough problems. Roland had used his Faberge egg as payment. At first, they were skeptical, but once it had been verified as legitimate, they pampered him, even having a healer fix his wounded arm from Rockefeller.
He stepped out onto the balcony of his suite, the nighttime lights of the Prefecture twinkling below. He had successfully left the States, destroyed Miss Quinn's building, injured Mr. King, and now had even changed his appearance. To your average professional, this would call for a good bit of celebration, some vacation time. Roland's idea of vacation meant training. Lots of it.
More babble from the two of them.King was jabbing on about the NYPD's hiring policies and being so very diplomatic. He was a negotiator through and through. Too bad it would do little good now. It was so odd that King would talk like it was just another day. He certainly needed to learn about loss. Something needed to humble him. Roland suspected that once this little charade was finished, all would be well.
Kealey's talking was buzzing in Roland's ears. The lass had become something beyond defiant. Petulant perhaps? She really was a foolish person. Something was surely amiss, however. This whole contraption idea had seemed stupendous and perfect. Now it seemed like too much time on the man's hands. Guns were becoming too much of a liability for Roland. Besides, he certainly didn't want to come up short handed in the future due to using a certain tool one too many times. New tools would have to be found in the near future.
”You didn’t think the police were going to show up too, or that they were going to show up so fast. That was your first mistake.” This was all pointless and had immediately lost its charm. It was time to pack up his toys and go home. Of course, the game would continue. Roland launched a particular program on the control box and then closed it. It hung from his wrist now as he stood in the room. He had something to say, but his eyes watched the window as he did so briefly. "No, Miss Quiin. The first mistake I made was allowing you to live. It was a rare moment and not likely to be repeated. I'll be going now. Say your goodbyes to each other."
In a quick motion, Roland opened the door and closed it behind him. He didn't bother with the locks, expecting gun blasts to ensue any moment. A tube of industrial epoxy appeared in his hand and he set to filling the space between the door and its housing to affix it there permanently. He then made his way down the hall quickly. He could hear the first shot ringing off behind him as he descended the stairs. The program would simply fire at various angles into Kealey's apartment every 15 seconds until the feeder box emptied. It was just something to keep them occupied as he made his way to his place of apparent death.
Like a ghost rising from the grave, Miss Quinn appeared from behind the cabinets. She didn't look too happy. It looked like the look she may have had if Roland hadn't put her eye out at the subway. She stood in a true commitment to defiance, as most of her countrymen did, breathing slowly as if she were waiting to be shot. The light remained on the back of her head for good measure, nonetheless. She made her way to the sofa and plopped down, a serious look of determination on her face.
" You wanted to talk…talk…but why all this? Why not just kill me and be done with it? This doesn’t seem your style…all this noise, all this mess. Isn’t slinking through the shadows like some Rogue MI6 agent more your thing? Isn’t this going to draw a lot of attention to yourself? You know the police and fire department are on the way.” Although her little tirade was off-off-Broadway material, parts of it seemed to ring true to Roland. Perhaps this was a bit over the top, even for him. It seemed odd for him to feel that way, considering the danger that Mr. King presented. Perhaps she didn't know? The only reason she would know would indicate that she was either a mutant or the two of them were much closer than this first impression had made.
Finally the man in question rose. He must have decided that hope was a fleeting thing. "I think I'd prefer to stand if its all the same to you. And have we met somewhere? I rarely forget a face." Kealey was correct in that the authorities were on their way. He would keep the meeting brief and to the point. " Excellent monologue there, Miss Quinn. You are correct that authorities will be here shortly. I suspect more after that. Anyway, I will keep our meeting brief. A few things I'd like to skim over quickly. Won't keep you, promise." He kept his eyes between Jacen's movements, Kealey's eyes, and the screen before him.
" I have little interest in you, Miss Quinn. Your status as a witness is minimal, considering your complete lack of a backbone. Though the little show you put on was nice. No, I am more interested in your friend here. Mr. King, does she know what you do exactly? It would have been a complete shock to me, except I have seen this phenomenon before in another individual. I suspect you must be human because I am quite sure that the NYPD does not enlist mutants. Not right out in the open anyway. Certainly not as their star quarterback. Making any sense yet?" he waved his finger slightly on the target, so that the light moved a bit on Kealey's head, if Mr. King needed further reason to remain calm. Roland chuckled slightly before turning cold and staring into King. " Three little facts for you, King. One, attempting anything foolish will result in your dear friend's death. Two, attacking me will speed the timetable up a good bit, more now that Miss Quinn has pointed out my flaws. Three, if you can't remember who I am, too bad." He smirked, while turning the laser off for a moment. The scope turned out to the street, where the first responders were already pulling up. Things needed to move on.
Since the alarms were wailing away in the stairwell, Roland took the liberty of pulling any manual fire alarms he could find. Might take them longer to decide it was a hoax or doubly longer to find what had truly happened. The arson investigators of course. The firemen would just have to do a good bit of praying were they to return to their stations tonight. Finding the floor that Miss Quinn lived on, Roland pushed the door open with his foot as he continued to monitor the kitchen.
His finger moved slowly and deliberately through the various frames he had access to. They were being quiet. There was no blood on the tile, so superficial glass wounds were about all he could hope for. They were undoubtedly planning their next move in the transparent safety of the cabinets. If Roland wasn't the type to manipulate and play with victims, he morethan likely would have taken her before Jacen's arrival and then taken him when he checked on her. That or pump the entire ammo box into the kitchen. It wasn't all that large of a space really.
Trusting in the suspension of the straps holding the control case, Roland let the large ring of keys appear in his hand, his fingers sifting through the many keys until he found the one that fit Kealey's lock. A simple slide of the cylinder and he was in. "Honey, I'm home." The damage to the room was quite exciting to Roland. The shells had easily sliced through whatever they were pointed at and then apparently several feet beyond that. Efficiency. He found a comfortable padded chair unscathed by debris to sit in.
" Do be a dear and show yourself, Miss Quinn. Mr. King, I would appreciate it if you would also come and join the party. Please move slowly and carefully, as the sniper across the street has terribly jumpy nerves. Strange , isn't it? I thought those types were cool and level headed. Anyway, do come out and have a seat on the sofa here. I'd like to have a chat."
Roland watched the two cuddle in fright. It was endearing and a bit humorous. Interactive drama at its finest. The old wooden elevator creaked its way down to the ground floor, the case opened before him as he moved the scope around. A glimpse of a cell phone appeared on the counter. Roland assumed from the garble in his earbud that this was a non working unit. All the same, no reason to make them believe that he was done with them. A bullet cleanly picked the phone off, sending it into pieces against the refrigerator that the projectile punctured.
Stepping out into the street, he saw more than a few bystanders. Bycrouchers would be a better term for them, as the rifle surely had no sound suppressor attached. With the close quarters of the buildings, the resulting echo report reeled off the buildings, making the weapon sound much larger than it really was. Crossing into the lobby of the apartment building, a man with a large ring of keys and a swarthy demeanor seemed to be quite angry with someone on the phone. Darn, it seemed not only would the fire department be coming, but the police too?
The timetable just had to be turned up a bit. Roland glanced at the man and the key ring was in the thief's coat pocket. He took the stairs down into the basement checking around corners for anyone. Seemed the fire alarm emptied the laundry facilities out, half emptied dryers open, their contents all over the place. Roland made his way through that room and with a quick change of keys, found himself at the furnace. He fingered the DO NOT REMOVE tags from the utility company on the gas line, chuckling to himself. The case found its way to a small junction box.
Roland carefully used his ability to move the gun control device out of the otherwise false bottom of the bulky case. The true package was easily enough C4 to level at least this building, if not the ones nearby. He had decided on such a big bang because of Mr. King and whatever his strange ability was. Roland intended on studying him for a few moments, prior to the fireworks. Several events were scheduled on the device, which magnetically adhered to the gas line. A few shots fired out if any movement appeared on camera.
Once the device was secured and online, Roland stepped back through the door, breaking the key off in the lock. He then made his way back into the lobby after also ruining the lock into the laundry room. He knew the number of the apartment, so he began making his way up the stairs to it. Judging from general response time, he had a few moments to talk to the man. Oh yeah, and the Irish lass. But why bother? She was dead as everyone else in the building.
They were rollin, rollin. Not on the river, but on the kitchen floor it appeared. Roland moved the gun every direction he could but couldn't seem to get a fix on their location. No bother, he thought to himself as he zoomed in on the cabinets in the kitchen. If they chose to stay on the floor, he would give them something to play with while they were down there. There was no doubt glassware galore, itching to come out of the dark recesses of the cabinet and join the fun.
The windows of the factory hadn't been opened in years, more than likely. Firing through them could give Roland's location away. Hopefully, the shards about to rain down on Quinn and King's heads would keep them occupied enough. Three shots came from the muzzle of the retrofitted sniper, then 4 more in succession. The first three easily blew through the cheap cabinets, ensuring their contents rained down on the two in the kitchen, keeping them in a spot. The first shot also blew the glass out of the far window.
The four remaining shots took each window in succession out down the line. They were also targeted at several items on the way. Smoke alarm, television, answering machine and then one back at the kitchen. Probably wouldn't hit anything, but it might keep them in their little spot. Roland was already attaching a lap desk with straps over his shoulders and preparing the case for moving. He expected to meet the two before long.
It was all so touching. Could they know that they were saying their final goodbyes to each other? Roland calibrated the mouse pad with the rifle's movements as he observed the pair. There was definitely more involved here than casual friendship. An old flame? A scorned lover renewed? It was enough to make Roland misty. A repetitive jerking sound, of hydraulics, came noisily from one end of the conveyor. The gun had turned in a specific direction that had caused one of the pneumatic pistons to fail. Roland set himself to task as he listened on.
The Sanctuary, was it? That had been where Miss Quinn had gotten off to. Roland had returned to snuff her light out but she was gone. Who was this Garrett? He had only ever seen Miss Duskmoor. That was more than enough for him.Elle. Venus. Big,red, and a tail. These were definitely characters he hadn't laid eyes on. He would have to make a serious effort to visit the Sanctuary again properly, get in deeper. There were obviously many things inside that might serve his purposes.
With the gun and chassis back on track, Roland returned to the table and had a seat. The two were becoming more intimate, it seemed. He was probably doing the world a favor, saving it from the dreadfully boring offspring these two no-names would spawn. As lovely and precious as the scene was, it was time for the curtain call. With a flip of a switch, the HUD on the A/V interface went red as the gun was live and off safety. The laser light hummed to life, the beam piercing the space between it and Kealey's head. He suspected Jacen would see the light there. If Miss Kealey turned, the spot would remain shining brightly on her forehead or wherever applicable.
Roland switched the audio to his laptop speakers, so the friends' voices could reverberate through the large open spaces of the factory loft. His vision panned around to the three other large cases in the room. He walked across the room, listening idly to the chatter as if it were an old radio soap opera from the fifties. His gloved hands switched the large box that turned on the three large fluorescent tubes. They hummed,crackled, and popped to life, bathing the room in a sterile grayish tone.
The remote appeared, the track switching on the glorious CCR. Now came the heavy, drugged chords of I Put A Spell On You as Roland had the three cases before him. His hands flourished as the cases opened and their contents began to find themselves in place along the east wall of the factory. Large stands found their place first, large bolts lying in wait against the cool concrete. A large pneumatic bolt gun appeared in his hand as he secured the stands to the floor. Next came a series of links and tracks. Roland set to assembling them as he had done time and time before earlier in the day. With practice, this setup became fluid and effortless.
The sniper rifle's clips disappeared as a large box feeder appeared on its side. Roland was overseeing the construction of the delicate machinery that would move the chassis along the conveyor. Outside of Fogerty's amazing voice, there was only the orderly clicking and snapping of practiced pieces, finding their marks for the production about to begin.Rifle joined chassis and chassis joined conveyor. Roland was configuring the data on his laptop, feeding the audio from the bugs into a a larger audio/visual device inside a larger briefcase.
Opening the new case, Roland configured for the range and general lighting effects for auto-shading. The damsel in distress and her knight in shining Kevlar came into high definition on the screen. Roland grinned widely, turning the volume up on the song a bit. He was perhaps fifteen feet away from the conveyor track and the gun. With a few slight movements of a touch sensitive mouse pad, the rifle moved the distance of the wall, the image of the apartment crystal clear as the gun moved from window to window. The laser attachment turned on and off briefly, test flashed on the outer wall, so as not to interrupt the subjects. He took a seat and adjusted his new toy.
The initial parlor trick had its desired effect, though it quickly appeared that only the sudden appearance and disappearance had done the startling."And why in the world would you being a mutant offend me?" Roland shrugged slightly, the case returning to his person." Some people are more skittish than others. I should have guessed that someone in politics wouldn't scare easily." He stifled a small chuckle at himself.
His confession of sorts, as vague as it had been, seemed to have more of an effect than the parlor trick could have. This time, Carlson remained facing forward toward her drink. Now, at this moment in time, all was well. Money could flow and children could smile. but then the words slipped from her lips. "Plausible deniability." It really wasn't her fault as it was a common tactic and catchphrase of many politicians. Only the fact the Roland had heard these words from Slate in a moment of vulnerability did he not take to them so well.
His crystalline eyes stared and burned a hole into her temple. Killing her on the spot was no real option, nor was hurting her. She had only made a mistake. She would not even know the mistake she had made. No, it was best for Roland to just let it slide. For now. " I suppose this meeting never took place either then. I will have the money wired to your cause." He turned on his seat, a neat stack of quarters next to the finished cup of coffee.
Every time Kealey's head bobbed in the sleepy haze she was in, a red light waited on the couch behind her head. It would jump back on once she straightened herself. Roland didn't worry much over the layout of the place, as he had already been there before. He had taken careful care to remove all of the blinds, leaving only curtains to block the view of his target. Now he watched the sleepy princess, the red light of finality floating over her skull.
It was almost time for her to sleep eternally. Roland even had half the heart to squeeze the trigger as she dozed off. She was an ignorant witness, nothing more. No reason to end her life painfully. His indecision opened the door for a different opportunity. One that was much more savory in its appearance and delight. He noticed the shadow of feet at the door. No doubt her cavalry, arriving at the summons via answering machine. Roland slipped his earbud in and turned it on, receiving the signal from the triangulated bugs in her apartment.
Jacen King again. Now he could do some more experimenting with his hypothesis concerning the tactical officer. His phone appeared nearby, should he require a lab assitant. For now, all was well. The two of them seemed to have some sort of history. The way they imteracted with each other was all too familiar. An extra budding romance to sweeten the deal? Down on the corner, out in the street, where the poor boys are playin, grab a nickel and tap your feet! Roland's foot tapped along with the music, his scope following the paranoid pair as they had their final words with each other.
Work space was cheap. Perhaps it was the times but more than likely it was the general lack of use for an abandoned sweatshop. The sweaty man Roland had dealt with seemed relieved to have someone in it. He had lamented on how many potential tenants had quickly snapped their wallets shut when the history of the space was revealed. Roland had no interest in that sort of thing. It was a large, open space. It had five large windows pointing to the east. It was worth any price. He made sure to sweat the man a little to take the smallest amount of rent. Pocket change.
Now night had come and several cases were arranged on two tables. Roland stood in the room, enjoying the ambient light from the windows and from the HD screen of his laptop. Police records were hard to get into without greasing wheels in person. That meant a face to remember. Rockefeller had been more than enough face time for Roland's liking. He had seen another face though. A face which had something similar to Tyranny. A mercenary with such a trait was one thing, a cop with it was quite another. Media searches of social engagements sponsored by the NYPD was almost as good as a ruffle through file cabinets. Jacen King.
It was something to chew over for a bit. Tonight was a more intimate meeting. One of the cases opened as parts of the sniper rifle began to leave the foam they were impressed in, reappearing in a sequential fashion. The gun assembled itself from the stock to the barrel in Roland's hand. He had felt that he was too lax on the interfering Irish lass. Now that his true quarry had been taken care of, he could return for this tasty little morsel. Personal hits were always so satisfying, even more so than a large bundle of money. The stand appeared on the windowsill as the gun rested in it. As Roland sat, a stool appeared beneath him. A small remote came from his pocket and he started the CD in the small player behind him. Creedence Clearwater Revival began belting out about a bad moon rising. It certainly was for Kealey Quinn, whose antics in her apartment were amusing enough to keep Roland from immediately squeezing the trigger.
Her smile and apparent natural charm glowed as she saw a potential ally before her. Roland watched her eyes move with the appearance of the pen. While it didn't throw her off of her game, it certainly seemed to continue to pull her attention and eyes. While unfortunate that she couldn't help him in his search for real estate, it was more of a query into insider information for the area. Roland was more than capable of finding and paying for a new place to sleep.
Now it appeared as if Miss Carlson had a few questions of her own? Roland remained quiet and did his best to answer as honestly as he allowed himself to."That pen," she started. "I don't even bother carrying fountain pens in my briefcase because they can be bulky and a pain. Please tell me you don't just carry it around in your pocket." Roland smiled. It was almost genuine. He saw no reason to hide his gift. It was already becoming apparent to his foes, so perhaps being as open to his possible allies was a good strategy, as well. " Oh, of course. I do have a case for it." The case appeared neatly before him, the pen leaving their sight. He then turned the case toward her and opened it, the pen inside." I am a mutant. I can move things around. I suppose it has become so natural to me that even slight nuances such as these are commonplace to me. I hope it doesn't offend you."
"And why Queens, Mr. Turpit? Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that you are wanting to help out in Queens, I'm just curious as to why you are choosing Queens over anywhere else. I mean, there's even problems right here in around downtown that could use help from someone like you." Next came a rare moment for Roland. Perhaps all of this, the talk, the lies, the truth, it was all for this very reason." Believe me, there is plenty of money moving around Manhattan. Manhattan will be fine." He paused for a moment, his fingers drumming against the counter. No reason to go halfway with a thing." The truth is, I am sure Queens needs help as much as anywhere else. I see this as an opportunity to do a small thing for a good cause. I am a bad man. There's no reason to go into particulars, but let's say that doing this sort of thing is like a penance for me. Won't make much difference in the end, but if I can help mend a fraction of the lives I've destroyed, so be it." Cat was as out of the bag as it was going to be. Nothing to do now but see if she stormed out.He really wouldn't blame her if she did.
Carlson's eyes and body language said that she was not only listening but was open to the idea. She was turning to face Roland as he had done toward her. Friendly wasn't so difficult. It was slightly preferred to intimidation. Slightly. "I'm not sure if you've actually seen the building or not yet, but it is in rather rough shape, and the groups there don't have the money to find a new, better equipped building, either." Smiling, he offered some hope to the woman." Nothing that some elbow grease and hard work can't solve. Cash never hurt anyone either, so I am told." The charm tap was turned another notch.
She was already thanking him. Roland surmised that she wasn't a mutant, since she seemed to be free of the usual anxieties and paranoia that the majority of them seemed to carry. Considering the lack of onlookers, he saw no need to hide his own gift. The segue into quasi-legal arrangements required a modicum of trust. As she seemed to be looking for something, Roland guessed it was a pen, as she gave him a business card. He allowed his own fountain pen to appear in his hand, which he placed on the counter near her. She had found her own pen, but this way, there was no mistake should something find its way into his hand later. Her own card went into his pocket manually.
Studying her features without beinbg too obvious, he nodded at the appropriate points. " I don't see why I couldn't help with these projects. I have plenty of money and time. Do you suppose I might be able to lease some office space in one of these buildings? Or somewhere else, if you believe a conflict of interest would develop? I travel often, so having somewhere to sit and study the areas locally would undoubtedly aid me. If not, I certainly understand." Just like the mutation, best to get everything right out in the open. The things he intended to expose, anyway.
