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.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 17:24:21 GMT -6
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"Alex?" Jiri glanced back to the teen on the bed. So that was his name. He closed his eyes, picturing the scene Ace was painting. "It sounds like a nice place. Nice that you have a way to go back, even if everything is screwed up now."
The hawk hadn't explicitly stated it, but his voice, his words--there was no reason to yearn for the past unless something had broken, something had stopped them from going back. Jiri could relate. But then, of course he could. This--this whole thing--this was his brain trying to sort through what had been happening to him. That's what dreams were, weren't they?
He leaned more heavily against the door frame. "It's because he's a mutant that you can't go back, right?" Of course it was. He was just talking to a projection of his own psyche, here. He had to be.
If he wasn't, if what he'd seen tonight, what he'd done tonight was real--
It was a dream, just a dream. Stars like that didn't really exist. They were just memory stars, an image of something bright that had never really been there.
His lips quirked as the hawk continued. "A lady like that?" He said. "They're the most dangerous kind to not call a lady."
He grew still as Ace talked about their predicament--minds, but no bodies. No where to go. It sounded familiar, though twisted, almost reversed.
Was this it? Was this were his brain opened up, and all the secrets of his power got shaken lose from his subconscious?
"What do you do when there are bodies?" He barely dared to glance at the man. He barely breathed, afraid he'd wake up before his sleeping mind had a chance to answer him. "How do you move into them? How do you control that? How do you stop it?"
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 16:44:36 GMT -6
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"Ace, huh?" Jiri tried the name out on his tongue. It was crisp and sharp; it fit the fleeting dream-in-dream he'd seen earlier, of the boy and the hawk and the sunny field. "I'll admit, that's a little more dignified than Feathers." His grin was cheeky, but a friendly kind of cheeky.
"Is this your place, then?" He asked, looking at the interior again. It was... sparse. "I wouldn't have pegged you for it. You seem more like a guy who belongs out there." He tilted his chin briefly, back outside, back to the starlight sky.
His eyes flicked to the sleeping cat, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Is her place full of dead things? Or things that squeal when you hunt them?" He got the impression, somehow, that she liked a bit of reaction in her prey.
He couldn't help but grin at the hawk's sigh. "Careful. One day you might wake up and realize you enjoy the fights and the chases, too. She seems like quite the lady."
He tried to find constellations he recognized, but the stars wouldn't sit still as his eyes roved over them, like trying to read in a dream. "So why can't you guys leave?" He asked.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 16:28:25 GMT -6
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There were cookies. He had one in his hand and halfway to his mouth before she'd even finished properly offering.
"Yesssh," he gave a green-eyed blink, cookie in mouth.
It tasted a little like mortification.
The Camps. She'd been there. And there he'd been, not ten minutes ago, casually dropping the Registration Act's name like... like it was something normal kids studied in school, and texted under the table to friends during the lectures, and took quizzes on. He felt like he'd worn an Obama mask to an NAACP meeting, or walked past a Holocaust survivor wearing a temporary tattoo of a swastika.
He hadn't seen her react at all when he'd mentioned it. And the way she was talking about it now, all mixed up with the story of her first learning her power... She sounded calm, she sounded like she'd dealt with whatever baggage it had long ago, she sounded like it had been a real place and she'd really been there. It hadn't sounded like that in school.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly a little dry. "Could I have some water?"
She must think he was so stupid, so ungrateful, so privileged to be finding out he was a mutant now. Going to a school full of kids like himself, a school that had scrounged him up nearly a full ride scholarship at the drop of a hat. She'd had to deal with things when it was illegal to be what she was, when people were being herded up and penned together. They were still working on identifying all the bodies in the Camp graveyard, his teacher had said.
She said he'd find a new normal. So maybe this was normal--this feeling of nothing being normal at all, of falling with no sign of the ground. Maybe he should try to act like he was a little more open to this place, before she truly hated him.
"Hey," he said, eyes on the new cookie he'd just grabbed. "Do you have a soccer team here?"
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 15:55:24 GMT -6
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Jiri accepted the change in surroundings, as dreamers do. It was darker now, the room they were in smaller, but the same boarded up windows around them. Outside, crickets had replaced the cicadas. They sung through the open doorway.
The teen was lying on the bed. Not torn-shirt and bleedy like the last segment of the dream, but whole. Just sleeping, or seeming too. The hawk sat by him, still looking like an avenging angel. The lioness was what she was: he had met her in the dark and he had seen her in the light, and as she slept with dreams swirling through her fur, she was unmistakable for anything other than herself.
Jiri walked to the door, and leaned against the frame, staring out into the night. A cool breeze blew through his hair. There were stars out there, more stars than you ever saw in a city.
He turned his head just enough to look at the hawk, as well as the stars. "I'm the dreamer," he said. "Who are you?"
"You keep telling her to leave. Where would she go?"
The hawk's anger wasn't lost on him. But it was really a beautiful, peaceful night. He liked this part of the dream. It was hardly worth getting flustered over a bird.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 14:50:35 GMT -6
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Bullet holes and bodies. The scene, the impressions, came and went like a breeze from the windows.
And then the bickering continued.
"Are you speaking to me?" The tea intruder said, with a belated blink directed at the hawk. "I will dream wherever I want to, thank you. And besides, if he is real and he is dying, isn't keeping his mind active a good idea? The next best thing to keeping him awake, I'd think. For all your shouting, you really dropped the ball on that one, Feathers."
Siiiiiip. Dream tea was delicious. Somehow more so, with a lioness still draped over his shoulders. Her fur was chai mixed with milk and honey. The shades on it were fascinating, and he idly ran the fingers of one hand up and down, up and down, stroking her arm.
The boy was shrinking. Not in the physical sense, though there was that, too; in his presence, in his voice, in his being. He grew younger and younger as the hawk crooned to him, made promises that he could not keep. Another breeze of dream or memory or both drifted in through the cracks in the house, and out again. A warm sunlight-yellow breeze, the sensation of claws on skin, but not like Mary's, not like hers at all. There was something light free unburdened in it, nothing heavy enough to hold it, and it drifted out another crack and was gone.
Jiri set his tea down. He didn't like this dream anymore. He craned his head up to look into the cat's eyes. They were gold, wild, a tangled forest and a bloody night in their depths.
"I'm going to go check on things," he said, because it was his dream, and he could.
---
And he did.
"--the bleeding. Get another bag hooked up--"
It was white and very bright and sort of shaking side-to-side. Awfully cramped, beeping lights, the smell the taste of copper in the back of his mouth.
Jiri was dreaming he was one of two paramedics, in the back of a moving ambulance. The siren was loud, disorienting, he didn't realize that the woman in this dream was speaking to him at first.
"Another bag, John!"
"Oh, right. Sorry." He had already been reaching for the plastic bag, its insides full of thick red liquid. Blood. He watched as his hand picked it up, changed out an empty bag for this new one.
In the dream he felt a sudden hesitance, a sudden uncertainty, like something was wrong with him and he didn't remember what. Why did I hesitate like that? A voice in his head thought, and it wasn't Jiri.
The scrawny teen lay on a stretcher between the two paramedics, his shirt cut open, red bandages pressed to his side. One of his arms hung over the edge of the table, jostling with every bump in the round. The ambulance was slowing down now, turning, stopping. The doors opened. It was night outside, but this was a building that was open all hours.
---
Jiri was back. He didn't know how it would appear to his dream creatures: whether they would see a flicker of movement, and then he would return; whether significant time had elapsed for them; whether, as products of his mind, they wouldn't have noticed anything at all.
He came over near the boy, and leaned down, his hands on his knees. "Hey. You're at the hospital now. Remember: you won't die. It's my dream, and I don't want you to."
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 11:59:20 GMT -6
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Create: Mental List, new
Title: Hands not to shake
Add Item: Jude
Subconcern: Ghost Djinn child?
Noted.
He made a noncommittal noise as this mental filing was in progress. Between staring too long at the people they passed while really trying not to, and gawking at the casual richness of his new school while trying to seem blasé, too much mental RAM was in use for him to manage much else. His family wasn't poor, but they definitely weren't... this.
Some of the teachers were human. Okay. That was... that was actually really okay. Classes sounded a little less terrifying, now.
He didn't take her up on her offer for questions. Not immediately. But he made a new mental list: Things he really, really wanted to ask, but they were probably stupid or racist or both.
He wanted to know whether he was supposed to feel like this was normal. Was he just supposed to get his blood work back, go "Oh hey, confirmed mutant, well I guess that's that"? Would he wake up tomorrow and look at a purple guy and just say "good morning" like it was nothing? Or did it take longer--three days, four, a week, a lifetime?
He wanted to know whether he was supposed to feel safe here, with all the things that had happened on the news while he was growing up. Like the casual mass murders: they'd had a retired cop come in and speak in the auditorium, about men who could grow twenty feet tall and smash buildings, about girls barely older than him who stabbed people with their own bones, about another who carved people up for furniture. He'd heard some people complaining afterward that it had been too graphic for kids, but he'd sat there and he'd listened and he'd absorbed the point the officer kept repeating, again and again: if he saw a mutant cutting lose, the only smart thing was to run. No normal human could deal with that.
He wanted to know he wasn't going to hurt anyone.
He wanted to know how to make this all go away, how to wake up, because while he was 96% sure he was awake right now, he remember back to when he took 100% certainty fore granted.
He shook the key out of his packet and managed not to drop any of the papers out while he did. The room was bright and cheerful. Big window, wood trim everywhere, the same expensive carpet as the hallway. There were two twin beds against the wall, both of them bare, one of them with a set of new white sheets and a pillow waiting on the foot. He'd stayed in college dorms before, during summer soccer camps. It was like that, but nicer.
He wanted to know if he was going to get a roommate and who or what they'd be and how to request that he stay alone in here, but that would probably not put him in the Ghost's good books.
He set his backpack down on a bed, and parked his wheelie suitcase neatly next to it.
"Yeah. It looks good." He wanted nothing more than to curl up on the bed and take a nap. But that wasn't really the sociable thing to do. And then she'd leave him alone, and he'd have to find his way around later, alone. "The tour, I guess?"
He found a reasonably safe question.
"How can you tell what kind of powers you have? How did you figure out yours?"
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 11:20:04 GMT -6
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It felt like a scene from a folktale. The sort where coyote man man from clay, and anything could happen, with no happy ending guaranteed. There was a darkness to the room, despite the sun filtering in through the boarded up windows.
"So this is a memory, for you?" Jiri asked, green eyes bright and curious over his cup of tea. Did people in dreams have memories of their own, then? And why not--everything he'd seen made it clear the boy thought he was real. Of course he would have memories. What happened to all that when Jiri himself woke? "What happened to you here?"
Familiar fur slid over his cheeks, brushing the sides of his neck, draping over his chest. He knew her without turning his head, though he did; the feel of her was the same as in the dark part of this dream. Sometimes in a dream, he just knew a thing without knowing why. It wasn't tied to shape or sight. This woman stood upright, but there was no hiding that she stalked ridges far from where men lived, and killed what she found there.
He brushed a hand against her arm. Soft fur, in shades of cream.
"And where do these back doors lead?" He asked, tilting his head back against her chest so he could look up into her face. Her teeth didn't bother him. With the quite certainty of a dreamer, he knew that if she wanted to eat him, it was simply something that would happen. And then he would dream something else.
The next voice was all prickles and high-strung exclamations. Jiri craned his head a little around Mary's arm, until he could match the personality with a face. The sight of the hawk man was like a picture of a seraphim, in the days they were drawn in all their winged glory. It was a sight to give even an ancient Persian poet pause.
Jiri summed up his esteem eloquently. "Hello, Feathers. I like your wings. Tea? Perhaps you can all tell me why you think he's dying, and what you think will happen when he does? You think you are part of him--what do you think will happen to you?"
His dreams dreamed they were another man's dream. It was really quite fascinating.
Not quite fascinating enough to distract him from the claws that pressed through his shirt, though. She was already in his head; he didn't see how he could meet her demands further.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2015 0:13:29 GMT -6
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Why must he intrude? Jiri responded as any god might: Because I can, Feathers. Because. I. Can.
Feathers was all angry hedgehog prickles. He could hear others, all around, some laughing, some not, like a circus tent just before the lights raised and the show began. All was dark inside, and growing dark outside. Jiri stopped paying attention to what the teen saw: it seemed depressing, and the dream had moved on to more interesting things, anyway.
Like the sort-of-almost presence that brushed past him, curled around him, rubbed smooth soft fur against his arms even though she didn't have fur and he didn't have arms. He felt her wrap around him, like dark wrapped a forest at dusk.
Claws brushed against the heart of him, claws he knew were as real as he was even if that was a loaded phrase, in this place where each of them touched with no body, spoke with no voice. It sent shivers up his spine, to that reptilian part of the brain that evolved when men were still prey.
Ooo, Jiri cooed, I like you. Mary Mary quite contrary. You are a goddess, aren't you?
He wrapped an arm over her neck and sunk his face into her fur, or the equivalent thereof in this place.
Poor trapped goddess, why don't you free yourself? This boy isn't half as strong as you.
They all listened as the teen gibbered his way down into the darkness.
---
Jiri was waiting, in the house with the wood floor and the dust in the air, in the place with too many locks. He was himself again, and no one else--a scrawny teenager, mostly middle eastern in appearance, but with his mother's green eyes. His clothes were simple, white, not something he'd really wear. But they seemed to fit the austerity of the setting.
He sat at a table. He wanted tea: chai tea, proper chai tea, like he'd drunk with his father's family in Iran. A porcelain cup appeared in his hands, steaming, the spiced smell just as he remembered. Around the cup's edges, in blue paint, a hawk chased snakes chased rats chased bugs chased a mountain lion chased a hawk, round and round. He was a god. Making a little tea appear was nothing.
He blew over the top of his cup, and met the teen's eyes with simple curiosity. "What would happen if we opened those locks? Are they meant to keep things out, or in?"
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 19, 2015 23:09:12 GMT -6
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This was a spikey-in-the-brain dream. All prickle-like and shouting.
Me? Jiri replied, with a faint disbelief that his new host would be able to feel. I am your creator. Absolute certainty radiated from this statement. He was the one who had dreamed them into being, the one who would still be there in the morning, when his eyes opened and the light streamed in. As the thugs had so kindly addressed him, he was 'oh god.'
And you, Sir, Jiri didn't eye the speaker up. There was no sight inside the teen's head. But if there was a mental equivalent for giving a tasting lick, that's what Jiri did. You, I shall dub Feathers.
Outside the teen's head, the cops seemed perfectly content to keep their distance as they waited for the mutant handlers to arrive. The one pointing the gun kept up a steady stream of, "Just stay down, we'll sort things out at the station, do not use your powers or I am authorized to shoot in self-defense by Article 3 Section 5 of the Duskmoor Preventative Act--"
In his dream, the teen felt panicky sick faint confused.
Don't worry, Jiri crooned into his cranium, This would be a lame dream if the victim got shoot. Check it out, the bus is still here, right? The driver said he had cameras. They'll show what happened.
If you don't bleed out waiting for them to arrest you, he added it, with good cheer.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 19, 2015 22:50:37 GMT -6
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Could he touch others?
"Uh yes? I think?" Hand shaking commenced. And then ceased. He absently rubbed his palm against his slacks. "So, ah, some people aren't safe to touch? Not safe like shoving a fork into a light socket, or not safe like the last key turn in a nuclear firing sequence?"
He made a note to ask people around here if they were safe to touch when he first met them. If the Ghost Djinn was asking, then it must not be rude. Made sense. If it really wasn't safe, then asking must just be a normal thing in the mutant community. Hi, I'm Jiri. Safe to touch. You? Cool, let's shake or: Cool, let me get my oven mitt on first.
He appreciated her efforts to shoo the mutant kids away. He'd followed her halfway up the staircase, suitcase dragging in one hand, before it really sunk in: she wasn't shooing mutants. She was shooing his classmates.
Those peeking around the edge of the banisters were treated to the sight of him tripping over air.
"So there are other humans here?" Oh god that came out racist. "I mean, not that you're not, but normal humans." He was making it worse he knew it but the words keep tumbling out-- "I mean, not that there's anything wrong with mutants, we just studied the Registration Act in my Social Studies class and I really don't agree with any of that--"
Oh god, did she have access to his school records? Because the teacher had split the class in half, and he'd been on the side that had to debate in favor of the Registration Act, and it was the only project he'd gotten an A on all year. Quick change the subject--
"This is a really big school. So like, drug money funding?"
That was supposed to be a joke. The seizure at the corners of his mouth was supposed to be a disarming smile.
He accepted his packet like a prisoner accepting their number. Room please yes. Then at least he could curl up under a bed and die.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 19, 2015 22:19:28 GMT -6
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The police arrived, as police often do, in time to see the mutant killing a man.
The noise the angry man made was hard to describe. It was three parts blender meeting one part baby; it was wet and chunky, like if tapioca pudding could scream. Suffice it to say it ended about as well as one would expect, especially if one was a fan of Ridley Scott.
In fact, if Ridley Scott had directed Snakes on a Plane, he could have done no finer job of staging this scene.
"Gargle," was the Angry Man's last words, a final sputtering of his mortal coil.
And then there were white high beams and blue-red-blue-red pulses sweeping over them, highlighting the serpents that he'd given birth to as they first tasted air.
"Hands up and power off! Stay on the ground!" The first officer out of the car shouted, already taking cover behind the open door of his car. Inside, in the passenger seat, his partner was already radioing the situation in. Normal cops just weren't equipped to handle this level of crazy. They had an entire mutant crimes division for that; the MRC.
The second car pulled up a moment behind, tires squealing.
Crazy Eyes lay twitching on the asphalt in front of the cars, still curled up from the wasp onslaught. Nervous was long gone. Angry wasn't angry anymore.
Jiri was dreaming he was a mutant with cool special-effects-inducing powers.
'Walking corpse', huh? That was a good one, Jiri complimented. Took me awhile to get it, but I totally do now. Walking corpse--ha!
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 19, 2015 12:20:03 GMT -6
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"Uhhhhh--"
Class schedules? Room assignments?
The lady was shorter than him. Which made him feel tall, and awkward, and he tried to slump his shoulders so it didn't look like he was looking down on her. His hands were white were they gripped his backpack straps.
"Uhhhh--"
She looked like a perfectly nice lady. She was white, like really white, like whiter-than-his-mom-in-winter white. Even her hair, or at least the strands of it he could see, the ones that had escaped her bandanna.
The last of the dust typhoon swirled out the doors behind him. In the distance, he thought he heard a dog cough. His suitcase tipped over, belatedly.
"No they did not tell me anything." That may have come out a bit more rushed than intended.
Nice poltergeist. Good poltergeist. Or was she a djinn? Dad told stories, but Jiri had always thought he was getting his leg pulled. But it fit: the whole guardian in the doorway thing, the wind effects. And the not being visible thing, they did that. He wasn't sure about the house cleaning, but sure, why not, who was to stop her if she wanted to? He wracked his brain, trying to remember what you do to appease djinn. Saucer of milk? No, that was brownies--
"Umm," he articulated, as other questionably human teens peered around doorways to get a look at the new kid. "Just so we're clear, I'm like 90% certain that I'm not supposed to be here. Just so you don't get angry. When you figure that out. They said I had to come here or the police would get involved and I'm pretty sure juvie would eat me alive."
He was tall, but he was a beanpole. A beanpole in a pink shirt, who got a B average in classes. Yeah. Juvie wasn't an option.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 18, 2015 23:50:07 GMT -6
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They'd said 'boarding school.' They hadn't said 'giant freaking Manson with a purple guy on the lawn.' The purple guy seemed to be sunbathing. He had less clothing on than Jiri was strictly comfortable seeing at a school. Lots of purple, broken only by khaki shorts. Even fresh from the psych ward, Jiri couldn't help but find this a little crazy.
“Mom,” Jiri did not point. There really wasn't a need. “Purple.”
His mother pushed a frizzy red lock from her eyes, and leaned forward, like she was trying to touch her nose to the windshield. “That is… really purple,” she agreed, with distinct trepidation.
“Mom.” He put a little puppyish edge to his voice, a little unspoken plea.
She put the car in park. As she did, a dog ran up to the purple guy and dropped a tennis ball on his chest. Purple guy tossed it away half-heartedly, and the dog started chewing him out. In a cultured British accent.
“Is it really so hard for your insipid mind to grasp the concept of fetch? Must we have this discussion every time, plebeian? One simply must throw the ball--”
Jiri put a hand on the window button, and held it until it rolled all the way up. Without the sound, it was easier to picture that the dog was just barking. “Moooom.”
His mother drummed her hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath. “Okay. Right. Let's get your bags.”
She opened her car door, and he followed. He tried to keep it down, what with the dog. They had good hearing, right? Or was that racist?
“Mom I am not like these thin—these guys, seriously, I was looking online and there's this new sleep medication they're trialing, maybe I can get signed up for the study--”
“Jiri. You're possessing people.” She popped the trunk, and started wrestling his luggage out.
“Pretty sure I'm not.”
“Your sister said you did it to her.” She got the wheelie suitcase set up on the ground, extended its metal handle, and wrapped his fingers around it.
“If I could possess people, I would not be possessing a five year old.” Jiri found this to be a convincing argument. He didn't know why no one else did.
“Uh-huh. Turn around.”
He did, and she slipped a backpack over his shoulders. Purple guy and the dog were watching him, now, through the fence that surrounded the place. He suddenly felt very conspicuous, in his pink shirt and slacks. And the rainbow suspenders. It was like the first day of school all over again, but worse. So much worse.
He was going to die here. Of embarrassment, at the very least.
“I can put on my own backpack mom--”
She patted him on the back, and closed the trunk. They walked up to the gates together. Got buzzed in. The right wheel on his suitcase was squeaking. He'd never noticed it in busy airports, but it seemed really loud when a purple guy and a dog are watching you walk past, and the path up the school's lawn seemed really unnecessarily long.
They both stopped in front of the main doors. They were impressive. Big old wooden double doors. With knockers. Yep.
His mom opened them, and he trailed after like a shy puppy.
Hell, hell, hell, hell, hell--
People were running and coughing. Not all of them had the right number of limbs, or in the right locations. Nor were they all colors and shapes he associated with humanity.
Hell, hell, hell, hell, hell--
A spectre appeared from the trailing grime cloud.
“Hi! Uhm. Welcome to Xavier's Sister School."
Jiri tried one last time, one more call to sanity, an appeal to her basic human decency. “Mooooom.”
She was a ginger. She had no pity. “I'll call you on the weekend.” She clapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a little half-shove towards the apparition. She even forced a smile for the thing. “No backsies.”
And then she was hightailing it out of there, like any sane human would, like he really should be doing, but he was transfixed to the spot.
The figure was covered in dust. Or maybe anthrax. Or a skin condition? If it was her mutation was it rude to ask about it?
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 18, 2015 22:53:14 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
290
35
Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
"Get off of you?" Jiri pressed closer, the knives locked between them, close enough the teen could feel his breath. "Now why would I do that, you little freak you?"
Jiri was dreaming he was a mutant-hating thug, but even in the dream, he just couldn't keep a straight face as those words came out of his mouth. He tried a few more, to test their taste.
"Freak. Mutie. Genetic blip. You've got more X-genes than your mom." Nope. Nope, there was no keeping a straight face for this. He sat up, straddling the kid's chest, grinning as wide as he had in crazy-eyes' body. As he did, he noticed a bit of wet seeping into his pants. He looked down, noticed the stab wound on the kid's side for the first time. "Fruit gusher," he added to the insult list, and started cackling.
The wasps were still in action. A lot of them were still giving Crazy Eyes' trouble: the man was curled up in a little ball on the asphalt, muttering something about never doing drugs no more no more. Nervous had taken a few stumbling steps back, and was batting at the ones attacking him, slapping them against his own flesh. They were coming after Jiri too, but it wasn't so bad in this body. The angry man's leather coat blocked most of their stings, and trying out insults was just so damn fun.
"Crap, we gotta go!" Nervous shouted. At the same time, the sirens increased their volume. He didn't waste any time in taking his own advice. Without another glance at his two friends, he bolted.
A cop car had just rounded the corner, followed closely by another.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 18, 2015 12:01:17 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
290
35
Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
He missed, but it was fun, like going bowling and getting a gutter ball.
Less fun when the angry blood hornets attacked.
Oww oww ****ing oww--
For once, Jiri very much agreed with the voice in his head. He dropped his knife, swiping at himself, trying to get them off off off this dream wasn't fun anymore--
And then he was watching, from a few feet to the left. He could feel the twisted snarl on his face.
"Oh, you are going to pay for that, you--"
The voice sounded strange from the inside, like how his own voice sounded different than his voice left on an answering machine. He felt like he had stepped into a red-painted room. Everything was angry, so angry, gonna tear that mutie a new one teach him a lesson show him his place--
The angry man's words cut off with a sort of sputter.
Oh god, he said, as he felt Jiri just as much as Jiri felt him.
Jiri did the mental equivalent of a friendly wave. The other guy called me that, too.
He could hear a siren, somewhere, a few blocks away maybe. He felt a surge of emotion: gotta finish this quick, gotta get out of here--
"Round two," Jiri said, from the angry man's mouth. "Wasps are cheating."
This body felt bigger, fitter. Minus the bleeding arm. This time, he tried more of a full-body tackle. It just happened to include a bonus knife, like a surprise party favor.
