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.
“I’ll e-nail you,” Jack agreed, tilting her head. The prawn already anticipated that she wouldn’t accept payment from the woman. She already sold figurines every now and again. If she gave Zinnia the statue, it’d almost be like giving a gift to a friend. Jack wordlessly accepted the phone when the young woman passed it back to her.
Zinnia replied to Jack’s inquiries, while the prawn pocketed her phone and the wood wolf sculpture. She had polished of the tea, and the cup now sat with tiny granules of remnants at the bottom.
“I can’t drive either,” Jack assured the woman. There prawn paused, then chuckled a bit. Another attempt at humor. It was funny because Jack didn’t comfortably fit in a vast majority of cars in the market. She might be able to drive an SUV, but really, who had the money to insure an SUV in New York, of all places? Not Jack, that was for damn sure.
>> “Hmm, my housemates need me to cook dinner. I had better go. Unless you want to come?”
Jack shook her head, closing her eyes. No, she had had her fill of socializing today. She wasn’t sure if she could handle meeting more new people, and in such a closed, formal environment. Not to mention eating in front of other people. Drinking, that was doable. But eating? It was downright messy.
“Dat’s okay,” Jack assured her newfound friend, “T’anks for oss-ering, doh.”
Jack picked-up her surgical mask, slinging one elastic band around her face-spikes on one side, and stretching it towards the other side, concealing her mouth once again. Zinnia requested Jack’s phone number in-turn
“Yeah, sure,” the prawn agreed. The prawn accepted the cell phone carefully, turning it around in her hand and typing her information in. For name, she entered her whole name, then in parenthesis, the word “gym”. Jack then entered her cell phone number, and clicked “Save”, before passing the phone back to Zinnia.
Contrary to her ownership of a smartphone, Jack was not technologically savvy. Of course, she had an email address, but she checked it maybe once a week. She didn’t IM. It was thus that she only included her cell phone number. She didn’t even check the contact information that Zinnia had input before sliding the phone back into her pocket.
“You done wiss dat?” Jack inquired, pointing to the glass. The prawn took the dirty dishes and delivered them to the bin where other dishes rested, then followed the young woman towards the exit. The two faced each other in front of the restaurant, a pause settling between the two.
The prawn held out an enclosed fist, and pointed her knuckles towards the young woman casually. Jack hung-out with too many guys. Whereas some people saw handshakes or hugs to be a suitable parting exchange, Jack had settled on a fistbump.
“Today was good,” the prawn remarked, “T’anks sore duh caw-see… and sayin’ sun-t’ing earlier.”
Way earlier. At the start of all this. If Zinnia had never said anything, none of this would’ve ever happened.
Jack lifted her gaze from the half-empty teacup to see what “this one” was. It was the wolf. The front end looked fine, but past the ribs it was mostly unfinished. No hind legs, no tail. Just a… clump.
“It’s not sin-ished yet,” Jack said lamely. Not, “No you may not have it” or “Yes, it’s been spoken for,” but, “It’s not finished yet”. Jack couldn’t fathom giving an unfinished piece to someone. Part of the prawn was tempted to pull her knife out and finish it right there, but a knife-wielding prawn would probably be a suspicious sight in the café.
“Not sore anyone yet, no,” she backtracked, “Just sore sun. I could sin-ish it and get it to you later? Just sore duh hell o’ it.”
The prawn couldn’t fathom why someone would want a half-finished sculpture. Jack unlocked her phone on tapped through various screens, until she pulled-up a blank prompt for saving a Contact. She showed the screen to Zinnia.
“Iss you want,” Jack stipulated “It would seel weird to gi’d an un-sin-ished car-zing to sun-one.”
>> “How long have you been whittling, to get this good? And how long did these take you to make?”
Whether or not Zinnia took the phone, Jack continued talking, “T’anks. I took wood-shot when I was sixteen, did a section on whittling. Been doing all sorts o’ woodwork since.”
Jack paused, calculating in her head how long it had been since then. She wasn’t the sort that was easily able to recall how old she was.
“Dat was around nine years ago,” she clarified, “I twenty-size years old. So I’s been doing dis sore nine years.”
The prawn seemed to be processing the question about “how long” the carvings took. She’d never actually timed herself… and it wasn’t like she sat by a clock when she was working.
“I don’t know… how long…” she held up the ball in the cube, “Dis one took a while. See how t’in duh…” Jack traced her finger along the vertical bars of the cube sides, struggling for a word, “…dese parts are? And den to do the s’ere inside it… very dissicult. Took a long tine. But duh owl is only a sew ninutes. Wol’s a little nor tine.”
Jack pocketed the owl and the enclosed sphere, leaving the wolf with Zinnia, for the time being. This conversation was lingering too much on the prawns’ interests for her own liking. But she also didn’t really know what to do when it came to small-talk.
“What’s… sun-ting you… always wanted to do?” through much internal struggling, that was the question that Jack settled on. It was lame, but it was something, "Sun-t'ing you're good at, sun-t'ing you're not good at... and sun-t'ing you drean of doing?"
Jack listened as Zinnia combed her way through the difficult topic, occasionally raising the hot tea to her lips to sip.
>> “…I guess some people benefit from having some fore-warning, but the people who would abandon their child based on an active X-gene probably not going to be great parents to them anyway No offence, of course.”
Jack exhaled sharply in an almost-laugh, “Dey disowned nee, I take no oss-ense.”
It was very poor parenting, to abandon ones child like that. Jack had no connection to them, no loyalty or love. Zinnia could past the cruelest of judgements on them, and Jack would probably snicker about it. The prawn’s head bobbed as the woman spoke. She hadn’t realized the possibility of learning control early-on because of preemptive scans for an X-gene. It was quite interesting. There was quite a bit that Jack didn’t know.
>> “What sort of woodworking do you do?”
Jack grasped for her phone, and typed a brief response, <<All kinds. Building, carving… no power tools, though.>>
She reached into her pocket, fingers pushing past the whittling knife to grab a few of her projects—one complete, two incomplete. Jack put her phone aside and lined her projects up on the table—a sphere in the frame of cube was the complete design. The sphere free-standing but not removable from the box. The second figure was an owl, who was mostly complete, except that his feet were un-sculpted blocks. The last was a wolf, whose front end seemed to be emerging from a block of wood.
“I use a nice* to cars** dese,” Jack explained, “Whittling, is what it’s called. Lots o’ detail work. Usually use ny secondary hands sore dat, doh. Hard to do detail work wit’ dese.” Jack held up her hands and scrunched her fingers lightly, and then set them down lightly upon her lap.
“I do duh little scul’tures in my s-ree tine… yet when I’s got duh none-y, I like to n-ake larger t’ings,” Jack was beginning to ramble, for talking about her hobby made her open-up a little more, “N-ade to order t’ings dat can dee ordered online. Not a relia-dull source o’ inc-un doh. N-ore sor duh enjoy-nent.”
Lavender eyes shifted to Zinnia, full of excitement, when the prawn realized she’d charged into a monologue about woodworking. A timid hand brushed over the crown of her head, smoothing her antennae back.
“I got a little carried away,” the prawn apologized. Jack reached for her teacup, her scant social inclinations already withering up within her. She sipped the lemon balm tea, as if it were her reason for falling quiet.
Character's Full Name: Byron Hughes Alias/ Nickname/ Code Name: Mr. Hughes Gender: Male Age: Mid-40’s. Nationality: British and American Ethnicity/Cultural Heritage: Afro-Caribbean
Appearance
Hair Color and Style: Black hair woven into micro-dreadlocks (each about as thick as a No. 2 pencil) which hang down to the bottom of his shoulder blades. Typically pulled back into either a full- or half-ponytail. Skin Tone: Medium brown Eye Color: Brown with flecks of amber Height: 6’2” Build: Fit, but with some pudge in his midsection Visible Mutation: None Scars/ Tattoos/ Piercings: Scar on his left hand from when his aunt’s spaniel bit him Other Features: Well-kempt moustache and beard combo. Mr. Hughes's face is here
Most Commonly-Seen Clothing: Slacks and coordinating suit coat, long-sleeve button-down shirts, and loafers. A casually-dressed Mr. Hughes is the stuff of legend, but it’s rumored that he’ll dress-down for certain service projects.
Character
Personality: Before Mr. Hughes became Headmaster at Xavier’s, he was a lawyer who specialized in Mutant Rights and Equality. He wanted to “help other mutants in-need” but, finding law to be a soul-sucking field, he changed to a career in education.
Most who know Mr. Hughes find it difficult to believe he was once a lawyer. Mr. Hughes is a shameless goofball with a great passion for banter. Much to the chagrin of his secretary, he’s constantly abandoning his “tedious paperwork” to mingle with students and staff. He’s got a fantastic charisma, and has been known to sneak out of his office for the sake of a good making conversation or playing a video game with students.
Cheerful and laidback, his good humor wriggles its way into even the direst of situations. While he can “get serious” if the situation calls for it, gets to that pesky paperwork eventually, and has a shrew mind, he prefers to keep things positive. The only time his stern side shows is when a student or staff member may be threatened, or when the law gets involved.
Hobbies/ Interests: Debate, law, classic video games, the motives of others Job description: Mansion Headmaster, head of Debate Team and the student Community Service organization (used as both an extra-curricular activity and detention)
Mutations
Mutation description: Mr. Hughes generates bubbles from his hands which, when popped, generate explosions of light and sound. The magnitude of the explosion, and the potential uses of said bubbles, varies on the size of the bubble. They are similar in appearance to normal bubbles, though less translucent and filled with anemones of golden light.
The largest of these bubbles are up to 14’ in diameter, and can be utilized as a forcefield (with Mr. Hughes’s feet as the center-point), and are shaped like a dome. Forming a forcefield requires the use of both hands. When a forcefield of this magnitude pops, it emits a sound comparable in intensity to an air raid siren (130 dB) and emit a light comparable to high-beam headlights.
By only utilizing one hand, Mr. Hughes’s can create shields, which can be as tall as he is in diameter. These dissipate without emitting light or sound.
If Mr. Hughes faces his two palms inwards (towards each other), he can create bubble balls, which can be thrown. They can be as small as a ball of yarn, or as large as a beach ball. These bubbles explode on-impact, and can emit a pop as loud as a lawnmower (90 dB) to as quiet as a someone popping an inflated sandwich bag. The light emitted is similar to a large or small personal firework.
And finally, if Mr. Hughes closes his hands and extends his index fingers, he can generate a series of small bubbles, no larger than 2” in diameter. These pop with the same intensity as popping bubble wrap, and generate light comparable to the light of sparklers.
Strengths: The resulting explosions that follow a popped bubble are only explosions of light and sound, which means no accidental office fires. These explosions are useful for stunning opponents, especially those with superhuman senses. (They can send one off-balance, impact their equilibrium, and cause them to be momentarily blind or see stars. Use your best judgement.)
If one is within range, he can enclose them in a forcefield. As long as you fit, he can shield you, but the barrier is impermeable. No attacks can go in or out. Bubble-balls cannot pop until they leave his hands, and can be aimed when thrown. The smallest of bubbles (those generated from his index fingers) are completely harmless, and a very popular gimmick amongst the younger students (and Mr. Hughes himself).
Weaknesses and Limitations: The bigger the bubble, the longer it takes to form. Index-finger bubbles can be created instantaneously and generated continuously. Bubble-balls take 1-3 seconds to form, and additional time to throw. Bubble-shields take 3-5 seconds to form, and the largest forcefield takes 8 seconds to form. While forming bubbles (especially two-handed ones), he cannot use his hands in combat, though he can kick or evade attacks.
His bubbles are solely defensive. A shield cannot be utilized as a blade, and if he starts to form a forcefield that you’re just out of range of, you’ll simply be pushed-out. Bubbles can remain intact as long as they’re in-contact with him, and as long as he maintains his focus (and consciousness). They seem virtually indestructible.
Lastly, Mr. Hughes cannot direct his explosions. Anyone in range will hear when a bubble bursts. It’s thus that he tries to avoid utilizing any of the bigger bubbles when students are in hearing range. He will also likely insist on the use of ear protection if someone is nearby while he utilizes his power.
Jack trailed behind the man in the eyepatch as he unloaded the alcohol onto the conveyer belt. She was paying more attention to how close Sam was to finishing, than the lady behind the register. Honestly, Jack preferred the self-check. Didn’t have to deal with the face-to-face sh_t. But her Sam were in the midst of their conversation. Once Sam finished unloading his cart, Jack set-out the little plastic divider, and began unloading her things.
She hardly noticed the woman’s look, until Sam called her out.
>> ”Yoo-hoo! I’m right in front of you. Being rude.”
Jack thought perhaps she had loaded the conveyer belt too quickly, and looked up, exhaling heavily. That’s an odd thing to grump about. She saw a flicker of the woman’s expression and, knowing it well, arched a brow. Jack looked up just before the third snap, and saw the lady regain her composure, flushed and apologetic.
“Hat’ens all duh tine,” Jack rumbled to the checker dismissively. She wasn’t the first to look at Jack like that, and it wouldn’t be the last. Just let me get my things and get out, goddamnit.
>> ”Well if you are looking for another job, let me know I know my guys in security could always use another hand…” He broke-off and commented on the price of his beer, before continuing, “Pay is great, hours are long but worth it. You like kids?”
Jack was rummaging into her pockets, fishing-out her wallet. Incredulous lavender eyes surveyed the man, “Are you serious? You’re oss-ering me a jaw’ at duh store? Really?”
She sounded a surprised, but also delighted. She had enough with Chrysalis, for the time being, but lately there had been word of reducing hours at Chrysalis. It could be refreshing, to work at a school, where a majority of the people Jack was supervising/protecting would presumably not be inebriated. Well, perhaps Sam would be, maybe some of the older students, but not a majority. And Jack only made just enough at Chrysalis. “Great” pay would be fantastic.
“Yeah, I'n cool wit’ kids,” Jack avowed, “O’ course I’d has to check-out dis school of yours, doh, be-sore I make any pron-isses. What’s it called again?”
As Jack wandered to the register, the lady hurriedly scanned all of her items and pushed them into a plastic bag, uttering little more than perfunctory, “Hello, did you find everything that you were looking for?”. She had spoken at such a rate that, for a human, the greeting might have been imperceptible.
“Yes, I did, t’anks,” Jack said coolly. She was hunched over, to a more human height, but little could be done to quell the woman’s nerves. The cashier totaled the price, and the prawn fished the money out of her wallet, setting it flat on the little platform between her and the store associate.
The cashier shakily made change, and set it on the table, which Jack carefully picked-up and filed into her wallet. She then retrieved her bag, uttered a half-hearted thanks, and rumbled--
>> “Yowch, that sounds awful. I guess it’s good you don’t remember it too much.”
“Yeah,” Jack intoned, clearing her throat. In all honesty, she remembered her conscious moments of the transformation in great detail. They were surreal, like a nightmare, but very tangible. She remembered finally waking up, the terror, the chill, tatters of clothes and who-knew-what-else and the ominous silhouette, who she would later realize was her father, who’d attacked her. The only thing she was unsure of, were the moments spent unconscious, and how long the whole ordeal had actually lasted.
But, once again, she was in polite company.
>> “There are a couple of pretty accurate ones, all post-birth, there hasn’t been any successful tests developed in utero… a blood test, a DNA swabbing and the least accurate is a non-invasive pee test.”
Neither of her parents had been on the up-and-up when it came to technological and medical advancements, Jack remembered that much. Her family was one of the last to buy a computer, there were never video games around the house (except in her eldest brother’s room, and only because he’d saved his own allowance for it). They had two t.v.’s, one of which was black-and-white and had a dial.
The prawn wondered if, had her parents the wherewithal to know about the tests, they could’ve tested her. And if this whole mess could have been prevented, somehow.
>> “Having a positive result doesn’t necessarily mean that the X-gene will manifest, or that the mutation will be noticeable, some people have it and only carry it, some like me might have it and never know about it. Mutations aren’t always dramatic unlike what the politicians like to imply.”
What would her life have been like, if they had known that Jack carried an X-gene? Jack hummed, watching as her tea once again took-on the rich color of a saturated drink. Careful hands lifted the cup, and she took another sip. The young woman had more questions, but most of them would wander into personal territory. Jack didn’t want to air her dirty laundry.
The prawn relished the sweet and subtle tang of the lemon balm, and set the cup down lightly.
“Dat’s really sun-ting,” the prawn mused, sighing, “It sounds like a con’licated t’ing on it’s own, doh—testing sore-” she held up four fingers, signifying that she meant “for” instead of “sore”, “-duh X-gene. Like sun-one could use it sore duh wrong reasons. You know? Surrender deir child to duh sys-tun ‘cause dey has duh gene.”
Jack was just spit-balling, though. She wasn’t any sort of academic. But if Zinnia covered that sort of thing in her studies, it was a good conversation point.
“Has you heard o’ anyt’ing like dat? In your studies?” Jack inquired.
Jack was lifting the cup of tea to her mouth when Zinnia replied to Jack’s attempt at humor.
>> “I’d totally go see any movie with you as the hero! Plus then you’d win at every cosplay contest ever.”
The prawn was grateful that she hadn’t been mid-sip when Zinnia very genuinely voiced her approval of casting Jack as a “hero”. She was really surprised, to say the least. People like Jack were never cast as the hero. They were always the yowling, blood-spattered monsters that lingered just at the fringes of the darkness, and very rarely tarried from that niche, unless it was a mutant-directed film. Jack glanced aside, taking a sip of her tea. It was nice of Zinnia, to think that she could be a hero—even if Jack had no idea of what “cosplay” was.
“Duh line-light is not really for me, doh,” she said, still sounding humored, “I try to stay outta it as much as I can.”
As if the freakish mutant needed more attention than she already received.
>> “My younger brother almost drowned in the pool of our building when I was young. I was the only one there to resuscitate and I did my best, but I was just a child, I didn’t know how to do it right. When the ambulance got there they drained the water from his lungs and there was so much, he shouldn’t have come out of it. They did a bunch of tests, to see how much damage might have been done to his brain from lack of oxygen, but they found he was fine, and had a higher than average oxygen. For a while they thought he was a mutant – but they did some tests on me too and found that it was me.”
Jack nursed her tea, taking small sips, throughout Zinnia’s recounting how they realized that she was mutant. She was a rapt audience, despite her constant sipping of the tea. The cup was growing low, so she set it down and refilled it with water from the small kettle.
“Dere are tests?” she echoed, allowing the tea to steep. Again, with how apparent her mutation was, there wasn’t a need to do any tests. She, likewise, didn’t ask very many people about how they realized their powers. Jack would be the last to know that there were ways of testing for the X-gene, while Zinnia, as a nursing student and mutant, might know a good deal more.
>> “How about you, did you change gradually or one day – boom, visible mutation?”
The prawn felt her throat clench involuntarily. The logic would follow that, after asking Zinnia how her mutation was realized, Zinnia would ask about Jack’s. Maxillipeds twitched, an expression of discomfort, but her eyes only looked distant.
“It was a gradual change,” Jack explained. She assured herself that this had nothing to do with her backstory, only the transformation itself, “Hurt like a mud-der. I was not conscious much of it. Still not sure how long it took. A long while, doh. Weeks, I t’ink. Dunno.”
Jack spared the gory details pertaining to the shift itself. She was in polite company, in a posh café. Nobody wanted to have their afternoon coffee or tea interrupted by harsh descriptions.
Sam’s sputtering remark earned a wholehearted laugh from Jack, a deep belly-roll of a laugh. It would f___ing figure that Sam had been ousted from her club. She wondered who had gotten the honor of throwing him out, though, since he didn’t seem to remember Jack. Then again, perhaps he was too far gone. Jack was still sniggering when Sam regained his composure and began to explain.
>> ”I might have stopped a fight… or started one... I still don’t think you should have to use authority to stop people from doing stupid things but, look at me.”
Jack smiled as the man took a jaunty swig of beer, and rolled her eyes. Perhaps she didn’t mean “authority”. Rather, she was contractually protected, at Chrysalis, to use whatever force necessary to subdue a rowdy individual. If someone swung a punch, she was permitted to punch back, if that was the only option to keep them from hurting themselves, others, or damaging property. Usually Jack just had to pick people up though. Something about being lifted like a ragdoll and held a few feet off the ground had quite the sobering effect on rabble-rousers.
That was the only place the prawn felt comfortable exerting herself like that, though. She carried herself lightly everywhere else. So perhaps it wasn’t “authority” that Jack craved, but security. The security of being able to move about freely. She didn’t want fights. She just wanted to not have to tread lightly wherever she went.
"True," was all the prawn admonished, leaving it at that.
>> ”Honestly everywhere has a lot of us, just we seem to be drawn to this city. It is supposed to be the greatest melting pot in the world and all that… Not an actual melting pot mind you.”
“Cheeky,” she groaned, rolling her eyes but still wearing a smile. This guy reminded her of Mouth, one of her cohorts at the club. He talked a lot, and seemed to not dial himself back just because Jack looked the way she did. Jack deigned to admit, but she was starting to warm-up to Sam. Somewhat. As much as anyone could warm-up to someone they just met.
As they wandered towards the front, Jack swung by the showering products, grabbing some generic body wash. She wove onto the next aisle, retrieved equally-generic deodorant, and then jogged to catch-up with Sam.
>> ”I work pretty much everywhere. One of my jobs is a teacher at the Xavier School for the Gifted. School for mutants and all that. Help them learn how to control and adapt and of course learn.”
“Nice,” Jack remarked, “Didn’t know dey had nyu-tant schools here, too. I went to one near San ‘rancisco. Sane kind o’ t’ing.”
Maybe it was a nice, normal school, unlike the one that Jack had attended in San Francisco. One without a merry band of vigilantes.
>> “Oh, what kind of security do you do?”
Jack chirred quietly, following Sam towards the front. “Bouncer” was a difficult word, for which there were no alternatives. She withdrew her phone from her pocket, opened the text-to-speech app, and typed the phrase, <<I’m a bouncer. Moreso the muscle than much else.>>
The synthetic, faintly British voice explained this from the speakers of Jack’s phone.
“Dey call nee when t’ings get outta hand,” Jack added-on, “Usually just end ut walking around and being… hm, seen. Sun-tines dere's a good... excite-nent doh.” Both "fight" and "brawl" were difficult words.
That really was all Jack did. Break-up fights, babysit drunken patrons, and be visible. Everything at Chrysalis was for appearances. Although their main selling point was "being a bar for mutants", they were still a business; and having an iridescent prawn meandering around in a debonair suit was all part of the image they were trying to convey.
Jack shrugged a shoulder, her eyes smiling. There wasn’t very much that they could do about it, now. The past was in the past. Jack had changed her name and hadn’t seen any of them since the trial for her to become an emancipated minor. She’d severed ties with them, reconciliation was not an option.
>> “Well, I think you look pretty awesome now. Just saying.”
Jack gave a modest laugh, bowing her head. It was a rare sentiment to hear, but it also wasn’t unheard of. Most people who dubbed her “awesome” were boys of various ages—young ones and people into their teens. Whereas most people who panicked upon seeing her, usually whining a stream of “ew, ew, ew, ew, ew! Get away, get away!” were typically females over the age of eleven. Zinnia was an exception. She was also going into nursing, however, so things that usually made people squeamish were probably an old hat to her.
“T’ank you,” Jack replied, still modest as she took another sip of tea, “On duh ‘right side of t’ings, iss I e’er go into acting, I’ll sa-“ Jack paused. That was a difficult word, “save”, “- cost duh cos-tuning dudes less tine and cash. Allegedly it takes a long tine to cos-tune duh sci-sci* creatures.”
That was Jack's attempt at humor, albeit a self-deprecating joke. She wasn't used to these casual conversations, so she was testing the waters on what was funny and what wasn't. It was funny to her, at the very least.
>> “My brothers are brats, but I think all little brothers are. They’re sweet sometimes too, and too clever for their own good. Neither of them are mutants as far as we know, but neither of them have been tested either.”
Jack nodded attentively, setting her cup down. She only had wisps of memories of what her brothers had been like. Sometimes she questioned if she truly remembered them, or if her actual memories had been reduced to stereotypes—the eldest, over-achieving sibling who didn’t get out much and wrote more than they socialized… the trouble-making jock of a middle child. And then Jack, who’d been Joanna at the time. The doted-on little sister. It was nice to hear someone else’s story. A family that had somehow managed to work-out.
>> “Ah, well my mutation means I can breathe non-oxygen. My respiratory system works a little differently, so usually I’m operating on carbon dioxide in, oxygen out. Like a tree.”
Jack inclined her head. What a subtle mutation! And, thankfully, not a psychic one. Jack did not like the notion of someone cavorting about her mind.
“How did you realize your nyu-tation?” Jack couldn’t help but ask, “It seens so subtle.”
Much unlike the long and laborious process of transforming from person-to-prawn… there really was no ignoring that.
>> “Sorry. Dealt with a lot of stupid **** due to stupid people. Plus it’s kind of my job to make sure things like this don’t happen so…”
Jack inclined her head, her maxillipeds twitching inquiringly. His job, huh? Did that mean he was a cop? Why didn’t he just flash his badge at the men, instead of going through the trouble of making an ice sculpture? Well, he did want to build camaraderie between himself and Jack, and honestly, that was probably the quickest way to get her to at least somewhat open up to him. Maybe he wasn’t the type to use his job as social sway.
It was then that Sam cracked open a beer, and dispelled any assumption of “not using their profession as social sway”. That was relatively illegal, as far as Jack knew.
“I work security, at Chrysalis,” she explained. It was a relatively popular mutant bar. Humans were, of course, welcome, but much like there were “gay bars”, this one catered to a specific crowd and those sympathetic with said crowd, “Night o’ heard o’ it. It’s a nyu-tant nightclu’.”
For a moment, Jack feared that she came across as “one of those sorts” who thought that security guards were at the same caliber of cops, which she didn’t mean to suggest. She just thought that Sam seemed like the sort to frequent a club. An alchy who drinks beer before he even leaves the goddamn store. Regardless, she still clarified, “So I dealt wit’ sun idiots, too. Just don’t got that kind o’ aut’ority here. Unfortunately.”
>> “Where you from anyways? Atlanta? North pole.”
Just as Jack completely missed the insinuation that Sam could be an X, she also missed that this was an attempt at a joke—until Sam stated that he was from the North Pole. Jack was so absorbed in trying to figure-out if her slurring really sounded like a Southern drawl, that her realization came a moment too slowly. She smirked, and gave a humored “psh” and a chuckle.
“San ‘rancisco,” she assured him, “Cane here around six years ago. Needed a change o’ scenery, and heard New York had… a lot ‘o us.”
Which was a mild way of putting that Jack was running from an old gang member, but she didn’t need to tell this man her life’s story. This was just small talk anyway.
Jack nodded as the young woman commented on running being one of the better exercises one could do. It was true. There really was no substitution for going on a run. Even low-impact “alternatives” like an elliptical didn’t provide the same intensity of a workout.
>> “Yes, I’m a student, I am studying nursing. I’m a Licensed Practical Nurse, and I’m working on getting Bachelors to become a Registered Nurse.”
Jack glanced between Zinnia and the thick tome, humming faintly. That was pretty cool. When she’d still lived in California, one of her roommates had been studying to be a nurse. Those programs were really intense, really competitive. There had been many late nights filled with studying, and a borderline neurosis over getting the perfect grades in class.
>> “Are you studying? Or what do you do with your free time?”
Jack shook her head, and typed a response. The synthetic voice reported, <<I don’t go to school. I’m a bouncer at a night club, and part of the security staff at a local school.>> Jack felt disinclined to give the names off her places of business. She had only just met Zinnia, after all, and Jack was a private person. She’d already lied about being from San Francisco anyways. <<I also enjoy woodworking during my spare time.>>
As a matter of fact, she had her whittling knife and partially-carved woodblock in the pocket of her pants, but Jack was not about to broadcast this to the other patrons of the café.
>> “Do you have any siblings? I have two younger brothers.”
Now that was a difficult question to field. She had brothers, technically, but she had also been disowned by her own family. So in a way, Jack didn’t really have any family. She stirred her tea with a small spoon. It was almost ready to drink.
“I an duh youngest o’ tree,” she explained, “I had two older 'ruh-ders. We lost touch a long tine ago, doh. You know how it is sun-tines. How sun-tines dose wit’ X-genes get estranged and all.”
Even if Zinnia had never experienced it firsthand, such outcomes were common in the mutant community—perhaps more prevalent in the visibly-inhuman, but still. Jack set the stirring spoon down on the saucer, beside her tea cup.
“I used to look hue-nan,” she clarified, unhooking her mask from the spines on either side of her face, “So it was a shock when I… hm… changed. Duh sssan-ily did not take it well”
That's a gross understatement. Jack folded the mask, and set it on her lap, dipping the teabag once more. The water had taken a nice hue, now, saturated enough with tea to be suitable for drinking. The prawn removed the teabag and laid it on the saucer.
“Nust be nice, doh, to be duh eldest,” Jack teased, quickly attempting to shift the attention from her life-story. The truth felt too heavy for a cafe conversation, particularly since the two young women barely knew each other, “What are your 'ruh-ders like?”
The prawn took a cautious sip of her tea, parting her maxillipeds to accommodate the cup. It was weird dining with someone else, but at least she wasn’t eating food. Eating was not as publicly presentable.
“What do you do?” Jack inquired, her tone dropping. She set the cup down lightly. This was good tea, “Nyu-tation wise, dat is?”
Jack dropped her gaze when the taller mutant chuckled, but he didn’t deride her. Already, the prawn was fighting the urge to bolt that was settling in her legs. She could feel it in her legs, a nervous spasm in her calf.
>> "I'll show you. Trust me, once you feel the rhythm you'll get into it."
The young woman nodded to Victor, eyes smiling. Oftentimes, the largest individuals were the shyest about these types of things. They carried themselves lightly, they took up as little space as possible, and they scarcely dared to dance. Jack was one such person, arriving before the music began and staking-out a seat towards the end of the bar. That was often where she remained, too, until the music was through. Nursing an Old Fashioned, or a beer. Usually people left her alone.
But now, Victor was leading her into unfamiliar territory. The prawn was tethered by the hand that held her own. Her eyes swung about, taking-in this change of perspective. It was weird, being so much closer to the stage. Jack could feel the croon of the instruments reverberating in her antennae, and in the soles of her feet.
They found their place on the dancefloor, and Victor turned to her. By now, her mind was fuzzy and warm. Her eyes pinched in a smile. She was about to ask what to do next, but Victor was way ahead of her. Moving her hand to his shoulder, and taking the other in his. She squirmed a bit when a pair of his hands settled on her waist. One of her secondary arms, on the corresponding side, shifted out of the way.
>> "Alright now, just follow my lead. The songs a little fast but I think you can get it."
While Victor may have started simply, the truth of the matter was, Jack truly had never danced. The fuzz of the alcohol and the warmth of someone else’s hold made it even more difficult to focus. Jack tried to match Victor’s movement, but nearly stepped on one of his feet. A mumbled apology fell out of her mouth. Although she was agile for her size, she wasn’t used to being nimble to this degree. The prawn looked towards Victor’s feet, taking two steps to match his single steps until she felt she had the pattern down. Just follow his lead.
…back… side… forward… the f__k? She was solid until he crossed his feet. Jack stumbled a bit. The prawn recovered. …back… side… forward… nailed it! Slowly, the young woman started to mirror Victor. Her hold on his shoulder occasionally flexed as her balance wavered, but she did not fall. Jack grinned and looked up towards the taller mutant.
“Dis does not seen like your sirst tine dancing,” Jack observed. She miss-stepped, but was able to adjust accordingly, “My right soot seens to want to sad-otage my lest.”
A chuckle burbled out of her throat, and the grin remained. This was really fun-- liberating, in a way-- even if her right foot was trying to sabotage her left.
Jack set her phone lightly on the table, face down. She couldn't decide on her own, which mode to use. The prawn was just being realistic-- she ws hard to understand for most, especially when she was shuffling consonants around for ones she could actually pronounce. But if Zinnia was polite enough to leave the choice up to Jack, Jack would leave the phone aside, lest the conversation wander into slightly more complex subjects. Or if the restauarant got any louder.
As Zinnia explained her background, Jack sat quietly in her chair, hands folded on her lap. Her chair was a good deal back from the table, but her knees were still beneath it. It was one of those small cafe tables that were intimate for two average-sized folk. For anyone who happened to be over the six-foot mark, they were cramped. It was fine, though, since the cafe wasn't too incredibly crowded.
>> “I’m a New Yorker, born but not bred, my Dad is from Britain. So if I’m using weird words, I blame him.”
"Is okay," Jack assured Zinnia, the corners of her eyes pinching, "I sure I night say a 'hella' or two once in a while."
Jack actually never said "hella", but it was the first stereotypically Californian colloquiallism that came to mind. She was mostly just being polite. The prawn went to grinding her mandibles again, though she hardly seemed to notice, when Zinnia uttered another question.
>> “Have you been swimming long?”
"Started swin-ing in high school," she explained. Well, in eighth grade, after she joined the mutant school. But she started a year late, when most people her age were starting 9th grade, "Not to con-pete or any-sing. Just to clear head sun-tines. Switch between swin-ing and running for cardio."
She didn't run in the gym, though. She was concerned about the capability of the treadmills to support her weight. Jack was likely too bashful to ask.
At that moment, one of the baristas wandered over with way, which bore their two drinks. Jack's was on its own, long saucer: a small, metal kettle of hot water, a teacup, and a bag of tea between the two. Zinnia's drink sat on a separate part of the tray.
The barista set the saucer of Jack's tea-making goods before the prawn, and politely asked, "Would you like any milk, honey, sugar, or anything of the likes?"
"No t'ank you," the prawn said politely, bobbing her herad, "T'ank you."
As the lady moved to deliver the drink to Zinnia, Jack sat-up, carefully grabbing the tea packet. She'd have to open it to extract the teabag. Jack tore the pouch, fished-out the tea bag, and unwound the string. She then set the pouch in her cup, and began pouring the water in. The already-miniscule teapot looked laughably small in her massive hands.
Jack felt jittery in the silence that spread between them. Her demeanor didn't betray it. You should say something, she thought quietly, But what on earth do you say? This is such a random thing to do, drinking at a cafe with a stranger. Do you usually ask basic questions like this? What were normal small-talk questions?
"Dat's a huge-" the word failed her. Book? Novel? Both had sounds she wasn't good at. Jack unlocked her phone and typed quickly, <<-huge book. Are you a student? Or just well-read?>>
The voice that filtered out through the speakers of her phone was a clipped, vaguely British voice that had a distinctly synthetic edge to it. It was, quite apparently, a Female AI speaking on Jack's behalf. Jack preferred this voice because, of all the options, its intonation was the best. The cool alto timbre fit Jack best, anyways.
In the lull of the cafe, it was relatively easy to hear the application's speech. At least, that was what Jack had hoped.
>> “If you point at me when you order they’ll know what to make.”
That made ordering a far simpler ordeal. Now, the real trial would be deciding on a drink for herself. Jack nodded to show that she understood, delicately plucking the strange business card from Zinnia’s hands. It had little coffee cup holes in it, Jack noted, as she wandered the line to order. In no time, she was up at the register, and the barista gave her a winning smile. Jack set both of her hands on the counter, drumming her fingers anxiously.
“Good day to you, sir,” the barista greeted. Jack didn’t bother correcting her, “What can I get for you today?”
Jack bumbled through an order, gesturing to Zinnia and mentioning that she would like to order another of whatever-Zinnia-usually-has, handing them the little punch-card. She then ordered a lemon balm tea for herself. The prawn paid for her drink, and was informed that the drinks would be brought to her table when they were ready. Jack bobbed her head, said her thanks, and carefully picked her way back to the chair. Jack slid her bag onto the floor, and carefully folded into the seat. These tables weren’t quite built for tall people, but at least it wasn’t a booth. She could manage, at a table like this.
>> “So, where are you from?”
Of all questions that Jack was unfond of, she liked that one the least. Mostly because she didn’t care to reflect on the past too deeply.
“San ‘rancisco,” she replied lightly, “I cane to New York a couple years ago. Needed a change of scenery. Yet, all large cities seen duh sane.”
Jack would know. She’d frequented Seattle, as a kid, and visited Portland, en route to San Francisco. She’d seen a few major metropolitan areas in her day.
“Here sive years, now,” she explained, holding up five fingers (which took both hands). She realized that, now that the workout was over, she could technically use her phone now… that would probably be more intelligible than Jack’s slurring through a round of Twenty Questions.
Jack fished her phone out of her pocket, and set it on the table.
“I use diss to talk,” she explained, tapping her finger on the phone's case, “Easier to understand. Not so... slurred. Where are you sss-rom?”
