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.
'Weird ears', Andrea repeated. She didn't ask further.
"Weird ears, because super human hearing." He hastily explained. Wiggled his hands by his head, to demonstrate too.
"She could hear everything, except the sound of my heart breaking when I learned the truth," he added earnestly. To be melodramatic and wax poetic about the whole thing. He never had been poetic, up until recently. His current girlfriend must have some sort of power, to bring that sort of bullsense off from him. Bullsense... bullsh*& nonsense.
>>"Well... I'm certainly happy that you have Kenzie now. You two seem to work so well together." Andrea smiled.
"Er, yeah. I was actually thinking the same thing." He agreed. Well, sort of the same thing. General ballpark.
Andrea suggested a dinner and a movie sort of thing. Elliott's eyes lit up.
"Hey, yeah? Like a double date! But, then. You'd need a someone. Don't you have... a someone?" He couldn't remember. She was in and out, and he was in and out, and they were so busy. But he felt like she had to have someone. Some person, guy, girl. Platypus. She was definitely good enough for someone special.
Oh man, this was messy. People had fled, the front window was totaled, the crazy cat B was throwing chairs and tables, and the owners were cowering in fear. And worst of all, he wasn’t sure who the villain was here.
What had the lady been shouting? Something about an animal? Snowball? Had these people done something to her animal? Stolen it, or— oh THAT was nasty! Who would even think that? That was totally uncalled for, and unfair too. Just because it was a Chinese joint. Except
“This is for Snowball!” She shouted, and hurled a chair. Elliott threw himself to the floor, and let it sail over his head. It crashed into a wall and dented the wall a split second later. That had nearly been his neck.
A moment later, some guy got his attention. Of all things to ask, he wanted to know if Elliott were with her?
“No. No,” he said. He shoved himself off the ground with one arm and got to his feet. “I am definitely not... though I’m not sure if she’s the real bad guy here or not.” He glanced around the other guy. “Needs to stop wrecking the joint, sure. But did you catch what she was shouting about? Sounds like someone stole her pet.”
As if on cue, she shouted again. “You took Snowball! Where is he?! He better not be—“ She raised an entire table in her arms, and hauled it over her head.
Hrm.
Elliott shouted “Think fast!” And kicked a plastic vase her way. It crashed into her shin and she staggered back, dropping the table.
The call went out on all police and X-men radio wavelengths. Another big angry mutant causing trouble in New York. Oh joy.
He’d been doing this for a while now, hadn’t he? Elliott remembered when he was in his 20s, making mistakes. Being an ass clown. How long since he’d begun the hero thing? A year or two? More? How long had he been with his girl? And now, he was 27. The time flew when you were busy fighting for your life.
Elliott stashed the police scanner in a drawer in his room, put away his paint brushes, and got dressed for work. He’d have to finish the abstract painting later.
What had the police scanner said the monster was? He couldn’t remember. Something about Taylor Swift and that damned movie with way too much — ... eh. He didn’t care. He’d see it when he saw it. Whatever It was.
He pulled on his wrist guards, elbow and knee pads, and his fancy feetwork shin guards with the toe plate that covered the front of his feet, but left the bottoms bare. Pulled on fingerless gloves. The leather jacket went on last, over the black tee with a UFO on the chest and the words ‘I want to believe!’ A gift. Kenzie liked Z Archives. He inserted a few Kevlar strike plates into special pockets in the vest. Then, he pulled on his motorcycle helmet. The one with the green paint job and the scary smile. Now dressed for duty, he went off to save the day.
—
It was weird, doing hero work in the light of the sun. Usually, Elliott operated at night. Because the darkness helped hide his features, and added that extra element of fear he could use against thugs. But today, the painting had... not been going great and he’d wanted to take his mind off of it. And one thing had led to another.
The place where the trouble had originated was... a Chinese restaurant down by the college. He parked his motorcycle several blocks away, and ran the rest of his he way to the scene over the rooftops. When he got there, the police had yet to arrive. It seemed calm... from the outside. Did he have the address right?
Usually, when police got calls about big mean mutants, they were big, mean, and highly visible. You rolled up and, bam! There it was. But here... well... Elliott walked up to the front entrance and strolled in in.
Weird. People were just... eating lunch. Acting normal. Yeah, he decided. He’d gotten one Chinese restaurant confused with another. That’s what he got for only half listening to the dispatch and going by memory.
He smiled at the hostess through his motorcycle helmet, and was about to pull it off and just act casual. Eat lunch. But then— someone rushed through the front doors, and forced their way past him. They looked like a gray cat fused with a woman. In rag-like clothes.
Elliott eyed them as they entered the restaurant. And then, things got messy. And the screaming began.
~A few moments before~
“Freaking place,” the girl muttered under her breath. “Gonna wreck em. I knew it. Effing knew it. Did all the digging, and now I’ve got em. Gonna get em. Gonna— sorry.”
She turned to apologize to some guy she had bumped into. Looked like he’d just gotten food. Hopefully not from the same place she was going.
As she spun and turned her focus back to the matter at hand, fur began to crawl up her cheeks and down her arms. And the muttering grew louder.
“GONNA KNOCK EM OVER. Snowball. Gonna teach em a lesson! Gonna—“ The bell rang as she shoved her way through the restaurant’s double doors.
A moment later, the front window exploded outwards and shouting spilled out onto the street.
That... was a flamethrower, wasn’t it? He had a flamethrower. Or she. It. On top of the stuffing machine. And they had created a freaking castle, made of crap. The dissonance of the situation brought Elliott’s mind to a momentary halt.
“Wow.” He said.
It was almost like they had prepared for just such an occasion, we’re gearing up... and planning to create more of them. Like a vampire party where they turned innocent people... His girlfriend had made him watch Buffy. Don’t judge.
The store workers were fighting for sovereignty over their own domain. Blocked in, scared. Or rather, disturbingly calm for the situation they were in. If it had been him, he’d have been scared. If he hadn’t had these dumb powers he had.
One of the workers even had a safari hat. How weird.
He followed after Malcolm, hacking down bears and guarding the man’s back. Reinforcements, yeah. He had to be a bit kookoo in the head head.
Heh.
Mal took charge, asking good questions. The man shook his head.
“No injuries yet. But that flamethrower. We need to take that one out before he sets something on fire.”
“Although then, we’d trigger the sprinklers and be rewarded with an army of soggy bears...” Elliott muttered, as his eyes strayed to the ceiling. Several sprinkler heads were visible at spaced intervals of about 6-10 feet. One head happened to be directly overhead for the flamethrower bear.
Was he... suggesting they set something on fire to make the bears soggy and heavy?
“Are you... are you suggesting we set off the sprinklers to make the bears soggy and heavy?” The safari hat man asked. Without waiting for confirmation, he grinned at them both. “Boy, I like your style! Pedro! You smoke right? Why don’t you light one up! Smoke em if you got em boys. When the sprinklers go off we’ll charge the castle, using the rain as a distraction!”
“Did I just... accidentally a plan?” Elliott blinked at Mal.
“When we get the castle, we’ll handle the monsters in the store... and work our way to the back room where He is holed up. With about 20 heavy infant tree bears.”
Awkward. Well. God forbid. He'd already stripped in front of her that night. And bled all over her stuff. What was a little awkwardness between friends, after all of that?
He nodded, and listened as she composed her thoughts. Ex-husbands were a sticky subject. But she didn't sound like she hated him...
He had been one of the X-men. Those goofy goody two-shoes who had chased him away from the mansion because he'd been doing the same thing as them. Just... not as part of a team. With a name like The Masochist, the guy sounded just as goofy as the triangle-eyed Asian man. Elliott kept him mouth shut. This was her ex-husband, not the butt of jokes. Not that second, anyways.
He had been one of the first people she had met in America. Grumpy grump, but he'd warmed up. Then she'd gone back to Greece and... he'd tagged along? Married her to get her back into the country legally. And-- Well, because.
Her parents had hated Masochist Man.
Then bad things had happened. And she'd been so caught up in her own stuff, that she felt she could not bring him along. He felt bad for her. That was no good. She had been overwhelmed. The marriage had fallen apart.
But at least, he sounded happier now. Married, with children. Well. Child. Singular. And she was happy for him. She did not hate him. In fact, she cared about him a lot.
She felt like it was cowardice not to try and talk to him... because it was awkward.
Elliott frowned. "You aren't a coward. I don't know enough about your personal life... or his... to say anything about all of that. But it sounds like he's happy. And you want him to be happy... so you're just letting him be happy on his own. Nothing cowardly about that." He shrugged. "People who save my life don't get to call themselves cowards. Not within earshot of me. Er, You know. Even with the lack of ears."
He coughed into his fist. Had that been coherent, like, at all?
"You know what's awkward? My last ex had weird giant ears, and cheated on me with a rock guy. Then dumped me for a rock." At least, he had a good girlfriend now.
>>"... much as I love being a big damn hero, I would also rather not be a big dead hero." Mal said.
"No," Elliott agreed dryly. "Dead is bad." Very bad.
He wished the sporting goods store had been a hardware store. If it had been a hardware store, they'd have been able to get a chainsaw. Maybe a torch. Nail gun? But the sporting goods store had camping supplies and stuff, and that was good too.
Mal got a hammer, a hatchet, and a machete. For him... what would be best? He usually fought with his feet. With his sticks. He'd trained with his friend Kineta in other weapons. Staff. Knives.
He nabbed the gear belt, and strapped a long-bladed knife to it. Then, he grabbed two machetes and a hatchet for the opposite side of the belt. To sort of balance himself out.
Really, he should have just taken a tent and stripped the package of its tent spikes, or purchased tent spikes on their own. Wandered around the store, staking the bears. Left a trail of skewered bears in his wake. It would have been impressive... if impractical.
Could have used a walking stick, too. Given him some range. Maybe strapped a machete blade to one end. But he was not too confident in his skills with the staff. Knives, though... he'd played with those all throughout his teens and adult life. A couple machetes was good enough for stuffed animals. It'd be good enough for him.
He scraped them together briefly, then sheathed them and hung them from his belt.
When he stepped up next to Mal, the guy grinned like a happy fool and cracked a joke about hammers to the cashier. Why the hammer? Why the hammer, indeed.
He was last out the door. As soon as Mal was safely out of earshot, he told the cashier. He jabbed a thumb in Mal's direction, and announced "The hammer is his--"
--
Outside the store, he matched the same manic grin. "Okay. Let's fight some fuzzy bears. Wokka wokka."
Elliott lead their way to the Build a Bear Workshop. It was time to rain stuffing. Despite gearing up and being fully aware of the sort of craziness he was likely to see... when they reached the store finally, Elliott... was. Not. Prepared. For what he saw.
Gully was Gully’s name. Good. He had not lied. Elliott had seen the tattoo on the side of the guys face. Matched the name given well enough. If he’d lied, he’d have been caught in it.
Gully pressed on his chest to nab his attention, and he slowed to a stop. His eyes fell on the two men.
The skinny guy caught them staring, and asked if they were alright. Elliott wasn’t sure why Gully was wary. Maybe being nervous about late night loiterers was fine. Especially after having been mugged. Or maybe they were just nervous about the weirdo in the happy helmet?
Silent guy never said anything, just knocked on the window in the glass door. His compatriot interpreted for him. The shop was closed, huh? Then why wasn’t the metal grill rolled down?
A memory of a movie he had watched once with his girlfriend popped into his head. Something in black and white, but not a golden oldie. Something about a couple of convenience store clerks and a broken door. A cardboard sign painted in shoe polish or something. ‘I assure you, we are open.’
They were blocking the way. In this day and age, most convenience stores were open 24 hours, for your convenience. Something screwy was going on here.
“Something screwy is going on here.” Elliott said to Gully. Quietly, so only the two of them would hear. “I’m going to lean you against the wall. One sec,” he said. Then, moved them over to a brick wall and matched his action to his words.
He stripped off his fingerless gloves, and flexed green fingers. The helmet smiled innocently at the blonde guy.
“Say. One of you wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone would you?” He asked cheerfully.
The silent guy said nothing. Typical. The blonde guy shrugged.
“My friend over there is injured. I just want to call him a cab so he can get home safe and sound. Help me out?”
Blonde sneered. “We don’t got any cellpho—“
The quiet guy held up a flip phone. Elliott glanced to Gully. “Want a cab?”
Real blades. Yeah. Mal man was right. Right about a lot of things.
“I’m Elliott,” he said.
He glanced towards the man. The guys tray was looking rough. They’d need to find him a better weapon, or else finish this before it got out of hand.
An elderly woman in the distance screamed, and sent a bear into the ceiling with a rising uppercut. Two stories up. It had almost flown, as if propelled by unseen force rather than strength alone. They could use her in their team... but no, she was just protecting a clutch of kids.
>>”From personal experience...” Mal said. Elliott returned his focus to the man.
Demonic creatures. Perpetrator. Got it. Guy asked if he was planning to stop it, and Elliott grinned a manic grin at him.
“‘Course I am. I’d have to be an idiot to try.”
Mal the human listed off bullet points on his supposed resume. “Glad to have you.” Elliott said quickly.
The dragon bear caught his attention. Caught Mal’s attention, too. So incredibly odd. And that was coming from a green space man with prehensile hand tongues and the ability to jump large distances in a single bound.
Mal seemed to think they were either cyborg bears, or else cartons come to life. “Best way to find out would be a vivisection. But I doubt they’d stand still long enough to let us do that.” He ran up and kicked a potted plant across the mall into the dragon. Stuffing flew and the flame cut off.
“They’re stuffed.” Elliott said. “Want to raid the sporting goods store for hammers and machetes, or do you just want to barge into the toy store with your tray and do what a man’s gotta to do?”
The guy reached for his hand, and then pulled away as if shocked by seeing his fingers.
Stupid of him. He should have kept up the distance. It wasn’t likely there were many green-skinned, three-fingered men in New York. The fingerless gloves helped mask some of his hand from view, but they weren’t perfect. He’d had to shop around online to find fingerless three-fingered gloves, too. A hacker type might be able to somehow reverse engineer his internet search history or something...
For a time, he had been worried he would have to buy five-fingered gloves, then cut off a few digits. That would leave the sockets glaringly open, and it just might inconvenience him at some point when such things mattered. Like in a fight. A loss of dexterity, any loss, directly affected his ability to snap sticks around like a mad mofo. He would have to fall back to his kicks... which he tried to hold off on. His kicks tended to be stronger than your average bear. Shame it covered his hand mouths. Prevented him from using his tongues. But then, you had to make some sacrifices to have warm hands.
The hesitation the guy showed annoyed Elliott a little, made him feel impatient. He’d stuffed his paranoia away. Couldn’t people do the same? Even if they were being helped by some strange “masked” man.
“It won’t bite,” he commented blandly.
Finally, the guy smiled at his awkwardly and moved to take the hand. Rested some weight on him, Elliott bore it graciously.
The guy asked him about the store, and Elliott grunted. “Mm. Yeah. About a block or two.”
Together, they stumbled couple of minutes without talking.
They could see a small convenience store ahead now, across the intersection, and about 100 feet down the street from that. It was a little hole in the wall with gas pumps out front and a red roof. The glass front windows looked like they were advertising brand beers, cheap. And cigarettes, cheaper. The ones that used to have a cartoon mascot.
There was a husky guy in a grungy black trench coat smoking out front with his friend. The first man was stout with dark facial hair and a backwards-facing black ball cap. The second one had long blonde hair pushed under a ratty stocking cap. He was clean-shaven, with a thin face. Smoke trailed from the cig held affectedly in his hand. He said something emphatically, and gestured for his friend. The other guy said nothing. He was silent.
Elliott and the man crossed to intersection. Traffic was nonexistent.
On a whim, Elliott said “So what’s your name? I’m Cheshire. Usually like to know who I’m buying cigs for. Been referring to you as Guy in my head, and gee but that seems impersonal.”
Yep. He’d been correct. She was from Greece. Snake woman from Greece. Gods, but that must have been difficult when she’d manifested her hair.
He was so focused on preparing g their food, he almost missed the subtle change in her as Andrea mentioned an ex-husband.
Somehow, he had missed the fact she’d been married. Interest entered his voice as hot dogs sizzled and chili burbled. “You’ve never talked about your ex-husband before... if it isn’t too personal, what was he like? If he liked chili dogs, he couldn’t have been all bad.”
The joke at the end had slipped out. He hadn’t meant to crack it. Wry humor isn’t proper when things are emotional and all personal-like.
In the back of Elliott’s mind, he was thinking about how some mutants can use a touch to affect others with their powers. He was thinking about how odd he felt about the whole situation. About the anger and annoyance and all those things, and about how something did not quite add up.
If he’d wanted to be an ass, he might have walked over and found a bit of pipe or wood or something in the trash. A makeshift cane. Then, he wouldn’t have to touch the guy. Elliott didn’t want to be an ass.
He was better than he’d once been. The guy needed help. He’d stumbled and fallen to one knee. He would help. And damn the consequences.
“Sure,” Cheshire said, with a painted on smile.
Elliott reached out to help the guy.
If nothing went South, he would help him stumble to the convenience store down the block. Otherwise...
((OOC no worries. Sometimes, posts are shorter. Sometimes that’s what you need.))
In the dark of the alley, it was easy to miss the minutiae of the man’s changing expressions. Vocal tone, however, suffered from no such impediment.
He didn’t have fleshy ear lobes on his head, but even Elliott could sense the change in the man’s voice. When Elliott told him he lacked a cellphone, or a wallet... and the man laughed.
It had not been an amused laugh or a happy laugh. Maybe a sardonic laugh? Although why the man would be grimly mocking or cynical was beyond him. That sort of information would provoke annoyance or disappointment in this sort of situation before anything else... at least, for Elliott it would have. But this guy sounded a little disgruntled.
Of course, if he’d been mugged, and then been given a speech like he’d just delivered, maybe his gruntle would have felt a little ‘dis’sed, too.
Still, he soldiered on with his monologue. Told him about the sticks. Told him he’d still help. And the man had said the ffff-
Although nobody would be able to see it, underneath his helmet a hairless eyebrow had arched. The f, indeed.
Had he angered the man? Had the last comment been too patronizing? The sheer audacity of him, for asking basic questions the cops would have asked if they’d been present. The nerve of him for wanting to help.
The man had mastered himself, and in what Elliott felt was a very clipped tone, he’d stated that he did not know his attackers.
Fair enough.
The man’s patience was running low. Elliott was all too familiar with those types of days. The stapler to face days.
“I read ya’,” he said.
The man’s focused turned towards a creature comfort. Cigarettes. Again, Elliott would have to disappoint him.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you again, man. I don’t have any cigarettes. I don’t smoke. But—“ He glanced towards the mouth of the alley.
“If you come with me, I can help get you some at the nearest convenience store. I’ve had terrible days too. Maybe a cig will help us sort things out. At least you have your health. I’ve been beaten up by multiple guys. Been stabbed and nearly bled out. You’re lucky they only took your phone.”
Can someone give someone a significant look behind the tinted visor of a motorcycle helmet, when they can’t see your eyes? His solid posture would have to communicate it for him, Elliott supposed.
((For the record, I like your writing! Gully seems like a fun guy so far. Conflicted!))
The guy was acting a bit strange. Concussion, maybe? Well, with three, no, four guys, he was lucky a concussion was all he had. And a foot injury. That many people ganging together on one person, they could do a lot without realizing it. And numbers made some people do stupid things. Like kill.
He watched as the bucket hat sailed across the alley. Did he see the little spark of no account? It was dark. The spark was small, but it was light. He noticed it, and thought ‘the hell was that?’
The man had sweared at him, then thrown a hat... and if that wasn’t suspicious, there had been the little fleck of light. And the shouting, about frigging kids.
Throughout the guy’s long rant, Elliott stood still, watching him.
No visible signs of injury, other than the leg. Erratic behavior. Almost as if— there was a thought there, but the comment about the cellphone temporarily replaced it.
He wanted to call someone? What was a Sensu bean?
The guy had a frohawk with red twists. He had something tattooed on the left side of his jaw. And something else, on the other side. In the dark of the alley, he couldn’t make the tattoos. He’d only really noticed them because he’d been impassively watching the guy’s face as he went on about his phone and the guys. Darker patches of skin, like shadowed cheekbones. Except they weren’t rounded enough for that. Definitely not your average appearance.
Now, Elliott had been a criminal for the better part of his whole life. Picking pockets, running illicit goods, Working for shady people. Since he’d gone good, he’d worked real hard on the paranoia, and the ability to not judge somebody by how they looked and how they held themselves. But Old habits die hard. This guy made him uneasy.
As a criminal, you have to have a sense for when someone is lying. Playing you. And as he always maintained, he was no Hero. That was the other guy. The one who’d come before him to hold the mantle of Cheshire. The one who was dead.
Elliott would give the guy the benefit of the doubt, for the moment. But he was watching him, and his guard was not down.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a cell,” Cheshire said easily. “Or a wallet. When you’re a costumed vigilante, you really try and avoid carrying around things that can lead people back to who you are. All I’ve really got are a set of sticks. But I can still help you out.”
The helmet was still smiling. He was a nice guy! His tone was easy, amiable. He could help. But he had those sticks strapped to his side in the holster near his back, in case things went south.
“If you want, I can help you hobble off some to some place where you can make a call. Or flag down a police officer. Maybe they could help you file a report. Did you get a good look at the guys? Know em at all?” He said, mellow as mellow could be.
((OOC PS I love your art and that picture you drew of Elliott made my day. Do you mind if I save it and post it on my profile if I credit you as the one who drew it? So cool!))
The night was cold. It was a bad neighborhood. You could tell it was bad, what with how the few street lights that actually worked were spread out, few and far between, leaving pools of shadow that were only broken by the occasional car headlight slicing through the darkness. After dark, people tended to stay inside. It was a good thing Elliott wasn’t at street level. Or maybe it wasn’t.
It had taken time, a little convincing, and extra effort in order to adopt the change. Bring stabbed and nearly having bled out had been but one element in the long list of reasons Elliott had composed in order to convince him self to facilitate the change. Still, as he blocked an attack and wasn’t cut, bruised, or beaten, he wondered what the hell had taken him so long?
Body armor, underneath the leather jacket. Underneath the t-shirt. Elbow guards, shin guards, and on the forearm. It was so simple, and yet it had changed so much! And the “socks”.
They weren’t true socks. They didn’t fully cover his feet. The soles of his feet were uncovered. But the tops and sides! The padding was warm. The padding had a layer of Kevlar on top of that. They were almost, almost shoes. With slots for the little warming inserts, to help stave off the winter cold. He wore the pads, wore the leather jacket, jeans and “shoes”, fingerless gloves, and a green motorcycle helmet with a dark visor and a painted smile on a creepy alien face. And, he was fighting crime in all of that.
There were two thugs on the roof top. He blocked an attack from one of them with his forearm, then struck back with one of his own. The escrima stick snapped out and conked the first guy unconscious. Meanwhile, the second guy had rushed his back.
These two fools had tried breaking into someone’s apartment, and Elliott had caught them while he was patrolling from the roof. He’d jumped them, then ran... to lead them out and away from any innocent bystanders that might have been around.
The second guy rushed him. He heard the feet slapping against the rooftop, smelled the bad BO. He turned and threw out a quick kick that sent the guy back several feet, onto the roof. Elliott followed it up by drubbing the guy senseless.
A few minutes later, the two men were zip-tied to a pipe on the roof and there was a rectangle of paper with a giant smiley face painted across it duct taped to a chest.
Elliott, also known as Cheshire, vanished into the night. Off to another rooftop, to find trouble and stop it. Because crap happens. And he felt like it was his responsibility to do something about it... because he’d done so much terrible crap, himself.
A short time later, he was several roof tops over when he heard it. A metallic clang, and a pained cry. Without hesitation, Cheshire rushed to the source of the sound. He stopped at the rooftop’s edge, and looked down.
It looked like a boy, on the ground. Injured? Had he been attacked? Elliott took in a big breath, then jumped off the rooftop to land on a fire escape below, and from there, down and down until he landed about ten to fifteen feet from the boy, on the floor of the alley.
“Everything alright?” The mysterious weirdo in the smiling motorcycle helmet and leather jacket, asked. “Are you hurt? Who attacked you?” Did he require medical attention?
