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.
The trip back to the Asian place took longer than he'd thought. Good deeds often do. Barf, again. 'Good deeds'. The thought that he was doing this for free made him sick. But hell, he wasn't into human trafficking. He wasn't that into the idea of helping them steal someone from his employer, either. Cybele was a badass, as far as connections were concerned. Hell, she could have been a badass in general. That salt and pepper hair and low cut top could conceal a lot (somehow). He was still weighing the pros and cons of simply turning around and shoving a shiv in Barry's back. The Pygmy's blow dart gun was the only thing aside from a conscience that was holding him back.
The plan was simple. He would be a distraction. They would do all of the heavy lifting. He would buy food. He'd go up to the register, order food, apologize for the shots fired, and pray the cops had not shown up during the intervening minutes.
The cops had shown up during the intervening minutes. The place was surrounded by blue and red. Barry used another word for poop. The Pygmy parroted it back. Elliott turned to look at the duo. "This is getting a bit hot for my tastes. Let's see if there's an entrance around back."
"I like the sound of that," Barry chuckled. Elliott gave him a disapproving look. "I, uh, meant it doesn't attract much attention and I am all for that," Barry said wryly. "Not the other thing."
"Sometimes," The Pygmy commented. He patted Barry on the back. If looks could kill. Barry glared at him.
"Shut up."
Turning, they started around to the rear of the restaurant.
It hit the ground with a clang of metallic limb on metallic limb, and as it did, he noticed something. The blow to the head the Aura girl had given it had been more destructive than previously noted. There was wiring exposed around the neck. One swift kick was all it took to send the already damaged head spinning round and round. All the way off. It rolled away on the grass like a macabre soccer ball. Elliott watched it for a moment, and then turned back to the girl, and paused.
The girl had a gun pointed at the old lady. Well, okay then. There wasn't enough time to place himself in between them, and he did not want a dead body. He did the next best thing. Now, normally he would not place himself as a target by shooting out a whip tongue to snap the gun up and out of an enemy's hand, but dire situations call for dire courses of action. So he appropriated himself a gun. Elliott held it up admiring it. He hoped she wouldn't take offense and use this as a reason to put that pink ax into good use.
"I am Aura, are You alright my lovely friend?" She said.
"Nice piece," he commented, eyeing her gun. He took her peaceable tone as reason to be hesitant, but friendly. "People call me October. Or Elliott." He dropped Elliott because really, being too cautious was too smart, and pretty girls (even psychopaths) deserve a little honesty now and then. The old lady turned away from the two of them with a salty curse and started walking. "Yeah. Leave. Ingrate. Not worth our time," Elliott muttered darkly. He let the lady leave. His eyes fell to a skunk on the ground not too far away from them as he returned his focus to Aura. "Hey, is that yours?"
And what were the engine sounds he could hear faintly but getting louder. Certainly not some sort of riot squad alerted by a Metabot to the presence of the future site of an Aura blood bath. That sort of thing would take ten minutes to arrive, and they had only been fighting about three... give or take. But maybe response time was faster around Central Park. As for gun shots... well okay, then. Blam. An armed passerby had been drawn by the sound of the fight. He took it upon himself to be an hero, and pull out a concealed weapon to fire uselessly at the pink aura girl. Two shots, squeezed close together. Neither of them hit.
Elliott ran forward to kick the gun out of the idiots hand before he lost it to the pink ax. He followed it up with a brutal punch to the face that left the dumb ass unconscious. Apparently today, he was all about minimizing death totals. He appropriated another pistol for the pistol bank. "Maybe we should go get some coffee, and get out of here?" He asked the Aura girl.
Slowly, carefully, Elliott closed the gap between the old lady and himself. As he went, he reeled his tongues in.
"It's okay, Ma'am. I've got you," Elliott said soothingly. Marge was not having it.
"Leggo! You green-skinned menace!" Now that she was steadied, she had balance enough for action and a free cane for drubbing. The cane came down on on of the arms that was supporting her... and Elliott winced. Some people have no common sense. Or gratitude. But she was still old, and he was still helping her out so he exercised the patience of a saint and said '*%$& off'. ... He wasn't a very good saint.
"You're good now. Just put your cane down and steady your stride..." And then I can deal with this metal menace... Elliott finished in his head. Said Metal Menace hadn't continued its path towards him, which he thought was strange. He'd focused on the old lady as problem one, and now... now he turned towards the robot, hands raised for peace.
The robot wasn't facing Elliott any more. In fact, it didn't have much of a face left. Whatever pinkness the cute girly had used on it, the attack she had scored was super effective. His jaw sorta dropped and kept the grass on the ground company for a minute.
"ChecKING DATABASE. New TARGET located from criminal records. AUra. Wanted for manslaughter and murder. On X counts." X was an obscenely large number as stated by the robot. X was probably an inaccurate number. X was way too large. Or maybe they hadn't found the other bodies. A spark spritzed from one of the robot's eye sockets. Its head was at an odd angle from the hammer blow she had followed the drill assault with. It was still running, however. One eye still worked. It used that eye to line up a shot with its painful non-lethal red bean bag anti riot cannon. Then it fired at the pink aura girl's center of mass.
The jaw snapped back up in that moment as Elliott reached a decision. There was no freaking way he was letting a damnable machine hurt a pretty girl like that. Especially one who had saved him and helped him help an angry old biddy out! As things hit full tilt, he rushed towards the robot as fast as a world class sprinter. His goal was to kick its feet out from under it and send it toppling to the ground.
He had no clue that this Aura girl was a legend in New York. He had no idea about any details about her. He was new in town. And she needed his help. ... He may have been mistaken about that.
"Where," Barry repeated, slowly. "Is Rachel?" He waited for Elliott to reply, acting calmer than he felt. As if the act of repeating the question would answer the kid's query. As if it would make perfect sense, because really, how could it not?
It did not. The green-skinned man tilted his head at the balding guy. Antennae twitched. "I'm sorry. I don't know any Rachels in New York."
"She's blonde. She can turn into a bear. And the bear and her are both about the height of my right hand."
"Why yes. It does." Barry replied. "Think for a second about what you just delivered. It should come to you."
It came to him, in a nasty flash. Human trafficking? With super tiny teddy bear mutant girls in a box? Um. He suddenly was very frightened of his employer.
"I. Just delivered. A package... " He began slowly. "Are you telling me this Rachel girl was in the box?"
"Why yes," Barry's teeth were tinged yellow and bared in a sneer. "That would be one explanation as to why the Pygmy and I chased you." The only one, really. Hadn't he realized that?
Dude. "I already delivered her. I'm not sure what you want me to do..."
"Why, get her back, of course?" His tone was dangerous. Elliott was vaguely intimidated.
"No can do, bro. Bad for business, carrier going and taking their package back. But..." He hesitated.
"Yes?" Barry waited impatiently.
He hated doing this. If word got back to Cybele, her outfit would murder him. It would absolutely devastate his reputation in New York. And then he'd have to move, and find new employers and new work and it was all such a hassle, but... ugh. It was the... he almost tasted bile as he thought about it... "right thing to do." Barf. Gag. Hurl. Uck. But damn him and his crazy soul if he didn't have the bare bones of a tiny cricket conscience. "I may be able to help you, so long as you never mention I did and it never comes up again."
"Deal." Yellowed teeth went away, mouth closed grimly tight.
So, there they were. Fighting. About a block from the nearest police station. Police would certainly soon be on the scene. It was a small miracle they hadn't already been more active in the area, what with the gun shots and the car crash. But then, a silencer does help a little with avoiding attention. Grand theft little girl's bicycle, less so.
Barry continued pedaling. He was getting pretty winded on that little pink Huffy bike.
Narrowly, Elliott avoided getting tackled by the flea. Brutally, he responded with an aimed kick to the face. Unfortunately, said kick hit air. The Pygmy was fast for a flea. Fleas are fast for fleas. The whole statement was sort of redundant.
Pygmy came in with a flurry of blows, which Elliott had expected. He moved his body a little bit in advance to evade the hits from someone with mutant speed. Then, he leaped into the air while the little man was in one place, post-punch. Pygmy's eyes rose, up up. Elliott's foot came down, down in an ax-foot strike. It wasn't really something out of any martial arts manual. It was more something he'd dreamed up on the fly. And it hurt. The blow struck the pygmy's shoulder and smooshed him into the concrete. Fleas are resilient. He didn't die. The impact still staggered him and put him on the ground. Elliott followed with a few swift kicks to the back.
"Why! Are you! Chasing me!" He punctuated every kick with a word.
From behind him, a bike bell dinged. Barry roared in what many might consider a very guttural and impossible to understand voice. "WHEREISRACHEL?"
"Come again?" Really. Elliott hadn't understood that at all.
The police station. That was the big joke. At least, that's what he thought, up until a second thug landed on the wind shield of the car. A spiderweb of cracks spread from the center of the impact point, outwards. A four letter word consisting of an asterisk, an at symbol, an exclamation point and a skull and crossbones exploded out of Elliott's mouth as the green alien swerved. Now they were falling from the sky? What the hell kind of operation was this!?
Winded, Barry pedaled harder on his stolen bicycle. Purple streamers streamed. He had called in backup. A favor from a little friend he liked to call The Pygmy. Able to fit in small places like crawl spaces, and gifted with a skill for blow dart guns and being nigh invulnerable to your basic car crash type impact, the Pygmy was not the kind of person one wanted to fight. Luckily, he had been in the area! Within jumping distance, too. He had hard skin and leaping skills like a flea. Pygmy Flea Mutant, yeah. That was a perfect description for the little man. With a poisonous blow dart bite.
The borrowed car stopped on a dime that happened to be in a curbside trash can. The impact caved one head light and part of the hood. Now that he was stopped, Barry would be able to gain on the kid. If the Pygmy didn't kill him first.
His antennae twitched as Elliott staggered out of the car. He slammed the driver's side door. "Uck!" What the hell was even happening today?
The little mutant bounded from out of nowhere to land in front of him like an acrobat. Elliott blinked. "Really nailed that landing. Your arms are even up like some kind of street performer. What's your name."
It would have been highly inappropriate if the Pygmy had answered him in some string of pseudo language that sounded like Pygmy or African. There was no guttural language, no tongue clicks. He replied in an off-putting deep baritone. "Yo."
Black antennae twitched yet again. "That really isn't an answer, man."
The little light-skinned flea mutant threw a peace symbol.
"Two?" Elliott pondered.
"How many pieces I tear you in," The Pygmy replied.
Ugh, yuck. He was following. Hey! Look! Someone had left a potted plant on the fire escape perfect for throwing at people! And what was that? A Fern? Beautiful. A potted fern sailed down to crash into a million pieces directly to the hired help's head. Momentarily, Barry was glad it wasn't a bowl of petunias. Not again.
Elliott made a running leap and turned it into a roll as he hit the ground. He hadn't been too far up, and was particularly skilled at doing this sort of thing, having done it his whole life. And for his next trick, while thuggy thug was climbing, he made his way for thuggy thug's car. It was still running. Maybe the hunted would become the hunter?
Barry shared a curse word he was quite fond of. The shattered fern pot was not entirely unappreciative. He'd left the key in the ignition, AND he still had payments on that thing. If the kid stole it, he would be hearing things from the old lady. He lacked the kid's skill at taking falls and making landings, so he did the next best thing and began climbing slowly down.
Now that Elliott was in the car, where would he drive to? He was sure he'd know in a minute! And what was that on the radio? Country. Next station, please!
Barry VonFowler was your regular average usual troubleshooter. He worked for a very reputable man with a great reputation (which is why someone is reputable. Don't you check Webster's Dictionary to tell me that isn't right). In his line of work working for the reputable man for whom he worked, he was a trouble shooter. Which meant that when there was trouble, he shot it. Reputations and being reputable are two very different things. You were tricked for a moment, weren't you?
Today, his job involved aiming a silenced gun up at a green man climbing the stairs of a fire escape. The guy had some mad hops skills. Barry would have to let him know how impressed he'd been after he killed him.
Sparse of hair, with what little he had being brown and curly around the edge of the top, Barry was not a lady's man. Sure, he had his occasional luck, and his position certainly helped him score points. Women like money. They also like security. Knowing a big strong man is with them and will defend them is great for their peace of mind. Knowing a balding, middle-aged muscle for one of New Yorks up-and-coming wannabe-crime bosses is by your pillow isn't quite as good for peace of mind. But it does come with some nice monetary fringe benefits!
Barry couldn't climb the fire escape. The ladder was down. Luckily for his boss, Barry was not a hapless human like so many sheep thugs. He could climb walls like some sort of greasy spider. Which he did, starting now.
Elliott really hated tests. This was what this had to be, a test. Because there is no other reason one would suddenly get shot at for delivering Chinese.
His package he had delivered had been in a Chinese to-Go box. WHAT THE HELL HAD BEEN IN THE BOX!? He didn't know. The green man had a sneaking suspicion it had been drugs, because that was one alternative explanation for why someone would shoot at him. Wrong territory, wrong thing, wrong day, wrong color of clothing (or green not-mutant-shut-up alien skin), wrong everything.
He had recently met up with a potential new client. A new boss who could give him loads of jobs. He'd delivered something in a crappy night club to them as test one of employability. That isn't a word, employability, but he didn't care. He'd shown Cybele he meant business. Two more jobs from her had predated this one, and now here was THIS ONE. The jobs had been simple drops. He hadn't even had to run very far. And no bullets. Maybe it hadn't been the package. Maybe they just hated him.
Tires screeched. Somewhere below, a metal car door slammed. None of this plexiglass and fiberglass garbage of modern cars. The car was old, he sensed. Old and sturdy. Reliable and fast. And someone had gotten out of it. Another bullet pinged one level below him, and made Elliotts ears ring.
God, for once he hoped the police actually showed up!
The first bullet came streaking past him to shatter a glass window. The second bullet shattered the bottle of Asian hot sauce on the counter in the restaurant beyond the shattered window. And the third one took out an innocent bowl of fried rice. He counted himself lucky that was the only thing the bullets had taken out.
Elliott ran. He bolted like Usain Bolt down the street and AWAY from the path of bullets. All he'd been tasked with doing was delivery. Why had this been the end result?! What the hell had he delivered to that Asian restaurant? It wasn't in his job description to ask those sorts of questions, but HOLY CRAP! The second he'd exited the building, there had been a drive by.
He took a moment to jump from street level to the first balcony of a fire escape. The ladder leading to the ground was still up. No ground pursuers would be able to follow. The car somewhere behind him would be unable to follow by the planet-destroying beauty of New York traffic. He ran up the stairs and towards the building's roof.
It started out with a lick. How did it end up like this? It was only a lick. It was only...
The metabot robot trudged towards him, weapons armed. Ready to fire. What weapons did this metabot have, you ask? Its red eyelight glow and painful non-lethal red bean bag anti riot cannon, for starters. The underlying possibility of more dangerous, non-non-lethal measures hid in the background of his mind, for a follow-up.
He hadn't meant to aggravate the robot. Really, he hadn't. In fact, he hadn't even done anything to break the law! An old woman had been tromping along with her cane, making what he had figured was great time for an octogenarian. He'd wanted to congratulate her. She was out there, exercising in Central Park on an average day. She wasn't at home, eating, sleeping, or doing whatever else it is old people do on a Friday morning. She was doing something to better her life. Then, she'd started to fall.
When old people fall, it can seem like its happening in slow motion. Ever see a relative go down? Their arms move to try and catch their balance. Their face spells out the horror of knowing the ground is coming but being utterly impotent in stopping it. And when they hit, that's the worst. They failed. They aren't as strong as they used to be. In their youth, they might have shrugged it off, gotten up, and moved on. But old bones are brittle and old skin is thin. Organs are weakened by the passage of time, and one little spill to a ten year old can become oh so much worse to someone over 70. So, he tried to stop her.
It was innocent. He had a way to stop her from a distance by catching her, so he'd used it. His prehensile hand tongues had shot out just so, and wrapped around her midriff. He had wanted to halt the fall without breaking anything, and grabbing her arms might have, so he'd snagged her waist. Here's a pro tip. Old people taste awful.
... And then the Metabot attacked. He was caught red-handed and tongue-tied with his tongue around an 80-something grandma named Marge.
Rainbow person gave a wave wave, like "Hey". All smiles on their chitinous face. Elliott saw the badge. He recognized the colors from his wall-hopping entrance. He understood the situation exactly, and also, he wasn't worried one bit. Rainbow held up her hand and tapped its back, where there was a stamp. Elliott smiled.
Let's flash back to a minute prior. After a quick exchanging of details, Gold tooth had explained the situation to him. She knew he probably hadn't gotten in normally, right? So, then, he'd missed getting some credentials and security was probably tailing him. Had anyone he'd seen been following him? Yeah, maybe? Good. He wasn't going to have one of those hand stamps, if they asked. And also, he wasn't going to cheat and get one of them stamps from her. That wouldn't quite be fair. But the security would most likely have questions, and it just wouldn't do to go leaving questions and loose ends. So!
"Yeah, hey." Elliott announced boldly. "I don't actually have one of those. I had to jump the wall back there because my boss lady forgot her medication and she was dying. Time critical. No time to wait for those twenty people up front to get into the club. Sure, you could drag me off to security and talk to me about it, but she's right over there and she can just answer your questions here and now and we can get this sorted, if you don't mind."
He hooked a thumb in salt and pepper hair's direction. He smiled his zipper-like smile. Cheating and cheap tricks were great, but backstory and alibis were even better. Who needed to fight when the client anticipated the situation, and wanted to avoid bad attentions like that? Do you know what fights are? The answer is. Bad. For. Business. Period. Said a Wise Man. End quote.
Oh son of some random periodic element that can be used as a swear word. Let's go with Uranium. No, Krypton. Son of freaking Krypton. He'd been cuffed. Somehow. With mutant powers. That pissed him off incredibly so. That shirtless-no-cuffs had somehow cuffed him. Rearrange those letters, c u f f e d, and you might get how he felt. Maybe put the ffs first and the c somewhere in the middle? Give yourself a moment. There it is. He felt thoroughly screwed.
Try and steal one bike and things go sideways. He probably wouldn't work for that guy again in this city. At least it was a big city. There were plenty of potential clients.
>>"Alright bud. Let's see. Grand theft auto, reckless endangerment, assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest. Maybe more."
The guy rattled things off. Did it really count as assault if he dropped his own deadly weapon on his own deadly head, Elliot wondered. On and on the droning pink boy went, reading him his rights. Didn't even give him a moment to talk, which was kind of rude. But also, it gave him time to think.
Thoughts. Those are good. Working to get to a good solution. Having time to gather thoughts also gave him time to recover from the crash. As he rose to his feet, he shook his head, and tried to shake off the after-accident funk.
This guy was a "cop" and an "Ex-man", just like Ice Cop had been, which meant it was entirely likely they both knew each other. He meditated on thoughts like that as pink hair started leading him in a direction. On and on, and into a building. Plenty. Of. Thinking. Time. As a side note, he completely ignored Mr. I'm-Invulnerable But-Not-My-Pants. Yeah. Way to demolish the "i'm alive" silver lining of the evening, complaining about clothes. Guy tried to intimidate him, and he wasn't impressed. Didn't even look him in the burning face.
He answered pink-hair's question using a thought he'd had during the copious amount of thinking time rights-reading and arm-leading had granted him. "It was just a prank, man!" Elliott sighed a melodramatic sigh. "Sam told me you wouldn't like it if you caught me sneaking the bike off for a new sexy paint job and a tune-up. Some early Christmas present this turned out to be."
Yeah. Sam. Ice Cop. Also an Ex-Man, from some Mansion for kids with gifts. He had the card somewhere around here. One X-man was likely to know another. This late, though, getting in touch with him might be an issue. The one-eyed mutant probably had women to please and schools to run, if his initial read on the guy were worth anything.
Being in motorcycle accidents sucks. As a rule, being in any sort of event that causes physical trauma sucks. But more-so the ones that lead to an arrest.
Elliott at the time didn't have much of a criminal record. He'd escaped most of the fat tubs that had chased him when they'd caught him up to no-good. Running is a good way of outrunning police. But in this case, a motorbike accident wasn't the sort of thing he could simply shrug off. Unfortunately for him.
Pink hair moved to push him to the ground, and all Elliott could do was slur out "Hey, put a shirt on." He sounded punch-drunk. As he got shoved down, his eyes rose and focused on the seemingly-invincible pedestrian who hadn't been killed in the low-speed bike crash. Oh good, a stray thought hit him. At least the person hadn't gotten badly hurt.
Where was the badge? Where was the shirt? Why did the guy smell like sweat and a metal shop, up this close? Ugh. He felt like slag. Why was this happening. Those were only a few of the numerous thoughts he'd had.
Motorcycles are incredibly dangerous. Unlike a car, which is basically a big metal box, with a bike there is no such protection. It's just you and the road.
Bikers tend to wear leather jackets so that they don't become a bloody mess, in the event of a bike accident.
Helmets are required by law in most states, because they prevent a large amount of head trauma in the event of an accident.
Even at low speeds, a vehicle can do a lot of damage. More-so to people than to other vehicles.
Elliott hadn't gotten up to full speed. Pulling away from Pink-Hairs home, he'd started off at around 10 MPH. This was a positive factor in the pedestrian's survival. Unfortunately, Elliott and the pedestrian weren't wearing any protective gear, and the motorcycle hit the ground in a nasty way. The guy hit the tire, got pulled into the wheel and hit the nice soft pavement of the road. At the same time, physics determined that a large portion of force would lift the back of the bike up... up, up, up..and then, since it couldn't support its weight on the front wheel, it turned and came down on the pedestrian. Then, it skidded, with him pulled along for the ride. He survived. Somehow. Which was insanely lucky. Maybe it was how he'd turned his body, and prepared it. Maybe it was a mutation. Or maybe it was divine intervention. Regardless of what it actually was, luck was a huge factor, and Elliott was on another plane, so far as luck went.
Jumping wasn't something Elliott had had the foresight to do. In the collision, he'd tried to slam on the brakes, to no avail. Actually, that was probably was caused the physics of the crash to lift the back wheel of the bike. Elliott's mutation didn't require jumping, however, to allow his legs to survive a big fall. A big fall is similar to a big impact. And his lower half had been strengthened by his mutation to help dealing with this sort of impact, a fact he tested on a regular basis.
As the bike went down, he fell off it, backwards, away from the seat. When things go slow motion in a crash, you don't always have a lot of presence of mind. Having knowledge about how to fall helps. As he fell, he tucked and rolled. Since it had been cold, he'd worn a jacket. Luckily for him, it actually had been a leather jacket. No leather pants, though, just blue jeans. And the leather jacket hadn't survived the crash very well. Scrapes and nicks in the leather showed just how bad he would have been, if he hadn't been a lucky fool for fashion. Even lucky fools for fashion feel freaking frazzled from head injuries, though. His bells were fairly rung.
The green mutant space man staggered drunkenly to his feet, and swayed. He didn't have half a mind to crack some witty commentary about anyone getting the license of that guy in the road, or 'who knew flat pavement could have such nasty speed bumps?' What he managed to get out was "Guh."
As a side note, pink hair's bike was scratched from its skidding pretty good. It would probably still run, maybe, but who knew?
