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.
You ever have one of those moments where everything goes to pot? Yeah? It's especially weird when the one to cause this change has hair in a color most teenage girls would call "cute". Hopefully that wasn't what pink hair was going for, because Elliott saw no other reason for a special snowflake of a grown man to have an unnaturally pink 'do. His mind was so focused in that second on why the hell someone would have pink hair, he almost missed the sword. It was a large sword, probably heavy. Heavy enough to weigh down the guy's shoulder. Too heavy for him to easily swing, if Elliott decided to run. Which meant--
His focus dropped back to the last few moments of his hotwiring attempt. The motorcycle started up.
He wasn't sure what the deal was with all these folks in plainclothes telling him they were going to arrest him these days. First Ice Cop, and now this guy. But he definitely didn't want to stand around arguing about entrapment or any of that. What he wanted to do was escape the whole situation. A runner's gotta run. To that end, he raised his hands like he was going to put them up, palm empty, towards pink hair. "Easy, pink hair." He said carefully.
The mouths on each hand opened up suddenly and a pair of red tongues shot of them, right through the ring of jagged teeth. They sailed across the distance between them to snag the wrapped part of the sword just below the blade and jerk it towards pink hair's head in the most violent way possible. In that moment of distraction, he turned and hopped on the already-running bike. He pushed off the ground and started moving. Right towards the guy approaching them, who he'd unfortunately not seen.
Making it from point A to point B is no fun when you're running. Using a vehicle tends to be easier. Sure, you have to spend money on licensing and insurance and gasoline (most of the time), but ultimately there's a lot less questions when people see you going fast.
As a runner, you don't always have to run. Sometimes, you can drive.
Elliott didn't have a license. His job today was simple. Deliver a motorcycle to the supplier, the middle-man who would sell the bike to the buyer. Who needs a license when you don't own the vehicle you're driving, anyway?!
He still remembered the first time he'd stolen a bike. He'd been old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. Oh, sweet youth. It had been a Harley, shiny, new, and big enough for a giant. He'd snatched it while they'd gone into a bar to get a drink. He hadn't been chased. It was awesome. The thing had been so big it had drink trays and a cargo area equivalent to an air liner. He wasn't sure how they'd gotten the thing, or where it had gone. The owner hadn't been a giant. He'd actually been kind of small, which made having a bike that large kind of strange. But who knew, maybe his ego more than made up for the discrepancy? Or maybe he just had a small--
"-- World, after all~" sang a passing car radio. Elliott glanced over his shoulder, looking away from where he was trying to hotwire a bike. It was just a little after sundown, and it he was just outside Manhattan, in front of a building. No owner in sight. Just a couple of weirdos in a black impala listening to Disney music. He watched as the duo in suits drove away. Just before they turned the corner, the music changed from Disney to eye of the tiger... then suddenly switched stations to Carry on my Wayward Son. Elliott returned his focus to stealing the bike. It was a 2011 Triumph Rocket III Roadster, for any motocycle snobs. Elliott wasn't aware of this. He was not.
The first guy. What could he say to the first guy? Hello? No. A joke? Well... a blue skinned blonde on his arm broke the ice first.
"You," she noticed. "Are green."
That was his cue for a snappy comeback. "Actually, I've got an extreme version of that thing MJ had, except instead of being black and my skin getting light-"
"Ugh," she grimaced and looked around her man to the other woman. "Is he still talking?"
The other woman eyed her with extreme distaste. "If you had a head that had less in common with a can of hairspray, maybe you could figure that out for yourself."
"Ugh," the woman made a face. "You're still talking too."
"Very good!" Woman 2 clapped her hands.
The man between them laughed, haw haw haw, like this was the funniest thing in the world. And it became clear that he was not the guy. He had no teeth at all.
"I just thought you were some person i knew, but i was wrong. Ciao!"
And off he went, hurrying to the next guy. He shifted his package under his arm as he rushed, and. He. Hit. A. Foot. He tripped. The package sailed. His mouth opened wide in A big "oh noooo" 'o'. So did the ladies by the next guy. So did the guy. Something gold glinted, bling bling bling. But wait. Time slowed. Why was the italian suit cut low at chest level and... showing a bit of decollotage? Was his man not a man? She had salt and pepper hair and matched all the descriptions except... gender. Well, it was America. Whatever, man. She could do whatever she wanted.
A hand materialized to catch the box in midair. "Hey there, sugah." She smiled. Her voice was lovely and deep.
He was supposed to have a counter phrase. Crap, what was it? Oh right. "Set phasers to fun. These are the droids youre looking for."
"Bingo," deep voice said. The gold tooth caught the light. He'd got it in two.
>> ”green skin and from Roswell? I’m sure you got some interesting stories to tell.”
Elliott shook the ice cop's hand when he offered it, replying to the man's smirk with a wry smile of his own. Nothing you'll hear, he thought to himself.
The guy answered him with a shrug. Colorado. He filed that away for the future, in case it somehow became relevant, and moved on. Xavier's school, however, seemed more relevant. He took the card and looked it over. School for Gifted Youngsters, it advertised. He wondered idly what that was. That thought died on his lips as the police finally arrived. Elliott watched them carefully, affecting a look of only minor interest. It wasn't every day one was a witness to a crime, after all! He had to play the part of someone who didn't witness a crime every day! Acting, they call it. He acted. His eyes moved from officer to officer as introductions and directions were given and made.
One of the cops looked inexperienced. In his experience, that made them even more dangerous. Case in point, hands on gun. Trigger happy. Replace that gun with a doughnut and you'd get the measure between rookie and pro.
The green man just stood there quietly while cops were cops. He chimed in when he was needed. "I was walking, making my way for a pizza joint, when someone shouted something like 'Stop, thief!' Then, that man," he nodded towards the mugger on ice. "Barreled into me. "
"At the time, I thought I'd felt him reaching into my pocket. I made the assumption that he'd stolen my wallet, too. Because, really, how many people run away when someone yells 'Stop, thief' other than criminals? So... I shouted it, too. Officer Sam here caught the guy, and helped me out." He said, repeating the name he'd heard one of the police men refer to Ice Cop by. "So I stuck around to answer a few questions. I don't want to press charges. He has enough trouble, him carrying that gun like that."
He looked from cop to cop. "Do you have any more questions?"
A minute or two was about how long he figured they'd be waiting. Actually, it was probably a little less. In New York, with traffic as it is... but then, cops always seem to have ways of getting around traffic. Mostly by driving like maniacs with their lights on and forcing people to barrel out of the way. Super safe. He gave a single bob of his head to confirm that he'd heard the man. Then, he looked away.
Yeah, people were staring. They'd made a scene. It only made sense people were staring. The ridiculous human compulsion to clutter the area around a crime scene was a constant. People always seemed to want to be as close as possible to a car wreck in order to see it. Humans didn't like to wait, either. It was all "Me, me, me! Now, now, now!" Like Violet in the Chocolate Factory. Which probably made Ice Cop Wonka. Elliott glanced at him. Hopefully the tool wouldn't break into song. Pure imagination gave him a great mental image of that. It was an image he really didn't want to dwell on, so he moved on.
He'd tuned back in to Ice Cop right in time for another personal question. Hooray! Where was he from? The right corner of his mouth turned up slightly as Elliott answered the man. "Roswell, New Mexico." He said. And surprisingly, he was telling the truth. "You?"
Before he looked around, Elliott turned. His eyes dropped down to a trash can several feet below the patio wall, where the package he'd been carrying had been set. A hand dropped. A hand tongue snaked down to nab the box. It only took a moment or two to reel it in. He stuffed the package back under his arm, turned. That was when he noticed his company.
As a rule, you generally want to check your surroundings before exposing your back to them when you're doing something you shouldn't be doing. Maybe there was something about the atmosphere of the club that had put him off his game. Something in the air. Or maybe not. He could hear the steady beat of the music from within. Within was where he wanted to be. He didn't want to be up on the patio with the person he was. For starters, they looked like they'd fought a losing battle with a rainbow. There was an overwhelming sense of teal that reminded him of modern movie posters. The spikes didn't remind him of any one thing in particular. He noted that were were several of them. Some were on the creature's jaw. Mutant, then, and not human. Alien was a good option, but if they were, he felt like he'd have been able to tell. Despite the alien appearance, his gut instinct said mutant. It also said 'Nothing to see here. Move along.' His gut instinct pulled an Obi Wan on him, and he went with the flow. Elliott moved along.
As he crossed the threshold, Elliott smoothed back his black antennae self-consciously with one hand. He had no hair. They were the next best thing. Jumping in white leather pants had been hard. He'd done his best to keep the silk shirt spotless. The entire ensemble was meant to look professional, because appearances are important and he wanted to put his best foot forward.
Red eyes scanned the club. He'd gotten a description of the man he was looking for. They'd be 5'9", in an Italian suit that cost more than most peoples cars. Dark hair, with flecks of gray. And as a defining trait, they'd have a beautiful woman on each arm. As he glanced around, he noted that several such gentlemen existed in booths. What was the last thing they'd said about him? Oh yeah. He'd also have a gold tooth. Elliott caught no such glint from across the dance floor. Damn. That meant he'd have to casually make conversation with the three men and their ladies. Make them laugh or talk or something. That would help him determine his guy. This was going to be a pain. Sighing, Elliott walked around the corner of the dance floor, headed toward the first man at a booth.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 27, 2015 20:06:11 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
He nodded sheepishly when Ice cop asked for confirmation on his stupidity. He was shocked to not hear any further admonishment. A real blush touched his cheeks as he thought about how stupid he'd been to even get close to this situation. Now THAT was embarrassing.
"Yeah," he said. "Sorry."
He waited while icy phoned a friend. He had no reputation in this city so far, and had not racked up a record as far as he knew. He avoided that at all costs. Best they might find would be a missing persons report, and only if he gave them a real name. As far as he knew, nobody had ever described him for a crime report. He wasn't omniscient or omnipotent. It was possible he was mistaken. That would be bad. He felt a tinge uneasy.
"Yeah. Okay." He could stay. Running now would look guilty as hell. Staying might even give him a backstory if one of the cops ran into him again.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 27, 2015 19:51:49 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
((ooc, I wasn't sure if the patio was on the second floor or not, going by what we talked of in the chat. Let me know if i need to edit any thing. ))
He waited a good long ten minutes before he started getting impatient. The line didn't seem to be getting any shorter. In fact, it had actually gotten longer. What the hell?! Elliott stared. Then he saw the reason. A group of mutant patrons had been saving a place for their friends... and one of them had bumped into another, and split into four of himself. Dammit. Elliott started looking for alternate ways in.
The thing about nightclubs is that they're picky about the image they protect. Let in too many ugly patrons and some club members complain. And then they take their business elsewhere. He had a feeling that while he was an attractive alien man, someone might not think he was an attractive mutant, or dare he say it, person. Even starting in line and sticking through the long wait, there was no guarantee he would get in. And he hated keeping a customer waiting. Bad for business. So while the front door was a great option for an alien dressed to the nines, so was any other entrance. And it cost no money to sneak in.
Elliott left the line to survey the club. It was a good sized club. There were certain to be back exits that were guarded or locked, and alley trashcan platforms one could put to good use. That was great, but it was also dramatic, and kicking down doors and fighting guards was just too flashy. It wouldn't do. That said, there was a sort of deck on the second story. People that hung out there were unlikely to raise hell over one man. They might even be too drunk to care. Carefully, Elliott moved around to stand underneath the patio. He tensed his leg muscles, and leaped ten feet into the air. As he jumped, he brought his hands forward. The scar lines on each palm split and opened, revealing lips. Then, mouths. Two tongues shot out of the mouths on his palms like grappling hooks to bridge the final gap. Gaining hold, he hauled himself up the rest of the way. Shoes hit the ground with a clip as he hopped off the edge of the patio wall, onto the patio itself.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 20, 2015 18:07:41 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
He was pretty sure it was a test. After all, he was new in town. This was a job. In his career, you didn't really give references, and there was no resume. Criminals rarely keep all of that information on paper. Unless someone vouched for you in-person, the best you had was your word and your results. Actions speak louder, et cetera, et cetera. Since he was unlikely to get someone to vouch for him from Washington DC in person, and even less likely to get them to say it over the phone, they'd given him a job, and it was clearly a test. He nodded to himself in his smartness and rationalization. A test for a new-guy runner. A delivery test to see if he was better than your basic pizza delivery boy. To see if he was a Delivery Man.
You see, here's the basic summary. In Running, you have something. It's usually something illegal. An interested party contacts you with a request to deliver or acquire said item, and deliver it to a specific location. You do it quickly, you do it quietly, and you avoid all police suspicions. The results are what matter. How you get from point A to point B doesn't have to be running. The important thing is that you get there with your parcel in good time, and do it with the utmost discretion. For example, say you were given a box. It is a small box. You don't know what is in it. It could be money. It could be jewels. It could be something somebody made in a lab. Hell, it could even be that human heart that one medical company created in a lab in New York... -dragon something... though that one would probably require some sort of cooler and loads of ice, and tons of background on why it is important the organ is delivered fast to prevent organ decay. You do not open the box. You deliver the box. You verify that it was delivered to the appropriate party, and then you get paid.
Elliott had a tiny box. The delivery point was in the night club, Chrysalis. He was to deliver it to a specific person, and he was to dress the part. He was not to look inside the box, though nobody had told him as much. Fog of war is a great test for would-be runners. You have to know if you'll be able to trust them to keep their yam-hole crammed shut. Elliott loathed yams. He was dressed in a white silk shirt and white leather pants, with a pair of sweet shoes that went perfectly with the outfit. The only thing he was missing was flowing black hair and a sexy Jaguar sports car. Instead, he had black antennae and was green. This was gonna be good!
Elliott approached the club. There was a line. He waited. The box was tucked neatly under one arm. it was very tiny, if you had not already noticed. Only about the size of a human heart.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 20, 2015 17:26:24 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
>>”Don’t look like Halloween to me, a mutant maybe but not really Halloween.”
"Alien, actually." Elliott smirked. He hadn't said it, but he was certainly thinking it. It was fine out in the fresh air. It didn't need to hide.
He wasn't smirking when the guy got pinned and read his rights. Classic cop move. He frisked him and found a gun. Why the guy hadn't used it was certainly clear. In the crowd, there was no guarantee he'd have hit his target, and missing and killing some innocent bystander is bad for business. Even for amateurs. Maybe even especially. The guy wasn't talking, though. At least he had brains enough for that.
Ice cop had three wallets. Elliott had known the mugger was an amateur, but three? Newb. Ice cop asked for his real name... and started flipping through wallets, no doubt looking for identification. That was a problem he'd anticipated... and even worried about when he'd gone the route he'd chosen to go. It was garbage, but suffice it to say, he had a plan.
Elliott stared at ice cop blankly for a second. Then, he scratched his leg, right by his right front pants pocket. Paused awkwardly. One of his eyes got bigger as his facial expression changed from blankness to surprise. "Hold on a second... damn. I'm an idiot." A hand went into his pants pocket and whipped out a lightly bulging brown wallet, leather cracked lightly from age. Elliott grimaced and let out an embarrassed grunt. Male for "I'm so sorry." "Ugh. I guess he didn't take it after all. Just bowled me over. With how you were shouting 'thief', I guess I just assumed..." What was it they say about people who assume?
Posted by Elliott on Sept 19, 2015 19:38:26 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
This guy was like a walking stereotype. Elliott grunted at what he was saying, without really committing to any of it. Crime doesn't pay? Seriously. Next, he'd be cramming a donut into his cake donuthole, and taking his stale coffee black.
Did he want to press charges? "Nah," Elliott said. He followed ice dude to the guy on the ground. He kept talking as he followed in the mutant's wake. "No need. Getting my wallet back. Didn't get hurt. Get him some help, though. Next time, he might run into someone who doesn't set his phasers to stun." Amateur hour was looking miserable, and Elliott wasn't impressed. As they approached him, Ice Cop asked him his name. "Friends call me October," he said. It was true. Some had. It was one of his many aliases, and he wasn't really lying. "Because I look like I'm in some sort of Halloween costume." He added wryly.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 19, 2015 19:10:03 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
He pushed himself to his feet as the crowd reacted.
Ice. The freaking guy he'd stolen used frakking ice. He lifted himself off the ground on some sort of ice platform, and just (if you'll excuse the expression) froze him in his tracks. Well. At least the guy hadn't shouted something like "Freeze" before he'd done it. That would have been too much. The would-be-pickpocket was on the ground now, stuck in ice. Which was great, all things considered. Kept everyone's focus off him. Everyone except Mr. Hero, that was.
Elliott felt the guy's attention before he heard it. Well, gee. If you shout "He stole my wallet," and someone shoots ice at the guy to help you get your wallet back, it only makes sense they'll try and help you out. Idiot. He mentally reprimanded himself. He should have left off the last part to keep the human (scratch that, mutant worm baby) from giving him the time of day.
He made a short show of dusting himself off. "Yeah," Elliott muttered. "Just great. Nothing broken." There were several ways he could play this, and he was thinking over them quickly. Option 1: Let the guy get him his wallet back. With any luck, other guy had stolen several and his could be any one he desired. Option 2: Acting. Say he still had it, and was mistaken. And option 3: He never got to option three, and missed his window on option 2 because the guy was watching him too closely for him to make some big show. He stopped patting off the dust on his posterior, and looked towards the thief. Said thief was struggling against the ice, barely. Intense cold really takes the fight out of some people. Elliott's voice dropped a notch. "I'm lucky he didn't try and mug me in an alley or something. Must have had a guilty conscience to bolt like he did. Probably an amateur." His lips quirked in mild disdain as he spoke. The way he said amateur was scathing.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 19, 2015 16:53:49 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
So the guy started shouting for someone named Sara. That was new. A good indication the human had noticed something missing, it was. Elliott kept walking at the same pace he had been. His eyes scanned for exit paths from beneath the edge of his hood. He didn't see the guy's reaction. He only heard it. In his mind, he imagined the human scanning the crowd, eyes narrowing on his back.
Had it gotten colder? Perhaps the weather was changing? He dismissed the thought as unimportant.
"Stop, thief!" The person had yelled. Just great. Elliott thought. This wasn't his first rodeo, though. He also apparently wasn't the only one picking pockets in the crowd that day. Someone barreled in to him and sent him whirling to the ground. As he turned, he noticed deft hands snaking in to his hoodie's front pocket. Oh hell no! Was this some sort of flipping irony? Someone yells stop thief and the pickpocket pickpockets the pickpocket on his way out. Elliott landed on his ass.
There was only one course of action the green-skinned mutant could take. He hauled back his hood and joined in. "Stop, thief! That guy took my wallet!!" It wasn't his wallet, really. It was the other guy's wallet. But nobody needed to know that. His wallet was still safe in his front right pants pocket. He definitely would have noticed if someone had reached in and tried to grab his wallet there.
Turning a crowd on another thief wasn't part of his usual MO, but this was new territory and a new city. Getting caught this early on doing something as stupid as this was bad for business. The other guy could take the fall.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 19, 2015 16:30:01 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
Bump bump, some sleight of hand, and he had another wallet. "Oops, sorry," Elliott said carelessly. He kept walking past the guy, wondering idly when he'd lost the eye. When you're a career criminal, you notice things or you die. He'd noticed that. Not one to count money while walking, he'd slipped his hand in the pocket of his hoodie so the wallet wouldn't be visible. One step, two. Three steps casually away from the eyepatch guy, ducking his head. He was going to get away to his alley to empty the cash out from it and toss the rest. He'd done that with all the other wallets. Wasn't carrying around 12 wallets in a hoodie pocket or something stupid. He had his own. Somebody entered the space between him and the other guy.
In a moment of careless curiosity, Elliott pulled out the wallet to take a closer look at it. Something had been bugging him since he'd nabbed it. It didn't feel like a regular wallet. Now he knew why. There was a badge on the wallet. The guy was a cop. He didn't know what MRC was, and frankly, he didn't care. You don't get to be a successful criminal going around stealing from cops. Breaking into a run would be too obvious, so he kept walking. He slid the wallet away again, hopefully before anyone noticed. Ducked his head back down, and just kept moving. With luck, nobody would notice... and then he could get a meat-lover's slice.
Posted by Elliott on Sept 19, 2015 13:46:53 GMT -6
Beta Mutant
621
48
Nov 27, 2024 10:41:57 GMT -6
Mugen
All big cities are generally the same. You get large areas, they fill with large crowds, and as things get more cramped and crowded, people stop paying attention to anyone but themselves. People see a lot, but if it doesn't concern them, they don't always say anything. Sure, you might get the occasional individual who still thinks the world is a happy place and wants to help others. But as a whole, people don't run around stopping crimes as they take place. Which is why at 10AM on a Monday on a sidewalk in the middle of New York absolutely filled with people, Elliott had managed to steal 12 wallets. And he hadn't even been pick-pocketing for very long that day.
Nobody was paying attention to the guy in the black hoodie, even though the weather was hot enough to not need a hood up. And the fact that he had used a big red tongue extending from his hand for at least two of those pockets picked hadn't attracted attention. He'd been careful. He'd been very careful. That's important when you're a green man who looks like an alien. You tend to stick out if you aren't wearing your hood up on a busy city street.
As a runner, one tends to make deliveries for people who aren't always good guys. But when you're new to the city and haven't made a ton of contacts, work comes slow. If he'd had a job, he'd have been happy to work that. Since he didn't, he was pooling money for pizza. It was a sort of crowd-funding that was highly user-motivated. Like the people that say for every mile they run, they'll get X amount of dollars in donations, except here it was every wallet he acquired, and those wallets didn't always have equal amounts. One more, and he'd be good for a while. Elliott scanned the crowd.
