#plot developments

Good evening, fellow citizens. I’m Lescas Abaven, and you’re listening to Imperial Info On the Go.

Curiosity mounts this evening as the IFS Starscreech, pioneer of the latest technological breakthroughs in military energy efficiency, made an unscheduled landing on Empire-controlled Cassius 3 only hours ago.

One of the smaller occupied planets under Imperial domain, Cassius 3 is not equipped to receive a warship of such impressive size, and both soldiers and workers alike labored tirelessly on the hot surface to clear an area large for the ship to touch down.

Those present for the landing have described a feeling of pride and excitement at seeing the Starscreech - a long-time favorite in televised military parades - gracing their system, which is considered to be out of the way of most military and auxiliary travel routes.

We heard from a starstruck oliveblood at the scene, who couldn’t give us her name. “I’ve never seen anything like it! It was like a whole other planet, eclipsing the moon as it landed.”

Many are speculating now over the possible cause for the stop, with theories ranging from minor mechanical malfunction to a spontaneous rally to boost morale on Cassius 3, a strip-mining operation where the mortality rate of stationed troops is 45% higher than the Imperial planetside average.

Ultana was, in fact, in the middle of planning one such glamorous party, as was her usual business, when there came a voice on the stair that made her blood run cold. 

“Ultana, darling?” 

She froze, bent over her elaborate menu plans, and looked up to see Hugh standing on one of the many spiral staircases that led to the house’s lower levels. She didn’t answer him. She waited for him to speak first.

Finally, he did. “Come to my office, please.” 

He turned to leave. Ultana glanced at the housekeeper. Her eyes were wide. Abigail gave her a sort of nervous smile that never lasted long on her face and started gathering up the menu. “I’ll go finish these, shall I?” 

Ultana gave her a quiet nod. “Alright. Thank you.”

The voice pealed from the top of the stairs again. “Ultana. Now, please.” 

She inhaled sharply through her mouth and turned to stalk up the staircase. Hugh wasn’t in the hall when she reached the top. So she turned and headed down, seeing the door to his office cracked open an inch. Her heart was beginning to pound in her chest, anticipatory adrenaline rushing through her system. Her fingers reached for the doorknob and slowly, slowly, she pried it open and slipped inside.

The door shut behind her with a click, and she turned to face the broad-shouldered man standing there, facing one of the stained-glass windows facing the garden. His fingers rested on the oak desk, tapping out an impatient rhythm. The O’Neill family crest ring glinted with a horrible menace in the sunlight.

The room was silent save for her own nervous breathing. She folded her shaking hands in front of herself and lifted her head to stare at the back of his.

“Yes, Hugh?” 

He turned so suddenly that she took an immediate step back, expecting pain to follow. But it didn’t. No-- he was smiling.

“We’re adopting.”

Ultana stared at him.

“--I--I’m sorry?” 

“We’re adopting again. It’s decided. I have the child all picked out.”

Relief flooded into her body. Her legs felt limp and she reached for the edge of the desk, lest she collapse from it. But there was another feeling in the pit of her stomach, a horrible, nasty feeling. 

“--Why?” she asked quietly. 

“Why?” Hugh laughed, grabbing the back of his desk chair and sliding into it. “Why? Ultana don’t you want another child?”

She didn’t answer his question. Her nostrils flared and her fists began to clench together. She had to take a moment to breathe, to remind herself that she couldn’t snap at him. It wouldn’t be wise to. She had enough bruises already. 

“Have you had another affair? Is this what it’s about?”

“Don’t be daft. We both know I have affairs all the time and I’m not about to make another mistake.” 

She felt another rush of rage in her chest. Erinea wasn’t a mistake. “Then why,” she began slowly, “Have you just now decided that we’re going to adopt? You don’t want children.” 

“Oh, but I do,” he said in a tone that dripped of false charm, of the doting father facade he played so very well, “I always have. It’s just I haven’t had the time.” Another chuckle rumbled from his throat and he started spinning in the chair, resting his elbow on the desk and then resting his chin on his fist. “A teenager. Preferably a girl. Preferably troubled. Preferably a child whose story has been made public. It’ll be the perfect bait-- the public will just gobble it up, won’t they? It’s brilliant!” 

She felt like she might vomit. To adopt a child just to further his own public image. There was an election coming up. Deals he had to make. Good graces he had to keep... 

“You realize,” her voice was trembling, “That your political position is temporary and a child is not?” 

He waved that off. “That’s your problem, not mine. I’m not going to go near it unless I have to.” `He clapped his hands together and Ultana jumped. 

“You can’t--” 

His expression soured. Ultana took another step back and shut her mouth. Hugh got up from his chair and walked over to the liqour cabinet. He poured himself a drink and then walked back to the desk and pulled out a pile of paperwork.

“Do you fancy another sprained wrist? Because frankly I’m getting tired of explaining how clumsy you are.” he asked. His voice was barely louder than a whisper. Ultana didn’t answer. “Good girl. You know better than to tell me what I can and can’t do. Now,” he gestured to the door. 

I can't decide which plot line to use for writing....this is actually problematic XD

Monster of a #blog, sorry. #writing Lazy Writing, Writing Promises and the Moffatt Problem

I don’t watch a lot of TV. I probably should watch more since I hope to one day write for television, but at this very moment in time, I don’t have a lot of spare time, and what spare time I do have, I want to spend doing things that I enjoy and won’t feel like it was a waste of time to indulge when I could have spent the time doing something productive. I’m usually doing something with my hands…

We have decided that the best way to enable closure for the people who want to stop playing their characters and further character development for the people who want to continue playing them (in the RP or elsewhere) is if the characters are able to leave Tate.

The best way to do this and let other characters stay at Tate if they wish, is if the humans decided that it was time to leave Tate be once again. Tate has been under siege for months, and the mutants, although begrudgingly, have not been overly aggressive or difficult, and although the government doesn't trust the mutants at all, they don't have enough money to keep up something like this if it isn't extremely necessary.

Tate Academy had lived in relative peace for what seemed like a long time, now. The sudden wave of human amnesia had been a gift to some and a curse to others, but regardless of which, it had gifted the school with an almost tranquil ambiance. Some believed this would be the end of it - that mutants and humans would live together now, the latter charitably ignorant. Others were not so content. Many of the school's inhabitants were certain history would repeat itself; that the humans would discover them again and promptly set out to destroy them once and for all. Only another plague in the history of mankind. 

Naturally, both sides were equally bewildered when neither - and yet both - happened at once.

It was a cold day, but not unusually so. The sky was as overcast as one was wont to find in England, the lawn of the mansion dusted with a fine layer of frost that was just resilient enough to not turn to dew. Very few of the students or staff owned automobiles - travel was done by foot or bicycle or carpool - so more than a few scant eyes lifted when the distant purr of an engine sounded, and then another. A caravan of dark green, glossy vans was sweeping up the school's drive. 

The vans all rolled to a halt at precisely the same time, the line so long that the end couldn't even be seen - the cars were dotted up and down the drive and around the curve in the road leading away from the mansion. Clunky, large figures began emerging from the vehicles. As they approached the school, however, it quickly became apparent that it was not their bodies making them large and awkward - but the thick, rubbery suits they wore. Each the same uniform blue-silver color, and worn like a protective second skin over every man and woman. Helmets were also employed, great steel bulbs with a glassy, semi-reflective front. The helmets seemed like an ultimately multi-purpose tool, each one clearly including enormous cylindrical headphones, a grated gas mask, and a tiny transmitter on the right side that occasionally winked red.

At the spearhead of the group walked a woman. She was not tall, but lithe and graceful nonetheless. The hundreds of small braids that made up her hair were swept back into a no-nonsense ponytail, and her helmet was off, instead held in one hand. The mocha skin of her face and her dark, calm eyes saw the school without a reflective bubble between them. The group of suited men and women paused together, a respectable distance from the school, and they waited.

A murmur of fast, shy words shivered through Tate's halls. It seemed to take a long time, but the front doors of the school opened. People began to slip down the steps and onto the grass, cautious or angry or afraid. Even then, nothing happened. It was another good fifteen minutes before anything occurred,  and even then, it was only words.

The woman cleared her throat. "Students of Tate Academy. I am agent Peterson. First and foremost, I would like to make something clear: we have not come to harm you. We have not come to take you away. We have come here to establish an... agreement." She paused, eyes moving over the faces of the crowd in front of her. "I will state now, however, that we will employ necessary force if any of you react with vindictive aggression, or act with the intention to harm my men, or myself." 

Agent Peterson crossed her arms across her chest. "This arrangement has been discussed for a while, now, and it has been decided that it is a fair and neutral arrangement for all included parties. Firstly," she began at last, "human soldiers will be installed in Tate Academy. Their purpose is to only assure me, and my superintendant, that the newly implemented rules are going to be followed. They will not harm you or others, and will only use force if, like I said before, it becomes necessary. If the rules are followed... well, it will almost be as if we aren't here at all."

She half-smiled - granted, it looked forced - and continued. "There will be no internet access, nor live television. This is to prevent fear from spreading outside these walls. Phone calls to outside family or friends may be made, but only if their identification is proven without a doubt, and a soldier is present at the time of the call, and able to hear both sides of the conversation. A curfew will be implemented. Legal adults, eighteen and over, must be in their own school-appointed rooms by eleven PM. Juveniles must be in their rooms by nine PM." A quiet clamor had begun in the crowd, and she raised a hand for silence. "I assure you, your lives will not be greatly affected by these changes. They are for the safety of yourselves and others, and for the benefit of both the humans and the... mutated humans, such as yourselves."

"Rules..." her eyes swept over the crowd, "rules must be followed. Always. If they are not, you are potentially endangering both yourself and others. I'm sure you wouldn't want to cause any trouble for your friends. The consequences for rule-breaking are not light. One of several approved punishment techniques will be used, depending on the graveness of your rulebreaking, and if you are a former offender. Lastly..." she glanced over her shoulder, where several of her soldiers were doing something with long steel poles topped with ovular orbs. "You will not be leaving school grounds for any reason." The last of the rods, each about twenty or so feet long, were slid into neat holes in the ground. 

"This-," she flung her arm back and pointed at the nearest rod, finger then trailing to point out several more, where they looped around the property in a loose chain, "is a perimeter. And it is now... active." She hit a small black button on a tiny transmitter that she held in her hand. For a long second, nothing seemed to have happened. Then, slowly, it could be heard. A buzzing hum, the sound fluctuating oddly at moments, came into earshot. Like a swarm of insects that always seemed to be approaching, but never did. "I do not recommend coming within five feet of this perimeter. It is a necessary precaution to ensure the safety of the Tate students, and also that of the civilians living in Redwood. You will not be able to cross it due to your genes. No amount of trying will get you through it, I will assure you of that now."