Rebels & Mutineers is set in modern day New Orleans, Louisiana. R&M is fueled by player's plots and group input.
Supernatural people have always had their place in society, hidden in plain sight or locked away for their own protection. New Orleans, a haven for the strange and mysterious and a magnet for the supernatural.
Established: Oct. 27th, 2018 Recently Updated Posts && Recently Updated Threads
05.11.19
As the community reels from the untimely death of Lucia Lovelle, life has to move on. Primrose readies for the annual Prom celebration! Keep your eye out for a event board and have fun!
02.27.19
It's not too late to vote for February's OTM winners! The winners for January, keep an eye out on your messages for your winner's graphics for your signature. Already voted? Make sure you check out the Mardi Gras event board! Party up, have a good time, and enjoy!
No one ever told him how much it sucks to get shot. Malcolm took one bullet to his vest, the second to his shoulder. As he fell to the ground and the wind was knocked out of him, he was pretty sure that he expected it to hurt more. His blood pounded in his ears as he began to wonder what all of the fuss was about. All of the people who bragged about getting shot several times in music and in movies.
Then the mind numbing, earth shattering, white hot burning sensation took over his entire body and he was pretty sure he peed his pants. The other detectives pulled him towards the protection of the cop car, but he could already feel it happening. He knew what his skin was practically crawling trying to change. He could feel the memories of others that creeped into his mind with every transformation started to come through. Memories of parents that he loved as deeply as his own, but parents that were alive. Memories of finding his younger brother overdosed, memories that he was sure someone else went though but shook him to his core when the original face was replaced with Cameron's.
Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut to try to keep himself in one piece and pulled out his cellphone with a shaking hand that took him longer than he wanted to realize was covered in his own blood. He had an address of a supernatural who worked in the medical field that he was told would be able to patch him up if something happened. He grabbed his police jacket and pressed it to his shoulder, feeling his eyes change rapidly in color, size, and shape. He was going to have to get out of there before anyone saw him.
Despite the shouts of his superiors and fellow detectives to stay behind and wait for medical, Malcolm was running down the familiar streets of New Orleans to an address that he was pretty sure he knew where it was. He grew up in New Orleans and he had spent a long time just wandering around when he was a kid to spend time away from the occasional chaos of the trailer park. He found the address right when he had no idea what his skin was doing and he was fairly sure that his head was completely bald to resemble his police captain's gleaming chrome dome. He pounded on the door and leaned against the doorframe and kept pounding until he heard some movement from the house.
"Open up please! I need help!" Fuck he was losing a lot of blood.
And it's a great day to be alive I know the sun's still shining When I close my eyes
There's some hard times in the neighborhood
But why can't every day be just this good?
Waylon Clark had, originally, tried to live a normal life outside of Monroeville. He had tried to distance himself from the supernatural. He had gotten a normal, human job dealing with normal, human kids. It had been great, at first, when everything had to be soft and muted or else he would have to leave in the middle of his shift. The kids were loud and sticky, but they had never bothered him, not really. They were manageable, and he even liked them. They didn’t ask too many questions, and they always wanted to talk about anything and everything. In the short time he was at the clinic, he learned more about Paw Patrol and Peppa Pig than he ever cared to know.
There were some days in the ER that he desperately missed talking about Peppa and Suzy Sheep. The first time he had met another person like him, he wanted to do nothing more than discuss the finer points of kids television. She had been a telekinetic that came by ambulance, and while the EMT’s had considered the excessive movement in the back of the ambulance nothing more than rough Louisiana roads, he knew she was like him. After helping her, Clark knew that he had found his niche once more, right back in the world he had tried to leave.
He wasn’t sure how, but his name and location had gotten around. He had had quite a few mutants find their way to his door, usually for things he could patch up and sometimes with things he just couldn’t. His field training had already come in handy so many times he stopped keeping track. It was fulfilling, but it was damn tiring.
He was trying to snatch any sort of sleep he could when he heard the pounding on his door. He should have known better than to try to relax after a double, but he was out of bed before he could think twice. That was his autopilot: to go toward the sound of someone screaming for help. “I’m coming!” he announced as he pulled a robe over his pajamas and made a sprint for the door. He didn’t recognize the man at his door, but from the way the man’s features seemed to be twisting and shifting constantly, he knew they were alike. “Holy shit,” he murmured as he threw open the door and took the weight of the other man against him. “What happened?” Besides the obvious bullet wound in the man’s shoulder. That was fine; Clark had seen more than his fair share of bullets and blood.
He was already working on an explanation for his boss. Some sort of excuse for what he was doing in Clark's doorway instead of waiting at the scene for a bus. He wasn't sure what he was going to say that wouldn't cost him his job, but as far as he knew he was the only gifted person on the force. He didn't know who he could talk to about these things and he didn't know who he would be able to explain this to. Maybe Waylon would have an excuse for him. Was it always so cold out? He leaned against the side of his doorway, feeling cold.
It didn't get cold like that in New Orleans, he was just losing too much blood.
When the door opened, Malcolm hoped with everything that this was the right guy. He didn't know what to expect, but he was grateful to see the friendly face. He was in pajamas, which for a quarter of a second Malcolm felt bad for disrupting him. Then the searing pain of his shoulder reminded him that this was not a time for being polite, he had to get a bullet out of his shoulder or stitched up, or whatever the situation called for.
"Bank robbery gone wrong, don't worry. I'm police." The right side of it, not like he was going to get stitched up and then try to rob the guy for his act of charity. "No one on my force knows what I am." He said, his hair quickly going from bright green and shaved on the side, to Elias's short curls, to Cam's darker curls.
"Please tell me you're Waylon Clark." He said with gritted teeth, cause if not then this was going to be a very awkward conversation. He just needed help and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to go about this. "You can help me, right?"
And it's a great day to be alive I know the sun's still shining When I close my eyes
There's some hard times in the neighborhood
But why can't every day be just this good?
There was something about the guy that made Clark assume that it was out of the question for him to be the one robbing banks, but appearances were tricky. Especially with a skinwalker, if the constantly shifting hair and facial features were anything to go by. Still, underneath all that blood, there seemed to be some semblance of a uniform, and besides, he could always ask for a badge when the man wasn’t actively dying on his doorstop. “Come in,” he told him without hesitation, all but pulling him over the threshold.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m Clark. You can rest easy.” Anyone else would have been very, very concerned that bleeding police officers came to their doors in the middle of the night, but Clark didn’t have that luxury. No, he had an in with the community, whether he truly liked it or not, but he definitely did. It kicked his battle medic and nurse instincts into overdrive, and he was happy to hobble with the officer to his kitchen table. “I can help you. Stay right here.”
He tried to steady the cop the best he could before lunging at the kitchen drawers. He flew them open until he found a clean white rag, which he carried back to Malcolm. “Hold this tight there. I’m just going to get the rest of my supplies from the bathroom.” He kept a medical stash there, and he knew there was some antiseptic in there. He hated to leave the man bleeding out at his kitchen table, but he hated the idea of him getting an infection from unclean work.
After vigorously washing off the blood that had already accumulated on his hands, Clark returned with his med kit, gloves, and a bit more focus. He needed to keep this guy from passing out, as he seemed determined to do. If the pain from the antiseptic didn’t wake him up, he could at least get him talking. “How long have you been a cop?” It was a basic question, well separated from the dire situation at hand, but it wasn’t meant to be more than a distraction as he peeled away the layers of cloth stuck to the wound.
