Post by Odin on Oct 31, 2008 10:26:23 GMT -5
((OOC: This is a Halloween thread and set several months in the future of current events.))
::Odin had made his fair share of mistakes in his life. His worldview consisted of choices and opportunities, and rarely did he regret a choice he made, despite the circumstances in which he found himself. He had chosen to work, rather than pursue his PhD. He had chosen to leave Chicago and a steady life behind. There had been an expression for him growing up: Jack of all trades, master of none. His inability to focus his boundless curiosity on any one task for the time necessary to make a living. It had led to his travel, moving from job to job, from research project to research project, from town to town across the country and back again. He'd needed a guiding force in his life, something to ground him; he'd found it twice. Once in Chicago, which had set events into motion. Once in New York, which had ruined his life as he knew it.
More than anything, if he could, he regretted the encounter with Wideawake. He'd nearly died that night, and his recovery had never been fully complete. That insidious truth serum had robbed him of his ability to defend himself verbally, and he'd never been a fighter. When the Mutant Registration Act passed, he'd been a sitting duck, with thanks to X-Factor Magazine. Thanks to the several inflammatory articles he'd published in their four issue run. The office had been targeted, and he'd viewed it as his duty to his sub-species not to register. All those derelict had been brought down for a contempt hearing and mandatory registration.
Most had been released; he hadn't. He didn't fare well in holding. Several days later, the new Director of Mutant Affairs, Boliver Trask, appeared. Within his hand, he had the record that had been put together on Odin; more than anything, the latter had been frustrated by Trask's insistence on calling him "Doug." Apart from his disconnection to his given name, it implied a familiarity that made his skin crawl.
For all of Odin's pride in his mutant status, he didn't hate baseline humans; all he wanted were the civil rights, political freedoms, and protections due his people. He came to despise Trask in short order.
"Analysis of your mutant gene says you can sense mutants and control their powers. We tried a blood sample, to see if we could make another batch of the Cure, but your blood's effects are highly unpredictable."
It took everything within him to keep the disgust from his voice. "Oh?"
"It mutated one of the other prisoners." Odin knew better than to smirk, but how he desired to...
"You need to be more careful with me," he recommended, which had earned him a harsh smack across his face. His glasses scattered across the floor; he'd never learn, apparently.
In the end, he regretted the encounter with Wideawake for the aftermath; his dampening field had strengthened to the point that no longer could he be healed. The injuries that Trask and his men had inflicted were permanent, and he'd never recover the limp, nor the scar over his left eye. He'd been released, finally, after weeks of drugs; Stryker's formula had been tried only once. When they'd realized his immunity, they'd moved to synthetics.
He was charged with a duty; to make sure the rest of the mutant population registered. It was out of his hands, and he hoped they could forgive him.::
::Odin had made his fair share of mistakes in his life. His worldview consisted of choices and opportunities, and rarely did he regret a choice he made, despite the circumstances in which he found himself. He had chosen to work, rather than pursue his PhD. He had chosen to leave Chicago and a steady life behind. There had been an expression for him growing up: Jack of all trades, master of none. His inability to focus his boundless curiosity on any one task for the time necessary to make a living. It had led to his travel, moving from job to job, from research project to research project, from town to town across the country and back again. He'd needed a guiding force in his life, something to ground him; he'd found it twice. Once in Chicago, which had set events into motion. Once in New York, which had ruined his life as he knew it.
More than anything, if he could, he regretted the encounter with Wideawake. He'd nearly died that night, and his recovery had never been fully complete. That insidious truth serum had robbed him of his ability to defend himself verbally, and he'd never been a fighter. When the Mutant Registration Act passed, he'd been a sitting duck, with thanks to X-Factor Magazine. Thanks to the several inflammatory articles he'd published in their four issue run. The office had been targeted, and he'd viewed it as his duty to his sub-species not to register. All those derelict had been brought down for a contempt hearing and mandatory registration.
Most had been released; he hadn't. He didn't fare well in holding. Several days later, the new Director of Mutant Affairs, Boliver Trask, appeared. Within his hand, he had the record that had been put together on Odin; more than anything, the latter had been frustrated by Trask's insistence on calling him "Doug." Apart from his disconnection to his given name, it implied a familiarity that made his skin crawl.
For all of Odin's pride in his mutant status, he didn't hate baseline humans; all he wanted were the civil rights, political freedoms, and protections due his people. He came to despise Trask in short order.
"Analysis of your mutant gene says you can sense mutants and control their powers. We tried a blood sample, to see if we could make another batch of the Cure, but your blood's effects are highly unpredictable."
It took everything within him to keep the disgust from his voice. "Oh?"
"It mutated one of the other prisoners." Odin knew better than to smirk, but how he desired to...
"You need to be more careful with me," he recommended, which had earned him a harsh smack across his face. His glasses scattered across the floor; he'd never learn, apparently.
In the end, he regretted the encounter with Wideawake for the aftermath; his dampening field had strengthened to the point that no longer could he be healed. The injuries that Trask and his men had inflicted were permanent, and he'd never recover the limp, nor the scar over his left eye. He'd been released, finally, after weeks of drugs; Stryker's formula had been tried only once. When they'd realized his immunity, they'd moved to synthetics.
He was charged with a duty; to make sure the rest of the mutant population registered. It was out of his hands, and he hoped they could forgive him.::
