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 Welldrinker Cult
A shadowy group is gaining power, drawing in people who are curious, vulnerable, or malicious, and turning them into Mystics. They are recruiting people into their ranks to spread the influence of magic in the world, but for what end goal?
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.
Katrina walked into the police station, messenger bag slung over one hip. She pulled at her skirt a little to straighten it out, trying to convince it that it should stay straight, no matter what it heard from Mr. Bag about how cool it was to twist crooked. She walked up to the secretary lady that filling out paper work and waited politely for the woman to look up. When she finally did, Katrina smiled at her.
The woman crossed her hands in front of her and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I'd like to see Detective Jorge, please.”
Cynthia II, the secretary, frowned a little. She didn't like unannounced office visits. One never knew who might be planning on attacking the place. Nice, normal looking girls, even ones who passed metal detectors and x-ray checks just fine, could very well be killers in disguise. Like the two featured on the posters right behind her, the two who had driven a car into the front doors of one of the other stations and cut a violent path through both cops and computers before making out in the back room.
The secretary raised her eyebrow at the nice, normal looking girl in front of her, “I'm sorry, but he is unavailable.”
Katrina tried to sneak a peek down the hallway, to see if she could catch a glimpse of Detective Jorge's desk. She could not. “Well, thanks anyway.”
She knew she should have just come in invisible from the start. Her mistake had been expecting a secretary that was actually cool, like Noin or even Lisa. Not this rules-y boring lady.
Katrina waited outside the door for someone else to come in, so she could follow them through the doors without anyone suspecting ghost or mutant shenanigans. She stuck out an invisible tongue at Boring Police Secretary on her way past.
The Mutant Related Crimes division was much as she remembered it, with a few minor changes. First, there was less jell-o all over the place today. Second, there was one fewer Detective Jorge present. Third, the renovations to the staff lounge were coming along quite nicely.
Fourth, and perhaps the most surprising of all the changes, was that the station had acquired a cat. It was a white cat with black spots here and there, a little pink splotch or two mixed in with the black patches where it looked like a kid had unsuccessfully tried to spray paint him, and just a hint of powered sugar on his whiskers.
Katrina would have recognized him anywhere:
Calley.
Calley who had been gone for months.
Calley who had come in the night and stolen back his lobster.
Calley who had been seen at the mansion numerous times in the past few weeks.
Calley who hadn't even come to say 'hi' to her in all that time.
The invisible teen narrowed her invisible eyes, forgetting all about Detective Jorge for the moment. She had something more important to deal with for the moment.
As the little cat with black and pink spots here and there groomed his whiskers, Katrina pulled out an invisible pencil from her bag and used it to write a very visible message on top of the stack of post-it notes right in front of the cat.
Back in Detective Cassandra Elliot’s day, the MRC had been the MMRC, and it wasn’t about giving mutants an equal shake. They’d worked out of a closet-sized room in the Central Park Precinct, and tried to keep the body count down. No special power-suppressing collars, no spot in the NYPD’s yearly budget, and no x-genes on their own side to back them up.
Now that they had elbow room and a fully staffed department of their own, being a senior member came with perks.
One: She had one of the best desks in the department.
Two: She had a window, right next to said desk.
Three: No one messed with her cat.
It was a little stray cat with black spots here and there. It came by in the mornings, now and then. She always saved a bite of her breakfast until noon, just in case.
Said cat was currently sitting on the windowsill, as per its usual, lazily grooming powdered sugar off of its fur as its baby blue eyes flicked over case files on his patron’s desk while she was out on the trail of—let’s see—looked like a missing mutant child. He’d seen quite a few of those case reports around here lately. Not that he knew anything about—
How is Lobenstien?
--Kat.
And in that moment, the little white cat with black spots here and there knew that he was in trouble. Because—he must have… hadn’t he? Err, maybe not?—because he hadn’t seen in her several months. Several months more than he hadn’t seen others in, in fact.
Oops?
The next moment, the cat—having paused in its licking for reasons unknown to any officers of the law—caved again to its cleanly nature. It moved on, with great grace, to its posterior. One ear flicked back, listening for invisible breathing on its neck. One eye was silted, seeking for... something. Was there a hint of skirt here, a ghost of a glare there? It might be nothing.
Or it might be a little--just a bit--angry at him.
Her question was answered with a pause and a butt lick. Katrina was at a loss as to exactly what that was supposed to mean, but her hunch was that it meant something like this: “I am a cat right now and can't be bothered. I'll tell you all about it when I'm good and ready. Not because you asked, but because I feel like it.”
Katrina rolled her invisible eyes at him. Fine. If he was going to be like that, she could go about her own business, too. That meant finding out where Detective Jorge was.
The invisible teen wandered over toward the desk she knew was his, to see if she could find a clue as to his whereabouts.
Clue 1: His computer case sat open on the floor and his computer was on his desk; on but sleeping. That meant he probably was working today, but hadn't been at his actual desk for awhile.
Clue 2: His desk calendar indicated that he didn't have any meetings today. So, wherever he was it was something either unplanned or unworthy of writing down. Or he was really bad at keeping a calendar.
In the background different voices crackled over the radio. It wasn't the normal type of radio station Katrina thought people might listen to at work. There was way too much dead air time, for one thing. For another, it was really hard to understand. There were all these numbers being thrown around with code this-and-thats sprinkled in. It wasn't until she heard a familiar name that she really started paying attention to it.
“Cerventes, check out the 11-54 on West 51st and 12th.”
Clue 3: Wait. What?
Katrina double checked the last name on the desk. It was the same name! Weird pronunciation, but the same.
She skittered back to the only place she had seen post-it notes and scribbled down the address. Right before taking the note, she added one more word at the bottom of the page.
The little white cat with pink splotches here and there was not pushed out the window. Not, of course, that he’d been a quick claw-into-windowsill jab away from bracing for it.
Nor was his tail tip tugged, nor his ears flicked, nor even his fur ruffled. The words on the pad remained, however.
The cat moved from posterior to tummy, its eyes scanning the room as its pink tongue pulled its white belly into little tufts of fair. The radio crackled, but he didn’t pay it more than the usual mind. He was much more interested in searching for someone whose smell was in his nose, but who was quite distinctly absent from the room.
Coming? The post-it note said.
To which the cat replied: lick paw, rub behind ear, stretch—with a paw batting at that pad of evidence—and leapt lightly out the window.
Not having pants, it was not a boy who awaited the illusionist as she came outside. It was a light red parakeet, perched prettily on a lamp post.
Katrina made sure she took the top several sheets of paper from the pad, just in case anyone tried any tricks to see what had previously been written there. Anyone who had ever seen a mystery show knew to do that. Then she left the way that she had come, waiting for someone else to open the door first.
Outside she looked around for familiar cat, or possibly a familiar something else. There was several sparrows, a handful of pigeons, and on top of a light post, a pink light red parakeet.
Once she was sure no one other than the pink parakeet would see her, she reappeared and gave a little wave to the parakeet. So he had decided to come along. It would be good to have the company.
The little illusionist started walking.
What she really wanted to do was to find out where Calley had been, but since all he had was a beak, that was currently impossible, and she was even less fluent in parakeet than she was in cat.
The off-maroon bird landed with fluttery grace on the illusionist’s shoulder, its feet settling onto her bag’s strap. Said bird tilted its head, and hopped to the edge of her shoulder, where it could see her face better.
Chereep, Chirup.
Hop hop—back to the side of her neck, where it tucked itself in briefly.
Chiiiir.
It was good to be back. Even if he forgot where home was, sometimes.
It was hard to stay mad at a pink pale crimson parakeet when he so cheerfully hoped and sang on her shoulder. She smiled and reached up to gently scritch his neck. Maybe when he changed back to human again she could give him a proper scolding. For now, though, they had an adventure to be getting to.
Katrina pulled out the post-it note to double check the address. The numbering system of the streets indicated that they were two blocks away by the W streets and three away by the avenues. It would probably take about fifteen minutes to get there. She set herself a brisk pace and started along the way.
While she walked, she filled Calley in about their current mission to return the stapler. Then she started to explain why she needed the stapler in the first place. In her backwards order she was just getting to describing how bossy Letitia was when she heard sirens from behind them.
Whatever the 11-54 was, it sounded like it had just gotten interesting enough to need backup. Katrina ran the last block, promising under her breath the whole way that she wouldn't skip any gym classes this year.
Member of the X-Men Mansion Swim Teacher MRC Detective
Seablue
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Married to Gemma
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Apr 23, 2024 22:22:33 GMT -6
Jorge
“Are you on my Naughty List?!?!”
A burst of whirlwind driven snow flew across the street and pelted a black standard issue undercover police car. It was not as sharp and dangerous as ice, but the snow was still cold and piled it quicker than anyone could shovel off. As the black paint job slowly disappeared under the mounts of white a police detective that hunkered down on the far side of the car, stayed low and kept his gun armed and ready. White fluffs of snow spilled over his shoulders and started to pile up around his feet but still the man did not move. Instead he remained unmoving, listening, waiting for his moment to strike.
Jorge Cervantes sighed and shook his head. He still could not believe this is how his day was going, having his car being buried under snow. The bust was supposed to nice and easy but, as per usual, it all went to hell in a hand basket.
Having just come off of another investigation, Jorge got the call on his police radio that his attentions were needed at an 11-54, suspicious vehicle in front of a place of business known as The Hustler Club. Jorge responded that he was on the way but little did he know that he was walking in on an shady trade between former associates of Razorback and a new face on the streets, Big Boss Kringle. Razorback was in jail but his associates were still attempting to do business in his name to keep his street territories from slipping to rival gangs. Big Boss Kringle was an up and comer who was attempting to claim his own little piece of the city.
The funny, and sad, thing was that Big Boss Kringle looked exactly like the mythic Santa Claus. A tall man, at 6’3, he had a massive build that made him look as if he was fat, but it was all muscle. A thick white beard covered the lower face of his face while he wore a red bandana tied around his bald head. In a custom, red leather jacket and black jeans, he made an imposing figure…and one that stuck out like a sore thumb. On top of all that the man had the ability to generate a wind-driven snow whenever he wanted to.
The man was not the symbol of Holiday joy that he took the appearance of. He had set up the meeting with Razorback’s people in order to make an arms deal…
Jorge’s arrival apparently scattered those plans to the winds. Identified by one of Razorback’s associates who had recognized him from prior, they all attempted to intact a little payback. That was how Jorge found himself ducking behind his car, yelling into his police radio for backup. As much as the detective trusted his own abilities handle intense situations, he doubted there was much he could do against heavily armed criminals on his own.
He tossed his radio aside as she knelt down and glanced off to the side; the street slowly being covered in snow while gunshots began to rail all around him. Gun in hand, the detective yelled from his hiding spot…
“It’s over, Kringle!! You and your buddies are going downtown!” he tried to sound much more confident than a man in his position should be.
Kringle grinned through his thin, rose colored glasses, hefted his heavy arms up and shot them forward. Another gust of wind flew, driving another whirlwind of snow directly at the police officer’s car.
“Nice try! But those are big words coming from a man trapped in his own personal snow globe!!”
Jorge shivered briefly as he clenched his jaw. He needed a plan, he needed to get out from behind this car, but most of all…he needed backup.
Back up arrived a smidge early, in the form of a muted ruby parakeet. Said parakeet would not blame the officer for not noticing it: after the first cold breeze had blasted through its feathers from around the corner, it had made an effort to flutter in the significantly warmer thermals above.
Reconnaissance complete, it wheeled around the tasteful signboard of this upstanding establishment, and disappeared back behind the street corner.
It tucked its wings, and landed with a plop at Katrina’s feet, in the form of a two-tailed fox kit. This was slightly more conducive to speech.
"Three generic thugs,” it enunciated past its canines, with rather dramatic yawnings of its jaws, “and Santa Claus. Couldn’t tell if the thugs had any powers, but Kringle—” a cold blast of air and a flutter of snow set the fur on its back foofing. “–Kringle could use a little roasting, over an open fire.”
The vulpix really had quite large teeth, when it grinned like that.
She touched her chest and stone appeared hanging from a leather cord. It glowed as if there was a flame trapped inside.
“I choose you, Mohawk!”
The blonde teen pointed dramatically. With her red pleated skirt, her white blouse, and her messenger bag, she could have easily been a Pokemon trainer. Except she hadn't thought to bring a hat. There just weren't any girl trainers without hats or strange ponytails.
It was snowing sideways in the summer, but things were about to get a warmer quickly. As soon as her vulpix open his little mouth, she'd be sending illusions of fire whirlwinds in the bad guys' directions, along with heat and burn-y feelings.
Member of the X-Men Mansion Swim Teacher MRC Detective
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Apr 23, 2024 22:22:33 GMT -6
Jorge
Jorge was still pressed back against his car, trying hard to not get pelted by the rough, cold winds. He wanted to fight back. He wished he could summon a tidal wave just to knock Kringle on his big, red covered butt, but he could not move from his spot. And summoning water was out of the question. He would lose control of it the second it became frozen. Unfortunately his powers did not delve into the realm of frozen and gaseous. It was a bad downfall…but he still had his gun and he was a damn good marksman. That was going to have to be his best bet. As much as he hated firing on criminals…he was up a frozen creek without an ice drill…
So, gun held up, Jorge closed his eyes to take a breath. The cold chill was ravaging his lungs but he did not let it get to him. Instead he clenched his jaw, offered a tiny, and suddenly shot up, leaning over the hood of his car and took aim…
…at a…
…tiny…
…fire-spewing…
…red…
…fox!
“Huh?!” he muttered as he half leaned over his car hood with his gun aimed forward.
Now this was a sight to see. In front of him, Kringle, his men, and Razorback’s old cronies were all screaming and running what seemed to be a whirlwind of fire lashed out and followed them. Jorge could scarcely follow the speed at which it moved. But one thing he did notice, oddly enough, was the fact that none of the ice and snow were melting from the ground. Despite that, though, the criminals were all screaming and attempting to flee for their lives.
Kringle kept screaming how he did not want to burn up and all the other cronies had either abandoned him or were in the very process of doing so. Jorge watched the scene unfold with a bit of humor, but also shock. Just what the hell was going on? Another glance to that fire-breathing fox creature and Jorge could only shake his head. What was that thing? And what was it doing running free in the streets?
Sidestepping around his car, Jorge kept his gun aimed at Kringle, while at the same time, also keeping an eye on that fiery little beast. He hoped and prayed it wouldn’t turn its attentions on him.
“Hands up, Kringle! I want to see those fat little digits in the air, NOW!” he screamed.
“Alright! Alright!!” Kringle sobbed as he crawled away from the fiery tornado. “Just save me! For the love of god, save me!!”
“Coooooool! A vulpix!” a young voice yelled out from somewhere behind him. Just some passing kid.
What the hell’s a ‘vulpix’ mean? Jorge muttered as he turned to eye the fire fox and moved closer to Kringle.
Posted by Cheshire on Aug 24, 2011 15:03:54 GMT -6
Mutant God
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Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
“Vulpix! Vul!” The little fox kit growled, thoroughly intimidating the cringing Claus. (And earning a “Sweet!” from a certain young voice with impeccable taste.) It ceased its fiery assault, but kept its foofy hackles raised, waiting on its Trainer’s next order.
It was too well trained to glance in the cop’s direction. Just for the record, though? The vulpix had its shots. It didn’t appreciate the man wondering otherwise, or the way that gun could easily be turned on him. Couldn’t this guy recognize an epic rescue when he saw one? Honestly.
“Pix!” It yipped warningly, as the arrest was made. Stay down, Kringle, or risk a crisping.
On a related note: now was probably not the time to tell the cop that he could talk.
Santa Claus gave up much more easily than she had expected. She had been ready to duck behind the nearest post office box when the next wave of cold air would blast in her direction. Instead, he and his team were running scared.
Katrina expected shenanigans.
“Don't let your guard down,” she shouted to her vulpix. “Use glare!” It should make Kringle feel weak in the knees. If he weren't already on his knees. Well... he at least wouldn't be able to stand up easily.
This Kringle guy, she didn't trust him. Not with his ice powers and his shady dealings in front of adults-only bars. Not with his strategic crawling for cover behind a garbage can.
Member of the X-Men Mansion Swim Teacher MRC Detective
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Apr 23, 2024 22:22:33 GMT -6
Jorge
Kringle was down, cringing and trying to not bawl into a tears at the sight of the fire and the sensation of heat coming off of the whirlwind. But the detective was not a stupid man. At the sight of the fallen faux-Santa Claus, he only watched him all the more carefully. It was a common task amongst criminals to try and pretend like they were truly harmed and scared. It was a good way to get a drop on well-meaning police officers and make an escape. And with the powers that Kringle possessed, Jorge was really not going to take any chances. So, gun was aimed with utmost precision and his face did not falter at all in expression…
“Nothing funny, Kringle. Keep your hands up!”
A steady eye on the whirlwind of fire, Jorge barely even blinked as he glared at Kringle. Slowly he reached for his cuffs, little noticing the younger girl off to the side who apparently was commanding the fire-spewing fox…
>> “Don't let your guard down…Use glare!”
>> “Pix!”
What? Jorge grumbled in his head as he glanced out of the corner of his eye. There he saw a younger blonde girl yelling out her order.
The fox got a funny expression on its face.
His head snapped back to Kringle…but it was already too late. The thug, having seen the detective’s distraction, already had lifted his heavy hand up and pointed the palm directly at Cervantes’ side. By the time Jorge turned away from the girl yelling orders, all he saw was a flurry of white and ice aimed directly at him. Instinctively Jorge closed his eyes and raised his arm to protect his face as a burst of cold practically flooded all around his frame. The ice caked onto his clothes and the biting wind drove him backwards and onto his back.
He didn’t see the sudden wave of fatigue that lashed over Kringle’s frame thanks to whatever this “Glare” was that was shouted, nor did he see the weak, yet still angry Santa criminal turn his icy powers directly at the “innocent” bystander blonde and sent a massive maelstrom of cold air, sleet, and snow directly for her.
It was going to be an early and white Christmas indeed…
Kringle used Icy Wind. Against Katrina. Shenanigans! Shenanigans and tomfoolery!
Fortunately, the little vulpix had a high speed stat. His turn, now.
MOHAWK used SUBSTITUTE!
Kringle wasn’t ho-ho-hoing anymore when another fox sprouted in front of the red kit. It was larger than the kit (by about a factor of five), more stripped than the kit (also, orange), and with a rather deformed (and sadly singular) cat tail.
The Bengal Vulpix leapt in front of Katrina, its warm fur protecting her from Kringle’s devious ice attacks.
Out in front, the little fox kit had used that distraction to sneak in his own tomfoolery: an extra turn.
