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.
The lecture had ended an hour ago, but the young man with the brown hair was still sitting on the floor, his legs folded under him.
“The hall is closing,” the attendant repeated. The lights had already been largely shut off; the attendant had hoped the teenager might take this subtle hint. Apparently not. He lightly tapped the young man’s shoulder. “Com’on; time to go.”
The hall was large and expansive, designed to seat three hundred quite easily. The chairs had been removed for this particular speaker. They were in a rented lecture room in an upper-end hotel; Slate had been required to replace Calley’s usual borrowed clothing with something of a higher look in order to even approach the place. Even then, he’d looked quite out of place amidst the silver-haired couples and upper-middle-class housewives who had dominated the audience seated upon the bare hardwood floor. They had shifted uncomfortably throughout the lecture; a tide of soft clothing rustles and the clacks of high-heeled feet being readjusted; a few low-breathed complaints about legs going to sleep, and the lack of chairs. The noises had eddied around the words of the speaker.
The attendant shook him significantly harder. “You all right?”
When the lecture had ended, there had been a flood of noise that had washed over the hardwood floors and out into the ornately carpeted hallway, down the elevator and down the stairs, over to the banquet room for after-lecture tea and follow-up discussion. The lecturer himself had stayed seated. Slate had stayed, as well. Eventually, the lecturer had left. His soft sandaled steps did not lead to the banquet room. Slate had remained. The floors were cold and hard and quite uncomfortable. The speaker’s words had interested him. He had not expected to be interested; not to be disinterested, either. He had simply come because the clutter had recoiled in preemptively bored horror at the idea of attending a lecture by a visiting Zen master. By coming, he had guaranteed himself several hours of uninterrupted mental stillness.
Soft sandaled footsteps stopped outside of the door. “You’re still here, young man?”
“He’s still here,” the despairing attendant answered.
Slate uncoiled slowly. His legs were without feeling; quite interesting to balance atop of, really. He looked across the room to the elderly Japanese gentleman. “You have not eaten.” A statement. “May I accompany you to dinner?”
The man raised an eyebrow, and nodded his head. Neither of them seemed to pay much attention to the attendant’s confused but relieved reaction to Slate’s willing departure.
“Why were you sitting in the hall?” Toshiyuki-Sensei asked simply.
“No reason.” Slate answered, with rivaling simplicity. The Zen master seemed amused by this answer.
Without consultation, they decided upon a small family-owned Mexican restaurant a block from the hotel. Calley snickered at the choice; Slate mercilessly squished him back into silence with such effectiveness that there wasn’t even a stir from the clutter when Slate and the Zen master split an appetizer of spinach quesadillas.
“I—” Slate paused a moment. “My brother does not care for it, much. We do not frequently eat it.”
“Ah, brothers. Older or younger?”
“Older,” Slate answered. “Unfortunately.”
The corners of the man’s eyes crinkled up with unvoiced laughter. “So, was my lecture so good your contemplation froze you to the floor?”
“No,” Slate answered, taking another bite. “I had already understood that. I was simply thinking.”
“Ah.” The man said, with no small bit of insight. “In that case, may I tell you a story?” He did not wait on an answer—he knew from the focused look in the teenager’s eyes that he did not have to. “Once, a monk came to the Buddha. ‘Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?’, he asked. The Buddha answered: ‘Mu’.”
The waiter came, and took their orders. Slate let Toshiyuki-Sensei order first; then he copied the man’s choice. Calley and the clutter hated everything on the menu. It left Slate... with no opinion on the issue. If the Japanese man noticed what he was doing, he made no comment. Instead, he chose to add to his story: “‘Mu’ is the negative symbol, in Chinese—it translates to ‘no’. Or, perhaps... ‘nothing’ is better.”
“Hmm,” Slate answered. “Do you expect a reply to this story?”
“I expect very little,” the Zen master said, sipping his Doctor Pepper through a festive red straw.
Half-way through their main courses, Slate gave his reply. “The dog has as much of a Buddha-nature as I do.”
The Japanese man nodded his head, once. “Would you like to try another? These are koan—teaching stories.” He continued without waiting on reply:
“Zuigan called out to himself every day: `Master.' Then he answered himself: `Yes, sir.' And after that he added: `Become sober.' Again he answered: `Yes, sir.' `And after that,' he continued, `do not be deceived by others.' `Yes, sir; yes, sir,' he answered.”
Slate was quicker this time. “Hmm,” he said, immediately followed by, “he was wise to listen to himself.” The clutter huffed, and went back to ignoring their conversation.
“Such a quick answer,” the Zen master commented. “Would you like another?”
They continued until the bills came; they had not requested separate ones, but the waitress had been considerate. Slate paid his in cash, and left her a decent enough tip. Then he rested his arms on the table, and looked at the little Japanese man as he contemplated the contents of his wallet. “Am I enlightened?” Slate asked, with a slight arch of his eyebrow.
“No,” Toshiyuki-Sensei said without looking at him, “you are bitter. Thank you for your company. You give interesting answers, young man.” He took out two twenties, and deliberately set them on the table. Then he left. No change. Slate thought the man smiled before walking out the doorway.
Was he bitter? Yes. Was he capable of bitterness? Apparently. Slate touched his water glass, feeling the pressure of something he could not quite grasp building up in his mind. He was bitter. Curious. He may not have realized it, if the Zen master had not so bluntly pointed it out. He was... indeed, quite bitter. Suddenly the taste was on his lips, and choking at the back of his throat.
Posted by Cheshire on Jun 21, 2008 19:17:29 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
((ooc: Slate got received the tickets for the Zen Master's lecture, and folded his ninety-ninth peace crane, back in Christmas Alone.))
The lecture had ended fifteen minutes ago, but the young man with the gray scarf loosely wrapped around his neck was still sitting on the floor, his legs folded under him. Across the room, on the slightly raised stage, the lecturer himself was still seated, as well.
The hallway was filled with noise. Retreating now--shoes and voices going down the long carpeted hallway to the parking garage, to go home. There was no post-lecture brunch and discussion with today's lecture. Slate felt disappointed--and recognized the feeling as disappointment--by that. He had voluntarily missed the chance to join in the discussion on the previous lecture he had attended, though he could not fathom why. The man's topic had been interesting. He, like the others in the audience, had come in with some interest in said topic to begin with, and had gained a common knowledge of it. Their interpretations, however, might differ. A discussion would be curious.
The lecturer unfolded upwards with the clean whisper of cloth-on-cloth, and descended from the stage. Slate watched him approach.
"Hello again, young man," Toshiyuki-Sensei greeted him simply.
"Hello," Slate replied. He looked up at the man, keeping their face as blank as his name. Inside, however... there was something that he felt. It was very similar to what Calley experienced when he looked upon Antonescu. Intimidation, perhaps? He brushed it off as ridiculous. The elderly Japanese gentleman was not in their definition of 'intimidating'.
"If you do not have your heart set on remaining here until the attendant extinguishes the lights," Toshiyuki-Sensei asked, with an entirely jesting lack of jest in his voice, "Then would you care to accompany me to lunch?"
Slate gave an assenting nod, and stood on legs without feeling. He stumbled slightly at the curious sensation. "Is there anywhere in particular you would like to go?" He asked, quite politely.
Toshiyuki-Sensei seemed startled with him. "Is there anywhere in particular that you would like to go?" He returned.
Slate thought about it for a moment. "No," he admitted.
Toshiyuki-Sensei gave a nod.
They ended up in Central Park, next to the relishes at a hot dog stand. Toshiyuki-Sensei was putting sauerkraut on his. Slate watched him for a moment. Then he looked to the choices. Ketchup, mustard, horseradish mustard, pickles, onions, sauerkraut. Experimentally, Slate put a little bit of everything on his own. Then they found a nearby bench, and sat down.
The day was a beautiful one. The sky was stripped with wispy, thin clouds, like they had been combed through. There was a light breeze that made it difficult for the few springtime flies to land, much less hover. Slate had put on khaki dress pants and a silvery blue shirt that matched both their eyes and his scarf. It occurred to him that this was a dangerous outfit for his well-topped hotdog. He contemplated how to begin eating the thing with the least mess, a slight frown on their face.
"How is your brother doing, young man?" Toshiyuki-Sensei asked.
Slate straightened up, and looked at him for a moment. "My brother. My brother is... he is my brother."
"Ah." Toshiyuki-Sensei smiled slightly, and changed the topic. "So, you returned to hear another of my lectures. I hope I gave you more to think on, this time."
Slate gave a slow nod. "Yes. It was... quite good. I am not sure I understood it all, however." He took a tentative bite out of his hotdog, with all of its toppings.
...After a moment of careful swallowing, Slate set the hotdog on the bench between them, and did not touch it again. Instead, he picked up a napkin, and wiped off his mouth.
The man swallowed his current bite. "Would you listen to a story, young man?" He deliberately waited for Slate's nod. Then he began: "Once, a monk came to the Buddha. ‘Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?’, he asked. The Buddha answered: ‘Mu’. You remember what 'Mu' means, don't you, young man?"
Slate frowned, his eyebrows coming closer together. "I remember that whole story. It is the first koan you told me, last time. Was my answer not satisfactory?"
"Your answer then was perfectly satisfactory," Toshiyuki-Sensei said. "What I would like to hear is your answer now."
"My answer now?" Slate looked down. The path in this part of Central Park was paved with red stones. There was flattened, blackening chewing gum; cigarette butts, ground in their own black ashes; pigeon droppings, in smears of white and black. "My answer now, I suppose, is that it would be just as well if the dog did not have the Buddha-nature. Though I cannot see it making a difference, either way."
The Japanese man nodded his head, once, then once again. "One more, and then I will stop boring you:
"Zuigan called out to himself every day: `Master.' Then he answered himself: `Yes, sir.' And after that he added: `Become sober.' Again he answered: `Yes, sir.' `And after that,' he continued, `do not be deceived by others.' `Yes, sir; yes, sir,' he answered."
Slate felt his mouth curl up in that familiar, inexplicable motion: a slight smile. "Zuigan should not deceive himself, either." He looked at the man sitting next to him, as the Zen Master polished off his hotdog. "What? Are you going to tell me that I am bitter, again?"
"No, no." Toshiyuki-Sensei started. Then he held up a finger, and finished swallowing before continuing. "No. Today, you are not bitter. Today," the Japanese man said as he stood, wiping a stray piece of sauerkraut off of his pants, "you are sulking."
"What?" Slate asked simply. "...I am not sulking."
"Good day, young man. Thank you for your company. I felt that there was more of you, today."
"What do you mean by that?" Slate demanded.
"Nothing in particular," the Japanese man said over his shoulder, with a laugh to his voice. "Though, I suppose, that makes more of you to sulk!"
"I am not sulking!" Slate yelled after him. The Zen Master did not answer. Slate fumed where he sat. He was angry. He was distraught. He was not sulking.
The dirty napkin was still in their hand. Slate began folding it, not at first realizing what the practiced moves would lead to. It was something he had been taught last Christmas Eve by a young girl named Katrina. His mind calmed as he began to put intent behind the folds. In due time, the dirty napkin became a crane. His hundredth crane.
Slate held it up in front of his face, leaning back a little on the bench. With the sunlight behind it, one could not see the imperfections inherent in its material, or the dark stains it had gained from use. It looked merely white. Radiant. His hundredth crane was quite beautiful.
According to Katrina, he was now nine hundred cranes away from being granted any wish. Heh. It was just a childish tale. The wish he wanted... it could not be granted. A thousand paper cranes would not change that fact. It was nothing to sulk over. That did not stop him, however. Slate picked up his hotdog, and found a trashcan to forget it in.
Then he picked up a stack of napkins from the hotdog stand, and went back to the bench. There was no hope in his folds. Hope would be both unrealistic, and unlogical. There was only order and focus, as Slate set his hundredth crane on the tarnished path in front of him, and began making friends to join it.
“Young man! What a pleasant surprise. It seems we will be sharing the flight.”
Calley startled awake, and tried to hide the startle behind an indifferent glower. “Do I know you?”
The elderly Japanese man paused in the arduous task of lifting his suitcase into the overhead compartment. He looked at Calley. Really looked. “No,” he said. “I suppose you don’t.”
“Can I help you with that?” A flight attendant asked.
“Oh yes, thank you.”
Suitcase safely stowed, the man shuffled into his head. Or rather, he shuffled into seat 42B, while holding a ticket that clearly read 42C. Calley stared out the window, his slumped shoulder waiting for the man to say something. All it got was an amused eyebrow raise, however. The elderly man tucked his ticket in with the duty-free shopping magazines, air sickness bags, and emergency exit plans. By the time he glanced back at his traveling companion, the young Italian’s forehead was pressed against the glass. Already asleep.
“Young man. Young man, do you want chicken or beef?”
“Hmm? Wha—?” He startled. Again. Maybe more than was necessary. The attendant looked at him, but the elderly man merely watched.
“Chicken or beef, young man? It is time for our dinner.”
“Umm—chicken. Chicken. Please. Never trust airline beef,” Calley advised. Which the elderly man took as an invitation to chat with him, for the rest of the flight. Great.
“Will this be your final destination, or are you catching another flight?”
“Catching another. Probably.” In retrospect, the chicken wasn’t much safer. He should really start requesting vegetarian meals with his ticket.
“I see. Where are you headed?”
“Somewhere.” You had to make those requests ahead of time, though. Calley wasn’t so good with booking flights ahead of time.
“May I tell you a story, young man?” Not that the geezer gave him time to reply. “Once, a monk came to the Buddha. ‘Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?’ he asked. The Buddha answered, ‘Mu’.”
“...Nice story. What’s ‘mu’?”
“You don’t know?”
Calley didn’t like the way the guy looked at him, when he asked that. As if he were expecting to see something else. Something... more. “No. I don’t.”
“ ‘Mu’ is like ‘nothing’; a negation. ...I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
Calley’s snort was, perhaps, not the reply the man had been expecting. He waved his plastic fork. “No, no. Sorry. I just... sorry. So basically, the guy asks his question, and Buddha goes: ‘Hey dude. No. Just no.’ ”
“Basically.” The man’s lips quirked. He had ordered the beef, against Calley’s advice. Well. Good for him. “What do you think? Does the dog have a Buddha nature?”
“Mu,” Calley said, because even the Buddha was allowed to be a smartass, as it turned out.
“Heh. Yes. Another story:
“Zuigan called out to himself every day: ‘Master.’ Then he answered himself: ‘Yes, sir.’ And after that he added: ‘Become sober.’ Again he answered: ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And after that,’ he continued, ‘do not be deceived by others.’ ‘Yes, sir; yes, sir,’ he answered.”
“Pfft.”
“Did I amuse you, young man?”
“No. Yeah. I mean—what’s the point of these ‘stories’?” Maybe the vegetarian meal wouldn’t have been any better. Calley was pretty sure the ‘vegetables’ on his plate deserved the same quote-unquote treatment as this guy’s ‘stories.’
“They are koan. Teaching stories. We use them to exercise our way of thinking.”
“So what was that supposed to teach? About split personalities, and bad priorities?”
“I wonder,” the man said, and he was looking at Calley again. Seeing him. Getting seen was not the reason Calley was on this plane. He gave a shrug, and abandoned his pre-packaged cookie so he could just turn his head and go back to sleep.
“Young man. Young man, you may wish to wake up now.”
Which showed exactly how much the guy knew.
“Local time is 7:14 AM. Thank you for flying—”
Calley cracked open one baby blue eye, then another.
The elderly man already had his suitcase down, courtesy of another helpful flight attendant. Calley pulled his backpack out from under the seat in front of him, where all the cool kids kept their stuff. Easy reach, and all that. He very distinctly did not look up at this traveling companion, but his traveling companion just couldn’t seem to return the favor. “Young man, what is your name?”
“Calley.”
“Ah.” For once, the guy left it at that. Which was annoying. Not to mention rude.
“Hey,” Calley called after him, as the guy serenely wheeled his way down the aisle. “Hey!”
The Japanese man looked back, with a slight smile on his lips. “Yes, young man?”
“What’s your name?”
The smile broadened out, crinkling the laugh lines around his eyes. “Ask yourself. You already know.”
...Whatever that was supposed to mean. Last time he talked to a Zen Master.
