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.
"These are Deathstar, Pitbull, Shya, and Matthew. You have a name?"
Johnny was taken aback for a split second at the introductions, quirking an eyebrow upwards at the comments. “Yes sir, I’m fresh off of the bus as they say, just arrived a few days ago. I’m afraid my name is not as gloriously excessive as some of our companions’. Name’s Johnny.” He quickly reached out and shook Ted’s hand, nodding at him in hopeful friendliness, banking that the guards wouldn’t notice the interaction.
"You didn't break nothing did you?,” the one introduced as Deathstar had inquired.
He turned his head to flash his pearly smile at her, “Ah, I’m afraid as the cliché goes, that the only thing hurt was my pride, which does seem to be quite a hindrance these day anyways.” He let his gaze roam quickly around the group, hoping to discover some insight about these individuals. However, the one called Shya approached soon after carrying the body of a newly deceased boy, and Johnny suspected it was a good time to take on a more serious mood. He quietly stepped back, letting the others bury the corpse and watching Ted take a hit from the guards, while renewing his analysis of the diggers.
Ted seemed quite safe to Johnny. The first to introduce himself and seemingly the most pleasant of the five, Ted was quite an endearing individual; good natured, and overall, quite boring. However, as the nice guy, Johnny would have to stay friendly with him if he wanted a chance at befriending any of the others. The nice ones were always the easiest.
Deathstar was intriguing, albeit it may have mainly sprang from her abnormal name. A fine specimen of femininity, although Johnny had no interest in that facet of her, she seemed to put forth a visage of strength. This came not only from her stance, but the wording of sentences; unnecessarily rash. Whether this tough exterior was real or a defense mechanism was the real question however, and would take more time to discover. Either way, she was tolerable enough, and didn’t seem like that much trouble.
The one introduced as Shya was also interesting. While her physical mutation was the most obvious strangeness about her, it was not what intrigued Johnny. Rather, she seemed to hold a certain stoic grace, or inner strength. Not very many individuals had Johnny encountered that could face the task of burying a child with such valor, and not through uncaring. Perhaps not the most physically capable, she was very dangerous nonetheless.
Pitbull’s large frame seemed to fit perfectly with his name, and the connotations raised from it. It was enough for Johnny to draw an opinion of him; strong, loyal, boring.
Finally his gaze ended on Matthew. The smallest and meekest out of the group, Johnny almost passed quickly over him. However, there was something in the comment that Matthew had made, which Johnny had deigned to ignore, that warranted a second look. It was much too similar to something that he himself might have said. There seemed to be something off about Matthew that he couldn’t quite place. By all appearances he was a shy, pleasant boy, but Johnny had trouble accepting this role. As such, he was either nothing, or just maybe the most dangerous out of the five. The meek shall inherit the earth after all.
Johnny continued to dig absent mindedly, finishing his first mental report on these new acquaintances. He was eager to speak to his fellow digger however, this being his first opportunity to find out about the camp. “So, how long have you had the misfortune of being here?” he addressed the group politely, hoping for some information.
The aroma off of the open graves and the mound of bodies was, in a word, stunning. Calley had never smelled anything quite like it. Not with such vividly cloying weight, at the least. He had smelled fresh kills and stale road kill. Never had he smelled a genocide. It reminded him that he hadn't eaten in a few hours.
Calley... no.
What?
Under no circumstances are we... we eating here.[/color]
...Are you okay, Slate? You sound sick, almost. This was your idea, remember.
...Indeed.[/i]
They were in one of their bird forms. A large black American Crow, to be specific. Could Calley help it if a great big heap o' carrion smelled a little like jerky? Slate gagged at the thought. Since Calley wasn't particularly keen on finding out if crows could vomit, he steered his thoughts clear of that subject.
Didn't know you had such a weak stomach.
...If you do not find this appalling, Calley, then please have the decency to shut up.
Gees. Okay, okay.
The large crow came to a fluttering, hopping halt on the ground quite a few feet from the group of mutants, and even further from their guards. He was confident that he wouldn't be found out as a mutant. If humans had a way of detecting that, he'd have been screwed weeks ago, and any psychics in this group were likely to be fairly inhibited by those charming fashion accessories. Besides, a crow couldn't be a strange sight in this particular section of the Camp. He began preening under a wing. He'd already given the place a once-over fly-by, so he knew the layout. He'd seen some familiar faces while he did. This group had a few others he knew. Ted and Deathstar, to be specific. He was glad to see that they weren't looking... well, like something that would smell good to him in this form.
He pulled out a few damaged feathers with compulsive jerks of his beak and tweaked a few others back into place, keeping one ear trained on the group. He wasn't here for any specific intel. He was just... listening.
Mathew smiled vaguelly at this new threat, his eyes taut, the lids stiff and static. It was a subtle fixture to an otherwise calm and intrigued face, but to the perceptive it was a glaring sign that Mathew was feeling defensive and threatened. He let his gaze travel down and listened as the rest of them spoke amongst themselves, and he thought about new directions. A plan was already moulding in his head, a plan to which Pitbull would be a key player. He'd observed them all, and how they'd behaved. After a little while it seemed that their masks had faded and they'd relaxed into a kind of familiarity, allowing Mathew to gauge their potential and their talents, or lack thereof. Pitbull suited his purposes best; common, down-to-earth. Jovial enough. He was the kind of man with power, yet with the constraint necessary to control it. He was the kind of man who got into other men's company easily... as it goes, the guards were not on par with Mathew. He could easily adapt, but it was easier and therefore more likely to be successful for him to play the wheedling weakling. However, Pitbull could pull up the rear... that's if he was willing. Putting the thought aside for the time being, Mathew turned his attention back to the shovel. From the corner of his eye a large black bird scuttled over; he turned to look at it properly and had to resist the urge to shoo it. He inclined his head, thinking about the boy Shya had just dumped into the hole. It made Mathew sick, especially since, when all was said and done, that boy wasn't much younger than he was. The thought made him think of everyone back home, and whether they knew what had happened to him. Did everyone know he was in a camp? Did they assume he'd found what he was looking for? Didn't they know the awful conditions he was in now, were they oblivious to it? Yes, most probably. Much as he hated to admit it, and liked to pretned he didn't care, it might as well have been him going into that hole. Nobody here knew him. Nobody here cared about him, certainly... but the bird, the bird who'd brought these thoughts on; It comforted him. There was a logical part of his brain which said, this is the natural order of things. They're dead, but that bird will survive. That bird will die at some point, but somehow its death will help another thing survive. Swings and roundabouts... and so on and so on, and how he wished he could truly believe that. Wouldn't that just be... capital, to be able to look at a life gone in that way. No, he couldn't do it. That child, the boy in the hole, it was never meant to be his destiny to feed blackbirds; that much Mathew just couldn't believe. If he'd been old enough to sin, to do something wrong, to lose his virginity for God's sake, then it would be bad enough. But for somthing so innocent... and how he'd died, well, Mathew didn't want to think about that. He didn't know, and it was all he could do to force himself not to care, because it really would drive him crazy. He took another quick, furtive look at the pile of bodies and then he glanced back at the diggers. He clenched his jaw and turned his eyes down, examining the shifting mud and dirt as his pitiful digs made the hole ever so slightly bigger each time. Would any of them care if he was in that hole? Really, honestly care? Probably not... not anymore than they'd cared about that boy, just dump him in and make nice about it.
Overcome suddenly, and trying to hide his, his lip quivered a bit and he turned away from the group. This wasn't him, to cry. It wasn't him to be emotional... but what was he really doing here? Why, of all the people in the world, why had it been Mathew in New York the day the guards had been called? He realised suddenly that he'd missed a birthday in this camp. Eyes wide, he looked up and the realisation dawned on him. He was another year older. Come and gone, in a flash, and what had he been doing? He found he couldn't say for sure. He didn't even know what day he was in, only that he'd missed it.
He bolstered himself and tried to make like Scarlet O'Hara, "I'll think about it tomorrow..." But he couldn't push the thought from his mind, and confusion and self-doubt stole over him. What was he really? Was he a precocious Machiavelli pretending to be a meek little boy, fooling the others? Or was he a delusional child, powerless in a very dangerous place, who was pretending to be a precocious Machiavelli to make himself feel safe? At this moment in time, he couldn't decide on the answer himself - and that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Shutting himself off from the rest, but still listening to what they had to say, he stared blankly at the dirt and just dug the damn hole, trying his best not to let his insecurity consume him.
Haddix continued throwing dirt into the grave, determined to close the graves quickly and open them slowly. His entire time working, he was trying his best to do some training as well. While digging, he was working on his footwork, displacing weight and trying to generate power from his toes. In boxing, you can have the heaviest hands in the world, but if you're not generating power from your lower body, even spikes on your knuckles won't help you. He worked subtly, so that the guards wouldn't catch on. He'd paid attention to the way that they threw their punches when they were handing out beatings, and so far none of them had shown the skills of a fighter. Let alone the fact that they just plain weren't in fighting shape. He didn't worry so much about them as being able to be ready if the time came that there was a mass breakout. From what he'd seen lately, there was no way it wasn't going to happen. He worked swiftly, and he passed the time with training techniques, and he waited...
Deathstar stood silent as the other workers conversed with one another, she was getting tired and exhausted from digging countless graves. She jolted the shovel into the ground lowering herself down to her knees trying to sneak a quick rest break. "I think I am done for today, I can't take the smell and watching bodies rot all day, can I be relieved back to the barracks?, I have womanly issues I have to tend" obviously lying she spoke out to the new guard on duty awaiting his answer. The young naive guard reluctantly nods giving her permission to leave the digsite. Deathstar dropped her shovel onto the ground as the guard escorts her back to the barracks, "I guess I'll see ya guys around" she said with a smirk on her face as she walked off without looking back.
Haddix looked at the setting sun, then down at the newest grave. "Fuck it," he muttered. "About quitting time, eh boys?" He stuck the shovel in the ground and waited for the guards to escort him to the main camps. They grabbed him by his armpits and began walking towards the camps.