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 door to the break room opened. Almost immediately, it shut again. Nicholas Williams and Frank Newton barely had time to glance at it.
“I see an apple in your future, Frank.” Nicholas prophesized.
Frank just laid out his cards. Full house. Nicholas didn’t even have time to wince before the door burst open again and Calley came in, carrying a shinny red apple he’d pilfered from the canteen with much pride. He set it in front of Frank, looked around the room as if it wasn’t just the two musclemen sitting there, and asked, “Is Charles here?”
“Nope,” Nicholas answered, because it seemed to make their erratic charge leave quicker if someone actually spoke to him. Monosyllabic answers were safest.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Nope.”
The seventeen year old bounced on his heels, staring at the ceiling with grave fascination. Nicholas and Frank went back to their game. It was all about outlasting the boy’s attention span.
“Hey, Nick—you won’t give me a ride.”
“Nope.”
Calley’s gaze snapped from the ceiling to Nicholas at an alarming speed. He took a step back, theatrically set his legs, and leveled a finger at the man. “That’s a double-negative. Therefore, a yes.” The boy concluded, independent of the rest of the room.
“Nope,” Nicholas assured him.
Calley sat down at the table with them. A half hour later, their only options were to kill him or give him his ride. Mister Antonescue wouldn’t have liked that first one. Regrettably. So Nicholas held up a hand, palm face out, in the signal for ‘stop’. “Okay, I’ll give you a ride. Just shut up. Where do you want to go, the mall or something?”
“The raptor center.”
“The what?”
“The raptor center. You know,” he flapped his arms. Honest to God, he flapped his arms. “where the big birds are? Look, I mapquested.” He proudly produced a printed shelf of papers. “It’s only an hour and a half away.”
Nicholas looked at the smiling boy, and weighed his options. Killing the kid was still out. Very regrettably.
Crunch
Frank Newton chewed his bite of apple very thoroughly. He didn’t smile. Frank never smiled. But he did say, “See you later, Nicholas.”
This had all started approximately five hours ago, when Calley stopped hitting walls whenever he tried to move. He’d been at the apartment Hunter had set up for him—it was a very cool apartment; it had a bedroom and a living room and a little kitchen, and even though it wasn’t very big it had a view of Central Park. He couldn’t even imagine how much it cost. Another thing it had: a bare minimum of furniture. Which was good, because it gave him less things to crash into. He was attempting to teach himself to fly. As such, he was sparrowing all over the apartment. He’d gotten it to the point where he could stay airborne and get within a foot of anything he was aiming for. He’d deemed himself ready to try a flight outside. But there was no way he was going to try it as a sparrow. This wasn’t an issue of cosmetics: it was an issue of survival. He was a cat at heart. As such, he knew what a tempting target he was to play with. If people saw a sparrow getting eaten by a cat, they wouldn’t care. He needed something that was cool enough that people would actually run to his rescue. Calley knew of three birds he could turn into: an English sparrow, a pigeon, and a parakeet. He refused to be a parakeet. People would go out of their way to kick a struggling pigeon. That left him only one option: turn into something else.
So he’d perched his little sparrow self on a chair back, and thought, Cool bird. Change to a cool bird.
...Nothing happened. Clearly, he needed to be more specific. Okay. A hawk. Change to a hawk.
...Something in the back of his head felt like a jammed gear, but still nothing. Anything but a stupid sparrow.
He turned into a stupid pigeon. So that’s how his body wanted to play this, huh? Anything but a pigeon. No parakeets, either.
He turned back into a sparrow. I hate you, he thought to himself, flustering his little sparrow wings. The feeling was mutual.
Three more unproductive changes and a short nap later, Calley—sitting around in human form, with the side of his head laying on his kitchen table—decided that maybe he really couldn’t change into anything cooler. Which just... wasn’t cool. And, frankly, couldn’t be right. He thought he could change into anything. Seriously, what was the difference between a sparrow and a hawk? Besides fifteen pounds and talons. And it wasn’t like he was just stuck to common things like sparrows and pigeons—the parakeet proved that, to say nothing of the monkey. And the tiger. He was rather fond of the tiger. So what was the difference?
Twenty minutes later, with mapquest directions in hand, he gave Charles a call. Charles had let Calley see his phone after Calley had politely and insistently asked; therefore, Calley knew Charles’ cell phone number and exactly fifteen of the man’s contacts. That’s the point where the guy had realized those button beeps weren’t from Calley playing a game and had snatched the thing back. He asked for a ride back to the raptor center—but first, could they stop by the labs? He hadn’t stocked his fridge with food yet.
Charles had made himself scarce sometime during Calley’s lunch. And that’s why Nick was now driving him. What was the difference between a sparrow and a hawk? Calley had never actually paid attention a hawk before.
He compulsively reached forward, and fiddled with the radio dial again.
“Please,” Nicholas requested quietly, “stop doing that.”
Posted by Cheshire on Aug 16, 2007 17:15:39 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
The hawk looked at Calley. Calley looked at the hawk. The hawk turned its head to the side, and looked at Calley like he wanted to kill him. Calley grinned. “I like him.”
“That’s nice. Why don’t you pet him?” Nicholas suggested levelly. A trip to the hospital would cut this bird excursion blissfully short.
“Hmm....” Calley stared at the disgruntled bird like he was actually considering it. No survival instinct, Nicholas noted. But he knew that. The boy’s conversation with Mister Antonescu a while back had proved that rather nicely.
“Sorry, Sir. No touching the birds,” the handler laughed. She thought they’d been joking. Heh. “The Red Hawk—” She continued, for the benefit of everyone else on the tour. Nicholas didn’t care. Calley wasn’t listening. He was flitting along the walls, staring into the various cages and enclosures with rapt attention. It was amazing how focused the kid could get if he wanted to be. ...Scary focused. He actually won a staring contest with a peregrine falcon. Nicholas was not a praying man, but he sent up a little silent something hoping strongly that the kid was never that focused on him. It was just too creepy.
“—all of our permanent residents can no longer fly due to their injuries,” the handler was still going, “but this beautiful fellow here is due for re-release next month.” The tour group gave a little happy-noise surge from their throats. Nicholas wasn’t fond of crowds. Put people together, and they start acting like a unit—or like a fiddle, just waiting to be played. Even he’d made a little approving noise, just because he knew it was expected at this point in the woman’s speech. Uck.
Calley had managed to wake up a barn owl with the sheer intensity of his stare. The bird was huddling on its post, blinking rapidly and turning its head, looking around desperately for an escape route. Nicholas knew how it felt. At least the bird didn’t have an employer telling him he had to work with the hyperactive boy.
“Done!” Calley announced suddenly, sometime after the hawk speech, and during the middle of the “we need your donations” speech. Nicholas looked at him. So did most of the people on the tour, handler included. “Click!” He said, like this clarified anything. Nicholas shook his head, and followed the teenager when he cheerfully peeled off from the tour.
“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder, to all parties concerned, “he didn’t take his meds.” Nicholas was pretty sure there was a tranquillizer gun, back in the jeep. There were a lot of things, back in the jeep, but Mister Antonescu wouldn’t approve of most of them being used on his little spy-in-training.
Outside of the raptor center, Calley veered into the bushes after a terrified chickadee. The tranquillizer gun was looking like a serious option.
Click was the word of the day. Click, and he knew he could shift to red hawk, if he wanted to. Click, and he could shift to barn owl. Click, click, click, and his head felt like it was an over-stuffed feather pillow. Feathers were going to bulge out of his eyes every time he blinked. Feathers were pushing out against his eardrums. Feathers were... making him sleepy.
He woke up in the jeep to an unfriendly jab to his arm. “Out,” Nicholas said. “Now.” Calley never suspected how lucky he was to have gotten that order in front of his apartment building, as opposed to on one of the abandoned stretches of highway between the raptor center and New York City. Calley, Nicholas had learned, could and did change radio stations in his sleep.
Of course, there was more to it than click. It was more of a focusing thing. He had to actually pay attention to a critter, completely, and for an extended period of time. ...This was harder than it sounded. He’d be staring at a falcon, and then he’d be thinking about raptors, and then he’d be thinking about dinosaurs, and then he’d be thinking about that picture he’d made in kindergarten, and then he’d be thinking that he should be thinking of falcons. He’d been trying to focus. He really, really had been. But it was like his brain had entirely different ideas about what he should be doing. Click meant he’d actually managed it. Or at least he thought that’s what it meant. He felt like he could shift to red hawk, after that first clean click. And even though the other clicks after that had felt a little like rusty gears grinding, he was pretty sure that a click was a click. Probably the rustiness was his brain’s way of complaining about an information overload. Note to self: don’t learn every form in a raptor center within the space of an hour.
Well, then. Calley sat down on the floor of his apartment. Shades closed, check. Window open so he could get out if this worked, check. Clothes, ah, not on, check. Calley shifted to red hawk.
...And sort of flopped on the floor in a graceless mass of feathers. Oh, new forms. How he loathed them. Okay... so where’re the nerves for that left wing? Gotcha. And how, exactly, did one stop one’s right eyelid from compulsively twitching? Several long and annoying minutes later, Calley was balancing on his taloned feet, tentatively stretching his wings. A minute later, he tried to flap up to a chair back, and ended up breaking a cup on the table when he skidded across and plummeted off the other side. ...This could take awhile.
About three hours later, a wickedly hooked beak poked its way out from between the curtains on a fifth floor window. Blue eyes looked around for any inconvenient witnesses glancing his way. ...Nope.
Whoot. Time to do something stupid.
Calley launched himself out of the window, beak pointed at the ground and wings tucked snuggly against his light body. His mind blanked of everything except a gray sidewalk rapidly approaching and the glint off the windows going past and the rush of air painting every coarse feather back and—
He stretched his wings. The air took them and snapped them back—his body got tossed upward in the sudden lift. Pigeons scattered around him in panicked blurs of white and black and purple feathers. He couldn’t grin in this form. But the sentiment was there.
Whoot.
Calley leveled out his flight above the skyscrapers. At least, he did something passably recognizable as an attempt to level out. He wasn’t hitting anything—that was the important thing, here. He stared down at the city, head swiveling slowly from target to target. He’d always known there was a surplus of pigeon meat in this city. He’d just never fully appreciated it as a cat, with a cat’s limited earthbound view. From up here, he could clearly make out every juicy feather-wrapped morsel for blocks. They looked like a dusting of off-white snow, drifting across the city. It was... inspiring. He counted himself as fully inspired to not return to his apartment until he’d learned to hunt in this form.
Why hadn’t he learned to fly before? He couldn’t seem to remember.
Posted by Cheshire on Aug 29, 2007 20:55:42 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Calley’s left arm was hurting him. Hurting him like dull-achy. Hurting him like he-was-pretty-sure-he-knew-what-the-problem-was, but he-really-hoped-he-was-wrong. It was three days since his flight as a red hawk. A red hawk who’d been a week away from being released back into the wild, after a successful recovery from a broken left wing.
Calley really really really hoped he was wrong about this, but he was pretty confident that his left arm didn’t used to have a weird lump in the middle of its upper arm bone. Like it had healed from a break a little funky. Calley had never had a broken bone in his life.
Something he’d never really thought about, but which was definitely true: he copied forms. His cat form was Mark, the cat of his sister’s friend. His sparrow form had been lunch a while back. The monkey and the tiger lived at a zoo he’d visited. And his red hawk form came from the raptor center, where the big birds were. The big, injured birds. He had a very bad feeling about the other forms he’d copied there. The ones that had felt like rusty gears turning in his head. The ones who were living at the center because they hadn’t healed well enough to fly ever again.
He could be wrong. Scratch that: he sincerely hoped to be wrong. But he had a very bad feeling he was about to prove himself right. Calley was sitting on the bed in his apartment. He took a breath, and shifted to barn owl. And started cursing profusely. Which is to say, screeching loudly. But the sentiment was there.
Back when Hunter had given him that friendly pillow talk and ripped off his tail and cracked his rib in the process, Calley had thought he’d felt himself heal when he shifted, only to shift back to being injured. This time, he knew that’s what happened. Having both your wings and one of your legs break and re-heal in two second’s time is a very distinctive, unmistakable, not-easily-ignored feeling. Calley beat his useless, badly-healed wings, glaring bloody owl murder around the room. Oh yes. This sucked. With a last violent screech, he shifted back to human.
And felt both his arms and one of his legs break. And re-heal. In two second’s time.
There were not enough swear words in existence to cover this situation. Calley settled on repeating all the ones he knew in an endless, breathless string until he felt a little better. Psychologically speaking. Physically speaking, he’d been healed for fifteen minutes already by the time he finally stopped. Tentatively, he moved his arms.
…Arms weren’t supposed to creak when they moved.
…
…Calley hated himself. Really, really, really, he did.
A fun new fact about his mutation: apparently, he could shift to copy injuries. Who knew? Joy.
((ooc: Will be continued in “Learning to Heal”, in the near future…))
Posted by Cheshire on Sept 4, 2007 23:15:35 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
((ooc: Officially continued in "Learning to Heal". If you've read nothin' else about Calley, read this next part. It's, ah, important. It's also what Hunter and I were PM-plotting about earlier today...))