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.
Mars rode his tired motorcycle all the way up to the labs and parked it next to the entrance doors. He smiled as he walked in.
He walked into the labs lobby and smiled to, a glance at a name tag. " Hello, Miss Noin." He tried a winning smile impressed with the woman's already all business style, she reminded him of Lisa, and that couldn't be a bad thing. " I would like to see if I could get a meeting with Slate, if you could tell him that his friend Mars is in the lobby and requesting a simple favor. I would greatly appreciate it. It isn't urgent so don't go out of your way, but I would appreciate any help you could give me greatly.
He had several conversations with Lisa and new that by requesting instead of demanding he could get almost anything he wanted with someone used to taking demands wrapped up as requests. It seemed to at least get a bit of relaxation in her eyes and blunt the edge there slightly.
The behemoth of a man set down in a chair in the lobby and waited patiently.
((ooc: Continued for Lori and Mars from Ridin' Dirty. Continued for Slate from his bed.))
The pillow case was cotton, and very pleasant against his cheek. Its security followed him into his dreams.
They were gray dreams. It was a good color; comforting. Not to sharp, and not too dim. It simply was. Blank, and even; as familiar as cotton. An Irish Wolfhound trotted through its folds with a puppy-like gait; looked over his shoulder at Slate, and kept on. Slate followed, at an unhurried stroll. It always kept him just behind the dog; just about to lose sight of it. That was fine. There was no real rush, in the gray. The sound of its footsteps halted; he saw its large tail happily whipping at the gray from around a turn in the folds. There was a light coming from there. He brought up a hand, shielding his eyes. It was a white light, startling against the gray. It gave things contrast. A fold became a solid wall; the dog’s paws were on grass. Slate’s feet were on bones. The light was too bright. He could not go any closer. The dog looked back at him, but he looked away. It was blinding—
“Sir?”
The Kabal’s leader mumbled, and turned his face into his cotton pillow case. It really was pleasant: it completely bloated out the scathing light that invaded his perfectly dark room from the hallway. His arms stretched themselves above his head.
Now he was the wolfhound, stretched out on the grass of Central Park with his paws in front of him and his tongue lolling. Old Larry was on the bench next to him, of course, and they both had hot dogs. Old Larry didn’t really look so old. He did not smell like pain. There was a little girl next to him, who was ugly in a beautiful way. The sky was dark, but that was okay: he didn’t want the blinding light. Neither did Old Larry. As long as the lights were out, little girls weren’t ghosts, and grass wasn’t bones. You could see whatever you wanted, in the dark. Old Larry turned to him, with a grin as wide as a corpse—
“Sir, there’s a Mister Mars here to see you. Noin sent me to wake you up.”
“Muuf?”
“Mars, yes.”
“Mmm.”
“Sir?”
“...I am awake.”
Several short minutes later, a teenager padded into the reception area of Mondragon Labs, his bare feet shyly flashing out from under a pair of long white blue-stripped drawstring pants. He was wearing a white beater tank top, and hair that was exactly as tousled as usual. It had not occurred to him to change. The young guard sent to wake him had decided against mentioning it: the only time he had met his new employer properly had been back in January. He’d chosen to remain loyal. It wasn’t until after stepping out of the room with two doors that he’d realized the person in front of him had not.
The lights were very bright.
“You wanted to see me, Mars?” The teenager asked, blinking baby blue eyes up at the hulk of red. Even seated, the clones were still... impressive.
A-typically, panic was not Lori's natural response to any given situation full of unknowns. Usually, she was of the camp of rolling with the punches or faking it until she made it. Her observational skills and social perceptions were enough to guide her through her affairs with the illusion that she not only knew all, but was a master of all as well.
Waking up without a body, however, was not a situation she was comfortable with faking. Despite the lack of pain, there was also a distinct lack of control. No body meant no power. She was helpless, awash in a sea of darkness that was distinctly trying to soothe her in Mars' voice.
She would not be soothed.
Not until she was back to normal. Or as normal as normal ever was.
A portal opened to an unfamiliar room and despite the lack of information about the opening or the destination of said portal, she was taking it. Her legs still worked, damn it, and the floating nothing was like being swept off of those feet. Despite the fact that she had been helped, perhaps even saved, she was a bit grouchy. At least she had her reasons.
Lori went nose-first out into the entryway. It was hard not to notice something so swollen and seeking attention mid-face. She stepped past the opening from Mars' mind and out into a world of hurt. Every bruise, every cut, every burn. It was all back. But then again so were her legs. And her arms. Even Tarin's leather coat. Lori wanted to hug herself, to check that she was all there, but that would be admitting weakness.
As long as she was free of the nothing that Mars had told her was so soothing, she was sure her heart would calm down eventually. She breathed out of her mouth and regarded the boy in front of her. Obviously, he had just been roused from somewhere nice and comfortable. It was a place Lori sought to return to, one day. "Tarin says there is a healer here." Lori was above asking despite the fact that her voice was the end result of several screams.
((ooc: Mars' turns being skipped with permission.))
The nose that addressed him—that is to say, the woman’s whose nose was speaking—
It was like a flower, really. It was a blub now: a rich purple, delicately ringed around the edges in red, swelling towards a full black blossom. Really quite... worthy of his esteem. It was not everyday which a healer encountered such a well-attended to nasal covering. He was not quite sure where the light odor of burnt meat was coming from, but he doubted, somehow, that this woman shared in smelling it. It was not real concern: there were no surprises in burns. He could heal them, wherever they were. Having her remove her coat did not even cross his mind. His healing worked, or it did not: seeing what he was healing had no influence on that.
>> "Tarin says there is a healer here."
It took a moment for Slate’s sleep-dimmed hearing to piece the rasping words together. “That would be me,” the blue-eyed teenager answered evenly, his gaze leaving her entrancing facial centerpiece. The rest of her did not appear in very good shape, either. He had not been aware that Tarin knew Mars. Or any petite blondes.
“I will need your consent to heal you. Is that acceptable?” His hand reached lightly for the side of her face, hovering a discrete distance away until her permission was given. Another clause: physical contact.
It was odd. She was shorter than him, by a fair margin. Slate was not used to encountering that, in the circles he moved in.
Lori watched something lazy slither behind a lighter blue iris than she possessed. He was thinking something, something not important no doubt, but he did claim to be a healer. He didn't ask any questions about wounds or feel the need to prod her sensibilities. He only extended a hand toward her face after asking for her assent. That was suspect. Or effective confidence. Lori stood her ground testing how far he would move as she watched him. When his hand stopped at a non-threatening distance she turned to Mars, satisfied in the relative honesty of her healer.
She didn't say thank you. It just wasn't her way. But she did manage a little agitated bob and a flick of the eyes that indicated the door. She was alright here. She could handle herself. But most of all she didn't want to explain. There was no way for her to know when Mars had gotten into things. Last she knew he was still in New York. Were they in New York now? And did that matter? Really, Lori was still scratching her head about exactly what happened, but that was something for later. No doubt Jacen's affairs had been settled enough for her to leave. Otherwise she'd still be there... or here.
After Mars was gone, Lori would rub herself all over this kid if it'd make it better. Only when his broad red shoulders disappeared through the door did Lori return her attention to Slate. She turned and nodded. What was left of her pony tail nodded too. It was better than talking.
His hand did not typically bite, slap, or sting. It was not particularly venomous. It had all of its digits in the proper locations, under a skin somewhat darker than usual. A month in Colombia doing humanitarian work will do that to a teen. Nonetheless, the battered woman watched it quite closely. There was a certain weathered defiance in her gaze that Slate’s hand was not built to appreciate. Slate himself simply waited on her reply.
She looked to Mars, as if for assurance that Slate was the one she’d come to see. He could not blame her. He did not typically heal in his pajamas. Even in his usual dress clothes, he was still very much a scrawny, nondescript teenager with particularly blue eyes. They were not even as blue as hers. Really, he could understand that she was not impressed.
The clone seemed to give her the reassurance she needed, before he left. Slate gave Mars a simple nod. He had great respect for the clones: they, after all, were some of the only people who could really understand him.
When the little woman finally nodded, Slate let his hand close the distance between them. His fingers settled lightly on her cheek. They flinched back as a little jolt stung their tips. It was not unlike running one’s socks over the carpet, then touching a metal doorknob. Not that Slate had ever curiously experimented with that in the Mondragon Labs library.
Electricity manipulator?
Baby blue sought to meet piercing blue for a moment. Levelly. Then his hand moved in again, and did the job she had come to him for.
Memories: shoveling her father’s trash into a bag—the usual chore; a dark psychiatrist’s office; countering the earth’s gravity with her own field; Jacen, drunk; Mars, shirtless, and really not helping with the car. Slate pushed past them as usual, and triggered the shift the would put her body back into the state it was in before her nose met a few hard surfaces and they used the defibrillator on her (that didn’t hurt her, really) and Pulse wrapped the wires—
Again, Slate’s fingers jerked back. As soon as the contact was broken, however, the memories were lost from his mind; they were hers, not his. He was left only with the feeling that he had done something very wrong. There had been something important. Something he couldn’t—shouldn’t—heal. But he already had.
The teenager blinked down at the blonde, his eyes searching for what he’d known a moment ago. Her face was healed. He could not really see the rest of her body. This did not comfort him.
“...How do you feel?” He hazarded. “Is there anything else I can do?” Is there anything he had failed to do already?
He flinched. She did not. It didn't hurt her, just weakened an already fragile being. He wasn't used to it like she was. Receiving kicks when she was down was a normal byproduct of her accustomed company. And it didn't hurt her. One eyebrow did climb ever so subtly. If he didn't want to do it, now was the time to crawl back into bed.
To the boy's credit, he touched her again. Lori closed her eyes and then closed them harder. Pages were flipping too fast for her to catch them, but the filing cabinet upstairs had certainly been opened. Beads of moisture caught in her lashes before she opened them again. Her eyes were too dry for crying and too wet to prove that he was perfectly comfortable. Did she cry foul or was this the price of healing?
Again his hand jerked back, this time Lori rocked slightly as if some part of him had been holding her up. She locked her knees rather than ask for a seat. He asked how she felt and she had the great misfortune of breathing through her nose. Numb was what she'd meant to say (which was better than she had felt in some time), but instead something else came out entirely.
"I smell. I haven't eaten in..." She breathed a quick frustration because, well, she didn't even know. As if the exasperation were a word, she kept on with her list without missing the beat. "I am tired and I could use an electrical outlet." She hesitated before remembering one last detail. "And a wire cutter." Hey, he had asked. And he was probably just the bus boy as so many healers were: just cleaning up the other mutant's messes.
Standing, a bit pale under her Florida tan, was about the culmination of her self sufficiency just now. If she took one step, she was almost certain vertigo would claim her if not something worse.
The fact that not even she knew was, in general, not a good sign. Where had Mars brought her from? He hoped that Tarin would report it. For now: priorities. One did not bother a woman with questions, when she could not remember the last time she had eaten. One simply got her food.
>> "I am tired and I could use an electrical outlet."
And an electrical outlet. Given her state, he highly doubted she was joking. She was an electricity manipulator, after all: he presumed she knew best.
>> "And a wire cutter."
And a... wire cutter.
Baby blue eyes blinked. That was all. “I can have food and wire cutters brought, if you would like to... partake of the electrical outlets here. Alternately, we can go to the Canteen. It also has outlets.” Most places did, really. And wire cutters were highly portable.
He turned to the secretary, who was discretely going over paperwork at her desk. The guard who had woken him had, in a similar manner, taken up a tactful position by the doorway into the Labs proper. “Ms. Mortman, could you please locate wire cutters for our guest?”
“Of course, Sir.” A phone was lifted from its cradle by a four fingered hand. The mechanics had a pair, no doubt.
The blonde woman in front of him was standing, and had been for some time. It did not occur to him that he was taking this state for granted.
He took everything in stride and without a single snarky comment. He didn't seem to be one to waste words. She could appreciate that. She would have appreciated a pickle more. He stood easily. She begrudged him for that and quirked her mouth when he made sticking her finger in the socket sound like taking communion. Okay, so standing was good. It was a helluvalot better than kneeling.
She realized a bit belatedly that she had been given a choice. Partake here or at the canteen. Which did she want more? Food or power? Her eyes flicked to the nearest socket as if it were magnetized. It actually was a little, but not nearly enough. "Canteen." That way the food could start being food while she started tending to other business.
The boy was practically reptilian. Cold and staring were just two of his middle names. Just when she thought he might not be home, he would blink, signifying that something she had said had slid home. In the end, after a particularly magnanimous blink, he turned and told the secretary an efficient echo of what she'd told him. As if she weren't there when she'd spoken the first time.
That was haughty, but not enough for any definite conclusions. The secretary called him "sir" which was neither a name nor a particularly deferential title. He could be anyone here. Wherever this was. And since he was not volunteering the information out of the kindness of his heart she would have to ask. Jerk.
"What is your name?" She left off calling him 'boy' as it would probably just piss him off and he had yet to lead her to where the food was. Food first. Extra words later.
A nod. Canteen it was, then. It would be open at this hour—it was always open. The selection might be somewhat more sparse than around mealtimes, however. Slate turned, and began to lead. The young guard began to follow: a simple glance back cleared that up. He did not feel particularly threatened. And it was not as if there weren’t additional guards in the direction they were headed. The glance turned into a yawn (politely covered with his hand, of course), and a naptime blink.
>> "What is your name?"
“Slate,” the teenager replied. “Slate Swartz. A pleasure to meet you, Miss...?” He left the request hanging innocuously. “Did Mars or Tarin tell you anything about me, or the Labs?” Between the two of them, they’d dropped her at his doorstep. There might be a reason for that, besides a mere healing. Despite his bad feeling, she seemed in a much better state than earlier. Perhaps it was nothing.
He glanced back at her as he spoke, but continued moving forwards. The ability to walk several yards unaided: quite possibly another thing he was taking for granted.
The fact that he did not offer to help but assumed that she was capable of handling herself was both a strike against him and for him. On the one hand, she was ragged and strung out to the threads of her physical well being. On the other hand, she was more stubborn than she was bodily able. Frogger turned to lead and she had no choice but to follow.
It wasn't walking. Not really. It was more leaning forward and making sure her legs were underneath her when she fell that direction. Willpower was a funny thing.
Slate Swartz sounded like a stripper name to Lori, a fact she kept hidden under her tongue. When he asked her name she realized she was too tired to keep up a lie. "Lori." She grumbled the name like her tummy grumbled for food. She'd almost said Candice out of principle, but the thought of having the glassy-eyed stripped call her Candice made her feel sick. Or maybe that was the lack of pickles in her tummy. She did love a good vinegary treat.
“Did Mars or Tarin tell you anything about me, or the Labs?”
The Labs. The Labs? She couldn't recall anything about any labs. Would he be a noteworthy part of this establishment? The way people hovered just out of sight made it feel like he was... but if he were really important wouldn't he be... taller? Or older? "No." If he could be mister use-as-few-words-as-possible then she could follow suit. Food would probably make her more agreeable. Probably.
One thing did worry her, though. With her peculiar and stiff gait, she was throwing her weight ahead of herself in order to keep herself moving. It was like wearing four inch heels in reverse. So how was she going to stop and remain as poised as the situation demanded?
She had also been dropped here with absolutely no knowledge.
Ah.
While this was a good sign for Mars’ trust in him and the Kabal, Slate was sensing a certain... personality within the woman. It had to be quite strong, to have brought her this far. Strong did not always mix well with being dropped in the midst of someone else’s stronghold without forewarning. Those explanations would be given to her, in time. After food. And electrical outlets. And... wire cutters.
They arrived at the Canteen. It was set up much like a college cafeteria, minus the cashiers. There was hardly a need for such things, when money would be coming from and going to rather the same source. Slate politely stopped in the doorway, motioning for her to enter first.
He stopped and, well of course she kept going. Lori twisted her shoulders so that she would not bump him on her way through and made her way into what appeared to be heaven. There was no time to appreciate the smells or the sights because she was on a mission and that mission involved walking and making those steps take her toward a counter.
The collision was louder than she'd expected and her elbows smarted as she caught herself against the formica. Walking was better than being carried. Someone behind the counter seemed to be jarred awake or at least jarred into action. He was there with curious eyes, but a smart mouth that he kept firmly shut. It was a natural by product of burning ceruleans pointed like laser beams at his face and an effective pout that promised pain and horror if he so much as twitched his frown upside down.
He wisely uncovered pans of prepared pancakes and eggs and Lori was instantly tamed. The word behind her eyes changed from 'death' to 'please' in record time. He put together a plate for her and Lori took the opportunity to get her legs un-jello-ified and underneath her bad self. Eggs and pancakes. She declined syrup and received the plate with the arms of the over large jacket. The only evidence that something was under there was the fact that the plate was supported and the tips of ripped wires that poked out the ends.
She made her way carefully, so carefully to a table and looked at the food with a whole new concern. Why was it not in her stomach now? She licked her lips and rubbed her forearm against the table top to pull back the sleeve. A small and delicate hand emerged tainted by the wires that poked out of the tips of her fingers. She groused for the fork and after a sound like straining leather, she had it firmly in her grip. For all she cared, Slate could be in Columbia. Hot damn she had eggs and pancakes!
The crash was not hard to predict, now that he was watching for it. It was only after it occurred that Slate realized something: he could probably be more helpful. He stepped forwards, hovering unobtrusively behind her. Given her trouble walking, she might have distinct trouble carrying—
No, she seemed to have it quite under control. Protective, ravenous control, the likes of which he found it wise to keep his fingers away from.
Fingers. There was something wrong with her—
Slate had taken the metal flashes to be a part of the jacket. He had not anticipated them to be part of her flesh. The wires smoothly exited from the ends of her fingers, without a single scar to tell how they had gotten there. It was a trademark of his healing, really. What might have been scars after a natural healing where simply smooth flesh, like that of a baby. On her tanned skin, that pale skin stood out in clear lines up the back of her hands. They lead under the sleeve of her coat, with no sign of their end.
She gripped a fork in between the wires’ trailing lengths, and began to devour her captive pancakes and scrambled eggs. How far up her arms did they go? How far into her body...? The movement of her arms were jerky and stiff, but her concentration seemed undivided. They did not seem to be hurting her.
Nonetheless, the smell of burning still hung on the air around her. It was simply... no longer fresh.
Slate swallowed, and quietly took the seat opposite her. “We can...” He began, his eyes transfixed on his mistake, “try to remove those. Perhaps with surgery...” For which Slate would be useless, really. What state had she been in, under that coat? He knew what she would be like now: her skin would be perfectly smooth and unbroken, unmarred except for those white lines he had traced on her flesh. He did not apologize. It was rather late for that. He did not even know what he had done, exactly. The memories of white bone showing through charred skin, and electricity which had burned out a path of least resistance, where not his to remember.
Shoveling was a kind term for her hand's movement, but shoveling was all she needed to get a whole pancake on a fork to her mouth. Slate was particularly unnerved when he took a seat opposite her and there was satisfaction in that. Too bad surgery sounded as lovely as a bag of dung just now.
Between massive chipmunk cheeked bouts of chewing she managed a reply to his statement. "Why else do you think I asked for wire cutters?" Okay, so she had been misleading on purpose. Her mouth reflected this curious turn in her humor somewhere after the pancakes ended and the eggs began. Surgery. She'd consider it seriously later. Everything seemed to be later. For now she was of one mind. One task at a time. She couldn't spare a brain cell for something is odious as surgery.