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 Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
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.
"Hmph." Lenna shook her head. "Shows what you know. I'm no psychic. And he's—" Her attention shifted from Slate to Cortez. Lenna took a few steps forward, and let her fist connect with the side of the drug lord's head. He keeled over to the left, look of horror frozen on his face. Lenna turned briskly back towards the blue-eyed floor-child with a hand on her hip. "Unconscious." She finished, letting her head tilt to the side. "So you can heal him, or do whatever it is you need to. I won't stop you..."
The chair behind Cortez's desk turned. Lenna sat down. Hands folded on his desk. "I would, however, like to ask you some things... important things. Like what you'll do. Now that you've got the thing I suspect you came for..." Lenna's eyes narrowed on Slate, drawing a bead. The gun sat on the desktop, pointed towards Slate and inches from her hands. "What of me? I'm a security risk, I'm loyal, and I'm here... you could order me to kill myself, and I'd be hard-pressed to stop you... I don't like that, Mr. Slate. I don't like that one bit."
"But at least you were honest about it. Puts things in startling clarity..."
Yes. Once again, she'd screwed up. With a whole lifetime of screw-ups and misunderstandings behind her, one would have thought she'd be a bit more careful about just whose hand she shook. He had her in a vice. But unlike Cortez… Lenna didn’t know just where his agendas lay.
All she knew… and it killed her to realize it… was that Slate had oh-so-clearly ordered her to ‘leave him alive’… and now she couldn’t pull the trigger. It had become physically impossible.
Perhaps her ability was latent, or perhaps it was so subtle she had yet to notice it herself? Perhaps there was little benefit in trying to convince the woman with the gun that she was not as human as she’d thought.
>> “And he's—Unconscious. So you can heal him, or do whatever it is you need to. I won't stop you..."
Blink. Blink, blink. This was a pleasant turn of events. Slowly, Slate sat back up. Indeed: Lenna made no move to stop him, using any degree of force. Her gaze was still not particularly pleased. Slate tilted his head at her for a moment, blinked, and decided he could live with that.
Cortez was short work. He groaned when Slate was finished, but stayed unconscious—it was up to each man’s mind to wake up on its own time, even after blooming bruises and worse wounds had been removed. Lenna was sitting in the desk, now. Slate deemed that remaining on the floor would prove awkward to further conversation. (Quite good for not sitting in front of loaded guns, but quite awkward to further conversations.) He carefully stood, and sat the chair he had begun this scene in.
>> "I would, however, like to ask you some things... important things. Like what you'll do. Now that you've got the thing I suspect you came for... What of me? I'm a security risk, I'm loyal, and I'm here... you could order me to kill myself, and I'd be hard-pressed to stop you... I don't like that, Mr. Slate. I don't like that one bit. But at least you were honest about it. Puts things in startling clarity..."
Slate’s eyes flickered to the fourth breathing element of their room. The man with the vents on his body. “I would be unopposed to explaining,” he stated, “but our friend needs to be resolved, first.” ‘Resolved.’ He could be useful; ideally, he would soon work for Slate as well. Slate did not have enough attachment to the man to attempt an order, though. The fewer orders he gave, perhaps the less effort she would put into fighting them.
The man with vents looked up from his task of cauterizing the wound on his leg with an elbow vent as he felt all the eyes in the room shift his way. Awkward. He'd overheard it all. He stood there a moment, slumped over his lower half with a bent arm, staring at them.
Lenna closed her eyes. That would not do. As she opened them, Johnathon began his movement across the carpet.
With a sputter and a kick, a small jet of heat blew out the exhaust port on the foot of his good leg. Another jet shot from an elbow, pushing his back across the carpet in a diagonal path towards the door. With a speed that would leave butt-print skid marks on concrete, Johnathon made his exit. He shot across the carpet in the doorway, and out into the hall. A single match-stick flame lit up the tail end of the disturbed carpet. A door guard left his post for a moment to stomp the flame down, then took a few steps forward, and straightened it out. He returned to his place.
Somewhere, someone coughed.
The look of horror mixed with humor receded on Lenna's face. She turned her attention back towards Slate with a tight-lipped "Resolved..." Lowered the fist from her mouth.
Charming. Slate made a mental note to deal with everyone who’d been here, later, in one way or another.
On that note.
“I have no intention of ordering you to kill yourself, Ms. Lenna,” Slate replied with all due practicality. “You’ve been very useful to me. You seem reliable, and you must know the meaning of discretion: your former employment seems to have necessitated it.” On the ground, Cortez groaned again. Slate continued.
“I would like you to work for me in America,” he said. “If that is not possible, than I would appreciate your confidentiality in what you have learned.” Baby blue eyes left the matter at that. ‘If you don’t...’ was really a crash notion.
No intention... That was good, wasn't it? Too good. Lenna waited for the feint to end, and the punching to begin. Then it came. As a -backpat-.
Lenna said nothing as Slate spoke of her merits. This was good, right? He wasn't going to kill her. That was a step up from the men who'd threatened her life, and used that to drive her to work harder. That it was... but then again, who needed threats when the command was still buried in her mind? She was like a sleeper agent, except she knew.
She knew that any time, any day, he could contact her, and give her an order. And while she'd be able to complain her heart out about it, she wouldn't... she wouldn't be able to still her hand, or stop herself from following through.
He wanted her to work for him.
She was already loyal.
This arrangement made her head hurt.
Work for him in America? Discretion, confidentiality... "Look." All the thoughts came to a head in that one word. Lenna held up her hand in the jive for 'stop'. "I can promise you I won't spill your little secret. If you asked nicely, I'll bet you could even have better than my word. Would it be unfair to ask... just a little time to think this decision over? To come back to you, some time later and give you my answer? Because right now, I'm still wrapping my head around the thought of how this is a fair deal..." She did her best not to sneer. If Lenna's teeth ground together a little as she spoke, it was completely involuntary. He had her in the most polite headlock imaginable, and... she still didn't know how exactly this would even work.
There was nothing but a polite nod in reaction to her request. And a slight head tilt, as his eyes puzzled over her facial expression. It was quite curious. He’d never seen one quite like it. He did not understand her feelings: his loyalty command had been less than perfect in her; thus, he could not rely on it. In his mind, she was simply a free agent. With, perhaps, a reduced inclination to backstab him. That was also something he would not rely on.
“Of course, Ms. Lenna. Please, take all the time you need. You can find me at Mondragon Labs Medical, in New York City. Simply request a meeting at the front desk.”
It really was that simple. She could drive onto the grounds; walk up a lane planted with young trees; enter directly into the main building itself. A nine-fingered secretary was likely to greet her, with all due professionalism, in a brightly lit foyer. There was nothing shady about Slate’s operations. They were... straightforward. One simply had to know where that line lead.
Too easy... this was... too easy. Lenna looked at Slate. Stared at him, as her chair slid back and she rose. He made no moves to stop her. She'd expected a bigger deal. The gun from the table slid smoothly into an inner holster on her vest. Lenna slipped past him, silently.
She made note of his words. All the time she needed... She could find him in America. In -New York-... whenever she saw fit.
She'd run for a bit, test her options. Maybe visit Paris... before she made up her mind.
The door of Cortez's office was open. She went through it. Everything else was a blur.