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.
Site adaptation by Sen, Lix, and Tempest. <3
The other side of silver is a secret word (Invite)
>>“What might make you think that you are important enough to be taken advantage of?”
Oh, now he was pissed. And European. Pissed and European. Nice. Maya had a lot of experience pissing people off, but she rarely gave anyone an accent...
"The fact that I'm female?" she asked with a wide grin, and shrugged "Believed me, I know how guys think."
Better than you'd know.
She looked at the offered hand, and shook her head. "What, wanna carry me in your strong and manly arms?" she joked, but smiled at him "Thanks, I'm fine. It's just blood."
Never trust a creature that bleeds for five days and survives.
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 28, 2010 13:10:54 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
He didn’t slow his walk. Not even for the red traffic light that was blinking up ahead. The cars were slow enough to break anyways. And he could evade them if they did not. He was heading home. In a straight line. Nothing would stop him right now save divine intervention. If there was such a thing. And no matter the girls insistence, he simply – but nonetheless firmly grabbed her ellbow and pulled her along. He was not rough. Just firm. And kind of grip you might expect from your father or uncle. Shuffling her along to wherever they were headed. Where the bandages were probably.
This time he did not even turn to look at her, but retorted. “Biologically you probably are, yes.” Not pissed. More like a sigh, another one, finding its way through the honking of irate drivers. “But I would very much like to see the world where I’m considered strong and manly.” Dry. Sigh. Humor.
They left the street. Took another left into the entrance of a building. Keys clinked against each other, metal chimes, opening what was closed against them. Hatred?
>>“Biologically you probably are, yes. But I would very much like to see the world where I’m considered strong and manly.”
Maya grinned as she was draggd along. She had a bunch of reasons for grinning. For one, he was considering her 'biologically female'. He. Had. No. Idea. That was always a funny situation. Also, the guy did have some faint sense of humor, after all - or he just had problems with his own self-respect. Either way, he was probably right. Maya was not usually sizing up guys, but he really did not come off as 'strong and manly'. Grin.
"All right, so not strong and manly." she agreed as she fidgeted with the keys. "Would you pefer, what? Violent and nosy? Mr. Throwing-objects-at-people-in-the-mirror?"
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 28, 2010 13:40:26 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
“I'd prefer Mr.-who-can-make-you-hurt-like-you-never-did-before” He suddenly announced, as the door swung open. Silently swung open. The keys disappeared into his pocket single-handedly, the other still firmly wrapped around her arm. His voice had been serene. Quite like he was going to sell him something and assured that it fit perfectly. Pink ribbons. On blue plait. H e took a step forward. Simply walking as if he had not just announced the end of his companions world.
And finally, facing the dark metal of an expensive elevator (it physically smelled of money) he lifted his voice again. “Or so you would like to believe I think.” Just not humor. Statements. Falling down a flight of stairs, slightly hurt by the accent. “You can call me whatever you like, it does not matter.” Names are something I switch on the fly. And nothing that lasts long. Names are a hindrance.
He stepped up into the elevator and entered a code number. Up it went. Silently. “But let's get you dressed first.” Bing. There they were. The doors slid open to reveal an apartement that did not smell of money, but reeked like it. Black and bushed metal were the dominant colors, hard edges everywhere. You might be able to cut yourself on some pieces of so called furniture. Bleed and such. The elevator door closed. His grip vanished. As did Martin, who vanished into someplace to retrieve material for bandages. And something more. First aid. Yes? “Sit down on a chair, please.” Chair at a metal table. Black. What else?
>>“I'd prefer Mr.-who-can-make-you-hurt-like-you-never-did-before. Or so you would like to believe I think. You can call me whatever you like, it does not matter.”
"That sounds like something out of a bad movie." she pointed out. It was eiter that, or 'something a hooker would say', but the latter might have pissed the guy off more than she aimed. Also. Said guy was apparently really, filthy rich. Maffia? Rich daddy? Business talent? Con man? Who cares?
>>“But let's get you dressed first. Sit down on a chair, please.”
Maya sat, looking around like someone in a museum. How can someone live in such a place? It looked so... cold. And dead.
"Ya're not a vampire, are you?" she asked with a smirk "I mean, the blood, and the money, and all the horrible sense of style... it kinda adds up, y'know. Should I worry that you'll start sparkling?"
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 28, 2010 14:16:54 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Something in the kitchen banged. Metal on metal. And then there was water running, falling into a sink it seemed. A voice adding, over the silence, near silence, it was only water falling after all. Voice calling from somewhere. “Stop talking nonsense. I’m as much a fairy as you are a normal woman.” Ad hominem. Not the best choice with a teenager. Not with a girl. But she was wounded.
Martin walked, flowed really, there was no sound, into the room carrying an armload of items that were lined up on the table like soldiers ready to parade. A bowl of water. A towel. White cloth. Two white pills. A brown flask with the word Iodine on it. A swab. Needle and thread (A surgical one, the thread joining directly at the base of the needle). Just in case. And a white bandage. Where it came from? Some people always were prepared for fighting. Martin had, now that he was on the run, felt the need to equip himself with a small home apothecary. If this was home.
He disregarded the surroundings. Absolutely. He could have been standing in any shop. Or in a ballroom. He still had his suit on. Completely. But he now wore a white pair of latex gloves. “Remove the shirt please.” In an afterthought he added “And before you say something stupid: From the wound I mean.” His gray eyes stared at her. Unblinking.
>>“Stop talking nonsense. I’m as much a fairy as you are a normal woman.”
Maya opened her mouth to argue with that, but she really couldn't. She was as far from a normal woman as you can get (and technically, she was not even woman), so h was probably not a fairy. Or a sparklepire. Which he clearly did not know the concept of. Oh well.
Maya winced as she saw the needle and all the medical supplies. The guy was prepared for a zombie apoclypse. Or at least, to stitch up some wounds after.
>>“Remove the shirt please. And before you say something stupid: From the wound I mean.”
"Sure" she muttered, removing her sweatshirt; she rolled up the sleeve of her shirt that she wore under it, and held her arm out over the table. "I really hate needles." she almost sounded like a child.
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 29, 2010 18:20:06 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
=N.B. Permission for implied Godmodding given by Mirror over the cbox=
He pointed to the pills. “Take those.” The kid would have to take them dry. He had not provided for a glass of water. Water was for cleaning wounds. And he did not mention the fact that the white powder they were made of contained nothing more than Ibuprofen. A big amount of Ibu (her liver would thank her later for that) but still only Ibu. The Girl would have to man up a little, figuratively speaking. That bit of a cut (it was bleeding on his table now, red smears on the metal sprouting like particularly nasty weeds) would need stitches. People like him usually went without topical anesthetic when they had cuts like this. They also mostly sewed on themselves. When people like him got cut like this they were alone and hunted. A situation in which it was prudent to travel without the burden of a coffer, anything really other than the weapons that you needed. And crossing his paths in these situations had been quite bad for the people involved. He was certain of that even though nothing specific came to his mind right now. He was alive after all. They werent.
He started washing the mess that was the kids arm with water and drying it off with the towel, taking his time (or maybe not – it was like he only barely glanced at the wound at a time to make sure no splinters of glass were left) cleaning it. Then it was needle time. He tried to make it quick. The cut was not too long – long enough seeing that he had done that to a child (who had been asking for it nonetheless) – so there were not many stitches needed. Everything happened in that concentrated silence that might or might not be reassurance of the patient. He simply worked. Lost himself as he knitted the flesh together in movements that seemed both edgy, rough and professional. He had done this before. He could do that easily. One hand was holding down the girls arm with force. There was not much to loose after all. A life or two, oneself. Then he applied a bit of gauze that had been slathered in something white and viscous before wrapping the arm tightly in a bandage. Appropriately behind him the elevator announced the arrival of another person to the room with a bing.
It was somewhat strange. One moment the timemancer that was Martin made the last arrangements on the now cleaned wound, ignoring even the stains on the table or the fact that his gloves looked like a butchers; he shifted to something much more menacing on hearing that sound. It was something that changed the air about him, dropped the temperature of the room to icy in a second. “It would be better if you found a place to hide.” His voice left no room for either complaint or disobedience. In his un-gloved hand, both of them having snapped off and fallen to the ground, was ow a knife. Black steel. Tanto-style, menacing blade with a diagonally cut front. Long for a knife. The half-a-dagger kind. Army issue. Not the kind of knife you had at home to cut your veggies. The kind of knife that was made to cut people. Badly. He gave the kid a short grin-that-was-not-happy. Blinked.
And rolled into a series of backflips that would have made most Gymnasts blush with envy. There also was the sound of a champagne bottle being opened. Maybe a little louder. Someone had arrived, been seen in all that polished steel. Someone with a very big silenced gun and all in black military clothing. Someone that was not here to talk. Obviously. 'I'm really sorry kid' that look had said. It had been old.
Maya took the pills; they did nothing for the pain. Nothing else was given for it either, not even a warning, as the guy started stitching her up. Maybe she should have just gone home to DocProf, and deal with the grumbling. She winced every now and then went the needle penetrated her skin, and bit her lips. She would not give him the satisfaction of showing it hurt. He would just say some wise-ass comment about getting into trouble. Nobody needed that.
Finally, the would was bandaged, and Maya remembered to breathe. A drink would have been nice now. He probably would not offer one. he was not Rupert. Although there were certain similarities. Like, this one was just as chatty. Maybe less.
Someone arrived in the elevator.
>>“It would be better if you found a place to hide.”
"Whu...?" now where did that knife come from? And where did the gloves go? And what the hell?...
Maya stared, and then stared some more, and then the 'someone else' arrived with a gun, and survival instincts kicked in.
"F**k." Maya winced, merging into the closest reflecting surface - the top of the polished table. Moving into something vertical (a mirror on the wall) she watched with shock and fascination, curious to see who would win the fight... and why the heck did someone want the annoying rich kid dead, anyway.
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 30, 2010 11:54:48 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Out of sight, out of mind, so it is said. The kid was forgotten ere the opening movement of the seemingly unequal fight had ended, bullet whizzing harmlessly past him. The sound ringing in the ears. He had seen it leave the gun. He had seen the gun enter the room. That was when he had acted. Later would have made the situation a lot worse. He could have been hit. Badly. The kids best chances for survival were his odds of survival if she did not leave the room via mirror. Or whatever else there was hanging around that could be traveled into, traversed like real space.
It was time to dance. Time to show off what only he could do. His insides strained as he pulled, tugged on time with all his might, headache already beginning. That gun was not meant for being nice to people. The person wielding it was neither. Only his awareness, his mutation, a small knife and, at the utmost, his bare hands stood against this... someone. That gun was not meant for being nice to people. Neither was he. Jump. A bullet flew where he had just been standing, digging into the ground, sending small splinters of concrete flying through the room, cloud of gray dust erupting. Jump towards the assailant, knife held, strangely enough for people who knew these matters, in height of his chest, guarding, while his white hand seemed ready to strike at any moment. The gun needs to go. Dancing bullets without super speed was nothing you should do when you wanted to live past a few volleys. Kick at the gun. Instinct. It was all instinct and that little training.
Instinct from the time he had been running in the streets, first being hunted, then as a hunter of men who killed his like. He had killed them. Many of them. And he had not felt the need to ever cry for one of them. There was no need to be ashamed of having taken your life back. The black figure was good. Kick blocked with the body of the weapon. Arguably better than the last one he – probably a he anyways, his face was obscured by a black mask – had blocked the first attack. Now the knife swiped down, while the other arm went for the main hand that was the weapon. All so slow. Slow. Motion. For him. He had planned everything out, considered every viable possibility. Maximize damages. That weapon needs to go. The man, too.
The weapon did not go, man opting instead to let his hand get its grip. He was small. Lightweight. And did know how to toss people around. Evidently nothing the man had expected him to know. So... there the big black someone went, flying at the medical utensils that had, moments before, been used to heal someone of wounds. Went flying with minimal effort on Martins part. Just as it should be. Flying. Right. On. The. Table. The crunch was most satisfying. Even in slow motion. The weapon was also gone. Lost from the enemies grip during his flight. It had landed some feet away from both of them. Out of reach. Martin did not mind. Not at all. Guns were messy. Ere the enemy could recover fully, Martin was advancing again, knife in hand, at hand. Your thread... needs to get lost from my life. Let the cutting begin.
"Ouch" Maya muttered; even watching that landing on the table made her wince. It was not like she'd seen a fight for the first time - heck, she'd done worse, before. Still, it was kind of exciting to see, both men knew what to do and how to do it, and it make them equals, kinda. It made the adrenaline pump, and all slowed down.
Also, the weird guy was doing something she was not sure was possible within human limits. Well well well.
There was a gun, and there was a knife. And, as we have mentioned before, the attacker landed on the table, and then, there was only a knife, and a gun on the floor.
Merging out of the closest reflecting surface, Maya grabbed said gun, then merged back as fast as she could, moving around to get a better angle. At both of them. Safety first.
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 30, 2010 12:59:14 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Ah kiddo was still there Martin noted, as the gun went its way merrily along into the surface of a mirror. Good. One less thing to worry about. One less variable. One Constant in his favor. He was, in his way, quite good in hand-to-hand combat. Quod erat demonstrandum. Sadly he was not able to reach Mr.-Evil-Ill-Kill-You before he got up to his feet again and lifting his arms. Well arm. One welt back behind his back to retrieve something. A hidden weapon. Firearm?
Still his mind was straining to keep the world out. Keep it away from intruding into his natural pace. Natural was relative. Natural was what he willed it to be. Leaving him time to observe. So he knew the moment the first shadow became visible behind the attackers back. Firearm. Sigh. They had just had that, had they not. But this time it was a pistol. Small, sleek. Worse for evasion. Much worse.
Another small dance of closing-in occurred, this time on the table, Martin avoiding bullets fired at him, not with supernatural speed or agility, but he seemingly stepped, rolled or flipped right out of their intended path, always exactly not being where the opposing fighter had either expected or wanted him to be in the first place. Only when he had closed the distance the the real fight began. Close quarters. Martin of course was disadvantaged in terms of size and strength. Quite possibly better in terms of agility and most certainly when it came down to perception. Weapons: Knife against Pistol with a half magazine full of death left. His headache was nothing he could afford to spend time on debating right now. It was getting worse. It did not matter. Could not. Survival was incentive.
Block, Knife slash, block, evade, close... The dance was rapid and violent. Martins face was singed by the muzzle flash of a shot that he barely evaded. His opponent had suffered several minor cuts on his arms. The bled a lot though. Probably better for me, Martin thought, as he watched the drops of red liquid fly across the room during anther round of violent exchanges. He was getting tired too quickly. That headache was getting too hard to ignore. Not. Fast. Enough. He would need to end this quickly. Very quickly. Otherwise Martin Stein, Kabal Spy, Timemancer, would soon find out whether he was truly immortal. A thing he did not wast to try. Not. At. All.
Kiddo was still there though, leaving him an option that he did not like contemplating when he was in clear state of mind. When he was in peace. It was war now. Failure was not an option. He reached out with his hand, the white one. The most dangerous weapon he posessed. Worse than guns and knives and broken bones. He reached. Directly for his opponents face. Surprise? “knock him out and don’t touch me!” he yelled during the last moment.
The world froze. His eyes fell to sand, dissolving, falling tears, drifting across the room in some nearly-felt gust of wind. The two of them stood there. Martins hand in his opponents face. Frozen from the outside. In midstride.
Maya watched, almost forgetting about the gun in her hand. It was like watching an action movie, in a reversed situation - she was inside the square on the wall and they were out there, trying to kill each other. it was an awesome scene at that, even for reality. It was fast, and professional on both ends, and it lacked the sheer brutality of low-budget action scenes. Also, it was very real. Dropping out of the mirror before it would get shattered by a stray bullet, Maya assumed a new position, still contemplating on which one of the fighters she should aid, or kill, or shoot in the kneecaps, or whatever. It was not really her fight, but she sure was in it.
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 30, 2010 13:38:21 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
When the assassin crumpled senselessly to the floor Martin was sure that he was half-mad already. A few hours, years, whatever time you wanted. Staring at each other, well nothing other than his hand for the time that was eternity. That could do funny things to people. And he was somewhat relieved that he did not have to stare into another pair of eyes never to be forgotten. Those he had enough of. He remembered them, like gems in a precious collection. All of them dead. Killed by him. Light vanished from them under his eternal stare, vanquished. Not here though. It was not enough time.
When the link broke, finally broke, releasing his power, releasing both of them, Martins shoulders slumped down, the hands following. Te knife fell of the floor. His chest was heaving rapidly now, breath flowing quickly in and out through the mouth. Loudly flowing. “Thanks.” He huffed out between the rapid breaths. No he was not a hero like those testosterone-infused people from Mansion or Sanctuary. He did get exhausted from fighting. His muscles burned slightly. They would still for a while. And my did he have a headache. Not to mention that his face was reddened and sooty from the blast of that gun. Gun. He neatly kicked that thing aside, sending it rolling over the now be-holed floor. Be-Holed walls they were, too. Dust was everywhere. Dust and blood.
He straightened himself and proceeded, his heavy breathing still reminding him, to brush the dust off his slightly singed suit. Just as if nothing extraordinary had happened. The second one. In a few weeks. This one had been good. He really needed to talk with Nikolai. A very personal talk. A long one preferably. The two of them alone. Well... “Now that was unexpected.” He mused half to himself while walking over to the now fallen opponent. He was lying on his back, breathing shallow. There were small puddles of blood forming where the timemancer had managed cut him. He bent down with the child at his back, hovering at the head of the fallen one. There was a crunching noise. A bit like potato chips. Just more... earthy. Well... no more shallow breathing.
"Don't mention it" Maya muttered, still holding the gun "Some explanation would be nice though..."
She was still not a 100% sure she did not knock out the wrong guy. Also, she was not even a 50% sure the guy she did not knock out was not a mutant... that fight was all kinds of weird. And when people fought like that, one of them being a mutant was usually a plausible explanation for the hatred.
She watched him walk over to the unconscious man; by the time the coin dropped, she was too late.
"Hey, what the...?" she stared in shock "Did you just kill him?! For f*** sake..."
Now that was not nice. So very much not nice. Darn.