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.
Wick nodded again. A few blocks was within running distance of the bike, and he still had exit strategies that far away. He lacked surveillance, it would have been impossible to place without arousing suspicion, but that was simply the way these things went. He had been in that situation with more assured threats. Here at least the possibility of back-up existed, no matter how slim.
While he thought, and observed, Wick got to answering the questions. They were light probing, but he knew the methods and would not be fooled by them. "I am from New York City. I serve God because that is the task He has set for me. He has made His plan for me known, and I shall do His will. As Christ said, "Blessed are those who hear the word of God and obey it"." Wick kept his answers vague but truthful. Obviously he thought he knew this man was one to trust, but caution was called for until proof was provided. Not to mention they were in public, and for all his training and gifts Wick had not yet learned to peer through walls and see around corners. One never knew who was listening.
Wick checked his watch, then double checked his rear-view. Right on time. Dressed properly, and obviously used to it. The shoes did not fit quite properly judging by how they bent, but no amount of good cloth and fashionable cuts can make a man look comfortable when he is not. Wick himself wore his suits daily, and wore them well in his own opinion. Dark eyes tracked the devilspawn's approach. It seemed cheerful, almost. Clearly it did not suspect anything. If it were aware of its infernal power at all times, it would notice the absence in five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Wick moved for the door handle. As Coilin was recoiling and discombobulated, Wick stood from his vehicle, face a blank slate, sunglasses masking his eyes. He held his hands apart, palms forward, obviously empty, and kept his posture relaxed. Best practice with those who had experience with sudden violence, lest you end up on the receiving end yourself."Mr Jude Coilin, you may call me John Smith. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. I need to speak with you. You are not in trouble. Would you be more comfortable speaking inside your home, or my vehicle?" Wick forced some placating calmness into his voice, warming the cool edge from his tone, covering his disgust for the creature in front of him. He needed the asset and its information, and since other methods were out of the equation, he needed them to be given willingly.
Honestly, it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Jude Coilin: Born in France, orphaned, adopted son of Maya Swift/Csendes (X-man), and ex-husband Sebastian Csendes (Domestic terrorist cult leader). Once an X-men trainee, now working at Blackforest Tactical Solutions, the file for which was very difficult to access even with Wick's clearances. Employed by Michael Hunter, Ex Army Ranger cum 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta operator (De-aged mutant and SUPER recruit). Small wonder he had ended up on the radar of the FBI and CIA. His involvement in Wick's investigation had been inevitable. So what had made him on of Wick's first stops?
His variable physical age. It seemed Mr Coilin, whose specific mutation was to temporarily adopt the mutation of others, had borrowed the ability to change his physical age. Since almost all the documentation on-site at the lab had been destroyed, Wick had next to no information on the mutant suspected of being the source of the serum, now considered a high likelihood suspect. He needed leads, and distasteful as it was to deal with devilspawn, Mister Coilin was the clearest and most probable source of one.
Naturally, Wick was not going in blind. Certainly he might have liked a longer surveillance period, but given the urgency of the mission one week would need to do. Wire taps, camera tracking, cell phone tracking. Wick considered it far too high risk to put a physical tail on someone with Coilin's training and connections. He had placed listening devices in the townhouse Coilins shared with one Zaid Wylde, under the guise of working with an electrical company the pair had contracted for their ongoing refurbishment of the old brownstone. You could get away with a lot by simply dressing the part and looking bland. None had turned up anything to suggest the pair were working with the de-ageing terrorist. Just a lot of chatter about something called Small Magician Collegiate, apparently from Japan, and other related media. He had thought perhaps it was a code, when the word "Weaboo" came up repeatedly. On further research that turned out to be benign.
With no signs of trouble, chatter, or concerning contacts, Wick was moving on to interview Coilin. 1700 on a Tuesday in Brooklyn, outside a brownstone townhouse that was most certainly under much-needed refurbishment, Agent Wick waited patiently in an agency car, watching the sidewalk in the rear-views. In a tailored Armani suit and dark sunglasses he couldn't possibly have looked more like a Special Agent. That was the point. Look the part. He had to catch him on the way in, so he couldn't simply ignore Wick from inside. The car would hopefully buy the agent enough secrecy for the devil-spawn to get within hailing distance without spooking. That way he couldn't try to duck Wick without looking guilty.
The priest, McCallan, was late. Given what Wick knew of him through observation, this was not unexpected. The man was highly social, often stopping to converse with those he knew and some he did not. It was hard to know if it was an act or not, but given what Wick had read, and his brutality with mutants it was plausible that the preacher was a well presenting psychopath. Time would tell. Wick was inclined to believe the best of any man of the cloth, but he also recognised his inherent bias on the matter.
When he did arrive, he was alone. A good start. His cordiality did not seem forced, nor did Wick get the impression he was agitated. "Good evening Father. I thought nothing of it, the work of holy men does not always obey our earthly timelines." Wick's voice was as disaffected as ever, the cool edge though dulled was still present. "I am prepared." Wick offered in response to the question that followed. He did in fact have gloves with him, however wearing them tended to draw suspicion.
The preacher started moving. The Agent was of course suspicious of being asked to move to a new location, but if he was being lured to a trap he was being lured by an expert. That was not a comforting thought, but Wick knew better than to make his suspicions known. He fell in step just a touch behind McCallan, scanning his environment as best he could while being subtle. "Not at all Father. What do you wish to discuss?" Wick also had issue with going to "work" with so little proper preparation. He had not surveyed their target, did not know its demonic abilities, had not ensured it was somewhere he could easily kill it and dispose of it without attracting attention. The Lord's plan did not always allow for such luxuries.
Wick did not address the question of why he may not be used. He knew very well that his was not a speciality or attitude that sat well with the new management. Perhaps a gun could be used to open a lock, but if you had a choice it would not be your first choice. As he understood it, what he had most experience with would fit best with the CIA in general. SUPER was moving more into FBI territory, which was not the type of training Wick had received. Obviously it was what management felt was most useful and necessary, and they were best positioned to know, but perhaps it was time Wick changed agency.
The De-aging phenomenon being lab-created was definitely relevant information. Mutant derived, but worked on humans and kappas. He would need to exercise extreme caution in that case. Business as usual to be paranoid and careful, but this could call for additional equipment. A gas mask, since the substance functioned as a gas, perhaps a complete hazardous materials suit depending on whether skin contact could be enough. Given how much black ink was in that particular section of the dossier, he would need to ask.
That the events were malicious and deliberate did not truly seem to be in question. Certainly Wick had not questioned it. Too targeted, they simply did not have the randomness of accidents. That the Agency wanted the perpetrator brought in alive also did not surprise him, unfortunately. Alive meant getting close. Getting close could go wrong. Wick would much rather have dealt with the situation through a rifle scope to mitigate risk. "Alive if possible. Understood."
He had his questions already queued in his mind. "What assets are being made available? Does the gas function through skin contact? Is this mutant from here or our side?" Wick paused, placed a finger where he was up to on the page, and drew his gaze up to meet Sang's, "What methods are permissible for making sure this gets done?" Even through Wick's emotionless voice they both knew what he meant. Could people disappear or be tortured to ensure this was dealt with. Was he operating outside the law. With something so sensitive, it bore asking.
Sang, Sabine. One of the few people with more SUPER tenure than Wick. One of the few people Wick truly respected professionally. Her brief smile was met with an equally brief inclination of the head. It remained an interesting introspective moment to interact with the woman. A mirror held up to his own persona. Wick had wondered on more than a few occasions who exactly lay beneath the constant masks. Face unchanged, Agent Wick sat once more and turned back to his reading.
"Of course, to both counts. I predict needing thirty minutes to finish, however I have read enough to be briefed." Which he could do while reading. Absorbing multiple streams of information and keeping them ordered mentally was practically its own class at Langley. Those who could not master it never made it into the field. Wick's eyes scanned through another witness statement from a gas attack, mentally highlighting relevant or verifiable accurate information. It was a surprisingly competent witness. He would use them to balance others.
"I thought it odd that it was you briefing me at first. I imagine you have been avoiding using me for your missions. Only logical, I do not fit the image you are trying to cultivate. Now I see why I was chosen. This is quite the mess." Wick's face remained expressionless as he tapped the dossier for emphasis. His voice betrayed no hint of the alleged intrigue. Certainly it betrayed no emotion attached to Sang's personnel or public relation choices. Certainly, he was happy enough to not be working the new image building missions. The Agency had continued aiming him toward people they needed observed or terminated. Fewer and fewer of the latter with new management.
New management. New America. Wick did not truly trust either. However, he was not a petulant child to question authority. He proceeded under the assumption that God had put him in this place for a reason. "What is it you require of me specifically, Agent Sang?"
Posted by Wick on Mar 15, 2020 5:17:18 GMT -6
Ranger and Noel like this
Zeta Mutant
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Apr 30, 2020 10:17:44 GMT -6
Cafas
A ten square foot room, government issue grey. A single steel table, two steel chairs. Fluorescent bulbs humming, flickering ever so slightly. Hidden in the walls, a Faraday cage. Not that there was anywhere to hid a bug to begin with. SUPER briefing rooms were truly a treat. On the table a cardboard box lay open. The top of the neatly set aside lid bore the words "TOP SECRET" in red ink. A document folder lay in front of that, open. In one of the two chairs, eyes intently scanning the pages, a man. His posture was as stiff, his suit immaculate, his face betrayed nothing of the thoughts behind it. Brown eyes flicked quickly over words and photos. He seemed almost robotic.
Wick flipped a page in the dossier. His previous assignment was complete, his part in the operation over. Unless it made the news, it was unlikely he would ever learn how it ended. That was simply the way of things. He received the information he needed to know to do his job, and no more. He did not even know who was to take over for the next step. Possibly it would remain internal, more likely it would be handed over to a special forces unit, or the x-men. It still boggled him that such a band of disgusting devil-spawn freaks had somehow fooled their world and their government into giving them official clearance and jurisdiction. They did not even receive training in any official capacity, but were trusted to recruit and train for themselves. At least military contractors and mercenaries functioned on foreign soil. To think such a group would be allowed to operate on home soil. Especially mutants...
The agent drew his mind back to the folder in his hands. He was to receive a new assignment. He was to be briefed by agent Sang. He read on. Every page was marked in red ink "Top Secret" and Wick could see why. Former SUPER asset escapes with experimental SUPER serum that can regress people to an earlier age.Even in the old days, this would have been a high priority mission. Now? New management would want this dealt with, and they would want to make sure SUPER was never attached to it. That certainly explained why it was going to him.
He flipped another page. Known affected victims. Wick would need to look into each of them more too, find the pattern, predict the next attack. More than one X-man. He simply could not escape them. Leashless attack dogs that should already have been put down. His superiors obviously did not think so however. That was the trouble of the brave new world he found himself in. He pulled his mind back to his task and flipped the page again. Notes on the attacks, photos from the scenes, witness statements. Those would likely be useless, as ever.
The door handle rattled as somebody touched it. Wick looked up and over, expression as cool as ever, and stood.
Dockside shipping outlet, at night. Corners, alleys, containers, and elevated positions all around. Immediate access to waterways and international ships to take bodies away. The exact sort of location he would send a fool to die. Unfortunately, it was also a place where one was unlikely to be interrupted, and thus did make quite a good meeting point. Were he interested in such things, Wick might also appreciate it as a classic. As it was, he did not care for the drama and cinema of it. He cared what happened while he was there. Truly he lived a cynical life.
Wick had been on site well ahead of schedule, and was reasonably confident he was not being tailed. He would not allow himself to die through a lack of preparation or observation. An HVAC technician had cleared nearby rooftops and cranes, planting small cameras to monitor the accesses. Encrypted data sent to his phone. A curious urban photographer had made sure to study and mentally map the ways in and out. As the less savoury elements of society came out to haunt street corners and regular meeting points, an impatient businessman stood within a few short strides of a motorcycle, holding a briefcase. It contained an HK53 carbine, in case things got truly out of hand. In place of his old dart gun, under his jacket and strapped to his side, an integrally suppressed MP5. Ever since the rift had closed, Wick had been operating under the assumption he was in hostile territory. He was always ready.
The suited man checked his phone once more, then scanned the brightly moonlit 'street' again for whoever he was meeting. His rooftops were still clear, there was no suspicious activity on the street. He huffed a frustrated breath that misted before him in the cold air. A few beanie wearing dock-workers observed him as they passed, laughed, shrugged, and kept going. This was not a new sight to them, they knew all sorts of people did all sorts of business at all sorts of hours. Wick studied them surreptitiously. and listened to make sure they truly were leaving.
He knew he'd been seen entering. He knew he had been seen in a way that might have bothered him elsewhere. Houses of God, especially the small ones, were tight knit groups. It had been inevitable. It did mean the good Father was paying attention. The routine sweep past him would have struck Wick as more odd, if he hadn't spent so long tailing the priest. Somewhere on the other side, weight was shifting, slowly. No sound of a book being put down. Possibly reaching for something, possibly just adjusting position. Impossible to tell. Wick began confession, his usually icy cold voice thawing in the presence of the Lord's mercy, into something far more reminiscent of the man he had been before Langley.
"Since my last confession I have blasphemed the name of the Lord, and cursed a fellow man with it. I did so in anger, frustrated that he had impeded my duty." Running to the aid of the devilspawn before it could be finished off. Wick had been forced to leave it, lest he be seen well enough to recognise. His frustration had led to hasty thoughtless words. He had chastised himself already, but only in confession could he find absolution for this Mortal sin.
"I did also miss Mass and work on the Sabbath. Specifically to survey the very chapel in which he stood, and the preacher to whom he spoke. Perhaps this was his worst sin, though he considered that he did it in the name of the grave duty the Lord bestowed him.
"I have lied on no less than ten occasions, though my duty demands it still I beg the Lord's forgiveness." He had this one every confession. It came with the territory. Still it was a sin in the eyes of the Lord. A venial sin, as his job compelled him to it, but a sin all the same.
"I have failed to love my neighbour as Christ commands. When Mrs Johnson knocked on my door for assistance I ignored her need to indulge my own exhaustion." Which he did honestly feel bad about. Mrs Johnson was a good woman, a Catholic herself. They attended the same Church, when Wick had the luxury of going to his regular church. He later discovered she had needed sugar for baking, which he could have provided. Instead she had been forced to go to the store. At her age and at such a time of night, her own exhaustion must have been quite a lot more than his own.
"Finally for this confession, I did not assist one of the faithful to drive out the devil. Though he succeeded, and your holy blessings robbed the devil his power, still I feel I must confess I watched on and did not act. Remaining hidden has become an act of habit Lord, I pray forgiveness." Was it sacrilegious to use confession in such a way? It did not dishonour the sacrament, surely, to strive to further the Lord's plan during it. He felt safe, for he confessed in good faith. If the father was who Wick had deduced, which was likely, he should recognise the hint he was provided. This might bring two of God's chosen together. If this was not the Chosen of God Wick had seen, then he had not revealed so much that it would raise concern.
"I am sorry for all these sins, and the sins of my past life."
A cloud drifted in front of the early afternoon sun, casting the valley of glass and steel into gentle shadow. Wick adjusted his jacket, picking a gap to slip back into the flow of foot traffic. From what he had seen in the reflection of the shop window, there were no signs of threats around his target. This was consistent with his previous reconnaissance, but paranoia was trained in at Langley. Passing through the stream of humanity completely unregarded, he made his way across the street and turned back toward his mark, just another unremarkable man in a suit. In his line of work, it paid to look average. In New York, on a Tuesday, everyone was a thirty-something man in a suit. Wick turned off the street and into the target doorway.
The chapel was small, even by chapel standards. Such was the price of operating in down-town Manhattan. Size counted for nothing in such things however. Wick often thought of the grandeur of the church as serving only man. For did the Lord not say, in Matthew 18:20 "For where two or three have gathered together in My name, there I am in their midst.". Therefore surely it was not for the Lord's benefit that palatial cathedrals were built? Yet to think that was to question a great many Popes, the direct voices of God on Earth. He cast aside the thought.
As was the way of things in New York City, the chapel was occupied. Children come for the guidance of their most holy Father knelt, sat, or stood. Wick counted five, none armed as far as he could tell. The spook entered, genuflected, and knelt on the hassock to contemplate his sins. It was always a complex time for him. Where did lines get drawn? Could lies told in the line of duty be considered mortal or did his profession deny him complete consent? These questions often troubled his mind in the house of God. Over the next ten minutes he got his thoughts in order.
Satisfied he knew what need be said, Wick stood and moved to the confessional. He had made sure to arrive during confession hours. He would choose to take this confession anonymously. He knew the chapel had the capacity. Entering the small space Tristin closed the door gently. He knelt before the screen, taking care to not allow his weapons to bang onto the wood in front of him. Bowing his head and crossing himself, he spoke the familiar words. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It was been five days since my last confession." He omitted the polite self introduction. Though the priest may not understand, the Lord would. If he had miscalculated, however unlikely that might be, it would jeopardise his duty to God, and the Country.
