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.
Her nose wrinkled, and she rolled her eyes again. "Okay, fine whatever! I'm not good at thinking up things on the spot!" Yeesh... apparently beggars could be choosers. It didn't matter to her what name he chose, so long as he didn't blow her cover before her fun had been had. Then he could get sloshed and do a jig in the punch bowl, for all she cared.
She committed his alter ego to memory, smirking to herself at his comment about fake names, as she pulled them up through the gate toward the mansion. Once she'd dismounted her bike and adjusted her dress so the valets weren't getting free peeks anymore, she dropped into a haughty, elegant posture and looped her arm through Matt's. A lazy smirk settled on her lips as she allowed herself to be led toward the waiting doorman.
"Gentlemen! I do hope we are not too late! I insisted that we take the Rolls, but this lovely thing here insisted that being chauffeured around was a dull affair. And who am I to disappoint such a vision?"
She squeezed his arm as would an affectionate partner, and smirked. "Of course I do, love." With frshly manicured nails, she withdrew two crisp slips of paper from within the bust of her dress. The urge to wink at the doorman was great, but she managed to restrain herself.... for the time being. Instead, she handed the invites over, while the greeter eyed Matt Dorian van Tripton and herself curiously.
"Thank you, Ma'am." He checked the invites, staring for a few tense moments before he handed them back. "Everything looks to be in order, Master Tripton. You will find the other guests in the parlor." With a polite bow, he escorted them inside.
Megan, clutching her dates arm, clip-clopped along. Once past the foyer, however, the splendor that truly was the Thaddeus Hubert Mansion fully hit her. The door man bowed once more, before leaving them alone.
"... Holy@#%$..." The room they were in was easily larger than her living room and dining room combined... and it appeared to only be a place to store coats, bags, and... was that a bowl of business cards? From carpet to ceiling everything inch of the room was decorated in late Victorian fashion. Pale blues, yellows, and greens. Silk drapes and crystal vases. Gold detailing lined the wooden trim along the bottom and tops of the walls.
... It was like she'd stepped into the motherF%$#in' white house.
Pulling herself together, she reached up to tuck a flyaway strand of hair back into the rest of her messy bun. Little did she know that the rest of the house matched the foyer and coat room perfectly.
The hum of voices echoed down the hall directly in front of them, while a soft clanging issued out from a dark hallway to their left. The parlor lay directly head, the kitchen off to the side. Dozens of other rooms, both upstairs and on the main floor, were scattered about. Megan, not having the slightest clue where any room lay other than the one she was standing in, made a note to herself to send a few spiders off when she could find time. Knowing the mansion from top to bottom would only prove beneficial, she was absolutely sure of that.
Glancing sidelong at her date, she wiped the astonishment off her face, slapped a smirk back on in its place, and squeezed his arm again. "Lead the way, dear."
"Kay. Now, here's the lowdown. Tonight your name's not Matt. It's gotta be something snobbish. Like... Stuben... Stuben von Bizmark or something." That sounded snobby, right? Those rich people always had strange, hard to spell names. "You aren't from here, either. You're from somewhere far away... is South Africa far away? Whatever, sure. You're from South Africa." She rolled to a stop at a red light, taking at peek at where she was to make sure she was still on track.
"You're rich, too. So rich that flying here for one night to hang out with a bunch of old coots you don't know is nothing to you, understand? You're some kinda exporter. Like... blood diamonds but less known. More rare.... Blood Cashews? You get what i'm sayin'."
She honestly didn't know if she was making sense anymore, but didn't really have the time to pay attention to what was coming out of her face hole. She was busy eyeballing street names and addresses as they rolled ever closer to their destination. "This party is hosted by Thaddeus Hubert. He's some bigwig who has a lot of stock, or something. You can expect this place to be fancy.... God, I hope your good at improvising, because I'm your arm candy for tonight, so you will do most of the talking."
As in on cue, they pulled up beside the curb at that very moment. The mansion sat back across a sprawling lawn, behind a large gate, directly in front of them. Megan whistled lowly, adjusting the bust of her dress after peeling her helmet off again.
"Alright, loverboy... here we are. You ready to schmooze with the best of New York City?" A grin curled her lips and she glanced back at him, icy eyes catching the light from a streetlamp at just the right angle that they glowed ever so slightly.
A not so discreet eye roll was all she needed to comment with in regards to his 'fresh' comment. She waited for him to saddle up, re-helmeted herself, and turned the front wheel of the bike back towards the road.
"A tux shop. I'm not dragging you anywhere dressed like a broke lumberjack." Her engine hummed quietly as she got ready to move again, but she paused. "You may want to hold on tighter."
That was all the warning she gave before putting the proverbial peddle to the metal, launching her bike off of the sidewalk so fast an oncoming car was forced to swerve into the opposing lane in order to miss hitting them. Megan paid little attention to it, checked her wrist watch for the time, and then sped up another ten miles or so.
She flew through a handful of red lights, stop signs, and intersections, before finally slowly down again. Her trusty bike pulled to a stop in front of a small clothing store, who's owner was just getting ready to close. "C'mon, let's go get you some new threads." She slid off her seat, plopped her helmet down, and reached for the Hobo's arm.
Swiftly dragging him with her (quite the feat in six inch heels), she barged in through the door of the small shop and greeted the startled shop owner with a devious smile. "Uh.. Sorry, ma'am, we're clo--"
"This-" She pushed her hobo forward, and pointed at him. "Make him presentable for a fancy party." The man moved to protest, but she was quick to draw out a bundle of cash, which she waved at him unashamedly. "I'll pay you one thousand in cash, right now."
That... changed the man's tune right quick. The store was still locked and the sign switched to closed, but the elderly man ushered Megan's date back into the dressing room to pick out clothes. What he ultimately ended up with was an all black suit, with matching leather shoes and a black silk tie.
Megan gave it a once over, before handling the man her cash, and bidding him a goodnight. She dragged her hobo back out onto the street, climbed back onto the bike, and slipped her helmet back on.
"You can put your clothes under the passenger seat. There's a storage compartment there." She checked the time again-- they would end up late, but at least it'd still be considered fashionable. "Oh, right... My names Charlotte. What's yours?" Once he was back on the bike and holding on, she started off again. This time, though, at a much slower, legal speed. She needed to clue him in on who he was supposed to be tonight.
Her fingers drummed on the handles of her bike, and she bit back a sigh of irritation. Take her helmet off, hmm? Okay, fine. With a twist of her wrist her ride bolted forward. She jerked the handles to angle herself up and onto the sidewalk, and came to another jerky stop directly before him. In one swift, practiced motion she sat back and yanked her helmet off, glowering at her chosen bum with red lips pursed in a dissatisfied frown.
"Alright, helmets off. Now get on if you want free booze and food. Otherwise I've got a city to scour, and precious little time to do so." Now that she was closer, and her helmet was no longer shading her vision, she got a better look at the guy. Dirty, disheveled; check. At least he had a good face though. Maybe she wouldn't be suffering as much as she'd first thought, with this one.
Squinting and leaning a little closer, she took a hesitant sniff, and was then satisfied. At least he didn't smell like poo or anything. Sitting back again, she tucked her helmet between her legs, crossed her arms and waited with all the patience she could muster for his answer.
Megan was on the prowl. Not for trouble-- not just yet, anyway-- but for a date.
A date? Yes. A date. Contrary to virtually everything she'd ever believed in, the twenty six year old had stuffed herself into a slinky black dress, tossed her hair up into a high, messy bun, and hopped onto her bike with only the barest of makeup-- all in order to hunt down a date so she could go to a fancy party.
A party?
Yes. The party of the year. Hosted by New York City elite, in one of the most glamorous houses in the state. The Thaddeus Hubert House. One might wonder how Megan had managed to acquire a ticket to such an event in the first place; She effectively robbed it off of its previous owners unconscious body. Why? For sh*ts and giggles, mostly.
Going depended on having a date, though. No arm candy meant no entrance. This little bit of knowledge meant that Megan's standards were currently very low. How low? Hobo-low. The first three she'd found reeked just a little too strongly of booze, and the last two had started screaming profanities at her before she could even open her mouth. One had even thrown a shoe.
Time was growing short, she was pretty damn desperate, and she still needed to stop somewhere and pick up a tux for her date-to-be. Whoever that unfortunate man was. These circumstances were what led to her stopping her bike with a squeal of tires, pointing at someone man-shaped on the sidewalk beside her and barking quite loudly "Hey you! Climb on, shut up, and hold on!"
She vaguely wondered if pointing at him threateningly with her helmet still on was a good idea. Meh, 20/20.
The lion tamer abandoned his chair, stepped in with once stride and took a swing at her. She narrowly managed to duck back and out of harms way, feeling the class ring on his finger scrap past her cheek.
Her back slapped solidly onto the wooden top of the bar, her hands clamped onto the inner lip and she brought her legs up and over her. One steel-toed boot caught her attacker solidly under the chin as she flipped herself over the bar, before landing on her feet again on the other side. With her knife still in hand she glanced over to see how her birthday buddy was doing... and noticed that he was gone.
Icy eyes widened slightly and she skirted around the bar as quick as her feet would take her. He wasn't on the floor on the other side, nor was he being pummeled or pummeling anywhere close to her. She did however spot the knife he had been holding, stuck fast into the wood of the bar. With one solid yank, she ripped it out and palmed it. Once she found him, she'd have to give it back.
... unless he was dead, or something.
One of the brawlers recovered, the one she'd clipped under the chin. He came at her hard and quick with a right hook she didn't manage to dodge this time. Stars exploded through her vision momentarily, but she managed to keep her wits about her and lashed out with her knife in retaliation. The blade slashed through his shirt as he through himself back and away, leaving a thin cut from one nipple to his collar bone. Megan latched onto the stool next to her, one that she had stumbled back into from the blow to the face, and swung it at him.
It connected, was blocked mostly by his forearms, and someone latched onto her from behind. The boxer that her drinking buddy had punched in the throat; He lifted her off her feet as the man she'd cut came at her again. She lifted her knees to her chest and kicked out both feet straight into the guys chest. The force of the blow sent the guy holding her falling back, and with an elbow to the ribs she managed to free herself.
Her nose wrinkled and she scrubbed at her cheek with the back of one hand ruefully. "I don't want my kid covered in dog hair all the time. S'bad enough that blasted creature sheds all over my bed." Nope, a cradle it would have to be.
..Just... what the hell kind of crib did she need? She knew there were cribs for big kids... she'd used her sisters as a toddler. Newborns though?
Slumping across the store to where an large, elegant Bedding sign had pointed her, she stopped when she spotted the cribs. Or, rather, a crib. "...Seriously? An entire store devoted to wailing ankle biters, and they only have one bed?"
A saleswoman appeared at her side like a sale-sniffing shark, and Megan was bleeding money. "That's our brand name model. It's top of the line; memory foam mattress with temperature sensors built in to monitor the heat of the baby. You would be notified if it drops under or rises above safe temperatures for infants."
Blinking slowly, while her brain attempted to process all of that, Megan stared at the woman who had seemingly appeared out of thin air. "It's also water-proof, has a natural dipped in center to keep infants from rolling over the sides, and comes with a free baby monitoring system."
The woman looked so proud of herself, all smile with a twinkle in her eyes. Megan was starting to feel less like a customer and more like a mutant steak the more she stood there.
"Is it designed for mutant children?" Squinting at the woman's name tag, Megan angled her question at 'Rebecca' and waited. "Those features sound fine and all for human babies, but what if mine comes out sharing an x-gene with me? What if it simply turns into a spider and crawls up the sides?"
She reached out and flipped the tag on the crib, nearly toppling over when she spotted the price. "Jesuscrist, this thing is the same price as a freakin' sports car!"
Grinning from ear to ear Megan gripped her blade tighter. The flash of knives had given the three men a reason to pause momentarily, but considering that her male partner was swaying on his feet slightly, they felt they still had enough of an edge to win a brawl. Blades or no blades.
One of them picked up a rickety bar chair to defend against the knife Megan held, while one of his buddies attempted to circle around and flank her from the side. The last of the threesome headed for Ty, making sure to keep a wary eye on the blade as he fell into a well practiced boxing stance.
"You're gonna regret hurtin' jim like that, bud."
Megan snorted, twirling her blade as she waited for her own opponents to close in. "Never regret anything. Regret is for chumps."
When the man holding the chair out at her like he was a lion tamer was in range, she lifted a leg and spun. Her heel smacked squarely into the side with enough oomph to send him off balance momentarily. The other jumped at the moment of opportunity her spin kick gave him, hopping forward to capture her in a powerful bear-hug from behind. She responded by ramming the back of her skull into his nose as hard as she possibly could, and was more than satisfied with the pop and crunch that followed.
Behind the counter, the blond bartender was reaching for the phone. She wasn't a fan of having to deal with fights on her shifts, and had long ago put the police on speed dial. Unfortunately for her, the second her hand came in contact with the phone a small army of fuzzy black spiders rained down on her from the ceiling. It was enough of a fright to send her reeling back from the receiver as she swatted at herself and screamed bloody murder at the top of her lungs.
Screaming which ultimately tore a childish giggle from Megan, who wasn't very fond of New York City's finest interrupting her fun.
Megan's lips curled into a grin, the kind that spoke volumes about how pleased she was with how her night was turning out. She'd stumbled upon some kid in a bar she hardly ever visited, on a night when she was ready for just about anything.
"Motherf#%&in' anarchy!" Her voice was low, maybe a little raspy due to screaming at someone only an hour prior, but she made sure he heard her.
Then, a split second after the words had left her lips, her grip tightened on the bottle of beer in her hand. In one smooth motion she was up from her chair and slinging the heavy bottle at the back of a man's head across the room, with the grace of one practiced in bar fights.
The resounding thunk of glass on skull, and then the thump of the guys forehead meeting table as he pitched forward, unconscious, drew a depraved giggle from her. The passed out mans three buddies hopped to their feet, confusion still in the process of shifting to outrage. Megan cracked sore knuckles and her neck, before slipping out a slim black object from her coat pocket. With a twitch of a finger a lengthy blade flicked out, and she waved the approaching men toward her.
"Hope you know how to dance, sugar." The comment was directed at the birthday boy; whether or not he'd heard her, she didn't rightly care about. "C'mon boys, momma ain't got all night."
"Oh Yeah? I once had a dog named Barky. And a hamster called Squeak. You leave me on my own with naming things and this kid's gonna have to suffer through life known as Screaming Poop factory.."
A soon to be mother who was walking past balked at Megan, which the twenty six year old didn't notice, before quickly waddling off.
" 'Sides, if I wanted a boring ol' name i'd look online." She glanced sidelong at Maya, her nose wrinkled and lips pursed, and shrugged. "...And... you know, it'd mean a lot to me, and junk."
Uncomfortable with the addition, she shoved a handful of random baby clothes into a basket someone had left unattended, looping it over her arm.
She snorted back at him, plucking at her black jacket. "Dark everything, and yet it still manages to get on my bloody shirt. 'least it's a throw away." She eyed him, evaluating and scrutinizing from toe to orange, messy mop. He... didn't exactly look like someone who'd talk about being doused in someone's blood.
Unless it was it own, maybe. But, hell, she was one to talk.
Her glass hovered at her lips for a moment while she removed her eyes from him, ice blue instead gazing deep into the amber liquid within her cup. The ice cubs crackled in protest and clinked against the glass; with a sigh, she downed the rest of the burning liquid in one gulp.
"You'll want to drink that before it starts to lose it's kick, you know." She muttered, pointing one finger at him with the empty glass in her palm. "Gotta drop the shot in quick, then gulp it down in one go. It'll put some hair on your chest."
The empty glass was cast aside, and she ordered herself a beer. There really was no need to try and drown herself in booze, when it didn't work right on her anymore, anyway. Blondie, who had been keeping an ear out for them, popped the cap off of a cold bottle and slid it Megan's way. The twenty six year old caught it in one hand, tipped it in thanks, and promptly took a swig.
"Hey, ya'know what's fun?" She glanced around, a half smirk on her lips, and leaned toward him like she had a secret to tell.
"21, eh? I remember when I was that age." She paused, lips pursed in thought, "Actually, never mind. I don't remember much as all until i hit 22." Grinning made her cheeks hurt, but she did it anyway.
"Though, I still remember my friends getting me so wasted I thought the bartender was Jimmy Carter. Never lived that one down. Nope." Specifically the part where she'd asked him to sign her stomach, because she'd been under the impression that it would make her a historical artifact or something.
Seeing as she was in such a spirited mood, though, she waved the blond woman down and ordered him an Irish Car Bomb to go along with his Bourbon on the rocks. "Trust me, it's a good one." She winked, and cradled her second drink for a moment, before slipping off her gloves and removing the brass knuckles that had been hidden underneath. Both were tucked into the pockets of her half jacket, and she picked at a spot of red on her tank top. "Use vinegar, he says. Blasted liar.
Plopping onto a bar-stool a seat away from another bar patron, Megan crossed her arms over one another and leaned heavily against the counter. "...And an ice pack, if you don't mind." The bartender, a blond woman who she'd met before, mixed her drink first before fetching an ice pack from a fist aid kit beneath the counter. With both her drink and medical supplies in hand, Megan took a long sip and slapped the cold bag over her left eye. Casting a glance right and left with her good eye, and nodded at the man on one side silently, then glanced over at who sat to her right. Some Ginger sat a seat away, nursing an empty shot glass and a dour expression.
Sipping at her drink again, the twenty five year old lowered her ice-pack and swished the alcohol around in her mouth. It worked wonders for getting washing the taste of blood away, but stung like a mother around where her teeth had punctured the inside of her lip.
"Why so glum, chum? Ain't seen a frown like that in a long time. She raised her glass, took a sip, and pointed a finger at him. "You should try your bourbon with ice. Or a Manhattan."
She was sure she looked a mess, but didn't rightly care. A still forming black eye and blood on her feet was the least of her injuries, though thankfully the only visible ones. A skilled eye could probably stop the signs of a scuffle, from the dirt on her clothes to the disheveled hair. Traces of red were still smeared across the toes of her boots, but she'd already wiped most of it off on her victims shirt. Draining the rest of her glass with a satisfied sigh, she waved for another and slapped her ice pack back on.
"Sam..?" Where had she heard that name before? oh! Right. Sam was some guy who needed a black eye. She shrugged, and boredly picked through the rest of the rack.
"Well, I have a last name, but no first. Kinda figured since you are the official god-parent you could help me out with one." She turned a wide grin on Maya, and pulled her very best kicked-puppy eyes.
"All i've got so far for a name is either Richard, or William. Both of whom come from distant great grandfathers, one twice removed." She'd thought about using her father's name, but eventually decided against it in order to avoid confusion. She hardly saw her family anymore, anyway. She didn't need a constant reminder to call home squealing at her every day. Not to mention how holidays would go, with her screaming at a toddler who shares her dad's name.