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.
He took a moment to stare at the woman, then looked to the chair, then back to the woman. Then back to the chair. In all honestly, he had nothing he could really say in response. He hadn't been ready for such a-- tirade wasn't the word-- prepared response. Either it was simply her job to know such things, which it was now clear to him that she worked here. Or, she was an art enthusiast. Either way, she made some points that he found weren't too far from his own. So Mat responded with his most witty rejoinder.
"Wow. Good answer..."
She stared him, her demeanour none too friendly. Deciding he had most definitely been outmaneuvered in that last exchange, he decided to stare back, too childish to break eye contact. Not that he really wanted to. She did have very pretty eyes. Then, he grinned. After all, a charming grin covers all sorts of things. Like the fact that he was getting the feeling that he may have overplayed his hand here.
"Can't say I don't disagree with you, on most of that. Intent is important, I'll give you that. But I've always felt art is about capturing something more...specific. A result. A product. A... He groped his mind for the word. "An idea made physical. Y'know what I mean? Abstract ideals are all good and fine, but I'd be more inclined to call that philosophy than art. I've always thought of art as more concrete. Direct, but still subtle, y'know? I mean, seriously, hanging a urinal on a wall and calling it art..?" His lips twitched, and his grin widened.
>>>"I don't think most people look at gilded gesso on walnut and think 'what a fancy bench'. It takes a little skill to wander around the signs and make yourself comfortable. You're just very talented at being oblivious."
That earned her a chuckle. "You have no idea..."
He had to hand it to her, she wasn't afraid to let him know what she thought. She said it with the air of someone with a high opinion of herself, but he couldn't fault her for that. After all, he was in a museum. This was her turf, clearly. Slightly pretentious, more than a little passive-aggressive... But she seemed fun. And she was nicely worked up about the chair. She stopped mid-rant to dial her walkie talkie down, and suddenly shifted gears. Apparently a redo was in order. But Effigy wouldn't have it. Not because he was feeling malicious, but because he was feeling a little spiteful.
She had interrupted his chance at sleeping. That meant she could make it up to him with entertainment.
"It could be made from bubinga and gilded sapphires, for all I care. But that is not a sculpture. It's furniture," he protested, pointing at the piece in question and sounding like a man who knows these things. Not that he really cared. But he would pretend to care, in the hope that she would bite. "I'm sorry. but you cannot seriously be standing there, looking me in the face, and telling me otherwise...
He gave a long sigh. She was still there. Which meant she wasn't going to magically disappear and leave him to peacefully wrestle with the most basic of human abilities. Had he known it was going to be this much of a hassle, he would have saved himself the admission fee and just slept on a park bench.
It wasn't until he took a moment to actually pay attention to what the woman was saying, that Effigy understood just why she was here. Prying his eyes open, he glanced awkwardly over his shoulder, looking up and down the piece of furnishing he was currently resting on. Now that he though about it, it was a pretty fancy seat...
It wasn't until he saw the plaque sitting just in front of the settee that he realised what all the hubbub was about. With all the maturity of a man in his twently-somethings, he gave a loud, amused snort, before chuckling to himself.
"Whoops. My bad."
With a groan, he swung himself upright, blinking rapidly before grinding the heel of his palm against his eye. He stood, and swayed a moment as his body adjusted to the being upright once again. Then he grinned sheepishly at the woman. Now that he had a better opportunity to see her, she suddenly became much less...unagreeable.
"Sorry love, but you'd think they'd make that a little bigger, so people don't mistake it for a bench," he offered weakly, pointing at the now obvious display information. He glanced around, sniffing and rubbing at his cheek. "Besides, I thought this was the statue area? Seems a silly place to put a chair..."
If multiple people want to be a certain character, I think it could be interesting if they compete/fight it out to see who is the 'real' one. Maybe one character starts off as a Wonderland character, then another character comes along and cries imposter. Could make things a little more interesting/amusing.
He was sinking, deeper, deeper into sleep. His body had finally stopped protesting, and his mind was calming, calming, calming. Faces began to swim before him. Memories. Dreams. Two lives slowly blending into one. Two countries, two continents. Different experiences. Same experiences.
A face came to him. One face, and yet, many faces. Like a slideshow, the face flickered and morphed, never still. Never the same. Friends. Trip, and the others. Andrea. Acquaintances. Mute. That nosy pretty-boy, Andrew. Charlotte. Family. Mum. Dad. Lily. Hovering above him, the face opened it's mouth, a white light spewing forth. Mat craned forward, trying to hear what it had to say. And as the face took a yawning breath, it--
>>>"You know, the logical punishment for finding someone sleeping on a piece of art would be to get a few of the security guys to carry you to the Egypt exhibit and lock you in a sarcophagus. After waking up in a coffin I think a little more respect for the property would be in order. One could only hope."
Like a tether cord cut, the dream slipped away, and Mat found himself plummet, jolted in the cold, cruel realm of the woken. Fear gripped gripped him vice tight. His heart raced, his breath rasping hurriedly. His body tensed rigidly. He stared up, his widened eyes so darkly ringed they could be mistaken for bruised. Slowly, the world began to come into focus.
An unfamiliar face framed with snowy hair.
The groggy after effects of the medication still reeling through his mind, Mat took a moment to compose himself, to process what she had said. He spared a scathing glare at the woman before closing his eyes again, nestling back down on the settee.
"At least then I wouldn't have to listen to your braying." He rolled over to his side, his back facing the direction of her voice. "One could only hope..."
I mean, if they didn't want people to sleep on them, they wouldn't provide resting benches.
The very thought of it made him cringe. Made the bile in his gut creep up his throat. Make his marrow itch. Made him sweat like a fat guy in a sauna. It took every ounce of will power not to tear the hair from his scalp and weep like a baby.
Sleep.
His nemesis.
He could keep avoiding it, like he had been doing. But so far his day count was somewhere around...five? The fact he couldn't remember was a good enough indication that further consciousness would result in lasting damage. Well...more lasting damage. So with enough sleeping pills in his stomach to knock out an elephant, and an impending dread creeping down his spine, Effigy headed for somewhere he could find some peace and quiet.
As luck happened to have it, he stumbled past a museum. An art museum.
Deciding that he had time to kill while his medication kicked in, he figured he might be able to find some inspiration, as well as a quiet corner to pass out in. Win-win. Paying his admission, he began to wander, his feet leading the way. He gazed halfheartedly at the exhibits displayed before him, his mind preoccupied but the inevitable attempt at sleep. Walking in a daze, like some sleepless zombie, Effigy found himself surrounded by statues and sculptures.
Old ones, by the look of it.
Blinking the rising fog back from his mind, he stared around, a grin tugging at his lips. Hobo instinct had paid off again, and he had found himself the perfect place to do the deed. Wandering along, his head swiveling this way and that, he came across an elegant staircase, below which sat a comfortable looking bench.
Checking that the coast was clear, Effigy gave a final dry swallow before gingerly laying himself down on the seat. His breath rising in tempo, he took a final glimpse of the light before clamping his eyes shut. Breathing deeply, he began the process of trying to calm himself.
Don't know when. Don't know how. Petrol had slowly been dripping, oozing over the situation for however long now. And someone was stupid enough to throw a match on it.
Problem is, you fuck with matches, you get burnt.
Screams echoed. Bounced from stone. Stone of the brick. Stone of the concrete. Stone of the bitumen. Stone of the urban jungle, and the slum of an alley that housed a growing community of the streets homeless. It bounced, and reverberated, and slowly, slowly evaporated into the vapour.
Screams. And shouts. And the sharp crack of a gunshot.
Effigy didn't know who started it. Didn't know what started it. Or why. But when the battle cries filled the air, New York City melted away. The streets began to drip, and buckle, and boil over. Voices that were shouting began to shift, and warp, word emphasis changing, timbre broadening, drawling. The crackling of fire filled his ears, but there was no smoke, no flames. He glanced around, looking for Trip, or Pockets, or Downpour, but the only face he had recognised was Doctor's. His chest heaved, and his mind reeled.
Melbourne. New York.
Same shit.
A keening weep filled the air, before shimmering into peals of mad laughter. Fear and frenzy. Joy and hate. Dread and sweet, sweet anticipation. And as the homeless began to rise up against the enemy horde before them, Effigy found himself standing amongst the storm, screaming at the sky, stomping his foot. Eyes wild, senses like a razor shard of glass, the narcotic rush flowing from the sole of his shoe to the concrete below. The tug in his mind, as Trip, and Pockets, and Downpour pulled themselves free from the surface of the ground. The bond as the four of them shoved their way to the front of the fray, Effigy gnashing his teeth all the way.
Battle.
Stone fists, and jaws of meat and bone. Snaps, and cracks, and grinding. Whimpers filled the air, but Effigy could only laugh and swear and spit in response. Amphetamine violence coursed through his veins, liquid fire. Blood streamed down his right arm, his white-knuckled hand gripping the handle of his grandfather's razor, no memory of reaching for the damn thing.
Glancing around, he found himself detached from the mayhem, muffled bouts of giggles escaping his throat. A window loomed in front of him, the funhouse reflection convex and distorted. He stared fish-eyed at the swimming vision in the glass, himself and his three stone friends. Then, with a mental nudge, 'Pockets' put his fist through the window. Climbing through, Mat stumbled his way towards the register. Behind him, the sound of more breaking glass.
Great minds, and such...
And as the roars of combatants became the whoops and hoots of looters, Effigy found himself with a single word, gripping to his tongue, the hallucinogenic mayhem wrapping around him like a warm hug.
Effigy caught himself staring, and quickly focused his attention back onto his drink. Not without his eyes quickly sneaking another glance. It was probably considered rude to eavesdrop on the conversation down the bar. But honestly, what else was he going to do? Everyone else in this place was either asleep, or in worse shape than him.
The so-called 'Lily' leaned closer to the barmaid, which meant that she was either paranoid about other people listening in. Which was entirely understandably. Or, something clandestine was about to be discussed. Effigy knew. He had had more than his own fair share of shady deals to know a potential one in the making.
Rapping his knuckles onto the glass of his bottle, Effigy shaped a small, featureless golem. On his whim, the little glass man began to dance. Hopefully, to anyone who saw him, it would look like his attention was focused on the dancing statue. Might put any people who suspected him of prying at ease. Let them think he was too busy playing mental puppet master to listen in.
Truth was, controlling this little guy was as simple to him as drinking a beer.
"Should I even ask?" he asked as Charlotte placed the new bottles on the tray. Mat smirked at her, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so not to embarrass her. He remembered her reaction to the coke and bathroom remark. "From wine coolers to absinthe? You are trying to get me drunk!
Charlotte pointed out a sectioned off, but very private hallway. Then she helped herself to a platter of shrimp. She was a strange girl, this one. Mat, for all his functioning faculties, couldn't get a grasp on her. She scrubbed up very nicely, and certainly looked the part. But then, so did he, and he had been sleeping in the gutter for the better part of a decade. But there was...something. Something that didn't sit right.
She seemed to belong here as much as he did.
Then again, maybe she did belong here.
So he led the way. Like a good hobo who had been maybe-kidnapped-maybe-coerced-maybe-bribed. Past the velvet rope. Down the hallway. And up the very nice staircase. At the top, he glanced left, before glancing right. Not knowing which way to go, he decided go left, then right. Then left again. Then straight...
F^#% this was a big mansion...
Before long, Mat found himself with a dead end. A double set of exquisitely carved doors, made from ebony wood. Maybe bubinga? Two large handles of twisting silver sat face to face in front of him. Deciding that this way probably a good enough place to drink, he turned to his date, a smug grin on his face. Grasping the handle, he pushed the door open, and gestured for her to enter.
If Gina needs a little corrupting, then Effigy would be more than willing to help. He was mad about what happened to her and would be willing to teach her covert ways to express any anger she has. A pair of wings and a can of spray paint can reach all sorts of places...
He watched her as she sauntered towards the bar, before scratching his chin and wondering how the hell he was going to do this. It had been an observation on Mat's time in this world, that if you looked like you belonged, then most people didn't question you. He had seen it all over. Delivery men walking in and out of buildings. Repair men. Fix-it guys. Most people tended to give the benefit of the doubt. After all, a man on the front desk of an office probably didn't care who came and went, so long as nothing went wrong.
So with that thought in mind, Mat made a bee-line, straight for the door the waiters and servers were coming and going from.
Behind the scenes, a different even unfolded. There was no calm elegance of the party to be found here, no pleasant moods, or luxurious sights. Back here was a world of stainless steel, heat, steam and noise. A room that was half kitchen, half prep station, and half stockroom. Pans and bowls clanged on the far side of the room, the occasional rush of flame as the burners flared up, sending gouts of flame into the air. Orders and instructions were shouted into the air, mingled with the cursing and insults of pressured cooks. Waiters scurried between, dropping off their empty loads for the droop-eyed dishwashers, before taking up new platters and trays to be offered to the city's elite. In small groups of twos and threes, the servants snickered amongst themselves, facades of subservience stripped away to reveal the bitter, loathing core beneath.
"...and did you hear what she said to Stephan?"
"Oh my god, yes! What a f*&#ing cow. Seriously, I hope her limo crashes on her way home..."
"Well, what do you expect from Mrs. Johansen~?" A snort. "She's a bitch."
Sparing only a moment to glance around, Mat strode in, head held high, and his back straight. He made his way towards the dish-washing area, to where the trays were being deposited. One of the dishwashers opened the machine, steam pouring free from it's confines. Spying a stack of trays, Mat grabbed one and made to turn.
"Hey, they've still gotta be polished."
Mat turned, and looked down his nose at the boy, who didn't look much older than eighteen. "Then polish them. I don't have time to argue with dish pigs." Without further argument, Mat made his way out of the kitchen, taking a towel that rested on a bench.
Glad that the chaos of the service industry allowed him to go relatively unnoticed.
Now, the final part of his scheme. Hanging the towel over his arm, Mat held the tray from underneath, fanning his fingertips out to keep it steady. Moving at a brisk pace, not too slowly, like he was in a hurry, Mat simply walked behind the bar and grabbed two bottles filled with amber liquid, checking briefly that one of them was a rum. There was a picture of a pirate on the label, which encouraged him. Resting them on the tray, he glanced down the bar to where his date was entertaining the starry-eyed barman. Smirking to himself, he gave the man a sharp whistle, before snapping his fingers at the guy.
"Oi! You're getting paid to work, not try and sleep with the guests. Start looking busy."
And with that, Mat started to make his way to the exit, hoping that his date would follow and not find the bartender more interesting than the hobo.
A maelstrom of chaos had engulfed the Big Apple. A wave of discontent, boiled over into hatred and mayhem. The ripples of discord between humans and mutants had now become tidal waves of released bigotry and loathing from both sides. Ranks had begun to form, small pockets of the population who had seized onto the atmosphere and let it fuel their darker passions. Brawls, and vandalism, and looting, and assaults, and skirmishes in the streets and alleys of New York. Mat had felt the current shift, felt it pull away from contained distrust to outright war. Had seen it all fall apart.
He was living on the battleground.
And he didn't sleep...
The changes had been gradual. Along with the hatred for mutants, came the inevitable backlash against the homeless. Mutant or not, vagrants provided an easy target for pent up frustration, and Mat had begun to cop his fair share. It wasn't long before street companions started to band together, seeking safety in numbers. Small gatherings of sleeping rolls, blankets and the inevitable hobo debris started to crop up, along with the people.
Mutants. Humans.
Huddled under his blanket, leaning up against the brick wall lining the alley, Mat stared out at the makeshift shanty town of tents and bedrolls, and felt an anxious flicker in his stomach. There was an air of inevitability to the sight, a sense that something was going to happen. That for better or worse, this group of ragtag vagrants would be fewer in numbers by the end of the week.
Sucking on his teeth, Mat threw his blankets off and rose to his feet, his sudden dread overwhelming him. Such a large gathering of people would not go unnoticed. Sooner or later, the riots would find the homeless gathered here. And one way or another, they would find themselves caught up in this battle. He weaved through the throng of people, stepping over the sleeping, and the sick, and the drunk, and the drugged, until a he found the face he was looking for. An face that was older, and more weathered than Mat's. The man Mat had come to find spotted him, tilting his head back in greeting.
"Effigy, my man! What's happening, brother?"
"Nothing that hasn't already happened somewhere, Doctor." Mat clasped hands with the man, like old acquaintances. Maybe they were. He couldn't remember how long ago it was that he had been introduced to the man known simply as 'Doctor'. Long enough that he had formed a beneficial friendship with the man.
Doctor clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. His smile widened, and his gaze grew hungry. "Need your prescription filled?"
Mat smirked at the man, his hands reaching for the cash in his pocket. "Thought you'd never ask."
Before he had a chance to smirk to himself, she was leading him away from the dance floor. They had managed a somewhat passable round around. Mat had to admit, the waltz went far smoother than it could have. Not as smoothly as dancing with his golems, but then, he couldn't just guide Charlotte with only a thought like he could his sculptures.
Unfortunately...
>>>"What do you say to us swiping a bottle or two and escaping to find somewhere more private, eh? I hope there's some kinda rum for me...and maybe they'll have some wine coolers for you."
Mat laughed, and batted his eyelashes at his date. "Wine coolers, you say? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk..." He winked, and took a moment to eye his date up and down. She seemed eager to escape the crowds, and for a moment, Mat's ego almost allowed it to think it was solely to find somewhere alone with him. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. For a woman who had urgently dragged him to this shindig, she seemed awfully...out of place at this party.
He supposed even the rich families had black sheep in them.
"C'mon, pretty sure the bar's this way." He started towards the room he had seen people emerge from, drinks in hands. Licking his lips, he was sure he could almost taste the booze on the other side of the door. Figured that was the best chance for the bar. That, and he wanted to impress Charlotte with his tingling hobo-sense.
Luckily for Mat, his hobo sense had been spot on. The room was more sparsely decorated than the others, but what it lacked in excess, it made up for in sparse comfort. Various chairs, sofas, and cushioned benches allowed guests to sit comfortably whilst conversing in small groups. Tables of h'orderves and finger foods lined the wall to the right. At the far end of the room, manned by a steady handed bartender, was Mat and Charlotte's intended destination. The marble-topped bar stood in front of a wall of glass shelves on a mirror backing. Several beer taps stood tall on the marble surface, whilst bottles of multi-coloured liquors rested upon the shelves. Busboys and waitresses swarmed around, some disappearing through a door into the behind-the-scenes with trays of empty glasses, others replenishing their offerings of booze.
Mat stared at the bar, and debated how he could possibly get away with this.
"You reckon you can keep the barman busy?" he asked his date. He looked her up and down once more, and decided that she most probably could.
