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.
The man who knelt beside her looked a bit homeless. Unkempt and such. But he knelt down beside her, which made him her knight in shining armor. Also, the way he was handling his hand, he had been the one -- ah yes he had indeed been the one, slow old brians -- who had handeled that shopkeeper. She managed a smile. It was put on and looked it. Well, who was she to be perfect at acting?
>>Ah well young man, nothing these old bones won't be able to handle<< At least she hoped so. Busting a hip was nothing fun in her age. Even with the wonders of advanced medicine and surgery. Old people just didn't heal as well anymore. Part of the old and decreipt thing. She gripped the poffed hand firmly. Her hands had stopped shaking and now were warm and hard underneath that papery layer of old-people skin.
She got to her feet, her knight helping her nicely, and proceeded to dust off her clothing with firm swipes of her hands. She then proceeded to look at her strewn things firmly, if looks can be firm that is, and made them glow green and line up nicely in her purse. The shopkeeper lay forgotten at the side. People grasped at her show though. Some started hurrying along. No need to be here now. Urgent appointments. Root canal and such. Others stood still, with open mouths, watching her like some animal at the zoo. Others again would not look at her, as if she was coated in eye-grease. They would not move though.
She petted the hands of her rescuer. >> We shall have tea now.<< She announced as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Maybe, like flying neon-green kerchiefs, they were. For her.
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It was like a shopping list, of course. Small aper, white with lines. A round dozend of names, addresses and... were those social security numers? Written in a flowing, flowery hand that Droian could probably guess the provenance of.
It even came with a fridge magnet. A little pink pig. Not one of those wildly smiling ones. No, a real sow. Something you could find on a farm somewhere in the midwest. All of it withdrawn from the edless spaces of The Bag.
Welcome to the analog revolution?
>> I do.
It was like he had just accepted a marriage propsal. At least she seemed to think so. The thing floated towards him. Nicely behaved. Nivcely written. Nicely done?
>> May I look forward to reading the papers?
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>> Make them fall from high places. Have them drive into walls with their fast cars. Let unexpected electrocutions happen. Or something like it. I do not want them to die in ways that scream mutant. Only in ways that make abundantly clear that they are nasty., nasty people and have made certain people have grievances. Blame it on the Russian mob after the fact.
Yes, her smile was beatific. She had thought some things out it seemed.
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She thought she had been nice. She whispered like the wind, light as a butterfly. A thunderstorm knocked her on her old, old butt in response.
At least that possibly happened, for she found herself sitting on the carpet and, going by the smell or burned things and ozone around, something about her was singed. That was, something beside the plastic carpet, shich showed nice melted fractal lines radiating outward from a pair of shoes. Some things were fuzzy in her mind. Like the reason she was sitting on her butt and mussing up her nice dress.
She blinked like an owl for a few times. Big, slow blinks that managed to convey a sense of incredulity. Why am I here again? Oh right. Blowing things up. Mhhh... the carpet had suffered from heavy electric discharge... not good around explosives. They tended to ba nasty that way.
<<"Are you hurt or...?"
She looked up. Someone had been speaking to her? Ah. The blonde. A smile, small, appeared on her face.
>> Oh no, it was nothing. But do be a dear and get me a chair...
She let her voice trail off. Then her eyes fell on the ground and her recuperating mind connected the burnt carpet with the shoes and those with the woman. Mutant. Young. Out of control. How novel!
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She was crumbling a bit here and there with her cookie. She then stopped, the thing half eaten like some obscene moon, to look at Dorians writing; what a nice had it was, she noted. Nothing at all about scrawls and scribbles. It probably had to be that way, what else to do without voice? She took a deep breath for her answer. It might be a bit lingering. But these things were important. Speaking clearly.
>> The structure, dearest, are banks. You cannot make them gone without a host of bad things happening, no?
She waved her cookie around as if to point at the marble around them. Banks, they were important in the sceme of things. The cookie paused. A crumb had detatched itself and landed on the papers floating between the two of them.
>> Though it would, possibly, be advantageous to have a leak somewhere about certain Banks holding mutant hater money.
Her smile, it was beatific. Old and wrinkly and so totally nice and warm around.
>> I want those financiers dead. Spectacularly. It is what you are good at, no?
She lived at the Mansion. She taught there. Not to mention certain intelligence contacts of hers. But it never did to show all cards in your hand at once. Not when you did not even remotely need to.
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Granny studied at NYU. And had been for some time. This just in case you did not know. What she studied? Well, you might call it by its simple name. Blowing things up. Other people called it a MSc (the University), exciting (her Professor in Nitrogen Chemistry), extremely harzardous (the worker safety inspection team) or ARE YOU NUTS?. That being said by some Computational Chemistry guy who was drawn to her lab room by loud and intermittent noises. He left in a hurry. She did not quite understand why.
Sure. There was sharpnel bouncing off her glowing green shields. There were the loud noises of things breaking. Azidoazide Azides were not things you did for their beautiful numerical values. (This being the main reason computational chemistry existed.) Or their colors. Or because they were nice and fluffy. You did them, because they blew up. Repeatedly. Violently. And, goodness, they were fun (!) in that extremely violent way.
But alas, studying came with its on chores. You had to, just as an example, contend with the tedium of looking things up in a library. That was if you did not want to blow your non-Mutant backside to bits. In her case she looked things up in the library because she did not want to blow her non-Mutant students into little specks of dust. And (maybe) because the Worker Safety Team had almost had an apoplexy when she explained why she did not use blast shields. (That Doctor came in the most engaging shades of white and purple. They even alternated!)
So, to spare other ppeople the nerves, she now sat at a Computer of all things, reading a nice article on Things-that-go-boom. Except that what went boom -- her brain was the intended target -- the ciomputer screen suddenly turned to going boom. Or rather rainbow colors. She was startled and raised her head. To her left another Student was cursing. Apparently he had not saved the draft for his latest Essay. To her right another head suddenly came up.
A most engaging phenomenon, comouters turning off in a ripple movement. Almost as if there was a field source somewhere nearby. The old lady (people rarely stared at her any more) grabbed her hat with the big sunflower and proceeded to stand up. As she did so, her walking stick came floating by. She proceeded, with an almost brisk pace, to trace the source of the disruption of her scientific reverie.
She had quite an idea about what it might be.
A blody woman (nice breasts by the by) proceeded to sit down, plop another book onto a growing pile on her desk and fell head on onto an old paperback. >> Uuuugh << Well, she thought by herself, there we have it. Her creaking bones carried her closer.
>> Hello Dear.
Her voice was a nice whispered Alto. Wispering here like the wind, because the librarian might try to get her head otherwise.
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Sitting on the ground... it was fun once. Back when I was young, when my knees would bend this way or that. Now it is painful, those boring needles in the joints turn into flaming chisles. Driven by a sadistic mason with more brawn than brain. Red hot things in the joints.
The Old Lady, she fell to the ground, her eyes tearing up from the pain. Her breaths were hissing through clenched theeth. Her hands balled to fists, clenched tightly. Her walking stick lay some small distance away whence it had skittered on the plolished floor. And her bag had been opened, strewing a host of things around her.
But these things, they would come later. For now there was pain. White inside the mind. (Yes, it has a color) Red outside. Her joints were already beginning to swell nicely from the abuse.
People were staring. Possibly less at her and the mess of things around. A lacey hankerchief stood out there. (It was a nice neon green. She loved that yarn.) Yes, she was a bit preoccupied. And finally her mind cleared. Only that her eyes were still teary. Horrible, quite horrible, she thought her first clear thought after the assault. It's just horrible how weak I have become.
It was not a new thought. It was an old friend, one quite familiar now. She had had it many times over the years. But possibly it had new urgency now. Here.
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She hated the Mall. Had beef with it. Scorned it. Was filled with revulsion. You get the gist of her feelings towards the nicely scented hall of columns where shops butted against each other and the ways were filled with families and screaming children. Those temples of consumerism. This one, it was special, had a place in her heart.
This was, because the place was close to the Mansion. At least fairly close. You could also get many different things here you would have to search dolorously for in the big city itself. It was why she still came here.
There were counterarguments though. One was that the floors of polished stone were so well-waxed that even normal people had trouble not slipping around. The children found delight in it, slithered hither and yon like snakes in their sneakers. (Their possibly new sneakers, there was a shoe-shop somewhere around.) It was a nightmare for people with arthritis. Oh and people stared at her. Some even made rude comments. This was because behind her a string of green-glowing bags was bobbing along nicely like pearls on a string. Her goods and goodies – for the Mansion teens had an insatiable lust for sweets she sometimes indulged – that amounted to a bit of a following. At the Asian Specialty store she was trying to get into now, she still needed a certain spice after all, there seemed to be a problem though.
Directly upon her arrival, the young man behind the register had blanched, stepped from his perch on a stool and was now furiously berating her. Only that he spoke something that sounded like Korean to her ears. And not quite complimentary. (She was able to infer this easily from the wildly rude hand motions. She was not a woman to be shooed around.)
To make a long story short, the young and very agitated man, he shoved at her. Shoved her out of the shop and onto the polished floor. Shoved her off balance and she began careening around. She was falling now.
Yes, she hated this mall.
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