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 eyes, they followed him around. Bored in his back. Smiled at his face. All the while he made his round. They strayed a bit, stopping at the chalked lines that hovered (to her) in the air. Just a seconds hesitation. Smile. Be there for you.
The green glow around the paper and the cookies never wavered. Neither, it seemed, did her aplomb. She set down her handbag. Yes, she set it down beside her chair. Somehow this was significant? Of course it wass. She was a woman. Everything was significant, was it not?
>> There was, as I know you are aware, an incident involving police officers a while ago?
She looked at him for confirmation. There was, she was sure, not a single mutant anywhere who was unaware of the happenings. Or at least the proceedings ex post facto. The ones before were murky, to say the least. But this was as it always was. The media playing games. The differnt sides of the debate playing. Only now she was playing, too.
>> I have happened to... come across... data regaring the last remnants of an organization called the Church of Humanity.
And what fascinating data it was. A whole Church of Mutant haters. Decimated. And more really, as it was more than every thenth who had died under Auras pink blades. It was a lot. But there always were rests, that is, if you did not excise a cancer perfectly, you tended to have things grow back.
>> Remnants, especially, of a fiscal support structure.
Yes, she had set down her handbag. Now she took a cookie and bit into it. With gusto.
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The cookies still hovere between them -- as if there was an invisible table there. The note proceeded to join it, after Granny had had a look at it.
>> Yes, why, I do.
Leaning back in her chair, she seemed to think for a second, a finger idly tapping on her cheek. Her smile was brilliant, in her voice, on her lips. The tapping stopped.
>> I want you to help me kill a few people.
How was that for nice old ladies?
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The old lady, she smiled a brilliant smile at Lisa, the secretary. She was already shuffling to one of those leather chair contraptions, her walking stick making nice plonking sounds on the marble floor.
>>Thank you dear. And one can never be careful enough in my age. You young people be careful, where you point your guns, though.
As if this was all totally ordinary. Perhaps, for her, it was.
She looked a bit lost there, on that chair. In her own world, looking off into the middle-distance that is dreaming, that is hoping, thinking. She had her thinking cap on after all. (Or was it? She had something infesting her head at least. A comforting feeling of the ordinary, that.) A feeling, yes, of transcendence. Not here. Not in my body. Somewhere else, that is: the Summerlands?
The note invading her field-of-view startled her out of whatever place it had been she went to when she thought. Her reverie, the otherness persisted though. As did that very nice smile and the friendly glint in her eyes.
>> Dorian. How nice of you to humor an old woman.
She pointed at one of the leather chairs, which obediently started to glow in an emerald hue and proceeded to float behind Dorian, whence it settled without so much as a sound. The glow disappeared, too. Creeping back whence it came probably.
>> Do sit down, dear. And call me Granny. Everybody does.
Her voce was in that pat-pat your face register that some old people simply were able to conjure out of their voicebox. That feeling of warm-and-tingly welcome. One of the arthritic hands, old hands, veined hands -- slightly trembling -- snaked into the modern oh-so-stylish bag. It came out with a plastic container, the lid of which was carefully replaced whence the plastic had come. The container started glowing and hovering between them.
>> Homemade Cookie?
They smelled delicious.
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An old Lady. One hand carries her cane. The other a Well-branded luxury handbag. (This goes badly with her flowery dress from somewhere around the seventies and her orthopaedic shoes. But who is a fashionista here?) She has a hat on -- flowers here too. Namely a real sunflower decorating the wide brim, which puts most of her face in shadow.
The stage: Marble floors look for something to reflect back... possibly her falling frame. Arrangements of flowers aboung this time of year. Spring is coming to the Sanctuary. Money is here as well. It shows. Leather chairs are around. Not the ceap ones either. Designer models. Tastefully hidden lights and open windows create an atmosphere some architects would sell their souls for. Lisa sits unpertubed at her desk. Looking up with a smile. Nice for a shelter it is. Very nice.
She notes these things. Takes note quite well.
The woman, she walks the careful walk of the elderly to reach inside. Slowly, with, or so it seems, deliberation. Her eyes focus here and there. Slow down at a nice floral arrangement on Lisas desk. Study for a while. Stay. Say: We have time to be silent. To wait for things to happen.
Lisa is silent and friendly. She is a secretary extraordinaire after all. If the woman wants to look... she can have a look. At the outside. The very nice outside. Because the inside, it is hidden well here. Behind the walls comes death. Even to the foolish old. But there is no need to show that now, is there?
We come to the point of no return, the one where one actually has to engage in social interaction. (Oh indeed a smile here and there. Nods. Something passes.) Words follow.
>> Good day to you, dear. Would you mind directing an old Lady to the nearest Order member?
The old lady speaks in a nice alto voice. Her eyes, under the brim of that abominable sunflower hat, are friendly. Warm. They say that everything is ok. Nice. No reason to be nasty.
Who is this? Where did you get this number? (The second one unasked)
Peter, you sound tired. You aren't sleeping enough again. Mutant troubles?
Who are you and how did you get this number?
Peter you are playing daft badly. Stop trying too hard. Stephens here, 1Lt. Stephens, ret. to be exact. But we both know you know my number, so drop the act and start the tapes if you want to.
(silence) Ms. Stephens... yes... Lt. it has been a long time. How nice to hear from you.
Yes, Peter. I do check in with the Pentagon though, every now and then. After all they're still paying me. And you still aren't sleeping enough I say.
Might be right, then I never did. Especially not in Phenom Phenh.
You never were there during your tenure. I said you can stop the games, Peter. I'm not calling for those. And if you recall I beat you soundly whenever you tried to play. This is a secure line, by the by. And yes, I know the codewords. Pannacotta. Blue. Thirteen. Something like that. (Imagine handwaving) Who chose those anyways? Your secretary? Did you not feed her enough?
You know I cannot answer your questions. Matters of National Security. (slight exasperation.)
I know you do not want to.
So? Why are you calling me this late, Lt.?
Because of your mutant troubles, don't you think so? I want them, Peter, and you are going to give them to me.
I am, am I?
You know opposition won't help, Dear.
You know that there was a time when people were persecuted for sentences like that?
I never noticed. Should I? But to the matter: I believe we shall start with a Hate-group called Church of Humanity – CoH for short. You do have files on them I believe.
(Silence.)
Putting your thinking cap on? (Just a thought that)
Yes, well, I'll see what I can find out. Just for your private... delectation.
You do that, Peter.
Lt., you know you can feel free to call me anytime, but when you call me next, you may use my rank, too.
Wouldn't that be nice, General? And now go, get some sleep. I'll take care of that pesky little problem.
Maybe you will. Goodnight Lt..
Don't be a defeatist. People were persecuted for that, too, you know? (Pause.) Goodnight Peter. Do go to sleep now. It's late for someone your age.
(Silence.)
(A dial tone.)
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So Martin and Granny are happy to thread around with you.
The points:
Martin is your friendly neighborhood assassin with immortality problems. He is emotionless, detatched and otherwise quite a well-worn sociopath. He plays many roles -- most during the course of his work -- among them is that of Gretchen, the most female deadly femme fatale you will ever meet. Her breasts go boom. He also was Gardener of the Mansion once unpon a time. Yes, he spied on you. He generally tries to be nice to people, unless they get in the way of work. Then he tortures them. For fun.
Granny is a force of nature. Since about 1939, whence she was born. She knows she is right. You just have some trouble accepting it. She also knows she has Arthritis, which is a different bag of fleas. She is a Teacher at the Mansion. (For your Convenience, she might also bake there.) A student, she is, too. Namely at NYU, where she studies all those things-that-go boom. Mutation wise, she is a Telekinetic. Yes, with capital letter. She will whack bad guys around with her walking stick. Or a car, if necessary.
So, if there are takers, PM me.
Oh and for those interested in the current plot, GRanny is open to doing evil things to mutant haters.
Your
Martin/Granny
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Granny will involve herself on the shady side of things by activating some connections better left dormant in her aging brains. This might involve an OP in the CoH. PM me for Details.
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Destination: Forgotten. Dramatis Personae: An old woman. Drama: Music. Beating.
Heart/beat
Music is calling, again and again; Echoes falling. Regularly. Unheard here in the dark. Dark? There is light here. Fluorescent light in metal-clad halls. Deep is the Mansion, its bowels stretching well beyond the casually appointed limits of human imagination. Just like the veins in a human body they are hidden beyond a skin. Multicolored skin. Fur. Scales. In this case you do not know. It does not matter. We are under. Deep inside the flesh. Gnawing. Beats. Heartbeats. Deep is the place, where a holographic display is engaged, dust motes driving through the beams of coherent light quite vividly. They attest to the fact of this rooms damnation. It is dark down here, no matter the lighting. You can feel the weight of the place above you. The many stories spun. Some only inside the mind of a dreamer. You can feel the stones pressing down, the steel. All vibrating with some idea of tensions, of children laughing. The hint of crying sines through the happiness always. Just beyond the next touch.
Heartbeats of the Mansion. Here no one comes unless things are important. Unless Things Have Gone Terribly Wrong. Again.
Welcome. Beat. To the War Room.
Hip Hop Music plays loudly from speakers used rarely – and possibly never for a thing so mundane. So profane. Music blares really, the quality being not the greatest. Oh the quality of the rap is just fine, if you like Gangsta from some very unsavory parts of town. It's the speakers. Much unused, they produce a blaring in the Heights... well. It sounds a bit ugly. The Old Woman staring at the display deigns to ignore it.
Beats. Heartbeats. Dustmotes drifting.
A video is playing. Plying my trade again, the old woman thinks to herself. Watching, waiting from old eyes behind glasses. She got those out for this occasion. Better to see things clearly through the layers of deception. Leaked, it says about the video, that headline. Only such things are rarely leaked. She remembers the wars. She recalls Watergate and a million other petty scandals. Leaked they were. Sometimes even genuinely.
Hologram, flat, two-dimensional. A browser window. An address with ViewTube.com. Video showing: A girl. Beaten. Being beaten. Background: Sound/Music/Beat. It is in time with another windows flashing graphs. An Old Woman is watching. The chair she is sitting in is comfortable by the by. Not used much, that thing. You notice that, oddly, when things start falling apart. The small comfort trying to soothe the big hurt. Failing miserably, amplifying instead as these things go.
It hurts to watch that video. People are playing the big game again, she thinks to herself. The one that gets people killed. Not the game called Politics. That may get people killed. No, she is thinking, this has the hallmarks of the darker games that call themselves Politics. The Paths of Power in the back room where people hiding behind glasses – and the title of undersecretary – decide the fates of the world with just a touch.
She remembers the times that the button they touched was one of nuclear missiles, of mutually assured destruction – an asinine idea if there ever was one – but today things have become more obscure. Information games. Mind=games.
The girl is crying now. Outside herself. For help. Safety. (She will be scarred it seems.)
An old woman behind her glasses, a safe old woman, a nice one, is thinking that it might be time to place a few calls. Old acquaintances from the Wars she fought in. First the big ones – to save the lives of men that came to her bleeding, crying outside themselves. Or they came just staring, because all cries had been spent. Those fights were the important ones. Fight. Fight for your life. It had been her plea to them back then. Fight.
Until she had been called for fighting.
The words had stayed the same. The call. But they had meant a different thing:
Die. Die for your life.
She was an old woman – had seen many things. And a video was more than it took to make her go down memory lane. But it was enough – at the same time it was just enough – to die again a bit inside. Things were moving again. And she would move them. For the Children. Die, die for the children. (It had been a war cry once.)
And under all there is beating, silently beyond the range of hearing – but not beyond the range of hearts to comprehend – the heart of the building, the very heart. It is neither rap nor rapport, neither crying nor laughing. She knows its tunes, the silent secret ones. The words that have power even today. The magic of heartbeats.
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Rambaucious teenagers had, of course, followed the smell of her goodies right to the source. The Mansions typical inhabitant could smell a cookie in the making far better than any dog she knew of. Or maybe it was just another one of the precogs informing the others of the fact that Things Were In The Making. She glared at the rapidly forming mob with an opened mouth. Another word would have been too nice. Her face clouding with something every teen would call dangerous. Or at least the ones who knew Old Crayze as their teacher. Those now quickly, and most strangely, quietly proceeded to slip out of the kitchen, cookies firmly in hands. Some of the smaller kids remained, though, running circles around Miles and staring big-eyed stares at Tinnaker.
"Granny, Granny, theres a big mutant Dog in the kitchen." a girl of maybe five announced in a demanding voice. Her mouth was smeared with chocolate and her eyes were sparkling. Literally sparkling. They gave off a radiant light, now golden, then blue, shifting through hues as her moods overcame her.
The old lady banished the clouds from her face as quickly as they had appeared. A smile was now firmly rooted there. It was as if the danger had never existed at all. The door opened. An older teenager with multi-colored hair and a few piercings looked in. He blanched. The door closed again. He had remained outside. Then again... maybe that danger had been real after all. The old Alto pronounced: "Rebecca, yes, theres a dog here. And now off you go, wash your hands and face before you play with him. You should have done that before eating, too." The girls eyes shifted again as she smiled. "Yes Granny." The old lady had, of course, slipped another of her cookies into the gils pockets. Which the small one knew. And Miles would have probably seen it happening.
"Now where was I?" She asked the room. The two remaining kids had settled at a table some meters off, talking quietly amongst themselves. "Oh yes!" Her eyes focused on Miles again. "Sorry, young man... ah... Miles, but they are a wild bunch!" She seemed to collect herself for another few seconds. Closed her eyes. Clattering happened. As if dishes moved in the kitchen.
"This is Xaviers Sister School for gifted Youngsters, yes. Mutants as some people call them. Others homo superior. The names do not matter much to me." Her hand whisked away the philosophical differences with an imperious gesture. From behind Miles more clattering happened. It seemed a greenishly glowing knife was busily chopping up a steak into Tatare. All by itself. The things you saw at a mutant school.
"And as it happens, many people of our inclination find themselves in your predicament over their teenage years when their powers first tend to manifest. It is good that you came here for an education. We will help you with that..." Her old people smile said, that they would help with much more also. So much more it said. "... our guidance Counselor would help you finish the details, but we have funds available for students with a history like your own, so we pretty much only need..." A greenly glowing platter came over to the two of them. The two at the table ignored it completely. An everyday occurence it seemed. "... ah. Does your dog like steak? And do take another cookie yourself!" Yes, the old lady was a bit of a whirlwind.
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So much fun it was indeed to see the young woman dance into ecstasy. It was so much fun to be young as she recalled vividly from her own days... as a criminal woman with entirely the wrong associations. But then again she had made new ones. And now? It was fime to show another skill of old people.
Quietly disappearing she left the young girl to her devices. And the music. Loud notes going directly to your heart.
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"So you, young man, are responsible for reprehensive vigilante activities in this city..." Granny stated blandly. "This explainsa lot, don't you think?" Her voice was even a bit frigid now. "You need proper experience in dropping bad guys. I shall therefore attend you in your need."
Saying it simply, was she? And with so much modesty.
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