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.
She listened most attentively, her knife still floating directly at his neck. As his story progressed though, her eyes got wider and wider. Almost incredulous, the big expressive windows to her soul parting in something akin to... horror? And beyond that there was something else. Something cold. Calculating.
The knife fell to the ground, its clatter reverberating through the dark hall. "It means that you are hired. And that we will have a drink now." She pronounced and then proceeded to turn around to where the light of the meeting room shone into the hall. "I have found us a local. And I'm leaving now. See you tomorrow." Her voice was sharp and bellowing. Not mellow, not reduced, not even hinting at some subservient femininity. Nope that was not her. She was presently grabbing for the hand of her new acquaintance. "Let us go, talk. I am sure you know places." Her voice was a whisper, shared between them. And then something proceeded to nudge Pauls backside in a most complimentary manner. Only that her hands were both quite visible. And they did nothing.
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As the old lady walked closer to Gina, thumping her walkign stick heavily on the ground , she eyed the cheese stick like it was something vile and revolting. And if you thought about it: Cheese sticks were vile and revolting. Much too much processing. Much too much messing with the cheese: Also who would like to pay for something you would just be able to cut yourself from a whole block of cheese with two or three flicks of a kitchen knife?
Grannys voice, sounding quite pleasant, came to Gina through the room. "Good afternoon young Lady." And yes, she eyes the horns and wings at that. Appriciatively maybe. Most certainly not agitated. Just noting. "This old bat has two bits of information for you." One hand lifted from her walking stick to lift up an admonishing finger. "You are not going to eat that and grow into a proper woman." The second one lifted. "And you seriously need to brush up on your moves." Yes. This granny knew youthspeak. Even if it was a few years out of date. She did listen to the children.
Once or twice a year. Maybe.
Her admonishing fingers waggled. "But don't you worry, Honey. The old bat can help you on both counts." Oh yes. And she talked about herself in wonderful third person. How was that? Well probably as awesome as the next cupboard over opening with a green glow to admit a pan enveloped in a green glow flying out. "Omlette?" Her voice was all Granny-Sweetness.
Yes, Granny was on the mend. Actually she was feeling pretty healthy right now. After surviving Pneumonia in her age (Pffft.) and going to California to recuperate (try surfing) she had been back at the Mansion for a few weeks. Now she was itching. No, thank you for asking, it was a proverbial itch in the backside.
She wanted to move her old bones arpound a bit in her home. She wanted to get to know a few kids. Maybe teach them manners. (In her totally unassuming way) Or maybe just teach them another thing or two about life. Life that she had some experience with.
So she was merrily thumping along with her walking stick in her left hand when she came across something. Her eyesight really was not what it had been before, but she was shure that the gray spot in her vision was moving. Rhythmically. Or rather she assumed that it was attempting to move rhythmically. From her point of view in the corridor it looked rather feeble. People less well mannered would have talked about about a spastic episode. Really. These people without manners were a tiresome bunch, always assuming the worst. She was different. Also she smiled and started moving towards the gray blob. It had clothes on. (Thankfully - It was not a necessity some people here seemed to think)
And - so it resolved in her vision - had wings as well. Wings. Now mutants came in all shapes and sizes. This one was quite unique. Wings. She stopped for a second, watching the back-turned-from-fridge.
On second view it did look like the mutant had something wrong with his or her nerves. Hopefully. These movements were just a tad too uncontrolled. "Hrumph!" She cleared her throat. She would at least ask whether medical attention was needed before continuing on. At least that.
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So you find yourself a teacher at a Building full of Mutants. What is the first thing you do when you arrive? Nearly split a police officers scalp. Yes. Just that. Also try bullying your way around the staff. It usually works when you're past seventy. People tend to see you as frail (which - how utterly thankless of your body - you are) and a mostly incapable (which is a big mistake. About the size of a car. Being thrown at the face of you. Bam.) old hag.
So what you do after adjusting slightly the perception of the elderly in your immediate surroundings? Well... you go out and get yourself a bad case of the flu. No, not the standard variety that leaves you incapable for a few days. Being elderly and having a thankless body you get a full blown pneumonia. And a hospital stay to go with it. Was there a mention that Doctors are wonderful people? No? Consider it done. They really are. Especially if you are past seventy. And have pneumonia. They start liking you so much that they do not want to let you go quickly.
Not that you actually can walk in your dazed state. Actually you are being walked by two very nice men in blue uniforms. Who look at you most considerately. In that way that says: The hag is about to die.
Lesson One: Throwing cars is no help against bugs. Lesson Two: This hag is not about to die. Bugs are a nuisance this body has been fighting longer than you, dear child, are on this world. It will not be put under by laughable Pneumonia. You might just find her gone for a month while she gets treated and recuperates though. Florida has the most charming sanatories, the doctor said. She raised her eyebrow at him. And went to California. Surfing is a sport for recuperation, yes?
And then, one day after you get back, you walk down the hallways of your place of residence. Your hip hurts. Your walking stick is thumping on the ground. Only to find two students talking with one of the Xmen. How considerate, as they would allow you for a few minutes of rest and, maybe, entertainment. And maybe she could indeed catch her breath, as it is rather labored. This is rather not a hypothetical situation, as any avid reader might have guessed. This is Granny. Capital letter. At the Mansion. Now: To look imposing. Two hands on your cane. Breathe.
And try not toppling over during the following coughing fit.
Granny out the thing succinctly. And most directly. It was quite like her. Sometimes she hit people with cars. Over the head. Sometimes she just talked. To much the same effect.
"Your derogatory dreatment of women is chauvinistic, sexist and setting a bad example for the children you are trying to raise in this place. For their good and yours I suggest you not continue flaunting your exploits in my home."
Simple as that. She turned around and walked away from Sam. There was no need to state the Otherwise... part of ehr sentences. They had been aptly spoken about. The door opened, handle glowing green for a second or two. Then, in a bout of what some might call childishness - Granny slammed it shut. Deliberately. Loudly.
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He had had no questions afterward. Thought he was the reason she was so wonderfully out of breath. That he was awesome that way only the male ego can construct illusions.
In truth she was out of breath, because she tried very hard to stop the retching. His breath had indeed been a most horrible experience.
Needless to say she told his friends first.
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Small things. Sometimes it was the small things that influenced great events, the confluences of dribbles turning into the river Ganges or somesuch philosophical nonsense. Oh, she did not hate Philosophy, quite the contrary, but the flowery language of the People Who Think They Think Good Thoughts was tiresome and quite unnecessary in her mind. Practicality. That was part of it. Who wanted to read 700 pages about any topic ''Between Facts and Norms''? Surely some people did, but trying to terrify her with that kind of banter would usually end with the offending party firmly talked down into some semblance of her order. Practicality in these matters was paramount. Or rather it was for her. And no one watching the events she set in motion unfold could argue she only browbeat others into submission.
Every tool had its place. It was not her fault that so few people could stand up to her. Especially the youngsters seemed most pleasurably intimidated by their new teacher. Indeed, very few people could stand up to her.
She did not mind that at all.
But on to matters that should clarify both her position on reading Philosophy as well as the analogy of the confluence: Small streams of water were in this case a rather illogical image for a few scraps of paper that found their ways to two respective rooms in the wide hallways of a building called simply The Mansion by both inhabitants and press. It happened to be her place of employ as well as her place of residence. The two doors though, as you should kindly note, were not her own. A few weeks before she had noted an altercation between two youths shamefully ignorant of her presence. A chair had burst into flames (such things being quite ordinary in a school for the extraordinarily gifted) and people jumped into a pool. Well maybe they were pushed. But her definitions were quite flexible on the topic. Fact of the matter: Boy and girl had been swimming most amiably and agreeably after their screaming match. Maybe, just maybe, she nearly drowned. But this fact should not hinder budding love.
Love she was currently in the process of helping along. In this particular case helping with two notes. Two notes of paper that were, quite incidentally, attached to two small packages. Hers, that was one Kate, looked basically well-intentioned but nonetheless male. That was something haphazardly wrapped up in a nondescript (and quite horrific) gift-wrap. His was a bit more elegant, exemplifying British understatement. Actually it was a cloth-wrap in Japanese style. The cloth was pure Silk and patterned. But more important than the wrapping was the content, was it not?
For her: The package opened up into something coiled and black, something smooth and elegantly whispering. Something that would, if unfolded, turn out to be a classic variation on an old theme. The small black something every woman was supposed to have in her closet. (And no, I'm not talking about a charred corpse. Much too smelly. Trust me.) Sleek and elegant and just that tad indecent, hinting at rather than showing off her curves. It was – maybe – just a little short. Just decent enough to be the gift of a friend. But it was decidedly skirting the edge of more.
For him: The smooth folds of the silk parted into something neatly folded into a square. One part was black. The other was a decidedly dark-looking red. One pair of jeans, if you please, of the rather tight-fitting variety. And one long-sleeve that bordered harshly on uncomfortably tight and most certainly on the indecency that she had received as well.
For both: Small notes of most sincere apology. And an invitation to a dinner of apology that was to take place at one evening in the not-too-distant future.
Small things. How she had gotten their sizes right to that degree? Well there are some things old people are quite good at. One of them is finding out things about people, whether they try to hide ir or not. Some schoolgirls are just too busy gossiping.
So: Clothes. And invitations. Takers anyone?
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She tacitly ignored his interjections. In fact she ignored most of what he said. At least it did not seem to impact the mans situation in any meaningful sense. “If I were doing a show and tell, you would have a whole different kind of headache.” No, that was not innuendo. And she was still staring at the man quite intensely. As if he were a machine she intended to disassemble in the near future. To get a look at the working parts, the innards. Or maybe she was thinking about doing her mutant thing. The part she was not doing already. “I never noticed.” The bit about manners and decency that was. “And here's a bit of advice: Save rebellions for Dictators, Mr. Johnson. Or helpless Ladies trying to cross the street.” The fact that I did most certainly not does not concern you, at all. It made me who I am today. It made me proud. But you it made an overconfident man with too much breast in his hand half of the time. Or so she thought. Her battles also had left her with an intense dislike of authorities such as him.
“You will most certainly not invite me to Tea, ''Cold Steel''.” Her scorn was most audible. It appeared as if he had breached some other manner she considered quite important. Stepped wrong again. Dance, dance, around important subjects. And she did with a certain elegance. There was, for example the fact, that she did indeed let him to the ground. That this happened in a manner that also tugged on his pants was merely accidental of course. Tugged hard on his pants. “And we are going to talk about 'Impasse' here and now.” Yes, she made that decision. Firmly.
She even brandished her walking stick at him.
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Back. Gunshots, flaring red lights. Shrapnel bouncing off her thinning shield, thuds and burning noise as flesh is rent asunder. Behind her patients, the few still conscious, stare away into the great beyond they have seen – that which comes not from the jungle, their own minds fraying. No crying.
And then sometimes you're somewhat too old to remember things. Until a kid comes along to remind you. Them kids tend to be fiercely loyal and idealistic. Both were characteristics she could relate to both in abstract and practice. But then there also was a realist heart beating in her chest. A realist heart that sadly said things about the poor boys mother that were noncomplimentary. Also they were not for good and decent company. OR any company at all. Grannys do not swear. They behoove themselves to and on great composure.
“Kid...” Yes she said that. Yes, she did, because she was old and arthritic and had much to much on her mind just now. “just know that you can come to me after you find the answer to that question.”
And that was that. She looked over her teacup with very old eyes.
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“I am sure we agree about who is the one with the bigger stick. And about who is the one with less maturity than the teenager that just ran away.” Had he actually believed her tale about being twenty? Now that was something. That girl had been a few years away from being in the two-past-something digit range. Eighteen maybe. She communicated her severe doubts with a raised eyebrow. Her breath was forming tiny clouds before her nose now. It got markedly cold indeed. Oh Cold Steel, you are such a predictable little man. Such a man indeed. Her hands on her walking stick began shaking lightly.
“Mr. Johnson, be advised that your attempts at making my old joints ache are succeeding. Should you continue, I will consider having you share my experience.” Oh so sweet old lady talking. Oh so sweet the music sounds (of your poisons in my ear). Her smile said something about her not thinking about giving him aches in locations like the chest. Call it pointedly looking. Those were her hints. And no, she did not tell him about her being able to lob cars. This man was dangerous enough for her to keep her edges hidden. Dangerous in so many ways. He was also, quite presently, her employer. Not that that part mattered overly much to her. She was not some frightening mutant bounty hunter after all. It was just that the kids here needed her. And pointedly not that thing hanging from the ceiling right now.
She did not set him down. She did turn him around though, keeping him hovering about ten centimeters off the ground. Her glow was flowing over much of his body again, her grip that was. The strain should lessen on him now. That was all. Should he desire more, he could always try, of course.
“Talk about... I could try the undignified, unprofessional and wildly inappropriate management of your personal life, but I think that you would rather not, would you?” She actually lifted a slightly shaky finger there. Point one. “I could try your undignified, unprofessional and wildly inappropriate management of this school. I think you rather not have that either, would you?” A second finger raised. “Or I could try your total lack of both manners and decency. But I think you already know that bit.” No, you heard most correctly. She just accused the man whom she had dangled near-naked from the ceiling of having no decency. And no manners. Yes she did not think that a problem at all. Her face said so. And a third finger came up, too. The hand was shaking more now. This cold was really not good for her joints. Or her feelings. “You see, Mr. Johnson, why don't you consider being a nice, manly, man for once and help an old lady out of her impasse?” Undignified. Unprofessional. Wildly inappropriate. Those were, indeed, the three words she associated most closely with Sam 'Cold Steel' Johnson. That should have been clear by now.
Not that she was hating him, really. No, that could not be said. But he was a strayed lamb from her flock. And she would have him back. Yes, she would use the walking stick, too. She hoped that would not be necessary. On the other hand there was the fact of having walked in upon him snuggling a college student. In a classroom. She snatched her hand down on the steadfast wooden handle. No more shaking, you old bones.
Mayday: Granny-zilla is loose. (We will crush your car as well.)
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