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.
So they had respect covered. At least this much. Granny gave a walking nod to the next mirror. Oh and walking: She was walking in the direction of the kitchen. Why was that?
“Probably not. I might show you how I throw a car though.” Yes. She was not apologetic. She sounded even a bit proud. Because she could. If she sounded a bit threatening though it might be because of the freudian jab at her curriculum. And because kids like this only responded to proper application of force. Apps kitchen. Now Granny could smell cookies, freshly made. “You can now come out of there. We are having tea.” She said. More or less decided. Because carrot and stick was better than stick. And because her cookies were much better than carrots. At almost anything.
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“Technically you are here and I am a teacher.” She pointed out succinctly and altogether much too sweetly. Plainly she would, whatever youth came her way in these halls, consider them students. No matter their claims toward the opposite. And no matter their wiggling to escape.
“If you take them, go back to the Ma'am. If not, go back to the Ma'am anyways. Flattery suits your face.” Your pretty boy-face, her eyes said in a totally nonattracted way. In a way that was slightly dismissive. Rouges like she herself had been at one time knew her own kind too well. And no, prettyface, for the record: She was not impressed by faces. Hers was too old and wrinkled for that kind of folly.
“Do you know an Officer named Cervantes? He comes here a lot. I nearly beat his brains out with that wand of mine. Consider my classes that kind of fun. But I will teach you.” Now she was not sweet at all. Now she was an old dragon lady ready to take a bite out of her student. Because: Everybody needed a menace they could never best. And Granny was quite capable of being one. "If you don't come I might get a bad impression of you." Not that she did not have one already. Rouges were that way. Either you loved them or you hated them. She was too old for that folly, too. Smile. Thin, very thin. Razorblades.
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Teenagers were such delightful creatures. This one apparently thought that because she was shortly before her expiration date (and well past the shelf life any one of them would consider as such) she would be an ignoramus? Only because she was old? Now that managed to get another twitch out of her 'wand' in Mirrors general direction.
“Telekinesis.” She nodded. “And a bit more.” She even added, considerate as she was. “But you will have to let a mage like me keep her secrets a little longer.” And mage only in the way that she was wonderful. So. Very. Wonderful. She began to cane-walk away from the scene of her little incident, quite confident that Mr. Mirror would follow her backside. Because that was what was proper. He may trail her like a puppy. If he would be good, he might even get a pet out of it. On the head.
“Take my class and you will find out.” Yes. She was a teacher. Let that sink in. With a smile. I can make your life all kinds of miserable. Blink, oh lovely.
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There was someone talking to her. Quite suddenly. This time though, she remembered enough of herself to not swing around her cane wildly. This time no one would nearly get a concussion. It was better that way. Especially with children. She could not help a green glow creeping along the edges of her cane though. This landy was not fond of surprises.
Especially if someone was talking to her from a mirror. She blinked. To her credit: She blinked once. Slightly incredulous. And then she smiled. And answered. “That boy better be thankful. From what I hear it might deter some of the attention.” She eyed over him-in-the-mirror.
“My name is Alastair Moody, boy. Might wanna call me Granny though. Rowling got a few parts wrong, you see? Everywhere they think I'm male. Not to mention dead. And I will hear not a comment about my eyes. None.” Yes, she could live with cheeky teenagers. That was, after all, what they were pretty much born to bee. Little brats. Lovely little brats. Which she had been working with one way or another for longer than they lived. So much fun. And a bit of a headache. And no, she had not read Harry Potter. Her eyesight was too precious to poison with that kind of story. She had listened to the audiobooks. In a dignified manner. In front of a chimney. Thank you. Without floo powder. “And no, I will most certainly not tell you where that came from. Let us pretend I summoned it with my magical wand.” Her cane twitched in her fingers. Slightly menacingly in Gawains direction.
Do we understand each other, her smile asked. Do we? She smiled wildly.
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She had not even been at the Mansion for a week, but already she had been regaled by tales carried through no less than five childrens' mouths. Five. Whatever the man currently named Head of Mansion Staff was thinking about children not noticing, he surely was a little less smart than one Granny Stephens would have liked.
Five. Children. They all had told her – after liberal bribing with baked goods – about the exploits of said individual. The children had been much too young to understand the full significance of what was happening, of course. Or rather they thought, as children did, that they knew everything worth knowing, re-telling their wisdom ever more smugly to each other. And to her. Granny harbored no intentions to disabuse them of the notion that they were great any time before their sixteenth birthdays. And, depending on circumstance, well beyond that date.
Speaking of dates: The reason for her outrage at a particular individual of certain note and notoriety at the Mansion was not the fact that he had more dates than could be good for him in any sense of the word. No, that was a thing she would, in her very magnanimous ways, forgive him. What was certainly not appropriate was letting the children think of him as a role model for living their lives and then not bothering about keeping such exploits a rather well guarded secret. Judging by her experience – she had quite a lot of that – the man probably thought himself overly clever. And overly masculine. She had yet to see that second part. But even if he was – goof for her old eyes that might be - it would be no excuse.
The man was indeed in need of a lesson. And if Granny was to put a dent in his lecherous and disrespectful – he had not even greeted her here – ways, then it would have to hurt. That was why she had acquired a certain calendar. A calendar that had been well over the news, but was now fetching quite outrageous prices despite its seeming ubiquity. The reason for that was that the person pictured lasciviously in it was one Miss Isabel Duskmoore, the most sought-after criminal and the Grand Cop Killing Lady of New York City. In all her near-naked and slightly gory glory. She had taken it, and she quite believed the news this time, upon herself to pay visits to those openly advertising their ownership of quantities of these particular pieces of merchandise. Their demises were not pretty. And not quite painless. So she had paid danger pay to the person who had owned this. (She was sure she could have confiscated one right in the building, but this man was not worth stealing some kids dreams.)
Now she was owning it.
She was also owning a bottle of super-glue. And she was presently standing in front of the office door of one Mr Johnson. There was a shiny plaque on the door announcing the owners status. Men. Pff. The bottle of super-stick unscrewed itself, glowing greenly. Then it liberally lathered itself over said plaque. And over most of the door. For fun, a glob went under the handle, too. It would probably dry before anyone could touch it, but she felt petty today. Then a green-glowing calendar proceeded to glue itself to said office door.
Now that would not come off easily. Granny nodded in satisfaction at the near-undressed woman staring back at her. This man should be ashamed of himself. And she would make sure that happened.
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At his exclamation of pain, Granny gave him a short blink. A blink that said: Oh... A blink that said: Man up a little. A blink that said: Well maybe it was a bit much for you. Maybe I am. Apologetic blink. Indeed. My awesome is too much for you. My stick too big. She even shook it slightly in his direction. Her walking stick.
>> “You definitely have quite a well honed ability, there.”
Well she usually was too much for people. But she took that in stride. She had not become this old to get sorely depressed.“Well now, young man...” This time the address was definitively delivered in a teasing voice. “Considering that I have been doing this since well before you were born I think it is adequate.” Yes. Adequate. She had a set of appendages that were not really there, that were green and that could stretch for about 50 meters. That was kindof cool actually. It was also the only thing that was keeping her old, arthritic self mostly functional. In the mental sense. She could actually do things with them.
“That looks neat.” She conceded to the swirling ball of water more than to Georges actual self. It really did. And that was all the compliment she would give him over it. “I think I haven’t told you what I am going to teach here, have I?” Now she knew she had not. She was old, but not that scatterbrained. She pushed hard at the glob of water with her mind. A green glow sprang forth and gave it the energy of a good slap, which would send it, hopefully, into Georges face. “I...” She announced without delay. “am going to teach Mutation Control.” Swallow that. I can do things. With my mind.
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After the bath she had had the most unpleasant talk with her three men. Two of which had actually managed to loose their wallets on their first day here. Loose them. Phaw. They had been stolen of course, which very much made Emilie grumpy with her companions. They were supposed to be the thieves. Admittedly not entirely shiny nails in the box though. This made her realize how much she disliked stupid men. And considering that one of them had wanted to kiss her, this had led to s series of words spoken, which had led to a series of shouts made which had led to said man hanging facedown under the ceiling. She was so not into stupid men. Thankyouverymuch. Now that cute Frenchman from the entrance to the hotel. Now that had been something to think about. While letting her man beg from the ceiling. The other two had been approximately as useful as the walnuts they had for brains in that situation. How she hated amateurs.
She had gone shopping. On his money. To cool her head. He had been quite in agreement about that.
Later:
Said warehouse had two rooms that were used tonight. One where people came in. This was the larger one where crates cast wide berths of shadows. The invited locals would walk through there and enter the small office at the back of the complex to have a talk with three foreign men. Talk in English. A certain woman had dropped off her things there before interviews began and, after kissing the lead on the cheek, disappeared again to lurk in the shadows of a crate in the first room. She was security here. And not the three lumbering idiots. And why that was that was soon to be seen.
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Sorry for the sudden absence. My time-at-home is now beginning to end and there will be no more until christmas. I shall be back to normal posting (and to place-of-study) soon.
your
Martin/Granny
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She entered the parlor and with her came the electronic jingle of a small door-come, a plastic box set on knee height for most, to greet her. People were moving about the shop, dominated by one big sales counter under whose glass cover the most dazzling and colorful amount of ice cream was stored. Big heaps of cookie-and-nuts were followed by a poisonously green mint, a wonderfully looking cranberry and others. So many others. People were queued before that counter to receive their goodies and pay for them in kind. Some of them settled in corners that were not full of chairs, but be-pillowed and which invited lounging much more than anything else. How, Granny wondered, do they keep these things clean, as she queued up dutifully and then looked toward her smaller companion. Her words had not been forgotten.
“Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman. Old bones like me do not care much for computers.” She even gave something of a bit of a shudder at that. Indeed. Horrible devices for spending time with. They did not talk, were dangerously loud and quite difficult to cope with. “So. What flavors would you like?” She said, pointing to the counter. “And what would you like to ask an old woman like me?” Just in a pair, her offers. Again.
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So very eloquent, that one. She gave him, and his smile for good measure, a very level look. And continued in a very dry old-people voice. “This would, if I were male, be the point where I remarked about having a bigger stick, would it not?” Quite accidentally, it seemed that way, really, she shoot her walking stick with her right hand. She did allow herself another bout of relatively smug satisfaction, too, at finding out that her be-headached victim was a mutant as well. She had figured that out well, had she not? And she did not even begin to think it strange. People just were people. And different for that matter. One could sing well. One could work hard. This one could move water around. And maybe something more. She did not entirely trust that smile. Nor his rather terse explanation, for it did not convey a scope nor the problems of his ability. But this was a problem for perhaps later in this rather impromptu relationship.
“Also you...” She poked at him with her stick quite unrelenting. If she had caused him harm before now that was one thing. But she would not cuddle him for the aches he had gotten for himself by scaring old women. “... could tell me a bit more. It is courteous to not let me dig for information.” Poke. “But I think I can tell you: Not only do I move 'things'...” She imbued the word with all the disdain she could for inaccurate descriptions. “I also stop things from moving at me and others.” This was, alas, the full extent of her powers. Only to move things. And to stop things. But like him she had not volunteered certain information pertaining to the amount of her skill. For example the fact that she could throw cars. This was to be left for another day. Preferably one that would never come. She did not quite like throwing cars for a number of reasons. For one: It was difficult.
Her hands were busy all the while. The one holding the stick set it down on the ground again properly. The other one settled on the counter to steady her a bit more. And her face. That was busy, too. Smiling a cocky half-smile in his direction. Indeed, her stick was bigger. And she knew it.
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She nodded to herself as the detective caught up to her and proceeded to walk on her side, not overtaking her with youthful fervor or something akin to that. He could hold himself back. Yes, she nodded to herself, this man was quite something. She would congratulate the Counselor later to having secured him. And no, she would not make her blush. At least not quite like him. Men usually deserved that treatment more than women. The females being, of course, the far more sensible and understanding creatures.
Now, now, Old Lady, you let your mind wander, she chided herself silently as she proceeded along. The young man does not have someone to properly talk to. But somehow I doubt he wants to talk quite a lot right now. This makes him somewhat more attractive. Ah well, there it is.
She strolled through the doors of the kitchen quite glad to be interrupted in her line of thought. The room itself was bid, as the amount of students and personnel dictated, and the appliances mostly of the shiny cleaned homey variety. Granny fearlessly proceeded to rummage through several drawers, stopping only for a few seconds to admire the dough-kneading machine standing on a counter-top, and then going on. The refrigerator was opened, then snapped shut again. Ice was retrieved and from somewhere she grabbed a clean piece of cloth. “Now young man, hold that...” She proceeded to hand him a red-and-white checkers bundle of ice in cloth. “... to your head, but be sure to move it a bit around. Otherwise the children might get brain-sorbet for dinner.” That piece of work being done, she casually plopped herself against said counter, lifting the hat off her hat and revealing the tight gray bun that had been hidden underneath. The hat went on the counter, the bun wobbled, as she shook her head.
“And Officer, if you don't mind me asking: What is it you do?” Because there was no fidgeting involved in coming to the Mansion. No strange eyeing at her mutant self. Either he was the perfect little man at a Mutant-womans side, or he was one himself. And before she would assume a man to have that degree of sensibility, she would rather assume he had a mutation himself. So. Show and tell, Officer.
Ah walking. It made her old bones hurt a bit. She did not have the reach and flexibility of youngsters like the kid. She did not have the strength of the men and women passing her that were half her age. But she did have something. It radiated about her even if she did not use her mutation, a strength maybe, that was unseen and unremarked upon. Her jaw was set and her smile friendly. Her walking-stick was hardwood and in good condition. Her dress and nails were pristine.
She made Arthritis look quite good on her.
“You can call me Granny.” She announced to the child at her side. She continued along though, not pausing for breath or anything else (notably: People in her way. They usually got out of it. One way or another), just walking slowly. “Everyone calls me Granny.” Because to children such things were important to know. There was a Granny-Granny and a Granny. And if she had family then there was something interesting: “There are two things I would like to ask you. If they make you uncomfortable, you do not have to answer.” With children and animals: Always leave a clear path out. “First:...” One of her free fingers rose. “Is your mother like you then? And secondly...” Another finger. “...what is this Sanctuary?”
Just: Questions. And they were closing in on that parlor. It was in a small building that was white. On its outside there was an ice-cream cone of plastic announcing the wares to be found inside. People went in and out with aclarity. This was obviously a good shop. A busy shop.
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Granny scampered past George with an air of anticipation that was not feigned at all, leaving her human walking stick behind. Just as she had eyes the grounds with professional interest she now eyed here. This was to be her home, and indeed, it looked quite homely to her old eyes. The Mansion entrance Hall was quite true to its name and a sight to her sore eyes. It was another place fallen out of time, but unlike the slightly unkempt grounds (The Gardener, she would later come to learn, had one day simply vanished without leaving a trace. She harrumphed about such people, such deserters of their job. She also harrumphed about the current head for not having swiftly replaced the man.) it was a place that had indeed fallen out of time. A wide stairway sloping gently down from the upper stories as if made for dancing and receptions. A glittering chandelier hanging from the high, very high ceiling that was adorned with gypsum ornaments. The wooden paneling on the walls, the wooden floors. Both, she noted immediately, were not well-cared for and in need of a waxing. Therefore she grumbled: “Who is in charge of housekeeping here? He needs a firm talking-to.” And her tone quite amicably suggested that indeed, the person would get a stern talking-to.
Her floating trunk gently (or rather not-so-gently) pushed George inside physically, hard wood pressing against his back directly. The green glow it seemed, was without substance. Granny was now busied by turning around in the grand Hall, looking quite stately with her wooden stick. And somehow, maybe because of her age, or by a trick of her hat, quite like she belonged. Her dress was flowing about her and her eyes were sparkling. The trunk settled obediently in a corner under her passing glare. She whisked a hand at George.
And she proceeded to storm off. Well more like limp off. She went anyways. Without heeding guidance. Simply stormed off. She knew houses like this. She knew where the kitchens were. She knew things from when these things had been new. Not kitchens, mind you, but houses like this one. Mansions. “Come now, young man. Let not your Counselor say I damaged her goods permanently.” Yes. Without regard to manners at all. But maybe with a wink in his general direction. Oh even in he rold nose this place smelled of history and cooking and cut grass and fire and ... she would need to add beeswax polish to the mix soon. These wooden boards really needed it.
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