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.
Dorian pretended to bump into an invisible wall, then hid behind it. He turned around and saw a – was that a bird? – surrounded by flames. One of the gunmen had just become extra crispy, and the other three had stopped to wave their guns at the bird and show off their colorful vocabularies.
He didn't know what the hell was going on here, but he didn't need to. Whatever it was, it meant that he had the advantage. Now was his chance for revenge. He drew an invisible pistol from an imaginary holster. It made a satisfying click as he pulled the hammer back, though his targets wouldn’t have heard it. Just as they opened fire on the bird, he squeezed a round into the back of the gunman closest to him.
Dorian was staring at a bullet, which was hovering several inches away from his face. .45 caliber, from what he could tell, and probably hollow point, judging by the way it flattened after it impacted the invisible wall in front of him. If he had been a few moments slower, it would have done that inside his head. He broke eye contact with the armed men on the other side of that wall for only a second, just to see whether any of his colleagues had taken cover in time.
They hadn’t. As such, he no longer had any colleagues in this part of town. A shame; he liked Ramon and his associates, and he admired the little money laundering / drug distribution operation they had going in this dry cleaners.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Being the fine, intelligent young men that they were, they must have thought the invisible object blocking their bullets would stop existing if they shot more bullets at it. The invisible wall continued to exist, despite their careful calculations, and the majority of those bullets ricocheted off of it, shredding some of the clothes in the back of the dry cleaning establishment and making a terrible noise that hurt Dorian’s ears.
click click click
Empty magazines. Or were they clips? As a hardened criminal, Dorian felt like he should really – goddammit now is not the time to think about the technical terms for gun parts get out get out get out!
The back door burst open. Dorian nearly tripped over himself, shaking with nervous energy and the fear of death, as he sprinted down the alleyway. The angry armed men followed, fumbling with their clips, or magazines, or whatever-the-hell-they-kept-their-bullets-in, trying to ready their contraband handguns to let off a few more shots.
A nearby homeless man decided that there were much better and safer places for him to warm his hands on a trash can fire. These places would probably have less gunfire and more actual fire, each of which he would greatly appreciate.
“It wasn’t how you looked,” she said reassuringly. “You said that you don’t eat, so that basically means you can’t be human.” She wasn’t going to mention that his hair’s freakish length and unusual color were the first things to make her guess he wasn’t human. He was probably wearing his hair like that because he thought it looked good, and she didn’t want to ruin his self-image for him.
While Kaitlyn was doing that, something occurred to Dorian. He wrote something on his notepad and showed it to the redhead.
“We need to leave?” She looked up at him.
As if on cue, she began to hear a police car siren. Or maybe it was a fire truck or an ambulance? Emergency services liked to check out explosions in public places, either way. She shouldn’t have looked so surprised.
“Oh! We need to leave!” She addressed Vance as though he was part of the ‘we’ in Dorian’s note, then started walking down the street as fast as she could without breaking into a jog. It wasn’t difficult for Dorian to keep up, since her legs were so short.
Noticing all of the visibly mutated patrons and staff, Dorian concluded that this pub was a rabidly anti-mutant establishment. As such, it would probably be wise to keep his ‘special’ talents hidden, so to avoid the hatred and oppression that genetics often earned people like him.
Dorian pulled out his dry-erase marker and began to write on an invisible board between him and the eight-armed bartender. He wrote backwards so Spider would be able to read it without anyone having to spin any giant invisible boards around, or Dorian having to turn his back to the spider-man. The ink, which seemingly floated in the air, read: ’1 pt. guinness please.’
The spider man raised an eyebrow. “Neat trick.” He poked at the floating letters with one hand, determining that they were written on something solid, yet invisible. “Huh.” While that was happening, his extra arms managed to pour Dorian his pint. The mime nodded graciously and took a sip. He might have said something similar about Spider, if he could talk.
Dorian walked forward and began to reach for the hand, but stopped when the girl grabbed it first. She made eye contact with Vance, and gripped his hand as firmly as she could manage. “I’m Kaitlyn.”
The mute smirked. He made a show of withdrawing his hand, then pulling a small notepad from his pocket. The front cover, which he held out for Vance to read, said in big, bold letters: ’My name is Dorian. I cannot talk.’ It was useful to have things like that already written out before he met new people
Kaitlyn, who didn’t see the notepad, nodded to her accomplice. “He can’t say anything, but his name’s Dorian.”
Taking a deep breath, he grinned and patted her on the head. She swiveled around to give him an annoyed glare. He kept grinning.
Dorian shook his head. In doing so, he uncovered his mouth, revealing the grin that he had been trying so desperately to contain. He quickly covered his mouth again, hoping nobody in the restaurant had seen it before he could get that smile under control. Why did he find this whole situation so funny, anyway? Because he just ruined the life of some restaurant owning bigot who sorely deserved it? Because his accomplice was a 12-year-old?
Kaitlyn, meanwhile, felt proud of herself. The only people who don’t eat are mutants, meaning that Kaitlyn was completely right about this guy being a mutant. After a few moments of thought, she decided that she was too curious not to ask:
“Does your hair have superpowers?”
The man behind her started wheeze-laughing again. She turned to stare at him for a moment before she realized that he was laughing at her. “Oh, shut up.” It was a perfectly normal question.
The mime stopped laughing and turned an invisible key in an invisible lock in front of his closed mouth. The lock clicked as he turned the key, and the key clinked after he dropped it in the street.
Not quite like what we discussed last night, but I thought it could be fun. If you think this opener wouldn't work, I could change the second half of my post so that there are more pamphlets being handed out and fewer explosions.
Selling drugs is not the Order’s true purpose. Dorian was certain to make this clear to young Kaitlyn, hoping to prevent anything similar to the events of last weekend, when she had waved her Order connections in the faces of several Order-controlled M distributors and demanded that they teach her all about their job. In a way, it was almost cute that she wanted to know about her “family’s” business. The dealers were not in her “family,” however, and they found her behavior indescribably obnoxious.
So Dorian had promised them that he would try to keep her out of their hair. This was going to take the form of sitting her down and explaining what the Order was actually about, and why she really shouldn’t spend too much time around drug dealers.
Once Kaitlyn realized that he had written a certain pamphlet she had read (and apparently tried to distribute at Xavier’s school), the conversation went on an interesting tangent.
Several hours after Dorian and Kaitlyn’s conversation, it was still Saturday afternoon. The sky was somewhat cloudy, but still bright; it was pleasantly warm outside. An Italian restaurant by the name of “Trevino’s” in Manhattan was still fairly. A small sign on the front desk informed patrons that ‘We do not serve mutants.’
CRACKOOM
The restaurant’s windows shattered from the explosion, sending shards of glass onto the sidewalk. Tables and chairs were knocked over. As the manager struggled to his feet, a small red-headed girl pointed at him accusingly: “Mutant!” She was sitting on the floor, clearly disoriented, but not injured. The man who accompanied her, likely an adult relative of some sort, helped her to her feet before shooting the manager a death glare and walking the girl out of the building.
The restaurant’s employees, and the one other patron in the building, were all too dazed to react.
Once Kaitlyn and Dorian were outside, she noticed a man with an outrageous amount of hair. He looked like either a teenager or a 20-something, he was paler than a cave monster, and he had knee-length grey hair. Kaitlyn thought that he must have some kind of hair-related mutant power, which would really be the only sane reason for a guy to grow his hair out that long, as she saw it.
The girl looked him dead in the eyes. “Never eat here.” She nodded towards the partially destroyed restaurant.
Dorian was busy covering his mouth and making a strange, raspy, slightly unpleasant noise. He was probably laughing. Someone unfamiliar with his mutation might assume he had a serious breathing problem.
Posted by Dorian on Jul 6, 2013 13:43:34 GMT -6
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Nov 27, 2015 22:44:41 GMT -6
Dramatic, yes, but it also made investigating the murder a lot trickier. If Dorian was very, very lucky, the investigators might even rule the gas explosion out as an accident.
Dorian shrugged, then nodded, as if to say 'I don't care, sure.' Pubs tended to carry a good stout or two.
Posted by Dorian on Jul 6, 2013 1:10:27 GMT -6
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Nov 27, 2015 22:44:41 GMT -6
The mime looked at the list for a moment. Raised his eyebrows. Soon, he gave his benefactor a slight smile and a single nod.
Walter tried to move, but his arms and legs were held together by some kind of invisible restraints. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t open his mouth: invisible tape held it shut. Not like anyone was around to hear it anyway. Giving up, he rested his head against the driver’s side window on his luxury sports car. That’s where his wife would find him later that day, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning, a cocktail of drugs and alcohol still in his system, no sign of restraints to be found.
His suicide note, typed in an open document on his laptop, revealed that he had been disgusted with himself, his profession as a banker, his religious beliefs, his numerous affairs, and his drug use. Half of his bank accounts had been drained that day over the internet, from that very laptop. His money was transferred to a number of local charities, including an all-mutant homeless shelter in Brooklyn and a scholarship fund for an all-mutant private boarding school.
On an unrelated note, The security question for those particular bank accounts involved the last four digits of his social security number.
He stood up and turned an invisible doorknob inside of his floating chalk circle. The lock clicked. As he opened the invisible door, the chalk line broke, leaving an exit for himself and the old lady. He held the door open for her.
Posted by Dorian on Jul 6, 2013 0:09:05 GMT -6
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Nov 27, 2015 22:44:41 GMT -6
Several minutes later, Dorian rounded the corner into that alley. His mask was gone, he had a backpack with him, and he held a page from his notepad out for Terrence to read:
'We should leave.'
As if on cue, a column of flame erupted from the late private detective's office. Dorian blinked. He thought he would be at least a mile away by the time that happened.
The security room contained several computers, two multi-monitor setups connected to the surveillance setups, and two very bored men who were paid a reasonable wage to sit around and make sure the building didn’t explode. Because it was a news organization, they did have to kick a few wackos off the premises every once in a while; otherwise, it was a fairly dull job.
It was a boring job, their shift was about to end, and they were tired and eager to go home.
That was when they met who they thought was some kind of deaf intern. The first time he walked in, he looked lost. They stared at him for a few moments before one of them asked: “Can I help you?”
He flashed a few hand signals at them. When their confusion became evident, he pulled out a notepad and started writing: ‘Wrong room. Sorry.’
Several minutes later, he came back with two cups of coffee. ‘For you, said his pre-written note. While they didn’t entirely understand his reasons, they were grateful. It was some really good coffee.
They would have been even more grateful if it wasn’t drugged.
After the first security guy fell out of his chair, the second feebly reached for his radio. Dorian lunged forward to stop him. He managed to keep the guy’s (or according to the nametag, Randy’s) hands off of it until he drifted into a drugged sleep.
Soon, Seyta would get another text: ‘Cameras are down. Hurry.’
Dorian listened, certain to erase his previous message before anyone else could see it. When the old woman was finished speaking, he gave his chin a single stroke, as though giving her idea a single second of intense thought. Then, he wrote:
’I could do something like that.’
He particularly liked the part about making them look like nasty people. They could be found dead in a seedy neighborhood, overdosed on illegal substances. Or he could push one off a building, after making sure they were drugged. He would just have to hope that the autopsy revealed all the drugs. Hell, this could be incredibly easy if the people in question were already prone to using illegal substances at high altitudes. Oh, and hookers! Dorian really wanted to involve hookers in these murders, somehow. Just to make his victims look even worse.
Or he could make it look like suicide, then type out a fake suicide note that makes it look like they were completely insane. He could even include references to drugs and hookers in the fake suicide notes.
Trog. Not the strangest codename he’d ever heard, honestly. Beat the hell out of “Sin” (unless it was spelled with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘i,’ like her last name). This ‘Trog’ guy sounded like he knew how to handle himself in the criminal underworld, anyway.
Maybe he should get his own codename. It might have been incredibly stupid of him to share his real first name with a contract killer he’d never met before.
Dorian snatched up the envelope, opened it, slid its contents out halfway so he could glance at them.
Well, damn. It was the very file he was looking for. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, Trog would have seen him smirking
’Got what I came for,’ he wrote. Can I meet you outside in the alley?
Well… that was considerate of him. And it wasn’t like there was a code of conduct about assassinating people, or that being considerate was very high on a hitman’s list of priorities when he was trying to knock someone off.
Dorian sighed. ‘Look for anything about Faust Pharmaceuticals or the M Cartel. thx’
Then, with the hitman’s help, he proceeded to pull apart every drawer and bookshelf in Buck’s office. None of it had what he was looking for, and when they were done the entire office was a mess. Books, folders, files, papers, and pictures all strewn about the floor with overturned tables, chairs and bookshelves. Disemboweled drawers and their entrails sat in the middle of the office; they had been the duo’s first victims, dead man notwithstanding.
Dorian’s invisible markerboard already faded from existence. He conjured another one and wrote: ‘Thanks anyway. I’m Dorian, btw.’ He extended his hand, words seeming to float behind him. It felt kind of weird, spending that much time trashing an office with somebody without knowing their name.
