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 turned around, just in time to see Buck lying in a pool of his own blood. A pale man with solid black eyes and a knife was standing over him.
It took the mime a few seconds to comprehend what had just happened. When he did, he made one of the few sounds to express discontent that he could still manage without vocal chords.
“FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!”
He took his dry-erase marker and tapped on the invisible markerboard in front of Buck’s corpse. His earlier words were still there. Adding to them, he wrote: ‘You ruined my evening. I needed to take a file from him first.'
There was something deeply unsettling about watching such a warm old lady talk about killing people like this. This was not why Dorian looked so worried, however. He only got worried when the word ‘spectacularly’ came up. He began to write his response:
’I can certainly do spectacular, but I worry about the message that would send. Making clear who did it and why could justify mutant haters. It would also tip off authorities and make my work difficult after the first few. Is subtle acceptable?'
Dorian handed his comments to the woman. He wasn’t an independent contract killer. He would take this job because it meshed with his interests, and he cared more about the results of his work than anything like ‘payment’ or ‘customer satisfaction.’
Buck Pound, private detective, was trying to decide where it all went wrong. To be fair, it was probably a bad idea to start investigating the connection between Faust Pharms and organized crime in the first place. Any job involving organized crime was probably a bad idea. But he had been careful; nobody knew he was investigating the M trade at that point. No, his critical mistake, the one which might have cost him his life, was the part where he took proof of the money trail to a member of the ruthlessly efficient M cartel, and then started demanding hush money.
Now, Buck was tied to his chair with some kind of invisible rope. Blood ran down his nose, and from several scrapes and cuts all over his upper body, thanks to the fight he’d had right before getting all tied up.
‘Tell me where the file is.’
The words, written in red ink, seemed to float in the air several feet away from him. Their author, a man in a blank white mask, stared at him expectantly. He didn’t have a scratch on him.
“Go to hell.”
The masked man pulled a wad of $1 bills out of his pocket, bound together with a white band that had the words ‘BUCK POUND’S HUSH MONEY’ written on it. He made sure Mr. Pound had time to read that before shoving it all in the detective’s mouth. Then, he hefted an invisible hammer off the ground and swung at a knee.
Buck Pound’s screams didn’t travel very far. It’s amazing what a little bit of hush money can do.
Once the crying died down, Dorian pulled the money out of Buck’s mouth, then pointed to the floating words again, staring expectantly. He was rewarded with a stream of negative comments about his mother. For that, the man became reacquainted with his hush money, and found an invisible knife in his stomach.
Sigh. The mime turned around.There were a few photographs on that bookshelf; maybe one of them included some useful people to threaten? Kids, wife, family pet…?
Dorian’s back was turned for just a few seconds too many.
Dorian nodded slowly as he listened. When she paused to eat her cookie, he began to write.
‘You want that structure gone, correct?’
If so, they had a common interest. It would help the Order’s long-term political goals, or at least those goals Dorian thought it should have, if the people with lots of money to support mutant oppression became… unavailable.
…Dorian was expecting the dinosaur shifter to be a guy. And also not ten years younger than him. Teenage girls typically don’t turn into dinosaurs and assault organized criminals. Though that kind of behavior wasn’t really normal in any demographic, and it was really kind of silly that the gender of this zombie dinosaur shifter mutant was more surprising to him than the fact that somebody had the ability to transform into an undead dinosaur in the first place. Why did anything still surprise him?
He shook his head, trying to indicate that it was quite alright that she would rather be wearing clothes while having a conversation with him. He could sympathize with that.
Speaking of being able to have a conversation with him… ‘so,’ he wrote on the air with his marker, ’why did you jump in like that?
One week later, Dorian was hovering hundreds of feet above the ground, with his grip on an invisible rope being the only thing stopping him from falling to his death. It was at around this point that he realized this plan might have been a little bit too risky.
The hanging-from-an-invisible-rope thing didn’t have anything to do with it, though. That part was normal. Entirely expected, actually; he was using an invisible balloon to carry him to the roof of the building. It wasn’t the first time he’d used this trick, and he made it to the roof without incident.
Security types generally don’t expect people to try to break in through the roof access, and his fake ID card should be enough to bluff his way past anyone who might pester him on his way to the security room. Assuming they even cared enough to pester him. Taking a page out of the Clark Kent book of disguises, Dorian was wearing a shirt and tie that made him look like any other working stiff, along with a pair of fake glasses that would make it marginally harder to identify him from a freeze frame in a security camera.
Getting to the security room wasn’t the problem. After he got there was when things would get risky, and Dorian wasn’t sure he was prepared enough to deal with that part of the plan.
He pulled out a prepaid cellphone and sent a text message to the one he provided to his colleague: ‘I’m at the roof. Get ready.’
Dorian’s poker face failed him the moment Jimmy opened his mouth. He was trying very hard not to smile, but… the pride with which that little guy proclaimed himself a ‘failed experiment’ just brought him over the edge. He covered his mouth and started making unpleasant, scratchy wheezing noises. This was his laugh, and it only intensified when the hot dog cart made its way into the conversation. With any luck, he might have been doing a decent job of playing it off as a coughing fit.
There was some speculation to be done about the nature of those “experiments,” but Dorian could think about that later.
When Roach started talking to him again, he managed to bring the poker face back and nod at him. Although his mutation didn’t seem to immediately lend itself to hiding, he had come up with a few tricks over the years. Most of them involved suspending himself somewhere you typically wouldn’t expect to find a person.
Once Dorian entered the warehouse, he looked up. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he climbed an invisible ladder along the wall next to the door. Soon, he was standing on an invisible platform just above that doorway, leaning against the wall, waiting for the cops to show up.
This usually worked. He hoped it would work this time, too; he would feel really silly if it didn’t.
And so, after wiping off the words he’d seemingly written on thin air, Dorian started following the dinosaur. Which had apparently decided to lead him somewhere, instead of talking or shapeshifting, which he’d asked it about. And he had a sinking feeling, the entire time he was following it around, that it was trying to lead him into a trap.
What? It’s not paranoia if there really are dangerous, powerful people who’d want you dead. It’s not like he was doing a great job of keeping a low profile, either, with stuff like that stunt he just pulled. Though this would be a really far-fetched scheme for an attempt on his life; you couldn’t count on a guy to follow a dinosaur around, and make that a key part of a larger plan. That would just be stupid.
…And that’s exactly what they’d want him to think. He pantomimed a gun into existence, then put it in an invisible holster. Just to be safe. You never know.
He pulled a piece of chalk out of his pocket and stood up, holding up a finger as if to say, ‘just a moment, please.’ After taking a few steps away from their chairs, he held his chalk out away from them. A scratching sound could be heard, and a few chalk markings could be seen floating in the air. He walked around the chairs in a wide circle, holding the chalk up the entire time, leaving a circle of chalk floating in the air around them.
With that done, he smiled, put his chalk away, and wrote on his notepad: ‘Now we have some privacy. Please go on.’
The invisible concrete wall he just conjured up around them would block any sounds or people from going in or out.
It took Dorian a few moments to decide this ‘Granny’ probably hadn’t poisoned her cookies. That mutation of hers seemed to indicate she had much more direct ways to kill people.
Once the cookie was in his mouth, it took him even less time to decide that, should these cookies be poisoned, he was about to die happy. A smile and a nod was the closest approximation to ‘thank you’ he could give without voice, writing, or sign language as he sat down.
Dorian pulled a small, palm-sized notepad out of his pocket, along with a pen, with which he began to write. Again he used large print, easy on the eyes. ’Delicious, thanks. But you didn’t come just to give us cookies.’ He tore the page out and handed it to her, still looking amused. There was something funny about such a seemingly kind old lady wanting to meet with criminal types like himself. He couldn’t even imagine what this lady would want to do with the Order.
Okay, yup. Definitely a mutant. ‘Thanks for the assist’ he wrote.
And he was just about to launch into his little written lecture about how interfering in organized crime is an excellent form of assisted suicide, when he realized something. Maybe dino-boy here wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe he was looking at an Order man, who just happened to know about Dorian’s scheme and felt like helping out. Operational security was a joke when you lived with mind readers.
He thought about it for a moment, then added: ’That was pretty stupid of you, but I appreciate it.’
Dorian stared at Seyta his expression unchanging. He didn’t even know how to begin to approach this proposal. It would definitely spread the word. To the entire world, even. But terrorism? That seemed… sub-optimal, to say the very least.
Lisa’s smile didn’t falter for even a second as she reached into her purse. “One moment, please.” Her hand brushed against her .38 special on the way to her cellphone; this time; reassured of the former’s presence, she retrieved the latter. Fingers blurred across the device’s screen as she sent a message to one of the Order’s up-and-coming assassins: Unfamiliar old woman asking for a colleague. Come to foyer. ‘colleague’ was code for ‘Order Member,’ but it would be better to keep such words out of her text message history.
Seconds later, Dorian had sent her a reply: ’kk omw’
The secretary understood exactly half of that, but it was enough. “One of them should be coming to meet you in a few minutes. Feel free to sit down, and please be careful about where you use that word.” Not everyone in the Sanctuary knew the significance of the word ‘Order,’ and Lisa would like to keep it that way.
A minute had barely passed before a young man appeared in the foyer. Tall, dark-haired, slender, clean-shaven, moving quiet as a ghost. A look in his eyes gave the impression that he was thoroughly amused by something, and his mouth was frozen in a calm smile. The blues, yellows, and greens of his tie-dye shirt matched the colors of springtime well.
He stood in front of the “unfamiliar old woman” and bowed before presenting her with a note written in large, clear letters for the benefit of old eyes: ’My name is Dorian. I cannot speak. You wished to meet one of us?'
’I’m in touch with activists and local mutant rights organizations, and they’ve had a few events here and there.'
Nothing big enough to really make the news. He had to admit his message was pretty divisive among the mutant rights crowd, for all his talk of unity. That was probably why they haven’t yet gotten the manpower together to make a platform around his kind of message. It seemed to be gaining ground, at least.
If this dinosaur was actually a person, Dorian needed to have a little chat with it about interfering in organized crime. Because Dorian, being the good-hearted organized criminal super-mime that he was, thought that people who were too stupid to live should have the opportunity to live and learn from their mistakes. Unless allowing them to live and learn would unduly inconvenience him later; in that case, they would have to die.
But that wasn’t the case, here. The dinosaur person seemed to be on his side, and he probably owed it a favor. There was a chance that, if that second thug didn’t have a freakin’ dinosaur trying to kill him at the time, he might have actually managed to shoot Dorian.
After the two had gotten a few blocks between themselves and the Order’s most recent victims, Dorian stopped in the middle of another alley, pulled out a dry-erase marker, and seemingly wrote on the air itself:
