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.
’M doesn’t do good things for everyone. It’s a human recruitment tool more than anything else. I don’t care whether our supporters are using it or not, just that they’re supporting us. Giving us money for M is still a great way to support us, and transcending human law to share our power verifies their sincerity.’
Dorian nodded, and turned in his seat to the invisible markerboard. Seyta’s relationship with such people wouldn’t change is answer.
’Such people exist. They have good intentions, but most of them still think we can assimilate and coexist. That ship sailed about five years ago. Acting like it hasn’t will only make things worse for everyone in the long run. It would be better if they realized assimilation isn’t in our best interests.’
He didn’t include that kind of message in the pamphlets, and in retrospect he probably should have. It seemed like a better idea at the time, for the sake of brevity, to present Humanity as one big oppressive monolith instead of talking about the different nuances of human oppression. He still though the pamphlet was true, if it was a simplified version of the truth. “Tolerance” in this case was just veiled oppression, unwitting or no.
’I love this kind of weather, actually.’ Dorian’s words hung in the air on an invisible markerboard.
It really was a beautiful day. The meteorologist on channel three said that the conditions were right for a tornado to whirl through town. The rain never got worse than a light drizzle, but the wind was still blowing trash around, and when lighting wasn’t lighting up the sky, it was so dark it might as well have been nighttime. Dorian was still a little bit upset about what Roach did with the homeless guy.
Not the drowning part. He had that one coming, and Roach’s ability to drown a man with so little water available was downright impressive. The MRC would probably assume a water manipulator was involved; Dorian should have taken notes. But leaving the body in the middle of the road? Dorian could think of ten better things to do with that body in as many seconds. If only Roach had waited before chucking it into the street. At least there was enough time for Dorian to draw angry-looking puppies all over the man’s soggy cardboard sign.
’Hold up let’s frame the humane society.’ He’d written this on a scrap of paper from his notepad and passed it to his partner in crime before clarifying the man’s warning about mutts. His unnatural mime-laugh was drowned out by a well-timed thunderclap. It was hard to tell whether Roach shared his amusement; he didn’t know how to read the expression on an insect-face. Either way, no reason he couldn’t make his job entertaining for himself.
Now they were waiting in the alley for one of Roach’s “children.” Dorian wasn’t sure he wanted to know how his insectoid friend would, err, make a child, but the mime just couldn’t stop his mind from wandering down those dark corridors, bumping into the thought that somewhere, some woman was into that. Eugh.
Unless she wasn’t. Double eugh.
Did he believe the ends justified the means? ’Usually,’ he wrote. He wasn’t about to tell Roach that double eugh was justifiable, if that’s where this conversation was headed.
Oh, hi Jimmy. Not knowing what else to do, Dorian gave the less-refined cockroach a friendly wave. His poker face was holding up admirably.
Although most of the telepaths who lived in the Sanctuary were on the Order payroll, or at least received a decent amount of hush money from the Order, it wasn’t their job to watch out for “ratting.” Dorian was just messing with her. While Alma’s discovery could be a real setback for Dorian’s whole operation, it was also a rare opportunity to mess with somebody’s head.
Speaking of which…
Dorian suddenly found himself trying very hard not to burst out laughing. He just realized that he had an opportunity to justify using Order resources for elaborate practical jokes. The kinds of practical jokes that Dorian could only dream of pulling, the kinds that would make somebody seriously doubt their sanity. And he had come up with a lot of them. Until now, he just thought they were pipe dreams, but…
By some miracle, he kept his face straight the entire way up to the ground floor. He held the door open for his victim as they exited the stairwell.
For his first trick, he would need some screwdrivers, a teleporter, a mutant with x-ray vision, and at least two other people who could be trusted to play along with him.
It sort of screeched at him and shook its head, as if to say ‘no.’
As if it was smart enough to understand the concept of ‘no,’ and smart enough to communicate that concept to him. While Dorian was no paleontologist, he thought it would be safe to assume that an actual dinosaur wouldn’t be that smart. Meaning this probably wasn’t some kind of reanimated zombie dinosaur, but…
Dorian introduced his face to his palm. This was an actual person who just decided to get involved in the Order’s gang warfare. Clearly, there was a memory-altering mutant somewhere who just ran through Order territory and made everybody forget how to survive in Order territory today. Some idiot was probably about to call the police, too.
Well, at least this little guy was trying to be on his side. Or girl. Whatever gender that dinosaur was. Dorian thought it might be rude to walk over and check.
Speaking of rudeness, maybe s/he took offense to the whole communicating-with-him/her-like-s/he-was-a-dog thing. When the Orderling was done face-palming, he gestured for the creature to follow him (with the kinds of hand gestures one would expect a human being to understand) and walked towards a nice alleyway for sneaking away.
Please go on, he wrote. Then, he pushed the invisible marker board back a few feet, and pulled out an invisible chair. It slid audibly across his carpet before he turned it around and sat down, watching Seyta expectantly.
It had been too long since he’d had the chance to talk politics with another Orderling.
Dorian stopped and did a double take. Yeah, that was a dinosaur. It looked like it had tried to help him take out the same idiots he was trying to deal with, too.
He stood there for a moment, staring like some idiot who’d never seen a zombie dinosaur before. Or at least some idiot who hadn’t lived with mutants long enough, and was still capable of being surprised by the existence of a zombie-dinosaur-animating mutant. He rated “animator” as more likely than “shifter,” because he hoped that no sentient being living in Order territory would be stupid enough to stick their nose in this kind of work.
Yes. It was far more likely that he was dealing with an undead animal intelligence, here. And it was probably lost, and sorely missed. He could just imagine some poor mutant kid leaving the door open and thereby losing his status as the coolest kid in existence, the only one to have his very own pet zombie dinosaur.
He whistled to it, calling it over as if it were a dog. If it was domesticated, he hoped, it might respond to that.
It was difficult to walk up stairs and write at the same time. He waited until they got up the first flight of stairs before writing out his reply.
‘Inform. Many of my readers and I are activists though.’
Another set of stairs. Something else occurred to him. He stopped her and started scribbling another message:
‘Keep in mind, I have friends who’ll know if you intend to rat on me, days before you actually do. Don’t even think about it. Literally. It could start trouble.’
He gave her a concerned look, and erased that message immediately after Alma had time to read it.
Dorian nodded, then turned around and walked further into his room. He snatched a marker off his desk and began to write on an invisible whiteboard, his words seeming to float in the middle of the air. He may have been a mute, but that certainly wasn’t going to stop him from talking this woman’s ear off.
Sure. Take a seat if you want.
He gestured towards his neatly made-up bed and the swivel chair by his desk; either would be appropriate for sitting on.
I’m Dorian.
Pause.
as you probably already know b/c you found me. Might I ask y
Another pause. His guest’s mutation sounded familiar. He looked at her face for a few seconds, then erased the sentence he was in the middle of before continuing.
When Dorian noticed the woman standing right in front of him, he almost leapt in surprise. Then, he smirked, making a fairly unpleasant noise which might have resembled a chuckle.
What a funny mutation, and what an unfortunate choice of words. He could definitely answer questions, of course. He could answer questions about his writing until he got carpal tunnel from answering all those questions. But could he talk?
His hands moved rapidly to sign the words ‘Only if you count this as talking.’ He’d need to grab a pen or a marker from his desk if he wanted to communicate effectively. As it was, the best he could do was use sign language, which the woman in front of him probably couldn’t understand. He gestured towards his throat and shook his head to get the idea across that he was mute.
He held the door open with his foot, letting Alma through to the stairs while he wrote his response.
‘I wrote a book on the future dream phenomenon. Didn’t sell very well. Now, I do articles and n such about mutant issues.’
Writing articles for those underground mutant news sites was less of a source of income than a hobby, but as an Order member, he was in an unusually good position to report on some of these things. Nothing that the Order wouldn’t want him telling the world about, of course; typically, his articles had to do with the sob stories running through the Sanctuary, or tales of injustice at the hands of the NYPD in their misguided efforts to crack down on mutant crime in the area.
One day, when you don’t have anything better to do with yourself, get an audience and try pretending that you’re loading an invisible cannon. You know, one of those 18th century things with the cannonballs and the gunpowder that has to be loaded manually, commonly found on ships or civil war battlefields. As Dorian has learned, it’s really difficult to make the audience realize what the heck you’re doing, especially when you’re stressed out and the audience probably wants to kill you for interfering with their drug trafficking.
But let’s set the scene, first. 1AM. Several blocks from the Sanctuary, fairly empty street at this time of night.
The target was a van containing everything needed to produce massive amounts of M. A rival gang was trying to move their M operation even closer to Order territory, for reasons entirely beyond Dorian’s comprehension. Either they knew something the Order didn’t, or they were extraordinarily stupid. Either way, he knew their destination, and he knew the routes they would probably take to get there. He was watching the most likely route, and he had some friends keeping their eyes on the other two.
When he saw the van, he leaned against an imaginary wall, and - here’s the tricky part - willed the wall to extend all the way across the road, where the van could hit it.
Crunch!
Airbags deployed, and the two men inside were not happy. First, they were dazed, but soon they would be suspicious and angry, prone to pulling out fully automatics and waving them at passerby, of whom Dorian was the only one. He thought fast, and thought it would be a good idea to cannon-blast the both of them.
So, there he was, pantomiming loading an invisible cannon, right across from a van full of angry men with full autos who just crashed into something invisible.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?”
Dorian glanced at him, then finished pushing the invisible cannonball into his invisible cannon.
“Hey, I asked you a question!” The guy finally got out of the car, brandishing his machine pistol. The idiot fired a few rounds off at Dorian’s feet, presumably to intimidate him. By now, Dorian had managed to point his cannon right at him, not that he knew what Dorian was doing.
BOOMF![/i]
It must have hit the guy square in the chest, judging from what he looked like afterwards. The van was out of commission, too; it didn’t have a working steering wheel or ignition anymore. But the other guy with the fully automatic pistol was still intact, and he wasn’t particularly happy.
Dorian crouched down and did the invisible wall routine as fast as he could manage. It became solid just in time to stop five rounds from going into him. One of the bullets was even lodged in the wall, or, as far as any onlooker would be concerned, it was floating right in front of his nose. When the man stopped firing, the mime stood up again acted like a wild westerner in a duel at high noon, hand hovering over a revolver that wasn’t there. After a few tense moments, he drew his revolver-that-wasn’t-there and shot the other guy in the face.
With the threat eliminated, the mime took a moment to get a better look at the guy he hit with the cannon. It was pretty gross, to be honest. Lots of things were all over the place that really didn’t have any business sitting around outside of his body. Speaking of things that didn’t belong outside of people, Dorian didn’t feel like vomiting. Not to mention getting spotted. He ran towards the nearest alleyway.
Was somebody doing something in a nearby room that sounded eerily similar to knocking at his door? Or was someone trying to pull some kind of stupid prank on him? With a sigh, he went back and opened the door again. This time, he saw
absolutely nothing of interest on the other side of his door.
Once again, he looked down either end of the hallway. This time, he was watching out for one of the younger mutants. He knew several mutants at the Sanctuary who could knock on his door undetected, but the 14-year-old telekinetic was his prime suspect. He could just imagine him knocking on people’s doors from a distance, and laughing as the other residents answered their doors repeatedly, finding nothing each time.
Dorian threw his head back and let out a series of short, rasping wheezes. They would have been laughs, if his vocal chords were intact.
How I Suppressed My X-Gene With the Power of Prayer
It was a real book. A real book that people were buying. The mute mutant was strongly considering getting a copy for himself, for those times when he needed a good chuckle, and when the usual animated .gifs of cats on the internet wouldn’t do it for him. In fact, he was just in the middle of finding out which local bookstores had it stocked, when he heard a knock on his door.
Once he opened the door, he completely failed to notice anyone standing directly outside of it, waiting for him. The tall, slender mutant looked down each end of the hall. Still failing to notice anyone, he began to close the door to his room again.
Dorian ran through a mental list of bird-related mutants living at the Sanctuary, trying to judge which one of them would have invited Alma there five months ago. He figured that, if he asked around, one of the bird mutants would be able to verify that they told Alma about the place, and that she wasn’t likely to be doing anything too sketchy. Unless Alma was using that turn of phrase un-ironically.
‘~ 1 year ago,’ he wrote. The mute had the art of walking while writing down to a fine science. ‘Spent my savings on activism in Romania when they passed their registration laws. Got tortured in a foreign prison. Came back to NY, couldn’t make ends meet with miming or writing and didn’t want to move in with my sister.’
Dorian handed the invisible board to Alma, to do with as she pleased, then grabbed another one out of thin air as they rounded a corner. One of the fluorescent lights was dimmer than the rest, flickering erratically and buzzing at an irritatingly high volume. They were getting close to a stairwell, which was behind the door labeled ‘stairs.’
