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.
It was warm in the larger teen’s lap. Not really comfortable, though, per se. He wasn’t a child anymore: the fit was sprawling, at best. Suddenly, it was feeling even smaller. Cramping. Suffocating. Calley squirmed his way free, his ears twitching irately at scritching hands and muscled chests. He put a two foot buffer of sheets and bed between them.
Too far: he scooted back a little closer. Make that a one foot buffer. The cat boy crossed his legs. His tail hung over the edge of the bed, sweeping just above the floor. Baby blue eyes watched Cafas intently.
Her new feline overlord was fond of his ear. Attached to his body, and generally intact. To safe guard against any unfortunate interruptions to this state, the ginger and cream tom cat gracefully ducked under her hand and twined behind the vibrating washing machine, putting its sturdy (if epileptic) metal between her and his own estimable self. His head peered out from around the side, dark blue eyes regarded her. It made no comment upon its own escape.
“Little girls who make things explode should not small animals touch.”
Almost no comment.
“We need to work out a training regimen for you,” the cat stated, as obviously as one would comment about the sun on a clear day.
“Learning to use your ability on command is generally a step towards learning not to use it when you don’t command,” the tom observed. “Blow up that towel, please.”
His ginger-stripped body stayed regally crouched out of sight.
His ear was being neglected in favor of deep thinking; it gave a small flick, reminding the still hand as to its duties.
Calley was silent after Cafas’ answer, for a long moment. His mind went to the clock in the empty kitchen downstairs: tick, tick, tick. There wasn’t any such noise in their room. The red light of the digital clock shone up from the night stand. Who’d thought that red was a good idea? That people wanted to open their eyes in the middle of the night, and see the color of—see that color casting light across their face?
“You can’t go back. You can’t change it.” Calley said, rubbing his other ear against the pink-haired teen’s chest, without thought. “That’s not what I meant.” His tail trailed over Cafas’ neck before tucking itself up under his own chin.
“If you woke up tomorrow, and it was still happening. The same thing, all over again: it never even stopped. Would you do it again?”
Dawn was coming. Calley missed being a child, suddenly; he missed taking for granted that the light kept the monsters away.
His arm slipped around Cafas', palm settling against bare back.
EPIC FLAIL was SUPER EFFECTIVE. Not that their opponent would ever know. The little fox was nothing before the crushing weight of the level 19.999 carp; the jolt of impact went easily missed as the sixteen shadow clones sprang off in different directions, taunting man and fish from all sides.
The invisible seventeenth fox shook its head, once and again, clearing its view until only 1729—1153—577 tails remained in sight. Minus his own set, of course. Which—he noted, as it must be noted—did not look as scraggle-ratty like as his clones’. His own tails fairly dripped with dignity.
The fox crawled unseen to safety next to his trainer’s legs, and used Bide. Personally, visions of seventeen-wayed flamethrowers were dancing in his head.
>> "I... I was scared. If I stopped fighting, the others would have killed me."
“That’s true,” Calley agreed. Hunter would have killed him. He still would.
>> "Then... I got angry. Fear, fear can drive you to kill... Anger, anger can drive you to kill... Together... It's unthinkable."
Fear, yes.
Anger, no. He hadn’t been angry. Even if he was, it was Hunter he was angry with. Not that woman. He hadn’t—not because he was angry. He was sure of it. He hadn’t.
“No,” he rasped, drawing his legs up more fully into his roommate’s lap. It was more comfortable that way. That was all.
His tail had moved up around his own legs; the tip would be tickling the side of Cafas’ face as it twitched, in that way that tails have. Calley had learned long ago that a cat does not control its tail.
“Would you do it again?” He asked. “If you were in the same situation again—would you do it again?”
Cafas was not letting go. Did Calley want him to let go? Of course. This was wrong; it was all wrong. He didn’t even know why he was in here. Cafas was warm, though. That was surprisingly nice to think about.
There were worse things, after all.
His tail twitched as Cafas spoke, the fur gradually settling down. It curled around his body, including Cafas’ knees in the loop.
“Why did you do it?” Calley asked. “Why didn’t you stop, when you realized you were wrong?”
His ear flinched away as the teen’s fingers first brushed it; slowly, it fell back into place. The scritching felt nice. There was no harm in it. That was just something you did to cats, after all.
Cafas’ hands felt good in his hair. He didn’t know why that was such a novel idea to him: he’d spent a good deal of his life begging pets from people, friends and strangers alike. He just... hadn’t ever been human, at the time. It was a reassuring feeling. Familiar, and comfortable. Calley closed his eyes.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” He asked, into the teenager’s chest. The teenager’s very bare chest. Calley opened his eyes again, and found himself face to face with smooth skin and muscles.
He wondered if Cafas could feel the sudden rush of blood to his face as heat, skin against skin. The teen would definitely be feeling how very tense Calley was becoming in his arms.
He needed a tail to properly express his reaction. He grew one, with a FOOF.
Cafas’ wasn’t trying to kiss him, anymore. Cafas was letting him break it off. Cafas was letting him stop. Worse, he was pulling away. As he sat up, Calley’s fingers fell back on the pillow. He didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
Maybe he could just lie here. That would be all right. He didn’t have to move. Maybe Cafas would lay back down, and they could just go to sleep. Maybe he wasn’t too angry with Calley, for avoiding him. Or maybe Calley was going to get kicked out, now. Back to his room. Back to the wet clothes in a puddle on the bathroom floor, and the screams in his head.
The blanket was warm. Calley instinctively moved to curl up next to the teen’s chest; Cafas’ arms only helped the process along.
“I tried to help everyone. I tried to be a good person,” he said, “but I think I got it wrong.”
The hand on his neck was warm. Large. Real. It brushed against his hairline, drawing him in closer. The lips were surprisingly soft.
Was this is first real kiss? With a guy. He wasn’t going to think about that, right now. Cafas wanted him. He knew Cafas wanted him. Cafas would let him stay here, like this. Cafas wouldn’t know why he smelled like soap; why his brown hair was wet; why his pajamas were still creased from being a drawer.
Maybe Calley could forget, too.
He set one knee onto the bed, then the other. The bed springs creaked and shifted as his weight was added. His hands needed somewhere to go; something to do. They were shaking again. He thought he’d gotten that to stop, hours ago. They had stopped when he’d gotten to work. They’d been steady, when he did what he had to do. He had to. Now the tremors were back. They needed to stop. Now. He pushed his fingers into Cafas’ thick hair. It felt good. A little coarse, a little damp. Cafas had showered tonight, too. Calley broke the kiss; his face trailed, lips ghosting over nose and cheek and ear until he could just bury himself against Cafas’ hair and pillow. His breathing was heavy. The shaking in his hands was spreading; he couldn’t make it go away. It went all the way to his shoulders, now.
His cheeks were damp. He wanted it to just be from Cafas’ hair, but it wasn’t. He wanted it all to stop, but it wouldn’t. It just wouldn’t.
Water dripped as he pulled the Mansion doors shut behind him; from his clothes, his hands, his hair. The evening drizzle had turned to a downpour.
It made it easy to explain why he was wet.
It was late. After midnight, probably; maybe almost morning. Even the nocturnal students seemed to be in bed. The overcast sky made it impossible to tell how far off the sun was. He left his shoes by the door, and walked on sock-muffled feet into the kitchen. A clock tick, ticked on the wall. He pulled out the trash can from under the sink, and took the damp stack of papers from his coat pocket. Posters of a missing black kitten were pushed into the middle, past egg shells and spilled sauce. His hand came away red. He quietly returned the can to its place, and turned on the tap. The water felt warm, after the rain. After the sewers.
Calley shoved his head under the stream, letting the rivulets comb through his hair. He sputtered as the water dribbled over his mouth. After a few long heartbeats of the clock, he turned the faucet off, and let the worst of it drip into the sink.
He needed a shower.
Back in his room—his real room: the one he was registered as living in—he toweled his hair dry. He was in clean clothes, now. Just a loose white T-shirt, and green pajama bottoms. He thought they had frog print on them. He couldn’t remember, right now, and he hadn’t turned on the light. The storm battered outside the window. In the bathroom, his dirty clothes sat in a heap, their water spreading out onto the floor. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them. Burn them, maybe. Out in the woods behind the school. And the purse, hidden under the sink, shoved behind the plunger and the spare toilet paper? He didn’t know.
Calley flopped back on his bed, the towel still behind his head. The rain kept coming down. Lightning flashed. Down the hall, someone snored. A tree clattered against a window pane. A scream echoed.
He pressed the towel against his ears, and curled onto his side. There was no scream. There was no scream. He didn’t hear—
Thunder boomed.
Calley’s bare feet made no sound as he padded over the carpeted floor. The doorknob to Cafas’ room turned with a little creak. Here was the source of the light snores. He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him, and leaning back on his hands.
This wasn’t really his room. He just slept here, sometimes, in the spare bed. Those snores had made him want to kill his sometimes roommate, in the past. Kill. Right. Tonight, he found himself just listening to them. It was such a human noise. It was so alive.
Calley crossed the floor, and pressed his lips to Cafas’.
The missing posters were simple. Just a picture of a black kitten in a light blue collar that matched its eyes. Contact information was below. Since no one would be finding the kitten, Calley hadn’t bothered making it real. Only real enough to let eyes pass over it, finding no flaws.
The address was local. The blonde secretary was soon seeing the poster every time she went in and out of her apartment building, on her way to work for Hunter Antonescu. There was another on the wall of the subway down the street, where she caught her morning ride, and more around central park, where he’d seen her go to jog. He taped his poster over an older one: the black kitten covered over a picture of a ginger-stripped tom and a little white cat with black spots here and there. It was weathered and torn. Like his, no one would ever be calling the number listed. Katrina Dumond’s name disappeared from view.
He waited.
Henrietta, Lenna, and Lori had taught him how.
That Friday night, as Ellie climbed up the subway steps after returning from her day at work, she saw a black kitten with a blue collar shivering under a bus stop overhang. Its fur was damp from the drizzle; its legs tucked under its body, and its tail curled around it for warmth. It looked very small, and very alone. The young woman paused, and adjusted her hand bag on her arm. Then she slowly stepped closer, her voice pitched low.
“Hello, sweetie. You’re lost, aren’t you? Just stay right there, I’ll—”
The kitten watched her with wide blue eyes, gathering its paws under it. Still, it seemed that her soothing voice was doing the trick. It stayed where it was as she approached.
When she stretched her hands out, it bolted.
Ellie cursed as its tail disappeared into an alleyway just a few feet away. She looked around, one hand brushing her hair back behind her ear. It was still drizzling. Her apartment was only a block away. This wasn’t her problem.
She knew that alley was a dead-end, though. It was only about ten feet deep, and blocked by a chain link fence at the end. This wasn’t a bad area of town. There was nothing in there but an old dumpster and a kitten. She dropped her hand with a sigh, pushed her purse up onto her shoulder, and stepped into the shadows.
A hand wrapped around her neck, containing her struggles until the potent rag over her mouth and nose took effect. Ellie slumped in the young man’s grip. She saw the blue-eyed kitten watching, its tail curled around its feet.
The green-eyed man had taught him how.
The sewer cover at the alley’s end was heavy, but he managed. After he’d placed her down on the concrete below, he climbed back up the ladder and pulled it closed. The sounds of street life, of New York City, were capped. The sound of the dirty water flowing through the tunnel was soothing, actually. It really was. He stood at the bottom of the ladder, and let himself just listen to it for the space of a few breaths.
His hands were shaking. It took him two tries to get the hand cuffs on, locking her to the pipe.
Hunter had taught him how.
Calley sat next to her, his arms dangling loosely over his drawn-up knees. He couldn’t tell if the wall was damp, or just cold; it seemed to make his shirt cling to his back. It might have been the sweat. Or the blood. He didn’t know how blood would have gotten on his back.
He didn’t know how so much had gotten on his hands.
He didn’t look at them. He looked past them, to the water. It flowed sedately past, to places he couldn’t see. It was nice: calming. It made his heartbeat a little harder to hear. He didn’t even mind the smell, anymore. There were worse things.
On the Monday morning after Hunter Antonescu opened Spiritual Balance, his secretary did not come to work. The water accepted her body; she disappeared from view. It kept flowing. He held his hands in its cold until the blood was all washed away, carried off, done and gone. He couldn’t feel them, by then.
The simple paper note was tucked into her handbag, and left just outside the clinic’s door. He had to let the man know: he had to know that Calley wasn’t to blame. This wasn’t who Calley was. He didn’t do things like this. He didn’t. This was all Hunter’s fault. He had to see that. From Caleb Swartz, to Hunter Antonescu.
You did this.
The water carried his words away, too. He couldn’t tell if it cared.
