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.
This was a joke. That was the first thought that came to mind when he saw the flier. It was funny—just look at it. Tai chi. Meditation. Spiritual Balance. Hunter Antonescu. It was funny. It was funny, wasn’t it?
Hunter Antonescu had threatened to kill him. Explicitly, a few times; implied, for every waking and sleeping moment during the rest of the year he’d served the man. Hunter Antonescu had beaten him. Hunter Antonescu had tortured him. Hunter Antonescu was a large part of who he was today, and a large part of what he loathed in himself.
That’s why this flier was funny. It really was. This was a joke, of the cosmic sort—some other man, wearing the same name. Ha.
The last time Calley had seen Hunter Antonescu, the immortal had been a bleeding pulp on the concrete grounds of Mondragon Labs. Calley had done that. Not Abyss, who’d offered to, or the X-Men, who might have if they’d known what Calley had known; he had done it. He, Caleb Swartz, at eighteen years old, after a year of being a Kabal member under the man’s leadership.
He was twenty now. Baby blue eyes appraised the poster with mirth, the lips below them quirking in the habitual smile he’d picked up while under the man’s tender loving care. The lanky young man reached up a hand and slowly tore the flier from the bulletin board. Unreadable strips were left behind, hanging from their tacks like flayed skin. He didn’t know how long the flier had been up. It came down at 2:30 PM, Friday, May 21st, 2010. No one who saw the young man methodically tearing the paper into shreds over the trash can questioned him about it. It was that kind of smile.
At 4:01 PM, Friday, May 21st, 2010, a panther mutant walked through the doors of Spiritual Balance. Rich black fur covered every inch of skin exposed by his loose half-length pants and lavender vest, and every inch hidden, as well. A pair of square-rimmed glasses were perched above a broad nose on a distinctly feline face. Round ears and short whiskers twitched affably at the secretary as he entered, his bare hind paws naturally quiet over the floors.
“Hello, Miss. I hear you teach mediation. Would it be possible for me to meet with the instructor prior to signing up for sessions?” His thick tail swished behind his legs. “Who a man is really makes things. You understand.”
The panther man pushed his glasses just a smidge higher with a stub-fingered hand. A friendly smile quirked on his lips, flashing sharp white teeth.
>> "You can turn into a ca... a felis silvesteris catus."
“Just ‘cat’ is fine,” the feline magnanimously stated, his tabby-stripped body turning a corner. His tail followed, with a flick. They were in the residential area of the Sanctuary, now. Rooms lined the hallway. They walked past an open door to the communal rec room, complete with a squabble between two groups of mutants: it was the Gossip Girl fans versus the Halo players again. The fate of the room’s wide-screen TV hung in the balance.
The girl’s breathing had a certain hic to it. Her nose was sniffing somewhat more than usual. His ears flicked back, then forwards again. These things did not concern a cat. Clearly.
They’d come to a door. The door to his own room, to be specific. It wasn’t locked: given that he usually returned in a less than bipedal condition, he couldn’t be bothered with keeping track of a key. There wasn’t anything much to steal inside, anyway.
>> "How do you control it?"
“Open this, please,” he commanded politely, staring up at the door knob. It wasn’t the diabolically difficult round kind, and it was technically within his reach if he stood on his hind legs, but there was no need to waste slave labor when it followed him obediently. Inside the room was exactly one object of note: a large aquarium, with a lobster inside easily as large as the cat. It lifted its claws in threatening welcome. Everything else in the room—bed, dresser, chair—was just the non-descript standard issue furniture that came with every Sanctuary room. Also, there was a basket. The basket held dirty laundry.
“Carry that, please.” The cat ordered, strolling back out into the hallway. He didn’t deign to look back and see if she followed. He merely kept up their conversation, in assumption that she did.
“Controlling a power is like walking. Once you learn to do it, it’s fairly easy.” Though a teen was still allowed to trip. Say, into an unwanted toad form, which was held hostage by a Mansion witch. “Learning is the hard part. What do you do to practice?”
Posted by Cheshire on May 19, 2010 16:24:14 GMT -6
Mutant God
3,233
18
Sept 24, 2018 19:41:05 GMT -6
Calley
Easiest way to run this plot: in the FanFic board, with interested players.
Modding-wise, the Future Plot was a bit of a (colossal) pain, since it involved approving the future versions of profiles. If we were going to play heavily with the children, as well, that would involve a lot of NPC profiles, as well (plus, we're trying to discourage the over-use of NPCs, now that MRO has so many active PCs for people to play with instead). The Future Plot was also rather difficult for new members to jump in on, and most ended up abstaining--that's why it became a wasteland of just a few older members RPing.
If it was done on the FanFic board, it could be run to your heart's content, minus newbs having to figure out what was going on, or Mods being bogged down in "future" profiles.
I personally wouldn't play much/at all in this plot--when we did the Future Plot originally, we considered moving far enough out in time for people to RP their children, as well, but the general consensus fell to the 10-year mark that we ended up picking. That was where my heart lay, as well, so I am future-content. I'd rather do something new for the next plotline.
“No no,” the cat corrected, drawing itself up with lofty pride, one of its paws raising to flick dismissingly at the idea. “I’ve simply become a Felis silvestris catus. Of the Felidae family, you understand.” This being the proper way to answer a little girl who’d gotten him chased from lunch. Granted that he’d already eaten, but extra granted that she’d thrown him across the room, too.
“Walk with me,” he stated, with an imperious tail flick. Whether or not the girl followed, he was going deeper into the building. Just because the Tantrum Man wasn’t following now didn’t mean he wouldn’t, and just because Calley’s other self could give warning didn’t mean the man couldn’t catch up. That trick he’d used to get the gun back in his hand had looked suspiciously like teleportation. He’d like to get a bit closer to the Abyssi’s rooms. Just in case. Nothing said ‘leave that cat alone’ like red muscles and monkey tails.
“So. You make things go boom.” The cat said, its ears flicked back towards her and its tail high. It wasn’t a question.
In a large patch in front of the trampoline, the last boiling bubbles festered on the surface, and the last wisps of steam dissipated. Yet still, the water roiled and surged. If Garakarp’s HP bar was red, it was only with rage. The little fox kit stood defiant before the King of Carp.
>> “Mohawk, use quick attack to tire them out!”
“Vul!” The fox yipped, springing forwards—!
No, to the left—!
No, to the right—!
No, into the air! His tail tips brushed the water, taunting the carp with six lures! His paws nimbly danced over the trampoline, like fingers tapping at a fish tank!
He could nearly feel the carp’s hatred. If the skittering Quick Attacking kit had drawn its wrathful attentions, no doubt the man would be hard-pressed to keep up with all this back and forth and up and down and SPRING!
The fox jumped off the trampoline, landing triumphantly on the inflatable water slide. Its rough paws found familiar purchase on the thick vinyl. ...The vinyl which was so much slicker than it had been, when they’d practiced this. Suddenly the kit was scrabbling, sliding, tumbling towards the water. It yelped piteously the moment before it fell in, six tails and all.
The Order’s leader was blonde and petite. Even at the panther’s unimpressive 5’8” or so inches, it still looked like he could pick her up like a child. A child whose actions and words were both bluntly focused. To anyone who liked their messages a bit more subtle: She had a needle and a band aid. So what, then, was the gauze for?
>> “Step away from the door, please? There’s a good girl.”
The panther man’s hind paws nimbly cleared the way before her. Belatedly, he realized that command hadn’t exactly been for him. Well. No harm done. Besides, he’d already added a little tail swish and a half-bow: combined with a whisker twitch, that amply covered the movement.
As Henrietta paled before Lori’s nice face, Calley observed Lenna out of the corner of his glasses. After a moment, he tried to mime her stoic professional pose: still, alert, arms crossed. His tail tip, however, was swishing in time with Henrietta’s hair.
So. Now he got to see how the Boss Lady handled things.
The lobster seemed to take offense at its new home. Calley took that as a good sign. An angry lobster was a healthy lobster, right? Right. He accepted the bag of fish bits goodness, and held it up to inspect the contents with an expert eye. Even if grandpa clawfist snubbed it, this was good stuff. At least, in certain forms.
“If he lives,” Calley said, poking a squiggle of intestine aside through the clear plastic. Was that a liver? He was pretty sure it was a liver. Mmm. “Then I train him to attack intruders. We can put up a warning sign.” Also: train him to walk on a leash. Because he really, really wanted to walk the lobster past Lisa’s desk wearing a little dog harness and a leash.
Calley flop-sat on his bed, in all its plain glory: it still had the standard-issue white sheets that came with the room. That pretty much reflected the rest of his decorations, as well. The lobmeister had just unwittingly become the centerpiece of his room, by default. He crossed his legs casually and balanced the squishy fishy bag on his head. It wasn’t a lime green squeaky hedgehog, but then, a lime green squeaky hedgehog didn’t conform to the shape of his skull. It was the kind of cold that made it feel wet, even through the plastic. That kind of tickled.
“So.” He said, as the chef left them to their lobster viewing delight. “What can I do to help you help the genetically disadvantaged, Boss Lady?” One of his feet twitched against the bed as his usual smile twitched into its proper position.
((ooc: Intro post above edited slightly to put in details of how the pokéball trick worked.))
Magikarp was big. Massive. Clearly on the verge of evolving: from its twisting, wrathful struggles, it was clear that the thing was half Garados already. It was at least four times the weight of the fox kit, and three times as big. The kit braced its legs, its tail-hawk standing proud and its head held high as water droplets rained down.
Splash had no effect.
>> "Mohawk, use ember!"
The kit cracked its jaws open. Past sharp white teeth came a surge of red-yellow flame. According to legend, it took a hundred years to grow each of a fox’s tails. According to cookbooks, it only took a few minutes to poach a fish.
He wasn’t dead yet. There were no running boot steps after him. Had the guy been wearing boots? He seemed like the type.
Calley turned a corner and dived behind row of potted plants under the community notice board. Seasonal meal choices, fresh for spring. Construction alert: the cathedral would soon be converted to a parking lot, to make room for more resident and visitor parking.
A scant second later, a large orange tom cat emerged from the other side of the plants, and kept up the boy’s path down the hall at a calmly strolling pace. His pesky clothes were left behind the pots, hopefully out of easy notice.
With his more sensitive ears, he heard the pursuit. The quiet flight wasn’t what he’d been expecting. The little girl rounded the corner, with no sign of the man behind her. Back in the cafeteria, through table and people legs, his kitten self confirmed things: the man wasn’t following them. In fact... he appeared to be locking the door behind them, much to the confusion of the other diners (though they didn’t seem inclined to protest, given the gun still in his hand).
That, friends. That was a new bar for anti-social behavior.
The orange tabby cat sat down in the middle of the hall, and gazed serenely up at the oncoming girl.
“I don’t think he’s following,” it said, in a voice perfectly recognizable as the young man’s. If a bit more hissing. Cat’s teeth, you know.
Delicate work. Delicate, delicate, delicate work. Three doors down the hall, Jack was putting the final touches on his ship-in-a-bottle. The fifteen year old insomniac lay sprawled on the floor, the Digimon theme song—season one, English dubbed, thank you—humming in his studio-grade headphones as he worked to delicately, delicately raise the ship’s white sails.
Concentration. Concentration was knife tip, catching a soap bubble. Concentration was a pebble that held back the landslide. Concentration was what stood between her bedroom and utter annihilation.
For Jebra Winslow, the importance of concentration could not be overstated. That was why she practiced in the small hours of the morning, when the local mongrels weren’t yet being lured out of their doors by the smell of breakfast cooking; when all the philandering red monkey tailed men were safely abed, with or without their expanding harem.
Her bare foot slid across the floor. Her hips swayed to the side. The coins on her loose belt jangled. Jebra Winslow danced, and the candle flames scattered around the room rose up in serpentine lines, dancing with her, two doors down.
One door down, Nikolai was hacking into the Russian satellite system. Because he could. Because they had made the mistake of putting up enough barriers to attract his attention, but not enough to keep him out. White text scrolled across the black screen in front of him. The computer’s cords ran not to the wall, but directly into his arms. His fingers twitched now and then, as if in pantomime of a keyboard stroll. This was no delicate work; this was no feat of grave concentration. For a genius such as Nikolai, this was simply—
a thousand seagull beaks held by a thousand green-eyed men being ground against a thousand chalkboards in nine hundred and nine-nine screaming throats
Jebra Winslow tripped, and fell flat on her face. Thirty fiery serpents ran rampant over her walls, her carpets, her pillow case, and her newly replaced Johnny Have-My-Babies Depp posters. One of them curled around an air duct cover, then plunged straight through into Jack’s room, where the boy yelpingly pulled his hands away from the flames. A white flickering tongue tasted the air. Its head turned towards the bottle held in its coils.
“No,” the boy said. “No, no, no—“
The resulting EMP blast did nothing to stop the snake from lovingly setting the little ship ablaze, but it did wonders to knock out every electrical appliance within twenty feet. The lights above his head flickered erratically and died.
Down the hall, Nikolai found himself on the floor. He was not quite sure how he’d gotten there. His computer sat on the desk above, thoroughly dead. From the room next door, he heard a clacking, clawing clatter. The scrawny teenager pushed his way to a more vertically dignified position, and removed the computer cords from his arms. Then he groggily limped out his bedroom door, and glared down the hall at Jack, who stood standing with a bottled fire serpent in one hand and a fierce scowl aimed at Jebra Winslow.
“Don’t look at me,” the belly dancer growled. She jerked a well-used fire extinguisher off the wall, and turned it on the snakes slithering out of her smoke-enshrouded room.
Three doors down from Jack, two down from Jebra, and right next to Nikolai, the door to Caleb Swartz’ room shuddered in its frame with a clack-clack-scrape. Nikolai tentatively reached out a hand, and opened the door.
Firelight gleamed off of proudly raised claws as they back haltingly out the door, and burned in the eyes of a white queen tom with tabby spots here and there. Through smoke and fire snakes, under the dim bulbs of the emergency lights, the epic battle spilled out into the hall.
Three teenagers paused a moment to contemplate this scene.
“Five dollars on the lobster,” Jack decided.
“Five on the kitten,” the technopath countered.
Jebra just growled, and turned her battle back on her own slithery foes.
The girl was unexpectedly cute when angry. The panther man’s whiskers twitched by his cheeks. He reached one finger up, and re-adjusted his square frame glasses.
“I assure you, you are one of the most terrifying creatures I’ve encountered. It would be paying you an insult to restrain you with anything less than this.”
The hall was a dead end, unless you had the pass code for the elevator. He and Lenna blocked the hall in the other direction. The panther man, therefore, saw no need for uncouth behavior just yet. Perhaps she’d be a good girl, and—
—Go into the cell all on her own. Good, good girl. The black panther lightly shut the door behind her. The lock gave an understated click as it sealed.
“As to what this is about... Please understand. The less of that you know, the more likely it is we’ll be able to release you unharmed afterwards.” His thick tail swished around his ankles. He pushed his glasses up again. “Would you like anything to drink? A soda, perhaps?”
She was now under the hospitality of Faust Pharmaceuticals, after all.
*