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.
The girl was red-headed, short, and very much out of place. Calley recognized her.
The man was black haired, vertically normal, and more well dressed than the average hobo his age. Calley recognized him, too.
For himself: he was shorter than one and taller than the other, brown-haired, and carrying a black kitten on his shoulder. Or he had been, a few minutes ago. Then everything had gone boom, and Calley had found himself here while the kitten had found itself... over there.
Considering the kitten was a splinter of his mind, the sudden perspective clash was a little confusing. And slightly nauseating. Though that might have been due to the kitten hitting a table leg.
A table leg unfortunately close to the man and the girl. The man, Calley recognized by smell: he'd been around the Sanctuary recently. Calley tended to meet people by smell first and sight later, these days. The girl he hadn't smelled before. She was very, very new, then. Nonetheless, he recognized her from two places.
Place the first: an NYPD missing poster that he'd lazily spied while begging donuts from his favorite cat-loving detective.
Place the second: the epicenter of the boom.
He reluctantly wobbled over to pick up his kitten, and caught the last part of the conversation.
>> "And I have a dad. but he doesn't know where I am. And I don't want him to."
"They're looking for you, you know." He piped in, returning the kitten to its shoulder perch. "The police. Your dad must have filed a missing person's."
Either that, or that whole 'Ms. Lori and Mars and the weird exploding thing' incident had them interested in her. That would explain why the missing flier had been in the office of a mutant crimes detective.
The bulbous beauty of the grayish-greenish Colorado river toad was clearly lost upon this particular princess. Perhaps this was an unfortunate result of the close range: he was clearly too close for her to focus on his mighty baseball-like bulk as his courtier, the ever delicate Susan, held him out in both hands. Twyla straightened, clearly attempting to perceive him better: unfortunately, his enthusiastic retainer made sure he kept pace with the young lady's rising nose.
Also, pendulum legs. The toad had exquisitely long and muscular legs, toned with the alluring color of leaves, decomposing on a pond's bottom. Ladies couldn't resist that: princesses, clearly, were no exception.
Twyla reached for him. His amphibious forelegs reached for her, too, aiming to charmingly lay themselves atop her royal hands. Once she held him, he would be certain to puff up his throat sack and croak a lover's welcome.
Come hither, Princess Twyla. My moist toad lips await.
Something about her name--Twyla--seemed familiar. That was quickly forgotten, however, in the heat of their moment. If and when those lips landed, the royal lady would find a naturally clad lad in her lap.
You make me warm-blooded, baby.
He couldn't wait to see the look on the witch's face.
>> "...'Souvenir' is going to make people ask what he is a souvenir of. That would be an alright name if you don't mind people asking."
"Come to think of it," Calley said, refraining from rubbing his nose after a last minute hand-shoved-in-pocket intervention, "I've already got enough souvenirs." Implied curiosity: elegantly avoided.
"A star named 'claws', huh?" Calley cast a critical eye on the tank. The lobster was trying to turn around: all the better to continue threatening them. It was a pretty hard trick for a two foot lobster to do in a three-by-two tank. Fish tanks, by the way, were surprisingly expensive. Would a kiddy pool work better? It was spring. Those would be on the market, soon. "If you remember, let me know." Calley may or may not have had as much interest in his newly acquired lobster as he'd once had in a certain Rottweiler. On the bright side: it wasn't a faux pas to eat his newest pet.
Kat took to his sketch more swimmingly than a noble nine-pound lobster to a mere fifty gallon aquarium.
"Me thinks Ghost will need an invisible head. I've seen her turn herself ghosty before, but not invisi-ghosty. We could technically do this without her, too, but... she's Ghost." This was a clear point of merit, in and of itself. He expected Katrina's full understanding in the matter.
The stylized fox received much attention from the multi-shifter. "That's cool," he decided. "Though I have no clue how those tails are supposed to work. Nine-pronged spine? That can't be healthy." Thus spoke the chimera in him, with a slight shudder. So many nerve ends converging. Such room for excruciating screw ups. "It would be better if they were in a row, instead of a fan. Like this." He poked at the picture's back a few times.
>> "It would be funny if we could convince someone they had fallen into a pokémon game for a day. See?"
Calley grinningly approved of Paralobster. "That would be awesome. We could do it easy, hard, or tournament style--B.Y.O.P."
He drew over a new piece of paper, stuck a book under it for support, and started a quick stick figure doodle, complete with circled numbers.
2) Hard. Illusions + chimeras + other abilities + unsuspecting person about to be elevated to the status of Trainer (would DocProf be willing to play Prof Oak?)
3) Awesome. Bring your own Pokemon. Tournament on the Mansion lawn!
Calley paused from his hard labors. "You and me could make Pokemon with our powers, easy, and I bet that triangle guy could make Porygon." He snerked. "Emerald with a dye job and a rubber tail could be Vaporeon."
One of these ideas was going to happen. This was now a fact of Calley's existence. And now they knew what they'd be doing until Halloween.
Master Sinatra's mighty pounce collided with punched lobster mid-air. They tumbled to the side, in a fierce battle of fur, claws, and exoskeletons.
This was entirely disorienting for the boy on the ground. He tried to get up an arm to block the incoming fist, but it was like watching the replay of a fight in slow mo. He'd seen this before. The outcome was already certain.
His nose made a noise it shouldn't as her fist came down from on high. The spitting cat next to them wobbled suddenly to its side. The lobster proceeded to prove to its whiskers and ear who was prettier.
He hit her. His fist connected with her face. Her head went back. He hit her.
It felt good.
Then they both went down again. Ladies on top. Like many things in Calley's life, this could have been more sexy than it was. His flailing may or may not have gotten a knee into her stomach before there was an arm pressed against his throat. His adam's apple wibbled. Eye contact was not made, though. And she may or may not have had time to unsheathe the lobster.
Eye contact was not made because Calley's face was suddenly covered in cat. Sinatra, the large ginger tom, did not look pleased.
Then it was not looking pleased in the direction of her scalp.
Calley didn't know what the lobster was spitting/shooting/catastrophically oozing, but once it started, he aimed it. A two-foot lobster was not much different than a super soaker. It just waved its righteous claws more. Calley had a gleeful flashback to muggy Jersey summers and proper neighborhood water brawls.
Then he had lobster juices and girl spit burning his eyes, and he was graciously catching a launched lady knee, in a manly fashion. Someone smelled like they were on fire. Calley was in pain.
"You, madam," he spoke through his teeth, as he struggled to disentangle himself from any remaining arms or knee caps, "are a b*tch."
Calley did the unwise thing. He drew back his fist, and tried to return the favor from last time.
The lobster raised its claws from the carpeting, triumphant in the ensuing chaos.
The tank had been foodless and crowded. His lesser brethren should have given their lives to sustain him, in this situation: it was his right as the largest to turn his claws on them. His agile pincher claw would be longer and faster than theirs; his heavy crushing claw an easy squeeze away from piercing their inferior shells. Yet they were protected, maddeningly, but some manner of force field. It was blue. It wrapped around his claws, and held them shut even against his superior strength. The lobster was angry. His excellent exoskeleton measured an exceptional twenty-four inches. The muscular meat beneath weighed in at a titanic nine pounds. He had stalked the oceans for over two decades, felling any oyster, crab, shrimp, or sea sponge to run afoul of his path. Never before had his claws failed him. He would be free of the Blue Bands, put on him by the Pale Fish: this was certain. He would be free, with patience and strength.
He was climbing his way to the top of his younger clansmens' backs when the Silver Beak descended. At first he was unconcerned. In deference to his strength and size, the vertically swimming fish had always before turned its thin jaws upon weaker lobsters. That it chose him this time was due to his own arrogant failings: he had let his guard down for a moment. Sensing his weakness, it had decided at last to taste of a true lobster. He fought valiantly: his claws rose in threat; his eight legs showed his fierce agility. Alas, it was not enough. It gripped him and rose, like an otter with its prey, upwards: that dread, unnatural direction.
All smell was cut off from his antennae. He was left with only sight and the pressure on his carapace. This grip changed, but did not slacken. His gills burned as they filtered oxygen from the Not-Wet.
Finally, finally he was released onto ground. Slopping, near-vertical ground. Moving ground. The ground of something alive: his eyes confirmed that he was on a Pale Fish of the Not-Wet, one of the creatures responsible for the Blue Bands. His gills still burned. He could neither smell nor see the water from which he had been taken, or the ocean from which he had been kidnapped.
If he was to die here, he would die like an Animalia Arthropoda Crustacea Malacostraca Decapoda Astacidea Nephropidae Homarus americanus. The lobster went down Calley's shirt fighting.
Calley's resulting yelp was in direct proportion with the noble lobster's spirit. So was the speed with which he tumbled out of the booth, and lobster-danced the two foot crustacean out of his shirt. Its descent to the floor was slowed by the claw marks its eight legs inflicted on Calley's pants as it went down.
"What--you." There were no other words to be had. The multi-shifter grabbed the mighty lobster off of the floor, and thrust it at Sneaker Girl's face as she innocently perused her menu. "You… you… why?" He elegantly accused.
The lobster recognized now that the Pale Fish were mighty foes. Yet he was mightier still. He would prove it to them, with the same incontrovertible proof he supplied to the foolish younger lobsters who hunted in his territory. With a mighty squeeze of the urinary muscles in his head, the lobster vacated his bladders on the Pale Fish in front of him. The twin streams shot outwards, soaking their target in the fierce scent of his indomitable spirit.
>> “Your nose looks very impressive, by the way. But probably you should have DocProf look at it, or Slate. Or... doesn't the Sanctuary have a healer?”
Yeah, those first two options. No. Slate was Slate, and the DocProf… had been getting the wrong impression about Calley lately, based upon similarly acquired injuries. Ahem. Given that over half of the population of the United States was female, it just made sense that the fairer sex would be over-represented in his medical record. Yes.
"The Sanctuary has a unicorn, I think--but I guess he set up his own clinic, and is only 'on call'. The nurses are the ones who did this." He tapped the nose splint. A poor, poor move. Oww. And again, with feeling: OWW.
The lobster rose up to tap his legs against the glass, his claw-waving escalating further as Katrina returned his greeting.
"I'm still working on a name. 'Angry' comes to mind. Maybe 'Souvenir.'" Calley bounced on the bed, just a bit. That's what beds were for. "Any suggestions?"
Kat's other suggestion involved skipping to plotting. This was a sign that she was growing up right.
>> “Did you have something particular in mind?”
Grin, grin, oww it hurt to grin. Without further ado, the Italian teenager dragged a stack of pilfered Mansion books out from under the bed. (Under the bed being the appropriate place to keep pilfered anything, of course.) Myths and Legends of Japan, Here Be Dragons, and a half-dozen other books on folktales and monsters joined them on the bedspread. Cthulhu wiggled wrathfully on the cover of one of them; an aughisky dripped seaweed onto a black moor from another.
"Having observed that the Mansion's curriculum is lacking in certain vital preparatory courses, as demonstrated at Christmas," he intoned with the proper degree of stuffiness, "I have procured us proper nightmare fodder."
Their own powers could be quite well suited to nightmare fodder.
He pulled out a stack of paper, too, and proudly held up his notes so far: a surprisingly recognizable pencil drawing of the Headless Horseman. Complete with carefully scrawled annotations:
Horse -> me! Horseman -> Kat, or InvisiKat + headless ghosting Ghost? Pumpkin -> real? (how often do candles need changing? would it stay lit at a gallop?)
Three days. It had been three days. Three not entirely unpleasant days, either, he might add. Spring was the time of year when bugs awoke, and mice snuck curiously inside. Spring was the time when a toad could grow fat while a witch slept, preying on the nocturnal food chain of her room.
Three days meant Calley had nearly perfect control of this form. He could hop with self-lobbing grace; his tongue could dexterously seize a furred foe before it even had time to squeak a last protest into the night. He could hiss loudly enough to scare Cold Steel's infernal cat away from mewing at his door. He could ooze hallucinogenic fluids from his skin.
He was a king among toads. Therefore, he had no objections to seeking a princess.
Calley could feel it: he was almost ready to turn back. Just a little longer. If Susan was thinking what he was thinking she was thinking… then he might just be able to give the witch a proper fairytale ending.
