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.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Nov 1, 2007 18:48:14 GMT -6
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Co... Coffee...
The jar of a phone ringing next to his elbow shook Jimmy out of his sudden jealous daze. He scooped it up, with a be-back-with-you-in-a-moment look at Mrs. Dumonde. “Central Park Precinct; Officer Barnes speaking.” The sudden careful control on his face probably did not go unnoticed. “Thank you,” he ended the brief conversation, carefully returning the phone to its receiver. He took a breath, and returned his gaze to the parents standing on the other side of the desk from him. “Mrs. Dumonde, Mr. Dumonde, I cannot stress enough that this is not a certainty.
“That was the city morgue. Earlier this morning, a Jane Doe was brought in who is approximately the age of Katrina. They would like you to come down, and...” ‘Identify the body’ was far too stale. “Identify the body.” But any other phrase that came to mind was just too stupid.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 30, 2007 16:25:47 GMT -6
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The photo was on the copier behind him in a blink, and three names—Claire Dumonde, Katrina Dumonde, and Rachel McDonald—were going through preliminary searches in the database as he turned to scribble down the girls’ physical descriptions. Scribbling complete, he turned to the copier, and handed the original photo back to Mrs. Dumonde as his other hand put the copy onto the fax machine and dialed, in rapid succession, the numbers of the Missing Persons unit, the Mutant and Mutant-Related Crimes task force, the registration building, and the morgue. As the fax machine picked up the copy and began to feed it through, he scribbled a quick note—“Human—Katrina Dumonde—possibly caught up in Mansion raid.”—and the station’s number, and put the paper in to feed after the photo. As he turned back to Mrs. Dumonde, his eyes briefly glanced over the initial search results from the database—stopped briefly over the word cross-reference to “Senator Dumonde”—and went back to the woman before him.
“Here’s what I’m going to do, Mrs. Dumonde.” He spoke softly, and confidently. “I’m going to get the word out about your daughter, and we’re going to find her for you.”
This was Officer Jimmy Barnes without his coffee. You should have seen him with it.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 29, 2007 17:30:59 GMT -6
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Jimmy immediately straightened up, and set the empty cup down. He was behind the desk and hovering both over the computer keyboard and a pad of paper in a blink of an eye. "Don't worry, Mrs. ...?" He paused to let her fill in, and stood ready to copy her name down. "We'll find your your daughter. Could you give me her name and a description? Also, the name and description of the friend she was visiting." His mind was already listing possibilities:
If she'd been brought in to Registration with the mutants: - Check in at registration for any humans who'd been accidentally brought in; the blood tests should have turned her up, though probably not until she'd been shipped to the camps (Crap. Now there was a lawsuit.). Check if anyone matched her description with the registers, while he was at it. - If they hadn't run all the blood work yet: check the camps - Check with the officers on site to see if anyone in the group of children who'd been teleported from Registration matched her description - Check the morgue
If she hadn't been brought in to Registration: - Check with the officers at the raid; see if anyone saw her or her friend - Cross fingers that she hadn't gone with the freaks who'd escaped, because they had no clue where those had gone, and the muties weren't likely to let a human girl run off and spill their location - Check the morgue
He decided on two courses of action right off the bat: make sure someone was covering their legal asses on this one, and check the morgue.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 26, 2007 19:18:30 GMT -6
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Jimmy Barnes was supposed to be on duty at the main desk. Then again, this coffee machine was supposed to work. He had eight hours left on his shift. He needed—please you pretty little machine—he needed coffee. Ten minutes was a long time to leave the desk unattended. It was just a small fraction of the time which he’d spend accidentally dozing off if this stupid piece of—oh come on, baby, gorgeous, precious—crap didn’t give him his freaking coffee. One cup. He wasn’t an addict, he wasn’t blowing half his pay check on Starbucks, he just wanted one cup at the start of each shift. Was that too much to ask for? I love you, I love you, please work.
...Fifteen minutes after abandoning his post, Officer Barnes returned to the main desk. He returned with an empty cup and a hollow pit of despair.
He tried smiling, but it was a sad attempt. “Hello, ma’am. May I help you?”
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 30, 2007 15:02:10 GMT -6
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Rupert never took his eyes off of the girl. From the moment she assaulted her way out of the truck, to the moment she was put in her place by a Stalker bot, he followed her without blinking.
That was her. The one who’d left him bleeding on a New York street outside of the Sanctuary’s grand opening as she danced away to kill more of his friends.
When Stanley punched his shoulder, it felt like the contact pulled him down a long hallway back to reality. He’d stopped breathing, at some point. Not a healthy thing for a guy who didn’t even have two whole lungs to his credit to be doing. He nodded amiably at Stanley’s words, and turned without a backwards glance. He’d be seeing that one at the camps tomorrow.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Oct 26, 2007 19:00:22 GMT -6
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Rupert had been avoiding Registration. He’d seen the set up, he’d heard the plans, and he didn’t particularly care to watch the process itself. That had changed a half an hour ago, when he’d heard the early reports from the Sanctuary raid.
He’d thought the raid was a stupid idea. Yes, mutants lived at the Sanctuary—but a lot of humans did, as well. A round-up of sorts was in order, yes. But a raid? It didn’t make sense to Rupert. It hadn’t made sense to Captain Cynthia Myers or anyone on the Mercy—M.M.R.C., Mutants and Mutant-Related Crime—Task Force, either. After the Massacre, Dorian King had been good to the police force. A raid on the Sanctuary was a bad hand to deal back to the philanthropist. Someone in the higher ranks had pushed the idea past the point of debate, though, and...
...And everyone at Mercy, and at precincts across the city, was standing stock-still and holding their breaths.
Early reports from the Sanctuary raid described one young woman, late teens, Caucasian, with an obnoxiously large bow in her hair. She’d been captured along with others, including one of the red-headed twins who had been redecorating the city as of late. No doubt this girl wasn’t the only one in New York with a ribbon in her hair. Not many police officers believed in coincidences, though, and catching at the Sanctuary a girl who matched the description Rupert himself had given for one of the three perpetrators of the Sanctuary Police Massacre would be quite the coincidence.
It was Rupert’s duty to the fallen to come down to Registration. When the Sanctuary mutants were escorted in, he was going to look that girl in the face. Then he would know.
For now, he solemnly joined the officers on crowd control. He nodded to a few he knew, and finally decided to stand next to one he didn’t know all that well—Stanley Shepard. They were the same age, and they’d done their fair share of after-work drinking when they were both beat officers, but they’d never really connected. That was perfect. The last thing Rupert wanted right now was to be standing next to someone who gave a damn about him. Some of his old friends in the beat officers... after he’d survived Sanctuary, when so many others hadn’t, it was like he was a bloody mascot for the police triumphing over muties. If this girl was the girl, he didn’t want any pats on the back over the fact they’d finally caught her. He just wanted her locked away to rot.
It wasn’t much to ask for.
“Hey, Shepard.” He greeted the man casually, and turned a dispassionate gaze towards the mutants who were being off-loaded. “After this...” He tossed out, “I think I’m going to need a drink. Want to come?”
“I had visions, I was in them, I was looking into the mirror To see a little bit clearer The rottenness and evil in me
...But he was listening to it anyway. Lying on his couch with his shoed feet up on the arm, his hands interlocked over his chest, and his head leaned back. Because he didn’t have a damn finer thing to do with his evening. The ceiling was white, and needed new paint. Spider webs of off-color cracks tracked from its edges like a spreading illness. Last night, he had helped to raid Xavier’s Sister School, the home for mutie freaks seeking education surrounded by their own. Tonight, he could have been going to a nice quiet Italian restaurant with the beautiful woman he’d fallen hard and fast for.
“Fingertips have memories, Mine can't forget the curves of your body”
Too damn bad that she was a damn lying mutie freak herself. Nice of her to mention that to him, during all of his anti-mutant speeches. Rupert swung his legs to the floor, and found the rest of his body following them into the bathroom. He turned on the facet. Cold water gurgled out, splashing full-force against the porcelain bowl. Cold. Raina’s lips had been cold. Her hands, the side of her neck as he’d brushed her hair back—
“And when I feel a bit naughty I run it up the flagpole and see who salutes But no one ever does”
...Rupert wasn’t sure when he started vomiting, or when he stopped. He remembered leaning his head against the rim of the toilet. It was cold against his skin. He’d left the seat up. Who f***ing cared. He picked himself up, washed off his face, and swilled luke-warm water until the taste of bile was not so bitter in the back of his throat. Flipsy was standing in the doorway. Her tail wagged with slow uncertainty as he looked down at her.
“I'm not sick, but I'm not well and I'm so hot 'cause I'm in hell”
Rupert picked up his coat from the back of his kitchen chair, and locked the door behind him. Flispy went to her pink doggy bed, to dream doggy dreams and forget about her human’s odd behavior. Rupert went down three stories, and started walking under the yellowed New York streetlights. He unapologetically walked through more than one late night stroller’s shoulder. No one made an issue of it.
“Been around the world and found That only stupid people are breeding The cretins cloning and feeding And I don't even own a TV”
Rupert’s world was small. Three blocks from his apartment was Central Park; four blocks was the Central Park Precinct. Two was his favorite coffee shop. Five was his church. He looked up at the old gray-stoned structure. Light still came through the rose window above its doors. He took his hands out of his pockets, and pushed them open. There was a night sermon in progress. “Swing Low, Sweet chariot” drowned in the blare of foreign sounds that that rushed out of Rupert’s ear buds. He nodded politely to an elderly couple in the back row, and seated himself next to them. His eyes gravitated towards the choir. After the darkness outside, he was blinded by the warm lights in the building—for a moment, it seemed that their lips moved in sync to the words he was hearing.
“Put me in the hospital for nerves And then they had to commit me You told them all I was crazy They cut off my legs now I'm an amputee, Goddamn you”
The illusion faded. He was left with a cold hardwood pew at his back. Cold. He’d shot Raina. He’d shot Raina, and then he’d walked away. He couldn’t even remember what he did after that. She’d fallen to the floor. Had she been okay? He’d heard reports that a few of the muties they’d caught that night had been overdosed by the amount of tranqs put in their system. It was the reason tranq guns weren’t cleared for use on the general population: the chance of OD was too high. She’d just been on the ground, lying there. He thought she’d been watching him as he walked away. Honestly, he couldn’t remember.
“I'm not sick, but I'm not well And I'm so hot cause I'm in hell I'm not sick, but I'm not well And it's a sin, to live so well”
Captain Cynthia Myers had approached him at work today. Most of the guards at the camps where either Stalkers bots or hardened mercenary-types. The Chief of Police wanted an actual cop in there, supervising that things were done by the book. Rupert, the pet zealot Detective of the Central Park Precinct, was an easy choice. He had his assignment: he was a supervisor for New York’s camps, on behalf of the NYPD. The camps. It was pretty much guaranteed that everyone who’d been taken at the Mansion was going to the camps. They were for the ones that fought. They were for people like Raina.
“I wanna publish 'zines And rage against machines I wanna pierce my tongue It doesn't hurt, it feels fine The trivial sublime I'd like to turn off time And kill my mind You kill my mind Mind...”
She was a lying mutant bitch. He took out his cell phone, and vindictively scrolled down to delete her number. Not that she’d have a cell phone at the camps. Or much of anything else. He’d heard mutant rights organizations comparing the plans for the camps to concentration camps, like those in World War II. He stood with the Church of Humanity on this one: it was what they needed to keep the mutants restrained. It wasn’t excessive. The ones who were sent to the camps were dangerous. He’d seen Raina destroy that Stalker bot. That hadn’t been anyone else—that had been Raina, acting alone.
“Paranoia, paranoia Everybody's comin' to get me Just say you never met me I'm runnin' underground with the moles Diggin' big holes Hear the voices in my head I swear to God it sounds like they're snoring But if you're bored then you're boring The agony and the irony, they're killing me, whoa!”
...Rupert flicked the ipod off. That was enough of that. The words of the choir bathed over him. As the preacher stood, Rupert cradled his head in his hands. He’d shot Raina. And he was going to be seeing her every damn day, with a collar around her throat. The last words of the choir hung in his ears like honey-sweet poison.
“The brightest day that I can say, Coming for to carry me home, When Jesus washed my sins away, Coming for to carry me home.
Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home, Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home.”
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 18, 2007 16:18:02 GMT -6
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Rupert was glad to see her go. He shuddered a little, on the inside, at the thought of going to one of her reunions.
Cassandra stopped trying to be pleasant before the mutie was even out of sight. "Come on, Detective. We'll be late getting back." Now that was more like the partner he knew.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 18, 2007 8:15:28 GMT -6
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Calley
Rupert was stunned by the final ring-up price. Right... there was a sale going on. The wolf girl hadn't been kidding. Cassandra looked very proud that this girl she'd just met was such a good bargain hunter.
"Ah... No problem, Em." He said, taking out his wallet and paying in cash. "So, you were going to go meet your friends after this, weren't you?" He suggested. Strongly. "You can go ahead and go, if you want to. No need to walk me back to the station--I know how much you hate all this cop business."
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 17, 2007 14:47:14 GMT -6
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Rupert watched her picking out a pair of pants with blue sequins to go with her green tank top and green and blue shoes, and thought sardonically to himself, It could be worse. She could be picking out two complete outfits. Obviously, the mutie intended to make him pay--both literally and figuratively--for that bribe offer.
"Well," Rupert said, with a smiling glance at his watch. "I'm afraid that it's almost time for Detective Elliot and I to get back. Baddies to catch and muties to shot, and all." He smiled quite broadly. "Would you like to ring those up? They're on me, of course." Of course. Rupert had made a deal--granted, a very moronic deal--but a deal, none the less. And since Cassandra seemed more intent on making sure those sequins matched Oceanwolf's exact shade of eye color than on arresting her... well, the wolf girl had held up her end. And Rupert would hold up his.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 17, 2007 10:30:16 GMT -6
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Cassandra came up at the wolf mutie's side, and casually reached out a hand to tug the tank top off the rack. She held it up in front of the girl, and tilted her head this way and that. Rupert had a hard time reconciling the dispassionate partner he knew from work with this... woman. So she was capable of emotions outside of the frigid spectrum. Good to know. "Hmm. Maybe a different shade," Cassandra said, her tone somewhere between a decision and a suggestion. She returned the tank top to the shelf, and after riffling through it a bit, took out another. It was a brighter shade of green, with the Pawprint Racing logo in its center. She held it up again, and nodded her clear approval. "How's that?" She asked the girl. Cheerfully. Cassandra and cheerful. Two words Rupert would never, ever use in the same sentence.
Rupert stood to the side, wishing very strongly that he'd never spotted that tail on Second Street. This situation was weird on far too many levels.
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 17, 2007 9:12:40 GMT -6
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"I think I may have heard of them," Cassandra mulled, a little too thoughtfully. And since Cassandra had never expressed interest in Motocross where Rupert had seen, he had a bad feeling that he knew where this was going. "That's the team the young lady you're researching is on, isn't it, Detective?" That sentence was such an interesting statement about Cassandra's views: 'young lady' was how she described a dangerous mutant with a track record in brutal homicide, and 'Detective' was how she addressed her partner. Just once, he wanted to hear either the words 'mutant freak' or 'Rupert' coming from her mouth. "What was her name again?"
"Oceanwolf," Rupert supplied, because he didn't want Cassandra digging through her mind for the name 'Emerald'. "Hmm. I'm not sure, Em--those are rather... bright." He said, raising an eyebrow at her choice in shoes. Give him black shoes any day.
"Detective," Cassandra said simply, "you don't know the first thing about girl's fashion." She turned to the wolf mutie with a warm smile. "I like them. The blue stripes would bring out your eyes."
Rupert looked at the pricetag, and tried not to choke. "Looks like I'm outnumbered," he said with a less than hearty smile. "If you really want them, Em..."
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 16, 2007 22:17:27 GMT -6
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There was a black Lab tied up to a street sign, just outside of the store. Cassandra stopped to let it sniff her hand. Rupert had never been happier to have negligent owners tying their dogs up in the middle of city streets in his life. The way the store worker greeted Oceanwolf--and, in specific, what he said to her about racing--made Rupert's stomach compress down into a very solid, very sickening lump. He looked out the store window. Cassandra was scratching behind the dog's ears.
He walked up behind the wolf mutant, and hissed in her ears so that no one else could hear: "Could we ix-nay the Motocross? Cassandra's read your file. If we make it through this without her realizing who you are, I swear, I'll buy whatever you want in here. Okay?" He sounded half-pleading, and half in disbelief that he was even saying this. It wasn't too late to try and take her in to the station. In fact, now that they were off of the main streets...
Cassandra came in through the door. "Pawprint racing? What a cute name! I've never seen that logo before."
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 16, 2007 21:42:44 GMT -6
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Calley
Rupert was caught somewhere between vomiting and amusement. Vomiting: because the mental image of the wolf mutie in something 'too revealing' was just... wrong. Amusement: because she'd just valiantly saved his shave ice. That was... also wrong. But funny. Cassandra handed back the cup with her poker face on. Rupert accepted it, not having to force a smile. Then, he actually tried it.
...That was good.
"That's all right--I had a pretty good taste." Cassandra said, her smile returning. Three-fourths of my cup. "Shall we get going, Em?"
...She never smiled for him. And she never used his name. It was always "Detective" this, and "Detective" that. What did the wolf mutie have that he didn't? Besides the cute puppy look. And a lack of zealot leanings.
((ooc: Feel free to God Mod us into the store with your next post, Em. )
Posted by Rupert Kelley on Sept 16, 2007 21:17:57 GMT -6
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Rupert liked that shrug. It seemed to say to him, Even though I'm a mutie freak, I reeeeeally agree with you--let's not have your partner tag along.
Cassandra, however, was well known for doing precisely what she wanted. Rupert humbly submitted Evidence for the Defense, Exhibit A: the fact she was still, without a word, and without any sign she thought it was rude, eating his shave ice. Just the fact that she was had already downed half of it made him want to try it. Evidence for the Defense, Exhibit B: what she said next. "I have a niece of my own who's about your age--just a little bit younger, I believe. I love going shopping with her. I can promise," she took another spoonful of Rupert's shave ice. He kept on pleasantly smiling, to hide the fact he was gritting his teeth, "I'll tell the truth about whether something looks good on you or not. Can you really expect that from Uncle Grizzly Bear?"
If that nickname spread around the station, he was going to kill someone.
)