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.
Some potential holiday fun, for all those not in Romania:
Christmas at the mansion looks like it's going to be pretty quiet, with all the X-men away in Romania indefinitely. Or is it?
The X-kids and all the other students are still home, dutifully studying and training (or slacking off, because, hey, it is winter break now), but really not much exciting has been happening. Until now.
When a distress call comes, the only ones around to answer it are the kids, but hey, it's a kid on the phone, too, so everything should be peachy, right? Right.
“There was an accident. Jimmy and I were playing. I'm a sculpture animator and he's an enlarger, see? And now there is a big clay sculpture in Central Park breaking things. Could you help? Before our parents find out what we did?”
Will they run for the nearest grown-up and ask for help? Of course not. (Unless you count Calley, who is sort of grown up now, right?) Will they dare risking life, limb, and their mortal souls to help save the city from a menace both large and tentacle-y? Of course they will! Do they have any idea what they are getting themselves into? Hells no.
They arrive at Central Park to discover that there is indeed a giant clay sculpture wreaking havoc. A sculpture of Cthulhu. A giant tentacle-y sculpture of Cthulhu.
This thread will be open to anyone not in Romania, brawl style thread with no turn order and no limit on the number of people who can join. The mansion kids will get the distress call, but a giant Cthulhu in Central Park is bound to draw all kinds of attention. I was thinking of starting the thread Dec. 1, so we might actually finish it before Valentine's Day. Questions, comments, further ideas? Give a shout out if you want to participate!
The Italian and pushed on the handle, then pounded on door out of frustration, his priest's collar knocked askew in his efforts.
The rabbi tried another handle, with no luck more luck than his colleague. His tried not to let his panic show.
A Hindi girl pointed to the big stained glass windows, and the group of theological students and teachers rushed over to find something they could use to break the window.
Another girl pointed to the large cross at the alter as she coughed into her hijab. Perhaps they could use it to smash the window and make their escape.
The light flickered, reflecting off the monk's bald head as he helped to lift the heavy cross.
Outside the windows the flames burned higher, flashing brilliantly through the tinted glass windows and sending rainbows of light dancing through the thickening smoke in the sanctuary.
From across the street, a shadow watched the scene unfold, the only thing standing still amidst a sea of chaos.
With a liquid silver voice, the shadow mused to himself, “Why debate about the afterlife when you can find out for yourself?”
He repeated 'four months' as if he hadn't realized how long it had been. Maybe cats didn't have a very good sense of time passing, but a boy certainly could look at a calendar every once in awhile. Didn't they have those wherever he had been?
Katrina tilted her head at him, “You saw my posters?” ...and didn't come back? The betrayed half of that statement didn't need to be spoken out loud. Her voice turned very small, “Where were you?” Translated, why didn't you come back when I needed a friend more than anything?
>>>“I think Slate would have known. And told you. Maybe?”
Katrina frowned, would Slate tell her if he knew? He hadn't even thought to tell her when he had gotten his own body. Nor had Calley for that matter. Neither of them would be winning any prizes for effective communication any time soon. Had either of them even heard of email?
“I don't think he would remember, he's not very good at that.”
>>>“Ah! That is to say—die, me? When have I ever—”
More frowning. Only maybe twice that Katrina knew about. One car accident, and one incident that had left him sulking for days without telling her much of anything about what had happened. And once in a dream, maybe; she couldn't rightly remember.
Calley hugged her and apologized and she put buried her face in his stiff blue suit collar, short hair unintentionally tickling his jaw as she hugged him back. He had come along way from when his version of consolation was an open palmed poke on the back, but it looked like he still had a lot to learn.
“I missed you,” she told his collar. “I didn't even get to tell you congratulations on having your own body.” And you missed my birthday. Not that she had a party or anything, holed up in her room as she had been. And my first kiss. Katrina blinked, at Calley's ear, realizing something suddenly. Slate, you're not listening to me are you?
The water jug was heavy, but she had to carry it; this was a matter of great importance.
“Wait.” She did as she was asked. Zhang Xiao approached her, carrying a large copper vessel, “Use this instead.”
Katrina took it from him and the Chinese president took her jar and dragged it back into the mist.
The new vessel was empty. She turned back to the river to fill it.
“Stop,” called another voice. Chiang Sui glided over to her, a gigantic crown of gold encrusted with rubies held aloft. “Wear this,” he insisted, setting it on her head and letting his hands wander downward from her head to her shoulders and down her arms before letting go of her and disappearing again.
She shuddered remembering the feel of his hands on her skin, but stooped carefully beneath the crown to fill her vessel.
The copper vessel had a slow leak. If she walked quickly, there would still be enough water in it, she hoped. Quickly she started walking again, weighted down by the massive diadem.
“Wait, you need this” a friendlier voice stopped her this time. Sara hung a gigantic emerald pendant on a heavy silver chain around her neck.
“Take this as well,” Slate's voice added. He slid two jade bangles onto her wrists, one on each side.
“Finally, this,” Nigel Banks stepped out from the shadows. She hadn't even heard his approach. He fastened a bronze belt set with sapphires around her waist. He disappeared even more quietly that he had come, leaving her alone in the mist.
She dragged the copper urn, but she was now weighted down by all of the finery that had been laid upon her. The water leaked out slowly, but surely, and somehow the vessel grew heavier, rather than lighter as it emptied. She was certain she wouldn't make it in time, but she kept dragging it as fast as she possibly could.
A large form arose out of the mist; the serpentine coils of a dragon disappearing into the night. His scales were dull, his dry tongue lolled out of his mouth, his breath was raspy.
“I came as quickly as I could,” she told him as she knelt beside his enormous head. There was only a little water left, but she lifted the urn to dump it into his mouth. One drop splashed onto the great tongue, but it wasn't enough. The dragon gave one last gasp and stopped breathing altogether.
She cried, but all the tears in the world wouldn't add up to enough water to save him now.
Seven students stood on the platform, waiting for their names to be read, waiting to receive their diplomas. They had had a tough senior year. Their senior project had failed, but they had still learned quite a lot from it. They had learned how to trust and to distrust, how to lead and to follow, how to help and to harm, how to hope and to despair, how to honor alliances and to betray comrades, how to live.
She watched them all through glazed eyes, only half seeing them as they walked across the stage. There was pride there, in each of their smiles as they accepted their certificates. Humans and mutants alike, they had make this journey together, for better and for worse.
Thomas stood shaking the hand of the nice unicorn man. They looked like such opposites juxtaposed up on the stage; the unicorn with his pale hair and his gentle smile and the sociopath student with his malicious grin and his dark hair falling in his vivid green eyes.
The battles were over for them. The war might roll on for years, or it might end tomorrow. They wouldn't know until it happened. However, for the two of them, the future held no more battlefields; they were done with fighting forever.
I love you, she tried to think, but the words wouldn't form in her head. Nothing she wanted to think about ever did any more. She wore a band on her finger, but she no longer had the ability to promise to love him. She couldn't remember and promises when demons plagued her day in and out.
Reality was such an illusive thing. Some days she could almost feel it, as he held her fingers in his and they walked through the park. Other times she couldn't tell who was leading her through the nightmare landscape of horrors. When something crunched beneath her feet, she no longer looked down to see whether it was a stick or a bone, or both. She didn't want to know any more.
She woke in a bed. The pillows were pillows. The blankets were blankets. And the person sleeping next to her was Slate.
There were tears in her eyes. She knew this happy reality couldn't last very long. Maybe he would wake up and hold her until she felt better, but there was also a chance that when he opened his eyes it would not be loving blue shining there in his orbs, but something green and sinister that wanted to choke the life out of her slowly.
“I wish it would all just end. I just want it to end,” she confessed to the darkness and the unknown.
The world was an evil place, dark and cruel. The only ones who could survive in it, really survive, were people who were dark and cruel also. In a den of murderers, only a murderer could survive. When faced with a fight, only someone who was willing to use every tool at their disposal would live to see tomorrow. Lying, cheating, stealing, that was the way of life in this world, it would seem.
“I said, tell me why you're here.”
The pale and stoic man tied in the chair did not answer her. His blue eyes looked away from hers, his defiance as plain as the horn on his face.
“Tell me,” she insisted, turning his chin toward her face. She could see her reflection in his eyes, her jet hair, her brow knit in anger.
Again he refused.
“Then you leave me no choice.” She needed no knives, nor soldering irons, nor electricity, nor fire, nor water, nor anything other than her own ability to hurt him. She could light every nerve in his body on fire, scorch his skin, roast his innards, break every bone to dust, rot his intestines, and make every alveoli in his lungs scream for air all at once without even touching him.
And she did.
Behind her stood a bald man, watching the proceedings. His only reaction was a hmph and a shake of his head.
Zephyr was not amused. Was he ever amused, if it wasn't at someone else's expense? Probably not, Katrina decided. Amusement was an emotion, after all, and he didn't make a habit of showing his true emotions very often. That one time at the Labs had probably been a fluke, and she was unlikely to ever be able to crack that mask of his again. At least, not for a very long time.
He deleted the picture, but then she hadn't exactly expected him to save it as his wallpaper or anything like that. She didn't waste time pouting over it. As for repentance, that was about as likely as Zephyr cracking a genuine smile. Meh. Ghost had a frilly dress for her to try and and a promise to guard her back from any of the opposite gender spying her disrobed. Katrina grabbed the bundle of flowery fabric from Ghost and flounced to where the screen was resting. It took a moment to set it up as a barrier, but it was not heavy, and therefore not too terribly difficult to manage.
>>>"Unless you intend to use that Ghost I suggest you keep it in your head."
Katrina didn't hear that comment, and it was probably a good thing that she didn't. She was old enough to understand innuendo (but just barely) and young enough to still be embarrassed by it (and likely would remain so for quite some time). Clearly the air elemental should learn to watch his own tongue when (mostly) innocent ears had a chance of over hearing.
Behind the screen Katrina held up the dress by the shoulders, trying to formulate a plan for how she would accomplish getting the thing on. There were yards and yards of flowery fabric, perhaps enough to clothe three or four people if it had been divided out more conservatively. It had a zipper, but also a hook and a sash. Would approaching the thing from the bottom work better, or should she step in from the top?
She decided on the top down approach, stepping into the skirt part without bothering to take off her own skirt first. There was enough fabric, she decided, that it would cover almost all of her own outfit. She positioned her arms in the sleeves and attempted to reach around to zip up the back before the sleeves slipped down again. The waist band proved rather troublesome; the stitches that held it to the dress made the zipper rather cantankerous about that section of its journey, and it stubbornly refused to go any higher what with an underskirt and a sash in its way. That meant she had to take her own dress off, after all, so she had to start all over again.
By the time she extracted herself enough to remove her own outfit and put the flowery peach thing on again, several minutes had passed.
“Sorry this is taking so long,” she uttered, apologetically. Mostly to Ghost, because she was the one waiting her turn.
Finally she got the zipper to behave itself, fluffed the ridiculous sleeves a bit, and tied the sash in some sort of enormous bow on the back. At least, that's what it seemed like she was supposed to do with all that fabric.
“Well?” She stepped out from behind the curtain and spun around for their inspection.
>>>"I'm disappointed puppet, I had hoped you to be a bright girl, clearly that is not the case."
What had he wanted, some smart ass response, a quiveringly terrified admittance that she'd made a mistake, or some cool psychologist's analysis of his sick behavior? Even if she had guessed, she certainly wouldn't have guessed correctly. Wasn't that how it worked out in all the movies? The hero gets punished for any answer they make, no matter if it is right or not. If he was hoping for some entertainment or something, she should have just watched a movie or something.
Then, the predictable part of the plot. She was punished for her lack of correct answer to his question. She kept her hands clenched as he pressed his knife into the skin over her shoulder blade. Soon he'd ask her the same question again and she'd give another wrong answer. Or she would remain silent maybe, trying to make his frustrated, but maybe that would be even more entertaining to him. Who knew?
The cut stung, and tears involuntarily leaked out of her eyes and made their pilgrimage down to her chin, but she didn't cry out this time. She tried to hold her breath and distance herself from the feeling of the pain. It hurt less than the burn on her hand had done (and still did), and it felt different, too. A cut was much more of a sharp stinging pain like a squadron of bees in a perfect line on her back, whereas a burn caused a writhing, flesh consuming type of pain, as if a fireworm were trying to digest its through her hand.
If she focused, she could almost feel the shape of what he was carving, like a horribly twisted version of the game her mother used to play with her when she was ill with a fever as a child.
“I'll draw something on your back, and you have to guess what it is.”
“Okay, mommy.”
A straight line, another straight line, and third.
“I?”
“I?” She guessed a letter.
>>>"I'm sorry, what was that? I'm afraid I tend to get quite lost in my work, you'll have to speak up in afraid."
Liar, he'd heard what she said. She wasn't going to repeat it for him, instead clamping her mouth shut. That's how they did it in the stories wasn't it? The hero, bravely silent and refusing to tell the torturer anything they wanted to know. Not that she knew anything that he wanted to know. This one was just a sick freak.
He leaned disapprovingly over her face and “Hmm”ed at her before placing his hand on the side of her face and using his fingers to force her eye open. She hadn't meant that kind of I. The air was too cold and too dry, and she instinctively tried to close her lids again. The one he wasn't touching clamped shut, the other just fluttered uselessly. Her eye rolled upwards, trying to find its covering again and watered automatically to try to moisten the surface without blinking. So far she didn't like any of his games, but this one had to be her least favorite thus far.
And it got worse.
Something red in his hand, dangerously close to her eye. She couldn't blink, couldn't focus on it to see what it was. Yet, somehow she knew. It was the knife he had been holding. It paused, and she didn't dare breathe. She tried to prepare herself for the inevitable pain that would surely follow, perhaps the worst pain yet, that of her eye being sliced open. Every second the pain didn't come was worse than the second before it. Time seemed to stand still until he finally flicked the blade to put her out of the misery of waiting, and she inhaled again. Her breath came in short bursts, as if in the interim her lungs had forgotten how to breathe properly.
Nothing. He hadn't cut her at all. Now he'd probably just laugh at how much she had flinched. Was it more entertaining to him to frighten her or hurt her? She focused on trying to catch her breath and rein it back under control. She wasn't going to sob for him any longer than was necessary, no matter how terrified she was, not matter how much she wished for her mother.
“That's right. How about this?” Two more straight lines, and a a bumpy one.
“A heart.”
>>>"I suppose you must think me rather harsh, however it cannot be helped, you brought this upon yourself and the punishment cannot be avoided. Still... education is part of the process. if you recognize why you're here then perhaps we can move on."
“One more,” her mother drew one last line, a curving scoop across her shoulder blade.
>>>"Well Katrina, can you tell me why you're here?"
“You.” Her mother stroked the back of her head, making sure her hair stayed off of her hot neck as she fell asleep.
“You.” Her torturer stroked the back of her head, trying to lull her into a false sense of temporary safety. Katrina just wondered when he would finally kill her.
“I'm here because of you. You like to scare and hurt little girls, and I conveniently walked into your trap,” her voice was quiet, but confident. She was fairly confident that was the correct answer, even if it wasn't the one he wanted to hear. Maybe he would be angry now, or maybe he would laugh, or maybe he would kill her so quickly for her obstinacy that she would never realize what his reaction had been. He liked his guessing games, this one. Like the man who put a kitten in a box and left it there to prove a point; you would never know whether it was still alive or whether it had died until you observed it for yourself.
The invisible ingénue strolled slowly down the wide aisle, glancing at the faces of the more privileged passengers. They didn't actually look much different than the people in the back, they just had bigger pocket books. One lady, probably a politician of some sort, Katrina recognized the type instantly from all the gatherings her parents used to make her attend, was already falling asleep. Her seat leaned back to it's lowest elevation, her noise canceling headphones slightly askew, and complimentary Times tucked firmly under her arm. In front of her, a man so large that he probably had no other choice but to pay for the first class ticket, except for maybe two coach tickets. Katrina wondered which was more economical in the end.
In the next row up, a young businessman with brown hair reading his newspaper and ignoring the muffin that was perched precariously on the edge of his tray. It looked like a cranberry muffin, the kind that probably had cream cheese or something swirled through the inside for an unexpected bonus in deliciousness. Apparently they had first class snacks, too. Katrina paused, and asked herself, What harm ever came from eating a muffin?
None that she could think of. And he didn't seem to want it, so there was no point in letting it go to waste. Katrina reached out to grab it. Hopefully he'd never notice it was gone.
Good luck and best wishes Luke! We'll be thinking of you, praying for you, and of course, we'll always be here for you even if you just want to chat. Take care of your family!
Katrina sat in the front row. Only one seat had a reserved sign on it, for Ghost's daddy probably, therefore the other ones were up for grabs. Probably. She could move if they asked her to, but hoped they wouldn't because she was short and wanted to see everything.
Especially this unicorn guy. Ghost hadn't talked about him much, since she'd been so busy this summer with her shop and what not, but Ryuichi had. According to the lizard boy the unicorn guy was responsible for putting Ghost's insides back where they belonged; that made him okay in the little illusionist's book. She just wanted to see if he looked like a knight in shining armor.
He wasn't as tall as she imagined he'd be. Nor as broad. In fact, he was kind of scrawny and didn't look much like he could save anybody. He did, however, own a tail, and for that Katrina was jealous. Ever since finding out she was a mutant she had sort of wished that she'd been the kind that had a tail. Or the kind that flew. Or both, if that was possible.
The ceremony started with Ghost walking down the aisle, looking very fancy. She and her unicorn matched, with their white hair and outfits and looked almost the same height even. The ceremony was longer than she had expected, so by the time everyone finally got to stand up again, she was very relieved. Finally, she could stretch out and turn around to see who was here.
It looked like nearly everyone from the mansion was here, with a healthy dose of every other mutant in the city, too. Her own mother was directing waiters at the back on how to set up the tables of food, and looking rather frazzled. She had gotten used to feeding an army by now, but this was her first time preparing a feast for a double army; she had been fretting about it all week, but it looked like things were working out fine.
Then, through the shifting crowd, she spotted a familiar pair of blue eyes, in a familiar face, in a rather slouching body, in a black suit with a blue shirt. There was no mistaking him.
“Calley!” Katrina practically pounced on him. Somehow the crowd and the chairs between them had been overcome; she was not quite sure how she had managed, but the important thing was, “You're back! I haven't seen you in forever! You failed all your classes, you know. And 'catting around town' isn't a very good excuse for being gone four months.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, all seriousness now, voice quiet and grave. “What if you had died? I wouldn't have even known.” As it was, she had almost died and he hadn't known.
Katrina struggled to catch her breath. It was hard to be brave when you couldn't get enough air into your lungs, but she was still trying. Mouth open wide, like a fish out of water, she tried to suck in air as best she could. Finally, after she had just started to panic, her diaphragm shuddered painfully back to life, pulling sweet air into her lungs once again. Air had never felt so good as that frosty cold stuff that bit into her alveoli.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows and surveyed the scene. Things looked very different now than they had a moment ago. The children from the school were surrounding the two boys, patting them on the backs and telling them things would be alright. The two boys were calm now, listening to what their classmates were saying. The blonde one, Matt, noticed Katrina and walked over to her, offering his hand to help her up.
“I'm sorry about that, miss. I don't know what came over me.”
The dark haired boy, Joshua, seemed completely bewildered and lost. He clearly was still not trusting of everyone, especially the children that had tormented him for so long. And certainly not the ice manipulator that had attacked him, and yet, everyone was suddenly being so nice and he felt so calm. He frowned down at the ice guy and offered his hand, helpful, but still glowering.
“You might as well stand Iceman. You look like an idiot laying on the grass like that,” not that he was looking the man in the eyes. More like, looking everywhere but.
“I'm Katrina,” she responded, then because he had given his full name, too, “Katrina Dumonde.”
She looked him over again, trying to decide if she really wanted to talk about it. Especially with a stranger. The only beings she had shared with up to this point was her dogs. Maybe a stranger, or rather a brand new acquaintance, was the next step up. Maybe it got easier with each retelling and eventually she could tell the truth to her friends or to her mom.
She paused a long time while she decided whether or not to even say anything, but finally decided she should at least give him the essence of the story even if she didn't share all the details. She looked down at her hands folded in her lap as she spoke. Her feet swung much less enthusiastically beneath the pew.
“I was kidnapped by a really bad man. He dragged me into the sewers and...” she swallowed, fighting off the flood of memories that even this watered down version brought back, “he did really bad stuff to me.”
It was uncomfortable to let that be the last statement to hang in the air, so Katrina added to the end, “That's why forgiving seems so hard.”