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.
Slate had never had Japanese cuisine, either. He had, however, had Chinese. It had proved surprisingly difficult to find an upscale Chinese restaurant, however. He trusted that the foods were similar.
This trust was betrayed by the menu.
The chopsticks he understood: the white rolled towel, given to each of them by their waiter, he did not. The food names were written in their native script with an English equivalent and descriptions below for the typical dinner’s convenience. Slate was appreciative of this fact. He would not have guessed that “tako” was “octopus.”
Baby blue eyes peeked over his own menu copy. “Is raw tuna safe to consume?” The healer asked, his voice low, so as not to attract their attentive waiter’s attention.
>> "He was living in my room, recently. For three days straight."
Slate tilted his head. “You should not let him do that, in the future. He is in the habit of never fully moving out. I suggest spraying his face with a water bottle, should he return.” He had heard that this was an effective technique against dogs and cats. Generalizing from that basis, he was fairly confident it would prove useful against any of Calley’s forms, human included.
His daises seemed to warrant close and repeated inspection. Belatedly, it occurred to him that witches had no use for flowers. If they arranged another meeting, he would try something else. Dried herbs, perhaps. Or would she find them more useful in planted form?
>> "So. Anything else I should know?"
Blink.
“Yes.”
Blink.
“Shall we go? I have made a reservation at a Japanese restaurant for seven o’clock.”
Slate held the door open. It was what men did for women.
Her pigtails swung with vengeance. Her un-heeled boots stopped dead in front of him. Slate swayed slightly back as the finger prodded at his chest, blinking twice.
>> ... have never been a toad... >> "... have a twin in the Mansion."
...These were two very different statements. Unrelated, however, he sensed they were not. He decided to answer the more externally verbalized of the pair. It occurred to him that the witch may not have intended for him to hear the former.
“Do I? I had thought he was living at the Sanctuary, recently. Unless he has moved again. Or I have gained another.” Knowing Calley, that second option was a valid possibility. He stated it as such. His completely honest tone could be taken as joking, however. That... would be good, if it was.
This meeting was clearly beginning incorrectly. Slate attempted a reset.
“I was informed that women like flowers.”
Said flowers were offered. The daisies swayed lightly in his hand, their white and yellow faces bobbing innocently up at her.
His hair was unruly. This was not for lack of shower, combing, nor gel. The Kabal’s Leader frowned back at himself from the rearview mirror of the blue car, running futile fingers through his short brown hair one more time. This served only to produce more spikes.
With a last narrowing of his eyes, Slate stepped out onto the Mansion’s driveway. It was exactly 6:24 PM. Friday. He had a scheduled social interaction with Susan in six minutes.
It took five seconds to straighten his gray sweater after its seatbelt-inflicted rumpling, and smooth down the front and back of his khaki pants. His black dress shoes shone up at him, so he deemed them satisfactory as-is. He reached into the passenger side, and brought out a small bouquet of flowers. Three white daisies. The Lab secretaries had assured him that flowers always made for a good impression, but roses were too weighty for a first date, and anything red was too presumptuous. These, they assured him, were ‘cute’ and ‘suited him.’ He was not entirely certain what that meant.
Nonetheless, at 6:25 PM, Slate Swartz presented himself in the Mansion foyer. With daises.
Lenna saw. That was good. He was not sure why it was good, but it was: one of his most reliable employees had seen him ride the unicorn. It was too bad Sebastian hadn’t seen. Though then again, Slate supposed his mentor had.
Slate nodded his agreement with her suggestion: the tunnels sounded agreeable to him, and his lack of coat. As they would no doubt prove agreeable to Tarin’s lack of shirt (the Asian in the process of providing him with pants, it appeared) and Ghost and Sebastian’s respective states of attire. Slate realized that he was one of the better dressed Kabal members, at the moment. As was appropriate. He was their Leader, after all.
>> ” Not sure about their Asian friend. Is he one of us?”
“An X-Men, if I recall,” Slate assessed. “He can come with us. We simply need to lose him before we get to business back in Bucharest.”
There would be much to do, after he took a shower.
Whether or not God heard the girl, whether or not he cared or answered, one fact remains true: in the Mondragon Labs board room, the Kabal’s Leader suddenly gripped his elbow with a gasp. He felt tears running down his cheeks, tracing different paths than the phantom tears that stung more warmly in his mind.
The meeting came to an abrupt halt.
>> Is anyone there?
“Katrina?” Slate asked, looking around as if to find the girl standing nearby. His searching eyes found Melissa Rivers’ frown, Nigel Banks’ hand reflexively on his gun, and Noin Mortman pausing at the door, a stack of papers in her hands. Melissa opened her mouth to speak, but Nigel cautioned her with a glance.
Slate frowned and uncurled his hand from his arm. Katrina? He tried again. Where are you?
There was no time to mobilize the Kabal. For this, the soldiers of the Labs would have to suffice.
December 31st. Of 2009, presumably. Ah. That was not very bad, at all.
“I appreciate your promptness in this rescue,” Slate stated, with an honest nod. He really did. The Romanian Resistance had beaten the New York Resistance’s break out record by several months.
>> "You... brought Lee back to life. Cheated death."
He shook his head. “No—that was the unicorn. Did you see? I rode it.” He had. Since she had not answered his previous claim to such, he felt the need to repeat it.
“What transportation have you secured for moving the prisoners out? I need to return to the city. Promptly.”
Cup hands to paddle. Kick legs. Bend his knees when he jumped.
Though this advice seemed to come in reverse order, Slate thought he grasped its essential elements. Slate observed the placid, chlorine-scented water for a moment. The warnings of ankle-jarring combined with Verdigris’ clear display of standing allowed him to deduce that the water was not terribly deep in this spot. Then he jumped in, his legs bended. There was really no reason to hesitate.
There were few things which Slate did that could be classified as guilty pleasures. Constructing a hegemony was one; another was turning the shower in his room up to scalding temperatures, despite the Lab janitor’s firm warning that it bred mold on the bathroom ceiling. The sensation was pleasant, the fog cloud creation and dissipation an intriguingly complex matter governed by mathematics higher than his current understanding, and the conversion of any neighboring mirrors to canvasses quite satisfactory.
The pool water that closed over his head was less than scalding. Distinctly. Slate’s feet touched bottom: he remembered to stand. Goosebumps had already set up military encampments along his arms by the time he reached the surface.
“Not so bad,” Slate stated, blinking surprisingly stinging water from his eyes. “Yes. So now I... paddle?”
“I do not know,” Slate said, his lips still intent on grinning. He turned to Lenna. “I rode a unicorn. Did you see?”
The unicorn was Tarin and Sebastian and colorful lights, apparently; this being the base components it split into. Both men seemed worse for clothing, but otherwise unharmed. Sebastian was comforting his wife, now; Slate briefly thought of offering his pants to the man, but realized that with his coat currently in feminine hands, his pants might be quite necessary for warmth when they went outside. It was still winter in Romania, he presumed, although... he admitted he was not quite sure.
“What day is it?” He asked his employee. The fully clothed one.
Visual (and other) inspections of the tongue followed. Slate stood confidently, expecting her to find the results satisfactory.
Her grin was proper payment.
>> "Fascinating. How does it work?"
"Reversion to a former template of your body, stored within your memory, through instigation of a psychic trigger," Slate stated. "...I think." In any case, he knew how to do it, and the result behaved predictably. He liked it when his powers did that.
"You still have blood on your face," he pointed out. "We should fix that."
The rink gates were in sight. He was fairly certain they could even make it to them, through this 'skating.'
((ooc: Go ahead and train as you wish, Henri. Have fun! )
Interest in and offers for training continued to be exchanged between the two women. Slate would have offered himself as a trainer as well, if he were not so firmly in the 'student' category. His healing abilities allowed him a certain leeway--most people would not recover quite as well from the various... self-defense errors he had committed. Most people would have fewer limbs, as well.
Their meeting seemed to be drawing to a close. Slate rose, and again offered his hand to the young woman. "Welcome to the Kabal, Ms. Henrietta."
She questioned neither the contact nor why he needed to request doing her this favor. That made the process much more quick. 'I suppose' was all the permission he needed to enter her mind.
The usual memories flickered before him--an exorcism attempt and an Abyssi; a woman whose social graces danced well with Susan's; the way he himself... tasted? As usual (though with a slight eyebrow raise), he pushed past these to the place in her mind that stored what he needed. The state of her body, pre-tongue-impalement. Slate graciously returned that state to her.
When he was done, he left her mind. The memories grayed and left him a he did: they were a part of her, not a part of him. He was not quite certain why his eyebrow was raised anymore, but he decided to leave it there for the moment.
"That would be unsanitary, Susan," he replied. She would also find that her most recent bruises were gone: his was not a very specific method of healing. To her, the healing would have taken only the space of a breath or two.
Australia as a prison was an obvious choice. It was geographically isolated and desolate of most natural resources: if he simply culled the current infrastructure and technology, it would be an excellent place to put people he wished forgotten, in a somewhat humanitarian manner. Though he would have to deal with the matter of their children, who presumably deserved a chance to redeem themselves… Perhaps neutering of the population would eliminate that issue before it even presented itself?
These were thoughts for another time, however. For now: Susan was bleeding.
"You are bleeding," he stated eloquently. He offered his hand to her: a rather belated action to help her to her feet, but that was not its purpose. "It is not quite what I had envisioned, but tongue biting does qualify as impalement. May I heal you?"
…Slate realized that Henrietta had likely never held a job before this. If she had, it had certainly not been the type to require employees to carry a certain tool; like a box cutter for a stock room clerk, or a tape measure for a fabrics dealer. Or a phone, for a team whose members he needed to be able to contact at any hour.
Ms. Lenna's explanation came as welcome back-up.
"…As I said," he reiterated, "you should pick up a temporary phone with Ms. Mortman until you can secure a better one. As you will need the phone for your employment with us, we will provide a stipend both for it and the bills you incur while using it for Kabal purposes. You are welcome to pay private expenses from your own salary." She was a high school girl. It occurred to him, suddenly, that those expenses might get quite high.
)