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.
They reached the main yard. It looked precisely like it had sounded, from the stairwell: like people dying, with no true cause. The mutants should not have been imprisoned here in the first place. The guards should not have consented to work here. The resistance should be leading people out, and only neutralizing threats as necessary; the human threats should be finding themselves dark shadows to cower in, until their former captives were gone.
Instead, there was fighting. Revenge, and self defense, and a very mutual sort of loathing. What Slate found most peculiar was the smell. He had known that blood had a smell, of course; he'd had occasion to smell others' before, as well as--unfortunately--his own. He hadn't known that it could coat the air like this, though. The back of his mouth tasted metallic. He swallowed.
Lee was moving ahead, cautiously. Slate hung back a moment, in the relative safety of the stairwell, giving his eyes time to scan the assembled crowd without allowing most of them to see him.
The main yard was simple chaos; his eyes skimmed over pairs and quartets of fighters, of solo men and women fleeing, of a cohesive circle of defense--
--His eyes went back to that one. That is when he saw Ms. Lenna shooting people. Hmm. He decided not to ever mention the issue, if she didn't broach the subject. He thought he saw two familiar beards, as well.
"Over there," Slate instructed, catching up to Lee and gesturing towards the circle with his own goateed chin.
Their present path would take them straight towards Tarin's defensive ring. To get there, they would cross paths with Ms. Lenna's aura.
Look to your left, Slate said into Tarin's mind. He would see his wife coming towards him, and (less importantly, no doubt) his employer behind her.
It was unlikely that any of them would see the guard who fired the stray shot. He was dead soon after; it had been a fatal shot to miss.
He would not die alone.
((ooc: Lee, tell me if I need to rewrite anything! Seemed like a good time to set things up...))
There was something simple about that sound: something concise, and altogether satisfactory. It was the proof and counter-proof to her 'whoops'; it was his victory.
He would have pushed himself away from her sooner, of course, but her eyes...
It occurred to him, after those colorful swirls steadied, that this 'fall' may have been continuing longer than it should.
It also occurred to him that her hand was against his chest. It felt warm. Her face was very close to his; he could actually feel her breath. It, too, was warm.
So was his face.
Slate pushed away with all due gentlemanly speed, sitting up straight and directing his attention to other skaters. Not her. He was, after all, supposed to be observing people who could actually skate. Not... witches.
>> "I... I think I'm starting to get the social angle of skating."
"I..." Slate took great care in readjusting his red scarf, "...was not aware that it had any particular social connotations. Thank you for that insight. Susan."
Her black eyes were thoroughly intriguing. As she slid closer, he realized that may not have been he effect she intended.
<< Telepath. >>
< Quite. >
>> "Whoops."
She pushed him backwards. That is, of course, the precise reason Slate curled his weight forwards as he went down. And, of course, reached out to catch her graceful arm. They both went down, in a pile of coats and skates.
Slate was on top.
"As far as personal space violations are concerned," the teenager noted with solemn dignity, "I believe I have had them covered from the beginning, Ms. Witch."
>> "Depends on how you define 'witch. Abilities, acquired knowledge, or attitude?"
Slate gave a little shrug. This seemed a safe response to her narrowed eyes.
>> "Most people around me did think witches are real. Demons, too. Don't you think most mutant abilities would have qualified as magic, a couple of centuries ago?"
"I suppose," he stated, somewhat dubiously. "It just seems... less magical, I suppose." His lips quirked as she nearly slid down the wall; his blue eyes considered her. "Really," he said at last, one eyebrow raised mischievously, "your lack of grace is astounding, Ms. Witch."
This, of course, was the appropriate time to push off from the wall. One did not insult a young woman, of magic or mutation, and expect to get away with it.
<< If I were a witch... >>
He slid to a natural stop a few feet away, and glanced back over his shoulder.
< It is my hypothesis, > he stated, his lips unmoving in their silent grin as the words found their way directly into her thoughts, < that warlocks can stay on their feet longer than mere witches. I invite you to prove me wrong. >
Red, Slate knew, was a dangerous color. In nature, it frequently warned of an unpleasant death, to anything foolish enough to tangle with it.
Pink, he was not so clear on, though her tone of voice seemed an adequate warning.
"You could be both," Slate agreed, his voice carefully level. She could be. It simply... wasn't likely. Far more likely, she had been jesting this entire time, and he had failed to realize it.
"...Are witches real?" Slate asked, turning his own shade of pink. This, he realized, was probably a stupid question. One that everyone already knew the answer to. He'd thought they were real. Like griffins, and unicorns. But those were simply mutants too, were they not?
>> "It's a neurologically-based mutation. Basically, the stimulation of one sensory pathway leads to automatic experiences in a second sensory pathway. ...Umm. Sorry. So. Well. Yeah, it basically means I can combine my senses with each other."
The teenager scratched lightly at his goatee. He was still getting used to having it. "Those explanations are not the same," he pointed out, blue eyes puzzled. "Is it an automatic reaction based upon outside stimulation, as you initially stated, and thus involuntary, or can you do it at will, as your secondary explanation implied? Or is it, perhaps, semi-automatic, like... blinking?" Her eyes were red now. It was a very vibrant color.
Another thought seemed to occur to him. Slate's dropped his hand. "So... you are not a witch?"
He had not intended to sound quite so disappointed. It was simply that he knew quite a few mutants already; she would have been his first witch.
>> “Um, I’m sorry if I seem rude. You look like someone I’ve met. Almost exactly, maybe even exactly. Anyway, I’m Henrietta Braun. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Slate gave a small smile. Not to be confused with a wince. "You have likely met my brother, then. We're twins, as it were." As it were. Yes.
Ms. Braun saw the ledger, and politely lifted her eyes away; Ms. Lenna saw the ledger, and seemed to briefly scan it. Oddly, she had given a similar appraisal to his goatee. Was it off-center? He had asked the guards, and they had assured him that it was not. They would not lie to him: they really could not lie to him. Perhaps it not triangular enough. Perhaps it was too triangular?
The Kabal's Leader self-consciously touched his chin as Ms. Braun began to speak.
>> “Lenna was telling me you have a more humanitarian group here. I’d really like to do something good for other mutants, but I wouldn’t want to hurt people, necessarily. I’m not sure if you need to ask me any questions or see a demonstration of my power or not. Feel free to ask away. ...I have to say, I’m very impressed. I had no idea you would be so young. You already seem so very successful at such an early age. I hope that doesn’t offend you at all.”
Slate returned the smile. "No offense in the least, Ms. Braun. It's something of a family business." Something of. Yes. The Kabal's former leader could certainly be construed as a father figure, and his 'brother' had certainly 'worked here' before him.
"I fear you may have some misconceptions about my organization," he began. "Discrimination is a serious problem in America, but it is not our primary objective. Just as the Kabal is not a black rights group, a Muslim rights group, or a homosexual rights group, we are not a mutant rights group. I aim to help everyone; mutants are included in that, but mutant rights will not always be the target of our missions."
His baby blue eyes sought hers. "If you only wish to aid mutants, and no one else, then the Kabal is not the place for you. I would recommend the X-Men or the Order, in that case." A corner of his mouth quirked up. "Perhaps just the X-Men, actually."
"To address your other misconception: you do not have to hurt anyone, as a Kabal member. Our methods can be... somewhat gray, but we are not a violent criminal organization like the Order." This seemed the appropriate time to inconspicuously shut his ledger. "In the recent Romanian affair, Kabal members worked with the Resistance to organize the concentration camp breakout; we essentially bribed a large part of the government to change its mind about mutant registration, as well. The murders and attacks you may have seen on the news were the work of the Order; the Kabal did no such thing." Except, possibly, for a politician that Martin and Xavia had visited: the man had inexplicably lost his sanity soon after. And some fingers.
His fingers twitched to reopen the ledger, but he settled upon a mental note: arrange meeting with Martin.
His attention turned back to the young woman across from him, "I may ask you to do illegal things, Ms. Braun, but I will never ask you to do something which you are morally opposed to, nor will I ask you to do anything unless I honestly believe it will help."
"Do you have any questions for me?" He asked simply. His questions for her could wait.
Laughter was an inappropriate reaction to a young woman falling. Slate realized this, and clapped a hand over his mouth. That stopped the sound. It did not stop his shaking shoulders, though.
"Forgive me for not offering you a hand up," he grinned (though he attempted not to: his mouth could be quite uncontrollable, at times). "I think we know how that would end. Though, perhaps..."
Tentatively, Slate put her theory to a second field test: he slid his own foot forward (slightly), and then, in turn, shifted his weight to the other side of his body (carefully). The result was two very short, very awkward glides that brought him closer to her.
And somewhat into the wall, again. Thump.
"Your approach may have merit," he judged, giving her a respectful nod as he carefully peeled himself off the boarded side of the rink. "...As for stopping, it seems that some absorption of momentum is necessary. In any case..."
Steadied by the wall behind him, Slate offered the young witch his hand. "I believe this is safe now. What is synesthesia?"
His eyes automatically sought her own as he asked. They really were very curious.
And so Ms. Csendes was being made to... heal someone? Like most of the prisoners, Slate stared at the ground. And a bit to the side, watching her. How curious. He suspected that she had just passed their test for healers. Somehow.
He had a feeling he would not see either of them again, for quite some time.
As it turned out, the Colombian drug trade operated fairly well without him. He was not sure why he was surprised. Only, the number in his ledger seemed very large. Not unusually large by any means: it was simply the sum of what had been earned, while he'd been in Romania. It had accrued predictably during those months. He was simply used to seeing the total on a monthly basis, rather than a quarterly; he had failed to grasp the larger math. It occurred to Slate that he was very rich.
Huh.
"Mr. Swartz?" A guard interrupted, after politely knocking on the door several times, and then inviting himself in. This was something that occasionally had to be done: Mondragon Lab's CEO sometimes failed to answer the first knock. Or the fifth.
The brown-haired teenager looked up, with a startled blink. "Yes?"
"Ms. Lenna is here. She's brought a... potential humanitarian recruit."
"Ah."
"Shall I send them in?"
"Yes, please." The teenager answered.
When the pair of women came in, the nineteen year old was seated at his usual spot: one seat off from the head of the table. He rose cordially to welcome them, offering his hand to the new comer before gesturing to the chairs. "Welcome to Mondragon Labs. I'm Slate Swartz. Ms. Lenna, it's always a pleasure to see you. Please, both of you, have a seat."
His ledger was still open. There was nothing particularly suspicious about it: notes were written in a careful hand in the margins, hypothesizing where and how the funds should be used, and slightly more tangential things. Romania--local reconstruction? Refugee safe houses/Pax Academy? America--donation to Mansion? Note: discuss Cerebra training with Sam. No, there was nothing particularly suspicious about it, and no mention of where the money was from.
>> "Um, she gets chased around for being different from the majority?"
"Ah," Slate nodded agreeably. "So it is much like being a mutant, then. Are you telepathic, as well?" He asked. This question was not out of the blue: it was clearly well founded. She had known he was a mutant, after all. Though perhaps witches had other ways of telling.
And then he was on the ground. Yes. The young woman seemed to be holding in a laugh. Slate deemed that the correct response was a grin, as he pushed himself back to a sitting posture. It was a good first step, when one wished to get properly upright.
>> "Well, from this point of view the problem seems to be your feet. I don't think you are supposed to keep them parallel to each other. I think they are supposed to go... more like... this..."
Slate turned where he sat, closely observing her feet before looking at the people around them. "From this point of view," he stated, based upon his distinctive angle of observation, "you seem to be right. For those who are simply standing, in any case."
>> "Excuse me for not helping you up. I don't think I am steady enough."
Baby blue eyes blinked up at her, slightly startled by the thought. "I do not mind. In fact, I strongly discourage any such attempts. They are likely to lead to a recursive pattern." He wobbled carefully to his feet, positioning them as she had done, his arms stretched out again for balance. He frowned downward for a moment, clearly cautioning his feet and legs to behave themselves properly.
"Now," he stated, after he was satisfied with his own vertical state, "what are your theories on propulsion?"
This statement seemed somewhat dubious to Slate. While he had indeed observed the correlation she referenced, her own rate of reddening... somewhat outpaced the norm. He was not entirely certain of the cause, however. She did not seem to still be angry with him anymore. She even took his offered hand.
>> "So, you are a healer."
"And you are a witch," Slate said. He tilted his head. "What is it, precisely, that a witch does?" One could hardly assume such matters. Asking 'Can you turn me into a frog?' seemed a good way to volunteer, after all.
>> "This shouldn't be that hard to do. The theory is pretty simple..."
The brown haired teenager held his own arms out for penguin balance, as well. "That was my thought, as well. The method of propulsion seems quite akin to normal walking, except that... both feet seem to move. Or so I have observed."
He frowned down at his own feet. "I cannot seem to remain upright while doing so, however." He tentatively moved into a glide, and demonstrated his point.
Whump.
Baby blue eyes looked up at her from the ice. "It is somewhat aggravating."
Slate did not understand, or truly attempt to understand, the conversation Lee had with the Romanian man. He was rather busy with his own thoughts, as it were. She is unharmed, Slate replied.
>> "We should keep moving."
"Not that way," Slate corrected simply. "Tarin is now in the main yard. This way."
Judging by the recent power outage, they needed a stair case. Those, unfortunately, were only along the main halls. Slate lead them, as well as their recently acquired tagalong and his nervous juggling act, back the way he and Lee had already come, and down a new corridor. The dark, narrow space opened into a dim view of a short metal railing and a long drop.
A blur of white, red, and hooves fell past.
Slate thought it had a horn.
He blinked, then turned to the right. "This way," he repeated. The staircase was ahead. Tarin was below. So was his mentor, apparently.
A bead of water formed under the blade's white cap, and rolled to its tip. It lingered there, weighing the green head down, too small yet to fall. A perfect reflection hung fluidly over its surface: the world in miniature.
Someone jogged past, in blue pants. Then a dog, and his man. A woman was sitting next to him. Slate was not sure when she had arrived, but it seemed that he'd already known she was there. Sitting so close together, their bodies warmed the space between them. He could feel her. It was nice.
A small smile briefly touched Slate's lips, and was held in the bead: then, with a sudden flick, the bead dropped. The grass stood a little straighter, its white cap a little smaller.
