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.
>> ¨Saliva remains in the glass for a limited time until it ¨eat ¨ itself trying to dissolve glass.¨
It seemed they were getting somewhere, now. At the least, Fausto was answering questions like a rational person, rather than a growling dog.
Slate’s head stayed tilted as he thought. The problem with Iron Mouth’s powers was that they could only be restrained by the teen’s mouth; outside that, much like his anger, the saliva was a threat to everyone and everything. It ate through them all. Except for glass: glass, apparently, gave them a small window of time in which the saliva was out of the young man’s mouth, but still potent.
Ah. Well, that was an idea.
Slate straightened back up, blinking at his fellow teenager. One question: a confirmation of something he recalled the teen ranting, earlier. “You are good with knife-fighting, yes?”
There was a large, woman-like growth on his back. It was... snuggling him. Snuggle. Snuggle. The blue-eyed teenager blinked, and turned his head slightly. Ah. It was the bride.
“I think you may be mistaking me for my brother, again, Mrs. Csendes.” The teenager politely informed the white-haired sylph. He offered a hand over his shoulder, for her to shake. “I am Slate. You have my pants.”
>> //That was classy, Slate.//
The Kabal leader blushed slightly, as Circe made commentary in his mind. And out loud.
>> “Is there something wrong with the punch mister?”
“It was... sweeter than I expected.” Yes. Also: ...I am having some problems with overhearing thoughts, at the moments. There are... somewhat embarrassing things going through certain minds, in the vicinity.
>> "Let me get you a towel, Kokoro-chan. And Slate. Thanks for saving my girlfriend, but honestly... that isn't a free pass at spitting on my family."
Slate turned his attention to Shin, making sure not to move much in case Sebastian’s wife was comfortable were she was. “Noted,” Slate decided upon. He gave an amiable nod to Kasumi. She looked nice in her new dress. His gaze moved a bit to the side—skipped over Kokoro, who was clearly not a rational person, and thus did not deserve the respect of such—and found a certain color-shifting boy: another nod followed. Koga looked good, as well, in his new arm.
>> Oops. Katrina spoke into his mind, trying to be quiet. Sorry. Just... ignore me, I'll try not to be so loud.
Who kissed you? He asked, trying to be subtle. Is it anyone I know?
Facial. Twitch. There was a small headache starting at the back of his mind; at the front was the overwhelming desire to shower, acquire non-demolished clothing, and nap. Preferably under several layers of blankets, with the lights turned out, and orders not to bother him.
Unfortunately, here sat Ms. Evans, still letting her mouth hang open. She should be more careful of that: he was fairly certain that those sounds coming out were her intelligence escaping.
“Mr. Carlson,” Slate said, cold blue eyes on the woman, “you may lower your weapon.”
By all means, feel free to shoot her if she acts up again.
“Yes, Sir.” The guard said, taking his gun away from her head. It didn’t go ‘away’ very far.
Five feet and eight inches: Slate Swartz’ height, and the height of the great Fausto Martense. The Kabal’s young leader did not even need to tilt his head as his fellow teenager approached. He simply stood precisely were he was.
>> ¨Should i feed from your flesh while my saliva chemically burn your skin, muscles and bones? ...Would you be able to heal faster than i could eat?
“Control,” Slate stated, once it seemed that Iron Mouth’s intimidations had paused for the moment. “It is both physical and mental. Is yours really so poor?”
>> ¨Tell me what you have in mind.¨
Now, Slate tilted his head; a bit to the side, in thought. “Your problem lies in your current need to bite an opponent, correct?” He mulled for a second more. “Spitting does not seem like the most accurate thing in the middle of a fight, either; and both of your attacks would be quite obvious before you launched them. Something that allows greater subtlety, control, and range is what you wish for—correct?”
His head tilted again, the other way. “Does glass negate your power, or does the saliva simply sit on top of the glass?”
Cold Steel looked oddly drained. Exhaustion did not usually equate with exemplar reasoning skills; this was quite a poor condition for the man to speak to Pacifica in.
On the other hand, exhaustion did not usually equate with keen observation skills, either. That might prove useful.
>> “I hope you don’t mind Slate, but I want Alex, to be here, she is a member of my team who was born an raised here, so I think she would be a great asset to the situation.”
>> “Hello Slate.”
Baby blue eyes met sky blue; Slate refrained from taking a seat at the table. He was not entirely certain how to show surprise on his face; his hesitation would have to do.
“Hello, Alex. I believe we met at Sebastian’s wedding.” It had been Ghost’s wedding as well, of course. Sebastian’s name was the one that came to Slate’s mind, though: he was Slate’s mentor in healing. Ghost was merely the polite young woman who had borrowed his pants.
>> Pretend that you are bothered by this request.
Ah. That expression, Slate was confident in: he frowned slightly, and turned his eyes towards Cold Steel. “Are you quite sure...?” He asked, trailing off as if he did not want to question the lady’s qualifications in front of her. She would be the only one present who did not lead a faction: he hoped that would speak for itself.
>> “So, what is this about?”
>> And this time you let me know what you’re planning exactly cause I’m not walking into this with the little information I know.
“We are going to try and talk Ms. Pacifica, the Underground’s leader, into reining her people in. The killings, the pointless destruction they have been doing... it does not serve her cause. Do you know of Ms. Pacifica?” He asked, with an innocent blink.
Ah, my apologies for keeping you in the dark. Slate explained, in another realm of speech. I would like to orchestrate an opportunity to insert my loyalty command into Pacifica’s mind. Either Cold Steel needs to leave the room temporarily, or we must get her alone after the meeting; I will require her to submit willingly, or to have her unconscious. That will be where you come in. Do you know what her powers are?
‘Did you know I could insert loyalty commands’ was a question the young Leader did not think to ask. Baby blue blink.
Charming. Slate made a mental note to deal with everyone who’d been here, later, in one way or another.
On that note.
“I have no intention of ordering you to kill yourself, Ms. Lenna,” Slate replied with all due practicality. “You’ve been very useful to me. You seem reliable, and you must know the meaning of discretion: your former employment seems to have necessitated it.” On the ground, Cortez groaned again. Slate continued.
“I would like you to work for me in America,” he said. “If that is not possible, than I would appreciate your confidentiality in what you have learned.” Baby blue eyes left the matter at that. ‘If you don’t...’ was really a crash notion.
Slate looked at the address. The building in front of him. The address, again. There was no mistake: the Palace Hotel lived up to its name. This was somewhat nicer than the accommodations his employees were in.
The blue-eyed teenager made his way into the lobby; he shared the elevator with a business man for a few floors, then road alone for one. The doors gave a subdued ding: he had arrived.
It had been a few days since he had entered Romania; several more since the X-Men had arrived. It was well overdue for the Leaders to meet, and discuss how matters were progressing. Even Pacifica, the Underground’s elusive head, would be joining them.
The paper came out again: quiet halls were strolled by carpet-muffled feet, until the appointed numbers aligned. He rose his hand, and knocked politely on Cold Steel’s door.
Perhaps her ability was latent, or perhaps it was so subtle she had yet to notice it herself? Perhaps there was little benefit in trying to convince the woman with the gun that she was not as human as she’d thought.
>> “And he's—Unconscious. So you can heal him, or do whatever it is you need to. I won't stop you..."
Blink. Blink, blink. This was a pleasant turn of events. Slowly, Slate sat back up. Indeed: Lenna made no move to stop him, using any degree of force. Her gaze was still not particularly pleased. Slate tilted his head at her for a moment, blinked, and decided he could live with that.
Cortez was short work. He groaned when Slate was finished, but stayed unconscious—it was up to each man’s mind to wake up on its own time, even after blooming bruises and worse wounds had been removed. Lenna was sitting in the desk, now. Slate deemed that remaining on the floor would prove awkward to further conversation. (Quite good for not sitting in front of loaded guns, but quite awkward to further conversations.) He carefully stood, and sat the chair he had begun this scene in.
>> "I would, however, like to ask you some things... important things. Like what you'll do. Now that you've got the thing I suspect you came for... What of me? I'm a security risk, I'm loyal, and I'm here... you could order me to kill myself, and I'd be hard-pressed to stop you... I don't like that, Mr. Slate. I don't like that one bit. But at least you were honest about it. Puts things in startling clarity..."
Slate’s eyes flickered to the fourth breathing element of their room. The man with the vents on his body. “I would be unopposed to explaining,” he stated, “but our friend needs to be resolved, first.” ‘Resolved.’ He could be useful; ideally, he would soon work for Slate as well. Slate did not have enough attachment to the man to attempt an order, though. The fewer orders he gave, perhaps the less effort she would put into fighting them.
“Are you content with being human?” Slate asked, not backing down from the reddening teenager. A large part of that was simply not understanding the danger he was in. “Should I get you a bullet proof vest and a gun? Would you like a shock collar, while I’m at it?”
“You speak of pride. You sing about pride. Yet here you are, telling me that your own mutation is weak.” His baby blue eyes were steady on the mutant before him. He really, really did not understand the danger he was in. “You are not weak, Fausto Martense. Stop acting like it.”
“Let us find a way for your own gifts to overcome your weaknesses: your weakness in range, and your weakness in glass.” He allowed a small smirk to touch his lips. Perhaps he would not have, if he were a true mind-reader. It really was a surprisingly cute weaknesses, though: glass. Heh. The common window pane was the great Iron Mouth’s bane.
Lenna spoke. Lenna spoke it with emphasis. Slate, from the floor, recognized her tone as mildly displeased.
>> "Does it require any sort of preparation, any sort of act...? I remember you asked for my permission when you healed..."
“Ah, yes,” Slate stated. “That would indeed be the preparation what I required. That, or unconsciousness.” Technically, he had indeed needed the permission to heal her, and he would not have placed the command in her mind if she had been a good person. He chose not to clarify things to this extent. It felt, somehow, that it would be best to answer with minimal assaults on her character.
>> "And please tell me. Just what you mean by the words 'like you'?
For himself, he would have liked to know what her laugh just then had meant. He did not recognize its particular tone, nor did the context seem quite appropriate for laughter. At least, not from his perspective. But then, from his perspective, her boots looked very large.
“If he is a psychic,” Slate clarified, quite simply. “Such as yourself. Your resistance to the command is too high for a normal human, or for a non-psychic mutant.” Was it wise to re-emphasize that fact that he had placed the command in her? Perhaps not. He suspected she’d not forgotten that fact, however, small though it was.
Zephyr was quite attractive, as females go. His hair was short and cutely cut; his face round, the combination of his mouth and eyes giving him an intelligent, somewhat playful look. His legs, however, did not hold the Kabal Leader’s attention in quite the same way as Tarin’s wife’s.
>> "This is... different."
That familiar British accent was not particularly attractive, either.
>> "Have you found anything?"
“The medical staff was unable to find anything physically wrong with Lily,” Slate said, inclining his head towards Zephyr’s body. “Have you two met before? Do either of you know any mutants who could have done this--a psychic with poor control, perhaps?” The psychic with poor control asking this question clearly did not qualify. True, he did not know what the full extent of his powers were; true, also, that even his telepathy was not yet under his full control. However, it was not as if he harbored any secret wish to replace the mercenary with someone more... pleasant.
Hmm.
Really, no matter how Slate looked at these two, the situation was not so bad. Both versions of Zephyr here with him were an arguable improvement.
Circe approached, her green dress sweeping the floor; Slate blinked at her with no particular recognition, by way of greeting. She, in turn, paid him no mind. Idly, he wondered how his other spy would have reacted, in a similar situation—images of Giant’s Bane giving him a drunken pat on the back briefly danced in his had. Where was Giant’s Bane, again? It occurred to Slate he hadn’t seen the man in quite some time.
Oh, yes. He was still in jail.
That was good, then.
Good afternoon, Ms. Kettler, Slate greeted, unobtrusively. He did not stop to question whether she had known he was a telepath. She did now.
Both Circe and Kitra worked to defend the cake, clearly upholding the Kabal’s sense of justice and order; Circe put out her hand towards the girl like a teacher towards a kindergartener running with scissors, and Kitra manifested colorful intervention means. Also, a man came over to hit on Circe, during this. He did not seem to notice the large knife. Or the cake. Or anyone else, for that matter. Slate had heard an expression for males once. While it was unfairly sexist, and had no doubt been created by feminists who made a point of wearing shoes as they cooked their husband’s dinners, it struck him as appropriate in this case: “one-tracked mind.”
For himself, he took a cup of punch from the table as his employees dealt with matters. Delegation. It was what team leaders did.
And you missed my birthday.
...He blinked, his gaze still towards the cake girl, but somewhat unfocused. Had that been Katrina? ...Had he missed her birthday? (Yes, he was fairly certain he had. By default that he did not know when it had been. Ah. That was not good of him.) He tilted the punch cup, getting somewhat more in his mouth than intended. Drinking was not the solution to life’s problems, he had once heard. Nonetheless...
>> "Wouldn't you agree?"
The cake girl was speaking to him. Slate blinked back out of his own mind—
And my first kiss.
--and spit a small fountain of bright red punch in the cake girl’s direction.
Slate, you're not listening to me are you?
...Not intentionally, he replied, to the fourteen year old across the room who had just earned a background check for some lucky boy. (Or girl.)[/color]
((ooc: Calley and Katrina are still at the wedding, but splitting off to Mission! We’re not dead! for awhile. Totter-Ghosty may join us, if she wishes! (Though veering off from Katrina’s Guilt-Inducing Radius of Disapproval to talk to other people is also permitted.)
Also: 500 posts! Yay!))
The crowd began to drift, as crowds do; the Order’s three members (and former members) congregated, as did most of the X-leaders (and the cops). The bride and groom, polite hosts, moved to mingle with those who seemed to need it.
Also, Katrina pounced Calley. Slate felt little pity for his brother. This was a clear case of getting what one deserved.
Right, Slate?
...What?
Nothin’, nothin’.
...In other matters, he seemed to be getting absorbed into a group, as well. It was curious, actually; social gatherings seemed to function somewhat like multi-cellular organisms. There might be no cell with a clear idea of what it was constructing: somehow, however, shapes began to form out of their whole.
>> "Hi Slate, I’m hoping since this isn't a business setting that I'm not rubbing wrong on formalities. How are you doing?"
“Hello, Kitra.” He greeted the red headed illustrator back, with an amiable nod of his head. “I have been well. And yourself?” He continued his path, though he tried to match his steps to the young woman’s, to make it clear he was not trying to separate himself from her. He merely wished to get a drink. Also, to look at the cake. He had read quite a lot about them in preparation for today. They were far more impressive in person than in books. Very tall. Very—was that a very small horn, on the plastic groom’s head?
He blinked and turned, as a someone tapped his shoulder. The teenager’s face was familiar; one of the people Calley had pointed out to them, during his dubiously productive survey of the crowd.
>> "So, how long you guys looking at staying for?'"
Slate’s head tilted slightly to the side. Another blink, of baby blue eyes. “Ah!” He finally said, with a nod. “You are the one who molested my brother with your finger, are you not? Alchemist, correct?” Completely undisturbed by his own words, Slate offered his hand. “I am Slate.”
From the corner of his vision, something attracted his attention: a wolf tail. Hmm. He followed it up to an Emerald. The sight of her left a vague sense of distaste in his mouth: he remembered that they had met once, and not particularly gotten along well; her undervaluing of the lives of herself, humans, and mutants had been quite distasteful to him. That was before he had become the Kabal’s Leader, though; before he had ordered deaths, and before he had become a Colombian drug lord. Also: before he had gone to Hell. His moral high ground had been somewhat soaked with blood, since that conversation. He turned back to Kitra and Alch—
The large glint of a knife was fairly distracting, as well.
“Miss,” Slate interrupted, pitching his voice to the girl threatening the cake, “it is traditional for the bride and groom to cut the first piece. Only then may the guests eat. I suggest you wait.”
He did not question the large knife. This was a mutant wedding. That made it really quite irrelevant.
Slate found himself on the floor. His first reaction to this, perhaps, was inappropriate: a slight sense of satisfaction. He had been studying judo with the Mondragon Labs Secretaries since January: it pleased him to know that after nearly a month away from them, he had still taken a fall correctly.
Taking falls was about the only concept he had grasped. This was a fact of some concern. Slate blinked baby blue eyes up at Lenna. She still had the gun.
Could he heal head wounds? A curious thought. It felt somehow distant. The ceiling of Cortez’ office felt much closer: so very much closer than it would have been in the Mondragon Labs training rooms. Almost stifling, really.
>> "Explain to me..."
“Ah,” Slate began. Of course. It was pertinent information to their situation. “I can place a loyalty command in the Senor’s mind. It will ensure his compliance with me, in all things I order: if I tell him to tell you the truth, he will.”
“Unless,” the teenager added, with a blink from the floor, “he is like you.”
