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.
The girl on the other end of his brain sounded rather... there was a word for this. He had been practicing his colloquial phrasings. She was... frazzled. Strung out. In a tizzy, even.
I will be right down. Unless you wish me to find a time traveling mutant first; then I will be there ten minutes ago. He had been working on his humor, as well.
Cerebra was in the Mansion's basement, like most of the things which were generally excluded from the school's informational brochures. The Danger Room, the War Room, the Blackbird's hanger, the janitor's closet. Cerebra was located behind the hanger, in a room even more fortified than the rest of the basement's locations. It was behind several layers of security, and required proper access to approach. That, or creative use of mutant abilities, and improper supervision of minors.
Though Slate had since learned the name 'Cerebra', and its purpose, some part of him would forever call it by the name he had first associated it with.
The telepath stepped inside of the Evil Hat Room, and blinked inquiringly at the gender-shifter who awaited him there. It had sounded urgent: therefore, he had come directly down, and not first gone to his room. Therefore, he was still clad in the grungy clothes that he used in his automotive classes. There was a backpack over his shoulder, and a spot of grease on his cheek.
Hello, Maya, he greeted her cordially. "You called?"
((ooc: Sorry for the long delay! Got sick after le LARP weekend. >.>))
Slate had a landline phone, listed in neat handwriting in his student registry at the Mansion. From when he was still a Mansion student, that was. This number connected to a white phone in a high end apartment overlooking Central Park. A small cloud of dust puffed up as it rang. He had not stepped foot in that apartment in over a year.
His X-Communicator was a vital tool for keeping in touch with teammates in dire situations. This was a fact he was respectful of: he kept the device safely stored in his team locker. In the Mansion's basement. Across from the X-Jet. It buzzed angrily atop his neatly folded uniform, before falling silent.
His primary contact device was, of course, his Crackberry Blackberry. While some of the students had his vocational school had begun to pick on the elderly device—it was nearly two years old now, after all—he remained loyal to the trusty device, which always resided in his pocket, next to a certain small black box. It would have been ideal for Maya's purposes, in fact, had its number been listed anywhere but the contacts list in Katrina's cellphone, and those of a half-dozen former Kabal and Mondragon Labs employees.
There remained only one last mode of communication.
>>> —Pick up pick up pick up...
What am I picking up? The telepath asked, pausing to blink as he stepped inside the Mansion's doors, and effectively back inside of his communication range with his fellow X-Man.
Slate was trying not to think of where the letter was. In an outbox at the college, waiting only to be picked up? In the back of a delivery van, coming closer by the hour?
Katrina was smart, beautiful, and talented. People gathered around her, and she made their lives better simply by being who she was. That she would get into any college she so chose was a given; her worry on the subject was simply part of the unselfconscious innocence that made her who she was.
Was it in a sitting at a sorting station in Wisconsin, paused between the legs of its journey? Had it arrived at the Mansion as they departed, giving them this last day together before it reached her hands?
She had applied to NYU, of course. Most seniors at the Mansion did; the ones who even considered a four-year degree as a possibility for their kind. NYU had a good reputation for liberal minded students and professors. 'Liberal minded' being the code words that college-bound mutants used to mean 'they might accept me.' She had applied to NYU, but it was not where she wanted to go. It was, as they say, her 'fallback' school.
Where she really wanted to go—where she dreamed of going as they talked about the future while sprawled on her floor, homework spread out between them; where she had been destined to go, since they had first found the Blackbird in the Mansion's basement, and since a young Americky peelowt had marched onto an airbase in Serbia—was the United States Air Force Academy. 2304 Cadet Drive, No. 324. Air Force Academy, CO 80840.
Colorado.
She would get in; of course she would. He did not need to know their other applicants to know that she was above and beyond them in courage, experience, and those leadership qualities which their application had so highly stressed. She was everything they wanted. They would accept her, and she would go. Four years.
She was everything he wanted; he would not hold her back. Maybe he would find a job down the road; assistant to a grumpy mechanic. Maybe he would find a little apartment to rent, and she would visit on the weekends. The four years would go by in a blur; she would move on and up, and he would move with her.
Or maybe she wished to move to Colorado for a reason. 1,800 miles was a long way from New York: from mutant gangs, from sewers and green-eyed men, from old boyfriends. Maybe a blank slate was what she wanted in her life.
He would not know until he asked. There was so little time left, to ask. The letter was on its way, and so was she.
"...Oh. Yes, the P-4," he said, blinking at the latest plane in front of him as she came to a breathless stop, his arm (and, by extension, the rest of him) in tow. "That came after the... P-3, did it not? I assume it was quite the improvement."
He did not know much about air planes. He didn't even care for them that much, truth be told. But Katrina did. This is what she wanted, so this is what he gave her. Acquiring tickets had been somewhat... ethically bothersome, but Katrina was in the alarming habit of not questioning too deeply when he did these things. She took it for granted that he could step up as the CEO of a company, and step down just as suddenly; that foreign nations occasionally had much different headlines after he visited them than before. Tickets to a museum opening where such a little thing in comparison; what need to question?
He frowned slightly at the demonstrators outside on the airstrip. There had been more and more things like that, since that young Mansion girl had been arrested by the police. Their concerns were valid; what had happened to her was a tragic misunderstanding. He could not help but think that their methods lacked in... effectiveness however. A demonstration at a museum opening? Yes, many of the attendees were high ranking in politics, business, or some other field; yes, 'high ranking' did tend to overlap with certain other connotations, as well. When someone in the public eye spoke on the subject of mutants, the media soon made their views known. Maybe some here did hold views that he, Katrina, and those protestors would find objectionable. That was not the point, however. The point was: a protest at the opening of a museum?
This was not a question of right and wrong; this was a mere matter of efficacy. If Slate had been in charge of the protest movement, he—
But that was rather a dangerous course of thought, for the former Kabal Leader. He had once told Tarin Brooks that he had changed his mind about changing the world. That had not been entirely true. He had realized that changing the world—how he had been changing the world—was something he could not share with Katrina. Not how he had been doing it. His methods had been quick, and they had been effective, but they had been nothing he could tell to Katrina Dumonde as she shared with him her own dreams of the future. That was how he knew he had been doing something wrong.
Her hand pressed against his. He looked down, and smiled. "I am glad that you like it."
They walked around the new exhibits further. That is: she pulled, and he followed contently in her wake. Everything seemed strangely new, and strangely old: each plane lovingly restored, repainted, and positioned under its own spot lights so it shone. The gold in her dress flashed as they moved between eras; now to 1913, now to 1979, and back in time again. A voice came over the new PA system, reminding them all of the special demonstration that would begin at 5 on the airfield. Slate discretely snuck the top of his blackberry from his pocket; 4:30. As he slipped it back in, his fingers brushed against the top of a velvet box which had spent several months sharing that space.
"Shall we go out early? See the planes. Before they take off." He knew he was nervous; his grammar was slipping.
They were not the only ones with that idea, but the airstrip was still a quieter place than the museum's inside. Not all of the pilots had even made their way to their planes, yet; many were still by the building's side, sharing stories. Slate recognized the gentleman with the scarred face from earlier, admiring an old bomber. He seemed too dignified to acknowledge the chants being thrown at him from beyond the air field's fence, as the protestors continued with their quaint and ineffectual venting.
Slate, too, did his best to ignore them. It was not perfect out here—but when was it ever perfect? He had spent so long waiting for that elusive moment to come, that he was close to missing it entirely.
"Isn't that the same model you used to fly?" He asked, for once being the one to draw her along, towards a small WWI era plane. "What is it called, again?"
That wasn't what he really wanted to ask her.
"Kat—" He cleared his throat, and began again. "Katrina, there is something I have been wanting to speak with you about. I hope you will consider my proposal—" His heart was beating at a most unpleasant pace; it was almost a roar in his ears. "That is, would you do me the honor of—"
His words were drowned out by a very real, very near roar, of the non-internal variety.
"Of course," Slate echoed. And then, to complete the effect, once more: Of course.
There were always good reasons. Slate himself had once been very good at finding them. His good reasons, of course, had actually been good. They had served a higher purpose; had hurt only a necessary minimum in their pursuit, and maximized the reward for the ones who survived. His reasons had been well researched and factually based.
His reasons had never included paranoia over a healer unicorn who ran a soup kitchen, nor had his methods included threatening someone with his mother. The Kabal's former leader had certain bounds.
"This is the guidance office," Slate stated in a neutral monotone. "Gemma Taylor is our counselor; she is not here right now." Witness her empty chair. "She can help you with your class schedule later, and any placement testing your require. For now, we can leave your luggage here until we can procure your room key from the security office."
"Is there anywhere in particular you would like to see on your tour?" He asked.
"There may be more to it," Slate replied, "but that does not preclude that the island is thinking. In fact, it is thinking more clearly than you are, Lodestone."
This was true, and the dazed telepath saw no reason not to point it out. The magnetic manipulator's mind was very... static-y, like an old radio out of tune. He had never quite encountered something like it before.
He was glad for Locke's backing on this issue. The earth manipulator felt it too; he wondered if Jorge did, as well, but could not currently read the man. He was having a bit of... trouble focusing, just now.
"Oh, the volcano?" He blinked, as the redhead continued talking. "Mabaodi says the volcano is going to erupt. Soon. It will be... a large one, I believe."
If the island did not want them going up there, that implied that they stood some chance of stopping it. This was not a natural eruption, any more than the island had naturally turned against them all. Slate gave himself another moment to rest, then wobbled his way back to his feet.
"I should accompany the mountain team. Mabaodi does not want us going up there; they will face the heaviest resistance, once it realizes that we have broken into teams. A healer is most useful while injuries are still treatable."
Not that he was particularly eager to get close to another volcanic eruption. Was this going to happen on all of his missions with the X-Men?
Sometimes, Slate wished for a more offensive mutation. There was the incident where his arm had been blown off by a disgruntled employee; then the stabbing by a drug lord's minion in Colombia; then the fiasco with Kaitlyn on their Valentine's Day date, among other things. Granted that his healing had rendered these experiences less traumatic than they would have otherwise been, but the fact remained: sometimes, Slate wished for a more offensive mutation. Perhaps then, he would not need his healing in the first place.
A coconut hit his elbow, where he was protecting his head. Another hit his shoulder. And then Saphirus was punching a baboon, while a boar charged from the bush towards him, and there was no one there to stand between him and it. Jumping out of the way would not do very much good; if he did, he'd be in reach of the trees which were tenderizing the ground just a few feet away. It was a simple calculation: the boar's tusks might gut him, but the trees might give him a concussion. One of these states was far more perilous than the other, to a man who healed with his mind.
Slate braced himself as the wild pig rushed forwards—
Oh, good. Saphirus threw an angry chipmunk into its eyes. With a snort of surprise, it veered off course, directly into the trees. The result was like pork chops, undercooked.
...Perhaps Saphirus had more strategical abilities than Slate had credited him with.
>> “ Sslate any chance you can take a pssychic look around the issland for angry animal manipulatorss?
"Regrettably, I require direct physical contact before I am able to—"
Slate's explanation was rudely cut short by a coconut to the face. He fell backwards, bracing himself with his hands as he hit the ground.
For the first time, Slate came into skin-to-earth contact with the island.
Mabaodi was pleased. These new pests were more hardy than the others had been—they had even turned parts of Maboadi's earth and Maboadi's water against Mabaodi. But it would not be very long. Maboadi's trees and animals would keep them by the shore; they would not reach Maboadi's summit. Nothing would interfere with Maboadi's growth.
Already Maboadi grew warm; already steam and smoke showed from the center of Maboadi's heart. Soon fire would boil up and over, and trees and animals and pests would all be gone. It would be good.
...Slate blinked upwards. It was not just Saphirus, now: everyone was nearby. Except for Jorge. All around them was sky. Why...? Oh. No, that was water.
Oh. That was Jorge.
"I regret to inform you all," Slate groggily spoke up, "that this island is alive. And thinking in the third person."
Slate's theory of how to stabilize the sand transferred well into practice. Both Locke and Jorge proved highly competent with their powers, to the point where those of the party incapable of convenient flight were able to pull their way free of the sand, and onto somewhat more stable grounds.
His theory of the quicksand's origins, however, may have been... based on incomplete and hastily acquired information. Unless Saphirus had hit the island hard enough to upset all of its animal residents, the quicksand likely was not his fault, either.
These things Slate observed, from very close behind Saphirus ' back, as the man punched pigs.
I believe I owe you an apology, he stated simply into the man's mind, during the lull between the boars' charge and the start of the... coconuts.
Slate covered his head with his arms, and ran. It seemed very wise to stay as close to Saphirus as possible. The man seemed very good at what he did.
Koga, where is the site of the village? Slate broadcast to the entire party. Shelter would, perhaps, be wise to seek. We can plan our next move from there.
And see what had become of the missing villagers. Though Slate had a theory about that now, as well. He hoped he was wrong.
...Yes. People did remember those kinds of injuries. Even if they got better, and even if they had been apologized to most sincerely. After the running, of course.
Slate had organized bombings, attacks on military bases, and set himself up as a drug lord, yet he had never come quite so close to being arrested as for aiding and abetting property damage.
"It would be better if you did not," Slate stated levelly. He set her suitcase down on the entry rug, and closed the door behind them. With the greatest of sensitivity to her mutational condition, he refrained from sighing. Though it would have felt appropriate at this juncture.
"...However, it would certainly not be the first time that an accident occurred. To my knowledge, the Mansion has burned down twice, and been the site of neural bombings and mass hallucinations, among other things. You are not the most dangerous person here. The Mansion exists to teach responsible control in a non-judgmental environment."
"Extorting your fellow residents into using their powers unjustly is frowned upon, however."
People remembered those kinds of things, as well. Slate picked up her suitcase again, and led the way up the central staircase.
"Come this way. We can leave your luggage in the guidance office."
((ooc: Anyone who wants the thoughts Slate heard revised/removed, just shoot me a PM!))
Slate did not know very many people on this team. In fact, he knew exactly one: Detective Cervantes. They had worked together on Slate's other mission, to another island. It had been brief. Both the mission, and the working together.
However, he was rapidly learning about those around him.
Locke, for instance, was terrified of flying. It was like a persistent itch at the back of Slate's mind, that made him wonder for their structural stability.
Do not worry, Slate stated, for Locke's mind only. The Blackbird is an exceptionally safe aircraft. The last time I went on a mission, it lost one engine in midair, but we were still able to land in relative safety. Besides, we are not even landing in the jet: we are parachuting. I am sure the jet will be fine.
He himself always found tangible, practical examples to provide the best reassurance.
Rebecca had no such technical concerns, though her own inexperience seemed to make her more hesitant than she had need to be. She had an ability useful for offense, defense, and leaping from moving aircraft: in short, she would be fine. (...Though he did not quite catch what she meant to imply, with her fleeting thought about 'Australia-level animals.')
Koga was prepared to the point of being unnecessarily so. Slate found this agreeable.
Cervantes viewed both himself and Saphirus with vague tinges of recognition, beyond knowing them as teammates. Perhaps being an officer of the law made one... what was the polite phrase? Paranoid.
Or so Slate would have assumed, if he did not have a certain doppleganger running around the city wearing his face, and if Saphirus had not more than recognized Jorge.
>> You saw.
Yes. Yes, he did. It had been a very loud thought, from a very loud mind.
>> What now, then?
'What now'...? Slate parroted with a blink, speaking only in Saphirus' mind. Ah, you refer to blackmail. That is a good point.
Slate took moment to consider this privately, idly pulling on the straps of the parachute that someone had handed him; then, just slightly, he nodded to himself. He had come to the only reasonable conclusion.
My apologies, but I fear I do not have time to properly consider my terms for you now. Can we delay this discussion until after the mission?
Also:
...Do you know how to put a parachute on?
----
Quicksand.
A natural phenomenon, prone to occurring wherever a fine substrate—such as sand—was saturated with water. Such as from an ocean. Given such a state, a sudden agitation or shock can initiate liquefaction of the mixture.
Quicksand.
Slate squiggled his way free of the colorful silk that had descended upon his head, and turned resigned baby blue eyes towards Saphirus. The man who had punched their super-saturated landing point.
"Officer Cervantes, if you could dry the ground somewhat, I suspect Locke would be able to stabilize it for the rest of us," the telepath took pains to say outloud, his gaze still on Saphirus.
You remind me of a subordinate I once had, he stated dryly, for the Judge's mind only.
The subordinate in question could only be trusted with smashing missions, and did not wash his hands after using the bathroom. Giant's Bane was not a role model to aspire to.
"For those with a non-standard educational background, there are placement tests to determine grade levels. Calley had to do them, when we first came. Calley and I," Slate corrected. As separate people, he and Calley naturally would have both taken these tests. Separately.
"Depending on your prior learning, you may not end up placed in the same level for all classes. I was placed significantly higher in mathematics. Do you have a subject area you favor?"
Psychology, perhaps? Unfortunately, 'manipulation' had yet to be split into its own field of study at the Mansion. Perhaps that was different at the Sanctuary; she had certainly displayed a certain finesse for it on their auction date.
In his capacity as Greeter—not to be confused as his capacity of 'one night paid-for boyfriend'—Slate held the door open for Kaitlyn.
The Mansion looked large and regal from the outside.
Her reasons were logical enough. Multitudinous enough, as well. Also, it really did appear that she was alone here: there was not even anyone to help with her luggage. As her mother was not the most subtle of individuals, he found it safe to assume that Lori Faust was not hiding behind any of the lawn's shrubs.
"Your 'stuff'? Ah. I suppose that would be appropriate," he assented, tucking the folder under one arm, and taking the handle of the suitcase from her.
It was also appropriate, in his trusted role as Mansion Greeter, to carry on their conversation as they continued up the walk to the doors.
"Is this your first visit to the Mansion?" He inquired. "How long do you indeed to stay?"
"Slate Swartz," the blue-eyed Italian said, extending his hand to each of them in turn. He made sure each of them shook it, no matter how long he had to hold it in front of them, quietly meeting their gaze. If anyone still chose not to, well. That would be poor team work.
"I am a healer. Physical injuries only, so please try not to become poisoned. It would be inconvenient." He stated, his voice a calmly explanatory monotone.
I am a 'physic healer,' as it were. His introduction continued, inside of the skulls of those who had shaken his hand. You should all be able to communicate with me now, within approximately a mile's radius. Simply think very loudly with me in mind, and I should hear. Unless I am incapacitated.
"As I have minimal successful field combat experience, I will be relying upon the rest of you should a fight occur. I thank you in advance. Please do not worry about protecting me, however—I am fairly durable."
The mission was an intriguing one to him, particularly in its lack of structure—the senior X-Men had not left any of the trainees in command over the others. This was clearly something they intended the trainees themselves to work out, before touching ground; another part of the graduation test.
While Slate was not the most experienced as an X-trainee, he did like to humor himself that he knew something about Faction leadership. As such, he considered himself an ideal candidate for this position.
A true leader, however, had no need to come out and say what they were: a true leader simply made everything fall into place.
"Have we considered our first course of action?" He asked. "Koga, how feasible do you think it is for us to land near the site of the village?"
The young lizard's perusal of the aerial terrain had not escaped his notice. Koga would not be a bad candidate for leadership himself, in a few years. He had yet to learn the powers of delegation.
Slate himself had brought a light backpack containing water, food, a Swiss army knife, and his Blackberry. Also, he carried with him a telepathic link to Katrina in New York City. The key problem on this island was its halt in communication with the outside world; that should not be a problem, with him around.
....As Katrina was taking her SAT exam today, however, he would try not to distract her with trivial matters.
Slate did not squirm: he simply contracted, like a caterpillar that was not expecting to be poked. His shoulders found his head to be closer than before; his elbows and his ribcage, likewise. His hands more firmly gripped the folder protecting his chest.
"That is an inaccurate term to describe our acquaintanceship," Slate stated calmly. "I would prefer if you called me Slate." Especially once they were inside of the building. While Katrina had been quite understanding about their "date"—she had been the one to arrange the auction, after all—she was still... a woman. Women could be illogical on occasion, particularly with regards to sensitive social standings.
"I am your Mansion Greeter." Slate said. "This is what Greeters wear."
...Wasn't it? He looked down at his suit, and his loafers.
"...Why are you at the Mansion?" He asked. This is what was known as a 'redirect.'
Slate was beginning to understand what different clothing items signaled. In fact, he believed he was developing quite an expertise in the area.
A gray suit, bought at a mid-range price, said I feel that you are an important person to meet, but am not trying to intimidate you with clothing far superior to your own.
A blue shirt underneath added a bold color, clearly communicating I am an open and trustworthy individual; you are in good hands.
Black loafers stated, I also have a casual side. Our probability of becoming friends is high based upon data I have collected concerning loafer-wearing men in my approximate age group.
He carried, of course, the usual paperwork: map, registration papers, roommate matching questionnaire, power destructiveness survey, etceteras. He had slipped all of it into a clean new folder with an Xavier's Sister School for Gifted and Talented Youngsters pen, for the convenience of their new resident. He had put this all together with less than a half hour's warning—the regularly scheduled tour guide for this afternoon had, unfortunately, been turned into a pile of sentient slime during a particularly lively Danger Room session, and was last seen sulking in the ventilation system. Given the short time frame, he was quite pleased with the results he had been able to produce. The new student would no doubt feel optimally welcome.
He opened the front door, and strode with a proper degree of ease and a well regulated smile to greet—
"Kaitlyn."
Slate's feet ceased moving of their own accord as he recognized the girl coming towards him. She was carrying a metal briefcase, a backpack, a suitcase—luggage. Why was she carrying luggage?
Ah. Of course.
"You are the new student."
In the future, he must inquire the name of any new student he was to greet. The importance of such had just been qualitatively highlighted.
"...Did your mother bring you?"
He clutched his carefully prepared folder to his chest; this said the correct answer is 'No.'
