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.
"I believe you misunderstand me," the telepath said out loud, startled by her vehemence. Like Gwendolyn, however, he found that eating a gyro was non-conducive to regular speech.
Having been kidnapped, injured, and killed in the past, the young Italian listed, as if speaking of his shopping list, I have found it a general convenience and timesaver to have people around who are willing to extradite me from certain... unfortunate situations.
Was 'extradite' the right word? Hmm. He would need to look into that later. For now, he continued:
Naturally, the matter is up to you. I can only recommend, from past experience, that having dependable minions can be useful.
...No, 'minions' was definitely not the proper choice. It did not even sound like a word he would use: that was more of Calley's vernacular. Where had that come from? Never mind that he was no longer in that line of business.
That is to say, allies.
Better.
"This is quite good," Slate said, forgetting not to talk with his mouth full.
Additionally, though I have not yet found the limits of my range, I assure you that it goes beyond Manhattan.
"Well," Slate stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world, "then I will be that person."
Since you do not live far from the Mansion, I should be able to hear you if you call me. If you do not check in for some time, I will search for you. It should be a convenient arrangement for both of us.
Katrina could help him remember. He was certain she would support his keeping in regular contact with a young woman he had just met on the street. She needed help, after all.
That issue settled in his mind, Slate turned his attention to his plate.
A lamb gyro seemed to be a subset of 'wrap,' or possibly of 'taco'—the bread was soft and thick, and did not quite encase its contents. Said contents seemed to consist of cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and enough meat to nearly equal the lamb he had ordered. It was... a very large food item.
"What is the proper approach to eating a gyro?" The young Italian asked, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.
Belatedly, a thought occurred to him.
...I tend to be prone to confinement, myself. Colombia came to mind. Also, Romania. And he had been killed now. Twice. By blonde women, both times—never had he been so relieved to dine with a brunette.
Perhaps it would be better if you returned to the Mansion with me. You do not need to take up residence there if you do not wish to, of course, but creating a larger network may increase your safety.
He had heard that eyes were the window into the soul. It was not a phrase he understood well. Eyes were simply wet orbs; predominantly white, with a colored iris, and a black pupil which contracted and expanded primarily due to lightning conditions. Granted that internal factors such as emotions or, say, cerebral hemorrhaging could also influence them, but for the most part... Slate found eyes rather inscrutable. She seemed to be making an effort to hold his gaze; he returned the gesture, hoping that this was one of the times when it was socially appropriate to do so. Staring is rude, he had heard, but just as commonly, people who don't make eye contact are shifty.
If there was one thing Slate did not wish to be, it was shifty, so he held her gaze.
Something in his shoulders relaxed when she continued.
>> Listen...
And so he did. When she was done, she turned her eyes away; he appreciated this, since it meant he could consider what she had said without worrying that he was being shifty, rude, or soul-exploratory.
Thirteen. If she had been thirteen when she ran away, she had been even younger when they had started using her. "Bought" rather ruled out her return to her parents, even if the fact she had spent the past few years on the street had not provided a large clue in that regard.
It seems to me, Slate stated after a moment, that if these people have continued to pursue you, then what you need are people who care about you enough to notice if you go missing again. Do you have anyone like that?
Meanwhile, their food arrived. If Mr. Kostopoulos noticed how quiet the two young people were being, he was tactful enough not to comment on it.
Slate readjusted his tie. It was teal: he had bought it a few weeks back, in preparation. It was her favorite color.
...But was it, perhaps, a bit too formal? He scrutinized his reflection. The suit was necessary, of course—what else was there to wear? His school clothes? His pajamas? The suit had been an easy matter to decide. From there, the tie had seemed natural, in his mind. Now that he saw it in place, however...
7:03 AM.
Yes, the scarf was definitely better: its warm gray length provided just the right balance of informality. Also, it felt very comforting around his neck: very familiar. He set the tie to the side for the last time, resolutely.
...Or was it too informal?
7:27 AM
It had taken longer than anticipated to get ready. However, he was still confident of catching Katrina before class. So long as he maintained a steady pace down the corridor. While this was not an ideal moment for the question he had in mind, there did not seem to ever be an ideal moment. He simply had to—what was the phrase?—"man up."
She was outside of her bedroom, a book under her arm, shutting the door carefully down to the narrow crack she always left it at. Good. That meant he did not have to knock. Knocking... knocking sometimes did not happen. He had tried that last week; he had put on his suit and stood outside of her door with his hand raised.
Today, that barrier had clearly been lifted. It was meant to be. It was going to happen. Today. This morning. Now. He would ask her.
Slate hurried his step until he was along side of her, smoothing down his teal tie as he went. He was not sure what greeting he offered her, or what she returned; his heart was beating too loudly in his ears to hear. He slipped a hand into his pocket, his fingers settling lightly over the ring box.
"Katrina," He started, drawing in a deep breath, "We need more toothpaste. Will you—"
He had thought the cacophony of murmurs in her mind was bad enough.
As it turned out, her own thoughts were quite capable of being just as rapid, just as overlapping, and thirty-two times as loud. The telepath cringed slightly back from her where he sat. Logically, he knew the two extra inches of space between them would not amount to much. Equally logically, he knew that running out the door was neither socially acceptable nor conducive to conversation.
"You do not have much practice keeping thoughts to yourself, do you?" He asked.
I am very poor at keeping the thoughts of others out. As you seem equally poor at keeping your own thoughts in, it might be best for both of us if you told me calmly who is trying to chase you, and why. I assure you, if I worked for the people you fear, I would be their most incompetent employee.
Slate knew a thing or two about incompetent employees, and so could easily recognize the signs.
"May I inquire as to why?" The telepath said, his head tilted slightly in confusion over her own confusion. He had thought it was a very clear question, and she had certainly given a very clear answer: so...
Why was that answer so hesitant?
Slate thought a little too loudly, sometimes.
"As I understand it, being without home or steady income source is generally deemed... inconvenient. Have you done it for very long?"
...How does one bathe regularly when living on the streets?
Sometimes thinking loudly could lead to... slight indiscretions.
I am glad we were able to reach an agreement on our mutual romantic feelings. Or their mutual lack thereof, as the case may be. It certainly set a clear and simple foundation for their relationship.
...Though he did not know quite what she meant by 'naive.' He had made great strides in maturity recently. He had even held a blue-collar job with success for an entire year.
"I will have a lamb yeer-oh," Slate stated pronounced properly, when it was time to give their orders. "And a glass of water. No ice, please." Ice took up space that water could be filling. He was never entirely certain of the purpose of ice.
"Do you intend to keep living in your... current accommodations," the telepath stated tactfully, after he had handed his menu over, "or do you have higher aspirations?"
...Not to untactfully imply that living on the street was not a high aspiration.
He stopped running, with a panicked girl beating ineffectually at his invisible side.
Katrina, drop all your illusions, now. The telepath ordered. I will take care of things, and be at your side shortly.
There wasn't a distinct direction to look, to locate the control room; he knew that somewhere past the illusions was a window through which Shin was observing them, but he could not see it for himself, and he would not ask Katrina to see it for him. He settled on looking vaguely ahead.
Shin, Katrina is reaching her limits for illusions. It would be unwise to push her further for the purposes of a simple tryout. In the field, our team would be moving to evacuate her and allow the police to finish with things, I feel.
This was to say: Stop the simulation.
Which was, perhaps, somewhat of an authoritative tone for a trainee to take. Not even a trainee: a trainee applicant.
Please, he amended.
As soon as the holograms faded, he would make good on his promise, and rejoin Katrina by her side. Until the illusions faded from her eyes and the silver walls of the Danger Room returned, he would have to help her see. It was something they had practiced many nights in Serbia, when Tibetan winters and mass graves encroached on the darkness of their one-bedroom apartment.
...Going to think it was him. Yes. Yes, Slate was already encountering that. The man's profuse monologue as he swatted blackbirds from his face was not child appropriate. In fact, it made Slate wonder, idly, just who had programmed such vocabulary into the system, and whether people really spoke that way in real life.
Also: how did Katrina know what an exploding crow looked like? The orange lines traced over their feathered bodies in a brief, fragmented light before... before the illusionist's attention to detail rained down around them all. It was reminiscent of a dragon's death, really, albeit on a much smaller scale.
There were many things going on around him. He needed to focus.
He has black hair and a snake tattoo on his neck. He is the one trying to kill the other male and female in the alleyway.
This was a description she could give to the officers. Concise and highly accurate.
"Daddy, I'm sorry! Daddy--!"
"A little late for that, baby cakes," the man hissed, advancing in a shower of black feathers.
Advancing towards Slate, to be specific. That is, the one being protected by the crows. Therefore, likely their origin. Slate would have come to the same conclusion in the man's shoes.
...I am going to try running to the end of the alleyway, and taking the girl with me. Could you please create illusion doubles for us both which remain in our current locations? If you could provide muting on any protests she has for these actions, that would also be appreciated.
'Mr. Kostopoulos' involved an interesting arrangement of letters. Slate tried it out on his tongue, silently, attempting not to be too obvious about it.
"Yeur-oh." Another intriguing set of sounds. This one, he practiced out loud, with her permission. "Yeer-oh. Is that correct?" There were other items on the menu, but none which were quite as phonically challenging. He would have to order a yeer-oh. With lamb: she had mentioned lamb outside, and indeed, that option was listed. If people ate baby sheep, presumably it was because they tasted good. He would test this hypothesis.
Just to be clear, Slate discretely spoke, after her father figure had gone back to the counter, I harbor no romantic intentions towards you. I do not mean to imply that you are unattractive—I simply have prior engagements.
Or he would, as soon as he asked for Katrina's hand. He was simply... waiting for the proper moment.
A slight flush crept up the Italian's cheeks as he diligently stared at his menu.
This was not the real world. As all-encompassing as the Danger Room's illusions were to someone who could not see through them, this was not real. The shaking girl in front of him, picking herself up from the ground—not real. The beaten expression on her face as her eyes focused behind him—likewise.
Now that their illusion doubles were gone, the Danger Room was free to target them. Or rather, the only one of them it could see. They were playing against the computer, and it was not programmed to lose.
"Look at you, girl," the baritone voice said, his voice low and understanding tone. "Face all dirty. Clothes a mess. You see what you make me do?"
"Daddy, stop!" The girl sobbed, as orange lines quietly crept towards her along the alley's walls, and the pavement under their feet. "I'll come home! I promise I'll never leave you again!"
...I believe I have found him. If you could kindly rally the police on my position or otherwise orchestrate immediate backup, that would be... advisable.
Slate entered the restaurant, wondering if it was proper to have the lady hold the door for him. Even if she was a rather tattered, part-time mugger lady.
"...So my nickname is 'Rich Boy'?"
Or was it 'Silly Rich Boy'? Some things, even Slate feared to ask.
He did not quite know how to classify the spices and scents he was smelling. Vegetarian, it was certainly not. He made sure to reach their table before her, and pull out her chair: this helped atone for her beating him to the door.
"I was not precisely born rich." ...To say nothing of his age. "Is there a manner in which I should be acting?"
What is a giro? Slate asked, pronouncing the menu item as it had clearly been intended. Like a gyroscope, correct?
The girl's legs were not injured. This became abundantly clear as Slate attempted to catch up with her.
The Mansion offered a Conditioning class, did it not? Katrina was in it. Perhaps he should consider signing up as well, or asking for special sessions with Sam. The volume of his breathing seemed somewhat disproportionate to the amount of time he had spent sprinting.
The girl came to an abrupt halt at the end of the alley, just before it let out onto the next street. "Who's there?" She demanded, wheeling around. She edged another step further away; her shoulder brushed against the brick wall. A latticework of glowing red lines spread out from the point. "If you don't show yourself, I swear, I'll—I'll just bury you, is what I'll do!"
Slate... could hear his own breathing. Which meant that the girl could, as well. Ah. Apparently Katrina had not anticipated his being this out of shape, either. While he appreciated her confidence in him, it was not always convenient.
...Could you please drop my invisibility illusion? It may be counter-productive in this instance.
He had his hands sedately raised over his head when the illusion dropped. Nonetheless, the girl gasped, and the red lines pulsed more brightly.
"...I would appreciate not being buried," he stated mildly, in what he hoped was a calming tone of voice.
The girl frowned. "You're... that healer, right? Why did you... why did you follow me? It's dangerous. To be near me." She was still clutching her injured arm to her chest; there were tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
...Perhaps it would have been best if Katrina had followed her, instead. Other women... knew how to respond to such things with delicacy. He would simply have to do his best.
"I know a place that can help," he attempted, hands still in the air.
"What...?"
"With your power. We can help you get your power under control, so that these accidents—"
Her ashen face glowed with each pulse from the red lines. "You... you think I...? No! I—I wouldn't—it was him! He's dangerous! You all need to leave!"
Her words were an echo of the red woman's.
The second explosion, from back in the cafe's direction, was no such thing. The shock wave slapped Slate and the girl to the ground. His head rang.
...I believe our perpetrator is male, Katrina. ...Katrina?
>> "But like you just said...we did so much good.... You did change the world though, and you changed people."
More students were pilling into the small cafe; there was a chattering line at the counter, and the seats around them were filling up.
Slate met his former employee's gaze. "I am aware of that. What I am not entirely clear on is the long-term efficacy of my actions."
I went back in time, Tarin. With Katrina. We were trapped there for a year. I... did not expect to see any of you again.
"It is not that I am giving up my goals: it is simply that I feel it is time for me to learn more, before attempting to influence global affairs again. There are important things in this city, too. You have Lee and your child. I have Katrina."
We are going to be married.
"I encourage you to do what you think you must," the young Italian stated. That was what the Kabal had always been about.
Not 'a' school uptown: 'that' school uptown. "Oh. Does he attend Xavier's? I have a residence there, though I attend college elsewhere." His technical college did not offer dormitories; even if they had, their dorms would not have offered Katrina.
So you do mug people? Were you... really going to mug me?
They neared the restaurant. Its sign was somewhat faded, but still readable; its windows somewhat fogged, but they looked in on a shop that appeared well tended. The smell was... intriguing. Slate had never eaten a lamb, to his knowledge.
>> "You know the more you talk the more you confuse me you silly rich boy."
Blink. The young Italian tilted his head. "I confuse you?"
