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.
...That was not how he sounded. Those were certainly words he would have chosen, but that was not how he sounded. His voice had more... had a certain... was not so—
This was not the time to raise such a topic.
The police have been contacted, the real Slate stated, slipping back to Katrina's side. They estimate their arrival time as five minutes. Given that our suspect has no way of knowing that, however, might I advise...
Katrina obliged. Four minutes and thirty seconds ahead of schedule, the sound of sirens and squealing tires converged on the cafe. The woman's redness spread further: to her arms, her hands. Dark crimson fissures began to trace up their lengths as—
--As one of the victims started edging discretely away behind the backs of their illusionary selves, clutching her arm to her chest as she disappeared into a side street.
...I believe I will follow her, Slate said, eying the girl.
When he glanced back at the main scene, there were tentacles. An unnecessary surplus of tentacles, really.
"I suppose that is a no," his illusionary self was saying.
...Slate made no comment. He slipped off in pursuit of the injured girl, leaving Katrina in charge of his other self.
"Now," Slate said simply, replying to the thought where they could all hear it. "I will attempt to fix our electrical system. If we can restore communications, we can arrange a rescue for ourselves and proper transportation for our... transportation."
It was difficult to state that matter delicately, with the Blackbird's tattered wing glinting red in the sunset.
There was a basic toolbox in the X-Jet. A screwdriver; flat headed. A hammer. Pliers. A level, an adjustable wrench, and a tape measure. It did have wire cutters: he would grant it that.
As the light outside the jet faded, casting its interior in shades of grey, Slate took one look at the philips head screws holding the console together and stated, quite mildly,
"We should determine sleeping arrangements. Primarily: inside or outside?"
Slate voted for inside. The seats came in rows of two. As there was only one blanket, it was reasonable for Mirror to have it while he and Katrina shared body heat. A simple and logical arrangement.
Slate blinked at Gwen curiously. "Is... being known at a restaurant important? I do not believe I am known at any." Except, perhaps, one Chinese restaurant; but he was known mostly through association with a certain Sara Nobes, not in his own right.
"I have never had Greek food," he said. Though... wasn't Sebastian from Greece originally? What was it that he usually ate? Ah, yes. "Is it... mostly vegetarian?" He hazarded a guess.
So long as it was not like Japanese, then it could not be too intimidating of a cuisine.
Do you have nothing to go home to, then? He added, following a rather different strand of their conversation. I did not have much until recently. Perhaps I could help?
"Something of the sort," Slate replied. "I was... quite young at the time. I did not understand what I was doing, or what I would encounter when I did."
Old Larry had taken good care of him, however. Or, at least, good care of the wolfhound who had suddenly imposed itself into his life. Though he was not entirely convinced that the man hadn't known what he really was. Old Larry had been... somewhat difficult to read, even for a psychic. Perhaps, especially for a psychic.
They were entering slightly more hospitable streets now; many of the buildings were still run down, many of the people looked likewise, but there was a livelier air—a sense that these people were making the best of what they had. Particularly some of the restaurants.
Grr grump. Grrru...
A slight red flush crept up Slate's cheeks.
"Would you like to have lunch? It would be my treat, of course. I... believe that I would benefit from sitting down." From eating, as well. His stomach was stating this point with the usual refinement of such organs.
Is it because you enjoy the freedom? I know someone like that.
Slate following Katrina out onto the sand to see up close what they already knew. Unlike the other wing, this one was not still smoking; there was not enough of it left to smoke. "It will be all right, Katrina," he promised softly. "I will heal it. It is what I do."
...Though he might have to take a few more classes first, or enquire with his teachers as to the name of a good pro bono airplane mechanic. The Mansion certainly had a budget for the X-Jet's fuel and basic upkeep, but he did not believe they had volcano insurance.
"We should determine if there are settlements on this island," he suggested. "I... do not believe I saw any human habitations from the air, though I admit to being somewhat distracted at the time."
Somewhat.
"We can search for a food and water sources at the same time," he added. As for shelter... the X-Jet was not going anywhere. Somewhat belatedly, he added: "...At least, I would suggest so. What do you think, Maya?"
As acting Team Leader, she was his superior. He was... not yet adjusted to being a subordinate officer.
In the distance, heavy black plumes were rising up from a volcano they could no longer see, rapidly obscuring the thin black trail left by their own descent.
Slate slipped an arm around Katrina's shoulders, where he could just see the faintest trace of the girl under the illusion. She felt solid enough, and warm.
We will do better this time, he told her simply. This time. It was, perhaps, a more literal phrase than usual. In past and future, they had... not done so well as initially hoped. All they had left was the present. They would do better this time.
Slate released her from the hug, and followed her directions at a silent run. In the arcade; the back door, off of the main street and down the side alley, behind a dumpster. The promised phone awaited him inside. The building was strangely silent and strangely loud all at once; the machines still called out with their distinctive sound effects, but the people they were trying to lure in had seemingly scattered when the explosion had occurred.
911 was a number even a five year old could remember.
"There has been an explosion. Yes. I am X-Trainee Slate Swartz; I am at the scene with my teammate Katrina Dumond. We will attempt to keep civilians from approaching until the police arrive. No; we have yet to confirm mutant involvement—we were simply in the area when it occurred. Yes. Thank you."
The Danger Room's dispatcher was apparently versed in the fact that some X-Men had been deputized. Fortunately, she had not asked if he was one of them. The deputized X-Men had no doubt received special training that any responding officers would assume he had also been given. He... hoped that would not become an issue, in this simulation. If they made the team, Slate would take steps to ensure that he was not simply letting emergency workers make dubious assumptions.
Outside, the running woman's face was red as she approached the illusionary blonde.
"Dangerous? Of course it's dangerous! What are you doing here? You need to leave! All of you, anyone who can walk—now!"
>> "So why are you handing out money up here anyway? Guilt?"
"Yes," the young man replied simply, approximately a half-block after Gwen had asked her question. "...I believe I can walk on my own, now. Thank you." He gave this a tentative try, easing himself off of her shoulder. Yes: yes, he could walk. He would not like to attempt running any time soon, but walking was again manageable.
As they waited for the lights to change at block's end, he replied more fully.
I lived on the streets as well, for a short time. It was when I was very young. There was a man who was my friend. I could not help him.
That is when he had learned to heal others. And when he had learned that he could not heal death.
"Was there danger?" He asked, as the crosswalk sign lit up. "Where you lived before?"
With handshake came touch; with touch came the opening of the telepathic connection. Perhaps he should start advising people as to this faucet of his power, to allow for informed consent?
...That would be inconvenient, however.
Wow Slate. And people think I'm the devious one.
The white-eared cat boy was over by a wall again, this time on the other side of the punch bowl. He leaned back casually, not really paying attention to the kid seated next to him, who was staring at his drink like it was a foreign invader. He was entirely missing a certain monologue directed his way.
Slate was not. Was there a polite way to break into that train of thought?
...Both pairs are real, yes. Would you like to touch them?
Slate's black ears twitched slightly, offering verification of their veracity.
"Oh no, I have not met her. I simply... heard something. My apologies."
The snerking in his head was quite obnoxious, and not his own. Over by the wall, the white-eared cat boy was smirking vaguely off in definitely-not-their direction. Slate pointedly refrained from looking at him. Though it was odd; Calley's information was usually accurate.
Perhaps this was an 'inside joke'?
Unfortunately, it had made the girl highly uncomfortable, as evidenced by her concentrated silence. Slate blinked in the face of such intensity.
Careful, Slate. Dr. Lewis did her residency in the explosions ward. Heh.
Careful, Calley. You will miss someone writing on your sheet.
What? Really?
The other twin pushed off the wall, and took an ever-so-discrete stroll past the biding tables.
Slate set his sandwich aside, with the greatest of finesse and the slightest hint of resignation. He would simply eat it on the way to class; he had never attempted such coordination before, but college was a place of learning.
"I... did not originally intend for Lenna to be in charge on any sort of permanent basis," he began, attempting not to sit so stiffly. Nor did reclining seem appropriate. He had seen speech classes in the college catalogue, but were there any on body language? He must look into this later.
"I had something of an... extended summer vacation." In Serbia. In 1913. "Consequently, I have acquired knowledge sufficient to revise my prior stance on affecting the course of global diplomacy."
Perhaps a speech course would not be amiss for the next term, either. This... was not coming out as naturally as he had hoped. Perhaps he should state things more simply?
The young man met his former employee's eyes. "One man can change the world, Tarin. But that does not necessarily mean that he should."
Change implied a difference; it did not imply an improvement.
Gavrilo had died in prison. What was he going to be, before Katrina and he had entered his life? Not as well remembered by history, perhaps.
The first thing he did was check his pocket; the one inside of his coat, next to his heart. It had become a habit, though he generally tried to be inconspicuous about it—Katrina could be alarmingly observant sometimes.
Katrina.
Slate struggled back to full awareness. His chest hurt where the seatbelt had caught him; his brain hurt where his skull had caught it. It was a testament to Katrina's flight skills that he was no worse off; he had been in car crashes more fatal.
Katrina.
She was in the seat in front of his; the pilot's seat, of course. He could see her shoulder slumped to one side; her head leaned against it; a fall of blonde hair obscuring them both. His seat belt had done an excellent job of catching him—now, it seemed that it did not want to let him go. His hands fumbled with the buckle dumbly; the metal device seemed more complicated than he remembered, and the straps tighter. It was significantly easier to unclasp once he had remembered to heal himself. His head still hurt, but simple devices made sense again. He stumbled forward.
Katrina was breathing. It was not the most steady breathing, but she was. He did not stop to assess her other injuries; did not look for fractures or contusions or bleeds. His mutation did not care. She was breathing. Her heart was beating. That was all he needed.
Slate placed his hands on either side of her face.
We must work on your landings, he said as her eyes fluttered open, with a smile.
The plane would be somewhat less easy to heal. The right wing was not even worth talking about until they had gotten it into a proper hanger: it was, in large part, simply missing. The engines were still present, but both were issuing thin curls of black smoke. Systems based on air intake will do that, when flown through a volcano's debris field. More pertinent to their situation was the electrical system: Katrina's landing had not been gentle on it, and somewhere underneath the plane's panels, something had gone very wrong. They were out of his telepathic range with Sam and Jorge; that was clearly why the X-Adults were not responding to him. He would see what he could do about getting less mutationally related communications restored. It seemed they were going to be here awhile.
First, however, Maya. After some small delay, Slate remembered to heal their other teammate, too.
"Well. This is straight-forward," Slate said simply as the program opened on a blast of wind and debris. They were on a street; the initial setting was that of an explosion. A small-scale one. Slate had never seen a small-scale one. There were injured people; some running (these did not need his help) and some lying on the ground, in various states of movement or a lack thereof (these likely did). The obvious course of action would be to provide that service: he was a healer, after all.
He was also the former Kabal Leader, and knew something about bombings.
We should ascertain the source of the explosion: it may have been accidental, or not; the perpetrators may have left, or still be present. The bombing may have been their real objective... or not.
Could you make an illusion of us which goes to help the injured? Perhaps we can see if that triggers anything. I would otherwise suggest that we find a phone in a neighboring building, and call the police for backup.
The police had bomb squads, and a propensity to work together with the X-Men. Shin had not told them that they could not call in backup. Shin had not told them much of anything at all.
I would also suggest we speak through telepathic means, unless we wish Shin or the targets to overhear us.
As their test proctor, it was fair to equate Shin with the enemy, for all tactical purposes.
Slate wondered, idly, what it took to beat one up 'completely,' as opposed to an 'incomplete' beating. As Gwen dragged him out of the alley, tossing a piece of metal to the ground in her wake, he wondered which it appeared that she had done to him.
My name is Slate, he said, as they walked. I do not believe I have mentioned that.
"Why are you living out here?" He asked, with great tact.
Thus implying it was her choice to do so. It was, wasn't it?
...Should I be worried about my brain 'exploding'? Has that... happened to you before? She had mentioned a hospital, hadn't she?
"One moment," Slate said, after she had helped him to his feet. He closed his eyes, and attempted to heal.
...Did it do anything? He felt somewhat more steady, but his head did not hurt any less. He opened his eyes again.
On to other concerns.
"I do not suppose your mutation has any offensive form? Beyond its use against telepaths, that is." He inquired in a mild manner, with only a slight sideways glance. "...I do know some judo. But I have a green belt, not a black." It was the first belt one could earn; he had only recently graduated from the unranked white belt.
The man who was in this alley seemed afraid of you. Does your street morality include violent displays for the purpose of establishing a dominance hierarchy? If so, that could prove useful in simply bluffing our way to safety. He nearly rephrased, but stopped himself—she had already taken offense to such. Her vernacular should be sufficient to understand his words; after all, he was only asking if she beat people up to make herself look big.
You did not do it only because I collapsed at your feet first, Slate countered. Which leads me to believe that you have an interesting definition of morality.
"It was more of a... surge of information, that has left my head feeling rather hollow." Hollow and fuzzy and hurting. But that was not a description he particularly cared to share. "I will be all right. I simply need time to rest."
Slate smoothed out the wrinkles her hand had left in his scarf, and debated the advisability of standing. He tentatively met the girl's gaze. "Could you... help me move somewhere where people think less about mugging me?"
If you do so, I will admit that you are only abrasive part of the time.
