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.
>> "There are a lot of things you cannot learn in books. Like love for example. You don't know how that feeling actually feels unless you live it, you know? Did you ever fall in love Slate?"
Slate tilted his head. For a woman her age, it was not unexpected that she would be concerned with love. Many members of the prior generation had been married by her age, or having children; depending upon her family structure, she could perhaps be feeling the tickings of her biological clock already. The genetic material that formed her eggs were at their prime; it was a state that would only last for perhaps another decade and a half.
Socially speaking, however, the statistics for those who 'fell in love' at her age maintaining a loving relationship into old age were appalling. They were even worse for someone of his age. "No," he said simply, "I do not think I have experienced that type of love before. I cannot say I am in a rush to, either. By all accounts..." He gave a small shrug, as he rubbed one of his wet feet against the other to try and build back up the warmth in them. "...love is something that makes its own matches. Forcing it, or presuming its presence 'at first sight', as it were... seems somewhat contradictory to its nature."
She had blushed as she asked that question; he wondered why.
>> "When I'm in my Dolphin shape, cold water doesn't really apply to me. Even when I'm Human, if it's salt water, I won't have the time to actually feel the cold, I'll be a Dolphin instantly."
Slate tilted his head at her, curious. Suffice it to say that he had much experience with shifters. They all seemed to function in such very different ways, however. Ted had required pain, and then had trouble controlling his beast form; Emerald somehow managed to retain her clothing; Kaz, unfortunately, did not; and Calley was... Calley. It was fascinating how such fundamentally similar mutations could manifest in such very different ways. "Curious," he answered her, simply.
>> "So, do you have any idea what we could do to settle our Pillow argument? I really want to know who'll end up owning it."
She giggled, and twirled: by the time she faced him again, there was a somewhat fiendish glint to his eyes. "I was not aware that the argument required settling," he answered, in a composed deadpan. "I won, after all." As with love, it was best not to delude oneself on this issue.
>> "Sir? Will you be training with me today? ..Reporting as ordered, when would you like me to begin?"
Slate nodded his head in cordial greeting as the car mutant entered the room. A brief flick of his eyes to the clock over the door told the time: 8:59. Additionally, Circe was not yet here. Slate allowed himself to feel a slight tinge of victory. There it was, officially time stamped: he had been early. The first one to arrive is always early.
"Good morning, Mr. Ravenscroft. I fear I will merely be observing today; perhaps another time, we can actually spar. We are waiting upon--"
>> "Slade? What are you doing here?"
Slate raised an eyebrow as, at 9:02AM, Ms. Leigh entered precisely in time to interrupt him. Her words saved him quite a bit of time by way of introductions, however. He nodded a greeting to her, as well. "Good morning, Ms. Leigh. Please attempt to be punctual in the future. I take it that you and Mr. Ravenscroft are already acquainted?" He looked between the two of them, one eyebrow raised in seeking of confirmation and, perhaps, explanation. It was always good to know how your employees knew each other. Not knowing things like that could lead to unpleasant complications.
"We got a very decent cut before the accounts were frozen, Sir. More than enough to keep up the current expenditures, with modest expansion to the payroll. With the expansions you're planning, though, we'll need to be careful with our investments until your package arrives."
Slate gave a simple nod. It was as he'd expected. "How much, precisely, did we get?" He asked the woman. A four-fingered hand pushed a ledger across the table. Its sharp pencil writings prompted a pleased raising of eyebrows. "Nicely done, Ms. Mortman."
The head secretary took the ledger back. "As I said, modest expansions are well within our budget. Try not to be grandiose until Giant's Bane and Aiden return. Not too grandiose, anyway."
Slate's eyebrows raised again. "Ms. Mortman, you can rest assured that I will do nothing grandiose until I have more than sixteen square miles to my name."
It was a dismissal. Noin recognized it as such, and rose from her seat across from the brown haired teenager at the Board Room's long oak table. "That's reassuring, Sir." She said simply. That was one word for it.
Slate did not watch her go. His gaze was already downwards, directed at a newly opened file. His next meeting for the day. There were a surprising number of meetings involved in properly taking over a megalomaniacal organization.
"Sir?" The older woman asked, at the doorway.
Slate looked back up with a distracted blink. "Is there something more, Ms. Mortman?"
She kept her face a perfectly composed deadpan. "I've heard you're learned judo with Nicholas. If you would like to practice what you've learned, the other receptionists and I meet every Thursday night in Training Room Five." In short: if you would like opponents closer to your own level, feel free to join us.
"Thank you, Ms. Mortman," Slate said simply. As the door shut behind her, he wondered what the proper emotional response was to that invitation. Perhaps... emasculating? Hmm. In any case, he turned back to the file at hand. The man would be here soon, if he had responded to the call that came through his communicator. If he had not, then there was one less budgeting expense in the path to grandiose spending.
Judging by the man's performance in his short time with the Kabal, though, that truly would be a waste.
I like the gold thing. It screams "we're so good, we shine!"
I also like the orange-gold = ffa40d. Normal gold has always looked too peppy to me; it's like the cheerleader of the yellows. That gold's got some dignity to it. I think it would also look nice with the X-Men's white logo.
Test of that:
Member of the X-Men We're so cool, we've got eagles flying sideways out of our logo.
[/i][/center]
And indeed, Brainstorm, your opinion is more than welcome! I should have been clearer about that--this thread is a call-out for all opinions, from members of any faction, and neutrals too!
Actually, that purple was pretty, too..
Member of the X-Men Take a number, and wait in the queue. You can hit on Cold Steel shortly.
The brown haired teenager collided with the training mat in a graceful manner. If one counts landing flat on one's back as graceful. Compared to some of the other ways he had been sent flying this morning--and their associated landings--Slate was willing to argue the point: that had been graceful.
He wheezed in a breath, and coughed.
"I think you're getting better, Sir." Nicholas Williams said, with that smile of his. He was dressed in the loose pants and coat that composed a gi: all the better to practice Judo in, my dear. "You're getting better at the landings, at least. You sort of rolled with that one."
"If I did any manner of rolling, then I assure you," Slate wheezed, "it was an accident."
The soldier offered a hand down to him. Slate took it, and climbed back to his feet. He was beginning to appreciate the sensation of 'standing'. He had never realized how deeply he had taken it fore granted. "One more time," he said simply. Only the fact that he had been saying that for the past two hours indicated his stubbornness on the subject.
Nicholas' eyes flashed to something across the room, above the door. The clock. "I could do this all day, Sir, believe me. Don't you have somewhere to be, though?"
The clock. It was five minutes to nine. "Ah," Slate said, simply. It was as good as a fluent curse from any other person.
He was not late. Let us be entirely clear on this subject: it did not take five minutes to walk from Training Room Seven to Training Room Three. It took approximately two minutes, in fact.
Therefore, the new Kabal leader was not late to the training session between Circe and Slade that he himself had insisted upon scheduling. He was, in fact, three minutes early. Additionally, wearing a judo gi to a training session he would only observe--and which would have very little to do with judo--was not a shameful action. Nor was the white belt Nicholas had smirkingly given him, which was currently tied around his waist, keeping the white coat shut. Additionally, his hair was always this tousled. Only the slight dampening at its edges from sweat was a bit abnormal.
He entered the training room with perfect pose, reigning in his breathing so that its steady pace countered his rapid heartbeat. There was nothing but dignity about the teenager. Perhaps a bit too much dignity, actually.
>> "You're a mutant, right? Uh, sorry sir I spoke out of turn."
A shake of the head. Truly, there were very few clues that this man gave. It would be a convenient mutation for poker. Briefly, he wondered at his choice at sending mercenaries to pick up his package from the poker tournament in California; perhaps he should have held off for a few days, and sent actual Kabal members. Then again: he would rather like to keep the Kabal members close for the moment. One should not send one's power base out into the world without first stabilizing it.
A small smile twitched at the corner of the teenager's mouth in response to the mutant's question, for the briefest of moments, before fading away like a shadow barely glimpsed.
"I did just ask for questions; you are hardly speaking out of turn. Yes, I am a mutant." The man had not asked about his abilities, and the habit of volunteering such information that seemed so prevalent in the mutant world held little appeal to Slate. It was nothing to hide: it was nothing to spout out inanely at every opportunity, either.
A deep breath. Did it have the same meaning as it would have with a human? What meaning would that be, precisely? Without an accompanying facial expression, there were many options.
>> "Look, sir, my loyalty is to whoever pays me, I enjoy my job and I'll stick at it, whether it's you in charge or mr Antonescu. I won't, however, become involved in a powerplay should he ever return. It's no disrespect to you but I just want to do my job, be paid for it, and have piece of mind..."
The smile twitched again. At the same time, the teenager's impassive baby blue eyes seemed to chill. "I appreciate your honesty. Allow me to return the favor: if and when Antonescu does return, all I would ask of you is that you do not heed a summons to fight at his side. You may fight with me when the time comes, if you wish, but I will by no means require it. My brother and I have fought Antonescu before. We held our own, at that time. We are both stronger now." The longer Antonescu remained away, the stronger they had the potential to become. The day would come when Calley and he would do more than 'hold their own': they would win. "If your plan is one of noninterference, then we are already in agreement." The werecar's sense of self-preservation was entirely understandable; further, his loyalty to his paycheck had been as thoroughly confirmed as possible. That was all Slate really wanted to know.
>> "Is the aim of the Kabal still the same, where do I stand and if I am still in your service what is my first task for you, sir?"
Slade gave a short nod: an acknowledgement for the directness of the mutant's questions, and the highest praise he was liable to give. "Our aim remains the same, after a fashion: I still aim to control the world, as Antonescu did. My methods will vary, however, and my vision is somewhat farther reaching. You will see for yourself, soon enough."
"Your first task," he answered the final question, "is to help me in a training session. One of your fellow Kabal members has recently recovered from an injury, and I wish to see both her and your powers for myself. There is only so much one can gain from a file," he said simply, not acknowledging the file set in front of him with so much as an eye flick: if the car mutant was not observant enough to see his own photo and name sitting on the table, then Slate would not be the one to point it out bluntly. "The session will begin tomorrow morning, in Training Room Three."
"Will you join us?" Slate asked. A simple question, and a loaded one.
The blonde woman went directly towards the waterfront, pausing only to remove her shoes in an action that mirrored his own. They were of a similar mind on the subject of bare feet then, it seemed. That made precisely one thing they had in common, outside of sheer insipid stubbornness. He followed at a slower pace, enjoying the feel of the small grains as they shifted under his weight. Walking on the beach was an altogether different experience than walking on normal ground: every grain of sand was solid, and yet he would not call this 'solid ground'.
>> "You do huh? The Ocean is a wonderful thing, and I really want to discover more... Things I couldn't in a book or on the internet."
"There are things that cannot be learned in books?" He asked, blinking baby blue eyes at her. It was hard to tell whether he was truly that naive, or simply joking.
She turned towards him, and walked closer: almost too close. A foot's distance remained between them. It did not seem like quite enough. Not for a young woman who day dreamed about other men while on a date with him, or stole kisses in a literal sense.
A wave broke against the shore, and rolled upwards. Slate knelt down, and rolled up the cuffs of his dress pants to just below the knees. As the wave receded he padded after it, his footprints pooling with water that quickly disappeared back under the surface. The next wave crashed, its clear, foam-topped water racing up his ankles. Slate stood completely still for a moment. Then, with no particular sense of hurry or slowness, he walked back to where Leila stood, carefully placing his feet several inches from the tide line.
One thing quickly became apparent: a car did not share many facial expressions in common with a typical human. The most surprising thing was that this came as a surprise to him.
When Mr. Ravenscroft spoke, Slate did not know what to expect. Apparently the feeling was a mutual one.
>> "I am more comfortable referring to you as sir, mr Antonescu referred to me as Mr Ravenscroft. I believe he used it because few others did, what you wish to call me is entirely up to you, sir. May I ask why mr Antonescu is no longer in charge? Or indeed why I have been summoned, sir?"
"Mr. Antonescu is no longer in charge," Slate answered, with boldfaced honesty that left no room for mercy, "because I have performed a coup d'état in his absence. I have been with the Kabal since its beginning, Mr. Ravenscroft. I have found myself dissatisfied with his leadership methods and aims." Namely, such things as squashing the legitimate questions of employees, and pursuing aims merely for the benefit of his own gain. "I have my own vision of how Mondragon Labs and the Kabal will be run. Honestly, if the man is surprised to find a coup has occurred while he has been neglecting this continent, then he clearly had no sense of his employees."
"As to why you have been summoned," Slate continued, with the same impassive tone; "I wish to offer you the same contract that Antonescu did. You position and its benefits will remain the same, though I may call on you for missions that range somewhat further than the vehicle bay. Will you join me?" He asked, quite simply.
"Though I suppose that question is unfair at the moment. First--what questions do you have for me?" The teenager's baby blue eyes were cold and nearly inhuman, themselves. It was hard to tell whether he was actually inviting questions, or simply wishing to see whether the potential employee sitting in the slipshod chair in front of him would be silly enough to voice them.
>> "You have my loyalty. And in case a fight between you and Hunter occurs, right now I think I will remain neutral."
He nodded the barest fraction. Her honesty was appreciated.
>> "So, do you happen to know how long it will take me to recover? Cause I hate sitting here doing nothing."
"That is good to hear," he answered, with a nod. "Your state of unconsciousness has provided ample time for your injuries to heal; all that remains is for you to become readjusted to being awake again, I believe. No doubt you have noticed that your muscles are somewhat unused to movement. It is nothing that will not quickly right itself once you become active again."
"To that effect," he continued, "I would like to arrange a training session for you. Would tomorrow be too early for you? I would hate to leave you sitting here doing nothing." His small smile returned as he returned her words to her. The training would be good for her; getting back on her feet really was the only step left in her recovery. It held another purpose, as well: he was quite intrigued by her powers. There was only so much a file could tell him.
A knock came. The teenager waiting in the leather chair did not turn his head towards the door; the merely lowered his gaze back to the file in front of him.
"Enter, please." He called. The car mutant did.
His appearance was quite distinctive, as Slate already knew; file photo aside, it was safe to say that anyone that "Chimera" had met, Slate was also familiar with. How very curious that things did not work in reverse: to Slade, the brown haired, rather average looking teenager waiting for him in the room was in all likelihood an entirely unfamiliar face.
He motioned easily to the chair across from him; the arms had been removed and the stand fortified in an impromptu attempt to accommodate the werecar's somewhat surplus-of-human frame. If the mutant remained on the Kabal, Slate would see to ordering a proper chair for him. There was no need to hastily waste their budget, however, even if the budget in question had a somewhat higher ceiling than the average company's. Noin and the other secretaries had been in charge of the money transfers between Antonescu's accounts and the other employees'; earlier today, he had belatedly set them about the task of transferring as much as they could from as many of the man's accounts as they could before any of the man's overseas agents caught them. Things had been going well, particularly as the secretaries had full authorized access. It was only a matter of time before the suspicious action resulted in some manner of lockdown. Even if the amounts they were dealing with were already in the billions, Slate was in a monetarily conscious mood. Until the mutant's contract was renewed, there would be no special-order chairs, and that was final.
"Hello, Mr. Ravenscroft. Do you prefer that, or do you prefer 'Slade'?" He asked.
There was no preamble as he launched into what he had to say next. There was no need for preamble. What was fact was fact.
"My name is Slate. You may call me that, or you may call me 'Sir'. Mondragon Labs and the Kabal are now mine, and have been since early yesterday. Please forgive my rudeness in delaying our meeting; I fear I have had other business to attend to."
He paused there for the moment, his hands lightly clasped together over the man's open file on the table in front of him. The thing he was most interested in seeing with the old Kabal members--and the reason which he had decided to meet with each of them in isolation--was their reaction to this news.
An impassive blink was all the more sign he gave of just how interested he was. Was Mr. Ravenscroft loyal to his former employer, or to his paychecks? It was a question that would make all the difference in whether Slate's take over of the Kabal itself succeeded. He could build a new one, of course. That would be an inconvenience, however, and Slate had little desire for inconveniences.
>> "I'd shake hands with you... but right now I'm in no condition to get up."
An eyebrow raise and a shrug; nothing more. She simply returned herself to her bed. Which was, the new Kabal leader noted, a wise decision on her part. In all: her reaction was as perfect a one as he could have hoped for. It had been his suspicion that the majority of Antonescu's employees had joined the man more out of their own interests than out of any particular sense of loyalty to the immortal. Circe seemed to confirm that, with her every move.
>> "So, is there anything else I should know?"
The teenager shook his head the slightest bit. "No," he answered, with some small trace of humor; "I believe that about covers things. I merely have a question for you; then I can leave you to rest. Are you interested in switching your loyalty over to me, rather than Antonescu? Your contract will remain the same, with the usual benefits." The trace of amusement spread to his eyes; really, it was an emotive moment for him. "The Mondragon Lab medical facilities will also remain at your disposal. Once you have recovered, I will begin sending you out on missions again; I will see to it that you are provided with adequate support, however, so that the incident that put you here is not repeated. All I ask is for you to complete my commands to the best of your ability. And, in the unlikely case that Antonescu returns, I simply ask for you to ignore any summons to fight at his side. You could fight with me against him if you so choose, but I will not ask for it. It would not bother me if the fight remained simply between he and I."
There was a certain understated competence with which the brown haired teenager spoke. No, he did not ask for her help, if that fight ever occurred--he only asked that she did not interfere. Slate had found the "Origin of Species" in the library, while he was resting the other day. Survival of the fittest. It held a certain ring.
>> "That sounds good. My legs are a bit numb from all the sitting. It would be nice to go take a walk or something."
Her one second daydream did indeed go unnoticed. Particularly with the sudden distraction of a warm hand in his. Slate blinked; the hand was gone before he could do more than reflexively clasp back.
>> "Just friends, got it."
One corner of his mouth twitched up, as his baby blue eyes carried the amusement. "Indeed. Shall we go?"
Just friends or not, he still moved to hold the door for her as they used the bustle of the crowd to slip out. A pair of young adults ditching an orchestral performance at intermission: hardly unexpected, but still slightly less than classy.
The stairs down to the beach were stone; they had been carved into the cliff side itself, with a glistening stainless steel guiderail newly installed to prevent accidents and their unfortunate consequence: lawyers. There were smooth dips at the center of each step where feet had worn a path over the years. At the bottom, there was a small plank-wood walkway through the dune grass, down to the actual beach. The surf crashed loudly at this quiet hour. It was low tide. The newly risen moon glittered over the wet sand at each retreat of the waves, and cast dark shadows over the shells left behind. It was a more natural beach than most in New York and New Jersey: the Club House owned it, and did not allow beach combing trucks or casual swimmers. There was an outcropping of dark rocks further down to their lefts; idly, he wondered if there was the possibility of a tide pool.
As they hit the sand, he paused to remove his shoes and socks, and place them neatly next to the end of the wooden walkway. The white sand felt cold and entirely wonderful between his toes. There was nothing quite like sand on a cool night.
"I believe," he said simply, "that I can understand your choice in majors.
In a past life, it had been called the "War Room".
The sign outside was new, and entirely less conspicuous. Perhaps it lacked a certain flair that the old sign had. Then again, perhaps it also lacked a certain melodramatic theatrical touch that spoke of Armageddon. His former employer had held the same aim as himself, as far as he could tell. It was a simple aim. Many had tried for it, though it had yet to be properly done. The sign had inappropriate to the Kabal's cause. It had implied things that were entirely untrue. Really, just because one is taking over the world does not mean that one cannot be peaceful about it.
Just because one can be peaceful about it does not mean that one will.
Slate was on a bit of a time schedule, here. He would like to get things done in this lifetime. It was always easiest to achieve your goals while you were alive.
He sat in on of the leather chairs just off from the head of the table, his baby blue gaze idly on the clock across the room. He was a young man; only eighteen. A teenager. Lanky, and not particularly tall. His Italian heritage showed in his face and dark hair, though the nose was pure Hungarian. Irish and German completed the genetic package. Really, it was curious how genetics defined their world.
He was dressed well, in khakis and a dark blue button-up shirt. He waited without a trace of either patience, impatience, or particular interest. The door to the room was unlocked. He'd had Nigel Banks order the man here, through the communicator that each Kabal member had been given by Hunter Anotonescu. There was a manila file open on the table in front of him. Slade. A new member of the Kabal. Employed in the vehicle bay, as head engineer.
The teenager waited.
It was called the "Board Room", and it would see more use than the "War Room" had ever gotten.
It wasn't truly boredom with which Slate watched the young woman; rather, it was a distinct lack of any displayed of interest. There was no particular purpose to showing interest. He was here: clearly, that was interest enough. After all, he had become rather busy for an eighteen year old, in the past few days.
>> "I bet."
She sounded frustrated, or possibly furious. There was force and a will behind her voice. Without any outside aid, she regained her feet.
A slight hint of approval came into the watching teenager's eyes.
>> "Tell me, please... where am I exactly? And how is it that you know my codename?"
He nodded. Reasonable questions, those. For a woman who had awoken in an unfamiliar setting to an unfamiliar face and a body in a severely weakened state, she was maintaining very good composure. He appreciated that, and his answer for her held nothing but respect.
"You are in the infirmary at Mondragon Labs. As I understand it, you had some manner of accident while on assignment; you have been out for quite some time. I would suggest taking things slowly, until you recover further; you are safe, here."
"As for how I know your codename," Slate continued, with a modest shrug; "I have read your file. My name is Slate. You really have been unconscious for quite some time. I am the one who leads here, now."
He remained where he was, casually seated on the bed across the room. He gave no particular sign of being acutely interested in her reaction to that news. Showing interest really was a curiously useless activity.
((ooc: PS--you're not insane, if you're staring at that new "Kabal Leader" title, and wondering how you missed it yesterday. I took over the Kabal while you were sleeping, both IC and OOC. ))
I think it would also look nice with the X-Men's white logo. 