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.
Agreed with Zephyr's take on your abilities, Slade. What do you think?
I'm thinking that for Calley, as well, and other shifters, it might be simplest to say "you can't shift inside the field", rather than "you turn back to your original form". For Calley at least, that's not always going to be physically possible, and trying to force it would probably end the same way as a forced shift between Slade's forms: INSTO-DEATH!
Very good points, Zephyr, on both the Syn and Slade topics.
Syn: what do you, personally, think should happen? Zephyr makes a very good argument; is that how it would work? Would your mutation not be able to adapt to the field, because it was never "on" in the field?
Slade: I personally picture your bullets disintegrating as they hit the field; the converse of Zephyr's arguement, I believe, is that if they don't disintegrate than there's no reason for elemental attacks to "fizzle", since both your bullets and the elemental attacks stem from the same "Zeta wave" creation. If we're going to say that one kind of attack is killed by the field... then we should say that all attacks are killed by the field, since it's not the attack that's being nullified, but the Zeta waves that made the attack in the first place.
To the first question, Syn: Powers are only nullified in the field. Step outside, and they're back.
To your unique ability to become adapted to the Adapted: I was wondering how long it would take you to comment here about that. Given how it's written in your profile, I do think it's fair game for Syn to develop immunity to the Adapted after meeting them on-screen. You're rather the special case like that, though. lol Adapteds that get cocky should watch out for you...
*points to what Brainstorm says* He's got a point.
Which is why I vote, for reason of all-around lack-of-headache, that the powers simply die when they hit the field. The actual handlers of the Adapted can RP exactly how that happens--I'd probably go for the "fizzle, with maybe a few sparks she has to beat out of her poor backpack", but that would just be me.
We should keep in mind that these characters aren't going to go away; we've got at least two people planning to turn them into PCs. Therefore, I think the simpler we can make things, the better. Remember: every new member that comes in, from here on out, will also have to deal with the Adapted; I'd like to be able to point them to an easy few sentences that tell them all they need to know. Something like, "The field 6-10ft. When you are inside of the field, your powers do not work. If you launch an attack from outside the field, it will fizzle out before it actually reaches the Adapted" would be simple, and pretty easy to grasp. Something like,
Mutants lose control over anything they sent flying toward an Adapted, but whatever it is still exists, outside of their control inside of the field. Example: wind blades would disperse into a normal breeze, fireballs would fall apart, lightning bolts would duck into the ground rather than hitting their targets, and energy blasts would quickly disperse into the air within the field in the form of heat/light/sound.
is a liiiiittle harder to grasp, and leaves a wide range for interpretation. And requiring all players to post in their profile about how their own power would be affected is the anti-thesis to simple, especially for new players who join after we start this; it'll also be a headache and a half for us Mods.
In conclusion: Simple is good. Let's just have powers, and effects of powers, cease to function all together when they hit the Adapteds' range.
1) Zeta-waves and anti-zeta waves sound fine to me. I think any way we name it, as long as it does the same thing, it's all good.
2) How rapidly things disappear: I picture the attacks "fizzling" when they enter the field; maybe within the first two feet or so, they rapidly loose all their power. I suppose that would be a mix between Calliope's options A and B. I think if we went with B, the tendency to say "My fire ball isn't under control anymore, but that just means it stays on course and FRIES THAT SUCKER LIKE KENTUCKY CHICKEN!" might become a problem.
3) Cancellation effect is constant or not? I still vote "constant", and furthermore, that they can't turn it off even if they want to.
4) Physical characteristics: I vote that they stay, but I like the idea of tails and cat ears and such going limp inside of the field. If only because WereCat will turn that into an amusing RP or two in the ongoing saga of her tail.
5) Can the Adapted sense mutants? I still vote 'no'. Which would make things quite interesting, since the Adapted can't sense mutants, but mutants will be able to tell if an Adapted is near because of their power getting shut down. It helps add a weakness in to the Adapteds' ability.
6) Should Adapt's powers be triggered by contact with a mutant's ability? Hells yeah! That'll be fun to RP.
7) Nullified v. merely weakened? Still a vehement "nullified, not weakened!" 'Cause yeah, a mutant with weakened abilities is still going to cream an Adapted. It's only with the complete nullification that we get the level playing field occurring.
>> "But I don't think Tricity or Neena would be too happy about that. Not to mention the New York City officials."
"That, too." He acknowledged. Really, though, first and foremost: burning a tree to get at a squirrel was the vivid dictionary illustration of mess, and a close bedfellow with overkill. He deflected an acorn from his nose with an irritated backhand. Not that he disapproved of overkill, in this case: he did, however, disapprove of mess.
>> "Smoking it out would probably be our best bet without harming the oak. Unless you have something better. And I suggest you think of something quick. I would like to rid myself of this vile vermin as soon as possible."
An outside observer might have laughed at them, standing there calmly discussing the matter while the bombardment of nuts continued. True generals formed their plans on the battlefield, however. Slate was struck on the kneecap with surgical precision: his entire leg gave an involuntary jerk. His face gave an involuntary deadpan.
"Hmm. I fear that will not work; I envision the smoke driving it higher into the tree. It is a simple squirrel, after all. They are not noted for their--" the back of his neck got hit, and his right arm gave a jerk. ...He had not known about that pressure point. "--intelligence," he finished. Somehow, the statement lacked conviction. Slate caught an acorn as it came towards his funny bone; he bent down and scooped up handful of the nuts from the ground, though it cost him a hit in the left kidney to do so.
When he straightened, he was bouncing the brown missiles in his hand. "You are a fire elemental, are you not? Do you think you could light these up?" Bounce; catch. Bounce; catch. "I feel that our friend could use a taste of his own good aim."
Wars frequently escalated, with the introduction of new weaponry. Truly, though, fire missiles were nothing short of classic.
I also lean towards the adapted not being able to identify mutants--it seems more fun to me to play it as a "the mutants know, because their abilities stop, but the Adapteds... don't." And it's definitely a strong enough ability without mutant-radar attached.
Update from the Mod board: We're tentatively scheduling the Adapteds to start appearing on Jan 1, with the first organized strike team appearing no earlier than Sept 2009 (hence, allowing us to run the Freaky Friday plot without having strike teams rain down on our heads).
No, not her spot. Contrary to whatever had lodged itself into the front of her feminine frontal lobes, the eighteen year old remained resolute.
>> "Slate. I'm Leila, I would say it's nice to meet you; but it isn't."
"Likewise," he replied, levelly, after he had swallowed his last bite of rice.
>> "First come first serve."
With that, the woman returned to her reading. She was right: first come, first serve, and Slate had made it there weeks ago. He looked down at his empty bowl; its bottom gleamed white. His gaze drifted; there was a small table at the side of the couch. Right next to his spot, actually. It was the traditional home of his rice bowl after he had finished, and he did not see any need to deviate from that habit simply because there happened to be a woman in the way.
And that is why how the eighteen year old Italian ended up attempting to wiggle and push his way behind the woman on the couch. If he succeeded--and he was certainly not about to give up the effort lightly--then his bowl would come to rest in its proper location, and he would stay sprawled against the seat's back, even if the woman remained to clog up the rest of the seat. Half way to victory.
"When did you arrive at the Mansion?" Slate asked. It was a common enough question; given his tone, however, he could have just as well been asking, When did you descend from Heaven to intrude upon my life with your Almighty self-delusions?
Ditto what Brainstorm said. I think the "physical characteristics don't just go poof" makes the most sense.
However, if someone has their heart set on this being their character's one big chance to "look normal", then I wouldn't want to take that away from them. I would suggest that in the official plot write-up, we just put in something along the lines of "It makes the most sense if... but, if you really want to, and it makes sense for your character, then..."
((ooc: *delicately refrains from laughing, at request* ))
>> "Hello Calley. Would you like some help getting rid of that squirrel?"
Slate turned his head to the side, towards his fellow teenager. To the side, and up. Nathan was quite a bit taller than he himself was. He was also calling him by entirely the wrong name. But then, Calley and Slate had not taken great pains to point out to everyone they met that they had mental problems of the very real sort. Therefore: Slate did not correct him. He simply replied.
"Thank you, but I do not think--" An acorn bounced off of his temple. Slate recomposed himself. "It is merely an animal; I cannot imagine that it is fully aware of what it is--" Another acorn, off the back of his head. Slate took a deep breath. "It would probably be simplest, and in good taste, to simply walk aw--" An acorn missed its mark: instead of beaming Slate directly in his eye, it only hit a corner. Slate gave a dignified blink. Then he turned back towards his wizened foe. The squirrel sat high on its perch, acorn at the ready, tail flicking, mouth open in a mocking cluck of laughter.
Cluck cluck cluck!
The next acorn was aimed for Nathan's head. From there, the squirrel stopped playing favorites: it rainy miniscule shelled death down upon them both in equal measures.
Slate's eyes narrowed, the slightest bit. "Yes," he finally answered. "Yes, I would appreciate your help."
Their foe was worthy, and strong. Joining forces was the only option.
One thing had been certain about this encounter from the beginning: Slate would get his spot back. His did not have confidence in this, or faith: it was simply a pre-existent fact, from the moment he had walked into the room. Having confidence in it, having faith in it, would be like having faith or confidence in a toaster. The toaster, frankly, did not care.
Therefore, as she attempted to continue reading with his rice bowl in the way, Slate knew that it was only a matter of time until she broke. When she turned to look back at him, he sensed weakness in her resolve. Indecision. He had none. Therefore: he would get his spot back.
>> "You know, you still haven't told me your name."
"Neither have you," Slate pointed out, quite reasonably. His chopsticks came to lightly rest atop his rice bowl as he spoke. He was not the sort to speak while eating. "My name is Slate," he stated, meeting her gaze directly, even though it was only a bare few inches from his face. Hmm. Hmm... On that note: Slate leaned towards the woman, without a trace of expression on his face. Her hair brushed against his face: his lips brushed against her ear. "And you," he continued, in a whisper, "are in my spot." He drew back, and took another bite of his rice, quite serenely.
>> "And you know, the way were all tangled up, On-Lookers would be pretty scared of us."
She laughed. He did not. In fact, he simply continued to meet her gaze, as he continued to eat, as he continued to wait. The spot would be returned. Because it was his.
It was an oak tree. A Bur Oak, to be specific. Its branches were twisted and gnarled and, this late in Fall, the only leaves that clung to it were brown, dry, and stubborn. It stood on the Mansion grounds, much like many other trees. Unlike the others, though, this Bur Oak was the scene of a rapidly escalating war.
Slate had been studying. Calley was... not a studier. Therefore, he tended to put up a minimal fight when it came to who held control of their mind when it came time to do homework. Particularly math homework. Especially Calculus. They had finally requested a reevaluation of their placement level, in classes. It was little surprise that the eighteen year old Italian teenager was, therefore, no longer in eighth grade classes. They had not predicted, however, that they would be moved ahead quite so far. Eleventh grade Literature and History. Twelfth grade Science and Math. If Calley had known that retaking the placement tests would mean this much work, he probably would have been happy to stay in the eighth grade. Slate did not mind.
However, this battle was only incidentally related to their homework. The teenager had come out onto the lawn to study. He had sat under the tree. That was when it began: with an act of unprovoked aggression from on high.
A squirrel.
A gray squirrel.
A gray squirrel in a Bur Oak, with an ample supply of acorns and aim to make a sniper proud.
Slate stood his ground below the tree, fists at his sides, baby blue eyes narrowed upwards. "Stop it," he commanded. "St--"
And that's when he got an acorn throw down his windpipe. The Italian teenager coughed and choked, and finally hacked the nut back out. Up in the tree, the gray squirrel's tail flicked the air like a general's banner. Its beady black eyes were merciless. Its thin, clawed paws had already twisted another nut into their grasp. The rain of nuts that had assaulted the teenager as he studied had been unprovoked. The squirrel's reasoning: unknown. Yet one fact was indisputable:
This was war.
((ooc: It's fair game to recognize "Slate" as being "Calley" from the War Room meeting, if you want to, Seraph. )
'Okay', indeed. He gave her five minutes until she broke, in some manner; most likely, with a renewed dialogue. To be chauvinistic: that was what women did. Five minutes proved to be an overestimation of her willpower.
>> "Urgh. This isn't working, you know. You won't make me leave by being a jerk."
A jerk? Indeed. That might be the term for his current behavior. However, the same point as ever remained: she was in his spot. It was not difficult for her to remove herself to the other side of the couch; she was merely being stubborn about it. Really, her behavior was quite incomprehensible.
On that note: witness Evidence for the Prosecution, Exhibit A; the manner in which she unsubtly slid herself closer to him. She deposited her head upon his shoulder, and her hands--book and all--in a position that interfered with his own reading, and his eating. It was troublesome, but easily overcome. Her blonde hair tickled at his chin. With the finesse and clear action of an unhesitant problem solver, Slate moved his arms so that it looked almost as if he were about to embrace her; one on either side of her body. His head moved down those final few inches, and settled in her hair. He held his rice bowl on top of her book, and continued eating, his chin lightly tapping at the back of her head with each movement of his jaw.
)