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.
"My head feels... approximately like I was flying in a small jet, which was hit by a volcanic eruption, and proceeded to violently crash land into a remote island." This was not a metaphor, or an attempt at imagery: this was a simple situational comparison. "I have not met anyone with your power; I have simply had this experience before."
What did Sebastian's wife call it, later? Ah, yes—the 'Evil Hat.' Now that he was an X-Man, perhaps he should ask Sam what it was really called. And why it was sitting in the basement, fully activated, where any mutant children could bypass several layers of security into a restricted area and find it.
He was leaning on her arms rather heavily. With the greatest of willpower, he wobbled back to a sitting position independent of her help. Perhaps he would stand, as well.
...On further consideration, sitting still seemed advisable, for the moment.
"Your head... always feels like this? Perhaps that is why you are 'abrasive.' "
It does not excuse your thoughts of mugging me, however, some part of him could not help but add, in another form of speech.
"I have," the telepath said, somewhere in the vicinity of her shoulder. Blinking... blinking helped to focus things. "Had this happen before."
Once. The machine that Calley, Katrina, and Ghost had found in the mansion's basement had felt much like this—particularly in its after-effect. He... was also uncertain of what it did to his brain. But the headache had gone away last time; surely it would this time, as well. It had only taken... an hour or so?
"You are a more pleasant person after you hurt someone. Why is that?" He asked, because it hurt less to just say things, instead of bothering to think about them first.
Had he really just talked down to her? Yes. Yes, he had. But it was only in response to her talking... talking up at him. Also, to her prolonged kidnapping of his scarf tails.
"Would you kindly remove your—"
The island of Manhattan hit him across the head. An explosion of sound, of—Katrina? Abyss? Cold Steel? Calley?—of voices, some of which seemed fleetingly familiar, like a song flipped past on the radio dial, as the voices became less numerous but more distinct, until all he could hear... was her mind, hearing his. Not hearing like he heard. It was something else; something much more fundamental.
Slate did not feel so good.
"I see that you are a mutant," said the Italian, as he wobbled with great dignity. "I... I believe I need to sit down."
He proceeded to do so, with a graceful crumpling of knees.
She was very judgmental, as young females went. Also, presumptuous. It was not a singular presumption, either: it was layered, with each layer integral to the last.
She presumed that he had parents, that said parents were rich, and said richness was the cause of his own (likewise presumed) elevation in socio-economic status. The implication that he had done nothing to earn it was implicit.
She likewise presumed that he had not worked very hard for his green belt in judo (and that if he had worked his way to black, it would be meaningless). Also, that he desired to be forcibly robbed of the money he was peacefully giving away of his own volition.
In all, she was a highly irrational woman. Who was contemplating mugging him, loudly, in his head.
Slate stared down his nose at her (which he could do, owing to the fake that he was marginally taller than her. Not a "little guy.")
"You are correct in that I am rich. In all other respects, your conclusions reflect a lack of consideration for the varied circumstances of others." This was a highly technical manner of speaking, when his audience lived on the streets. Slate considerately rephrased: "That is to say: you do not know anything about me. Also, you are giving me a headache."
Her mind sounded like it contained a thousand voices, all of them as ill inclined to cease talking as she herself was.
Which is to say: they wouldn't shut up. He really was getting a slight headache from all their chatter.
Slate did prefer not to die, when given the choice. It was most inconvenient, and generally painful, in his abnormally extensive experience.
"Perhaps it would be wiser if we elaborated upon our abilities before entering into a simulation?" The former Faction leader suggested mildly. Knowing the skills of one's employees was generally advisable. 'Holding back' did not seem entirely fair of a description to Slate, when the X-Leader had never asked.
"I am a healer, as I believe you know; this encompasses physical injuries only, excludes physical injuries that have already caused brain death, and requires physical contact in all instances." Fatal injuries that were merely in the rapid process of causing death were just fine. Again: he believed Shin knew that. "My telepathy is initially touch-based; afterwards, its range is in approximate proportion to the duration and frequency of contact. I am still working on the precise formula."
Though really, the less the X-Leader knew they could do, presumably the less fatal this test would be. Being underestimated did have that merit.
The man sounded calm out loud. Slate was trying very hard not to overhear his thoughts, which sounded somewhat less pleased.
...halfway across the world twice... for the child...
"We diffused a civil war and halted a repeat of the Mutant Registration Act in its infancy. Do you really think that is that nothing, Tarin?" The former Kabal leader asked, tuna sandwich sitting unopened in his lap. Campus life continued around them, unaware and uncaring of who they were, or who they had been.
Slate was still not an expert on such matters, but he sensed that Tarin was not entirely pleased with him. Some sarcasm may also have been involved.
"It... was no problem," Slate stated, easing his backpack to the floor as he sat down in a chair across from the older man. "I have been doing well," he replied, because he knew that such inquires were primarily a scripted conversational construct. That is: Tarin probably did not care about the true answer, yet.
The former Kabal Leader may have stared too long at his former employee. "It is good to see you again, Tarin. Really."
His tone was perhaps too heartfelt for someone that has only been out of touch a few months; he did not think it was inappropriate when seeing a friend again for the first time in nearly two years, however.
"I suppose you have some questions for me," he said; a conversational construct employed when moving past the niceties.
Slate discretely used his Blackberry to look the word up, from behind Katrina and Maya:
Pahoehoe: Basaltic lava forming smooth undulating or ropy masses.
The image search proved more enlightening. He offered to tilt the screen his teammates' ways, if they similarly required enlightening. The Blackberry fit in his hand like an old friend, even if it was a newer model than the one he'd left behind in Serbia: slightly slimmer, with a much better touch screen. He took a photo of the island through the windows, as Katrina flew them to the actual airport. It took the better part of an hour to get landing permissions; something about unlogged flight paths, and unscheduled arrivals. Also, appearing out of nowhere, so far as the control tower's radar was concerned.
It was well known that they were mutants before they landed. Mutants, or very young government agents in possession of cutting-edge technology. Also, that they were sadly misinformed about the island's volcanic activity.
"It's like this," the very nice officer explained to them, as they sat around a table in the baggage handler's break room. "The crack on the ocean floor--that's this donut hole, okay?"
He brushed powdered sugar off of the table, and set the donut hole down. Slate did not think its particular location relative to the napkin dispenser and the styrofoam coffee cup had any meaning, in this demonstration.
"So the crack, it's sending up the real lava--the stuff that formed the islands. Is still forming them, in fact. This paper plate is like the plate of the earth--that tectonic stuff. It's moving over the donut hole--"
That's the lava, the man's mind helpfully reminded Slate, whether or not he needed said reminder.
"--sort of getting pushed along by the lava. And the lava is rising up and forming islands on the plate as it goes past--boom, boom, boom, island. Like that. So our part of the plate," the man helpfully pointed to a grease stain, "is here, but we left the serious lava behind way back there,"
Like a billion years ago, you idiots, continued the side-commentary.
"So it's not too likely that our volcano is about to blow its top, even if we are getting a few tremors. It'd just be impossible, see?"
Why do I have to do this? Why can't I work in California, or New York? Those cops deal with real problems.
"The worst we're going to get is some smoke," he finished.
"Or a little pahoehoe," Slate helpfully added.
"Or--yeah. A little pahoehoe." The cop smiled. Great. The kid knows how to look on Wikipedia. Wikipedia 'lunatic', lunatic--we don't evacuate the island every time someone asks nicely.
In retrospect, Slate wondered if Gavrilo hurried to their side just to make Katrina stop shouting. Policemen were already swarming; the Serbian was more than happy to accompany them off onto the side streets, away from the scene of the bombing.
Katrina may have felt like eating, but Slate was not particularly hungry, and Gavrilo did not seem particularly inclined to sit still for long. Rumors flew all around them—one hundred killed, the mayor dead; no, the mayor was meeting with the Archduke in city hall, and it was more like five, don't you cater to those rumors; no—no one dead, but quite a few injured; the Archduke's car landed in the river; wasn't that the assassin? Five inches of water, ha! Not from around here, that boy. The crowd beat him good before the police wrested him away, got in a kick myself—
Gavrilo voted for a shop where they could pick up a few things, and find somewhere more peaceful to actually eat them. Slate seconded, giving Katrina an apologetic look as they democratically ousted her little cafe. The food there did smell good, he admitted, but he could still hear the commotion a few blocks back. One hundred or five, a bomb had certainly gone off. There were injured people over there. He was a healer. But this was 1914, and mutants were not yet known.
They had done enough for one day.
They ended up wandering into a little shop off of Franz Josef Street; Schiller's Delicatessen. Gavrilo's hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets, and gave Slate a waxen smile.
"I'm going to get some fresh air. You pick something for me, all right?" Slate nodded mutely. The bell above the door jingled as the Serbian stepped outside.
It was just a coincidence. If they'd gone to Katrina's deli, if Slate had stopped him with any stupid, simple question—'turkey or ham?', 'what cheese would you prefer?', 'what kind of bread?'—it wouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have.
The Archduke! The thought hit Slate's mind with the same electric crackle that it went through the Serbian's own. It all made sense, then—a string of events, leading here. To this. The protest where they'd first met; the card nights with Gavrilo's friends, and the intense conversations he could only half-understand; a night out on a cold balcony. The reason why Gavrilo was in Sarajevo at all; the same reason they were.
One man can change the world.
Slate dropped the rolls Katrina had been piling in his arms; he was out the door only a moment after the Serb. The Archduke's car was stalled in the street. Pedestrians flowed past on the sidewalks, gossiping, staring, unconcerned. The gun wasn't even fully out of Gavrilo's coat yet. Governor Potiorek was yelling something at their driver, who was muttering something to their car, which was loudly turning over (bad alternator, Slate diagnosed, even as he pushed his way through the crowd). The Archduke was frowning, turning to say something to his wife, who looked worried but not alarmed.
Slate grabbed for Gavrilo's arm. The Serbian pistol-whipped him in the face, and took a step closer. Aimed. Fired twice.
Katrina was the first to get her hands on him; with her hair tied back and her airman's clothes, history would remember her as a man. Other men on the street certainly weren't shy about piling in. Katrina let his arms go, then, backing away in horror—that at least gave him a fighting chance. His gun was gone. It was him against the crowd, until the police could break their way through. Slate touched a hand to his forehead. He was bleeding.
"Sophie! Sophie!"
The Archduke was making no effort to stop his own bleeding. His wife was in his arms. She looked up at him, her mouth moving silently as if she was trying to speak—
She was still alive.
Slate stood. He was a healer, and she was still alive. If he could just—
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder, holding him in place. Another grabbed Katrina's arm in a harsh grip. He looked up into a face that seemed somehow familiar. Dark skin, black hair, the start of a stubbly beard.
"Don't you think you've done enough?" The Egyptian man asked. He pulled them backwards, hopping over the stub of a candlestick.
It was like falling away from the world. The angry crowd and Gavrilo's shouts were cut off; the car, the Archduke and his wife, disappeared. There was only blackness with no sight and sound; not even the smell of gunpowder. There was only a sense of movement. Of going back—
--To another crowd in Egypt, where a burly man with more than his share of muscles was still pushing through the crowd towards them, his face twisted in anger. Slate was in front of Katrina now. That was just as well. His head already hurt; it spun with black and red, with after-images of Serbia and someplace else.
He was not twenty minutes late: that would be absurd.
He was certainly three minutes late, but Tarin would no doubt prefer that he not be covered in grease and oil when he arrive. A proper hand-washing was well justified.
Additionally, he was another seven minutes late—but one cannot ignore one's instructor, even if the talk is of an informal nature. He finally got a chance to ask her about airplane mechanical programs—also, how her holiday break had gone. She promised to look into things for him, and it had gone quite well, as the cellphone photos of her Pomeranian in various holiday costumes proved. (His favorite was the Santa's Sleigh Mechanic outfit.)
After that, the walk from the engine shop to the student union was a mere minute and a half; two, when one stops to tie his shoe (it was a good return on a thirty-second investment).
As he only had an hour break until his next lecture began, he of course had to stop by the cafeteria upstairs—selecting a saran-wrapped sandwich off of the shelf took less time than the shoe tying. Unfortunately, the person in front of him paid in cash. He... had not seen cash since 1914. They still had it in this century? The cashier seemed equally confused, judging by the pace at which she completed the transaction.
And then there were the stairs down, and the halls over to the coffee shop itself.
...Perhaps "twenty minutes late" was not an altogether improper estimate for the time Slate arrived, a smudge of grease still on one cheek, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and a tuna sandwich in his hand.
"My apologies, Tarin," he said, slightly out of breath. "I failed to factor in certain elements of my commute to our meeting time. How have you been?"
Keep going, Katrina: he is quite pleased with us. Slate relayed, as they snuck past the woman and downstairs. No one was the wiser when they suddenly appeared in front of the Danger Room's doors.
Shin also had quite the sense of humor, as Slate had heard from others—he'd caught the man thinking about how much easier having a telepath would make coordinating their movements. That was a joke, yes? Slate's lips imperceptibly twitched—'imperceptible,' in quite the literal sense. He did not reply: X-Leaders were certainly allowed to joke through try-outs, but he did not think it would be appropriate for the trainees to behave so lightly. Clearly, this was another facet of their test.
Perhaps a slight display of humor on his own part would not be unreasonable, however? Teams were about teamwork. Teamwork was about how well differing personalities matched.
So he said, with a carefully measured ironic smile:
There was a hand. It belonged to a girl, who grabbed his scarf, and proceeded to man-handle him into an alleyway. Its former occupant scurried out at her command, as if he'd been barked at by the meanest dog on the block.
So they were alone, girl and boy and scarf. In aforementioned alleyway. It was quite dark; the brick buildings shaded out the sun above them, and it had been an overcast day to begin with. He blinked down at her head: somewhat unwashed brown hair, rather intense brown eyes. Her hand was still locked on his scarf. She... did not look particularly pleased with him.
Was this a mugging? It was his first. A low buzzing had started in the back of his head—like voices that he could not quite focus enough to hear. Was that apprehension?
Oh. She was speaking. He tried to focus on her words, through the distracting buzz.
>> "...wave that pretty leather money filled wallet around in your pretty jacket and your pretty scarf and your pretty clothes and expect everything to be okay. You’re mommy and daddy can’t wave their money around and save you here. If you get cornered or something you could die. Understand.”
"Die?" He repeated, with a baby blue blink. "No, I highly doubt that." He was surprisingly difficult to kill.
A single voice rose above the murmurs that were cluttering up his mind.
>> Probably not but one can hope you are at least a little scared of me.
Yes. Yes, he was fairly certain that this was a mugging.
Don't muggers usually have weapons? He wondered, rather loudly.
It was possibly the best idea he had ever had. Once, he had forgotten to get Katrina a Christmas present: now, he had remembered to get everyone Christmas presents. Even people he did not strictly know.
Katrina, in this place and time, had gotten a scarf. It was teal, but the weave matched his own gray scarf—the one he was wearing right now. He liked it so much, he was sure she would like one as well.
Calley got catnip, which they pretended Katrina had bought so he would accept it.
Shin got a very curious text on geometry that he had read three times, and found for three dollars at a less-than-half-price store. The cover was torn, but the mathematics were solid.
Tarin might perhaps still be angry with him, but he and Lee had received a gift card to Hooters—as Tarin had frequently offered to take him there, he assumed the man liked the place.
WereCat simply received a tab at the Dragon Inn; it was rather hard to find her in person.
Sebastian was even harder to find (and wanted by the police, apparently): his clover plant was still sitting in Kat's window.
Cold Steel got a lock that would fit on a mini-fridge's door. (He did not entirely understand this gift, but it was suggested to him by multiple students when he inquired around the Mansion.)
There was one other person he would have liked to give a gift to; a man he had once known. As that would generally be considered impossible (especially if Tarin was still mad at him), he had settled for the next best thing: giving to those the man may once have known, or those who could easily have been in the man's place the day Slate had met him.
He was dressed in his gray scarf, and a nice coat—Katrina's mother had helped him pick it out, along with his new boots. Katrina had said they made him look 'dignified.'
It was with the greatest of dignity that the young Italian was stopping at every beggar's cup he saw, and putting in money. Not the clink of coins; the distinctly more weighty silence of real bills. It was not much, but it was enough to get a warm meal at someplace nicer than McGrease King. It was the least he could do.
The streets were getting somewhat more dingy as he walked, which did not seem to be a problem; after all, there were ever more homeless people around here. And that was a good thing, right?
Tucked in his scarf and coat, flashing a wallet full of cash, Slate could not imagine otherwise.
Had they already passed the interview stage? There was no logical reason they would move on to the next stage if they had not. Slate had honestly expected more questions; he had not particularly looked forward to them. Shin had acknowledged their single answers as satisfactory, however—and now they would move on.
This made great sense, Slate decided. The X-Men were not known for talking.
>> "...I think I can figure out a mission about helping people that'll show off both of your skills. Are you ready to go?"
>> And maybe sneak past the old lady outside the room?
Ah-ha.
Katrina, Slate covertly transmitted, as their proctor would no doubt expect, I believe our practical exam has already begun. Shin wishes us to 'sneak past' the elderly lady outside.
Slate had full faith that Katrina could handle her task; he was proud he had caught on to his first cue, as well. Though he could not remember telling Shin he was a psychic... this thought did not trouble him for long, however; of course the X-Leader would have means of finding this information out. How very shrewd of him.
Months ago, years in the future, Slate had been writing a term paper about World War I. Specifically, on the role of chemical weaponry. He'd once had a half-remembered dream which left him interested in the topic—he remembered that dream much better now, and found it not so much "interesting" as "incredibly distasteful." If he had to write the paper again, he would go with something that reflected humanity in a kinder light. Perhaps airplanes.
He had not read the start of his textbook—the first paragraph of the first chapter, which briefly detailed the failed assassination attempt on Franz Ferdinand. The date—June 28th, 1914—had seemed very far from his own life. His instructor had not yet led them to the later chapters, either: to World War II, where the Archduke's raise to power was only overshadowed by his rise in lunacy. ("While in retrospect his madness is easily traced," one historian commented, "to his contemporaries, caught up by his oration and the scope of his plans, it was not 'madness' but 'vision' that they called it... a vision for a perfect society, populated by perfect people. The world did not at first realize what Ferdinand had planned for those who were imperfect in his eyes, and even when the rumors began, not everyone was willing to believe...")
Any history buff could easily pin down the Holocaust's cause: it was because his wife had been shot on June 28th, by Vaso Čubrilović. The Duchess Sophie took a bullet meant for him. In a perfect world, no one would want to shoot an innocent woman like her. Not those vagabond gypsies, or deviant homosexuals; not those traitorous, rebellious Serbs.
When Slate saw Katrina, he did not think of any of these things. He didn't yet know them. When he opened the apartment door, she was sitting on their bed, his Egyptian satchel open next to her. She gave a start—a guilty start? a caught-in-something start?—and ran to him. What he thought was, She found it. It was with the utmost of self-restraint that he kept this thought contained to his own mind.
“Did you read that?” She asked, pointing to the book.
Read...? He blinked. "No, not all of it. Only the assigned chapters."
Later, he would feel guilty for his rush of relief. Even as she explained, that is what he felt: relief. Until her words began to sink in, and the dates began to seem much closer than they had months ago, and years in the future.
It was May 26, 1914, and they were going for a picnic.
Katrina grabbed the blanket; Slate grabbed the chess set, and discretely pocketed something else from his satchel.
The park was green and warm. Jelena had put together sandwiches; Gavrilo claimed to have helped. After lunch, they broke out the chess board: Gavrilo and Slate played first (Slate won, but did not feel good about it). Katrina and Slate played next (Gavrilo loudly complained about Slate's moves making no sense—he could not see the illusion doubles that populated the board: Katrina's response to in inadvertent psychic cheating.) Jelena loudly claimed a match with the winner, which neatly paired up her and Katrina for the next round.
This allowed Gavrilo and Slate to quietly move to the leeside of their little hill, for a private conversation.
"I found a jeweler who will set any stone you bring him, or so he says—the work in his shop looks good. I still say it's easier to just buy a ring, though," the Serbian said, furtively glancing over his shoulder at the game. Jelena used an impolite word to describe Katrina's white knight; on the next move, her queen took his head. Jelena always led with her queen.
"It would not have the same meaning," Slate said. He made sure his body was shielding the women's view; then he discretely removed his hand from his pocket, and uncurled his fingers.
"Ah," the Serbian said, with sudden understanding. "That is a lot of meaning. For that much meaning, you could probably hook a princess."
The diamond sparkled flawlessly in the sunlight. He had found it tucked in the seam of his satchel, a few weeks back.
"How soon can we go?" Slate asked, sliding his hand discretely back into his pocket.
Gavrilo grinned conspiratorially. "How long can you sneak off tonight without your princess getting suspicious?"
It was May 26, 1914. Katrina's ring was done on June 12th. Its single diamond was the size and shape of a tear; the last of their Dragon Speak gems.
