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 was an elderly woman outside the study room's door. Her hair was gray, her cane stout, and her cough rather bad. She really should see the DocProf about that. Or was the DocProf limited to physical injuries, as he and Sebastian were? Slate really needed to meet the man, and compare healer's notes.
Mr. Tetsuya—Shin—discretely closed the door, successfully refocusing Slate's attention on the matter at hand. Interview, then training session; likely, no laser robo death bots. This was just as well: Slate had piecemeal recollections of facing similar robots during Calley's long-ago X-tryouts, and he did not think he would prove very effective against them. Katrina's illusions were not likely to fare much better, against mechanical opponents.
He blinked his way out of his thoughts as Shin asked a question. A rather good question.
>> "Tell me, why do you want to be X-men?"
A question he, perhaps, should have had a ready answer for.
"I... I believe it is time that I attempted to aid the world under leadership not my own. I want to help people, but... on a more local scale."
While he stood by his actions in Colombia and Romania as having helped, his actions in Serbia and China... had been slightly more consequential, and distinctly less positive, in a quantitatively measurable sense. This many trenches dug between Germany and France; this many square feet in Moscow destroyed in fire; that many people left pliable to a new leader's rise; that many custom printed wedding invitations arriving in a little brown box to a home that had no use for them anymore.
I just want to be near Katrina.
Slate was tired of starting wars. He trusted in the X-Men to do nothing of much consequence, on that scale.
Slate just happened to be around when Sam found Katrina.
Her mother always seemed to be around Katrina's bedroom, since they had returned from their Egypt trip. Checking if she'd left something on Katrina's desk; bringing up a snack to help them study; dropping off the key to Slate's own room, which was in the boy's hallway—back that way, and keep walking to the end. Yes, the very end. You can't miss it. Really.
The living room was always full of other people—not good for studying at all. The kitchen was better, but tended to collect tigers. Tigers who would watch them from across the room, eyes unmoving, as they methodically chewed through tomorrow's ground beef or turkey or the morning's leftover bacon.
Slate had not known about the library's study rooms until their interview with Shin. He suggested one of these, when mother and tiger were distracted elsewhere for a moment.
The arms of their chairs had touched as they leaned in over her Pre-Calculus book. The unit circle. SohCahToa. The perfect relationship between—
Sam did not knock when he entered. Apparently Hawaii was about to light on fire, and Katrina had to go now. Oh, Slate. You come too.
The former Kabal Leader was fairly certain he'd sprained something in his back when he'd straightened up. Sam's bro-slap managed to hit the spot dead on. Wince-smile, he replied, to Sam's grin-smile. Fortunately, he was a healer. Unfortunately, he presumed he was supposed to be saving his energy for their destination.
The plane ride went smoothly; Slate had expected no less of their pilot. For himself, he claimed an unobtrusive seat behind her, and attempted to re-focus his thoughts.
And then Sam was jumping out of the plane, taking the other adult with him. His orders, as he understood them... were to stay close to Katrina. Slate found himself approving of the X-Commander's leadership style.
Except that Maya was still with them, he remembered. With a baby blue blink, he stared at his brother's friend.
The chess pieces were wooden, with a simple stain to distinguish black pieces from white. Their shapes were only the most basic approximations of kings and queens, knights and rooks. Really, they were nothing more than a collection of spheres and cones and cleanly cut lines, sanded down smooth.
Slate turned them over in his hands, liking them immensely. He looked back up at Katrina, a smile starting on his lips. "I—"
...Forgot to buy you a present, he realized, with a sudden empty feeling that could have easily slunk away and hid between the galaxies and comets still spinning on the wrapping paper in his hands. I forgot to buy you a present. I forgot that I was supposed to buy a present. "I'm sorry, Katrina—"
You could give me something free, she thought. And stood waiting on the cobblestone street below the window of their one room apartment, with the stars and moon and galaxies and comets spinning across the sky above her. It was enough to make a man dizzy.
Slate leaned forward, and kissed her. It was not his first kiss, but it was the first that meant something.
He was not nervous, contrary to Katrina’s apparent expectations. He had led a Faction himself quite capably, as well as a drug cartel and a foreign senate; his resume was well equipped for handling the responsibilities of an X-Trainee. Granted, it would be best if the X-Man did not examine that resume too closely, per se. Or ask his birthday. He was both physically and mentally capable of joining their team—that should be enough.
He didn’t have time to squeeze Katrina’s hand back; she was already moving to greet their interviewer.
Tetsuya Shinbo, more commonly known as Shin. They had met once, when Slate was very young. He feared the impression had been... less than favorable. He had heard the man was at the Romania Concentration Camps, as well—but he had only caught a fleeting glimpse of him through the rainbows.
He offered his hand to the X-Leader. “Mr. Tetsuya. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I trust you’ve been well?”
He loosened his gray scarf. It was getting hot again.
Classes. Classes every day, from approximately 7:30 in the morning until 2 in the afternoon. This was something to which high schoolers (who were not failing) were accustomed. Having never properly belonged to that category, Slate had... forgotten.
White sunlight on grass and track and silver whistle around Sam’s throat. An Italian boy on the sidelines, nursing a water bottle petulantly, sweat on his forehead. A blue-skinned girl at the next starting block, poised to begin as—
“Ready... get set...”
Oww.
Slate rubbed his cheek, and met Katrina at the top of the stairs. It was a Tuesday; his morning classes were over, and he had several hours until his lone evening class; Engine Performance Lab.
>> “Hey. Fix me up?”
“Of course.”
He stretched out his hand on her cheek. The scrape was gone at the lightest touch; he brushed the smudge of dirt away.
“I left your clothes and towel on the bed. I will be in the living room, when you are done.”
The reason why was easy to explain.
The drawer, open before him. His hand, half in and half out, the clothing item dangling. Her mother, standing in the doorway.
“Hello, Slate. My daughter is at class.”
“I know.”
“Do you.”
He tucked his scarf up to his chin. Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps there was a slight chill to the Mansion’s air.
His was not an uncommon face around the Mansion. In fact, it was perhaps a more common face than common sense dictated.
Whap!
“What—?”
“You’ll get worse than that if Sam notices you skipping Conditioning.”
“I—”
“Your funeral, man. I’ll wave to you when you’re doing your three hundred laps.”
The boy continued down the stairs, the second of his heads giving one last disapproving shake in the Italian’s direction.
Calley, apparently, did not go out of his way to explain his brother to his friends. His friends—perhaps on a related note—generally did not wait on explanations. This had happened before: especially this semester, as his study dates with Katrina had become... distinctly more frequent. Slate rubbed the back of his head, and proceeded into the girl’s dormitory hall. Outside of Katrina’s door, he paused to loosen the scarf around his throat. It was November, and the Mansion had definitely turned on its heat for the winter, despite the weather forecast: highs in the fifties all week, with more chance of rain than snow. He raised his hand to knock—
“I’m telling Cafas!” Someone shouted from the boy’s hall. Laughter and a hastily slammed door followed.
Sighing was a sigh of immaturity. He refrained. He was five years old now; five years old was much too old to be annoyed by such trifling matters. Especially not when he had important appointments to attend to.
Are you ready, Katrina? He asked, after a polite knock.
He was twenty minutes early. Punctuality was a sign of one's maturity.
The tuxedo was white, with gold edging. The mechanic had gotten in a very good laugh about it when Gavrilo came to pick him up.
“So, Americky, you are Prince Charming? You’d better change somewhere else, unless you want grease stains all over you.”
When Katrina and Jelena had finished changing upstairs, however, the man was mute. He simply held the door for them, and his hat in his hand. The butler did the same, at their destination. Inside, their respective male companions looked properly taken aback. Slate offered out his arm.
You look beautiful, Katrina. Fit to attend a President’s Ball, or a King’s; certainly a merchant’s Yule Ball.
They did not know the dances, but it didn’t seem to matter; they tried copying what others were doing, and then... simply danced. They traded partners; Gavrilo cut in, leaving Slate with Jelena, who tried to coach him in a few simple steps. He heard her laughing when he later tried them with Katrina. He smiled, and kept dancing.
On the balcony between dances, Gavrilo stood next to him, their breaths making white clouds into the night air.
“She is quite the catch, your Katrina.” The Serbian said.
“So is your Jelena.” Slate said, to be polite.
“Jelena? Ha. She’s good enough for now, but...” Slate raised an eyebrow as his companion leaned out over the rail. “I don’t know. I just feel like I should be doing more, right? There’s so many things wrong with this country, with the whole world—I just want to fix them. Stupid, right?”
The young mechanic, former Kabal leader, and future Pax teacher, met the Serbian’s eyes levelly. "If you want to fix things,” he said simply, “then fix them.”
“Ha! One man can’t change the world, Slate.” He broke the gaze first. Shrugged. “In any case, I don’t think I’m cut out for the domestic life. Not like you two.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” the Serbian flashed a grin, “are you going to buy her a ring, or are you going to let one of those pilot boys beat you to it?”
He clapped Slate on the back, and went back inside with another laugh. Slate turned his gaze to the sky. The stars were much brighter here than in New York; brighter here than any place he had been in 2011.
The first flick caught him off guard. He blinked and blinked again at the little spots of paint suddenly on his nose, and did not quite understand how they had gotten there until he saw Katrina. Her paint roller hovered over the tray. An impish grin played on her lips.
“Did you just--?” He began to ask, perhaps naively.
She did it again, in clear confirmation.
The art room of the Pax Academy ended up with a certain Pollock flair.
They never did get a second bed before winter set in. On the night of the first snow, Slate started to tell her of the first time he had been ice skating—of Susan, the woman who had taught him. But the memory was confused in his mind, tangled up with another, just as real.
The rink’s wall was white, and perilously thin between his hands. Her mitten was teal, and stretched out towards him.
I do not think this is a good idea— He stated, forgetting to use the voice she had given him. His mouth and nose were huddled deep in the comforting folds of his gray scarf, but it was not big enough for him to completely hide inside.
The mitten was patient; it waited until he was ready to pry his fingers away from the wall, and put his hand in hers.
That night, they slept in the same bed for the first time. Just slept, with both their blankets wrapped over and around them, and the snow falling outside. It was warm.
There were candles in silver stands set between the red poinsettias in their pots, and smartly dressed staff making sure everyone had a fresh glass of wine to gesture with, and enough hors d’oeuvres to spoil their appetites. Everyone who was anyone was there, of course.
The red-headed reporter seemed intent on puzzling the young couple out. “And how do you know--?”
“Ms. Dumonde! Mr. Swartz!” The boy broke in, with all the ceremony of a proper New York teen. “They’re seating for dinner. Come on—you need to sit next to us.”
“Aren’t all the seats pre-assigned?” The red head said more than asked, with a sort of indulgent smile.
“That’s why we need to swipe them now,” Felix replied. “Come on. I don’t want to end up next to a politician for the next two hours.”
He didn’t seem to notice the irony.
The photograph was later hung in the Community Center’s lobby: the two Pax teachers, their student grinning between them. And sandwiching them in on either side: the New York State Police Commissioner, and the President of the United States.
Morning after morning, he helped Katrina find her way back to the present. To their little apartment, with its cast iron stove and cobbled together checkers board; to the walls where he had hung up a diagram of a Gräf & Stift Double Phaeton’s engine, and she had pinned up an article on Adolphe Pegoud’s amazing first airplane loop. They talked about the dreams, sometimes. Neither of them mentioned getting a second bed anymore.
Down in the garage one day, the mechanic paused for a moment, and wiped his hands off on a rag. “When are you going back home, Americky?” He asked abruptly, his eyes on the engine.
Slate did not answer immediately. He went to the tool bench, and extracted the proper wrench from the forsaken drawer the mechanic had lost it in; returned to the older man’s side.
“I do not think we are,” he answered, as he reached in under the hood.
And that was okay. They had each other; they had a future. Even if it was different than they had imagined.
Slate had heard that, at these events, one must sign the guestbook. Katrina and Naveed seemed to have a different view—namely, that he must sit down. Now. His hand was still stretching for the pen as Katrina coaxed him up the aisle. Sonya waved at them from near the front, gesturing to a pair of empty seats she’d managed to save between herself and a woman who looked very much like an upright mountain lion. Her appearance did not startle him, but it did annoy him; annoy him, because he could not remember her name, even though she had applied for one of the Academy’s positions. Sandy? Sally? Sara? Or was he only thinking of ‘S’ names because of her proximity to Sonya? (This train of thought made it significant easier for Katrina to lead him.) They made it to their seats just as the music was starting.
It seemed strange to him that the Pastor who stood at the pulpit was a man he did not recognize. But then, Pastor Kelley had other things to do today.
“Do you, Rupert Kelley, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do you part?”
“I do.”
He only had eyes for the woman in front of him. Slate approved of such focus.
The reception was somewhat overwhelming, though not as confusing as the bachelor’s party had been. He primarily focused on staying next to Katrina’s side. This led to slight problems when the red-headed bride sent her bouquet sailing over her shoulder; he knew he was not supposed to catch it, but it had been on a trajectory aligned with his face. He attempted to make up for the gaffe by handing it to Katrina.
Judging by her blush, this was perhaps an inappropriate thing to do. (The sighs from the other women around them somewhat contradicted this impression, however.)
In the end, it seemed that he had survived his first wedding. It was an interesting experience.
…Though he failed to sign the guestbook before they departed.
There were many things that Slate tried not to do.
Adding “jěbati” to his sentences was one of them—Gavrilo had finally taken him aside on night, and told him what it meant. With gesturing, to emphasize the point. The next morning, the mechanic had been—if anything—more amused with Slate’s sudden change in dialect.
Using a “cutthroat” in the manner implied by its name, was another. For the first few days after being introduced to the shaving implement, Slate had been very thankful he was a healer. After that, it had occurred to him that growing a beard might be the less arduous option. So it was that his goatee was being slowly hidden by brown overgrowth.
For a third, he tried not to cheat at checkers. He really did. But Katrina thought very, very loudly. And he was getting better at listening.
If I move here—
If I could just—
How did he do that?
The telepath scratched at his stubble, and suggested, somewhat mildly: “Perhaps it is time to go to bed.” Though they had not finished their current game, he was quite confident of the outcome. He did not mean to be, but he was.
In his dream, there was a television on in the background, but he could not hear it until he was done with his shaving.
He clicked the razor off, and set it on the counter; splashed water on his smooth cheeks, and looked into a face that was… disorienting, for a moment. He looked older. Didn’t he?
The feeling passed. Just morning vertigo, perhaps left over from his dream. He did not remember what it was—only that he had woken up abnormally pleased with the idea of electric razors, and with the vague idea that, perhaps, the sound their car had been making was caused by a loose fan belt (and the absurd notion that he knew what a fan belt was, and how to fix it). Slate toweled his face dry, and leaned out of the bathroom.
Katrina, he thought, do you have the directions?
“—instituted a quarantine in lower Manhattan, as a precaution. CDC spokesman David Olsterholm reminds both humans and mutants to avoid drinking unfiltered water, to help prevent such re-occurrences of the Outbreak. In other news, the European Union has announced plans to go ahead with the formation of a team aimed to re-start the Gulf Stream. Democratic candidate Nigel Banks has come out in support of the role mutants are to play, while adding his concerns to the chorus of voices opposed to the proposed intentional Haywire infections—“
It was like having a mechanical picture book beat into his head, all day long.
Rear axle—štȁ jěbati pǎkao?1 Did they run over a kráva?2
An occasionally graphic picture book.
Battery connections just dirty. Waste of my jěbati3 time. Where’s that jěbati Americky4?
That jěbati Americky looked up from his book. Sava Petrovich glared back. With a sigh, Slate grabbed a rag, and cleaned the connections. Not even Sebastian’s wife thought this loudly.
“Dȍvōljno dȍbar5,” the mechanic grunted, in a tone that implied he could desist.
“Nema na jěbati čemu6,” the former Kabal Leader answered, to which Sava broke out laughing. As the mechanic himself had taught Slate this, he was unclear on why the man found it so funny. Every time. Slate sat back down with his book: the instruction manual for a Austro-Daimler. It had pictures. Said pictures existed outside of his skull, for which he was grateful. He flipped a page, and studied the diagram of an engine. His leg was twitching. It was a curious and unnecessary action, but he saw no reason to stop it.
twitch twitch twitch—
In the next room over—the actual shop entrance—a bell jangled. Slate sprang up. Sava glanced up briefly as the young American ran past, then returned to his work with a grumble and a shake of his head.
“Katrina. You must keep your eyes closed. This is a surprise.”
He took the girl’s hand, and led her towards the back of the store; behind the counter, to the creaking wooden stairs. They went up.
“I will know if you peek,” he warned.
That is probably a lie. But you still should not: this is a surprise.
Down a narrow hallway, through a door that stuck a bit on its frame.
“You may now open your eyes,” Slate stated.
They were in a small room. The ceiling above them slanted down at an angle towards the wall, following the roof above. A door to the left led off to a little bathroom. To the right, sunlight spilled in through a window overlooking the street.
“Mr. Petrovich said we can stay here. It’s it wonderful?”
Below them, a muffled clatter and curse came through the floor. Their apartment was directly above the mechanic’s garage.
“He is even renting it to us at a discount,” Slate stated, quite proudly.
1шта јебени пакао = What the (censored) (censored). 2крава = cow 3јебени = (censored) 4јебени амерички = (censored) American 5довољно добар = Good enough. 6нема на јебени чему = You’re (censored) welcome.
He was a Colombian mutant, originally, though Slate had acquired him before he had acquired the rest of the country. His primary ability was to bleed rubies, cry diamonds, and otherwise produce gem stones out of his bodily functions. As a side note, the ingestion of the stones allowed a person to read and speak any language known to man for a short time. Slate did not generally tell people how these gems were produced.
He had, of course, brought an ample supply along. They were, quite prudently, stored in the safe within his hotel room. Thirteen thousand miles away. Ninety-eight years from now.
Gavrilo was full of politely baffled smiles, and words Slate did not understand.
His girlfriend was much more easily deciphered. She pushed a tin can into his hands, gripped his arm in a most uncomfortable manner, and brought him to a street corner.
Slate followed her pointing finger, and obediently sat.
As the morning passed, a few coins began to build up. He could tell how much they were worth numerically, but was uncertain what amount of goods or services they could be exchanged for. He shook the can. ...Not much, he suspected.
His head still hurt. And the auto-mechanic was a very loud thinker.
It took minimal language skills to deduce two things: that the barrel-chested man did not appreciate him sitting outside of his shop, and that he had more important things to do than yelling at the успорити1 who was просјачење2 on his street corner. Because његов јебени шегрт није могао да нађе кључ за јебенијебени спасе свој живот3.
Slate was entirely unclear on what that meant, but he was getting very tired of having the image of a wrench beat into his head. јебени4 tired, to put it locally.
Finally, he could stand things no more. He stood up and walked through the open garage door, past the mechanic’s uninviting gesticulations. He crouched down, and fished the wrench out from under the tool bench, where the man’s nervous apprentice had dropped it nearly a half-hour ago. He slapped it into the mechanic’s hand, which shut up both his mouth and mind briefly, and stalked back out to his street corner.
The silence was blissful while it lasted, but it did not last long. Slate was forced to leave his post twice more to hand the mechanic a Philip’s head screwdriver instead of a flat, and to use a butter-knife-not-a-steak-knife to pry off clips from a casing. It contained an air filter, Slate discovered. This was secondary to his headache relief.
Lunchtime came. Slate found that, despite the interruptions, he had enough coins in his tin to purchase an apple from the grocery store across the street. He accomplished this task with an acceptable level of proficiency, and returned to his corner with great pride. He was preparing to take his first bite when the mechanic dropped half a sandwich on his lap.
Slate pointedly ate his apple first.
1 dim-wit 2 begging 3 His (censored) apprentice could not find the wrench to save his (censored) life. 4 (also censored)
Slate landed almost-well. Decently, he rated. He caught the fall with his arm, rounded the force over shoulder and back, and flopped into a bush with no damage done. The judo secretaries would be proud of him: he had almost done it right. During a real world application, no less. He would have to tell Noin later.
Nigel’s team, unfamiliar with his efforts to earn his light blue belt, did not seem to view his progress with appropriate reverence.
Instead, he was rather unceremoniously slung over Percy’s shoulder. It was from this position which he answered Katrina.
“I was unsure as to whether it would constitute cheating.” He paused a moment, attempting to wiggle his liver off of the sometimes-Paladin’s shoulder bone. “This is a more serious game than I had initially thought.”
“Of course, Katrina.” Slate answered. He reached with his free hand and drew his blanket back to himself, and over his new floor mate. He readjusted the arm around her shoulders, as well, as her angle of snuggle changed.
Of course.
Gavrilo’s girlfriend found them like that, in the morning. She gave a snort, and walked on to the kitchen.
Slate lifted his arm, and let Katrina slip underneath. As he had a rather boney shoulder, this seemed a more comfortable seating arrangement.
“The dragon in mine was burning as well,” Slate said. This was apparently a common thing for dream dragons to do, given the data set he had available. “Though it dropped… perhaps ropes? They were useful. I made a circle with them.” He frowned. “It was not a perfect circle, though, I do not think.”
They are not there, Katrina, he stated. See?
He looked down at her hand, and concentrated. He tried to show her what he saw: a hand, clasped in his. The shades of gray painted on it by the dim light, and the way the shadows of the room played across it. There were no threads. None at all.
You do not need to be afraid. I told you. I will protect you.
“Or perhaps I told the you who was in my dream.” Dreams could be confusing, like that: some things about them seemed as true as reality. Or truer. Was this, perhaps, Katrina’s problem? Slate could somehow sympathize.
I will protect you, he stated again, for good measure.
