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.
The clinic. That was where she had just come from, was it not?
“I believe you would make a good custodian, Sebastian.” Slate stated, his brow creasing. “Though I must remind you that your business partner and fellow frequenter of that establishment should be encouraged to maintain his distance from your ward.” Firmly encouraged.
He was not consciously choosing large words. He was also not consciously shying away from the Russian’s sweet smile. These things simply happen, when one would prefer that a lady re-sheath her teeth.
As the world’s future majority shareholder, Slate had hoped Susan would have more confidence in him. After all: his plan was clearly a success. By weaponizing blushing, he had eliminated Katrina. Why Noel was leaving—or what she meant by him being “rude”—he was not sure, but plans frequently had unintended consequences. This one was clearly positive.
I will indeed be available tomorrow. My— He caught the look the fourteen year old sent Susan’s way. Blinking, and a slight recoil, ensued. Apologies?
“Goodbye, Ms. Noel. It was intriguing to meet you. Circles make calculations convenient.” As geometric shapes went, they were hardly frustrating. He was pleased she did not find him oval-esk, or parallelpipid.
Slate could indeed see pictures. As his feet stopped their paddling kicks, and the images clouded over both sight and thought, his grip on the noodles became a very good thing. It was likely he would have slipped under the water, if they hadn’t been there.
The subtle perspective of the image were... different. Where his mind saw a cylindrical prism consisting of a porous-appearing material, Verdigris’ insisted that a pink noodle existed. Where his saw a watery image of the weights, hers supplied a clearer notion of form than he’d been able to grasp before they sunk. When the images ended, the sudden absence of input left him blinking: back in his own thoughts. He’d drifted only slightly from where he was. Baby blue eyes sought hers.
“I approve of your proposal,” the Kabal’s Leader stated. Then his legs resumed their kicking, with clear determination: he had cylindrical noodles to position. The pink one went over there.
But she killed me, Slate replied, unaware how close the words sounded to his age. His true age. He did not argue the point further, however. The immortal’s continued counsel far outweighed the hazards of... of dying again? Did they really?
Well, he was in the habit of getting better.
In light of Sebastian’s advice, ‘Students disappear from the Mansion every day’ suddenly seemed an unwise reply.
My apologies, he chose instead. Then again, for the woman:
“Sorry,” he said, from behind his blush. “Sebastian is right. We shall do as he says.”
Slate was not sulking under his mentor’s rebuke. The Kabal’s Leader did not sulk.
Science, Slate concluded, was the way to make women put things up their shirts. For a moment, he felt that this discovery had broader applications. A cooing at his feet reclaimed his mind from these puzzling thoughts.
“Slate Swartz,” he answered, as their new bargain demanded. “I will run at them first. Wait a moment until they settle, and then follow me. Please do not wave your arms. We will save that for the next trial.”
With no further ado, the brown haired young man turned and ran across the square. The feathered gray sea parted before him, and closed behind.
Susan’s question was valid, but the answer was not readily forthcoming. How did one escape one’s ninja shad—?
>> Nigel, I'm fine. I found him. He says he's on a non-date. With a girl. I don't need any back up.
...
The bleach-haired waiter did not escape notice. Not completely. As evidence by the vengeful return of Slate’s blush; it had finally jumped the asymptotal bound of his cheeks, and begun again in matching hyperbolic curves at the top of his ears.
This simply proved, however, that blushes had very little to do with dating. Susan’s own blush was clearly a reaction to their spies, just as his was. That was all.
>> "You really are a better psychic than me."
Slate returned to the interlopers at hand, with a surprised blink. “Are you implying that you are a worse psychic than me?” That would practically take a mutation in and of itself.
The question of their escape still remained.
I suggest we remove their desire for following us, he stated. He began things:
“Katrina,” he asked, baby blue eyes giving the fourteen year old their full attention, “if Susan owes Noel two kisses, how many kisses do I owe you?”
He had chosen his target; to Susan, he left the other.
“Ah. Katrina.” He hadn’t known that the fourteen year old knew Susan, or Noel. He stood corrected. “I see you received our ice cream.” Were there more females gathered over there, behind the shrubbery? Susan had only mentioned the one, but she had clearly omitted some details. Why did the thought of yet more women suddenly make him uneasy? For that matter: why did women gather in flocks? He did not think he was the only male to be unnerved by such behavior.
“Did you not get our note?” He asked, puzzled. “This is not a date. This is a pre-arranged social encounter between two previously acquainted individuals sharing similar interests.” He did not know how to state it more clearly than that: this was not a date.
He stood courteously as their older spy approached, offering her his hand. “Hello. My name is Slate Swartz. I am not dangerous.”
Some nerve? He had many nerves, as was proven during Garret and Ms. Morozova’s city-wide attack. Excuse that: accidental attack. If he did not have so many nerves, perhaps it would have been a more pleasant experience. Still, the amount contained in his body was average for a male human (or non-visibly mutated x-gene carrier), so far as he could tell. He did not grasp the relevance of—
“Ah. That is an expression.” He noted, clearly pleased with himself. He may have even heard that one before; it sounded familiar. Around them, park life continued: his momentary pigeon stalking was quickly forgotten in the flow of people in and out of their little courtyard. A balloon seller wandered in with his cart; it sent intriguing ripples through the feathery horde, in lines tantalizingly close to perpendicularity. A little boy and his mother ruined it, as she dragged him over to buy a balloon. A green balloon. He was very loud, and very insistent, upon it being a green balloon. The seller, not having any green balloons, smilingly handed him a blue one as his mother paid.
“Hmm. One twenty? Really?” Slate did not conceal his disappointment. “I had hoped you would weigh less,” he stated. “Or more. I am one hundred and thirty pounds. This is most inconvenient.” He paused, clearly thinking deeply. How could a pigeon tell weight, in any case? Clearly, the variable he was after was size.
Ah. That would do it.
With casual brilliance, Slate stole the scowling child’s balloon out of his pudgy-handed grip, and thrust it towards his new female acquaintance.
“Here: put this under your shirt. That should make you look bigger.” The blue-eyed young man was clearly pleased with his own inventiveness.
The boy’s mother was already hurrying him down the trail, and did not notice the thievery: the boy parted with his balloon with one last glare at its unwanted color. He liked green balloons.
“Yes. I am.” The question-turned-statement was direct and honest. Slate replied to it as such. “Very,” he amended, his lips tight. “I was studying peacefully. You stopped my heart from half a city away, without even knowing that I existed. That is a most unsettling experience.” He was suddenly aware of the language barrier between them: her heavy accent and limited vocabulary made it obvious. One of Dragon Speak’s gems was an equally obvious solution. Slate did not think to call for one, though: he had more important things on his mind, just now. Like wondering whether his heart beat was louder than it should be, or whether the rhythm was quite right.
“Your gift is useful. That is exactly the problem. I do not believe you want to hurt people: I simply point out that you have, and the chances of you doing so again if we do nothing are high. Not wanting to hurt people is not the same as not hurting people. It will likely be days until they finish tallying the casualties you and Mr. Wills have caused. That you did so accidentally is the only reason I do not order you killed.” Also, Sebastian, sitting next to her. That was another reason to leave her alive.
He turned to the immortal. “You are my advisor. What do you advise?” He was far more concerned with the ramifications of her walking the streets than he was with the Order imprisoning her somewhere. The latter sounded like a temporary solution more so than a problem.
As hand shakes were not currently advisable, Slate refrained from offering one. He gratefully settled back down in his chair, and proceeded to reply to Sebastian’s words. Only Sebastian’s words. The tousle-haired young man found his mentor to be an entirely safer person to converse with. Ms. Morozova had already attempted his murder once today. He did not want her apology: he wanted to feel safe in his own boardroom again. As Sebastian had brought her here for her own protection, that seemed unlikely to happen. The unicorn would be most displeased if he killed her now.
Hmm. Perhaps he could simply arrange for her to disappear?
“I think the risk of targeted retaliation is low, so long as Ms. Morozova refrains from advertising her role in it. Any mob retaliation should focus on visible mutants and known safe houses, I should think. The blood sample... that adds a new angle to the situation.”
Would Lori be interested in the girl? Perhaps a clue as to her location, leaked through Lenna. Perhaps an accidental death along the way. The Kabal would have to come to the rescue in time to recover the body, of course: it would be best to cremate that.
“I am told that the Order has kidnapped other mutants, as well, also for blood samples. All seem to have been released unharmed, and their ability range seems to be... diverse. It is worrisome. I do not think they are planning to revive the Haywire experiments, however: I have checked, and the original Haywire is still safe at the main Xavier’s school. She does not seem to have been bothered by the Order since the X-Men took custody of her.”
He was running out of things to say to Sebastian. This left an uncomfortable silence, in which his blue eyes found themselves resting on the Russian woman.
Then his mouth started speaking. He did not like it when it did that without consent, but he admitted that he agreed with its words.
“Your apologies change nothing, Ms. Morozova. The most we can hope for is damage control, from this point on, and keeping you swaddled enough that you don’t cause another such incident. I would prefer to avoid another Mutant Registration Act.” The facial hair was not worth it.
“Furthermore, I strongly advise you to stay away from Mister Garrett Wills, aka Seizure. He is mentally unstable. The last I spoke with him, half of him embraced and welcomed the malignant potential of his powers: the rest of him seemed content to place any responsibility for such actions on his inner ‘demon.’ If he knew of your power, than I have a hard time believing this was a pure accident.”
Though the man would be thoroughly grieved over it, not doubt.
>> Damned if I know. Do I look like a normal female with a social group?
Slate nearly answered this. Whether in the affirmative or negative was a matter of little consequence (also, a secret). He almost answered. Then he realized something. His mental voice was clearly intrigued by the novelty of his discovery.
That is a female trick question. I was warned to be cautious of those, and to reply— How had he been told to reply? He thought back to the advice of the guards. Ah. That was it.
“Even though my own senses are limited,” the three year old man stated, with the utmost of factual confidence, “I still believe that you are quite fashionably acceptable tonight. I am sure any same-sex social unit would find you a non-discordant member.”
The only way safely past a female’s trick-question trap, he had been told, was to turn it into a sincere compliment.
The note was sent. Slate was pleased that she had seen fit to use his wording; that was a compliment every bit as high as the one he had given her. Perhaps higher, even—though only just slightly.
What a curious thing, for Verdigris not to know if aquatic obstacle courses existed or not. She was the one who had mentioned them, after all. As Slate watched, she settled the matter: with the tools she had gathered, an obstacle course would indeed exist. They would create one.
Slate approved of such decisive action in his employees.
As she tossed items into the pool, Slate diligently paddled to gather them. Soon his arms were hanging over four long, brightly-colored foam creations. He would not have thought them buoyant enough to hold a (nearly) grown man, but each alone proved capable of the task. Four together made of a nearly sentient mass that seemed intent on bobbing out of his control. Only through an unparalleled feat of skill did the Kabal’s Leader wrangle proper order into their untidy chaos. Grinning seemed to be a side-effect of this.
“I collected these ones,” he informed Verdigris, his feet still idly paddling water, “but those ones sank.” He pointed downwards, at the plastic rings she had tossed. He was not sure they were supposed to do that. Retrieving them appeared difficult.
Slate did not like having his heart stopped. It had happened to him twice, now. As he was technically still two years old until September, he could not help thinking that this was an inauspicious age to heart failure trend.
The neural attack had indeed reached as far as the Labs. Slate was looking forward to meeting its instigator about as much as he looked forward to seeing Lori again.
When Sebastian and the woman entered, the large board room was occupied by a single young man whose brown hair was even more tousled than usual. He was dressed in a nice pair of black slacks, and a blue shirt that had looked more tidy earlier in the day. It was somewhat wrinkled now; he had clutched at it rather tightly. A strange action, really. Reflexive. Utterly useless, as it turns out.
Slate really, really did not like having his heart stopped.
“Sebastian,” he welcomed his fellow healer, rising somewhat unsteadily from his chair. “Ms. Svetlana.”
At least it had re-started on its own again, this time. He liked being dead even less than he liked its symptoms.
Hmm. Slate replied. Is it normal amongst females to observe the dates of those in their social group? He had seen indications of this strange behavior during a show that the Mondragon Labs guards had taken to watching over lunch—an animated cartoon from Japan, involving strangely proportioned animated high school girls with magical powers. Slate was not entirely clear why the show appealed to the largely male audience. The women’s clothing did not even obey the laws of physics.
If she is worried about you, Slate finally decided, quite reasonably, then we should put her mind at ease. Let us send her ice cream. Perhaps with a note. ‘Thank you for your concern, but your presence is unwarranted. This is not a date.’
It had to be a clear note, so as to cut down on any chance for further confusion.
>> "That one is green tea, that one is persimmon."
Enlightening.
>> "They both have distinct qualities."
Victorious.
>> "You were right, these flavors are very satisfying to all senses. They should have given us more ice cream back in the school. I think I like it."
Slate leaned back in his chair—not that he had been leaning forward, per se—with a satisfied nod. “The diet of all children should include ice cream. I myself did not properly experience it until I was two.” For a full third of his life, ice cream had been absent. He supposed that was not nearly as terrible as Susan, who was eighteen. Perhaps after this, he would take her to the ice cream section of a local grocery store. They could choose one of every flavor—or perhaps the same flavors across every available brand—and conduct a proper evaluation of her mutation in its dairy applications. Money was no object: Slate would fund the research. The Labs were a research company, after all.
>> I think we are being observed.
Had he been day dreaming? Intriguing. His baby blue eyes blinked back to the present. Her words were somewhat alarming.
