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 very mature three year old was observing a trend: blushing, like yawns, seemed prone to contagion. The young drug lord worked on composing himself while his partner in socialization was in the restroom.
The arrival of the ice cream helped.
Their waiter had thoughtfully provided two spare dishes along with those that the ice cream arrived in. As Slate waited upon the witch’s return, he focused himself upon the task of dividing both the green tea and persimmon flavors precisely in half. The use of a spoon for this added an intriguing twist: its concave shape was not inherently suited to equal cutting. None the less, he persevered. There were two dishes in front of each of their seats when Susan arrived, both containing exactly a half scoop of ice cream.
The Kabal’s Leader watched expectantly as Susan retook her seat.
“Well?” He asked, before she could even set spoon to bowl. With Susan, that did not rule out that she’d tasted the flavors already.
She would like them. He was confident she would like them. They were ice cream.
Blink, blink. Slate glanced back over his shoulder.
Aquatic obstacle courses? These sounded intriguing. Furthermore, she had hinted that he would be a natural at it. Do they have one of those here? May we use it, or is it only open to those officially training for the sport?
He began swimming a small circle around her, waiting on her reply. He would prefer to simply face her, of course, but stopping his watery motion seemed an excellent way to drown.
Slate knew she was coming, and neither her footsteps nor the shadow she cast over him had anything to do with it. No. His method of detection was far more enlightened than that: he had noted the changes in the pigeon’s scattering pattern. Like a thermodynamic model of viscous liquid, they flowed not only in response to his own center of disturbance, but hers, as well. He had no need to look up at her: the pigeons told him all.
Fascinating.
>> “Uh, I’ll probably regret this, but I have to ask. What exactly are you trying to do?”
Her gender, of course, he did not ascertain until she spoke. If there was a difference in pigeon behavior base upon human gender, he was not yet able to discern it from the other factors affecting their movement. Even if he did notice one, he would be more inclined to believe it was in reaction to size difference and perceived threat level. Like many mammal species, the human female was simply the smaller, weaker, less aggressive element.
If she was a raptor or an insect, it would be different, of course. In those branches of the evolutionary tree, it was females who reigned.
She seemed to have stopped her approach: the feathery ripples of her movement were quieting. Slate finally looked up. She was blonde. Slightly older than he appeared to be. Her curves accentuated her thinness: he visibly sized her up, with a critical eye. At last his eyes rose to meet her blue gaze.
“How much do you weigh?”
Her own question was forgotten; trivia, compared to his. They were very nearly the same height. If their weights differed significantly, he could use her to begin more focused pigeon testing. He, of course, would be the control subject.
Pigeons were, Slate determined, not the most intelligent of creatures.
As he sat on the park bench, he observed the scene across the way. The elderly woman was tossing bread crumbs: the mass of grey feathers gathered at her feet. This part, he understood. The birds congregated to an easy food source.
Inserting predators into the equation, however, made things more difficult to understand.
The little boy, for a second time, ran through the midst of the flock. With disturbed clucks, they scurried away from his grasping hands; one or two even took to the air, for a few fluttering feet. Then they settled down again, like water in a boat’s wake.
An owner let his dog snap at the flock as they went past. A jogger trampled directly through them. Again, for a third time, the boy ran through. His mother finally noticed, and barked a half-hearted order for him to leave the disease-burdened rats alone.
There was a certain... mathematical nature to their scattering pattern. He was quite certain of it. It demanded a rigorous, scientific testing.
Slate slowly stood from his bench, approaching across the courtyard with sedately measured strides. As the well-dressed young man neared the feathered, rustling flock, he slowly stooped lower, his hands outstretched towards the ground. A few beady eyes turned his way, meeting his focused blue gaze: disturbed head bobs and coos warned of his approach.
Science. It was for purely scientific reasons, the most dignified of such, that the Kabal’s Leader was currently chasing pigeons in the park.
There was more than one path, in Central Park. More than one fountain. More than one bush. More than one jogger suddenly gasping on the ground; more than one searching guard on his knees from the sudden pain.
“I think we found it,” Artemis gasped, his palm shaking as he steadied himself on the metal manhole cover. The other went to the headset tucked over his ear, making sure it was still secure.
Move in. The order came.
Save Katrina. It was the only order that mattered.
The frantic drive here had been agonizing. It was how he had known she was still alive.
Just a little longer. Please, he sent to her. They were here. They had found her. She couldn’t die now.
Two questions. Slate believed he could handle two questions, particularly when they were of a similar topic.
Slate would have preferred they were not those two questions, however. Could she not have asked about his drug trafficking? That would have been a simpler matter.
“Yes, it is... mutational.” Slate set his rice bowl down, and took stock of their meal’s progress. Finding it satisfactory, he signaled the waiter over. Quickly. “We should order dessert. Would you like to try the green tea ice cream? I believe I saw persimmon flavored, as well. I think I will try that.”
Ice cream. It was not a topic change: it was a topic return. Susan had been the one to lead the conversation astray in the first place. He should have been more wary of such behavior. She was, after all, a witch.
There were appropriate reactions to that proclamation, Slate was certain. It was likely that laughter was not one of them. Perhaps he would confer on the matter with Susan, later.
In any case, it was only a short laugh.
“My sincerest congratulations, Hunter Antonescu. You have taken four centuries to learn what any toddler could have told you.”
It was in that moment that Slate realized something: he did not like this man anymore now than he had two years ago. His memories did not have to be entirely complete on the subject for the distaste to linger. The year under Antonescu had been... formative.
“Leave. I will decide on your way out whether I believe you. You will know if I do.” The man would be able to walk out the front gates again, if Slate did. If not... well. What a shame that would be. “As I have told you, I am not my brother’s keeper. He is not here; I do not know where he is, and I will not be your messenger boy. I have a business to run.”
The man looked the same as always. As well dressed; as untouched by time. A new hair cut changed nothing; nor did words. They were not even ‘pretty’ words; pretty, according to Slate’s studies of colloquial expressions, implied eloquence. Hunter’s own studies had clearly been done on redemption films staring B-rated actors. They were too raw to possibly be real.
“Allow me to summarize my understanding,” Slate said. “You are over four hundred years old. You have ripped out the hearts of children with your bare hands. Now you have... evaluated things.”
“And the results of this evaluation were...?” The blue-eyed young man’s mouth quirked at the edges. It was an expression indicating humor. He thought it was appropriate.
One eyebrow quirked upwards in reply to that; it was not accompanied by any particular sympathy, or false condolences. Of all people, Slate was well aware of the sorts that Hunter hired. They made excellent employees, in a business of dubious morality. It was surprising, however, that Calley had dirtied his hands: he’d been so... unreasonable back when Slate had simply been purging the Labs of those he could not use. Perhaps his brother was finally coming around.
“I see.” The brown haired young man stated. “So you came seeking Calley, so he might... ‘take it out’ on you. Very noble.”
Very inconsistent.
Be on your guard, Slate warned. Something is wrong here. Make sure the outer perimeters remain secure.
As a distraction tactic, Hunter’s post-mortem chivalry was simply too out of character to succeed. Really, Slate had expected better of the immortal.
“To what do we owe this change in character?” Slate humored the man.
>> “Can you just let Calley come forward, I can’t let him keeping doing this. This has to end.”
His request did not annoy Slate. Annoyance was an undignified thing, best left to children. Slate was clearly not annoyed. Irked, yes. Perhaps slightly vexed, or even peeved. He was not, however, annoyed. That would be undignified.
“Mr. Antonescu,” Slate stated, his voice carrying a self-confident authority he’d had much chance to practice over the past two years, “please state you business here, clearly, concisely, and quickly. There is only so long I shall refrain from ordering you shot.”
It is not wise to test the patience of a miffed three year old.
Those were many questions. Many. The twenty year old, going on three, was clearly taken aback in a most literal sense. His back managed to straighten an extra millimeter. He leaned back slightly. And, of course, he blinked.
He remembered the last question still, even if the others were trying to drag it down into their incoherent tangle.
“I... do not usually tell people, no. I suppose it is confidential. Somewhat. Can... you repeat your other questions?”
It was a perilous request. He kept his rice bowl in a defensive position.
She ducked under, and inspected. Slate found himself frowning down at her blurry outline under the water’s surface. Why, precisely, was she doing that? When Ms. Verdigris again returned to his eye level, and spoke, he realized they had a misunderstanding.
His circles had been intentional. Given her careful inspection, he was disappointed that she had not noted that. Nor, apparently, had she noticed his strivings towards precision: how he had carefully aligned the four quarter-arcs that transcribed the larger figure against the black lines painted on the pool’s bottoms, thus allowing himself some check for his regularity by passing the same fixed points at each rotation. He had at first sought to use her as the center, but she had not stayed still enough; therefore, she was removed from his paddling equation.
If she had not observed this, he was puzzled as to what she had been observing.
One of the male swimmers at the pool’s other side (the one next to the one wearing much too little) was wearing a T-shirt in addition to swim shorts. Slate made a mental note to dress similarly, next time. Though that would pose new issues: the shirt would be likely to billow, for instance. Nothing that a belt could not fix. He made a note to bring one of those next time, as well.
“They were geometrical,” he defended softly, before paddling away from her in a (mostly) perfectly straight line, towards the pool’s other end. That would prove his Cartesian intent.
Again, the immortal inquired after Calley. That choice—that question, prioritized above all others—was intriguing. He did not ask about the Labs, the Kabal, or the seizure of numerous foreign holdings. He did not even ask about Calley in general: about Calley, the so-called dominate personality the last Hunter had known them. Slate had originally assumed that was the man’s motivation: because it was Calley, the ‘real’ Caleb Swartz, that he wished to speak to about the changes around here; because Slate was not good enough for him.
Instead, the inquiry was quite specific. Calley’s weekend. Slate was suddenly curious about that topic, as well.
His expression remained level. “I no longer concern myself with watching Calley’s every move.” Not since he had gained his own body, that is. “May I take a message?”
His voice was polite, and—he evaluated—just a touch sarcastic. He liked that; it was a subtle flavor that truly added extra meaning to his monotone words. He would have to practice such variations more often.
Hunter Antonescu, former owner of all his eyes could see. The Labs, the Kabal; aspirant to own the world itself. After nearly two years of complete silence, he’d returned.
He’d returned, and all he did was ask for Calley.
Slate took a moment to ponder the emotion this caused. He had taken over the Kabal. Not simply because there was a power vacuum—because he himself had the power to take the position. He did not just rule the Labs because Hunter was absent; he ruled the Labs because all of its employees were now loyal to him. They worked for him now. So did a good portion of South America. So did the majority of the Romanian government. Hunter’s home country, if he was not mistaken. He was twenty going on three, and a tousle-haired young man, but he was one of the most powerful single individuals in the world.
Hunter was not here to see him. Hunter did not even seem to care about the Labs, the Kabal, or the new order of things. All he cared about was speaking with Calley.
Slighted, Slate decided. Yes. He felt slighted. It did not show on his face.
