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.
Listening to Isabel's candor, Roland realized that despite all of her little idiosyncrasies, she was a soldier. Sure, a bitchy one, but nonetheless, she followed orders and was always on guard at the Sanctuary, ready to root out and skewer any who may oppose her beloved family. It was an agreeable and respectable trait, but it still begged the question that wormed its way into the man's mind. What orders? Every time he had been in this bunkhouse for the lost, it seemed to always be the same situation. Different faces and different schemes, but nothing ever really changed.
While this would have set him to plotting of his own six months ago, for the time being, he was perfectly complacent. Some hot showers and beds for a week or two would do the thief good. He'd had none of that for a long time. As the elevator descended and Roland had a small inner laugh at Isabel's irritation, he was surprised to find that M had been made legal. It took most of its profit potential to do that, but he knew the ethos of the residents. Mutants over humans at any cost. As he was a member of the former affiliation, it made him cozy to be where he was. The idea itself wasn't terrible, short of the lack of easy prey.
The doors opened and she spoke further of collections and dealings with the Russian Mafia. Probably a job best reserved for those who had not gone AWOL during a job to get back with another kind of mafia. As he was led to a vacant room, he opened the door. A lone key rested on the nightstand of the stark but comfortable quarters. It soon vanished to the confines of his pockets. "I'd invite you in, but no doubt you are being courted by someone you pretend to despise." His cigarette dwindling to a nub, he smashed it out on the heel of his shoe before depositing it in a bin with a flick of the wrist. "I'll need an ashtray and a phone. That'll do, Miss Duskmoor."
So, she kept gabbing. Her little pokes and prods were adorable, as the little bone b**** made her idle threats.She had to know he was armed. That led to the eventuality that a bullet through the eye socket didn't do much for bone armor. He would never intentionally hurt her, though. Not while she was an ally and a source of intel. His cigarette hanging loosely on the skin of his lower lip, Roland moved away from the foyer as Isabel began to soften, the focus being shifted to business.
"I'm still on duty, as far as I know." Looking over Isabel's shoulder at Lisa, his eyebrows arched. She nodded and shot him a sideways glance before returning to her beloved monitor. "Right. So, who's in charge right now? Still Magnet Mama?" The thought of the young Roman senator in the body of an electric bartender brought a little tidbit of later fantasy. "Any action going on? I need to stay off of the radar, so I will probably be limited to covert ops. Spill the beans, Duskmoor."
He kept walking and listening until he reached the elevator, waiting to hear about what his next few months might consist of.
Roland was immediately impressed by Isabel's use of the other door. He was nearly certain there would be a Nellie Olsen style tirade outside, complete with stomping and bone scraping. He watched her turn on her heel and make eye contact with him. She didn't even miss a beat. It was strangely exciting. Not to be confused with arousing. He moved a few meters back, well out of reach of probing bones. His fists went up like an old pugilist from England, a la cowardly lion.
"Come on, you old cow. You live for theatrics. That big duncy number you used to wear with the frills? Your big bow? Why don't you give the old man some sugar?" He put his fists down and his stubbly smirk went with it. He took a long draw from his cigarette before adding, "Kidding. No sugar, please." Turning on his own heel, he wandered the foyer, blowing smoke and examining the art on its walls. Exactly the same. Dust free and immaculate, probably due to the receptiobot, but still. One would think that with the money they brought in they might do an update.
"So, when did you get your hair done? Never imagined you as a brunette. Not that I imagine you that often anyway." He knew she had always been brunette, but doing a little skewering and jabbing of his own always made him happy. She was one of the Order that he could let his guard down with. No one ever needed worry about trusting her if they were on the same side as her. Loyal to a fault and too psychopathic to be a snitch. That was why he didn't mind turning his back on her.
Once her little fit was over, he got to the meat of the matter. "Listen, I need to lay low for a while. Like all the way down in the basement low. Think you could help me out?"
Like a schoolgirl all a-titter, Roland could barely keep his excitement down, bearing a smirk to show his restraint. He was really climbing up Duskmoor's panties on this one. If he didn't have the awareness of the eyes, he might let this tit for tat go for a while. However, as things stood, it was in his best interest to get inside the doors, where he could then harass the anorexic as much as he liked. He noted her proper denial of M, even its existence, which was a laugh. His mind was going to go somewhere even lower in the gutter she mentioned when opportunity reared its gorgeous head.
He saw her body turn and her foot leave the ground. She had really grown in her sense of dramatics, a thing Roland would not have believed had he not witnessed it. Once her foot was on the cart and she pushed from her hip to kick it, he made his move. Instinct and a rapidfire musculature pushed his own leg into the side of her standing knee. He did it hard enough to bring her down, but not hard enough to damage her. There was a slight difference when it came to bundles of tendons. Her bones could suck it if they broke. The momentum of her shove and the loss of her posture would send her body forward toward her bounty.
This would give Roland the opportunity to slide through the gap created by her now absent body, should all things fall as he believed they would. Once through the door, he would firmly close it behind him, pulling the wet scarf from his head and tossing it across the room. He leaned back against the door, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his windbreaker, the Zippo already in his hand being struck. A spark of flint and the appearance of flame was all that could be witnessed before the lighter had disappeared, its click closed occurring in Roland's pocket.
Looking over, he would see Lisa give him the courtesy of looking up, a rare treat. With the recognition occurring instantly in what Roland still thought might be a robot, he would simply say, "No need for alarms, Lisa. Just playing tag."
Should Isabel not fall so firmly as he had planned, he would skip the niceties and give her an equally good shove before entering.
Faceclaim : Clive Owen, preferably from Sin City or Shoot Em Up. Text: Roland Special Request: Lettering black, perhaps a type of font like your Jorge one. Clean and crisp.
Roland imagined Lisa sitting at her desk, not getting up. He tried to remember when he had ever seen her get up, but came up with nothing. Maybe she lacked legs. He kept his head down and tilted away from the street. Paranoia was a valid response for his situation, but in Pruitt's case, it was often validated, much more to the tune of a kind of hypersensitivity. The thought of using that as a talent among the elbow bumping kids inside made him smirk.
What did have legs was the lyrical lilting monotone that caressed the man's ears. For a moment, Roland thought that he may have won the karmic lottery, being ushered back into the life by the only female worthy of the task. He was glad that the filthy strip of material hid his face. Not so happy about the impending delousing. Picking up the scratchy accent once more, he offered his own reply.
"Oh, I dun know about that, mama. I bet you got somethin I need indeed." He added a bit of a raspy giggle, to punctuate the inside joke known to all men. "How boout some of that M drug. I know you freaks like dolin that out. Gimme some o that and I kin get my own damned cans, ya musty crone."
Still hunched over the cart's handle, he suspected he might have to take a stab, but with it being lit up outside, he'd probably get the pleasant welcome, with a healthy dose of stabbing once the doors closed. Thinking about it, it might even be worth the stab to see the look on her face when he --gladly-- removed the louse shroud in a few moments.
Exposure. Like a raw nerve in a decaying tooth, Roland was in the open. A high school graduating class could be filled with the number of eyes on him these days. Those eyes crossed every line, be they legal or not. Wearing jeans and a windbreaker over a nondescript blue T, the man moved with purpose through alleys, a small bicycle mirror in his hand.
Incredibly useful items, they were, the little mirrors. He had used them often in prison and it certainly helped to avoid the telltale look over the shoulder. The eyes wanted that kind of backward glance to verify their staring. The side streets and sounds were becoming familiar with each crossing, his destination looming. There was no way to enter the hallowed halls of the Sanctuary without going the way everyone did, through those grand golden doors.That kind of exposure simply wouldn't do, however. His eyes scanned the scavengers of the alleys, looking for something that might work.
Something found him, in the form of a rattling shopping cart full of cans and refuse. Attached to it was a haggard man, long past his prime, an old scarf hanging over his head.
"You want something, Mister?"
"Yes."
Not long thereafter, a shopping cart rattled and squeaked down the sidewalk in front of the Sanctuary. The damp and smelly scarf hanging over his face, Roland walked up to the doors, shaking the cart so that the cans made an awful racket. He banged hard with the side of his fist, shaking the cart further, his best scratchy American accent voicing,
Too much rigamarole. Roland looked at the two, not the three, since Sveta was just one of a throng of fast talking Russian bimbos. Nodding, he complied, resting on his knees with his hands on the back of his head. Not a fuss when the collar was snapped on nor a twitch when the cuffs went on. " I hope you won't be transporting me with that illegal." His eyes flashed over to Sveta, who in the long run was more trouble than her mutation or her looks put out to anyone. There was no reason to give these goons the satisfaction of a struggle. Cops liked that too much.
It really was a shame that they were using the collars, though. These collars, much like most things American, had been dumbed down and made comfortable. Mutant rights. That was a good one. Informed of his Miranda rights, he smiled. "I shall henceforth reserve my right to remain silent until I can be represented by counsel. he wasn't sure if he would bother with a lawyer, but it cut down on the droll conversation with the obvious lovebirds. He waited for further instructions once cuffed and collared.
Sweet Sveta. Always believing she had the upper hand. Even when they had spent their time together, her smugness never wavered. Roland looked past the two officers and kept his eyes on her while complying as necessary. <<Russian>> "Do you have your papers in order, Sveta?[/i]" He winked at her as he could feel the espresso quality of her power in near effect. She had moved her hand, so she might be boosting one of the two. Did that make them mutants?
" If either of you are feeling stronger or more focused, it would be because our little hostage is boosting your abilities. Which, by logical succession says one or both of you are mutants. Shame if so, selling out your own kind." His blue eyes traveled over the talker and then to the young Robin Redbreast. " It might serve you to know that her boosting powers have caused cancer in some. Also, that she is an illegal here. At least I know that I am wanted internationally. Might give her face a run through the computers, too."
Even if he lied, if he caused the young Robin a night without sleep, it would be worth it. He sincerely hoped that he might find Sveta on a plane with him crossing the big pond. That would be funny. " As far as my mutation, she's never seen it. Neither will you. By the way, since you are moving on with my Miranda rights, I do wish to speak. I also request, again, that you identify yourselves by name." He wanted to remember those names. Maybe his new friends in prison wanted to know them as well.
It didn't take long for the trio to appear. Just as well as the alarm was getting a bit grating. Orders were being barked from what appeared to be the lead dog. Roland could trace his practiced crisis grimace from where he sat. He smirked a bit, as apparently hands up was the fashionable position. Complying, his arms extended, his body stepping clear of the car. A bit of a chuckle piped free at the term. He mouthed it in mimicry. Dirtbag. Good thing he wanted this little vacation, or that gun the blueboy was aiming at him would have ejected twice. Vests didn't do much for headshots, an easy feat from the current and closing range.
His eyes turned to the redhead, hands still raised. " So, you've got me, do you? Don't I feel all warm and fuzzy." His eyes then moved to his blond European, who wore a visage of dread. He wanted to console her, but it seemed a moot point this late in the game. " Quite the collar for you two. You may even get promotions for this." He awaited further instructions, enjoying the apparent confidence the two detectives carried. Something came to mind, though.
"It's apparent that you know who I am. But short of your firearms, I haven't had the pleasure of your identification. Could I see your badges as you ...cuff and collar me?" He usually paid for that kind of service. Or Alexandra, but she wasn't around. He didn't want to cause a commotion, so he stepped a few feet away from thecar, give them all breathing room.
A fairly uneventful week. Roland was summarily disappointed. Maybe he truly had nabbed a goose egg. Or the heroes had gone tepid. Either way, it made for a dismally boring existence compared to the fun he had experienced when cockles were raised. He chewed at the bitter nicotine replacement gum, the smokes having left distasteful yellow stains on his fingers. Not to mention his teeth. Returning from some errands, he found he had a visitor. Initially perking up at the thought of conflict, his enthusiasm went as flat as three day old beer when he noticed it was a cop car.
No light rack adorning it, no identification, but just about anyone outside of the most sheltered John Q's could tell an unmarked black Taurus as the fuzz. Pacing around the vehicle, its slight tint was aided by the lack of light. No passengers. His head crooned up at the ship, a smirk tracing briefly. She was being rescued as he stood there, the gum burning his gums and tongue slightly. Reaching back into his waistband, Roland held the cool steel of his pistol, his eyes focusing again on the entryway of the ship. Pulling it, a moment of clarity struck him. Looking left, the gun left his palm and a splash was heard off the docks.
Maybe the inside would be fun again. He had sent himself to prison before and it was fine. He had actually made friends. These cops could take the mouthy broad home to her ailing caretakers and he would have a police escort to three hots and a cot. Plenty of TV time and new faces. He nodded and smiled, giving the car's hood a good slap with his palm. The lights began to flash and the horn began to honk in classic car alarm regalia. he simply took a seat against the wheelwell and waited with his arms folded. A moment later, he uncrossed them and put them up in the air. No, that looked foolish. He just folded them back and waited. And chewed his gum.
The names wrote themselves out, though the first gave him serious pause. Though, a clinic with a healer was logical. Busy man, though. "Csendes? Sebastian Csendes? So you thought a first name was sufficient for a unicorn man. Noted." He got around, for sure. " Does that make the Clinic a front for the Kabal? Full answers. I'm not interested in any more games. " He stood from the desk and approached her, leaning in and snatching her purse up. Ignoring any argument, he dumped the contents on the desk, fishing through the stuff with his pen.
" Paydirt." A phone left he desk and appeared in his hand. After unlocking it, he moved to the contacts. Some names he didn't recognize. One he did. " Fausto...Martense? Wow, I hope not. Hang around him and you'll definitely get shot. " Roland chuckled a tinny little noise, recalling the look on Fausto's face just after Roland shot him and just before the roof collapsed in Romania. Good times. " Let's see, start from the top? Agnes...that would be the girl who made you famous on television. Not much of a catch, that one."
His finger trailed over the device. "Garrett, that's the nurse you mentioned?" He pressed send, waiting for a few pulses before getting voicemail. He noted the surname Wills. Nobody home. Probably watching Golden Girls or whatever male nurses do. Let's see....Cervantes? As in Detective? Quite a who's who." He lit a cigarette as the phone rang. This voicemail would prove a bit more entertaining. " Hello, Detective. this is Roland Pruitt. I have a young mutant here with me. I'm sure you know her. Ta." He smiled and let the blue smoke trail from his nose, looking back to his quarry.
The look on her face when she was directed to the bed was not lost on Roland. He was no rapist and he rather despised the type. However, she didn't know that, so if the fear of intimate violation spurned her to sing, so be it. He put some white sheets of paper before him and began to make small columns and notes based on her answers. Placing the gun on the desk would calm her down, more than likely. It could have been in her lap and still been effective, so what was the harm in a little false security?
A healer, his wife and the adopted kid. A male nurse. "Why do you ask? It is me dat you want, right?" Just the sound of breath, uncomfortable pause and the occasional scritching of pen to paper could be heard. " I'm not sure what I want yet. I do know I want results, though. And you are surely the key to that." The equation was simple to the man of many talents. A pensive peace had been in play for much too long among the genetically superior these days. Everyone was staying in their corner for the duration. Gathering information about the key players and holding one of the most valuable of his kind hostage seemed to kill two birds with one stone.
He gave her a good meaty once over with his eyes, pausing in the appropriate places in order to attain maximum psychological effect. With a slim caricature of a smirk, he continued, " Well, that's nice. I appreciate the census data. Now, do tell me their names before I get impatient." Again, this was not going to happen. Patience was a trademark of Mister Pruitt. A high tolerance for bulls*** was not.
Another sharp report from the Eurasian expletive cannon came hurtling Roland's way, leaving yet another smirk across his lips. Sassy to boot. She was no Alexandra, but then again, he hadn't sniffed this one's blond locks yet." I do not talk about them. Dey have nothing to do with this. And you already know what I can do, right? Dat is why....." Sounded like a chicken, bawking away and scratching at seed. Roland tuned her out as they pulled into a garage. He turned the ignition off, the key being pulled and then vanishing to parts unknown.
The driver's side door swung open and he stepped out, facing her with the gun drawn. " Out. That way." He motioned the pistol's barrel toward a large Lithuanian freighter simply called 'Express'. Strange name for a ship, but buyers with a time crunch couldn't always be choosers. A long, staggered walkway climbed up the side of the freighter and Roland savored the view from behind as he walked the young asset up to the deck. His directions , when she would look at him with more of the sass and scorn, moved her below decks to the captain's cabin, which was only slightly larger than the regular berths, a small desk and chair waiting for him.
Taking a seat in a small chair at the desk, he motioned to her to sit on the bed. " Thank you for your cooperation. Always more pleasant without blood and screaming, hmm? Now, before you fire another f-bomb in my direction, I'd like you to think for a moment. No one knows you are here and while I do not wish to shoot you, you are as valuable with a shattered ankle as you are without one. The Clinic. Its residents. Go."
