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.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 27, 2016 19:10:39 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
Oh god the flexing. Jiri had a middle school girls-giggling-in-gym-class freeze up before slapping on a grin, and making himself relax. There was no way he was going to match up to Cold Steel, or any of the other topless gentleman he'd paraded on this show. Which left only one thing for it: flex his wimpy regular-guy muscles, and grin with zero shame as he did.
“Just for the record, ladies: I'm single. For a limited time only.” Might as well get into the spirit that Sam was setting up.
“Wait, what?” Jiri turned where he sat as the X-Man continued answering questions. “Romanian? Like, when they had that registration thing? I thought that all blew over really quickly. How did you even get hurt?” It only lasted for what, a month or two? He vaguely remembered his social studies teacher trying to tie it to their holocaust unit, but everyone knew he was being way too melodramatic about it to try and 'make it relevant.' That had been before he'd really cared about mutant… stuff.
He had his answer to the next question ready. Super ready. Been-ready-since-Alex-outed-his-undies-preferences-last-time ready. “Boxers. I have come to appreciate their many colorful patterns and the ability of the internet to stop caring what's in my pants oh god that came out wrong.” Jiri made a point of slowly sliding down in his chair, until he was effectively hidden from the camera.
Meanwhile, questions were still rolling in, if Sam cared to read any of them:
You know who took his shirt off like a real man? Cafas. You want to lose to a koala man? Take off your shirt for MURICA!
Where to the X-Men get off with thinking they have a right to interfere in the legal rights of sovereign nations?
so im dating a girl who says her mutation makes her a vegan, is that even a thing or is she totally BSing me
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 27, 2016 18:30:46 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
The nurse looked slightly worse for wear, compared to when Jiri had last seen her.
Before he'd taken a nap.
“Umm,” the curly haired teen said, pushing himself up on his elbows as he was offered a steaming coffee cup. Which he took, after some darted glances down at her wetly squeaking sneakers. “Umm.”
He was pretty sure he was not asleep right now. Like, 99.4% sure. He'd never been this embarrassed in a dream and still had his pants on.
“Ummmm,” this eloquence turned into a sort of slurping-gurgle as he took a sip. Oww burn oww. “To be fair,” the teen said, easing himself up a bit straighter, and crossing his legs on the bed Indian-style. “I did warn you I had a condition.”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2016 19:16:40 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
>> ”Is that a true or false for you? Questions like this are common? I can see why you like doing this so much.”
“True,” the teen grinned. “But don't underestimate our viewers. Think of this as a petting zoo; the safari is about to begin.”
Lion and tigers and TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT. Speaking of: that was indeed a common request scrolling in the chat.
“So, let's get this properly rolling. First question...” He scrolled the chat, looking for something at least half-way decent. In both senses of the word. “How did you join the X-Men?”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2016 19:09:03 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
“Get me. A cup. Of coffee,” the janitor said. “That's all I ever wanted. Not getting outed in an emergency room. Just coffee. Is that so… hard to...” The janitor swayed a little. Then looked vaguely confused. Then, rather intensely alarmed. This was followed by a rapid exclamation in a language that wasn't English.
Meanwhile, back in the ER, a certain Iranian teen was groggily coming around.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jul 20, 2016 18:35:27 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
When Jiri had said “three kilometers” what he'd meant was “three kilometers as measured roughly by looking at the little distance bar on the bottom and measuring with my thumb, not by actually hitting the directions button to see how a pedestrian would actually walk this.”
11.4 kilometers and two and a half hours later, plus or minus a pit stop to get Alex a healthy shade again (and also to try out Koala Burgers, which was Australian for “McGrease King”), they stood in front of parliament.
Any and all teasing about the length of that foot trip could and would be retorted to by pulling on the scarf hanging out of Leo's backpack. Because Aussieland winters were, apparently, in the fifties and sixties. Jiri had googled that one. That's why he was wearing shorts and flip flops.
(On kilometer eight out of three, he may have started regretting the flops.)
Parliament was big.
Like, really big
Like it was the capital of a country, or something. This field trip was educational already.
“So. Ah. Set up the signs next to the Free Guided Tours?” Jiri asked, and not at all because that area had steps he could sit on, ie, and not be on his feet.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jun 28, 2016 9:09:21 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
((ooc: This is a mixed Panu/Jiri post.))
Private Chat Room
Mårran: Ah, Takala. It is good to see you are making friends in Canada.
Joutsen: Just try selling me to the police, Groke. Can you do it or not?
Mårran: You wound me, little swan. What police would I even sell you to, the Germans? Of course I can do it. For twice the usual fee. Should I expect the wire through a Swiss bank, or a Caribbean one?
Joutsen: The usual fee will be in your account soon.
Mårran: Twist the knife, Takala, I do not bleed enough. Do you want to ensure quality? Expediency? What does money even mean to you? Four times the fee would be just as easy for you to gather. It's all 1's and 0's to you, but to me it's bread and meat on my table, and my children through college. Twice the fee or we'll all be out on the streets before I can complete your work.
Joutsen: You have children?
Mårran: Of course I have children. My eldest, she's in college in the United States. Are you there, as well? I could introduce you two. She'd be the best of friends.
Joutsen: One and one-half the fee. I want this in hand in five days.
Mårran: Five days! So you are in Scandinavia again. Otherwise you'd know that shipping will take at least three or four, and masterpieces are not created overnight.
Joutsen: It will be here in five days.
Mårran: Of course, of course. For three times the usual fee. And where is 'here'?
Joutsen: You'll send it to the target, not to me.
Mårran: Naturally. And who is the young man to you? A friend?
Joutsen: His trial entertained me. He seemed like someone who might need to leave the country on short notice, so I decided to help.
Mårran: So you are in the United States. What a charming place to vacation, little swan. So far from all the cares of the world.
Joutsen: Five times your fee will be in your bank by tonight. One for each day of work.
Mårran: I think of our dear Takala often, but I have not heard from him in nearly two years. Such a generous little bird he was. I hope he is doing well, wherever he flew. If trouble finds him, it will not be from me.
Jiri's passport scanned without effort. Customs barely even looked at him and his rolled-up tube of poster paper. Leo's wasn't much of a hassle, either.
He tried very, very hard not to stare at the line Alex was making his way through. Because seriously, who gets their passport five days after they put in the paperwork? When his father had been planning a family trip to Iran, they'd put in for Jiri's passport with months to spare, just to be on the safe side.
Whoever Leo's forum buddy was, he was either shady as all get out, or a really bored government paper pusher. Possibly both.
“Anything to declare?” A bored customs officer asked, giving a perfunctory rummage through his backpack. He'd packed lunch, his laptop, a camera, and some extra markers.
“Not really.”
“Purpose of visit?”
“School field trip,” the teen said.
The officer made him throw out the apple from his lunch. No flora or fauna that wasn't in sandwich form, apparently.
And then they were through. Somehow. Jiri pulled up a map on his phone.
“It's about three-ish kilometers to parliament. Want to just hoof it?” See the sights, and all that. They'd probably be on Australia's No Fly list after this, after all.
Classes were canceled. 49 dead, 53 wounded, and classes were canceled. Not at real schools, of course. Just at the Mansion.
That said pretty much everything Jiri had to say on the issue. He took another sip. It was pretty scalding, but he was pretty sure this was all a dream, so it evened out.
If this wasn't a dream, then Cafas Johnson could have bothered to wear a uniform that he hadn't rolled in dirt. Not even the world's most famous mutant movie star would have decided that here was the place to apply his movie theatrics. He'd have worn a fresh uniform, pressed and clean, and taken a damn shower first, to show respect for the dead.
And the X-Men wouldn't have been too deep into Cold Steel's mini-fridge to get to Odessa in time. They wouldn't be up here talking the same old line about peace, like the word was a magic spell, and saying it would some how change the world. They'd have at least bothered to put together a plan, some kind of action. Something that all these people had gathered here to hear, that everyone listening could do: something that would be a real change. The world was watching and listening and ready. They wouldn't have wasted that, if this were real. Detouring traffic away from a few roads for a few hours? Not real change. Not even in a dream.
And they wouldn't have brought a child up on the stage, exploiting her innocence like a prop at a play. She looked a little like his sister, if his sister were older and gray-skinned-er. If his sister grew up and turned mutant, just like her brother. Some of the kids who'd died were her age, or younger.
His age, or younger.
What could the X-Men understand about that? What gave them the right to speak for the dead?
If this wasn't a dream, the pink-haired poser would be too angry to cry. There was a burning feeling behind Jiri's eyes, and it was hot and it was dry and anyone who wasn't feeling the same wasn't feeling anything at all.
This dream was all talk. Just all talk. Again. It was all the X-Men ever did, when they didn't really care. If it wasn't their own people, they couldn't even be bothered to leave the city in a timely fashion.
Jiri spent the minute of silence looking straight at the X-Man, over the brim of his cup.
He didn't clap. He drained his coffee, threw it in the trash, and hopped down from his perch.
He hadn't woken up yet. He wasn't sure how. But he was pretty sure that 49 kids in Odessa had figured it out, and 53 had thought about it, long and hard.
I'd be game for a thread with Tar and Jiri. He's a body snatcher/dream walker. We could meet while she's new and he's grounded for certain events in Australia. Or perhaps some unintentional therapy/sleuthing through her memories for clues as to her father's disappearance using the dream world?
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Jun 18, 2016 11:51:20 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
Hello, Rob!
Weather control isn't inherently OP, but you'll definitely have to be careful with balancing it. For example: a weather manipulator probably wouldn't have the same degree of fine control or raw power that a solo elemental does over their element (ie: if you went toe-to-toe with a water manipulator, they'd probably "win", at least in terms of water). Once you get the app in, ze Mods shall help you balance it. To start with, the guide to creating well defined powers has a list of questions to ask yourself as you write up the powers section, to get you thinkin' of limiters.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on May 11, 2016 18:32:27 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
She didn't even bother to escape his kiddie pool tidal waves. Those practical work shoes of hers were going to need a date with the hair dryer. Further proof that this was all just a dream.
“My deal,” the janitor pleasantly replied, with a mop push and a shoe slosh, “is that you don't listen. That's part of being a nurse, isn't it? Listen to your patients, figure out their needs, diagnose the symptoms to find the disease. You missed something, dear, about the size of Alice's rabbit hole.”
Slosh.
“Didn't listen to me, and here we are. Didn't listen to the little old lady, and here we are. Didn't listen to the poor kid that just wanted a cup of coffee, and here. We. Are.”
Slosh.
“Sure, you might be listening now, but are you really hearing?”
For a moment, Jiri looked more like a fish than anything that would be found in the pool behind them. His mouth opened, closed, opened. He'd been here for the better part of a year now, and that was the first time any adult had expressed an honest interest in his life. Or called him interesting, for that matter. Some of them had used other descriptors, but this was his first interesting.
His gaping resolved itself into a grin. “Give and take, huh? Let's do this thing.”
With no further ado, Jiri turned the webcam on, and got this interview rolling.
“Welcome, internet denizens. It's another lovely day at the Mansion. By popular demand and whatever blackmail Ms. Taylor managed to pull, we've got with us Mr. Sam Johnson, better known as Cold Steel.”
"Cold Steel has just informed me that this AMA's going to be a little different than our usual ones. So, ah. Yeah.”
Jiri reached out a hand, and turned the web cam around. Towards himself. For the first time since a certain poltergeist had hit him with his own computer, the show's host appeared on screen.
“Some of you have figured this out already, but I'm Mansion student Jiri O'Leary, aka InvasionOfTheBS, aka your charming host. And apparently I'm going to get some questions asked of me today, too. So.”
With a scrape of plastic-on-concrete, Jiri dragged his chair around to the other side of the table, and set up the webcam so both of them were in the view. And so Sam could see the chat questions, too. “Ehem. Fan girls, keep your shirts on, 'cause Mr. Johnson can now see the screen. Umm. Or… don't?”
The Iranian teen started turning red as his Irish half on behalf of the internet.
“So, Mr. Johnson. True or false: this is more cleavage than you've seen in the past year.”
Because, really, they all wanted to know the answer to this pressing question.
There was a reason he didn't usually let people see the screen. Not since Ghost's catastrophic peek.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on May 11, 2016 18:04:46 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
In a dream of changing faces and voices and places, there was only one constant: Nurse VonUnamused. She was the center of all things, the focus, the nexus. If she thought that leaving the hospital would change the course of this river, she was about to get very soggy feet.
“Dear, my dear,” the janitor sang after her. “Do you really think this ends here? Sometimes the door is not the way out.”
With a cheerful whistle, he started mopping little sloshing waves after her.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on May 8, 2016 19:23:32 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
“I… don't think anyone's ever asked that before,” Jiri blinked. No dice on the mug mixer, he noted. Either the man was being responsible, or being a hog. He didn't know the X-Leader enough to know which. “Usually I keep the focus on whoever I'm interviewing. There's a live chat going on in the Audubon-X forums—you know, the Bird Watchers?--and I'm basically cherry-picking questions off there. No one's ever asked me questions before. I mean, I'm kind of the boring voice-behind-the-camera.”
Like, really boring. High schooler with no real life experience or interesting stories to his credit boring. He was squeaking by his classes with C's and the occasional B-for-Boring.
“I guess you could if you wanted to.” Jiri scratched at the back of his neck. “I mean, if you think anyone would be interested. You're way cooler than I am.”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on May 8, 2016 19:16:01 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
The little old lady did not protest, did not struggle. One might suspect that she rather liked the idea of going to a psych ward right now. It would be a comforting feeling, to talk with people who knew exactly what was wrong with her, who could give it a long diagnosis name with a short brand-name prescription to make sure it never happened again.
But as they passed by the janitor, whose head was bobbing along to music only he seemed to hear, he met her eyes. And there was something there she recognized, from the inside of her own head. An evil grin made physical.
The old woman jerked to a halt, not letting the nice nurse bring her a single step closer to that smile.
“Hello Clarice,” the janitor said, in just the tone of voice one might expect from a connoisseur of certain things.
The old woman—whose name was very much not Clarice, but that was hardly the point and both of them knew it—began to scream. Loudly.
“Tut tut, Ms. Nurse,” the janitor said. “Did you really think this was something so mundane as a little old lady misplacing a mental marble? Think again, my dear. And do remember to heed warnings from old women. It is the start to many a Grimm tale.”
At which point the janitor kicked over his mop bucket, sending a cascade of soapy gray froth down the titled floor.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 30, 2016 8:46:18 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:39:53 GMT -6
Jiri sat down on a pool side chair like a condemned prisoner sitting on an electric chair.
The man—the teacher of defense—the X-Leader—had just taken a flask from his pocket. And tipped it into his coffee. There had been zero attempts to hide this action. In the growing emptiness in his heart where a faith in the adults around him should be, Jiri only wished he'd had the webcam set up already. Maybe he'd get lucky; maybe the man would do that again. On camera.
The Iranian teen silently nudged his own cup towards that flask. Partly to see if the X-Leader would pour for a minor, and partly because he might need a little something to get him through this.
“All right then,” Jiri said, smiling weakly. “So. Any questions, or shall we get this thing done?”
The day was picturesque. The sun was shinning, the pool was blue and chlorine-scented, and a light breeze riffled the bright umbrella posed artfully above their heads.
Jiri had never so clearly understood the urge to become an alcoholic.
