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.
“--Mutants are not a threat,” Jiri parroted, sitting stone still in the posh leather chair, his face a study in moral constipation. “We are your brothers, sons, third cousins. End your callus oppression, because in a world where puppies frolic and rainbows follow rain, what cause have we to fight?”
He clasped his hands to his chest, over his heart. And lo, did unshed tears come to torment his soul. “My mutant brethren, heed my words—do nothing, like seriously nothing, as you are curb-stomped. Look not at the fact I fled our nation, but at my artfully tousled pink hair. Wait patiently for the arms of your overlords to grow sore with the cane, and for benevolent smiles to spread across their faces. It may be many years, you may lose all, but to disrupt the social order would be to lower movie ticket sales. Hear me, brothers and sisters—prevail in your patience! Be the social apathy you can't be bothered to change in the world!”
With a soul-heaving flip of his hair, Jiri quieted. And promptly shifted gears. “Seriously, you needed to have been there. Actor gonna act, much? When he forks over the cash for my new camera, we're definitely buying HD next time.”
He grabbed his phone, and kept flipping through new webcam model reviews. He tilted the screen towards his comrades-in-arms. “What do you think about this one?”
It was a beautiful day at 38,000 feet. Below them, patches of fluffy cloud floated over an ocean far, far below. The Blackbird ambled along at a lovely Mach 3-point-something, swiftly bridging the gap between hemispheres and continents.
If Cafas really wanted to do something about his country's mutant situation? He'd get off his made-for-movies arse and take the X-Jet. The flight only took a few hours. Who couldn't fill a few hours with making protest posters and whimsically impersonating the responsible adult figures in their lives?
The plan was simple: go to Australia. Sit on capital steps (no wait parliament, Leo kept telling him the Aussies had a parliament) with signs while the cameras rolled. Get arrested by local bigot police, and absolutely don't resist said arrest. Cause peaceful international incident that would drag the X-Men and, with any luck, the US government, into addressing the outback's backwater human rights treatments.
Simple, elegant, easy to do on a high schooler's budget (if their school had extra poster paper and glitter paint in the art room, and an extra high-speed military jet in the basement).
“A half hour to Canberra,” Headmaster Kiperling cheerfully announced. He was wearing a tweed suit unbuttoned, and a bright red-and-gray koala patterned tie. He was a clone, but Jiri would never hold that against him. Ruddy's clones were, if anything, cooler than the original. “Get ready for some peaceful protest, kids!”
Jiri was unclear on whether the real Headmaster knew and/or approved of their impromptu applied social justice field trip. But if Koala Clone didn't care, then Jiri didn't. What was the worst that could happen? This wasn't some third world country—this was Australia. A night in jail, some international press, and they'd have already done more towards raising awareness about its mutant situation than Cafas-the-Movie-Star had ever bothered to do.
Jiri didn't know what he wanted to be when he was out of high school. An elementary teacher, maybe. Or a counselor--Ms. Taylor made it look epic. But he knew what he wasn't going to be: he wasn't going to grow up to be a pink-haired poser.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 29, 2016 16:56:19 GMT -6
Ghost likes this
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Having been in a psych ward before, Jiri knew the look of someone who thought he belonged in one. It was a special yes, whatever you say crinkle to the eyes, with a condescending right this way uplift at the edges of the mouth. For a moment (s)he experienced a numbing panic, a no no no not again.
And then the soothing tide of it's all a dream anyway washed over him again.
Well.
He had a few options, then.
1) Hop to a new body,
2) See how many people he could fit in their psych ward before the night was through, or
3) See how much casual insanity that Nurse McOffMyShift could take before she voluntarily committed herself.
...When he put it that way, there was really only one answer.
All of the Above it was, then.
The kindly old woman leaned in close, and whispered with such a pleasant tone that it might take a moment to grasp her meaning. “It's you, dear. You're the one in trouble. And it's only just begun.”
The next moment the old woman sagged over her walker, and all calm fled her expression. “Demons,” she said, her liver spotted hands shaking, “Oh sweet baby Jesus protect me, demons in my head--”
Meanwhile, a janitor down the hall jerked to new levels of alertness, his mop coming to a standstill. A slow, cheeky grin filled his face.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 21, 2016 20:12:53 GMT -6
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Jiri was getting much better at telling dream from reality. Much. His roommate Alex (and all the wonderful personalities living in his head) had been helping on a nightly basis. The most important thing, they'd established, was to have rules:
1) Are you in a place you've been before?
2) Does being there make sense?
3) Do your memories of getting there make sense?
4) Is anyone in danger of serious bodily harm?
If you answered yes to any of these: behave, even if lizards start crawling out of the walls, because in a world with mutants that was not a litmus test for reality.
If you answered no to all four: congratulations! You're in funky dream land! Strap in and enjoy the ride.
He was in a random hospital. He was in a random hospital even though DocProf could have healed him faster. He was in a random hospital even though DocProf could have healed him faster because he'd been attacked by rapid Cafas fan girls. And he was in a hall way going for coffee, in the company of a nurse that dream!land had kindly informed him was at the end of her shift.
No, no, no, and no.
The burden of reality slipped from Jiri's shoulders, and shattered on the ground with nary a sound.
“Oh goodness,” the old woman said, placing a hand over her heart. “You startled me, dear.”
(S)he reached up to adjust her glasses, and discovered she didn't have any. What kind of lame old woman didn't have convenient prop glasses? Way to drop the ball, dream. Whatever.
The granny leaned in close, her eyes serious behind mild cataracts. “Maybe you can help me, dear. Maybe you can. There's a person in this hospital in grave, grave danger—I've seen it. My powers showed me. I must find them, before it's too late.”
Senile old woman or precog? Never-you-mind option C: teenage body snatcher spouting off the first thing that came to mind.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 19, 2016 21:30:48 GMT -6
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He was just reading questions now, barely listening to the made-for-TV drivel coming out of the older man's talk hole.
“vivaLaRevolutionInBed writes: Constrained actions and politically correct speech and working with Stalker 2.0, oh my. What would it take for the X-Men to finally disassociate themselves from the police?”
Leo's reply had come quickly, with a quiet little vibrate in his pants: Will ask. Two seconds, he's gotta stop talking first.
Yep. That sounded like Headmaster Ruddy.
tell him Gemma wants to meet ASAP, that'll get him running
It wasn't even a lie: the Mansion's Counselor, aka Responsible Adult MVP, had been looking for the Headmaster… pretty much since the guy took the job, actually.
“You have the world's attention. What would you say to the mutants in your old country? The humans?”
Alex's reply came a second later, and was a bit more concise. Whhhhyyy?
Only three y's? Yeah, he was half-way sold already. Jiri's typin' thumb swiped back a swift reply: majority rules, we're totally going
“They say getting a puppy is a big time commitment. With your busy schedule, where do you find time to walk yours in the park?”
It seemed innocent enough, to someone paying only half a mind. Perfectly innocent, to anyone that didn't know the commenter was sniping at Ghost's son.
we need to make posters. and make sure we can stream from aussieland. do we have to get new data plans or what?
Suffice it to say, texting-while-interviewing could be as dangerous as texting-while-driving.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 19, 2016 20:31:05 GMT -6
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>> “Alright, I'm going to--”
This was the last thing Jiri clearly heard, or at least the last thing he clearly remembered hearing, before he was suddenly an eighty-year-old woman. The PA came on--Paging Dr. Jones--and her hearing aid screeched. He reached up, and fiddled with it until he found the direction for down.
Well.
That could have gone better.
Back in the exam room, the nurse had a very unconscious-and-non-responsive-to-any-outside-stimuli teenager on her hands. He was a bit floppy-like. That was a reassuring state for any medical professional, right?
Out in the waiting room, Jiri's arthritis was acting up. And possibly his hernia. Definitely his hip. Maybe his back? Yes. Yes definitely his back, as he discovered when he stood up. One crack of a fossilized spine later, he was ready to head off down the hall.
One.
Slow.
Walker-assisted.
Step.
At.
A.
Yeah screw it. If it was going to take this long to get back to his own body anyway, he was at least getting coffee on the way.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 19, 2016 19:00:20 GMT -6
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“Yes please and thank you.” Visible slump of relief: this teen had one. “People can't know about this. Really. The bite I could just write off to babysitting--” what kind of babysitting came with bites as hazard pay, he didn't say “--but the shoulder would have been too much.”
Actually, come to think of it, the shoulder could be written off as babysitting, too. And the nose. Because Mansion kids. But it not going to DocProf to get healed? That was the dead giveaway to end all giveaways. Walking around with a serious injury in the Mansion was tantamount to saying, I have seen things too embarrassing for words to describe.
He fwumped a little as she demanded an explanation. “Ever insulted a mutant on the internet?”He asked, rather rhetorically.“Don't. At least, not one with fan girls. Fan girls who know where you live.”
The Mansion: not exactly a hard place to find. Jiri, aka InvasionOfTheBS, host of a mutant AMA: not exactly as anonymous as he'd thought he was. Like with many things, he blamed Ghost: someone had taken the moment when she'd tried to brain him with his own computer and photo-enhanced the frame to get a blurry image of a curly-headed Iranian teen with green eyes. Not many of those in the school. She was cleaning his hand now. Oww? Yeah. Oww. “Stingly,”Jiri commented. A genius combination of stingy and tingly that yes, he had just come up with, and yes, he was proud of.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 19, 2016 18:08:27 GMT -6
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Jiri had this poser sized up. From here, there would be no more buddying up, no more sudden disillusionment as he thought he might—just might--be able to like the same person that Maya Csendes did. As always, she was the ultimate litmus test: Ghost's approval was a clear sign of moral decay.
If there was a single (non-drunk) X-man who was legitimately a good guy, Jiri hadn't found them. At this rate, using the Brat Squad to get things done was sounding a whole lot better than trying out for a team of washed-up adults lip-synching their idealism.
“I'm sure you've got great things in your future.” See? He could smile too. “Speaking of the future: if you had to choose between your involvement in the X-Men and your career, which would you pick?”
He just needed to coast to the end of this interview. Let the guy smile all he wanted for the camera; let him dodge the hard questions behind party lines. Jiri was going to change things in a way this pretty boy never could.
“What would you say is the most meaningful way you've helped the world?”
Like any proper teenager, he slid his phone half-way out of his pocket, and started a text to Leo and Alex.
civil disobedience field trip 2 aussieland anyone? someone tell headmaster we need a lift
“I'm going to take the liberty of combining two questions here: is there anything you've seen at the Mansion that's crazier than you've seen in Hollywood?”
The X-Men would have to get off their asses if three of their own students got arrested.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 19, 2016 17:44:25 GMT -6
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The woman was looking at him. Like, really looking at him. Peering into his green eyes, plumping the depths of his soul for lies sort of looking. Awkward-pausing looking. Teenage-boy-squirming-where-he-sat looking.
Squirming sort of hurt his shoulder. But probably not as much as it should. That was the truly wonderful thing about sleep deprivation: after awhile, everything got nice and distant, like watching through a TV.
A TV that needed coffee.
“I would rather have coffee than anesthetic,” the Iranian teen deadpanned, as the woman turned his hand this way and that.
“...Do I really need x-rays? On TV they always make it seem so easy. Like, every man and his burly bromance friend can pop back in a shoulder and keep on fighting.”
He may have made a mistake in coming here.
“How long is this all going to take to heal?”
What he really meant, and what might have crept into his voice, was this: how long does it take for you poor mortals without an insto-healer on staff to recover from mere non-fatal flesh wounds like this?
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 6, 2016 20:55:52 GMT -6
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He wasn't quite sure she'd caught his meaning. What slang had he called it by, when he'd still thought he was human? Genetically special had been the term kids would snicker over when they weren't being all that serious, the same way they'd use special to mean retarded around teachers who cared about that kind of thing. Freak was the more serious one. What you'd actually hear in the halls, used just as casually as fag. Stop being such a freak.
Freak. Mutie. Defect.
He didn't think about it often, because his parents had shipped him off to Xavier's as soon as they'd figured out what was going on. AKA: As soon as he was out of the psych ward. But normal kids could be real dicks.
Normal adults could be, too.
“Just, ah, your usual caffeine addiction,” Jiri tried to laugh off his earlier comments. “I'd rather not have a migraine on top of the rest of this.”
It wasn't like he would do anything special if he didn't get some coffee in him. Like, say, start treating people's brains like stepping stones. What kind of freak would do that?
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 6, 2016 20:21:13 GMT -6
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A definitive guide on how to make a teenage male blush Step 1: Be a reasonable cute, just-out-of-achievable-range female nurse Step 2: Mention things up the butt.
The seventeen year old flushed a pink as violent as his new hair color. He traded his balled up shirt for the offered gauze (ignoring the sort of peeling-bubbling noise his nose made as he took the crumpled shirt off it).
“Yours is a truly rewarding profession, I see.” He attempted a grin, which quickly turned into a wince. Noses… weren't supposed to make a grating nose, were they?
And yet, somehow, he also manage to yawn again. That was… probably not a good sign.
“Hey. Umm. Can I get some coffee? I've got a medical condition.” That sounded like a joke. How did he make that not sound like a joke? Well, there was always the direct approach. “Umm, that's not actually a joke. It's a, ah, genetic condition.”
...He wasn't supposed to just come out and say that, was he? Crap. It had been a long time since he'd really set foot off Mansion grounds. Long enough that he was forgetting minor details like 'don't mention magic to the muggles.'
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 6, 2016 19:22:04 GMT -6
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The most uncomfortable part wasn't his injuries. No, those were just painful, in a sort of half-awake way that meant he should really get some caffeine in him before he accidentally possessed a doctor doing open heart surgery. No, the uncomfortable part wasn't his shoulder or nose or hand, or even the chill of hospital air on his bare chest.
The uncomfortable part was having the nurse look him up and down. There were some clear judgments being made behind those eyes of hers, and the teen couldn't help but wonder if some of them went beyond merely medical.
“Jiri O'Leary at your service,” the curly haired teen confirmed, somewhat muffled, like a clown speaking through its rubber nose. They went into a little room. Room was a… generous term. More like 'they went behind a piece of tissue paper for privacy.' There was a bed there, which was also a generous term.
He missed DocProf's office. No lines, comfy beds, instant healing.
He didn't miss it enough to let anyone at the Mansion see him like this.
“Do me a favor,” Jiri said, “Tell me I'm not the craziest thing you've seen in here.”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 6, 2016 12:43:34 GMT -6
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He'd come to a conclusion. An incredible, mind-numbing, terrifying conclusion: Cafas was actively trying not to punch him.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself as the knowledge of this new power flowed into his veins. Patience, young padawan: there would be time to grow strong in the force. It was important that viewers saw him as the light side, and Cafas draped in the darkness that seemed to inhabit all Mansion adults.
“I apologize, Mr. Johnson. That was unprofessional of me. Being a student of this school,” as opposed to one of its soulless adults, “I can get a little fired up about social justice.” Unlike the soulless adults.
Time to ease back on the heavy questions.
“So, I hear that you had no previous acting experience when you were cast for your role in Dusk. What do you think made you such a natural as a Fairy Prince?”
Plausible deniability was the name of the game.
“Are the rumors about a little on screen/off screen romance between you and your co-star true?”
“For many, being part of a blockbuster hit like this is the dream. Do you ever fear that there's nowhere to go but down?”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 6, 2016 0:19:57 GMT -6
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“Nice excuses,” Jiri very clearly mouthed, were Cafas could see and their internet viewers could not.
At the end of the day, what were the X-Men doing? New York was just one city. One big, mixed-bag-of-people city that would always have crimes large and small. Did Cafas really think he was fixing anything, putting in a nine-to-five around here? There were bigger things at stake out in the world, but the adults around here just didn't seem to see that.
If he didn't want to be a hand-cuffed-and-media-gagged representative of the Good ol' U S of A, then there was a solution that even a sophomore could see: resign.
The X-Men all seemed like a bunch of windbags with violent tempers and/or alcoholic tendencies, anyway. It was probably no coincidence that the sanest adult in the Mansion, Ms. Taylor, had nothing to do with them.
Seriously. He needed to talk with Leo and Alex, and see what they could do about this whole Australia situation. More than Cafas had done since high school, probably.
Jiri met the man's stink eye with his own cheekily defiant grin, and skimmed for the first question that caught his eye.
He didn't even feel that bad about it, to be honest.
“Whatever happened to that police pussy you were getting?”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 5, 2016 22:42:52 GMT -6
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If Jiri had fancy-pants color-coded fan-girl-attracting eyes, they'd be the shade of surprised, rapidly changing to horror. He hoped, as a mere human-looking-mutant, that his facial expressions were able to convey the message clearly enough.
For the first time since these AMAs had started, Jiri went totally off script. He didn't even glance down at his computer screen, at the usual mix of What's your favorite movie with Who do you back for the 2018 presidential race and every shade of serious in-between.
From surprise to horror, from horror to that very particular flame of righteousness that burned in first world teenagers like a god-given torch.
“Wait, what? That's happening? Like, now? Why the hell aren't the X-Men doing anything about it? That's your home country, and you just—what, up and left? Never thought about it again? Never even tried to use your clot as an international movie star to even bring attention to it?”
What the hell. What the actual hell. Never mind anything else he'd thought: Cafas might be one of the better adults hanging around the Mansion, but he was still one of the worst role models Jiri had ever had the displeasure to meet.
