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 Apr 5, 2016 21:59:53 GMT -6
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Xavier's Sister School for Gifted and Talented Youth had its own in-house healer. A mutant, of course. An astounding man: he could heal anything short of death itself. Jiri had visited him regularly in the year he'd been a student.
DocProf was a good man. A good, good man, with an interesting side-effect to his power: when he healed, he saw exactly how an injury occurred.
Jiri had a possibly dislocated shoulder, a definitely broken nose, and a suspiciously effeminate bite mark on his right hand, complete with trace remains of lipstick. Also, hair that had been spray painted a vengeful pink. Also, no shirt.
In short: he was never speaking of this again. Ever. That vow was up to and including mutant healers who couldn't help being nosy.
“ 'Hank you,” Jiri woozed, his nose tipped in the air. The bloody rag he was using to keep his shnoz in check was, to the astute observer, a Cafas Johnson fan club t-shirt. Also pink. Size: women's small.
Never. Speaking. Of this. Again.
And never interviewing a celebrity live on the internet again, for that matter. Not without checking the rabies tags on his fan girls (...and boys).
The Iranian teen followed the nice nurse, and worked hard at repressing his memories. Also, at suppressing a yawn. It had been approximately… oh, forty-two hours, give or take, since he'd last slept. Still, he was about 62% sure this was really happening.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 4, 2016 19:53:07 GMT -6
Kaz likes this
Gamma Mutant
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Pink. Pink was anger. The man had dyed his head the color of his angry-eyes. Did… did he not know, like he'd said earlier? Or was he perfectly well aware that hot pink his personal Hulk color, and he'd done up his hair the same way a poisonous snake did up its scales?
Jiri kept his expression professional and polite as those eyes kept darkening through the spectrum of My Little Pony to from Pinkie Pie to Twilight Sparkle to Friendship is Murder. Polite polite polite. He absolutely, positively did not press the point as Cafas deflected the questions through teeth that could have ground boulders to dust.
Time to change the subject. Something lighter, fluffier, safer. He scanned the chat quickly, scrolling down until he found something nice and innocuous.
“So, ah, you're from Australia originally, right? What was it that brought you to the Big Apple?”
“What surprised you the most, when you got here?”
“Have you noticed any differences in how mutants are treated, between the United States and your home?”
Jiri was curious himself, he had to admit—he didn't know much about Australia. That was probably the biggest difference between what he did, and what real interviewers did: research. A stunning lack of research.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 4, 2016 19:13:12 GMT -6
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“Hey, hey,” Jiri chided, “no product placement. Not unless I get part of the cut, anyway. Speaking of: ten percent on the ridiculous number of orders you get today sound good?”
Cheeky smile was cheeky, in the same degree that serious face had been serious. This guy was actually kind of cool. And… possibly mature? Between Ghost knocking him out and Sam being a not-so-closet alcoholic and the new headmaster signing him up for aerial basket weaving while he wasn't paying attention, Jiri had been starting to worry that the only reasonable adults in the Mansion were Mrs. Taylor and DJ Roomba.
Mature meant he could probably get into some of the more interesting questions that had popped up in the feed. He'd been copy-pasting them into his own notes, so they didn't get lost amid the fan-squeals of 'what's your favorite Dusk ship' and 'no plzzzzz pants plzzzzz.' “Okay, so serious serious question. What do you think of the new META bots?”
“How have the bots affected X-Men and NYPD relations?”
“What would you change about the deputy system if you were in charge?”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 4, 2016 18:14:16 GMT -6
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Oh, shirt off. Though he'd literally asked for it, the Iranian teen took this opportunity to face palm for the both of them, grinning at his interviewee through his fingers. A collective capslock cheer went up from the internet.
“Thank you for that, Cafas, and I feel obligated to add, in the words of the great throwawayAccount69, 'Pants 2 plz thx.' ” It was a tricky thing, pronouncing internet-type, but as a modern teen, Jiri was a native.
So far, so good. If the man was hiding any homicidal and/or faceicidal urges, he was doing in a relaxed, friendly, answered-these-questions-a-million-times manner. Jiri wasn't quite as experienced of a host, but he'd definitely been getting in his hours lately. If Maya's boyfriend was relaxing, it was probably safe for him to relax, too. Probably.
“All right, now, a serious one.” Jiri's serious face was serious. “Please respond to allegations that your armory's website—which has already been spammed at least fifty times on the chat, seriously people, stop asking about it and just scroll down—is—and I quote, 'So 2000's'?”
“And hannahBannana asks, 'omg, so that thing with your eyes wasn't a special effect, tell us tell us what's the mood-ring color-code for your eyes?' ”
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 4, 2016 16:47:16 GMT -6
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“A kind of chat. Ever heard of the Audubon X forums? It's a mutant, ah, photography club.” Seriously, what was the best way to describe them? He'd have to ask Leo later. For now, it was probably best to call them by their real name, and not such colloquialisms as Bird Watchers and AX-Men. To be fair: the snap shots through the Mansion gates had gone way down since LionOfTruth had yelled at them all, in the form of the dread Thread-Stickied-By-Admin. “Anyway, we're using a chat based out of there. I'll be picking out the,” ready airquotes in three two-- “best questions and reading them. You, ah, don't want to see the ones I don't read. Trust me.”
That was the mistake Maya had made. They'd both regretted it, though he'd like to think his regret was a bit more concussive than hers.
“All right. Ready to go? I'll intro us.”
The dark-haired teen flashed a grin, and leaned back in his chair. “Hello, internet, and welcome to the first meeting of the Audubon X's very own movie appreciation society. He's got hair the color of a maiden's blush, and enjoys long walks on the beach at Dusk—gentleman and gentleman-pretending-to-be-ladies-on-the-internet, I give you: Cafas Johnson. Be gentle, and for the love of god, please stop spamming yaoi fan art to the chat, our mods will ban you. Text questions only, and try not to make my eyes bleed. We'll start nice and easy:”
“How do you balance being an X-Man with your movie career?”
“Do you do your own stunts?”
“ 'Does the chest hair match the drapes?' In case that was too subtle, let me read the very stealthy text-in-parenthesis: Take off your shirt. Good to see our audience today is keepin' it classy.”
To be fair, that had become the standard opening for these chats.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 2, 2016 15:39:04 GMT -6
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Jiri opened the door with a combination of his hip and his foot. This was the proper way to enter the Mansion's one-and-only always-locked-such-a-tease War Room while juggling electronics. He'd always been pretty sure it was just a staff lounge. The giant conference table and the personal touch screens at every seat were a little more than he was expecting, to be honest. As were the signs that more sensitive equipment had been recently removed.
“Holy crap,” the teen said, “so this really is a War Room? I owe Leo ten bucks.”
This seemed an appropriate time to greet the man at the end of the table. That pink. That pink was even more impressive in person. Had he gotten a touch-up dye just for this interview?
Jiri set his computer down in front of the room's only other chair, and offered a hand. “Jiri O'Leary. Thank you for agreeing to this, Mr. Johnson.”
Polite.
Polite polite polite.
Nothin' but polite.
He found the electric outlets quickly enough (what were they doing in here, that they needed as many as a pot house?), and got his laptop set up. And his webcam, the nice new one that Jaager International had furnished him, presumably as a bribe to never film their CEO shirtless ever again (or possibly as an invitation, depending on whether Jaager had been behind the gift).
(He was never going to think those thoughts again.)
“So. Ah. Are you ready to get started, or do you have any questions--” Jiri had made the mistake of loading up the question chat for this AMA session. He thought a single eyebrow twitch was the epitome of self-restraint, really. “--about how. This is going to, um, work. Ready to start when you are.”
The camera was hooked on the back of Jiri's laptop, facing Cafas. He took this opportunity to tilt the screen so the man couldn't see it. At all.
Definitely not getting punched. Or hit with his own computer. Not this time.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Apr 2, 2016 15:01:47 GMT -6
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His bow tie was straight, but he adjusted it again, just for good measure. Hair: combed. Lime green dress shirt: tucked. Smile: winsome and inoffensive.
Jiri met his own green eyes in the mirror, and thought hard about his primary goal for the Cafas Johnson interview: not being pounded into a bloody paste.
He was interviewing Maya Csendes' boyfriend. The internet was choosing the questions. He was half way to failing already, just with that set up. But with any luck, they could keep things light and pleasant and non-physical.
The boy in the mirror grinned just a hair wider.
...The things he did for his fans. All right. Time to do this thing.
Laptop and webcam in hand, Jiri went to interview a poltergeist’s pink-haired boy toy.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Dec 27, 2015 12:09:50 GMT -6
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This was meant to be a punishment. Jiri was, like, 92% sure it was meant to be a punishment. The overly smug I am the LAW look in the Morris clone's eyes as he folded his arms, the stark empty default-metal-walls setting of the Danger Room, the long table set up like a laundry folding line at a prison camp. This was totally meant to be a punishment.
The Mansion higher ups, in their infinite wisdom, had assigned opening their own fan mail as punishment.
Suffice it to say, Jiri had squeed like his little sister when he'd heard the news, and worked with Leo to promote the this all over Bird Watcher forums. Nothing so blatant as Join us for a livestream of fan mail! See crazy in action! Oh no. Just X-Mas present incoming. If you know what we mean~
He had a button hole camera rigged up under his shirt, carefully camouflaged by layers of awesome. Who doesn't wear a pink dress shirt and a three piece suit to their detention? They'd edit anything sensitive out of the footage before posting it up for the adoring masses. They weren't stupid, after all.
Jiri stood at ramrod attention, his loafer heels clicked together.
"Sir yes Sir, Mr. Morris Sir!"
He made sure to stand at the end of the line, by Box D. The camera was gonna love Box D. Com'on, fan mail. Do your worst.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Dec 4, 2015 19:35:23 GMT -6
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I'm in a novel revisin' grove right now, and runnin' with it for so long as it lasts. I may slip up a post or two during brain breaks, but expect nothin' consistent for a bit. <3<3<#
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Nov 14, 2015 16:54:16 GMT -6
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Jiri relaxed into a smile as the guy started to laugh. "Yeah, the internet thing--"
And then it became clear what he was laughing about. Not 'the internet thing.' The 'hit by a laptop thing.' His smile froze on his lips. Okay. Seriously. Was any staff member going to take that whole he was assaulted thing seriously?
"It was a laptop, actually." Jiri corrected, his tone the kind of joking that really, really wasn't joking, and was spoken a little through clenched teeth. The following revelation, that she'd gotten Mr. Johnson with a baseball bat, did nothing to make Jiri feel better. He wished he'd gotten that on tape, actually. Maybe he could, something during the course of the interview. Because seriously. That woman? She shouldn't be allowed near children. Why was he the only one that saw that?
The guy went to grab a shirt. Jiri did not argue the point. It that was how it was going to be, then he'd just have to expose Maya as the horrible woman she was all on his own. He offered his hand to the man's dog for sniffing, and scratched the big guy's ears, and plotted. For the good of all Mansion students.
"Yeah, get what you need. I think one of the seniors had a new pot going." He feel into step with the X-Man as they headed kitchen-wards.
"Pretty much anywhere is good. I'm trying to show off different areas of the Mansion. Maybe by the pool? You can do cool ice stuff if you have a lot of water around, right?"
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Nov 2, 2015 20:09:35 GMT -6
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"I think the voice in my head wants me to apologize," Jiri said, smiling sweetly at the Man with the Money. "Sorry."
With a twirl of heel, he was off, strutting back through the crowd. Without even thinking about it, he folded up the bills, and shoved them into his--their--her--pocket.
Her back pocket.
Hello, tush, Jiri's hand was ever so delighted to finally meet you.
...It really wasn't much different than touching his own butt, actually. And there was an adolescent daydream ruined.
And then she was laughing at him. Just big ol' peals of laughter. Suffice it to say, Magnum sulked all the way back to her car.
>> “Don’t drop out of school, racing is a short term thing that lasts as long as the cops don’t catch you, your reflexes don’t fail, and your competition doesn’t kill you.”
"Yeah?" The Iranian-in-her-head asked, with proper teen lack-of-interest. "Then why do you do it? Did you drop out of high school, and it's this or making fries at McGrease King?"
Girl butts should totally feel different than guy butts. Maybe it was just the whole he-was-a-girl-right-now thing? Could girls not physically sense the majestic mysteries of their own posteriors? That had to be it.
And he had to take his mind off this subject, before she called him on it.
Heh. What better way then by giving her something else to protest? He opened the driver's door, and slid in.
"So I just had a great idea." Totally great. Grin-worthy great. "In honor of your possession, how about we donate your winnings to a church? Just slip it all into their donations box. I'm sure doin' the Lord's work would set you free."
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Nov 2, 2015 19:48:00 GMT -6
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She almost believed him. Just for a second, he saw it in her eyes. She took the handkerchief from him hesitantly, like he might bite or disappear or--he didn't even know. But for just an instant, her fear wavered.
Then the voice was back, and she was as terrified as ever. It didn't sound like a scary voice, to him. To him, it was just irritating.
They were in a room now. A small room, with hard walls and a hard floor and the sort of omni-directional light that came in dreams. If he looked hard enough, if his mind tried to find a source, a lamp would probably appear somewhere. Or a bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was that kind of place.
The man who walked through the door was perfect. Textbook perfect. The very image of a thug, with just enough cold intelligence in his eyes, just enough polish around his edges, to stave off the stereotype. Even the way he shoved the woman into the wall--it was a perfect mixture of pointless cruelty with a level of violence that wouldn't actually hurt her. Psychologically, hell yes. But physically? Just a bruise or two. Just a casual dick move, to show who was alpha male. The guy was taller than Jiri, and broader in the shoulders, and those arms could have hugged a bear. The beanpole Iranian teen didn't stand a chance against him.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect, for proving just how much of a dream this was.
>> “You will do nicely.” "Couldn't have said it better myself." The teen rolled his shoulders, and met the bigger man half way.
Dreams didn't work the same as real life. Physics-wise, or any other kind of wise. In real life, he'd have had to deal with a skull impacting his knuckles, and the fact that he really didn't have much mass to equal-and-opposite-reaction this guy's face with.
In a dream? It felt a little like punching play dough. He felt it, knew it, believed it, and the man reeled backwards.
...A step.
Hey, better than he'd have done in real life. He didn't have to shake out his hand or anything.
The woman was reaching for a broken chair leg. He didn't remember there being a chair, much less a broken one. But this was her dream, too, and part of her was waking up to that.
"Pick it up," Jiri urged. "It's right under your hand. You know you want to nail him."
Real or not, this girl was about to get the best kind of dream therapy.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Nov 2, 2015 19:13:34 GMT -6
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The man had an eye patch. Like, a realeye patch. Jiri'd thought that was just to make him cooler for photo-ops. But looking at the just-been-slept in wrinkles in the man's clothes, his blearily blinking eye, and the gratuitous pet hair sprinkled over him like confetti...
That eye patch as legit. If it was just a prop, no way he'd be wearing it after he'd obviously just rolled out of--
Umm. "Umm. No? I'm Jiri. Sorry to, ah, disturb you. I thought Ms. Gemma had set up our interview for this time? The AMA?"
He really, really hoped this was ringing bells. He hadn't confirmed the interview with Cold Steel, but he'd figured they had the date locked down. If it was Gawain or Maya--whichever of the Morris Twins was running around smirking that day--he'd figure this was a prank. But the counselor seemed too professional to stoop that low.
...Maybe.
Maybe this was her way of telling him he was abusing his sleeping-on-her-couch privileges, and he should go bother another teacher for awhile.
1) If a girl waited far, far too long to give you your multiple choice options, you should... A) Ignore said options B) Pay no mind to her feeble protests even as they increase in volume and urgency C) Watch her flail D) Smile like you don't even realize you're doing it but you both know you totally do E) All of the above
Correct answer: Eheheh.
>> "Like, actually two minutes before the meeting and then the thirty seconds when they came over? You were there."
"Far be it for me to contradict you on so sensitive an issue," Jiri mimed a tip of his gentleman's top hat. They weren't going for the front doors, probably because she didn't want to drip fan girl all over the entryway. He had to admit, he was enjoying the more scenic stroll. Whether it was the company, putting a healthy rose glow into said company's cheeks, or all of the above...
>> "Your logic is flawless"
"And so she admits to it, and the path to recovery beings. For truly she is a fan--"
SPLASH.
True or False. Mark T for true and F for false. ___ 1) Jiri regretted nothing. ___ 2) Nothing. ___ 3) Noooooothing. ___ 4) Except that he'd have to do laundry, because his roommate would complain if he left chlorinated clothes to puddle in a corner of their bathroom.
Posted by Jiri O'Leary on Oct 18, 2015 13:52:26 GMT -6
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Questions. Oh God goodie questions. Just like he very much liked answering about his power that had literally put him in the loony bin until the doctors had figured out what was going on, and shipped him here instead.
"Asleep, I join your dream? I think? It's only really happened once, that I'm sure of." Things from before he knew he was a mutant didn't count. The memories were too disjoint to count. "Awake? Umm--it's just--I sort of... control you?"
Different subject moving on please don't think too hard about what he'd just said, really, don't. It was bad enough when it happened without either of them getting traumatized by the thought of it.
"You realize that asking for a friend is never asking for a friend." It was, but internet definition, asking for yourself. "Unless you want to get branded a body snatcher, too, you probably don't want to open that can of worms. Thanks, though. For offering."
And then they were into his math lesson for the evening.
"Four of five, with internet search..." He scratched the back of his head. "Is this a combinatorics problem? I hate those, just give me a second. Umm. Well the internet is infinite, and assuming safe search on because oh God why would you look for Cold Steel with safe search off, then infinity dived by two is... still infinity. So infinity choose four... Ooooo. Oooooo."
That grin. Had she thought that was his best grin? 'Cause that grin had nothin' on this grin.
"I get it, this is one of those abstract problems. The real question is: how long did you spend staring at shirtless Cold Steel pics before you choose the perfect four to impress fan girls with?"
She'd totally spent an hour ogling the X-Lead on the internet. Admit it.
"Ladies and gentleman of the jury, might I also note that you spent--let's call it time t--looking at internet photos, and yet you still felt the need to go out and photograph the man yourself. In spite of the fact that you already had one perfectly usable photograph of your own. Which leads me to conclude:"
(And here, he took in a deep breath, as proper preparation for what was to come.)
"Faaaaaan giiiiiiiiirl."
He considered this practice, for when his own sister was old enough to properly tease over her own celebrity crushes.