The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
The prawn peered down her nose-ridge at Javier, who was much smaller than the woman and hastily going to work. Although any accidental pokes from a pin would be of little consequence, Jack still stayed very still. If for no other reason than for making Javier's job a little easier.
>> "Let's look at the pants first. So... is this a new job? Or going back to the old place?"
Jack couldn't honestly recall if she'd told Javier about her gig at Inferno. She wasn't socially minded and couldn't keep track of who she'd told which information to.
“Well, I nean, I got dat nanegerial gig now, quit Chrysalis,” the prawn explained. She chuckled, her tone drifting towards deprecation, “Getting too old to 'e s’rowing guys around.”
Now there was also the off chance of blowing people up, if she threw a punch. Even more of a reason to leave bouncing for good.
"Should drott in sun tine. I'll get ya a drink on duh house."
The prawn nodded, the dismayed expression remaining on her features. He won't tell anyone. He won't tell anyone. You're safe. The anxiety that had been drowned-out by alcohol was starting to simmer up once more, unabated.
"Don't sink ny kinda trou'le is duh kind... y'all usually handle," Jack slurred, without lifting her gaze. She took another sip of her drink. It was, likewise, starting to get critically low. Another drink would be in order. The prawn, realizing that refusing to look at Cafas might be an admission of guilt, lifted her gaze again... perhaps the look in her eyes would also be an admission of guilt? She looked back down. It was true, though. Jack had a liminal knowledge of the X's because, as part of the security, it was sort-of need-to-know. It was part of the orientation-- "Why does this school for mutants have such high security? It's not just because it's a school for mutants, it also houses mutant vigilantes." That sort of sh**. So she knew about the X-Men, and knew who was a part of the team, etc. She also knew that they were the good guys. "Good guys" didn't protect murderers, however involuntary.
" 'ld luzz a distraction, doh," the prawn yielded, a sloppy smile crossing her expression. Cafas waved the bartender over, and Jack raised her glass, tapping it twice with her index finger, "Nee too, 'lease."
Even if she was getting absolutely sloshed, her work in nightclubs made her the sort-of perfect, most patient patron a bartender could ask for. She wasn't overly needy and didn't pitch a fit if she was accidentally glossed-over. A continuous flow of drinks didn't hurt either, though. She glanced back towards Cafas, her mouthparts twitching as though she wanted to speak. But her words failed her. She wanted to speak, and yet couldn't bring herself to. She wanted to tell Cafas everything, but she also wanted to dismiss herself and stagger her way back to her apartment.
>> "Sure thing. Come on, if you put them on I'll see what needs to be done. We should probably double check your dimensions anyway, in case... you put on muscle, or something."
The prawn grunted an affirmative, trekking towards the familiar changing room at the corner of the shop. Her messenger bag was deposited, the garment bag hung on the hook and unzipped. Like that, Jack began shearing her clothes, first the pants, which were pooled on the floor-- then the shirt, which was lifted haphazardly over her head. She towered over the top of the door, but Jack didn't cower away from the gap between the top beam of the stall and the top of the door. She wasn't built like other ladies, so it didn't really matter. Once free, Jack began the delicate process of sliding into the new suit. The pants were the easiest part, for they hung loosely off her frame. She couldn't put on the shirt or the suit coat, however, because her forearms were too large. Javier knew this.
Jack shuffled back out of the changing room, the shirt draped around her shoulders and unbuttoned, the coat draped over her arms. One primary hand clutched at the band of the suit pants, keeping them from pooling around her ankles (which was a distinct possibility, if she let go).
The prawn made her way back to her friend, unabashed. This was how Jack imagined normal people felt when they went to the doctors. Any partial nudity was strictly for business purposes. And thus no nervous tics ventured into Jack's secondary arms-- this was strictly business, and Javier was a friend.
"You know how shirts are," she grumbled, shrugging her shoulders beneath the shirt-cape.
>> "I can give it to you. He wouldn't pick up if I called."
The expression that crossed Jack's features was hopeful, a tense muscle loosening and turning upward in relief. It was just a glimmer of a chance that Jude was alive, but that was all she needed.
"Sank you," the prawn murmured, her voice even more muffled by the bleeding thumb that was tucked into her mouth, "Neans a lot to nee. Really does."
>> "I hope he is okay."
"Nee too," the prawn remarked, graciously accepting the slip of paper. She surveyed it for a moment, then carefully folded it, and tucked it her pocket. She wasn't sure if she was ready to make that call, yet. What if he'd been the one who died? What if the number belonged to someone else now? If it was a dead end? Besides, it would be weird to call a woman's ex right in front of her, whatever the motivation.
Jack's stomach yowled in agreement at that sentiment, and the prawn dug the knuckles of her free hand into her gut.
"Hey..." the prawn began, gaze trailing after Sveta, "Do you... eat pizza?" The "p" that the prawn breathed was more of a clicked sound, almost sounding like "tee-zza", but the question still remained. It was the only way that the armored woman could think to repay the blonde's willingness to help.
"Was sinking uzz ordering sun, iss you're interested," she explained.
The prawn shrugged, smiling with her eyes. When she explained her string of bad luck like that, and conveniently left the involuntary manslaughter out, it almost sounded like a string of bad luck that could've befallen anyone. It almost sounded normal.
"Glad it's working out," the prawn answered, still smiling. When asked what had truly brought here, Jack grunted an affirmative, and delicately draped the garment bag over the counter.
"New suits sore work," she explained, "Dey need duh usual nits and tucks."
Gosh, she was close. The prawn leaned back, her face heating-up again. The flush ran through her like a dripline, straight to her core. Why was she so adamant about Jack taking the mask off? Was she trying to prove something? Jack surveyed her, the uncertainty flagrant in her eyes. Hesitantly, she moved her free primary hand, looping a digit around the elastic bend (which was hitched behind the spikes along her mandible), and unfastening it.
Once the mask was removed, Jack balled it in her hand. There. Happy? Her expression was guarded. The jointed outer maxilla of her mouth, poised like the curled arms of a praying mantis, seemed to sense that their owner was trying to sit still, and twitched faintly.
"Dere," the prawn clicked, "No nask."
Her voice was quiet. Had it not been for the expression that Winnie wore, she would have felt much like some sort of spectacle at a carnival or a zoo. But something about the look that she wore was befuddling to the larger woman.
"It's worse when I snile," Jack admonished, and a small smile broke across her features. The maxilla curled, revealing maxillipeds and, ultimately, mandibles. The expression was only a flicker across her face, and quickly settled into something careful, "I dunno. Suntines solks get weird."
A shrug. This suggested it didn't bother her. Which it didn't! But... if it really, truly did't bother her, she wouldn't waste her time using a mask to be modest.
The prawn watched Devon, a maxilliped stirring, but her face otherwise stony. She heard the words that plopped from his mouth, but there was some sort of disconnect between his mouth and her brain. There was too much ambiguity. Again, with that Plum Island, and this whole "getting rested" thing.
Jack exhaled sharply, her mouth curling in its own rendition of a smile, though there was no inkling of joy in her expression.
"I don't sink I can do nuch resting, D," the prawn confessed. The hand-wringing had returned with a vengeance. Her voice was tired. Even now, her nerves were raw, anticipating some external attack. Devon tried to placate her by suggesting that they could figure out how to handle it... telling her friend that she was in the clear, send people to her house. These statements only confused her. Which friend? What people? What would they do? What could they do? She didn't know how to respond, becasue she wasn't sure what he meant.
"I dunno..." she murmured, "I really dunno, D."
The SUV slid to a stop, the prawn's antennae lifted, and she sat up in her seat? Why were they stopped? Then they slowly began to build speed again. Must've been a stoplight or something. She sat back down, groaning.
"I wanna kee' a low 'ro-sile 'til I know who doze guys are," Jack explained, "Don't want e'eryone and dere cousin in-zolz-ed."
Jack exchanged glances with Winnie, her bumbling compliment accepted with a smile and a chortle. Jack looked meekly across the room. Ugh, this was so awkward. At least she didn't chastise the prawn, for the prawn really hadn't meant it in a bad way-- being a cute mutant had its perks, and it's downfalls-- just like being some sci-fi film reject had its perks and downfalls. The prawn did not move, and nor did her host. A silence stretched. Time dilated. God, she was too lesbian for this.
>> "You feel pretty comfy to me. Just for a second anyways."
Waaaaaay too lesbian for this. Jack breathed a series of clicks, a resigned sound, and returned her attention to the woman nestled in the crook of her arm. This was a little weird... but it also filled a space left by Zinnia, the need to be physically close to someone (however platonic it may have been). Jack missed being close to people, though she would never deign to admit it.
>> "Jackie... what's with the mask, love? You sick or trying to avoid getting sick?"
"Ny... nouth... is weird," the prawn said simply, "Like a crustacean." Go figure. Almost all of her was like a crustacean, so why wouldn't her mouth be? "S-reaks 'eo'le out, so I try to kee' it co'ered when I'n outside. Not sick, just... nod-est." Modest. That was a good way to put it-- a lot better than "ashamed" or "embarrassed".
"I sink uzz it like... glasses..." the prawn murmured, "Hel' nee interat wiss duh world a little easier."
It was kind-of ironic, that Jack thought a mask would help her, when all of her was a spectacle. The prawn's eyes crinkled in a self-deprecating smile.
Most people were too deep into their drinks, their thoughts, or their conversations to bother hazarding a look around the bar. Very rarely did one lock eyes with another. It was sort of like driving. You kept your eye on what was important, and very rarely glanced at the other drivers. Or, if you did, your gaze caught the side of their face. Exchanged glances were spontaneous and uncomfortable.
Jack exchanged a glance such as that. There was a twisting in her gut, of recognition, but that was impossible. She didn't know anyone who looked like that. He saw her, too, and Jack saw the same flicker in his eyes. She was too drunk to scrabble her shreds of thought together, to piece together who it was that was looking at her, until he came over and introduced himself.
>> "Jack? That you?"
Sh**.
>> "It's Cafas, we did a shift or two together."
Sh**. This revelation plunged the prawn into a panic, though it was entirely below the surface. She only knew one Cafas, especially with whom she'd done a shift... he was from the Mansion. A muscle twitched in her jaw, a flex of the mandible, her heart clambering into her throat. Was she going to be sick? She thought she was going to be sick. Jack's gaze ran over the man's hair. Cafas had pink hair, right? She would've been able to slip off unnoticed if he'd had pink hair.
>> "I heard you were dead or something... I'm glad I heard wrong."
The prawn cleared her throat, a wet and anxious sound.
"I-" what could she say to that? They'd found a body, and it had looked like Jack. In her apartment. What were they supposed to think? Of course, Jack could pretend to be someone from the otherside, but what would see say? She'd been quiet too long, he'd know. Her thoughts were racing, her eyes were watering and blurring. The gig was up. He was going to turn her in.
"I should 'e dead," the prawn said meekly, mumbling into the miniature glass in her hand, " 'lease don't tell any-un you saw nee... I need to kee' a low 'ro-sile."
Her throat clenched, and the blurriness that had welled in her eyes overflowed. Perhaps it was unchecked emotions, perhaps it was the alcohol. She kept her explanations vague. You never knew who might be listening.
"Dere's trou'le," she whined, "Real terri'le. Didn't want to 'ring it to duh Nan-sion, or to... anyone... so I'n laying low 'til I know it's settled."
She looked at the not pink-haired acquaintance.
" 'lease don't say any-sing a'out seeing nee," she reiterated. The desperation was thick and un-ignorable in her tone. She had to hide.
Jack was not a drinker. Ask anyone who knew her pre-power growth, and they would tell you that. Working in the business of nightclubs meant seeing a full range of inebriation. From people who'd had just enough alcohol to have a good time, to patrons who blacked out from taking things too far. Jack had seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of alcohol... and had thus sworn to herself that, no matter the circumstance, she would never take matters that far.
Principles seemed to fall by the wayside in times of duress, however. Despite Devon's diligent attempt(s) at rehabilitation, his efforts were focused on managing Jack's mutation. Alcoholism had never been brought to the table-- and quite frankly, the prawn had been doing fairly well at keeping it on the sly.
It was just-- these-- nightmares. Recurring nightmares. About Jude. About that man. About killng them. Sometimes there'd be different people involved. Zinnia. Jack's family. Old friends. It was enough to wake her up in a cold sweat.
She needed to drain her brain. A clean slate. She wanted to get a good night's sleep, and it was thus that she found herself at the edge of a bar, idly swirling a glass of Old Fashioned. Her eyes were wet and unfocused, the eyes of someone who'd been well into their night. Which, for a creature of Jack's stature, was an impressive feat.
The prawn's gaze swept over the bar, brushing over patrons, swimming towards the live music on a small and distant stage. It was a pretty lowkey place, and most people seemed deep enough within their own little bubbles that they scarcely seemed to notice the lavender gaze that flickered over them. Good. The prawn returned to her drink.
The prawn smiled genially with her eyes when the familiar form of her Latino tailor filled the doorway. He was a nice guy—nervous and bumbling at times, sure, but a lot of people were nervous and bumbling around Jack—and the fact that he treated Jack with the same respect as anyone else greatly overshadowed that.
“Ja’i,” Jack reiterated placidly, nodding her head, “Good to see you.”
In the prawn’s humble opinion, the only downfall of her friend was that he had a “v” smack-dab in the middle of his name. But he never raised issue with her impediment. The prawn meandered towards the counter, leaning her elbows onto it casually.
>> "I haven't seen you for ages! How have you been?"
“Eeehhh,” the prawn sighed noncommittally. Her gaze cut sideways. It’d been the better part of two months since they’d seen each other, and so much had happened.
“Real crazy deez last see-ew nun-ce,” the prawn remarked, some tension creeping into her tone, “Lost ny a’art-nent… s’lit wiss ny girls’riend. ‘een really russ.”
Neither of these were a lie—Jack just left out the parts about “losing an apartment” because she had blown it up… and “splitting with her girlfriend” because she was supposed to be dead, had killed a man, and was potentially a wanted woman. You know, tiny details.
“Sings are looking utt, doh,” the prawn quickly added, flapping her hand, “How you? Shot doing well? Dating?”
Jack’s tone adopted something mischievous with the applications. Although (or perhaps because of) the good terms that they were on, Jack sometimes liked to tease the young tailor. Something was just so profoundly amusing about making the little guy squirm.
It had been two months. Two months, and finances were wearing thin. Two months of sporadic ventures beyond the walls of Devon's apartment complex. Necessity was propelling Jack back into the working world. She was strapped for cash, going stir crazy, and ready-ish to rebuild. Murmurs of the explosion that'd rocked her old apartment complex had been overshadowed by different stories and altogether faded from the news. That's how it was in New York. A near constant stream of mutant-related tragedies. A mysterious explosion and a coldcase homicide of some mutant crustacean in her own home. Apparently the man Jack had killed had, much like his twin, never been found.
The first step towards normalcy was asking Devon for her old position, which her dear friend freely gave.
This meant, however, replacing the dress clothes that'd been lost after her "death".
Replacing dress clothes meant paying Javier a visit.
You see, in addition to being a unique individual, Jack's measurements meant that she was a regular at the tailor's. She was tall, covered in spines at most of her joints, broad-shouldered but narrow in the waist and hips, and let's not forget that her forearms were colossal. So unless her clothes were sleeveless or short-sleeve knits, nearly all of her clothes needed taking-in at some spots, and letting-out in others.
Had Jack been wiser, she would have gone to a different tailor-- in the off chance that Javier heard of her death, this would be a cosmic mess-up on her part. Part of Jack just craved something familiar. It was thus that Jack pushed through the familiar front door of the alterations shop, a tinkling bell announcing her arrival. Jack sighed, exhaling a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding. A garment bag was draped over her arm.
The prawn shuffled to the unoccupied front desk, and gently rang the service bell.
The prawn was quiet, unsure of what to say to that. Her mutation was kind-of silly, or "lame" as the young woman had declared it. It was, however, one that didn't always need to be on. She could pass as human when not a kiwi, and for that Jack was jealous. And besides, even as a kiwi, some passerby wold see her as cute, rather than... well, however they viewed Jack.
"At least you're cute," the prawn offered offhandedly. She caught herself after the remark had been uttered, a tension rippling across her shoulders and drawing them in, "I nean- as a kiwi-! Kiwis are cute. Dough dat's not to say dat your hyu-nan sel-s isn't alo cute..."
The prawn stumbled over her words, her to face heating-up. Winnie dismissed the prawn's offer to hold the ice bag-- she even went so far as to rest against the prawn's arm. Jack's heart stuttered.
"Hun, I'n not duh 'est 'illow," she cautioned, "I'n all co'ered in s'ines and ridges, and all..."
The prawn was absorbed in her work, that much was true. She hadn't even noticed that she'd trailed off. Detail-work was so much more attention consuming, and now she was hollowing-out the space between the wolf's ears, the inside of the ears, carving eyes, nose, and a mouth.
>> "Jude?..."
The blade slipped, a rookie mistake, and sank into the prawn's thumb in alarm. Jack sucked air through her mandibles, sculpture and whittling knife set aside, surgical mask hastily shed, and bleeding thumb stuck squarely in her mouth. It stung. The bleeding gash, and the name. Shrewd lavender eyes were now very-much-looking at Sveta.
Jack removed her thumb from her mouth, surveying the wound, debating as to whether or not the knick warranted running under cold water or bandaging. She might at least need to grab a paper towel. Her eyes returned to Sveta.
"Yeah..." she admonished. No point in lying. However awkward the question might be, Jack pressed, "Don't su'ose you has your ex's nun-der, do you?"
Some girls purged their lives of any sign of their exes after a break-up, while others still kept contact. If Sveta had any way of contacting Jude, any way of verifying that he wasn't dead...
