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.
It was too intense. Overwhelming. He'd been overwhelmed. Hadn't noticed. Who would notice? How was such a thing even possible--? The drink. Most defi Italy the drink. Or a horror show. He was swearing, sweating bullets, fully aware he was lucky he wasn't doing so in the literal sense.
He needed help. Needed to know he was out of it. Out of the corrupt slowdown of the beer. His focus had turned so far onwards that it was hard for him to notice anything else. It seemed Jay was the same. He hadn't noticed. He was focused on his own problems. Elliott was focused freaking out, and his only support was-- what even was he doing?
"Somebody screamed," jay said. "There's a woman in trouble."
They were both in trouble. Everyone was in trouble. But had his words come out at a normal speed? That was enough to make the green alien man pause, and reevaluate. He didn't look up, but the rocking slowed. When he finally arrested the motion and looked up, the mutant who had just been exposed to a traumatizing amount of world-slowing beer-induced super speed was firmly lagging behind the guy with the bass. With how awkwardly Jay was running, Elliott idly hoped he wouldn't drop it.
He was at normal speeds now. He let out a steadying breath. That had been fsking terrifying. What had Jay said? Something about a woman? Danger? Then he'd rushed off like that old TV show dog to rescue said woman from a well. Well, okay then. Elliott supposed they were playing hero now. Casually, he dug out the hockey mask and fastened it to his face. Then, he leaped into action. Literally. He started sprinting and jumpin down the street to catch up.
Hopefully, he could keep the beer's power turned down. Or else it was going to have to come back up. And then he'd need to brush his teeth.
Difficulties were good for creativity, Al had said. Not do good for other things. Benji nodded, restrained look on his face.
On the one hand, adversity could lead to great accomplishments. Some of the greatest films and books of all time were responses to terrible things. Criticisms. Coping mechanisms. One person's imagination of a 'what if', a worst case scenario... or a better one. On the other hand, people had to suffer through them in order to gain that muse. It was no good that the things had happened. You couldn't say their having happened ultimately created the artist, because that was an unrealistic statement about cause and effect. Though with some things, one could connect dots. Some things were obvious. The pain behind remembering wars, leading to books like The things they carried... Or of avoiding the memory entirely, like Slaughterhouse Five. There was more complexity to that one thought than Benji could share in a single conversation, let alone a single paragraph. They also didn't have the time.
"Yeah..." Benji agreed. "It's saddening, my world's stance on mutants. The X-men are flat out criminals, according to our police... but over here, I guess they're more accepted? They help people? I hope some day, we can hammer out our problems over there... if I can ever go back."
That whole 'vigilante' thing. Had people seen his face when the helmet had come off? He didn't know.
Al's question about art was a lot less heavy than his topic. "Paintings, mainly. I do a few sculptures, and some mixed media. A lot of it can be pretty abstract." He smiled a half smile, mainly to himself. "Jackson Pollock-ish, maybe. With a lot of movement and colors to express emotion. It's hard to explain with words. I try and experiment with different styles, too. Here," Benji stopped and pulled a paper napkin closer to him.
The mutant started drawing a hasty scrawl on the paper napkin. It was all flowing lines and motion, with shading in ink from his blue ballpoint pen to imply colors. It was abstract, but at the same time-- it almost looked like the mutant across the table from him. Dignified and strong, despite the dissonance of the sadness from the pressures of the world around him. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't truth. It was just Benji's take, tilted. Something to show the kinds of art he liked to create. He showed it to Al once he'd finished.
Benji was absolutely certain that with how Al acted, and what sort of mutant he was, the man had heard every permutation of the phrase 'snake charmer' worked into a joke. It was probably tiresome, and terrible because of its reliance on the play on words. The Korean spared Al the attempt at humor, and kept the thought to himself.
Al's answer was a fair one, if predictable. Of course, a man who was part snake would enjoy laying out in the sun. As for bars and clubs... ahem... Al clearly liked flirting. He seemed a sociable serpent, sincerely selective of what sorts of fun activities he enjoyed. Coffee shops, book stores, museums. Et cetera.
"Fair enough," Benji allowed. "I guess I can always see how artists differ on this side of the rip. Different social pressures influence different artists. I do art, myself." Art was more likely to be different than music was... at least, classical music. Pop music was anyone's ballgame.
"My art focuses a lot on expressing my feelings on the treatment of mutants in my reality." Benji said.
Of course, the ice pack was cold. The conversation had cooled too. They'd both lapsed into a momentary ease of simple comforts, of handling wounds and sitting around doing not a lot. It was a silence that felt like it had lasted about a month (sorry about that), but one he didn't want to let last. Someone had to break the ice.
"So." Elliott said. "I should probably walk you home after we finish here. In case those guys try and follow you to get revenge."
That was an easy suggestion. And-- "Should probably also get your number to keep in touch." He added in a quick mumble. "New York's a dangerous place." Elliott supplied, what he thought sounded like a lame tone. She'd never believe his good intentions. That was fine. He didn't quite care. Quite being a keyword.
The waitress returned with a steaming pitcher of coffee and a couple of mugs. Not quite what he'd ordered, but okay. If she wanted, celestina could get a triple dosage of caffeine and sugar. Coffee, Coke, and milkshake. Maybe she was just that thirsty? Elliott poured himself a cup.
Didn't need to worry? Hesulposed that either meant his tolerance for alcohol was superhuman, or else he had an interesting mutation... or else, suspected he did. It was him calling the shots (badum tsh), either way. Elliott nodded understanding.
The man, Leon, confirmed the whole alcohol poisoning trifle a minute later. The bartender tended the bar.
Leon wanted to forget. Get his mind off things. Another nod from Elliott. "Who doesn't?" He said. He could drink to that.
If Leon wasn't as immune as he thought he was, maybe he'd do more than forget. Not Elliott's problem. He'd warned him. His responsibility ended there.
Elliott smiled crookedly at the comment on his birthday. "Yeah." He said. "Fun. Would you believe me if I said I was an alien pod baby and my birthday wasn't Halloween, but that was when the pod came down? No? Good." He finished whatever drink he had left, and ordered a tumbler of whisky. "Could very well be someone's trick." He smiled to himself. He tilted back the whisky and drank.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. He pushed down the song refrain as she laughed awkwardly at his question. It was a confirmation of sorts.
As she reached out for the tissue, she touched him briefly. Elliott was not sure what to make of it. On the one hand, personal space! But on the other, it would have been rude to shout about personal space! To a person who had just helped you by 'perhaps' eating your cold. Maybe her power required follow up touching, for... something. It was a big unknown, like with most mutant powers. Again, he was cool. He wouldn't judge.
He smiled at her thanks for the proffered tissue. "No problem." Elliott said.
She clarified something. No, she had not eaten his cold. She had cured him. It was different. Also, a lot more tasteful and less... ew. Again, she laughed about it. Elliott smiled politely, and tried to figure her out.
"No problem. I feel better. That's cool in my book." He said simply.
She said he was welcome, but then, also that he owed her something, which was less cool. It made him wish he'd just joked about how it was cool in his book, so long as it wasn't for any nefarious purposes, instead of the politeness he HAD said. Okay, yeah, it was nicer, but there was no substitute for well placed snark. Perhaps if he'd been ruder, and less accommodating... perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps she might not have asked for a favor. Now, it was too late. All he could do was listen to the request.
"'Kay." Elliott said.
Whatever she needed, he sure hoped he wouldn't be too offended when he turned her down.
He fully expected something terrible. He fully expected her to try and charge him for magical mutant heals. He didn't expect those things because of anything she'd done. He expected them because of life experience. Of people disappointing him, and making him learn to get paranoid. Elliott was surprised when it turned out to be a cry for help.
Now, Elliott wasn't a chauvinistic pig who heard the first comment out of the mouth of a damsel in distress and dropped everything to help her out. He was too jaded for that. He treated women nice, even occasionally opened doors for them. But he'd been trying to make up for things that had been weighing on him lately, and part of that deal was that he was trying to be a better, less paranoid person, who did things like helping strangers and preventing muggings in the middle of the night. She'd asked for a little bit of assistance, and Elliott's vigilante senses were tingling. Unless that was maybe some vague remnant of the cold?
The girl waited for his answer, staring off distantly. She probably expected him to shrug it off and say no. It was what he would have done, had it been anything else. Boy, was she going to be surprised.
"Okay." Elliott shrugged. "I'll kick their asses, if need be." He didn't smile at the thought of violence, didn't offer anything other than a shrug and a mild look.
The restaurant was fine. Pretty much what Benji had expected. For the money he had, it was perfect. Simple and clean. Benji followed Al, and went through the doorway when the snake man held it for him. After he stepped in, he realized it was entirely possible the act had served multiple purposes. It was polite, yeah. But he might have stepped on a tail, otherwise. And stepping on tails is no fun.
The waitress seemed cute enough, and she knew Al. He was definitely a regular. Benji sat down at the table, and looked over his menu.
"Burger sounds good," Benji agreed with the recommendation. "Although--" He paused, and glanced down the sandwich section. Ah yeah! They had one. "Steak sandwiches are one of my favorite things." He confessed. "Not everyone has them, though. Well, I know what I'm getting." Smiling to himself, Benji folded the menu up and placed it in front of him.
He was going to get a steak sandwich with fries and a Coke. While he waited for the waitress to return and take their drink orders, Benji looked to Al. "So, Al. What do you do for fun around here?"
He felt a weight in his stomach when he heard that Amber's world hadn't escaped the registration act's evils. For a second, he'd hoped that maybe... just maybe... but no.
There was distrust between people there, just like here. There was nothing too special about the two worlds if they both had the same troubles and hatred of fellow man. It wasn't a Man in the High Castle situation, at least. It didn't sound worse, from the description. It sounded about the same. Benji frowned at that. Here, they'd had a real opportunity to see a world at peace down the rabbit hole, and it had been wasted on 'average.'
It was too bad for Amber that the 'Feds' would likely have a lockdown on her ticket home. They were about the same, true, apart from some details... but that was where her stuff was. And family, maybe? It'd suck being cut off from that. About equal-- except not.
Shiv's reply had him turning his head to look at her. Mysterious disappearances? And she was tight-lipped about it. That left him wondering if maybe their world had something dark that was worse than Amber's world. Something 'cloak and dagger' dark.
"We will have to talk about those disappearances at some point..." Benji trailed, looking at Shiv. Louder, and to Amber he said "Sounds like there's a lot the same, but with differences. Hmm. Maybe now that we've got a group together, we can get off the street and to somewhere safer." He frowned. "At least until we can figure out the best way to help you out. Or get you home."
Ah. The man seemed to be catching on. No matter. He didn't need a friend. He didn't need the man's permission, to drain the life out of him, to dehydrate him like a raisin.
The eyeless man smiled calmly. "You like it here? Really? Good." He could stay here, as a corpse.
He was the traditional bad guy. The kind that said something clever, and then struck when the hero was distracted from processing the clever comment. It was a tried trope, he knew. Tried, trite, tripe. But always worth a try. He was set in his ways, so kill him. He didn't even care if that wasn't the phrase. Law suits aren't the end-all-be-all. Why sue when you can kill?
The pale man rushed at Jesse with a hand wrinkled like a prune. He clawed out, and tried to rake the man across the eyes.
If he caught him, he could try and drain him. It took time. They always struggled. He felt like a ripoff, because of how it worked. He'd seen Harry Potter. He'd seen it through a mirror. With an eyeless face, it was best not to ask how. But he knew how similar his method of draining life was to that grim Reaper thing's demented kiss. With a simple kiss, he could drain the water (and the life) out of a victim in what he considered to be a very odd sort of mouth to mouth reverse resuscitation. Don't judge. He hadn't made the rules.
He'd learned the rules the hard way. And when he'd turned and fled the scene, he had accidentally crashed into a glass door. He'd gotten stuck. He'd never been able to get out. It had been a rude awakening for his powers. The whole thing had changed him, and not just his appearance. The changes had not happened instantly. Not even over night. He had experimented, and he had learned... and over time, he had changed. Kind of like Gollum. There he went again, bring unoriginal. Thinking he was clever, with his murderous intent and his references. His witty comment probably hadn't even been that witty. He could almost laugh! Laugh at the amusement he felt over the whole situation, laugh at his mad sense of self loathing, that fought desperately against his desire to escape. To get lost. In the real world.
People who'd met him before his awakening had always told him he was far less clever than he thought. They'd told him to get a life! Welllll that was exactly what he was trying to do!!!!
Every time he drained someone, he felt more alive. It had to be working. It just had to.
---
Benji watched the conversation play out in the reflection. He stared at it. A watery hand slopped on his ear to whisper something. And then he shouted that something to relay it to the man in the mirror.
"DON'T LET HIM KISS YOU!"
He spun on the water man, anger and disbelief clearly painted on his face. "REALLY?!" He asked. Under his breath, Cheshire muttered. "This whole situation is getting ridiculous."
If only the water guy would tell him how to axe the real bad guy. He couldn't do anything if they were trapped on one side of the glass, with him on the other.
((Ooc I turn over full control of crazy NPC man to you to fight how you will. Although maybe we can figure out how to get him in something and shatter him, or have him appear in a puddle and stomp on his face. His weak point is a glass chin and the need to monologue. Aquaman can crush his dreams.))
Trippy didn't begin to cover how that description had sounded. It had sounded crazy. And shimmering? He had no clue. Jay must have been really feeling it.
The beer had done this to that, that was one thought that danced through his thought pan. Weird mutant beer. Freaky science experiment, gone wrong. Or maybe it had been drugged and they were just imagining it all. He'd likely have an ungodly hangover in the morning.
Elliott glanced at the car, smirked, then looked to Jay.
"Either we were drugged, or we're drugged under the effects of some mutated beer." He said as he fell into step behind the man. "Either way." He started walking a little faster... Elliott turned around as he walked, so he was facing Jay from ahead of him, walking backwards at a fair pace. "More would be bad. Heh. So I'm glad to see we're walking the other way."
When had he passed the man? He hardly remembered it, but he must have. It had happened. Idly, he pulled out the hockey mask he'd stuffed in the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, and played with it. It was a good hockey mask. Very white. He turned it around and around in his three-fingered hands.
The mask slipped out of his fingers, as he walked along backwards. Clumsy, he was. But if it fell, it might shatter and break and that would be bad and-- suddenly, his mind was racing at the mental image of the mask breaking into 1000 pieces on the ground. And time... slowed for him. He took a step forward, and bent. Jay was still walking a little bit ahead of him. There was a gap of several feet now. When had he gotten that far ahead? He'd only been a little ahead when he'd passed. His fingers clutched and bobbled with the falling hockey mask, but it was as if it were falling in a pool of jelly. It wasn't moving properly. Yet he was fine. Not any faster than usual, but---
He caught the mask on the third bobble, before it flipped and fell the whole way. Picked it up, and took another step back to create even more space. He looked up to see if Jay had seen the whole thing, but the beer had rocketed him up to the point where time was dilating strangely. To him, a few seconds had passed, but to Jay--- Jay wasn't moving. Elliott started to freak out.
If he looked carefully, maybe things around him were creeping forward at a crawl. Barely. Oh god oh god oh god. If Jay was tripping on the LSD effect of seeing sound, what the hell. What the hell sort of beer had he drunk?! He had a sinking suspicion he knew... and he hadn't yet come down from the high.
Elliott stuffed the hockey mask hastily into his hoodie pocket, and took a calming breath. Then another. He smoothed back his antennae like they were hair. They sprang back up insolently. They wouldn't ever obey his demands. As he focused on calming his heart rate, he closed his eyes and tuned out the world.
Twitch, twitch, twitch. His antennae twitched their excitement, opposite to how he actually felt. Which was solid terror.
To Jay, it would probably seem like Elliott had blurred after appearing in front of him and talking for a bit. He'd moved ahead of him, talked, played with something from his pocket. A hockey mask? And then blurred, only to appear several feet further down the sidewalk, with his eyes closed and a horrified look on his face.
"Ohgod ohgod oh god." Elliott murmured, rocking on his heels. His arms were wrapped protectively against his chest. He was firmly out of the sudden burst of freakish speed, the hellish slowdown, but he didn't know.
Curious, Elliott waved his hand in front of Jay's face. He snapped a few times. Once, twice. Three times, a lady. Five more times, for good measure.
"Do you see that? What's it look like?"
His hands, of course, had chosen that moment to accelerate briefly, so that the waving blurred and the snaps went off like muffled firecrackers in the night. He came back down from it. Like Jay, he too felt ... no worse than usual. As far as judgement was concerned.
He had kind of wanted to strip off his shoes and walk upright on the brick wall to one side of them, just to screw with Jay while he was tripping. But he'd thought better of it. Not nice.
A car passed by in the street. It rattled along, with its noisy muffler. Would Jay see some sort of strobing Technicolor acid dream version of the Doppler effect?
((OOC: Give it a few posts, if you'd like to freak out a little. I've got an idea. I'm imagining Jay seeing a scream in the distance, and running off to help somebody in peril. Mugger or something? Could be fun. You can totally describe it if you'd like.))
The time, and the beer, seemed to run by at a quicker clip. They joked, and they drank, and before he knew what was good for him, he'd started his third beer too.
Elliott's antennae twitched as he hummed and sat and drank. Strange. "Yeah." What was strange was how much it had improved after the first. "Nefarious, even." He quipped.
The bartender was chuckling to himself about something, but for the life of him, Elliott could not figure out what he thought was funny.
It's not good when time seems to blur and events start to feel like they're occurring out of order. When had he finished the third beer? He thought he'd only started the second, but there they were. And certain jokes felt like they'd come sooner, rather than later, and far sooner than they should.
Three glasses were in front of him. "Three beers shouldn't be making my antennae hum like power lines." Elliott commented. No humming was actually audible. Except maybe the occasional hummed version of an AC/DC song from him. They were twitching, so he had that going for him. Things felt like they'd been painted in that film movies use when something is terribly wrong, or someone drunk.
There were now three glasses in front of him. He couldn't remember ordering the fourth. Maybe there was something time-sensitive about this beer? Er, time-disrupting. Manipulating? Or, wait. The fourth beer was largely full. Maybe he was just losing time.
What was Jay saying? Pay and go? But he'd just gotten his fourth beer! In a quick blur of motion, Elliott resolved that problem. The now-empty glass clacked down gently on the battered counter of the bar. "Okay," Elliott agreed. He leaned to the side to fish out somebody's wallet, and forked over enough money to cover his drinks.
"Don't forget your bass," Elliott commented.
He was wrong about the beer, though he didn't know it. It wasn't a time-manipulating draft. Or rather, that wasn't the only thing it did. If our ever played Dungeons and Dragons, there's a class with an ability called "Wild Magic" that casts a randomized effect on a chance roll whenever the player casts a spell. The beer was tainted in a way much similar to that. The bartender knew, of course, which was why he liked it. It sold quick, and was cheap as piss to make with his power. It got people drunk fast, and drunk enough they didn't question it when their mug started to levitate, or they started feeling strange, like their feet weren't the right size for their shoes. Maybe their feet even phased through their shoes? Elliott, for example, hadn't questioned the brief moments of slowed time and sped up movement he'd benefitted from. Minor stuff, harmless really. It had allowed him to drink several beers in rapid succession while he and Jay were talking... and neither had really noticed. He'd snapped between states, and the beer had dulled the sensation enough he hadn't noticed, nor cared. It was entirely likely Jay had felt something similar. Unless, or course, he'd gotten something lame with his beers, like the 'feel funny' drinks and the 'buzzing sensation beer'. Elliott had gotten a humming draft, in between the others. Entirely, entirely, entirely harmless.
Together, they left the bar. They wouldn't find out until later than some unlucky SOB after them had gotten a glass of fireball and lit the bar on fire with the explosion. It had been fine. They'd resolved the situation handily, after a few lucky drinks. But the SOB had been surprised.
It was unthinkable, but as Elliott took another drink, he realized he'd finished the beer.
He stared at Jay and his suggestion, and arched one hairless eyebrow. "If its expired and it tastes like wet dog, why in the hell am I about to order another?" He wondered aloud.
Elliott suited his statement with the appropriate action, and the bartender acquiesced... with very little objection. He even smiled a little. A little knowing knife of a smile.
Elliott frowned, but he drank.
He felt a little off. Something was weird. But if the beer was bad, he'd just get sick later and out, it would go. He was only renting it, anyways. He laughed out loud at the thought, and related it to Jay. It seemed less funny to him when he spelled out the thought.
Heh. Kind of like good beer, indeed. "Sadly, true." Elliott agreed. Despite his better judgement, he took another drink.
The Bassist, Jay, asked him what he did. It was an interesting question. At present? In the past? The future? For money? For fun? Because it was wrong. Because it was right. Clearly, he wanted the answer that required less complicated thought processes.
Elliott said "Between jobs right now. I was a delivery boy." Personally, he always thought the word delivery was one dyslexic man's error away from turning into devilry. He kind of liked that.
"Had a disagreement with the way my company was heading, so I went off on my own. Feel better for it. I'd saved up enough already, and I get by. Moonlight, some." He smiled at some hidden joke.
She laughed at his joke. Elliott appreciated that. Laughter in this situation was far better than it's alternative.
There were all sorts of things in the kit to help stave off infection, of bandage, or treat. Seemed like some of it was meant for kids, though. He reckoned it was more likely they'd be dealing with families in a diner, and not anything life threatening. Hence, Mario, and not a healthy supply of One Ups.
She picked red. Elliott agreed with her, red was a better color for the woman. He gave a slight nod at that. Without a word, he pulled one out of the box and prepped it. Then, paused as the ice pack was pressed into his skin. His cheeks browned in a subtle blush, and he passed her the band aid, with its dab of Neosporin on the inner pad.
"Here," Elliott said. "Thanks."
When the waitress came back, he ordered a coffee. Just coffee. Simple.
