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 Welldrinker Cult
A shadowy group is gaining power, drawing in people who are curious, vulnerable, or malicious, and turning them into Mystics. They are recruiting people into their ranks to spread the influence of magic in the world, but for what end goal?
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.
Yep. He’d been correct. She was from Greece. Snake woman from Greece. Gods, but that must have been difficult when she’d manifested her hair.
He was so focused on preparing g their food, he almost missed the subtle change in her as Andrea mentioned an ex-husband.
Somehow, he had missed the fact she’d been married. Interest entered his voice as hot dogs sizzled and chili burbled. “You’ve never talked about your ex-husband before... if it isn’t too personal, what was he like? If he liked chili dogs, he couldn’t have been all bad.”
The joke at the end had slipped out. He hadn’t meant to crack it. Wry humor isn’t proper when things are emotional and all personal-like.
In the back of Elliott’s mind, he was thinking about how some mutants can use a touch to affect others with their powers. He was thinking about how odd he felt about the whole situation. About the anger and annoyance and all those things, and about how something did not quite add up.
If he’d wanted to be an ass, he might have walked over and found a bit of pipe or wood or something in the trash. A makeshift cane. Then, he wouldn’t have to touch the guy. Elliott didn’t want to be an ass.
He was better than he’d once been. The guy needed help. He’d stumbled and fallen to one knee. He would help. And damn the consequences.
“Sure,” Cheshire said, with a painted on smile.
Elliott reached out to help the guy.
If nothing went South, he would help him stumble to the convenience store down the block. Otherwise...
((OOC no worries. Sometimes, posts are shorter. Sometimes that’s what you need.))
In the dark of the alley, it was easy to miss the minutiae of the man’s changing expressions. Vocal tone, however, suffered from no such impediment.
He didn’t have fleshy ear lobes on his head, but even Elliott could sense the change in the man’s voice. When Elliott told him he lacked a cellphone, or a wallet... and the man laughed.
It had not been an amused laugh or a happy laugh. Maybe a sardonic laugh? Although why the man would be grimly mocking or cynical was beyond him. That sort of information would provoke annoyance or disappointment in this sort of situation before anything else... at least, for Elliott it would have. But this guy sounded a little disgruntled.
Of course, if he’d been mugged, and then been given a speech like he’d just delivered, maybe his gruntle would have felt a little ‘dis’sed, too.
Still, he soldiered on with his monologue. Told him about the sticks. Told him he’d still help. And the man had said the ffff-
Although nobody would be able to see it, underneath his helmet a hairless eyebrow had arched. The f, indeed.
Had he angered the man? Had the last comment been too patronizing? The sheer audacity of him, for asking basic questions the cops would have asked if they’d been present. The nerve of him for wanting to help.
The man had mastered himself, and in what Elliott felt was a very clipped tone, he’d stated that he did not know his attackers.
Fair enough.
The man’s patience was running low. Elliott was all too familiar with those types of days. The stapler to face days.
“I read ya’,” he said.
The man’s focused turned towards a creature comfort. Cigarettes. Again, Elliott would have to disappoint him.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you again, man. I don’t have any cigarettes. I don’t smoke. But—“ He glanced towards the mouth of the alley.
“If you come with me, I can help get you some at the nearest convenience store. I’ve had terrible days too. Maybe a cig will help us sort things out. At least you have your health. I’ve been beaten up by multiple guys. Been stabbed and nearly bled out. You’re lucky they only took your phone.”
Can someone give someone a significant look behind the tinted visor of a motorcycle helmet, when they can’t see your eyes? His solid posture would have to communicate it for him, Elliott supposed.
((For the record, I like your writing! Gully seems like a fun guy so far. Conflicted!))
The guy was acting a bit strange. Concussion, maybe? Well, with three, no, four guys, he was lucky a concussion was all he had. And a foot injury. That many people ganging together on one person, they could do a lot without realizing it. And numbers made some people do stupid things. Like kill.
He watched as the bucket hat sailed across the alley. Did he see the little spark of no account? It was dark. The spark was small, but it was light. He noticed it, and thought ‘the hell was that?’
The man had sweared at him, then thrown a hat... and if that wasn’t suspicious, there had been the little fleck of light. And the shouting, about frigging kids.
Throughout the guy’s long rant, Elliott stood still, watching him.
No visible signs of injury, other than the leg. Erratic behavior. Almost as if— there was a thought there, but the comment about the cellphone temporarily replaced it.
He wanted to call someone? What was a Sensu bean?
The guy had a frohawk with red twists. He had something tattooed on the left side of his jaw. And something else, on the other side. In the dark of the alley, he couldn’t make the tattoos. He’d only really noticed them because he’d been impassively watching the guy’s face as he went on about his phone and the guys. Darker patches of skin, like shadowed cheekbones. Except they weren’t rounded enough for that. Definitely not your average appearance.
Now, Elliott had been a criminal for the better part of his whole life. Picking pockets, running illicit goods, Working for shady people. Since he’d gone good, he’d worked real hard on the paranoia, and the ability to not judge somebody by how they looked and how they held themselves. But Old habits die hard. This guy made him uneasy.
As a criminal, you have to have a sense for when someone is lying. Playing you. And as he always maintained, he was no Hero. That was the other guy. The one who’d come before him to hold the mantle of Cheshire. The one who was dead.
Elliott would give the guy the benefit of the doubt, for the moment. But he was watching him, and his guard was not down.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a cell,” Cheshire said easily. “Or a wallet. When you’re a costumed vigilante, you really try and avoid carrying around things that can lead people back to who you are. All I’ve really got are a set of sticks. But I can still help you out.”
The helmet was still smiling. He was a nice guy! His tone was easy, amiable. He could help. But he had those sticks strapped to his side in the holster near his back, in case things went south.
“If you want, I can help you hobble off some to some place where you can make a call. Or flag down a police officer. Maybe they could help you file a report. Did you get a good look at the guys? Know em at all?” He said, mellow as mellow could be.
((OOC PS I love your art and that picture you drew of Elliott made my day. Do you mind if I save it and post it on my profile if I credit you as the one who drew it? So cool!))
The night was cold. It was a bad neighborhood. You could tell it was bad, what with how the few street lights that actually worked were spread out, few and far between, leaving pools of shadow that were only broken by the occasional car headlight slicing through the darkness. After dark, people tended to stay inside. It was a good thing Elliott wasn’t at street level. Or maybe it wasn’t.
It had taken time, a little convincing, and extra effort in order to adopt the change. Bring stabbed and nearly having bled out had been but one element in the long list of reasons Elliott had composed in order to convince him self to facilitate the change. Still, as he blocked an attack and wasn’t cut, bruised, or beaten, he wondered what the hell had taken him so long?
Body armor, underneath the leather jacket. Underneath the t-shirt. Elbow guards, shin guards, and on the forearm. It was so simple, and yet it had changed so much! And the “socks”.
They weren’t true socks. They didn’t fully cover his feet. The soles of his feet were uncovered. But the tops and sides! The padding was warm. The padding had a layer of Kevlar on top of that. They were almost, almost shoes. With slots for the little warming inserts, to help stave off the winter cold. He wore the pads, wore the leather jacket, jeans and “shoes”, fingerless gloves, and a green motorcycle helmet with a dark visor and a painted smile on a creepy alien face. And, he was fighting crime in all of that.
There were two thugs on the roof top. He blocked an attack from one of them with his forearm, then struck back with one of his own. The escrima stick snapped out and conked the first guy unconscious. Meanwhile, the second guy had rushed his back.
These two fools had tried breaking into someone’s apartment, and Elliott had caught them while he was patrolling from the roof. He’d jumped them, then ran... to lead them out and away from any innocent bystanders that might have been around.
The second guy rushed him. He heard the feet slapping against the rooftop, smelled the bad BO. He turned and threw out a quick kick that sent the guy back several feet, onto the roof. Elliott followed it up by drubbing the guy senseless.
A few minutes later, the two men were zip-tied to a pipe on the roof and there was a rectangle of paper with a giant smiley face painted across it duct taped to a chest.
Elliott, also known as Cheshire, vanished into the night. Off to another rooftop, to find trouble and stop it. Because crap happens. And he felt like it was his responsibility to do something about it... because he’d done so much terrible crap, himself.
A short time later, he was several roof tops over when he heard it. A metallic clang, and a pained cry. Without hesitation, Cheshire rushed to the source of the sound. He stopped at the rooftop’s edge, and looked down.
It looked like a boy, on the ground. Injured? Had he been attacked? Elliott took in a big breath, then jumped off the rooftop to land on a fire escape below, and from there, down and down until he landed about ten to fifteen feet from the boy, on the floor of the alley.
“Everything alright?” The mysterious weirdo in the smiling motorcycle helmet and leather jacket, asked. “Are you hurt? Who attacked you?” Did he require medical attention?
His antennae twitched with the pain. Such as it was, it was hard to focus, so while he caught the motion in his periphery of the man who’d come to his aid, all Elliott really noticed was the running commentary.
Cheap shot!
Ten points!
“You okay?”
He grunted in reply. Then, he took a deep breath and pushed the pain away into an imagined little triangular container in the back of his mind. He stood up straight, and wiped at his brow. The mind over matter thing almost worked. But there was still a dull pain.
Was he okay? Was he okay? Part of him wanted to say it just got nit shot by Teddy ruxpin! Of course I’m not okay!’ Part of him wanted to say ‘didn’t feel like stuffing he hit...’ But the part of him that was trying to be a kinder, gentler a$$ho|3 said: “Yeah... I’m fine! Thank you. How’re you?” And his voice only cracked slightly.
Throb, throb.
Tiredly, he looked around. There were bears everywhere. Here, a bear. There, a bear! Bears, bears, bears!
The man had swatted away another bear, but Elliott saw a third flanking him from behind. Without a word, he rushed forward to punt the thing across the hall. As it sailed, it dropped its very sharp-looking pirates cutlass. Had it been wearing an eye patch?
He looked to the guy and snapped off a quick introduction. “I’m elliott.”
“What the he’ll is this? It’s like the build a bear workshop went insane... my girlfriends nephew just came here last week. Dodged a fskkking bullet. Jesus.”
A bear with a claw hand snatched a woman’s purse down the hallway. A pair with half a heart on each side (lover bears?) tackled some man with a goat chin from either side. And there was more. More than his little green mind could process.
“Someone’s gotta find who’s doing this and kick their ass.” He muttered, almost to himself.
Build a bear? Hah! He’d helped the children build hundreds upon hundreds of bears. Day in, day out, he had worked. And they’d been so BORING. So uncreative. He could have done better. He could have been better. And when he realized his mutant power late one Saturday night, whilst dancing his little wooden puppet bear around in his basement, he decided he would. Do better.
He could build it. He had the technology. He had the power. And he had the method and means. He could build a better bear. And it could be a real boy.
The next day, Anthony Gepetti got to work.
—
The mall was super busy. He was shopping for a present for Valentine’s Day for Kenzi, his girlfriend. Everything was good. The food court was full of people eating corn dogs and pizza. (Not people-eating corn dogs, to clarify). The four nations of style were at peace. But all of that changed when the build a bear nation attacked.
They surged out of the glass front window, scattering men, women, and children! Bears with spatulas strapped to their forearms. Bears with angry-looking claws duct taped on. Bears of unusual size. Bears, bears, bears! There were dozens of them.
One of them ran up, cute as a button! Elliott sipped his coffee and glanced down at the little darling. It leapt up and slugged him in the balls.
“Oof!” He doubled over. Coffee spilled. If he could have cried, he’d have done so! “F&&$&ing bear...” he grumbled. “Why?”
Chocolate she totally didn’t give them. Elliott snorted. A real feat, without a nose.
Kids. They really were great. Like balls of energy that raced from place to place, making messes and falling on their butts until they learned better. Like little drunk people. Like— many, many things.
“Yeah. Child free the way to be. At least, for now.” He agreed.
Would his be green? Would him and his girlfriend even try?
Idly, he hoped for hot pink. A real talking point. Just kidding.
She talked about aesthetics. He nodded.
“Too much black. Too tough guy. I mean, look at me.” He gestured at his outfit. It did not scream tough guy. Elf hat, blue pea coat. “You can be a tough guy without broadcasting,” he puffed his cheeks out for emphasis. “Tough guy.”
A lot of people that wore MMA themed stuff were real poseurs. Not that people who liked MMA needed to be tough, or fight. But—
Mmm muffin. Mmm coffee.
The conversation had shifted to him and his own personal life. And potential heroics. It took her back. But her reaction was not a bad one. Most orphans are actual people, and don’t need sympathy, no matter how sincere.
Her focus on his dick comment was much more real.
“Thanks,” he said with a small smile. “I’m really trying, I swear.” Cross his heart. “And you’re welcome.”
“So. Do you want to talk about why you were so upset back there, in a sudden topic paradigm shift? Or are you happy just keeping it light for now?” Elliott asked. Because he could gladly go either way.
He grinned his zipper-toothed grin and put out a pot to reheat the chili in. Then, Elliott set out a pan and got to work opening the package of hot dogs.
“That’s funny.” He said. “So, what. You came here all the way from... where? Greece?”
It was just a guess. Maybe she sounded a little Greek? Maybe? Or maybe he was just saying it because snake hair.
He set out several hot dogs. Heck. He would fry up the whole package! They were hungry. And they could ace anything they didn’t eat. Then, he dumped all the chili into the pot. Finally, while things were cooking, he dug out buns and condiments. As a final touch, he pulled out a jar of jalapeños... for himself. And shredded cheese.
“If i were being extra, I would grill onions. But these might work if we want them.” He set out a canister of those fried onion toppings you get for salads. “We are gourmet.”
“You should let me make something,” Elliott said, as he barged into the kitchen. Even if he’d just been healed, he felt well enough to make good food. And she’d just given blood.
“I insist. You just gave blood. And I make a mean grilled cheese.”
He went to the fridge and started shifting things around. Something caught his eye. God bless leftovers.
“We even have leftover chili. And hot dogs, if you’d prefer that over grilled cheese and quote unquote soup.”
>>”His stuff was left behind? What happened? Move out?”
She hadn’t understood. The whole heroic sacrifice thing. It had gone over her head.
Part of him wanted to be a dick, and do something real dark and sarcastic, like miming an explosion and popping him mouth like “boom!”
He didn’t fake an explosion with his mouth. He just said “Yeah... he moved out.”
She was an innocent bystander. He didn’t need to ruin her day talking up his good old dead heroic roommate. He wasn’t even sure why he’d brought the guy up in the first place. He deserved better than to be carted out whenever Elliott needed an excuse to be melodramatic.
She agreed with him, and gave him some advice, then made her retreat.
Elliott nodded. “Yeah, thanks. It was good talking to you. “Miss.”
“Not all philosophies have to make sense, to be followed.” She said.
“Truer words have never been spoken, I guess.” Elliott said. Except maybe ‘I seem to be on fire,’ by some random guy in Pompeii.
As for his comment on making amends... Redemption wasn’t an exclusive club. And she had a lot of good stuff to say on that topic.
“Yeah.” He said. His voice was choked up a little. “Honestly. I’m a little touched.” And he was.
Although if she knew what he had done... funny how his story was basically a super-violent vigilante extension of the plot to the TV show My Name Is Earl. He didn’t actually say THAT though.
“He was... from the other world. That alternate reality thing in Central Park. Left it all behind. Got outed as a hero on the Times Square Jumbotron.” Elliott said quietly, shrugging one shoulder.
“I still have his motorcycle. You’re the first person I’ve really told about him. Other than this girl who’d mugged me. Not even my girlfriend.” Which was kind of crappy, he realized. But she’d only worry if she knew he was a costumed vigilante. And nobody wanted that.
“Nobody knew we had done a thing. Sometimes, when you do everything right people don’t know you’ve done anything at all... and it was never about that.” He said.
Benji has always been doing his part, not in it for acclaim or chicks. Though he probably could have had them, if he’d wanted that.
Andrea went and tried to make it even heavier. He could have died? Another single-shoulder shrug.
And she was trying to make him feel heroic?
He wasn’t sure after what he’d done for Ragnarok, He could be a hero. Even if he’d also technically destroyed them by trying to organize chaos, like lightning in a bottle.
He kept quiet, while she spoke. Shirtless and bare to the world. And still cold with chills. Were those due to being partly unclothed?
She unhooked the blood transfusion hose. He’d almost forgotten he had her blood in him. Hm.
Was that what he’d just told her? That there were people he’d saved? “I suppose,” he said noncommittally. “That girl. Door, Doreen.” Something.
That there were people out there that counted him a hero, meant the flip side was also true. Which gave him a momentary shudder. Those two men. Like a fox and a wolf. With knives. They were still out there. He’d only scared them off. Or made it too hot for them to stick around...
Would Benji think he’d done good, and be proud?
“Benji. Was too good for his own good. Yeah. He’d think I’d done alright. But then, he’d also think it was my duty to help people if I could. And— and frankly, I think that’s a stupid philosophy to have.”
He frowned. He hated talking Ill of the dead. Benji had been like a brother to him. More of a brother than he’d ever know, actually. But—
“Before I started helping people, Andrea...” He said, voice weak. Defeated. “I was kind of a bad guy. How does one even make amends for that?”
What kind of karma did he have stacked against him?
Spoil em and give em back. “Or give them loads of sugar then return them, in laymen’s terms. Someone else can deal with the rocket.” Elliott grinned at her.
So she’d grown up watching her uncle, and from there it has snowballed. Cool cool.
“It really is a shame,” he agreed. “You’d think more people would be into that.”
Donut and coffee, good choice. But he had his muffin. And it was crusty with sugar on top. Deelishus.
He plopped down in the booth with her, and tore off a hunk of muffin. Nibbled daintily. Didn’t shove the whole thing in his mouth like a heathen. And he paused, when she accused him of being a hero.
“Orphan, actually.” He finished chewing his bite. “Seen enough people with troubles growing up, in and out of homes. Know when someone needs help. And I’m trying to be more of a people person. Because I used to be a colossal dick.”
He wasn’t a hero. Benji had been the hero. He just occasionally did heroic things. And he wasn’t going to out himself as a costumed vigilante who routinely stopped muggers.