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.
“Oh.” Elliott said. “I thought you were going to say that you have magic hair the glows when you sing. But healing and snakes are cool, too. Very Asclepius.” It got them out of Disney territory, too. Which was good. Someone had been about to be sued.
“Asclepius. Greek god of medicine. His rod had a snake wrapped around it. Mistakes were made and Hermès rod with snakes got used for the symbol for medicine instead. Because snakes and rods are all the same right? So healing and snakes makes perfect sense.” He was rambling as he healed, he realized.
He felt a sudden need to explain. “I took a class. On Greek mythology. And one of my homeless buddies always lectured me on it too. And philosophers. Loved Herodotus. For some reason. I think I’m starting to feel better? If insane rambling is any basis.” He did that plenty when he felt well.
He’d been a little put off when she started doing all she had been doing. But she’d prepped him for the treatment by saying it would be effing weird, though not in so many words.
The healing thing had felt... odd. It isn’t every day you feel skin grow. Would the new skin be a brighter green than the old? The warmth within was off putting but not in a bad way. Like having a cup of hot cocoa... in your blood. Or maybe your heart? Lungs? Like when you sip too hard, too fast, and it’s warm all the way down.
“Thank you,” Elliott said firmly. “And sorry for all the Disney crap. My girlfriend’s nephew likes Disney Princess movies. And they’re like parasitic brain worms, but in a good Way?”
Damn Kenzi and her little nephews love of all things Disney. He’d seen Cinderella and Tangled more times than he could count. And he had to count on six fingers and four toes.
He nodded. Drawings had to flow. You couldn’t force art or else it wasn’t very good.
“You can’t force happy little trees.” He agreed. Not to quote Bob Ross or anything.
Some modern art really did try to force the envelope though, didn’t it? It was really pushing it. It seemed they both agreed about that infamous urinal. It was unrivaled. It really took the piss, to use a British-ism.
Thanks, Kenzi, and all your blood Doctor Who.
She was right about Jackson Pollock-styled art being about the artists point of view. It was an elegant weapon for a more civilized age. She’d made him watch that, too.
“I’m trying to branch out to sketching and drawing, like my old roommate Benji. He was always so good at making things look like things. I was always jealous.” Elliott replied.
He took off his leather jacket. Winced as he took off his shirt. Probably ruined. His sticks clattered to the floor as he made for his belt. They made a wooden sound. So that’s where they were! Off the belt went. Along with his holster. Helmet, too.
This was the first time he was stripping in front of a girl who was not his girlfriend in quite a while. What a silly thought! Must’ve been the blood loss because he certainly wasn’t blushing brown.
There was some difficulty with his pants, but he made it work. Elliott stopped at the underpants. There were no injuries there. Everything was in perfect working order. He drew a line.
He was entirely green, save for the blood spots and injuries and old yellowed grass green bruises. And he was completely hairless. And ripped. Do aliens have six packs? When did he find time to go to the gym alongside hero-work and college classes and dates and art? Every day, apparently.
The palms of his hands had little lines across them, like they’d been cut at some point. But they opened slightly as he let a hand mouth breathe. Not that they had to, or even should. But apparently nerves made a body do weird things. As did blood loss. Especially when someone was invading ones personal space. It was a wonder a hand tongue didn’t loll out. That would have been really weird!
The cloth was cold as well as wet. Did he get gooseflesh? Maybe he would have, if he’d had any body hair to speak of. But no, his skin stayed flat and normal. Just chilly. She really could have used warm water, but he was in no position to complain about free help or anything. Naked beggars can’t be choosers.
He kept his mouth shut and thin, as she pointed out the various places and acts she would need to perform there. Stitches, ow. And the other tools. Tweezers, double ow. Oh, to have some of what Blaine “Painkiller” Sinclaire had right now.
Maybe he needed to pester Skye about where her uncle was so he could get tips. But no, the guy was a mutant. Which meant— meant he couldn’t up and share his power now didn’t it? Was it getting hot In here? Or was he getting foggy? Light... headed?
“Put under. Great. I’ll get the frying pan,” he joked weakly, as she talked. And then she asked a question that set off warning klaxons for some reason, even though he in fact did trust her.
“When people ask that, usually there’s a magic carpet hidden away or else they jump across a roof and certain death isn’t far behind. Yeah. I trust you. What’s up, Al? I mean Andy.”
Andy was a different Disney movie. If she were digging around inside his insides, he supposed he really would have a friend in him, ha ha.
Good martial artist, decent ground fighter. He liked other people more, but that was just his hammy love of the kicking game. Grappling really wasn’t his style.
He noted the orange hair as he listened. Was orange interest?
Funny enough, he had heard of Blaine Sinclaire. He gave a slight nod, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
How had he heard about the man? Was it entirely due to the scandal? Or... no. He’d watched that fight at some point hadn’t he? Had someone uploaded a clip of it onto the internet? Had he actually BEEN there? Probably not. But he’d heard of him. Unless he was thinking about David Blaine and he was an idiot.
But he understood the concept, and had a good idea who the guy was. And he was her uncle.
“Small world.” Elliott said. “I think I saw that fight. Liked him. Bad luck it all fell out that way.”
“Desoto isn’t bad either. I like Rodgers and Hamm. More kick kick punch punch for your bang.” He faked some moves. Jab jab, leg sweep. “Desoto has a great ground game though.”
In front of the coffee shop, Elliott puffed out his cheeks in fake exasperation. “Well okay, girl. If you insist!”
He could shelve his ego and let a lady pay for his coffee. What did run these days? One dollar? Two?
“But if we get muffins or donuts, I got you.” He thumbed his chest.
“Draw. Learn. I’m taking a class.” He nodded. “And maybe I’ll find something to work on for my own stuff. Though usually I paint for that.”
He grabbed a random book off a shelf and leafed through it. “Modern art. Ew.” There was a picture of a urinal visible on the page.
Elliott turned to a different page. Then he flipped back nearly half the book.
“This is more my style.” He jabbed at the page on Jackson Pollock. “Although mine usually has more movement and footprints. But I’m trying to branch out.”
Abstract was well and good, but if he could sketch better... he’d always been jealous of his roommate Benji and his ability to draw things that looked like things.
“Pft,” Elliott pft’d. “Sugar ain’t going to get you fat. It’s the fatty sugars that do it. You’re fine.” He brushed the thought away casually with a wave of his hand.
Now, he wasn’t saying she was fine. Or FOINE, if one needed to embrace the meme. He was saying she wasn’t fat. Maybe not fit, but not fat. He wasn’t flirting, just being nice. Even though she was cute.
If he’d been flirting, he’d have said something like “how could you ever be fat! You’d just get cuter.” Which was probably why he rarely succeeded at flirting.
Whoever paid didn’t matter so much to him. He had money. She apparently had money. They could have money together.
Back on the topic of games, apparently she’d played his game. With her girlfriend. What a coincidence! Although why was she biting her lip and why was her hair turning blue like she was blue emotionally or something? Bad break up??
He tried to ease the conversation back to less hand-flashy topics.
“MMA tapes?” He said excitedly. “I am all about the MMA! Though more on the training and fighting side than the watching. Who do you like?”
They reached the place with the coffee. It was called... surprise surprise, Coffee and Doughnuts: lets go nuts! There was an animatronic donut dancing in the window and an overwhelming smell of coffee that gave you a contact buzz. It was kind of tacky but he kind of loved it.
A past Elliott might’ve been wary of glowing shaking hands. Kenzi would have been very proud at him for being the one to offer the handshake. He was improving!
“Coffee and donuts sounds good,” Elliott agreed warmly.
The people in the store watched them go and we’re glad to see their backs. Sad but true, mutants who make disturbances aren’t popular at any time of year. Elliott didn’t notice the store owner with the handlebar mustache and sideburns watching them leave. He was focused on the girl with the purple hair.
He smiled at her offer of treating. It was a very zipper-like smile, but not a mean one.
“Aw, you don’t have to do that. Nice, but I’m fine going Dutch.”
If she insisted, he’d relent. It was kind of her, but it felt like an imposition for what was ultimately him just being nice. He certainly didn’t want to force her glowing hand.
Once his own hand was free again, he swapped some of the baggage off to it. “You caught me shopping.” He admitted. “I—“ a thought struck him, and he shook his head with a small smile. “Guess I’ll have to pop back there later and pick up that Call of Booty game my girlfriend wants for Christmas. Call of Booty.” He sighed. “Can you imagine a worse title? Pirate fps,” pronounced by him as FAPS. “You load up your musket and it takes an age, just to fire one shot at the other guy. But it’s okay because he’s loading his pistol and it takes forever, too.”
He guessed once you boarded, it got less convoluted and traditional. Less cannons and broadsides and reloading. More bloody cutlasses and swords.
“Guess it’s a nice change from tanks and choppers and world war 2 at least. I dunno. I’m not much of a gamer, myself. All thumbs.”
Had anyone mentioned that the green elf hat had little elf ears glued to the sides? Because the green man had no ears, so to the common street observer the pointy Spock-alien grade ears of the hat could easily have been construed as his own ears. He’d even painted them green, as part of the joke. Which made his appearance as a willfully heroic idiot all the more idiotic.
It was especially more idiotic, when there was no reason to be heroic! Just a girl with purple hair and purple powers that had pulsed like a rave. ... which meant that, with his glow sticks deep in one pocket and her abilities, they could throw killer parties at will.
Her powers were emotion-based? She’d made a bright light? And she was upset? Hell.
Elliott tried to adjust his sacks so they were more comfortable, eventually just gripping two in one arm so he was unbalanced... too.
Kenzi would have killed him if he hadn’t tried to help. If there were ever a time for good samaritans and a friendly ear (no jokes, please), Christmas time was it.
“Okay.” Elliott said. “Do you— do you want to go somewhere and talk about it? I know I’m a complete tool and a complete stranger, but sometimes. You just gotta talk.”
He extended a hand with two fingers and a thumb. The hand was green. “I’m Elliott.”
His first stop in the mall was for art supplies. After that, he went hunting for gifts. Finding them was never the problem. Picking them was.
What did you get the girl who had everything? More things, it turned out. He got a bath bomb and some smelly soaps and things from one store, then headed towards the video game store, burdened by sacks.
It was a good thing he had strong legs. Strong arms, he could have wished for desperately. But every little bit counts.
His girlfriend Kenzi liked various games. JRPGs, simulators, games like civilization. Elliott was not a gamer, but he had a feeling her favorite genre, shoot em ups, was not lovingly referred to in the gamer community as FPS (if it were pronounced how she said it, faps). It was just a suspicion. She had to be screwing with him.
Now what had been the name of the new pirate-themed FPS game she’d been interested in been again? Call of... Booty? That couldn’t be right. If the person at the game store laughed at him, she was getting some coal alongside her games.
The store was across the path from him. Focused on his thoughts, he walked along until all of a sudden, the window was lit in a blinding white flash. There was a bang. And hero mode Cheshire took over.
He wasn’t wearing his identity obscuring motorcycle helmet with the painted smile that he changed out every other day. He was wearing a green elf hat that matched his own skin tone. He wasn’t wearing a black leather jacket, his usual costume for fighting crime. He was wearing a heavy blue Peacoat that looked fashionable. He’d gotten it for his birthday, on Halloween. He was wearing a black silk scarf, of all things. Thoroughly not dressed for battle. But regardless of his wardrobe malfunctions (or lack of planning), he burst into the video game store like it was on fire and he was the fire department.
And he said “Hey! What’s going on?!”
He had bags in either hand. Absolutely useless, if there were a gunman or a fight. Maybe he could bludgeon someone with a packet of potpourri?
The question was how much was too much? If She asked him how he was hurt, did he give out explicit details, or did he hold back? Would it endanger her? And to add onto the ever-growing list of questions for himself, had he any right to decide those things for her? In his glaring pain, most of his questions momentarily remained unanswered.
Andrea knelt by him, and asked the first question off the list of questions he knew she’d ask. Amid an explanation of her own bloody mess. An explanation of sorts. He returned the favor weakly.
What on Earth had happened? “It was a really busy night.” He smiled. Realized she couldn’t see his smile. Hoped the joke came out in the inflection of his voice.
He had a feeling she may not appreciated in being a smart ass for very long... so he tried to become a smart assistant instead, and be as helpful as he could.
He’d made it halfway across town so he figured he could make it to the couch. He winced as he moved, but he made it up there with Andrea’s help.
See how helpful he was being? And he only managed to smear around a little bit of blood while he was settling in. Uh. He was pretty sure most of it wasn’t his. Pretty sure. Most. Some of it was red. Green was there to a lesser degree. Mostly. And he thought he bled green. Because why wouldn’t he? Unless it was mucus.
Maybe blood loss had made him a little hazy.
Where had Andrea gone again? Elliott looked around the room. Yeah. He needed to clean more often. The TV stand had dust.
Suddenly, she was back. With an entire hospital in her hands. And more questions. Joy. He’d fill in the big details later. Got the moment, he focused on the relevant stuff.
“About an hour ago. Maybe a hair more. Brought some sticks to a knife fight. Protecting someone. Got cut. Here. Here. And maybe here.” He gestured as his leg, his left forearm, his side. “Everything else is probably minor...” he added. Nicks and cuts and abrasions on his arms and hands. He had gotten the knife at some point... and he thought he still had his sticks.
Elliott glances around, as if looking for something. Didn’t see it. Maybe he was, um, still wearing them? Whatever.
Was this a situation where they didn’t want to go to the hospital? He almost laughed.
“I already stopped by there to drop the woman off. But I didn’t partake, myself. Do you need me to strip?” He made as if to take off his leather jacket.
If she had sprung up and lunged at him, he would have clung to the ceiling, which would have been awkward, considering he was wearing warm winter gloves. For whatever reason, even the thinnest layer played hell with his clinging capabilities. Gloves, socks, it didn’t matter. If he wanted to hang off a wall, he needed to go bare. And it was so cold, he’d actually worn gloves and socks and boots.
Instead of clinging, Elliott took several cautious steps back. His hands raised up in front of him, in the universal gesture for ‘stop, take it easy.’
“It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you. I—“ He began.
The whole thing would have been very convincing, and a real good way to smooth over the situation... if he hadn’t ruined the whole thing by tripping over the metal bowl on his third step. He wound up sprawled on his butt on the floor.
“Ow.” Elliott said. His injuries flared in pain, causing him to clutch his side and more emphatically insist. “Ow.” But more importantly— He glanced up at his roommate. “Are you okay? You’re covered with blood.”
It couldn’t have lasted forever, his roommate living in blissful ignorance of the double life he led. In the past, he’d have tried for secrecy and paranoia. But that just wasn’t his jam any more.
The metal chink of a lock turning filled the silent apartment (2, electric Boogaloo). The door swung open a moment later, framing a tall young man in a black leather jacket, jeans, and a macabre black motorcycle helmet with a dementedly serrated smile. A humorously drawn tongue lolled out of the painted-on mouth. Bits of red and green covered him in ways that even dry cleaning might never be able to wash off. He did not look like death walking, but he did look like someone had killed something on him as he staggered and limped into the entry room.
One hand clutched at Elliott’s side. He was hurt. Maybe badly. Maybe not. He had not stopped to ascertain that fact. He’d been more focused with helping the person, then getting the hell out before he got the wrong kind of attention. Or even the right.
He had hardly had a spring in his step on the way home. Usually, he would have leaped and sprang over roof tops to the point where he may as well have been flying. But this time, he’d just stumbled along to his motorcycle and driven a sedately boring 3 miles under the speed limit, wee wee wee, all the way home. Avoiding all forms of attention.
He hadn’t taken off his helmet. Usually, his roommate was not home. She worked long shifts and spent time out of town and she was totally crashed right there in front of him wasn’t she oh man this was a terrible time to come home injured, in-costume, and covered in blood. It was still salvageable so long as he was quiet and—
Clang CLANG BOOONG! He’d left that stupid metal bowl of popcorn on the sofa table, hadn’t he? He’d really left that stupid metal bowl where his knee could jar it in the loudest way possible, on the floor.
The house lights were all freaking on! She was gonna see him! And— wait. Why was she covered in what could have been blood? Was she dead on the couch? If she hadn’t been woken up by the sound of popcorn dispersing itself in ways a vacuum would never fully clean, maybe he’d have to wake her just to make sure she hadn’t been murdered in her own home.
Common sense clearly had gone on vacation. Maybe it was on a Norwegian cruise.
