The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jun 20, 2013 8:27:02 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Night in the City. This meant: slightly less people on the streets. Slightly less noise from cars. More noise from people puking their guts out, though. Everything it seemed, was a tradeoff. The cars that were on the street were driven by reckless maniacs. They might also be posessed by djinns. (More likely by a mutant) What did a timemancer know?
What did a timemancer want to know? All these things were peripherally on his mind. The biggest piece by far went towards following the nice pink-haired victim he had selected. His nice, drunken, victim. Following him through packed bars had been easy -- here and there he had had to help a person or another find something to do with a well-placed ellbow, but it had been an otherwise uneventful observation. Maybe except for the pair of drunken teenagers, who had started making out in what was a proprietary shadowy corner, but oh well. The couple had been well-drunk. There had been sighs to ignore of a certain nature. Teenaged nature. Background noise.
Now his victim-to-be got in a fistfight. A smile crept over Martins face. A slow one, just as his hand crept into the pocket of his pants. *snick* made the weighted plastic baton. Extendable. Collapsed it was about the size of a big pen. Extended, well, longer. Talk about male symbolism.
Martin stepped over an unconscious would-be thug. Fighting ability, as he reminded himself, ckeck. Another few silent strides and he was behind the wild-haired drunk. <<Your first mistake, was letting me know that you were going to attack.>> Martins smile turned wide at the slurred exclamation. He had no such intention. In fact he called people who attacked frontally one thing: Moronic. Well, on occasion he also called them dead. But that was another matter. Tonight there was a live capture job to be done. He swung the baton. Cafas, alas, never saw it coming. He might have heard a slight swishing of the air. That was all though.
Earlier
Mansion, oh Mansion. The brick-walled structure had not changed over the years of his absence. This was quite in keeping with Martins preferences as he was reasonably confident the security system had not undergone major changes. And it hadn't. Wherefore he was able to use the main gate by a simple virtue: He had acquired passcodes of students. And so he was dressed. Abercombie&Fish clothing tried to make its best of his lithe figure and stole a couple of his visible years. Oh he seemed like one of the older students, certainly, but not outrageously so. The steady coming and going of students would add its own to his camouflage. So an old student strutted into the mansion. The baseball cap on his head conveniently in the way of the inquiring cameras.
Finding a fighter. Yes, he was here for that. Why, in his chest, was there a certain tightness though? Some feeling of unknown quantity?
Posted by Martin Stein on Jun 11, 2013 5:39:34 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Email contact from an employer. Customer, however, whatever. I have put Gretchen into her make-up box and am sitting in front of a computer. A cryptographically secure mailing program is open in a browsing tab. Tor-enabled. Darknet. The internet calling from beyond, bit like a Zombie. Bit like a juvenile. Not quite dead. Not quite alive. Full of impulses. Porn. Hate. Lust. Murder.
Pleasantries, business-speak. The synopsis: // We wish you to acquire: One mutant capable of fighting within an underground rink.
I have to think back, back to places and times when I worked another job. A cover that was a different me. All my covers are, its a secret to success. Be another you. (Any teenager will tell you!) Stepping out: Mansion. Maybe an Xman or Traine. They would certainly fit the bill. It would also resonate with something else. Something that has been turning in my mind. Around like a snake. “Burn this City down” they called from TV.
A slow smile on my face. Burn it down. The xman will be full of hippie peace and crap. Just as they always were. This might change though. If you can, tie in your actions with the background noise. Things will move favorably this way and you can disappear. Yes, it seems so easy to think up the situation.
Only to think up a person? A small black book appears in Martins hand. The writing is illegible, seems that way. Just another mirror for your soul. Find the right person, right time, right place. A little black book. Just for you, dreamers.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jun 11, 2013 5:24:32 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
On the line
Dark music, pulsing like a heartbeat I said.
I guess I lied.
This is dark, yes, but so much darker than what hides within your chest. Beyond your grasp – and just within your heart. This is... driving forward with a perfect 120 bpm. Nothing you can ever comprehend alone. People standing, dancing, hopping, drugging. All at 120 bpm, the blood-red line connecting them. Chest to chest, heart to heart. Moving as one, at once. Jump!, Jump!... bumping into bodies. Minds are flying everywhere. Male ones are mostly preoccupied with the explosives I have strapped to my chest.
So much for cleavage.
If only heartbeats counted. But everything left here is external, those infernal drums beating. To war. Onto destruction. I recall a song, darkly, just a few lines: Everybody's gone to war... the rest is lost in steady beatings. My heart, it flutters lightly in the unseen breeze that is left behind by all the music, left behind by the ice I summon. (Can you feel the void growing? Inside... there is... silence?) I divorce myself from this line, from any other; divorce might be a bit much... it is just a recognition now – was different once, but now it comes quite naturally I assure you – of the fact that I stand outside of them.
The dying. Mortals.
Come with me, the ice whispers now, seductive clarity embracing, bracing me, just like the bit of steel in my hand. My knife still sits where I left it, cool warmness against the lace of a leg.
I'm heading to the vip section, where the room is made, the dream is broken, people are. Not the masses (at least where they do not believe themselves to reside). Illusions sometimes shatter when I touch them. All through time.
A big man stands at the entrance, guarding the red rope like it is the most important thing in his world. (It is!) Stares at me, my small frame, the shoulders only so exposed. My hand tightens on the metal spike that was supposed, before I sharpened all the edges, to hold hair.
I note that the black metal looks nicely aesthetic as I stick it into his neck. My gloved hand lightly touches his face. Says: Goodbye my love, just as he falls behind the times. Just as I divorce myself again, this time from time.
No holds barred, my eyes they change I know. Just on the other side of that door the mark sits drinking. Having fun. At 120 bpm he is not jumping. Only his heart is. Was. With a last beat. One last beat.
Boom?
An explosion can be surprisingly silent in a disco I note. My hair is in slight disarray. The bathroom next, to fix things up. Then? MY employer wanted to talk to me. Email. The thing of the century. I leave the beats behind. Water on my hands, my face, my hair. Looking in the mirror, I decide to stay a short while more while some young girl pukes inside the toilet stall. Too many drugs maybe. Maybe too much alcohol. Those people they have dreams – at least shattered ones I think within the ice. Maybe the thought is melancholy as it drifts past me. I do not know. My dreams, they are not human any more, are they?
I dream of crystal towers sometimes. And of blood.
Posted by Martin Stein on Apr 28, 2013 0:32:49 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
I would offer Granny to find out stuff, you know. I would also suggest that she have a little discussion with another xmen on the order. Afer all she just used them as a hit squad in a personal vendetta. Yes, Old Ladies are nice that way.
Posted by Martin Stein on Apr 12, 2013 11:24:21 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
She is still a threat to you, the woman in that post there. Just come along nicely. Follow the mood. Write something. I know you want to // join me now for something that might not become a bloodbath... join for getting a piece of the smile that is sharper than your kitchen knives. Join I say. Join!
Posted by Martin Stein on Apr 12, 2013 11:20:27 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Her breasts, they are explosive things wrapped in nice foam that fills out that bosom. She is a he underneath. And a killer, too. Who does not want to tote around explosives on your chest? Especially if men stare at them so much. It is a simple joke that she plays on the Y-Chromosome. One that could be almost called ironic.
Other weapons are there too. Hidden beneath the obvious veneer behind the other one, too. Because layers are what makes a man, woman in this case. Killing for a living -- nice job, none that can be found in those pamphlets handed out to children. But possibly on creigslist. Everything is there, plainly advertised and gone too soon for all but few to see. (Millions upon millions, but who cares?)
There is a nice man in a corner watching over an entrance that is not labelled and announces its purpose in perfect clarity. VIPs go here. Up a shadowed walkway made from steel lies the glorofied land that even here only few may access. Yes, her steps lead there. You can see the first men failing, their dreams falling. She is here for the important people. Of course she is.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 21, 2013 10:09:30 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Dark Beats flowing like a river. Out the door, lost in the night the voice, that small voice, girls voice. Sounds innocently weaving, intertwining. Just: moving on, middle of the night. Moving onto morning. Bodies... twisting in the shadows. Dancing here. Drugs. Sex. Rock'n'roll is missing. For that we have Techno. Dark Techno. A twisting thing. Like the bodies. Like the voices. Welcome to Oblivion.
Oh it's literal. But also figuratively spoken. The location, one of the hottest of the season, is called Oblivion. An underground something between a club and... other things. It's fairly unknown yet, outside the Right Circles. It's fairly common for those inside. It's new. It's inside an old factory. Steel likes openly in the walls. Old machines are still there between the dark industrial decor. Cages of metal dangle from the ceiling on chains. Women inside them twist and turn. Sometimes even to the beat of the music. Ultraviolet lights are there for those that need them. Stroboscopes are there, too. For the Epileptics that don't need them. (Those people aren't needed here.) DJ's whose names have not yet risen to prominence but shall do so in the following season. Young people here are drinking beers that have ribbons in their names. Self-consciously with their shaggy beards hanging down their artfully disheveled shirts. Between them the hardcore-subculturalists stand out like thumbs too sore. It is an eclectic mix here. Nothing right... nothing wrong.
Did I say forgettable?
No one from the Circles is excluded. Everyone can come to forget themselves in an utterly forgettable environ that tries to be anything but. In a ways it is hurtful here. People try to be alternatively alternative. Everyone different. Only that everyone’s the same. Except the subculture-people. They are here for decoration, too. Nobody from the Circles talks to them. They build small blisters that dance themselves away from here to there. Inside their minds things are probably better. (That's what their drugs are for, after all. For making Impressions. It's all inside your head.)
We are inside a kind of Hell here. A kind that needs an invitation from a member. A kind that the people coming here would describe as heaven. It is a heaven to them. A place to rest and not. A place to drink and drug. A place to sober up. A place to be young – away from the old.
The woman who calls herself Gretchen finds this more than slightly amusing. She had no invitation to come here. She just came. And, of course, nobody asked to see anything from her. She showed them some things anyways. She wears a corset that is utterly out-of-place here, stays in its own time. A thing that molds to her body in round curving shapes, that clings and presses until mens' eyes seem to have trouble finding spots not to wander to. Her long hair is done up in a curling fashion that hints at hours in front of a mirror, yet looks almost effortless. It is bound with red ribbon. (Because what other color goes well with black lace?)
The skirt is a thing from dreams of lace and death. It flows out and about and makes people step back by sheer volume of fabric. As the top is shameless in its obviousness this is playful in its hints. Lace so wide that sometimes you thought you saw a hint of flesh beneath. So much lace you can never be sure you did. Why, woman ask themselves upon her passing, is she here? She falls out of the crowd. Out of time. Is here and not, quite obviously. Men, generally speaking, do not thing much when they see her. They just tend to stare. A few stumble.
Yes, she is that kind of Woman. And she is here for her own reasons. Bloodred lipstick emphasizes a smile that has too much evil lurking behind the surface for the patrons of this place. They forget they saw it and look for other things instead. Twisting, twisting music, bodies, minds...
Welcome... the sign over the door says... welcome to Oblivion.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 3, 2013 9:47:02 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Martin was humming tunelessly as he held his hands under the flowing stream of water spilling from the gold-plated faucet to the targets home. It had been a nice job. Quiet until the end, his mark had not known of his presence before life left the eyes in one fell swoop. Had not counted on dying yet. They never did, the marks he worked on. Almost never at least. And in the end this was good for all people involved in his business. The target was spared unnecessary anxiety, pain and the desperately dangerous acts of resistance that sprang from them. Futile acts where he was concerned for sure, but they had the nasty habit of throwing unnecessary wrinkles into his artfully laid plans. Yes, he approached his job – a calling if you want – with a care that bordered on the artistic. There was no particular aversion in him to causing anxiety and pain – indeed in cases where it seemed warranted he was quite good at it. Good enough to take pride in this or that newsworthy murder of what some would call grisly proportions. He had – after all – gone through certain lengths with this or that one of his marks to make life unbearable before ending them. Indeed he toyed with the idea of driving a mark to commit suicide by careful application of pharmaceutical and mental coercion. But such acts needed the right target. The right circumstance. It had not yet happened. It would. After all, he had time to wait. If nothing else stayed with him, it was the time to wait. There was sadness in this. The sadness of long acceptance, buried deeply beyond the ice that was his nearly nonexistent emotional response. Long ago he had decided it would be easier this way. The silent way.
He wrung his hands, carefully removing the copious amounts of bodily fluids he had allowed to be spilled on them. In a corner of the room stood a plastic bag from a typical pharmacy in which were bleach, peroxide and a few other chemicals the usage of would erase the signs of his presence from these lodgings. Except for the thing that was slightly out of place. (Namely the body that lay in his bed with a new kind of smile.) He changed his tune, his humming as the last bits and pieces went the way of expensive (and expansive) waste management. He added a bit of disinfectant to his hands – the kind they used in hospitals – and proceeded to wash them again. No use catching something from what had been a person once.
There was a vibration in his pants. The motion of his hands stopped for a second before repeating itself. The tune died, though. Disappeared into the silence of controlled breaths. It was a very good hotel. There was nothing else to be heard. He dried them on paper towels brought for this purpose before retrieving the object that had interrupted his tune – and train of thought. A mobile phone of the latest generation. His personal phone. (Nothing on it would hint at his occupation, that kind of organizing was done using more disposable means of communication.) One thing would look suspicious though. The number of political and justice feeds he followed with several Applications designed for the purpose. As well as an unusual number of communicative hubs of guaranteed anonymity installed. (One never knew when he had to do business after all.) But these things could be tools of a reporter or a politician. Nothing that would stand up to close scrutiny, only maybe to arouse it.
Now he picked one of the many-colored buttons on the touch-screen and opened a window. An alert had come in on one of his lesser-used newsfeeds. One that he followed more from a rather immediate interest than from professional curiosity. MutantRights. A channel affiliated with the Pro Mutant lobby around The Sanctuary. (And The Order, an organization that had turned more and more into a family of mafiosi over the years, as he was probably supposed to know.)
Euqality Now! Mutant Girl beaten by Officers.
A nice headline. Informative. Evocative. Got the message across with ease. It also aroused his interest. The phone went back into his pocket though. He had his priorities. First was the tidying up of a murder scene. Then escape. Then information on Mutant Policy.
Posted by Martin Stein on Sept 14, 2012 21:01:37 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Hello everyone. I know I have been absent quite a bit over the last months. My posting was neither satisfactory in speed not in quality -- or so I think. In addition I feel that MRO has changed a lot over the last year or so and that this change has, in my opinion, not necessarily been for the better. I just do not feel welcome here any more the way I used to feel all these years ago when I joined. Simply speaking: MRO does not make me excited any more. I also know that I am not alone in feeling these things.
In consideration of the situation I would like to announce an indefinite hiatus of my characters on MRO. Note that I will not be *gone*. I will attempt to join the discussion in the cbox -- even if it is only silently as to reassess my feelings towards this site. I would also like to say thank you to the people that have kept me entertained me all these years and by being the life and soul of awesome writing and reading for me. Namely Andrew, Andy, Calley, Luke, Raina, Ghost and Katrina. All those not mentioned may feel included at their leisure. It is just that the aforementioned people have had a humungous impact on both my progress as a writer as well as a person and I would like to thank them especially for that.
