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 Apr 1, 2012 8:01:00 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Cold, terrifying Martin was, this frankly had to be admitted, slightly dumbfounded. Flummoxed. Bamboozled. Andrea, sweet little Andrea, whom ha had indeed rescued from a library shelf in the Romance Novel section of the Mansions library seemed so terribly, inconveniently... innocent. There had been a book about amutant with tentacles involved in that resuce somewhere if he recalled correctly. Really. And now this. Who would believe, upon stumbling across the disposal of a bloody corpse, (wrapped in a tablecloth nonetheless) that the Assassin handling the job had come to be hurt. Or that something else happened to him. The amount of naivete in the statements of the young girl struck Martin silent for more than a few seconds. If he were younger he might ahve asked 'Are you for realz!' (With exclamation mark, nonetheless.) Alas, he was not young. And proper grammar was something of a pet peeve of anyone having learned a foreign language. Argot was so terribly incovenient. It changed too quickly. The fact remained: The Girl who had read about someting like 'The Man of Thousand Tentacles' and 'Castle of screaming Delights' was just a bit... off.
He just stood there, looking at Andrea. He blinked once. This might have been important. Or not. The cold, ice, in his eyes was there. Open. The rain began falling more heavily now. Sheets of grayish blackness tumbling from the sky, which slowly began cleaning the mess off Martin. Bloodied drops quickly disappeared in the mass of others, hiding in plain sight. There was noise, too. The plattering and prattling of water hitting the ground. The plinking of it hitting leaves and branches. And it hitting the water of the lake behind.
Martins voice was clear though. Clear of any accent. Clear of any emotion. Superificially clear. Unaturally clear. (This crystal was artificial!) “Really, you are a tad slow, are you not?“ Not accusory. Not insulting. Just making a statement in that Martin way. You could almost hear the raised eyebrow. The slight smirk of one lip. Almost. Mostly it was a void though. Calling through the rain sucked clean of all humainty. And there still was the knife in his hand. Arguably it was held in a much more relaxed fashion now. Much more like a convenient tool. Something you could stick in a person, yes. But also in a table. Or wherever it was that handspan-long military knives were stuck if they were not stuck into people. (Martin would not know this.)
“The one in trouble, Andy, are you.“ Martin made this sound quite reasonable. Or so he thought. He took a step towards her. And then another. And then he stopped. To unpeel himself from the white thing he had been wearing for too long. Underneath was a perfectly gray business suit. The kind that hints at Money. With a capital. The white thing was brunched up and went into a pocket.
If he had to kill her, he had decided, he would pay the cleaning bill. The knife never wavered in his hand.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 30, 2012 9:49:47 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
He saw her finger beginning to tighten around the trigger of her gun. He slowed things down. Of course she shot. It was not unexpected. Talk, talk, talk the opponent into a false sense of security and then strike. Sound tactics, if a little boring for its predictability. Martin had actually waited for the shot to be taken a bit sooner. In his assessment the fact that she had not taken it, when he had been talking, was something that clarified several points for him.
First and foremost, if that had not been obvious from the start, that she was a professiona that was after his target. Secondly: She was utterly calm and therefore confident in her abilities to take him on. Something that illicited an icy sparkle from his eyes, hinting at the things that lay beyond. He was, after all, not even remotely what he appeared to be. Thirdly, and maybe most unsurprisingly: She had abilities beyond the normal. So usual in his line of work. most non-mutant Killers found it harsh to compete against the abilities of their genetically exceptional comrades. Or enemies. Natural selection allowed only for few of them. And natural selection favored, in case of equal training and experience, the ones with special abilities over those without. Laws of nature. Basal. Laws of killing.
The bullet spun out of the muzzle flash slowly advancing. To let her hit - or not to let her hit. It was not really a question. Maximilian was a corpse on legs. His death was only a question of who got to him first. And Martin considered himself a slightly old-fashioned someone. The lady had shot, and, if he judged correctly, quite on target, too. So... he let her shoot. In the split seconds between Mina pulling the trigger and the bullet hitting Maximilian, Martin managed to begin side-stepping the victim. Neither the exiting bullet, not any of the... mess... tocuhed him. He simply walked out from behind and got into a fighting crouch. The knife was loosely extended, ready to strike.
Maximilian fell to the floor. Martin stood. With one hand he removed his headcovering to reveal the third eye. His head crocked slightly to right and left. The disaffected smile never left his lips. "Dearest, I do tend to make other people disappear." His eyes changed. In one black started bubbling to the surface like something bad swimming up from teh depths of a pond. In the other white blotted out everything like a snowstorm building and finally blowing at full strength. The third one, finally, was encompassed by the expanding ring of his steely colored iris.
Breaking things down. Time. Space. Mine. Yours. Maximilina never twitched as Martin advanced lightly on with bent kneed to engage his opponent.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 29, 2012 8:58:29 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
"Naturally, Dear. I would never presume to stop the games." More than it appeared to be? Still true. The ring was one of... disinterest? Yes. It was a note that was probably not the usual for a conversation like this. Nor was it quite the truth. But who expected to be handed the truth in such a meeting? And this, Martin thought, is precisely the reason I can actually answer her questions. Because, no matter what I say, she will suspect lies. Just as I would.
They were, after all, somewhat kindred spirits. Even if he himself was quite content in the knowledge that he would outlive her by centuries. Subjective for him as well as her that was. Time was a nuisance sometimes, was it not? If you manipulated it regularly it surely was. Keeping track of things... Making pauses. Just like now. The space between two breaths extended liberally, Martins mind leaving his body behind like an olympic runner a quadraplegic.
He noted things... the things in this room tha twould be of use, could be of use. It was a standard living room he had walked into. There was a remotely used couch sitting ina corner, a table standing in front of it, a chair to the side. There was a lamp and two windiws to the street, a rug underfoot. There was, in short, very little he could use in a shoot out. But a shoot out was nothing to him but an annoyance. Something not really dangerous. And she would not be able to shoot much anyways. people would take notice.
Back to talking... "My name is Martin." Disinterest. But his eyes were watching. Coldly watching.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 26, 2012 10:58:08 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Martins eyes (the third was securely tucked away behind the white *something* he had taken to wearing in these occasions) narrowed slightly as he took in Andreas devastated hairline. Apparently she had had another very bad hair day, for if he recalled correctly - a proposition not always as secure as one might think with timemancing immortals - she had had a lot more hissing and spitting going on on her scalp the last time they had met. Apparently she had fallen upon difficult times. Not something wholly unfamiliar to him.
His hand, the one not busy holding pointy, stabby implements, pushed her shoulder around so that he might get a better look at her face. (Only remember: No eye contact. that knocked you out once before.) It was indeed the green-skinned Gorgon of his past that had found him here in this park. And really, quite without much thought he spoke. "You do turn up at the most inopportune times, little one."
His eyes remained cold flecks of steel at odds with the amicable voice. The knife did not waver a bit, still visible. "And now we have a problem." He pointedly did not look at the bloodstains on him. And neither at the ones he had smeared upon her as he had gripped her. Such was death. And life.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 26, 2012 10:35:31 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Martin was presently in the process of sinking the bloodied cloth (and with it The Problem) into the lake when a splashing noise broke the rainy and darkening tranquility of a task well accomplished. Martin spun around on his heels, facing the noise in a half-crouch. From somewhere his hands had produced a wickedly looking knife that was only a dull speck of darkness in the gloomy remant of a day. A speck of darkness that had been fed today already. And it seemed to be necessary again.
Martin advanced upon the source of the noise keeping quiet like... well the killer he was. The young from that watched him had not quite yet made the connections it seemed to him, but taking such risks as witnesses was unacceptable and therefore the young woman in her baggy clothes had just become a target in the rain. A target for elimination.
This decision was made without much ado, the deliberation cold and calculating like a computer and as Martin advanced, still silently, he peeled out of the rain like a ghost rising from the ground. A Ghost that had a knife quite readily at the womans throat and was already in motion to slit it. Only that in the last second the steel was stopped. He knew this one. Things were never easy, were they?
"Hello Andrea." His voice pronouncedly formal. Polite. His eyes though were ice. Cold like the rain. Cold like the night. cold like death.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 26, 2012 10:01:44 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Martin sighed. Again. People always had to make such a fuss about dying. No, it was not enough that People Who Mattered had hired one of the best in the business to take care of The Problem. It was not enough that said professional approached The Problem with utmost and polite sincerity. It was not enough that said Problem was taken care of with one of the oldest and most respected tools of The Trade. No, it was all not enough.
The Problem still had had to make a mess dying. He had screamed and pleaded and begged. He had soiled himself and cried. He had, quite literally, bled all over. People, Martin constated coldly, were such difficult things. Especially when he was about to be ending their lives. No respect for Assassins any more. Not that he really wanted respect. Not that he was truly bothered by the messy death. he was just...
slightly exasperated, because people kept doing senseless things that made everything more difficult for everybody involved. Next time, he swore silently to himself, next time, he would use a gun. He had arrived.
He had driven a car, one of those white transporters without much to identify them with. It was a rental of course and would soon vanish in the cities slums. The important part was already loaded in the back. And he was now extracting himself from his seatbelt, Martin started humming a merry tune. He had pulled one of the white People-Condoms that painters use over his be-suited body. The lake in the park was not where he would normally dispose of something this incriminating he mused, as he scanned the surroundings and then went to reclaim something wrapped in a tablecloth from the back of his car, but this Problem was supposed to be found quickly.
The tablecloth dropped nicely red splotches on the grass and mud as he removed it from the back of the car. He was still humming. And smiling a quite nice smile. If you did not know him that was. Red splotches falling on the ground. People really were so messy.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 26, 2012 5:45:56 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
>>> "Hmmm, now I was hardly expecting any extra company. Maximillian...you aren't cheating on little old me with other...people are you?"
Things were, apparently, not as simple as they had appeared to be. Martin's grip on the sholder of his victim tightened visibly. Oh not that the whitening of white knuckles was much visible. It rather was the face of good Maximilian, who, after the appearance - sudden that it were - of a second killer, and with a gun no less, now seemed quite ready to embrace Somnus. (In other words: he went from slightly green to nicely ashen in his face.) Completely frozen he stared in obvious horror at the lady coming from his bedroom. His bedroom! Things were not quite working in his mind, for the strangled sound coming from his lips was more a groan than any kind of happiness.
Martin was not much in for a happy party either. The smile blooming quite suddenly on his face might have fooled most people, though. Nice, unassuming - and completely innocent, quite unlike the one Mina wore. It carried the weightlessness of youth and hinted quite severely at the age of the apparent second killer. (It was, as a matter of course, a calculated notion to throw the woman off her tracks. Who expects a near-teenager to be a killer after all? And whoever does, he has to be a bad, bad cynic...)
The knife in his other hand - yes, Martin was indeed such a bad, bad cynic - now rested out of her sight at Max's back, where it might fall shortly. Hopefully. People were such a nuisance sometimes, Martin assessed coldly. Especially if they fall in on good plans and ruin them. How inconsiderate. Also: He might have to kill that woman. It would make a mess. He blinked twice and the unassuming smile became something a mite sharper upon hearing the womans second sentence. Things fell like snow, lightly only his words touching.
"But my dear, I do not even know your name. How then could I consider leaving Max to your assuredly tender mercies?"
His voice was a bit older than he appeared, yes? So sometimes dealing in masks was a good thing. Confusion paramount. And no, his eyes did not wander from the figure from the doorway. Note: her figure. He ignored the gun with an ease that hinted at darkness and screams. He was used to the sight it seemed. Or of much more solid composure than good Maximilian, who now started shaking a bit.
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 22, 2012 5:15:27 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Martins voice was musical now, his mind clear as to his purpose. He moved. Almost laughing. Almost dancing. Flowing shadows in his grace. Not quite. Not quite alive. Just hinting at death that lay behind the words like a wall. A graveyard. Monuments standing in simple terms. Blocks of stone falling from his mouth. An inch from Andrews ear now he peeled out of the darknedd like a grub out of a dead tree. White, so white his skin. Pallor of unnatural occupations, of his power. Just like that. Martins hand found Andrews shoulder and gripped there. Just there. Friendly. Deathly. Like a feather falling...down his voice.
"Pick as is your... desire."
Chandler had stopped squirming and was gaping at the man behind Andrew. He had three eyes. Once of them set between the other ones. On the forehead. All three had changed their nature, revealing what lay underneath. One white. One blue. One... black. Seapration. Divorce yourself.
Humanity, Martin thought, was something that was severely overrated. (And they call us monsters.)
Posted by Martin Stein on Mar 22, 2012 5:09:11 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Max entered his home without so much noticing the shadowed man that crept behind him. Keys jingled lightly against one another - door chimes different - metallic the noice that preceded an entracne floating over the linoleum floors. Martins step was light and secure. Hiding was not difficult. The shadowed man must be a cleaner, worker of some kind, must he not? So easy to overlook, easily misread. His eyes lowered in deference, as was his head, as he walked towards the victim - object of desires - that had just opened the door to his sanctuary.
VICTIM... his mind made no sound, encased the word and face in ice. VICTIMized...VICTorious....VICTuals... murals, murals for the dead just silence... in my head. And in that icy silence...you are...
"What?...!" His gray eyes were cold enough to freeze water as he stepped behind the man. His one hand rested but lightly on his shoulder as he guided hin into the room beyond. The other was conveniently placed on the long knife that threatened to enter the left kidney. At an angle of course. It would be death quite soon. Come now, Max... Martins voice was warm and friendly. So nice of you to invite me in...
Pleasant voice. Pleasant company. Pleasant death. Martin made ready. He lied.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 30, 2012 10:26:39 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Sorry to people leaving. As always: MRO will be there when you come back - unless the Zombie Apocalypse really happens. But I guess then things will be much too interesting for RP anyways. As for myself: Life is still in Apocalypse mode and will be for a few weeks. I just can say: Ill be back.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 16, 2012 10:18:31 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Nikolai had a magnanimous voice. His English was accented by Romanian heritage. "You really should reconsider, Mr. Stone..." His guards were easing their stances. Anticipation tasted like gunpowder here. The cold steel under his right sleeve was a reassurance.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 3, 2012 18:10:48 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
A little later: Swish... Clock... Ungh. The pattern was repetitive. And as Martin had suspected somewhat entertaining. Andrew would neither find much respite by hiding nor many balls that missed him in the darkness. Their levels of skill were just slightly too much off balance for that. Before Martin had brused his Assistant too much though, he reappeared before Andrew. Just like that, he was there again, stepping from a small shadow that seemed a bit too light to have hidden him in his entity. In his hand still lay a single Baseball, small moon in the night, which he lazily flicked up into the air and caught while talking. Flick. "Andrew, you are loud and lazy. You could not hide in the middle of the Subway." It was a statement of fact. Rather dry, too. And even though the assessement was slightly inaccurate - everyone but a complete idiot could hide in the subways - he nonetheless chose the image. Flick. The Baseball entered the air again, only to be snatched away in midflight with a gesture of finality. "You need to practice that as well. But I have another thing I wanted to show you tonight."
Martin turned smartly on his heels and began to walk through the hall into a section that their game had not encompassed. Here, illuminated by the pale light of the moon falling through one of the overhead windows, hung something from a chain that was fastened to the ceiling. It looked a bit like one of the things one would have expected here a few years ago - more than a few really - when this place still had been a butchering operation. Something dark and decidedly organically shaped. Hanging from the seiling.
Swish... Clock... Ungh.
The Baseball had found its mark again. This time it had not been Andrew though who had been met by the small leather object. And it had been thrown with a bit more force, too. One of Martins hands made a presenting gesture that would have been at home on some entertainment stage. "This..." With a flourish he stepped up to that appeared to be a sack of cloth... "... is Chandler..." with a quick pull, a part of the cloth was seperated to reveal something. A decidedly human face. A very human face. (With a gag of... was that a sock? Possibly.)
Mr Chandler seemed to be about 40 years of age, going by the fine lines of his face that were visible even in the shadows of the night. He was half kneeling on the concrete floor, while his arms were held overhead by heavy iron chains that fastened directly into the ceiling. Here had hung halves of animals before. Now it was a man. Who blinked.
"Who has graced us tonight to be the second part of our nightly outing. Or rather: Yours." Martins eyes were fixed on Andrews face. He ignored the slowly squirming Mr. Chandler who only now seemed to become fully aware of his situation - if one went by the sudden working of the mouth and widening eyes. Martins voice acquired a stagelike quality. Declaming. "Chandler, as it so happens, hates us inhuman monsters. He is quite a little bigot. Makes life most difficult for helpless Mutants whenever he can." Martin shook his head theatrically. He even tsked lightly through his teeth. "Of course..." Martins voice changed to something that could have frozen water under a midsummer sun... "he is right. We are inhuman monsters. And you, Andrew, are going to show him how much we hate people that pick on small children." Speech ended. Situation composed. Stage set. Everything was ready for the grand opera, was it not. Chandler even began whimpering.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jan 2, 2012 22:29:39 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The target
Max had had a good day. Nothing much of anything bad had happened - he even had gotten to lunch with that particularly impressive secretary from the office next door. Not that she had eaten much. Andshe had not filled the empty spaces with much talking either. Which was also good. He was not impressed by her brains. Oh he supposed she had some - after all she was working in a manhattan office and not in some brookly backwater - but this was not the reason he was happy for the luncheon. (You might guess to the reason for his happiness at your leisure. You will not be wrong.)
With a particularly happy smile it therefore was that he ignored the usual grubbers and slouches in the Subway. Some of them found the smile encouraging and actually stepped up to ask for money. He re-packaged the smile and went back to his usual blank riding-a-train expression. One needed to make concessions, but not too many. This was one of the reasons he was so good at accounting. Efficiency was paramount. (This was also the reason he was quite well off for an accountant in general. Employers valued efficiency.)
A sigh of satisfaction was probably warranted. He permitted himself one as he got out at the appropriate station and turned to walk down the street that would lead him to his space of living. His apartment. His little kingdom.
Martin permitted himself a sigh of satisfaction as he turned into the entranceway of the apartment complex. Such was his average normalcy - an illusion carefully constructed and projected - that no one would remember him beyond the immediate. He was one of the faceless, the many, a formless entity that sent its many tentacles through the streets of the city like a disease. Nobody knew each other. Everybody wanted to be known. A paradox he had solved for himself quite a while ago. He would be - and was - known under so many different names that he himself lost track most easily.
Loosing oneself in a plethora of identities also enables the most ready dissociation from such notions as fame and role. You simply acquired another one for the purpose at hand. In this case he was just an extension of the many fingers streching through New York. That was until he had stepped through the entrance.
Here Martin shifted into a shadow, something that hid and was silent, giving up on pretense, loosing illusion. Why? It would have been much easier to carry on while the target was kept in utter idiocy of his motives - the inane never comprehending their nearing end. It was because Martin had sensed something most unbecoming was going to happen soon. And his line of work scarcely permitted the discarding of such intuitions. Something was - to use the colloquial term - up. And he did not quite know what way he would proceed. Hide and strike from the shadows. But at what? At whom?
