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 Jan 2, 2012 21:55:44 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
I send my love of this idea in your general direction. Also: Granny and Martin are in. We might murder your faces. Or your steal your horses. At least Granny might.
Posted by Martin Stein on Dec 22, 2011 7:55:45 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
A tree (of plastic). Presents, hideous. Ornaments from China dangling lazily. Songs from an Iphone. A parish full of people usually absent, silently sitting. Lifting voices in joyous celebration - you wish they would shut up. Pete, smiling falsely at Mathilda.
Posted by Martin Stein on Nov 27, 2011 11:01:38 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Congrats Calley, Andrew my best wishes to you. I shall also take a leave-of-absence for a few weeks 'till around christmas. Problem being: Pre-Christmas thingies and madness of university mainly. Do not fret, MRO, I shall rejoin you still!
Posted by Martin Stein on Nov 7, 2011 7:44:51 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Maximilian Johnson. Martin smiled tentatively, his lips curving into an illusion, an allusion to friendliness, to humanity, some last salute, as he recalled the name of his target. Removing himself from the window from which he had been watching he looked over some printed pages that rested on a bleak wooden table. A table, which should have gone to the dumping ground years before, marred surface patterns only broken by the white-and-back of the sheets stacked in neat little carton boxes. Oh so pretty boxes. Yes, it was time now, would be shortly.
Before him the last bits of Mr. Johnsons' life were dumped into the gray box, Martin seemingly glancing over them only in fleeting instances – reality being something deceptively different as he was quite able to process a whole page of words in a mere glance thanks to his rather disconcerting ability to alter his personal timeflow – and recognition only shimmering at baremost in his eyes. The contact killer gathered up the last of his things and put them on the old tabletop before bending down to grab under it. He produced, quite normally, a big bottle of household bleach. The chlorine variety that had a tendency to make eyes water by mere presence. The kind that said extra strong on the outside and warned the user to not let in come in contact with anything you wished to keep colorful. Not even your own skin. Another bend and a big rug appeared, as well as a pair of rubber gloves.
Humming the outwardly young man proceeded to liberally dump bleach all over the apartment, barely sweeping behind, coating most surfaces. Coating everything in reach with the water-clear substance that should soon dissolve any biological trace of his existence. Should investigators come this far, they might find their processes slightly hampered by the careful destruction.
Finally, as he was enveloped in a sea of fumes even he would not stand for a long time – having three eyes sometimes was much of a disadvantage – the bottle and rag were added on top of the carton and a pair of final items retrieved from a pouch that was slung across his chest. Two small vials, glass or plastic, they were clear as day, he emptied at two carefully selected locations. Blood and hair. From some gangbanger who had had an unfortunate accident a few days before. Yes, he was humming, despite the chemical burning in his nostrils.
Some people do take pride in good work.
Outside he took the box. Outside in a small metal garbage can it was dumped. Behind came a standard lighter, a burning one a that. And soon there would be smoke and crackling and even worse air than inside. Burning plastic had a tendency to do that.
It was time. Preparations complete. The toneless tune disappeared into the day as if it had never been. His smile disappeared into the sands of his face faster than water in a desert, evaporating. No longer: Here. Mercy has taken a vacation.
Casually he walked to the entrance of the apartment building across the street from the one he had just cleaned a room in. Casually with an air of practiced disinterest. Only his hand, seemingly scratching his back under the sweater might belie the fact that a long knife – a very long knife indeed, was hidden there in a sheath. It was time. Time to dance with death.
Posted by Martin Stein on Nov 2, 2011 14:38:09 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
A swishing in the air barely announced it. Something hit the back of Andrew. Hard. Clattered to the floor, where it rolled into the shadows behind one of the pilasters that steadied the ceiling. He might have caught some hint of what it was in his sight. Andrew might. A baseball. Swish. Another one coming. At you. Your heart and mind. Mine. All. Mine. This time Martin had had the courtesy to aim for Andrews head. And he was really good at aiming. Sometimes it pays off if you kill people for a living. “Now...” His voice managed that very useful trick of coming from everywhere at once. And also at something people might have called a low growl that belied his biological age. “...hide.” Swish. This time the ball cam from Andrews left. Plock. Umph. Yes, this was going to be the entertaining part of the evening. At least some of that. Not that that showed in Martins voice. He could make a funeral sound lively. And a carnival look like a threat to public health. Well, a carnival was a threat to public health, but normally everyone was too inebriated to notice. Not here. Not now.
Posted by Martin Stein on Oct 29, 2011 9:01:22 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The eyes were dark green, small brown spots marking a pattern I still remember. I can still draw the pattern of brown in his eyes, can tell the numbers of freckles on his skin. It is not like I counted them deliberately. He was the third I touched. To death.
Posted by Martin Stein on Oct 23, 2011 9:56:49 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
So this is how an assassin gets work: You know someone who knows someone, who then knows someone that needs something done. Said people-who-know also tend to happen to know that a certain person (whose name or even face they do not know) is quite good at solving the problems of other people. Then, along the whole long line of knows-someones goes out the word that certain people need certain problems solved. If you are lucky, you are fast enough and good enough to get the contract. Fulfill it and survive. And then, if all goes well, collect payment. All those steps are in themselves ripe with danger, like some pretty bulbous red thing hanging from a succulent vine. Red. Ripe. Poisonous.
Or, like me, you join an organization that is quite good at taking over foreign countries, work for them and have that pay the bills. Not quite as fraught with danger as the SOP, but still good enough for any mutant assasin-for-hire. Only that, apparently, my employer was taken over by my least favorite group of mutant zealots. In case you wonder: No, I do not like any of them. But The Order takes my professional dislike to a new Level. Yes, The Order. Or, as some might recall I christened them, the smash-up-boys. Why that is, you, my dear unsuspecting intruder ask? Well... take three good guesses. I'm quite sure you will get there shortly. If you are lucky, you will do so, before the Order gets to you for knowing about them. And then making sure you never tell. Preferably by extracting both teeth and tongue. And then sewing your mouth shut for good measure.
Yes, with regret I must say that such methods are not what I would call either inconspicuous or even mildly effective in most cases. And still. I got myself a job from them. That is why I am currently sitting in an unfurnished apartment that is conveniently situated nearly exactly across the street from my current target. That Is why I have not slept properly in three days. And that is why I carry around with me enough armaments to break the gun laws of Texas. Not to speak of New York.
And yes, hear my mental sigh, I still took that job. Because, as you might know, something has to pay your bills. Also: Something has to keep me – and that is a rather personal problem – from getting bored with eternity. As it so happens that is what you are looking forward to when you are an immortal timemancer. With three eyes currently locked on the only viable entrance and exit to the building across the street. The fire exits are, quite conveniently, currently inaccessible.
And so I smile, once, a thin-lipped smile without amusement, because three days have been long and are coming to an end. Why? Because Someone is going to die today. Swiftly. Cleanly. And disappear. Without a trace. Because that is what the real bucks are paid for.
For everything else, you have groups like the smash up Boys. They might even sing and dance.
Posted by Martin Stein on Oct 23, 2011 9:21:32 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
“I think you will see that soon.” And indeed, he would see, discern some of Martins designs and intentions. Some of the truths he had hidden here. In this building. Just for him, today. Martins voice was just smooth silk flowing. Down. On the ground, creeping vines of shadows. Closing in on you...
“First, I believe, it is time for some hide-and-seek. You'll know when you've found what is prepared for you.” Martins voice sounded mechanical, emotionless.
And he was gone. Andrew might not know how, or even why, but Martin was not there any more. Presence vanished.
But Andrew would be reminded quite soon. From the darkness, somewhere, he would feel a stab, jab, of something hitting him. Painfully, of course. Because: You don't learn quite well if you are not motivated.
Posted by Martin Stein on Oct 10, 2011 4:56:29 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
So, yes I posted here a while ago, so maybe an update is in order. Ther semester is starting just now. Lots of different things are happening. I feel ungood.
Posted by Martin Stein on Sept 27, 2011 5:47:10 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
He simply nodded. Once. Maybe the Order had other smash-up girls than one Ms Isabel Duskmoore. Now that was a thought. Lenna, Lenna, aren't we... naughty? At least that was part of the things going on in his head at the moment.
A good employer gone indeed. “I will need the details, if you please?” Now curtsey was always nice and wise. Especially with people who hired a person like himself. Be they interested in blowing things up or not.
