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 Aug 9, 2011 15:23:28 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Gretchens body was pressed indeed quite tightly against her male companions'. She even managed to not look guilty at the mentioning of citrus fruit. But this was all she could do, as in the back of her mind, Martin was utterly aware of the precarious balance of the two attachments to his front. The things shifted and drifted in ways he hoped men would find very much more intoxicating than the smell. But then there was the little matter of the distance that was closing between her and the parrot-man. And the fact that apparently her cover had been blown for a second time tonight, judging by the tensing of the body next to her and his chocked words in her ears. The close contact held nothing erotic to him. It was a way of monitoring. Of exerting control in more than just a violent way. Minds tended to slip when beautiful women pressed closely against you and your testosterone was out of control. A thing Martin found most qualifying for becoming one himself for a night. And this now paid off.
The bass beat on indiscriminately.
Quite unlike her male companion. Not bothering to making her voice the alluring alto any more – and therefore with more than a hint of tenor coming out – Martin spoke to his companion while twisting his body around him. Parrot was so close and he really just needed to... well. “Just behave, puppy.” She pulled him a few more steps, not caring whether his grip hurt. In all probability it did. Teeth removed one of the lace gloves and dropped it to the floor indiscriminately. The skin coming out underneath was the perfect white of things that never saw the sun. It looked sickly.
The Bass beat on. It was time now.
People were all around them, bodies pressing into each other, laughing, looking ecstatically as hidden powers developed thanks to a strange drug. There was a clear zone around the Parrot mutant, made for his bodyguards sake as much for his own, but it was there. And the pair of near-lovers was close enough, if only a few people could be stepped out of the way. And stepped they would be. Martins eyes were cold now. His insides were cold. He was who he was. He killed. And he was good at it. Because he had edges few knew about. Several were based in his mutant nature, but this one was especially useful as it did not demand the same prices as the others did. His eyes flickered shortly on his exposed flesh. There was a pain there. In using it. Prices. Cutting your own flesh. Yet, now it was the time.
His grip on Lucas changed. He was holding one of his arms behind his body now in a strong grip. Only a little more pressure and the arm would spring out of its socket at the shoulder. The pale hand was reaching down into his skirts now, uncovering one of the weapons hidden within. A metal knife in midnights color, its coating being of the non-reflective kind. A thing used for killings in the night. The first weapon of three hidden in the dress in total. Weapon one, ready. Now: Getting the people out of the way. Talking about the edges: Martin could take his time. He could think as fast as lightning struck if need be, his mind outracing his body by a long stretch. This made quite a few things possible. Dodging bullets, however imperfectly, was among them. The whole thing from removing the glove to getting out the knife had not taken thirty seconds. The next things happened with a fluidity that hid the minutes of planning that had gone before each step inside.
One: Throwing the first knife at the bars contents, making several bottles break on the floor around Parrot. People started milling away from the broken glass immediately, making room for the thing that came next. Martin pushed Lucas free of him and into said room, adding a touch that would hopefully send him to the floor. Another knife was in his hands. This one was then flicked at Parrot. And then the third cut off his voluptuous skirts into a Mini-skirt barely covering his upper thighs. He was wearing combat boots underneath. His legs were waxed to perfection. And the knife was still sailing through the air, aimed for the heard of a bird-man as the lace fell and Martin exposed himself as part of what he was. Not Gretchen the girl. A stone-cold killer. No pun intended. He had a mark on his target.
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 6, 2011 12:43:06 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The fight was over ere it had really begun. The third girl was simply added to the pile of bodies by ways of a leg movement that made her appendages give off quite strained sounds. Breaking sounds really. Martin stood over them impassively, talking in a calm voice to Shane.
“You are. And you are not. The two ways of being. Two places to be. Your choice.”
He walked out into the night without making a sound. Just unnaturally flowing to the shadows and vanishing.
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 6, 2011 12:23:43 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Character name: Granny Stephens Current affiliation: none / soon-to be teacher at the Mansion Faction interest: X-men (to blow your minds, too) What I need? Everything including training sessions.
Character name: Martin Current affiliation: Kabal-Order Note: I volunteer him for participation in the tryouts as a tester – maybe a secret testee for Lori to have a look at – I don't want him to chance affiliations.
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 6, 2011 12:08:26 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Henry was quite unmoved by the meatballs treasonous action. It needed to be punished after all. It needed to hurt, hurt, hurt. For his illustrious self. For his insurrection. For his very existence that being needed to hurt. And be purged from existence by his claws might. Or so the invertebrates ganglia told him.
The spork-man luckily kept the waiter busy still, trying, quite unsuccessfully, to usher him out of the door again. It was quite like Henry and his claw, that spork. Being waved like an implement of salvation in his face. It had already left a marking on one cheek, some sharp red lines where it had ground white flesh. It was being waved like a weapon indeed.
This however, gave Martin time to act. The very strange smile still plastered on his face. But at Andrews last words, his eyes went quite dead again. Quite utterly, emotionless, dead blue things looking out for the youth. Something might just have gone quite wrong.
Martin rose without making a sound, walking normally, but somehow he did not make any sound doing so, quietly blessing the irrational one in the entrance for being there this moment. Quietly moving. Motioning Andrew to sit still as he rounded the table, flowing along like water spilled from a glass. Now it might have been worth mentioning that Martins hand was indeed clasped around his water glass, liquid moving lazily inside.
He rounded the table and lightly placed a hand on Andrews stool, turning it around halfway. The glass went on the table. So it was not that, was it? Martin set himself straight into Drews lap, settling there with something of an animal grace. He even managed to get one of his legs properly on the other, crossing them. His head wandered to the side where no lobster could bar his access to Andrews ear. A hand was closing around the offending crustacean. His whisper was not sweet at all. Slightly disappointed. Slightly reprimanding. And mostly devoid of emotion lie his eyes. “Now what did I tell you we were outside?” His hand gripping the lobsters pincer closed. Henry protested of course, legs beating against the gloved hand feebly. But it did not matter. Martin intensified his grip on the animal and made the grip harder and harder, grinding the chitin into Andrews soft flesh. He even twisted it for good measure.
All the while his lips were hovering only an inch from Andrews ears. “Now if you want the illustrious master, we can go back to that immediately.” His other hand drove a shot punch into Andrews ribs. Foreplay. It was only foreplay.
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 2, 2011 16:08:43 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Lets call our lobster Henry. Henry the eighth, for he was the most marvelous and kingly creature ever to come forth from the darkest pits under stones (that did never break his exoskeleton) to ever be. One day Henry (the eighth) had been ripped from his seabed home by a contraption of nets joined with the most wonderful-smelling bit of food. Wonderful food, it had made Henry forget who he was. After that things somehow went downhill for our Henry, king of Eight, for it was eight that he was crammed into a crate with.
And shipped, under ice, around half the world. The best lobsters come from France, you know? They are shipped around the world, flown really, sold as delicacies is homeopathic quantities to cure the insatiable hunger of the worlds would- and would not- be gourmands. And were just as effective as regular homeopathy at it. In a certain place only the best food was served. This might be relevant to understanding the reaction of Lord Henry the eighth as he was presented with rosy flesh in front of him. Not only was he slightly starved, but also cold and slightly irate. If invertebrate have such feelings that is.
Presented with such rosy flesh in front of him, Henry drew his mighty sword, giant claw of salvation, bane of all foes, to smite the thing (the ugly thing) staring in his face. He stood up on his tail as far as he could go and reached out with all his might. And pinched, mightily indeed. Pinched Andrews cheek.
In a certain restaurant Martin was blinking with a very much 'oh really?' face. Mildly amused indeed. Under the table his leg had ground its clockwork to halt quite suddenly. And if that was not enough, the door of the restaurant was opening with chimes and the server was occupied for a second by what seemed to be a man brandishing a white plastic conception of the modern age. It was commonly called a spork. And he brandished it in front of the servers face as if it was Henry's holey grail. Maybe it would be. Some day.
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 1, 2011 12:08:24 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Three people advancing. Steps in the night, breaking silence. Breaking stillness, movement. Not with the wind, not from afar the cities noises. Just here. Presently, company. Martins smile broke into pieces, literally flowing apart like crushed ice melting into a puddle under New Yorkian summer sun. “One would do what you just did. The other would do what I will now. Maybe worse.” Most certainly.
With the words being spoke even Martin flowed up, just like the smile had vanished. With one movement standing up, a leg forward. His balance was perfect, his speed marked with the grace of the frequent fighter, the practitioner who hid it normally under a mask. Masks breaking now, falling apart, step by step. His headcover fluttered in the sudden wind, slipping off under his hand. He moved as if to shake out his hair in the wind. Brown fluttered there in the wind indeed, fluttered a shadow in the darkness, crowing his head. Yet, there was more. He stepped into the path of the passing strangers. Stepped, flowed. And threw the first two punches for liver and sternum without looking twice. He knew where things were that hurt in a human body, and these three were arguably human. They showed no difference to the eye at least.
You did not tell about the organizations. You showed. Taught for the bone. For remembrance. For effectiveness. He was Martin Stein not some wayward teacher. He was a killer. He could do this. A third punch went for a nose. Just flying along. Not even breathing hard. Eves widened. Not his three, three other pairs. Three pairs that wandered around looking at the thing that was attacking them, suddenly. Surprisingly among them. Moving. With grace.
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 1, 2011 11:54:51 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
His leg continued moving under the table, just as if the things above did not exist. Those poisoning small smiles, just in between standing off and on. Just standing in between true and false. Not one. Not zero. Just a half. Electronic failure. Come on // need to kick that computer. Softly.
Softly the steps of the server on the thickly carpeted ground. He was carrying a silver tablet with one of those upturned silver bowls on them. Martin motioned him to set it down before Andrew, just hand and eye, quickly. His other hand around Andrews cheek stayed there, slightly moving. A glance, a bent finger for the server. Quick hints that spoke of communication that had happened before. Spoke of familiarity. Of trust maybe. (Trusting? Martin? Never. But one could always create useful illusions. Especially with people.) His hand stayed there, on Andrews cheek, until the silver thing was set before him. Under his arm.
The server retreated dutifully. Waiting for some reason. Martin lifted the lid, removing his hand from Andrews cheek to do it, so very light that touch. Under the silver half-bubble was something moving. Something that held its claws out to Andrew. Pincers really. A big, very big lobster sitting on a silver tray. Living, a lobster.
“Some things...” Martin mumbled, just for Andrew. “Are just not meant to die.” Such as himself? “Others fight with claws and pincers.” And indeed the lobsters pincers were unbound as Martin had ordered them since coming to this place whenever he had ordered the crustacean to inspect it before it found its demise in a boiling pot of fonds and spices. It was fingering, futile, in the air, beating at it in a form of animal frenzy. Just fighting for your life. And maybe losing? “And they always loose.” His voice an almost-silent rumble. His hand hovering invitingly about the meal-to-be.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jul 28, 2011 11:29:52 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The answer of Martins... it was twofold. Touching. Under the table, just s//:lightly.(com((e))) Martins foot on Andrews leg. Slowly angling upward^s, sneaking along the lines on his pants, raising them a bit. Maybe his leg would get a bit cold now... Wasn't that a shame? [There is no such thing as shame; loose convention!] His hands rested on the clean white tablecloth that spilled generously around them. Starched to perfection it hung, obscuring the happenings underneath, unconcerned. [Concerns are for the dead, for the dieing. Not today, come away, come... with me:: blink, innocence-humanity==monstrosity?]
The menu was lightly placed, delicately almost, to his side. Immediately the watchful, the helpful eye from the corner of the room went into motion. The leg went a bit higher(rrrr wheres decency, just where.. are we heading? Head on into walls. Crunching fun, just drawing things now, fingers on the tablecloth, patternization). “I think we would like the lobster, the ...” His order, words stringing out, now with a slight Boston accent, was accepted without so much as a rustle of paper or other obscuring elements. Just helpful eyes, helpful hands ind a suit. Listening attentively. Just for you they seemed to say. Delicately. Taking the menu away from the table, carrying them like a serving tray, like they were something to be cherished. Martin sitting, unimpressed, just sitting there. That illusion of a smile, pleasantry, fading momentarily. One hand was moving towards Andrew, raising from the table. Prom Martins perspective it was already, nearly, cupped around Andrews cheek. Because... the leg was there. “Young innocence. People call it precious sometimes.” It was not berating. Just... smalltalk?
Whispers form that mouth, lips slightly wetted by a tip of tongue (underneath? Want to know?), a truth he had not spoken for a while. Because... it hurt. Tasted, bitterly. “I am well into my thirties, Andrew.” Just for you. Silently. (Legs, touching. Fire! Where?)
Posted by Martin Stein on Jul 24, 2011 11:35:23 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Martins smile was bedazzingly patronizing. Wide and almost crimson-red with blood. Well maybe not blood, but a bit of danger was there, on the edges, hinting. One of his hands idly began moving up to the top of the bench, resting. He seemed quite content. Lounging. “Really, Sanctuary... Who hasn't heard of them?” The mutant shelter front wasn't really all that special. It was the thing that grew in the shadows of that publicly lauded venture that kept humans hairs nicely white (or bloodied) and the population of New Yorks Finest on edge without end. There were streets in New York whence the Police did not go. The block around the Sanctuary was such a place. And with good reason. The Order never had had much qualms about killing people. One of the reasons he had not gone to them. They killed much too much. And without much purpose behind it. “Come into the right circles and you might hear things about both places that turn your nonexistent hair curly for a lifetime.” Now that was also delivered with smiles. An invitation maybe. Inside Martin was smiling at a memory. A cat-woman had once introduced him to the more obvious factions in the city. Sitting in a Chinese restaurant no less. And it was only much later that he had found out about his current main employer. The Kabal. Now that was something not to tell children that needed to learn to do their shoelaces.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jul 24, 2011 10:29:02 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
Martin answered with a raised eyebrow. Pointedly raise at Andrew. “Surprised? I have more passports than you have fingers. And even more names to go along.” Well what did you do if you were a professional killer? You were professional about it. Not going somewhere with the same name twice was one of those. Not telling people another. In Andrews case this prohibition was somewhat lifted. His voice, on that note, was all polite conversation. Over tea and biscuits. Maybe they would have tea and biscuits later. Right now Martin glanced at the menu, smiling absentmindedly at Andrew.
To Andrew it would seem that way at least. Martin took his time scanning the offers at this place. They would all be excellent eating. The lobster... that looked especially good now. It was already past ten, so there would be a reason for having a brunch.
“Should I order for both of us? You don't really look like you know your way around.” It was a question with finely pointed needles. (Well maybe not so fine.) The waiter from the entrance was standing some ways off where he would not be able to hear but he had watchful eyes on them. Smiling friendly. Even at the third eye. Such things really did not count much in the right circles. And with the right amounts of money. Which Martin possessed, courtesy to killing people for a living. It was easy money too. Most of the time.
