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.
She was right: she did have a gun to his head. Was she mugging him?
Oh. Another one of those awkward moments where he asked for something and then forgot by the time it showed up. It was great when he was in a restaurant or something - delicious surprises and all that - but when he asked someone to kill him... yeah, that was a lot more awkward.
What made situations like this less awkward? Grinning. Definitely grinning, in an honest and open friendly manner. "I probably did. The point would have been to forget what happened, though, and it seems I've already done that. If you really want to kill me, though, I won't complain. Just maybe not in the head. Blood doesn't like washing out of my hair." He poked the gun's muzzle farther down.
He also really wouldn't complain if she didn't shoot him, of course, because it hurt until he forgot. He didn't always forget the fact that it hurt. Facts were tiny little fragments that fit in amongst bigger feels.
Nurse. Why was he thinking about a nurse? This person just said she wasn't one, but he was still thinking about a nurse. Hmm. Maybe this had happened before, and a nurse talked to him last?
That made sense. This didn't feel especially new. And he only remembered so much at a given time. Not that it was consistent how much he remembered, or how long. Or short term versus long term. Sometimes it was like the thing he forgot never made it to long term, or like it got there but got lost and he couldn't find it again. Or like it got deleted to make space for something else, like a super cute cat video that made him snort hot tea through his nose - ohhhhh that burned. Like, actually burned in the present. Memo clamped a gloved hand over the bridge of his nose, face scrunched up in discomfort. When he lifted his hand away, the black streak across his nose was dull, lacking the glossiness of his other markings.
"Is what what I want?" Memo asked, innocent confusion and honesty all the way through. Unintentionally potentially helpfully, he shifted to pull his outstretched leg more comfortably underneath him. His pant leg was still wet and heavy with blood, but there was no sign of the injury itself anymore.
Finally, someone coming over and not panicking. Memo sighed and leaned back against the post as much as he could. This really hurt. Why couldn't he forget pain as easily as he forgot dying? Oh, person. He was kind of light-headed, but forgetting who he was talking to wasn't the kind of forgetting that would be at all helpful right now.
Cooonnnncennnntraaaaaate.
"It solves remembering," he said with as much cheer as he could muster. It was an oddly large but not overwhelming amount, neither hysterical nor in step with the whole mangled leg bleeding on the pavement. "It'll go away if I forget about it." Except talking about it reminded him, like repeating something over and over so that he didn't forget it because he didn't want to forget it. Except he wanted to forget this. "You don't seem very surprised. Or grossed out. Are you a nurse or something too?" Too? He probably remembered something, someone, but maybe it would come to him later.
Hm hmm hmm hmmmmm, da dum da da, summer was great and sun was fun. Or was summer fun and sun great?
Actually, summer could be both because then he could be too, ha ha! Oooh, he should try to remember that while talking to someone at some point. Because his last name was Summers. Even though he was born in a place that didn't have summer by the standards here?
What was he rambling about anyway? Oh, his pun! His delightful self-referential pun. He wanted to remember that. He should put it in his phone. Which was even in its usual pocket, delightful and perfect and easy, and the battery was mostly charged! When had he gotten into the habit of checking that? Whatever, it helped. It wasn't as if he didn't know his memory was worse than a goldfish's. Goldfish memories were rather more proportionate to their lifespans. Whatever his was, his memory couldn't be proportionate.
Oh, unless it was proportionate to the time since he last died?
When was that?
Hm.
Oh, phone memo! Memo to Memo, awesome pun:
Shoot. What was it again? Something about....
Summer! That was it.
Memo to Memo, awesome pun: Summer is awesome therefore I'm awesome.
Oh hey, was that a fast-moving taxi not swerving far enough around him? He'd been on a crosswalk, hadn't he? He certainly wasn't now; he wasn't dead, which would have been less painful than whatever was going on with his leg (seriously, owwwwwwwwwwwowowowowowwwwww), but he was kind of sprawled on the curb? And sort of hooked on a sign post. Bus stop? Hard to tell at this angle. Felt like he might break his neck trying to see the top of the sign.
"^&*(ing idiot, what were you thinking?" That was probably the driver. Memo hauled on the sign post to drag himself more upright, at least until his leg - woowwwww that hurt and yes it was definitely super broken - caught on the curb.
"An ambulance is on the way! And the police. Even if he was jaywalking you shouldn't have hit him!" Oh, now there were passersby getting involved? It was apparently a pretty busy time of afternoon. Lots of people. And ambulances coming. Um.
"Excuse me, but an ambulance isn't needed. Really, I'll be fine." At least he probably would. Hm. If he didn't forget about it, would it not go away? "Just distract me or kill me or something."
Wasn't life great? It felt like it had been a while, but Memo currently had money in his pocket (figuratively but also kind of literally, since he had proven that he could at least consistently remember not to lose his phone, which was in his pocket, and it had digital credit cards, so awesome), a comfortable bed he presumed he went home to every day, and couldn't recall the last time he'd died!
All of that kind of ceased to matter when he heard a sidewalk signal chirp and started walking, leaving the complete stranger he'd been chatting to head across the street.
Sometimes he noticed the pain of flesh crumpling and bones snapping, but this time he just ended up on the ground. His ears were still ringing, although it took a moment to get around to considering why they would still be ringing.
Then he went over to appreciating the sky. It was a really pretty shade of blue today, and the clouds were very nicely defined. It would be better if it weren't so noisy, but he could take a picture with his phone. That would be good. And maybe someone could help him print it off so he could stick it up on his wall. He needed more things in there to make it obvious it was his. The doors and little rooms all looked the same otherwise...
...someone was touching him. Memo blinked, and turned his head a bit while one hand snaked into his pocket to find his phone.
His phone!
Concern immediately flooded Memo's face and he flailed himself upright, frantically feeling around his other pockets and twisting to see behind him. Where was his phone?! He needed it!
Considering the state of his clothing, it wasn't hard to understand why there was some renewed yelling and screaming from bystanders. Ironically enough... one of the ones screaming happened to have picked up Memo's phone, and was using it to call 9-1-1 on his behalf.
A bakery? A bakery seemed like an odd place for an interview, but Memo really couldn't complain. And he really didn't need to be called Mister either, but he couldn't deny that the gender affirmation still made happy little butterflies flit about.
Except butterflies were distracting and he needed to be serious! As much as he could be, anyway. In all honesty, seriousness was not his strength. At all. It was so far down the list of skills that he'd forget what he was listing and why by the time he got to it!
INTERVIEW he had to keep focusing on the INTERVIEW. Which he hadn't been late for? That was great! It took so much work to be on time. He was so glad it had worked out! Thoroughly pleased with himself, Memo made to follow Roach, ever cheerful. "I'm glad it worked out!" Had he said that out loud twice or thought it to himself? As long as roughly one of the times was out loud, then all was well.
"That's all right," Memo replied easily. "Chances are I wouldn't remember, but if it's really a secret then it's better not to risk it." So casual, one might almost think that Memo had forgotten he had been a bit suspicious of Roach. Then again, he had. Completely. It totally felt like he'd been here chatting forever.
Wait wait wait, interview? Was he here for an interview? He'd gotten an interview? That was great! He couldn't remember the last time he'd had an interview or a job! Maybe he wouldn't even blow it! "More comfortable would be good. Eventually I'm going to remember to be cold for more than a minute or two." Although rain was pretty.
Interview! Interview! Focus on the interview.
...if everything was like this question, though... he might be about to blow it too. That would be sad. Memo stared at the black screen of the phone he'd fished out. Dead battery, hopefully, and not dead phone. "I think I need a charger before I can get you the time..." Please let it just be a dead battery. Charging a phone was easy, if slow.
Can she please please please please meet Memo? It would be gloriously awful XD Although I am kind of inconsistent about posting lately >.> I am working on it.
Wooo agreement! It was great when people agreed with Memo's suggestions and ideas. At the very least, it meant that he remembered enough to make it somewhat coherent, because normally people didn't agree to things they could understand. They certainly didn't agree so energetically.
So all was well!
Waitwaitwaitwaitwait "You're Canadian too?" Full stop on the socks, Memo was completely distracted for the moment. "Whereabouts? Which province? How long have you been here?" He clapped his hands together and barely managed, through pure luck, to keep towel between skin and markings. "I'm from BC. Northwestern. Prince Rupert. Super rainy, but I've been in the states for yeeeeaaaaaars. Mom's American and she moved back south, see."
Somewhere in the ramble, Memo ended up on the floor too and began absently splitting pairs into opposite piles too. "Bailey's a good name. Probably won't remember it, but that's nothing on you, all me. I'm Memo."
Oh. Memo's towel-wrapped hand drift down to his chin and he leaned into it a bit, as if he were propping himself up. While standing. In the middle of an open hallway. Because that was just something Memo did.
Just like this kid liked socks. Memo liked socks too. That was why he had such a collection. It was too bad that socks didn't come in pairs -
wait, yes they did. Had he seriously started to think to himself in actual words that they didn't? Heh. He should probably go to sleep. Or get some caffeine. Or convince himself that he had had both. That probably worked. He couldn't remember well enough to be sure, though.
"If you like cool socks, and I like cool socks... if you don't want to wear matching socks, why don't we just trade halves? If our feet are the same size, I guess."
Memo shrugged. "I get by. I kind of remember things too well is all. Only so much space." This Roach guy was pretty interesting! And fun to talk to, honestly. For all that they were in an alley.
Was there any particular reason they were in an alley? In the rain?
His feet were cold. "Plus I get distracted easily." His left big toe was itchy. That was very distracting. Then again, Roach was interesting enough to look at to be distracting too. So many distractions!
And another one! Being hard to keep dead didn't seem especially common, but Memo also couldn't say that it was particularly incommon these days. Mutants, after all. "How's that work for you? I just forget and things go away. And dying is kind of forced forgetting, so... yeah. Hard to stay dead when you can't remember being dead. At least for me. I think other people don't have to deal with that."
Hm. If he somehow managed to remember what being dead was like, would he stay dead? That wasn't something he wanted to try. As bad as things got, he didn't want to be dead. He mostly enjoyed himself.
Work? He worked! No, wait. He'd been fired because he forgot too much. Like that he had a shift. Or what his job was. Or that he was on shift, probably. "Not currently" he said, a little bit lamely. No one wanted to hire an airhead...
Memo made some interesting friends at time, and the ones who reminded him they existed were the best. This particular friend had asked him for a favour, and a very serious favour it was.
A friend of this friend was kind of trapped inside this vaguely familiar place. Not the sort of trapped that required police, but the sort of trapped that could be well handled by some good mutant friends working together.
And Memo got to help out! He checked his phone again. Cause a diversion by pulling the fire alarm so that the trapped friend could sneak out with Roach's help. That was actually really easy. So here he was, not very far from one of the general exits, having wandered into the mansion without any sort of hiccup (he'd said hi to a bunch of people, and given this one group of kids a high five and freaked them out when his hand started gushing blood, but they found it hilarious once the shock wore off), and now he was staring at a little red box with a small handle, and a nearby sign announcing that messing around with it was Very Bad.
Memo pulled it, and then scurried out like the fire was RIGHT BEHIND HIM. His instruction text casually timed out and deleted, and the airhead mutant's mind was soon distracted by some super cool chalk patterns someone had drawn on the ground.
This was super weird. Why'd the maybe-not-maybe-familiar guy drop all the socks? And he didn't answer the more important question! He'd even asked it first because it was more important. But then he hadn't specified that the first question was more important, had he?
Hmmmmm.
"You didn't answer the first question." Memo kind of wanted to huff and cross his arms, but crossing his arms without a binder was a bad, bad idea and he was not going to do that. On that note... he was talking to someone he may or may not know, but probably didn't, without a binder.
More than a little bit uncomfortable, that.
Memo's discomfort manifested as a little bit of restless shifting and an attempt to put his arms somewhere that didn't draw attention to his chest or to his attempt to not draw attention to his chest. "Seriously, do I know you? Have we met before? The socks I probably asked someone to wash again. But there's something really weird going on."
Sometimes, Memo was almost sad that he was in that awkward place between human-appearing and mutant-appearing, so that people could mistake him for a really weird human. It usually didn't last very long, though. It required rather more memory than he had to spare to keep track of transient moods like that.
"I can't even cover this with make up," Memo answered, still cheery. "Assuming I'd want to. And that make up actually comes in my skin tone. I'm pretty sure my mother complained about it a lot when I still lived with her." Where was she now? Hm.
"A hippie dance gathering does sound kind of fun, though. Are there actually those around? Might be interesting to check one out sometime. If I remember." Which he most likely - but not definitely! - would not.
Wait, had he actually answered the question? The question, which was... oh! If he were a mutant or not. "So yes. Mutant. Hard to keep dead mutant," he added with the casual, not at all bothered recognition of so-many-alleys-can't-even-remember-all-the-deaths-and-you-think-you-are-being-subtle.
This was so weird. He felt like he could almost remember, but it didn't feel like a memory. Not a recent one, anyway. Maybe it kind of felt like a childhood memory.
Oh! And the same person was back! "Do I know you?" That had to be it! He didn't think he had met this person before, but if it felt like an old memory, maybe that was why? More importantly, though, this person that he maybe did, maybe didn't know was back, and he knew that he was back from finding a dead end, and those looked like his socks.
Memo looked back and forth between the armful of socks and the guy's face a few times. "And are those my socks?"
