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.
The shadowy, not-really-human-shaped-and-therefore-mutant person seemed to be looking around, but Memo didn't see anyone else. Eh, if this was a trap, what would happen? He might lose his phone, and he'd probably die. The odds of remembering either were rather dramatically low.
But hey, a hand to shake! Memo reached out one of his own, automatically giving a quick glance to be sure that he was wearing a glove and therefore not about to randomly spurt blood everywhere. All was well! And this cheery fellow even liked bells! Memo's hat really was the best, and he gave it a bob in encouragement. So much the best!
"Oh! I'm Memo. Not quite as direct, but I do kind of go through a lot of notes. Plus it was always kind of a nickname from my middle name, and I find it a lot easier to stick with some habits." Some mutants really didn't like having anything to do with their birth names, while others couldn't stand the self-generated names others used. "Alleys really don't bother me. So, what do you need?"
Hm. Hmmmmmmm. How was he going to get out of this?
He pulled out his phone again and poked at it some more, just in case.
Mid-poke, Memo heard a voice through the rain and turned towards it, sort of ear-first and then in not-quite-stages trailing afterwards. He peered back up the way he'd come, and straightened up when he spied the sort of shape.
A person!
Memo put his phone away again and ambled over, shoes squish-squishing as he splashed through some puddles. His feet were rather wet. They would probably get cold at this rate, if he kept noticing. Actually, pretty much all of them was sodden. Whatever, apparently this complete stranger hiding in a dark alley had something for him!
This complete stranger with taste, that was. Memo patted the brim of his hat fondly, letting the little bell on the pointed top jingle a little, and continued to approach the alley.
He'd been enjoying his music so much. Jamming out as he jogged, air guitaring like no one was watching. He kept forgetting it was raining - really raining, pouring hard enough that whenever he noticed the wet as something more then puddles to dramatically shatter across the world he also noticed the his shoulders were kind of numb from the impact - but that was probably why no one was watching.
Memo didn't have the slightest idea where he was going, but that didn't bother him at all. And why should it, really? He always trusted his phone to get him home. Besides, what was the worst that could happen to him? He had no money, no bank cards, his clothes were worn enough to show that his identity wasn't worth stealing and he wasn't worth robbing.
Although his socks were freaking sweet today. If wet. They really were super soggy, and his faded runners. They were squishing and squeaking and almost audible over his music-
and then suddenly they were completely audible over his music, because his music had stopped in the middle of a song. Memo slowed to a walk, fishing out his phone and poking at the screen a few times.
His phone didn't turn on.
He pushed and held the power button for a while, and was briefly greeted by a flashing battery sign.
Um.
So.
...
So, uh, something about not knowing where he was or how to get home?
"No no, I'm sorry!" Apologizing upon running into someone was the right thing to do even when Memo couldn't remember who did the running-into. Chances were it was him, after all. And it was nice. It was the polite thing to do. So apologize was what he did!
This kid didn't ring any recognition bells whatsoever, not even the super-super-super vague bell. Something else was ringing bells, though. Lots of bells. Lots of colourful bells.
Were... those.... his socks?
While he stood there blinking, marvelling at the realization and then slowly realizing that SOME RANDOM GUY WAS TAKING HIS SOCKS, Memo was treated to the spectacle of the random guy scampering away towards a dead end.
Which.... he knew was a dead end.
Memo scratched his head. Why would he know that that was a dead end? Why would he even be thinking about it?
Memo couldn't have said what he'd done so far that day. It might have had something to do with having just fallen in the shower and maybe temporarily having a broken neck.
At any rate, he was ambling back to his room, a towel on his head, because he was pretty sure his phone was there (since he had no pockets. Since when did he have clothing without pockets? Were these even his clothes? How was he supposed to know?) and his phone would tell him what was going on. He'd been feeling very scattered lately, but could never remember enough to figure out if there was a specific reason why.
He was still trying to figure that out, hands bundled in the ends of his boringly white towel in lieu of gloves, toes in a "pair" of socks that were one half fireworks and one half x-ray foot bones, and the rest of him in poofy, lack-of-binder-hiding bright blue hoodie and dark green sweat pants, when he walked right into someone.
And he'd been right on the edge of a breakthrough! He could feel it!
We are the ones who will never be broken With our final breath, we'll fight to the death We are soldiers We are soldiers
A keyboard, set up in the corner of the Sanctuary's open living area.
It's real No matter what you're doing Everybody feels it too Yeah, 'cuz I Know what it feels To break down
An idle singer, fingers striped and daubed and dancing over the keys with whatever muse inspired him for the moment.
There's a million reasons lives get shaken Each one hurts the same It's getting hard to tell what's breaking, The picture or the frame.
His fingers paused, then went back and repeated a few notes.
I am the strange, the disarranged I am possessed, the second guess I am disease, I am the treatment The secrets are spoken: we are the broken.
Every second, wasted worry falls away unsaved Try to empty out the madness, tomorrow do the same
Words words words! His fingers and his ears remembered the notes, but his throat didn't remember the shapes of the sounds. Why nooowwwww he just wanted to play for a while and sing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone out to play his keyboard. He couldn't afford to travel to his usual open-mic bars and cafes anymore, so his keyboard had been gathering some dust. Well, its case had. It was safe when it was in its case, and it was in its case when he wasn't playing it.
Our names won't be remembered If we die trampled flowers I refuse to be forgotten Written off as less than worthless
Scream and cry, but none will hear you Leaning back, but none will help you You no longer live as cattle Will you rise, and join the battle?
If he had noticed that the songs that kept flicking through his attention and vocal chords happened to be mildly... revolutionary, he had completely forgotten, but he was enjoying the mood.
I am the worst, I am the worst nightmare I am the worst, I am the worst nightmare
If you knew, knew what the bluebirds sang at you You would never sing along Cast them out 'cuz this is our culture These new flocks are nothing but vultures
They say we are what we are But we don't have to be I'm bad behaviour But I do in the best way I'll be the watcher Of the eternal flame I'll be your guard dog Of all your fever dreams
Under the cover of his repeated assailant's tantrum, Memo managed to get his sticky, ruined-clothing-covered butt behind the newcomers, by which time he had forgotten that he had been kicked in the head, and was mostly wondering how he'd ruined yet another shirt so spectacularly.
He was pretty sure he'd remember the sight of the winged girl failing miserably at flipping over a coffee table, though. It was... it was priceless. So priceless.
And then she was gone, and the telekinetic teenager dropped to their knees, shaking in clear post-adrenaline rush, and the snake-bodied guy let his tail flail to its heart's content while he flailed around trying to remember his long-expired middle school first aid lessons.
The incredibly visible mutant scrambled backwards, screaming herself now as she tried to bend her arms around to actually get a hand against the ragged gash in her side, and did her abject best to hide behind another scaled mutant, this one a very sleepy-and-freaked-out-looking snake guy who clearly wasn't sure if he should try to stop the rattle on the end of his tail from shaking, or possibly even if he could.
Fortunately for both of them, though, their third companion was a little more ranged in ability: the teenager pulled off their gloves to expose very human-looking hands, and then proceeded to point at the feathery knife.
It was so incredibly undramatic that Memo completely missed it, as he attempted to look around and slooooowly creep away from the blood-splattered girl, until the teen jerked their arm backwards. Telekinetic. Who auto-targeted whatever they gestured at.
And could apply a whole lotta force to whatever was targeted, intentionally or not.
The first kick would have woken Memo up even if it did come from a kid. The same went for breaking the vaguely horrified hesitation of the handful of people stuck in the doorway.
Memo rolled away, wrapping his arms around his head as he tried to figure out WHAT THE HECK WAS GOING ON, and the frontrunners of his impromptu rescue squad dashed into the room. One of them, a multi-armed orange-scaled individual of uncertain biological reference, attempted to tackle the winged murderess even though she had more than enough arms to just, well, grab her.
Memo settled for curling up on the ground and waiting to see if he'd get hit again.
Laughing was good. Laughing probably wasn't misunderstanding and thinking that something reparative needed to be done, at least not laughing like that. Plus this guy was being nice and offering a hand. Memo used it to get himself to his feet, and then offered his keyboard, since it was the easiest thing to release. He was kind of tangled up in everything else.
Another person! Had Memo seen her before? No way of knowing!
"This place sounds even better than it did online," Memo said in pleasantly casual awe. Sure, it needed some physical work, but the people were nice and helpful and there was even privacy, which really eased up the low-key pressure at the back of his mind. Some places weren't tolerance of much intersectionality, after all, but it wasn't looking like he'd have any issues here.
Perfect place to get things sorted out and fixed! Whatever 'fixed' would look like.
Memo gasped in amazement. "Cats are soooo cool," he said in awe, hands plastered to his face. "Does big cat fur feel like house cat fur? So fluffyyyyyyy!" Awww now he was all excited. Cats! Fluffy cats! Fluffy cats were awesome!
Wait, huh? Mansion? That's where this was? He hadn't been here before. Why would he be here? It was probably pretty late, and it didn't seem like a huge amount was going on here anymore. He looked around, face contorted surprisingly little as he sorted through over-bright flecks of memory that didn't help, like how it felt to help carry someone through literally every fibre of his body. Or maybe it did help, because it connected to how it felt to carry someone alone, again through literally every fibre of his body. Which also lay claim to being pummelled, but not at the same time? Was it really comparable? One, er two were drawn out and the other had been super brief with a fuzzy end.
He'd probably died. Whatever. But that chain ended up here, and right now no one was injured really, or dead. No one seemed to be dead, at any rate, so he should probably be heading home.
Memo's phone vibrated, and a little message popped up. Warning: battery low. Estimated time to home, by foot, is ten minutes before 0% estimate.
He had awesome programming friends, even if he could never remember who on the internet had made him this awesome thing.
"Apparently I should start heading home," he mused aloud.
It was good he was sitting down. Memo liked sitting down much more than falling down. When he made this memory, this so incredibly over warm, not nice warm, this not-nice-kind-of-hot memory, he had fallen over a bunch. Scrapes and bruises all over. On his hands and knees and the sides of his ankles. He'd tripped over so many things before that ambulance had showed up, it was really kind of funny.
He was really thirsty. It would be nice to forget about that, but Juliette was talking and he had promised to do things a certain way for her. Hadn't he? Yes. It was a nice memory. But he couldn't think about it too much or he'd forget about how warm it was, how hot he was, how he swirled around inside his own head and watched little flecks dance outside his eyes. He wasn't supposed to forget that until the demonstration was done.
Was this going to be over soon? That would be good. He suspected he wouldn't be able to stand up if he tried. That would not be good.
He had a vague feeling that things weren't going well. He was staring at a ceiling, and he couldn't place it. He was lying on a floor that didn't feel like the floor he was used to lying on. It wasn't that he lay on his floor a ton, just that he remembered sensations in a lot of detail when he remembered them and, well, apparently he remembered lying on his floor and it wasn't the same as this floor.
It also felt like there was something on his skin. Something damp, since it was getting kind of cold. And something stiff smushed all over his chest. His shirt pulled whenever he inhaled or exhaled. It was rather distracting.
Nnnrrrrgghhh he should get up and figure out what was going on. Or he could take a nap.
A nap sounded really awesome right now. Yeah, time for a nap. No one'd notice if he snored anyway, probably.
Memo blinked. She was spinning around like she was looking for something, but she didn't find it and then smiled anyway. Was she concerned about something being there more than not being there? Obviously not too much, since she was talking again and she wasn't nearly as airheaded as he was. He was kind of a special level of airhead.
Onwards they would go! To somewhere. Hm. He couldn't exactly afford to get even tea right now. That was, er, dramatic enough to remember. Plus his wallet wasn't in his pocket because it wasn't poking him. His phone wasn't poking him either. Had he forgotten it?
Nope, there it was. Different pocket, but safe. All good. "Habits help a lot with things like phone charging. Not perfect, but helpful. Plus the things I do remember I remember really, really well. At least until I forget them. Like taking HD pictures on a small memory card, I guess. But with automatic overwriting."
