Gwendolyn was getting irritated enough to let it show. “Can we please get the sound right before we go live?”
she sent sweetly toward the sound technician along with a steely-eyed gaze that was anything but. The young man swallowed and hunched over the portable sound dampener system. Perhaps a little bitchy, but it wouldn't do to have footsteps and echoes come through from the other side. Nor would it do for any of her guest interviewees to sound like shit on a national stage on a day like this.

And even in this corner of the Capitol rotunda there were footsteps aplenty. CNN Instant News had claimed a section to set up a live sound stage. A few chairs were splayed out, sandwiched between statues of George Washington and Alexander Hamilton, with the signing of the Declaration of Independence as a backdrop, completely isolated with a white curtain, it made for the perfect cozy set on which to report today's Joint Session of Congress. With one of the curtains still pulled back, Gwen watched people hurry past her on their way to the House chamber.

There went by a tall gray suit with an unmistakable high and tight military cut, flanked by two men in black suits and wraparound Land Warriors. Col. Track Palin. Military hero, former President and current Vice President of the United States. It had been a shock to the nation when President Dawson's running mate died of a sudden heart attack one month after taking office, and an even greater shock when he'd appointed the former President and his longtime campaign to the position. No one was even sure that it was even Constitutional since Palin had already been elected to two terms in office. Dawson said he'd done it (much to the chargrin of his own Party) to ensure someone didn't become President without going through an election, and that come 2048 he'd pick a new VP as his running mate. No doubt the Democrats didn't bother to challenge the appointment because they controlled the House and figured they'd just challenge it if Dawson died, and throw the Presidency to the Speaker of the House. Right now that was Oliver Holden.

Gwen motioned to her assistant, a pretty if slightly pudgy girl with a black pantsuit to match her dark locks. “Stacy – be a sweetheart get the VP over here!”
The girl snapped a nod and ran off.

Her earpiece buzzed. “Gwen – live promo in fifteen seconds.”

Gwen gave a purposeful wink to her right eye. That triggered her Lens Warrior, which projected a transparent, scrolling screen she could track with her eye movement. It began to display her prompt. She sat down and turned to the cameraman, took one breath, let it out and smiled.

“Go.”

“We're back, live at the Capitol with our coverage of history in the Making. They're calling him Magic Nick.” Because we're telling you to call him that. “ Mr. Wizard himself, Secretary Nicholas Trano of the newly founded Department of Powers will be addressing a Joint Session of Congress, in just Moments. You can't tune out now! Stay with me, Gwendolyn Petersen, here on CNN Instant News, where we Make News Happen.”


“And we're out.”

Gwen clicked off her Lens Warrior. “So which nickname is polling better? I'm not sure which one I like best yet.”


The producer paused. “We don't know yet. Mr. Wizard is polling better on 60 and older, but Magic Nick is going over better with the younger ladies. We're probably going to have a copyright issue with either of them.” Not that it would be an issue for Gwendolyn Petersen. Within a day half the country would be using one of the nicknames and no one would remember where it came from.


Gwen's assistant came scampering back. “Palin says he'll give you an interview after the speech.”

Ugh. She had probably six or seven minutes of dead space to fill before the speech began. “Speaker Holden?”
Her assistant shook her head. Fuck it. “All right, get our panel of experts online. We'll do it live.”
As such experts as there were. She turned back to the camera.

“And we're back at the Capitol, and I'm Gwendolyn Petersen as always. Joining us today is Rodger Kimpbell from the Centers for Disease Control, and...”
Her lens warrior spat out new information. Crap, her other panelist didn’t show. Smile. “Rodger, how are you today?”


“I'm excellent, Gwen,”
he replied.

That's a stretch, buddy. “Now, Rodger, based on your experience with these abilities and the research done down in Atlanta, what can you tell me about what running the Department of Powers will entail.”


The man blinked. Clearly he was an amateur on the national stage. “Well, obviously first and foremost they'd be responsible for making sure people with the Sickness which is a reaction to these powers coming to existence in an individual, these people are helped. But essentially he'd be expected have umbrella oversight over all the agencies that are involved with these abilities. Currently the Defense Department is overseeing all of these activities --”


Gwen gave a calculated raise of her eyebrow to the camera. “So you're saying there are military applications here, like we're going to be seeing people being used as weapons?”


The man tugged at his shirt collar. “Now Gwen, I'm not saying that at all, just that the Defense Department--”


Gwen cut him off. “Let's play this video...”
a video, projected digitally into the news feed, began playing behind her. “Here we see Secretary Trano apparently putting out a fire. Isn't that nice. But can't this power be used in a more destructive way? How is this new department going to strike the appropriate balance between liberty and security?”


The man's mouth hung open for a second and he blinked. “Uh. Well, Gwen we're just going to have to see what Secretary Trano says and hope he addresses this.”


Gwen flashed her pearly whites at him. She hadn't gotten anywhere near any really salacious material out of him, but she'd abused him enough for one morning. “All right, well we appreciate it.”


“My pleasure, Gwen.”


She smiled again. Of course it is.
Behind her the screen changed to the now-packed House chamber. “Any moment now, Secretary Trano will begin his address. As we just showed, earlier this week Magic Nick made headlines for putting out a fire with his use of the powers and made a passionate speech where he derided the Adcendancy Nikolai Brandon's claim to be a god, of course the longtime owner of Vulpesnet has been vehemently anti-CCD. There have been other reports of violence both committed by and committed against magic users, and as you all know there was an incident involving the Native Americans in Albuquerque...Any moment now he will begin speaking and hopefully shed some light on what we as a nation are facing.”
She hoped so. This was rapidly turning into some very bad and boring TV.

The morning of the heist, Jaxen called Ori to have her meet him at his apartment. He had all of his gear prepared, although to look at him, the clothing wouldn't stand out as too unusual. He wore a button down shirt tucked into slacks and an open suit jacket. Very plain, very boring. Even the shoes were typical. The look he was going for was forgettable, professional but forgettable. His hair wasn't its usual wild self, but it was combed down and tame. The twinkle in his eye remained, though. He was drinking a cup of coffee when Oriena arrived.

[[Continued from Somnium]]

Thalia showered after she'd spoken with Calvin, and if it didn't improve her mood it at least left her feeling less groggy. She scribbled a note for Aylin -- Meeting a friend at Filevsky, back soon, T -- and then forced herself out the door before she changed her mind, heading for the metro-station. She played music the whole journey, sat looking down at her lap, avoiding eye-contact and conversation. Her apartment was near Filevsky -- at Bazhenov Square, to be precise -- so the journey didn't require that she pay attention. Instead she studied her nails, stripped of paint for the first time in forever. Like someone else's hands.

At the park, she wandered for a while before finally picking a spot by the curling river. She could hear the shouts and laughter of kids nearby, but couldn't see them. Trees lined the bank on the opposite edge of the wide river, bright with Spring growth. A few sunbathers dotted the distance, but there was no one close. For a while the isolation almost numbed her.

She stared at blankly across the water.

Her hair was still damp, pulled up and wound into a knot on her head. Loose tendrils frizzed about her sombre face, stirring like a dandelion in the wind. She had nothing of her own at Aylin's, so had borrowed clothes; cropped jeans and a loose, flowery blouse. A pair of sandals, too, though they pinched; they lay in the grass beside her, her bare toes digging into the grass. It was cool and dewy against the soles of her feet.

The sun was cold but bright, sparkling bright off the river. The comparison only amplified her sense of the light within. It was there all the time now, hovering. Almost beautiful, if she didn't fear it so. Bottling up the emotions, she rested her forehead on her knees, and waited. She'd messaged Calvin where she was; the wallet lay in the pile with her shoes.

[[Continued from Somnium]]

Thalia showered after she'd spoken with Calvin, and if it didn't improve her mood it at least left her feeling less groggy. She scribbled a note for Aylin -- Meeting a friend at Filevsky, back soon, T -- and then forced herself out the door before she changed her mind, heading for the metro-station. She played music the whole journey, sat looking down at her lap, avoiding eye-contact and conversation. Her apartment was near Filevsky -- at Bazhenov Square, to be precise -- so the journey didn't require that she pay attention. Instead she studied her nails, stripped of paint for the first time in forever. Like someone else's hands.

At the park, she wandered for a while before finally picking a spot by the curling river. She could hear the shouts and laughter of kids nearby, but couldn't see them. Trees lined the bank on the opposite edge of the wide river, bright with Spring growth. A few sunbathers dotted the distance, but there was no one close. For a while the isolation almost numbed her.

She stared at blankly across the water.

Her hair was still damp, pulled up and wound into a knot on her head. Loose tendrils frizzed about her sombre face, stirring like a dandelion in the wind. She had nothing of her own at Aylin's, so had borrowed clothes; cropped jeans and a loose, flowery blouse. A pair of sandals, too, though they pinched; they lay in the grass beside her, her bare toes digging into the grass. It was cool and dewy against the soles of her feet.

The sun was cold but bright, sparkling bright off the river. The comparison only amplified her sense of the light within. It was there all the time now, hovering. Almost beautiful, if she didn't fear it so. Bottling up the emotions, she rested her forehead on her knees, and waited. She'd messaged Calvin where she was; the wallet lay in the pile with her shoes.

Name: Danika Zayed

Age: 29

Origin: Chicago, IL

Current: Moscow

Occupation: Theoretical astrophysicist

Appearance: brunette with big brown eyes and a wide smile. Average height and healthy build and weight. Danika has an average sense of style and wears classic, tasteful pieces.

Goddess reborn: Sumerian goddess of knowledge, wisdom, writing, and the heavens, Nisaba

Biography:

Danika Zayed is an American physicist from Chicago, IL who studies string theory, dark theory, and quantum mechanics. She describes herself as a proud Chicago public schools alumna. She completed her undergraduate studies at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, her graduate work at the Max Planck Society for the Advancement of Science in Munich and is a new faculty member in the department of theoretical physics at Moscow State University. She is best known for her contribution to the Illustris project.

Danika was born in 2017 and raised by her parents from a wealthy suburb outside Chicago, IL. In 2023, she enrolled in the Edison Regional Gifted Center and graduated high school from the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy in 2034, the last remaining public school for the gifted in the state.

Before she focused on energy theory, Danika did fellowship research every summer of high school at the labs of the Evolved Laser Interferometer Space Antenna (eLISA) located in Hanover, Germany at the Albert Einstein Institute, the home of the first gravitational wave observatory in space. She was 14 years old during her first summer fellowship there, but was forced to leave three days early due to illness. When she returned the next summer, her research exploded with new findings. Her mentors were baffled by her innovative inquiries into particle physics, especially investigating dark matter, dark energy, dark particles, and a term coined by her, dark flows. She had a standing invitation to return to the Institute for a doctoral program upon completing her undergraduate studies back in the United States, an invitation she eventually accepted. Her dissertation research focused on an original concept where she postulated a new force of nature and how this fifth force, made up of dark waves, was studied using similar principles to studying gravitational waves, a body of work called the Illustris project.

As a toddler she developed at an average pace, although she had an affable and warm personality, including a big sense of humor.

Her parents had Danika's name on a wait list for the private Gifted School before she was even born. There, her intellect blossomed. Creativity was encouraged through a style more closely resembling play and self paced study than anything from the traditional academic classroom settings. She fell in love with astronomy and earth science, and spent many nights up past dark to look at the stars through her telescope. She even had a white cat named Milky Way. By the 2020's, the American space exploration programs were all pretty much defunded; no NASA space camp anymore. So Danika's parents looked abroad. Programs in the CCD were more plentiful and stable, but highly competitive-especially for foreigners. Danika was wait-listed the summer she was 8 years old. It was fortunate she was able to go, because the experience was integral to her acceptance to a fellowship program later in high school.

Despite her academic aptitude for math and science, Danika maintained a cheerful, outgoing personality. She was well-liked, and rarely involved in typical schoolgirl drama. She was was never ill, either, or missed any classes because of infection. Even when measles went through the school, she didn't catch it, and she had to have been exposed. The only time she was sick was during the summers in Munich, but even those episodes passed.

Her easy going nature persisted through college. Even in graduate school, she wasn't a complete stranger to the Munich club scene. A girl had to have her down time after all.

Despite her friendly personality, Danika has little experience with serious relationships. She had a few dates and went to prom, but a steady boyfriend was absent. Men probably found her intellect and charm to be intimidating, or she was too naive to know when she was being flirted with.

As a result, most of her social life takes place is shallow in the club scene or restricted to professional relationships at work. She's been in Moscow for a year now. In the last few months, the Illustri project was finally published, reviewed, and accepted in the field as evidence for a new fundamental force of nature.

*****

Illustris project

Dark energy is thought to be very homogeneous, not very dense and is not known to interact through any of the fundamental forces other than gravity.

Dark energy can have such a profound effect on the universe, making up 68% of universal density, only because it uniformly fills otherwise empty space. The two leading models are a cosmological constant and quintessence. Both models include the common characteristic that dark energy must have negative pressure.

The simplest explanation for dark energy is that it is simply the "cost of having space": that is, a volume of space has some intrinsic, fundamental energy. This is the cosmological constant, sometimes called Lambda (hence Lambda-CDM model) after the Greek letter Λ, the symbol used to represent this quantity mathematically (and usually multiplied by gamma Γ. Since energy and mass are related by E = mc2, Einstein's theory of general relativity predicts that this energy will have a gravitational effect. It is sometimes called a vacuum energy because it is the energy density of empty vacuum. In fact, most theories of particle physics predict vacuum fluctuationsthat would give the vacuum this sort of energy.

A major outstanding problem is that most quantum field theories predict a huge cosmological constant from the energy of the quantum vacuum, more than 100 orders of magnitude too large. This would need to be cancelled almost, but not exactly, by an equally large term of the opposite sign. Mathematically, this opposite constant is represented by the Greek letter iota ι multiplied by Nu, Ν.

Although dark energy lacks mass, it is not transient, and interacts with dark matter through wave-like streams called dark flows.

When the two black holes collided in deep space, scientists celebrated the successful discovery of gravitational waves. It was recently postulated by Danika that the black hole binary was the signature of dark matter. What followed in the publication were five pages of annotated mathematical equations showing how she considered the mass of the two objects as a point of departure, suggesting that these objects could be part of the mysterious substance known to make up about 85 percent of the mass of the universe.

As a result, she has suggested that dark matter might not be made of extremely high-mass heavy fermions, but low-mass light bosons instead, on the order of one tenth of a billion of one-billionth of one billionth the mass of an electron.

The difference between fermions and bosons is that a fermion cannot occupy the same state at the same time as another fermion. As an analogy, a state is like a seat, and two or more fermions cannot sit in the same seat simultaneously. In contrast, two or more bosons can occupy the same state at the same time, and can therefore clump into so-called Bose-Einstein condensates that act like single blobs. She found that these condensates full of dark matter are composed of waves.

*****

Carmen had been quiet all evening. In the dusky glow of the club's lights, he caught the pensive edge of her frown a dozen times between the lull in patrons. She wasn't the only one. The wake of Ascendancy's demonstration in the Red Square left little bubbles of disquiet in the city; a pause of shock and awe as the reality of it slowly began to sink in. The hulking mass of the new arch dominated every newsfeed. It sucked in enough coverage to steal the light from the sun.

It was still early; enough that business had yet to really pick up, and even the bar show would not begin for another hour. Servers adorned like jewels threaded through the sparse clusters of customers in the plush booths, mostly regulars. A tease of music soared from hidden speakers, curling amongst the clink of glass and ice, accentuating the hum of talk and laughter. Raffe lounged on the bar, back-dropped by the twinkle of ornate and vintage bottles. Chandeliers glittered above.

He watched Carmen as she meandered, greeting people with a sultry smirk, topping glasses from diamond studded bottles, sharing a few familiar words. But still that grimace of concern when she moved on.

It wasn't like her to be ruffled. He frowned.

Abandoning the bar, he followed her when she slipped backstage and into a cloud of sequins and feathers, glitter and steel. Dewy skin flashed in the large ornate mirrors, and someone chucked something small and lacy at his chest amongst a low murmur of giggling; he wasn't supposed to wander back here. A small grin tugged at his lips, but he ignored the distractions as he spied out Carmen tightening one of the girl's corset stays.

He caught her by the hip, pulled her gently around to face him.

"Talk to me, Carmen. What's up?"


Victory rolls framed her porcelain face, a wave of blood-red curls nestling on her pale shoulders. Colourful tattoos draped her arms, which she presently folded. Her lips pursed. For a moment he anticipated a scold for his familiarity - she was his boss, after all, and she'd never quite melted to his charms the way the others did. But the flash of ire in her expression softened. Though she did at least pull him away from the dressing rooms and into the shadows beyond, where a staircase led to the offices above.

The darkness clung to her face. Away from the customers her masks dropped, deepening the severity of her frown. "It's Ori."
She said the name like a curse, pursing her lips. "I'm worried she's going to do something fucking stupid."


He'd been working shifts here the last two years, and the venue had always had an air of unusual; something that made Kallisti among Raffe's favourite jobs. He cast a casual glance to the darkness above, ears pricked for any indication of movement in the floors above, but the thump of music drowned out anything he might hear. The girls sometimes complained of noises. Carmen had confided once that Oriena kept someone - or something - up there, but Raffe had held his hands up. If it didn't interfere with the job, it wasn't his business.

"Like what?"


"I don't know. Call it intuition. It's just the announcement, and now the Arch. She keeps unsavoury company, and I do not want this place caught in the crossfire."
She paused. "Just keep an eye on the customers. At least until things settle back down."
She barely waited for his nod before she thrust a hand on her hip, gaze narrowing. "Now get your ass back out there, Raffe."


He laughed, snuck a fond kiss on her forehead as she shoved him gently on his way back out to the club.

Gwendolyn always believed that she was destined for great things. Perhaps because she'd always been told so. Rome, New York wasn't a place where she'd have much competition, especially as an only child to a single mother. Rachel Petersen was a career woman who'd built a moderately successful sponsored content empire online. At 35 she decided she didn't want to be alone anymore so she picked out a nameless deposit at a sperm bank with blonde hair and a purported 170 IQ. Nine months later came Gwendolyn.

Rachel was the quintessential drone parent of the millennial generation. She got Gwendolyn involved in any activity she chose, always pushing from afar and ready to swoop in and obliterate any obstacle to her daughter. But she was never emotionally close. Learning a foreign language was a must for Gwen, and she could speak Spanish and Russian at an early age. When Gwen was six, her mother required her to begin participating in a physical activity. After some minor messing around with soccer and dancing she settled on mixed martial arts: Jujitsu, Taekwondo and Krav Manga, as taught at the local MMA dojo. No boy was going to go around pulling on her pigtails. By her sixteenth birthday she'd achieved a second-degree black belt. She continued to do her martial arts exercises through adulthood as a part of her daily exercise regimen.

In high school, Gwen tried out for her school's competitive shooting team where she excelled in rapid fire pistol. The discipline, skill and focus she had earned through her marital arts studies paid off for her. In her junior year she placed second at the state championship and qualified for the 2024 Olympics. Unfortunately for her, however, budget cuts paired with anti-firearm sentiment under the Clinton presidency dashed her Olympic dreams, for private funds would only pay the way for the top contender.

Insulted, Gwen quit the team and decided to explore a talent that would demand the most confidence, skill, boldness and finesse so far, independent of anyone else: the theater. And it was here that she finally shone brighter than anyone else. This small-town beauty could not be frightened by any challenge on the stage. Oh, how they fell in love with her! How willingly people were to buy into the character being portrayed, and so easily able to suspend their disbelief. It was all a trick of confidence, and with that there was real power. All the world's a stage, and the better players win. The audience didn't see what you didn't want to show them. So one month she could be Katherine the shrew, the next sink as Eliza Doolittle to the streets of London before arising once again as Verra the demon goddess.

Sheer utilitarianism kept Gwendolyn from Hollywood, or later Phoenix (after the tsunamis devastated the film industry). Professional actresses were a vapid bunch, and seen that way by their peers as people who played for a living and had no credibility when it came to the real world. No, the real actors of tomorrow were in the media. They could change the world with their presentation. Gone were the days of impartiality. And why bother? The woman who controlled the flow of information could shape the opinions of tomorrow.

Gwen was of some financial means while young, but not entirely independent, which kept her from the most exclusive of schools, but she managed to get into Utica College where she pursued her BS in public relations and journalism. While there she pledged Theta Phi Alpha, to no small surprise. She was the ultimate small-town sweetheart, with a pretty face framed by blonde locks and a svelte body to match, with no shortage of orbiters both male and female. Theta Phi Alpha was dedicated to service work and inclusion, and whispers underground were that it was a sorority for DUFFs who wouldn't “fit in” elsewhere. To Gwen, however, it was a sisterhood of ready followers both at Utica and abroad, and she was able to use her service work to secure a scholarship to pursue her master's in broadcast journalism and communications at the Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University. Her Master's Thesis explored the ability and effects of dichotomy messaging through news reporting in order to frame a stronger central narrative.

From college it was starting over time. There was a long string of lower-level news jobs as Gwen strove to constantly climb the ladder, gaining experience, connections and – a few times – useful enemies on her way up. Relationships were plentiful but casual, lest something tie Gwen down from her target – evening anchorship of a flagship network. She finally secured this position at the age of 38 (though she tells everyone she's 32) at CNN Instant News, the premiere global multimedia news network. Billed as America's Media Darling, she didn't just have her finger on America's pulse. She held the beating heart of American public opinion in her fist.

In the instantaneous news reporting atmosphere of today, facts weren't as important as getting the message out fast since they could always be cleared up later after everyone forgot about the story. Newscasters weren't just reporting anymore. They were creating news and news controversy. When you kept people concerned, you kept them watching.

To Gwen, whose message it was didn't matter as much as having the ability to keep people watching and politicians groveling for positive press. The rise of the Cold-War tensions between the US and the CCD promised to keep this gift going for quite some time, and the announcement that “magic” is a real thing sought to be a tremendous boon in the hands of the right newscaster bound on shaping the conscience of a nation.

It felt like months had passed since Enzo last entered the heart of the Moscow Atharim. Perhaps it had; maybe less. The date on his smart-watch enlightened him to the truth of time's passage; he hadn't processed the information. In the wild of the Russian forests, life slowed to a crawl as it did when in isolation yet the weeks blurred together like the colors of the sky at sunset. One day he was gone, the next he had returned.

He stopped by the apartment he shared with another Atharim hunter in the city to shower, change, and unpack his gear. The hunt and subsequent execution of a male dreyken and a female drakaina drained him of supplies, money, and energy. He needed to rest. He would, but not until touching base with the Atharim leadership. There was no need to bother the Regus, or even his second in command with a mundane field return, but they needed to know he still lived, the tale of his success, and the knowledge gained from the wild. There were still dreyken out there, but the effort to find even a single one was enormous, let alone kill them without yourself being killed.

The moment he descended below the Baccarat mansion, he knew something was wrong.

He stopped the first Atharim he saw. "Excusez-moi! What has happened?"



((OC: I am hoping to be aligned with the most recent timeline in story.))

Anton Stepanov

Origin: Moscow, Russia

Age: 28

Occupation: Opera Singer and Vocal Professor

He is Orpheus Reborn

Pyschological Description: Anton is confident and appears calm. As a sentient, he often has to deal with the emotions of others, but is well trained on how to contain this issue. He isn’t afraid to speak his mind, especially if he knows he’s right.

Physical Description: He stand 5’10” tall and has dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He is not overly muscular, but has a strong build. He is in great physical shape and exercises often.

Biography: Anton was born to Alexei and Diana Stepanov in 2018. At a young age, he showed signs of being a Sentient, which was recognized by his father who is also Sentient. As he grew, his father taught him how to control his gift, so now Anton mostly lives a normal life.

At a young age, he showed a great aptitude for music, and his parents cultivated this. At age four, he started piano lessons. He began singing at an early age as well. He grew to love music and eventually pursued a vocal performance degree at Moscow University.

At University, he experiment more with his sentient abilites. Anton would draw upon the emotions of people in the crowd to make his performances more believable. By focusing on certain people in the audience, he was able to channel their emotions and as a result Anton didn’t act sad, happy, or angry in his performances - he used his abilities to make himself actually feel that way. As a result, he witnessed tremendous success in his degree program. He also discovered he has the ability to manipulate emotions, but at this point, he can only do so if he is touching them. He wonders if he can do this without physical contact.

After achieving his bachelor’s degree, Anton pursued a Master’s degree. During his studies he also learned how to play the lute, lyre, and hurdy gurdy, as he focused his studies on early music. He specializes in Baroque Opera, but has performed in several other styles as well.

Along with his performances on stage, Anton is also a vocal professor at Moscow University and teaches master classes and does vocal coaching worldwide. His current role is the titular role in Claudio Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo for the Bolshoi Theatre.


Edited by Anton, Aug 28 2016, 12:37 PM.

2027

For five whole days his mama had not spoken to him, and for five whole days he had been alone, crouched in the corner of the small room staring wide-eyed at her on the bed. Waiting for her to roll over. To remember he was <em>there. Her pale hair spilled out from the blanket he'd pulled over her to keep her warm, her face pressed against the wall, body curled up tight.

As she had been for days.

She hadn't moved, not even when he called out to her, pleading that he was sorry for hiding. Until he finally gave up, sobbing into his hands, sobbing sobbing sobbing until the tears dried his eyes red. Then he waited some more, legs drawn up to his chest and arms hugged around himself. By now he was starving. But his mama would not stir and the cupboards were empty. He could not even let himself sleep, afraid that if he did he would miss the moment when she roused.

But when his vigil was finally disturbed, it was not by her finally turning to forgive him.</em>

*

The memories have faded. He barely remembers a time before the orphanage, his home from five years of age. A state run facility in the heart of dark Moscow, it was no place for such a gentle soul as Raffe, and he quickly understood that he would need to learn to protect himself. He hid from the other boys at first, shy and afraid of their vicious hierarchy. He didn't want to fight or argue, and the way of life here was tough and raw. He didn't fit in.

Violence he avoided when he could. Discovered that a quick smile and a poke of humour helped smooth his path. Raffe didn't mind being made fun of; those were the sort of punches he could roll with, and be glad to spare himself the physical pain. The others found him strange and girlish, but if he was both those things, he was not weak. He woke one morning with his blonde curls all chopped off on his pillow. He didn't react to the prank. Then he just looked like one of the other boys. They began to leave him alone.

Raffe was ten when he learned his father had killed his mother, a discovery made when rumour of the man's acquittal became the talk of the orphanage. The revelation brought nightmares with it, of ice cold flesh and the stench of rotting meat. And hope. But his father never came to claim him.

Raffe hardened after that. Realised, perhaps for the first time, that he was truly alone in this world. It darkened the edge of his usual affability, so that when one of the older kids picked some fun - something Raffe usually brushed off with a laugh - something in him snapped instead. He felt it spring loose and all the hate spill out as he smashed the boy in the face. As he continued kicking him in the ribs long after he'd curled into a ball on the grass of the small yard. The violence disgusted him. So too did the thrill in the madness of it. The boy was three years older; taller, broader, meaner. And still he had won.

He vowed himself: never again.

His place in the group shifted subtly. A cautious edge of respect emerged, and a wariness that made Raffe feel deflated.

He didn't want to be feared.

He was a bright kid, but struggled with schooling as he grew into adolescence. With a sort of inevitability he ended up mixing with the wrong crowd, skipping classes to hang out, shoot the shit and smoke pot. The sense of something missing ached a hole in his gut, and he chased the feeling into oblivion. He was a misfit among his friends; the one who did not quite fit, despite his popularity. His pretty face earned him enmity among some of the boys, but his glib tongue smoothed most cracks. And when Raffe was around, so too were the girls.

It was probably that alone that paved his way to acceptance among his peers.

Once older, he was often the one the younger kids came to when hurt or sad or scared. He told them stories before lights out. Stoked camaraderie instead of competition. He had a gift for making people forget themselves, for encouraging others to feel comfortable in their own skins. The instinct to nurture was something intrinsic. Something deep. Something that gave him peace. It was nature.

From a small child Raffe loved the outdoors and green things, not that there was much of that in the blocky grey concrete grove that sheltered the orphanage and other bastions of no hope in the Guardian. But the first distinct moment of understanding he was somehow different coalesced in the attic of an apartment in Zamoskvoreche. He was fifteen. The cannabis plants were wilted, the edges of the leaves yellowing. The hum of the electric heaters drilled through his skull as he knelt by the boxes. The light burned his eyes. While the others argued about how to best remedy the situation, Raffe poked one of the leaves, and felt a shiver of recognition.

"Rootbound, huh?"


He fixed up the crop. Shrugged when they asked him how he knew what he was doing. He had a gift for it.

Finally, at eighteen, the state washed their hands of him. Walking out the door with a rucksack of his worldly possessions was the first time he ever met his dad. The resemblance was startling, really, else somewhere in the back of his mind he recognised the face. Raffe paused. Blinked.

"You're a bit late."


The man turned, shifted on uncomfortable feet. How long had he been loitering in the street, waiting? His hands were in the pockets of a rumpled suit. Raffe could smell the stale stink of old booze beneath the spray of cologne.

"I'm sorry about your mother, boy. I was drunk. We were both drunk. I panicked when she... I shouldn't have left. And I didn't even know you were there."


He'd been five years old. Where else would he have been? None of this was news though; he'd seen the newspaper clippings by now, knew the charge of manslaughter and all the sordid details. Knew too, though he didn't remember it, that he'd been locked up with the dead body for nearly a week before anyone thought to look for him.

Raffe didn't remember her, not hardly at all. Just the whisper of things. The cadence of her accent. The brush of her hand on his forehead. But he missed her with an ache that was bone deep.

The man who called himself his father said that his wife had been mad when she found out about the affair; that she'd drawn the line at taking the child into their home. He said he was sorry, handed Raffe a packet of money.

Raffe nodded, not sure how to process this information. And the two parted.

In the six years following, Raffe has struggled to orient himself. With no education his options are limited, and Moscow - jewel of the known world - is a dark and hungry city. These days he works in various bars and clubs to make ends meet. Knows all the local hotspots, knows its light and darkest sides like the back of his hand.

Desc:
A cap of burnished curls tops an angelic face sporting an errant grin. Bright blue eyes sit in a boyish face. Clean-shaven. A little over average tall (5'11''), broad at the shoulder and of lean build.

Raffe is quick to humour and has an affable if irreverent manner. His nature is personable and easy-going, but sometimes displays a jaded edge that can make him prone to brooding behaviour. He thinks nothing of helping others, and can be generous with his time and possessions. In particular he has a soft spot for the underdog and those without a place in conventional society. He enjoys a good-natured tease, and is a generous flirt. A temper lurks beneath the surface, but he is more likely to swallow back harsh words than spit them out.

Raffe has a keen eye for the beautiful; art that steals the soul, music one can get lost in. He enjoys sensory experience and is partial to a drink and a night out, but is tempered by the legacy of his parents. Still smokes recreationally on occasion, but avoids synthetic drugs.

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