**sent directly to Jacques' personal communication device (wallet, whatever he uses) via a specially encrypted program Sage installed and without deep technical knowledge will be near impossible to uninstall**

What help do you need precisely? My skill set, Our skill set is limited to what we can reach electronically. I can offer one bit of information already, your cyber security nearly everywhere in the country is shit. Any ideas of how the collective can help you on your way to a better Africa?

-- Phaser

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Code: Digital Signature</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>

Code:

01010000011010000011010000110101001100110111001000100000
00101101001000000011000100110011001101000110010000110011
01110010001000000011000001100110001000000111010001101000
00110011001000000110001000110000011100100011100100100001

[[Continued from Waves in the crowd]]

By the time the crowd finally thinned out to ordinary traffic, the anchor Elias offered was no longer necessary. The peripheral distractions peeled off in layers until they receded to what Asha considered normal interference. She didn't let him go, though, less from need and more from want. The connection was pleasant.

They meandered a route, which Asha guided back on course every now and then with a faint tug or nudge. The quiet was comfortable. The natural ebb and flow of his emotions was like floating in a calm sea. She was happy to drift.

"I work in the bookshop sometimes, though it's purely cash in hand until I can get my papers sorted out. All my ID was in the car,"
she said, fumbling about for her keys. "It's going to take forever to save up for a new one. I miss the road."
Which was not to say she had not found a way to be content with her circumstances. She adored travelling; missed haring down a highway with the windows down and the music loud. But Moscow was not such a bad city to find oneself stranded in.

She found the keys. Paused. Glanced up at him. Her smile was open, a window to her own emotions. Shyness tinged it now. Exhaustion was nipping at her toes, and she longed to curl up and sleep until her body recovered. It warred with the part of her that was reluctant to let Elias go. He would drift out of her life again without much resistance, she imagined. And she did have his number. But she didn't want to relinquish the new found connection so soon; the peaceful company of someone who knew what she was, and didn't seem to care. Not something she'd ever thought she'd find. "You coming in?"

**Posted across several popular boards around the world**

A compilation of Trace's speech stating he could use magic followed by a snippet of the more recent speech made by the Ascendancy with a big number 2 flashing in read over it. Date and Time Stamps run in the bottom right hand corner in both snippets

Other random snippets of magic use is splice between frames for dramatic effect.  Some footage has never been seen before -  taken from street cams around the world - most notable cities are Moscow and New York.  People in the videos are unidentifiable by any known software at the time due to alteration of the videos.

-- Ph453r

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Code: Digital Signature</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>

Code:

01010000011010000011010000110101001100110111001000100000
00101101001000000011000100110011001101000110010000110011
01110010001000000011000001100110001000000111010001101000
00110011001000000110001000110000011100100011100100100001

The Law Office of John Little Bird, Esquire was hardly a bastion of wealth or prestige on display. He hardly ever met clients here so there wasn't any point. And he certainly didn't choose the location for the view. The corner office and attached storeroom, conference room and assistant offices sat on the seventh floor of a relatively nondescript twelve-story building in the middle of New Haven. The view wasn't terribly impressive. If he looked out to the north he could see the gray stone buildings of Yale, aging halls of learning creaking with internal structural and academic decay while attempting to uphold a veneer of Old World prestige. To the east, the historic Omni hotel and its overpriced 19th floor pub of a restaurant. Just to the south stuck out the Tootsie Roll building, also known as the Knights of Columbus headquarters, a sturdy square building supported by round granite pillars in its four corners that very much resembled massive, 250-foot tall Tootsie rolls. One couldn't even see the ocean from here.

The location wasn't terribly convenient, either. Jon had leased the building when he was on a tight budget and at the time had slept in his office half the time just to avoid the commute home. It wasn't the safest neighborhood, either. The train station, just a couple of blocks north, tended to attract large numbers of the city's persistently homeless population, and they along with new visitors were the first choice of prey for the violent mugger. At night things could get dangerous for the lonely traveler.

No, if Jon were to swear by his ancestors truthfully why he hadn't moved, it because he didn't want to deal with the paperwork involved in leasing a new location. Paperwork was nothing but constant drudgery that had to be patiently endured from time to time. It was one thing to draft a brilliant motion or piece of legislation; that took skill, finesse and when completed stood as a work of art that could endure the test of time, like a marble statue or a mighty conifer. That sort of paperwork was a challenge. But then there was the more mundane paperwork, like returning correspondences, following up on little technical details that should have been done correctly the first time or answering media requests. Even with Caroline at hand to pick up the bulk of it, there was still plenty to waste away his hours. Jon would do anything to avoid dealing with that kind of paperwork.

Which was why Jon was scanning the Vulpesnet headlines on his Wallet with his legs propped up on his black oak desk instead of attending to the stack of thank-you cards by his feet. Jon's grandfather had never approved of electronics and so he had never caught the habit of spending all day staring at a screen, so he knew he really wasn't going to find out anything new going on in the world by wasting time on his Wallet. But just five more minutes. Five more minutes and then he'd get to finishing up those cards. They were addressed to the key congressmen who were behind the recent passage of the Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act, which had passed largely among party lines just two days ago and had been signed into law by President Dawson. Jon had taken a gamble on the bill by suggesting to the main sponsor, a Republican from Oklahoma, that pairing up this bill with a farm subsidy that he wanted for his voters would lessen the public's outward distaste for the pork spending. It was good for Jon as well. The best bait to reel in a congressman was pork largess from the public, as idealistically distasteful as it may be. It made little difference, for what was done was done. Natives with the Sickness could now be taken care of by their own tribes and would be protected from any sort of registration or oversight from the federal government. They would be unmolested – and they could begin to develop methods of teaching control over their power. No native son or daughter would be taken from their tribe and experimented on, imprisoned or – he thought of the Atharim and Noah's warnings – or worse.

At that, Jon reflexively reached out and grabbed hold of the power of the Great Spirit. It flowed into him like a torrent. It seemed that Jon had more than recovered from the incident in the Moscow subway; indeed, he could hold more than ever before. If he was not done growing in strength, what was the upper limit for someone?

Jon regarded the stack of thank-you cards. His senses now sharpened, Jon could feel the crisp edge of each envelope with his eye. He sent out a tendril of invisible Air, and lifted up the pen, then cradled the card with another flow. A minuscule thread of Air went into the pen and he fashioned a conduit, from which he drew out ink and wrote out his autograph. The first one came out a little lopsided so he set it aside, but with a little practice he found he could sign his name and even write a little message with greater speed than doing it by hand. His skill and dexterity was improving as well. The flows felt less...slippery...and even though simple Air was one of the easiest weaves to form this still took more attention to detail and fine manipulation than he would have had in the past. After a moment he was confident enough to resume looking at Vulpesnet. Nick Trano was recovered from his injury, it had seemed, and was in South Dakota, which was as good a place as any to build a bunker and prepare for the end of the world. Jon frowned at the report. Trano was attempting to out Nikolai Brandon as a power wielder. A bold way to do it, but by claiming in public to be connected to the power of the Great Spirit himself? Sometimes you had to step out from behind the boulder to shoot your arrow at the bear, but it was best to wait until his back was turned first. Still, it was too soon. He wasn't ready yet.

Jon stopped the flow of ink and released the power. He grabbed a piece of stationery from his desk and penned a quick note to Nick Trano. “My best wishes on your continued recovery and good health. Glad to see you have returned to American soil in one piece and without too many new holes. With warmest regards, Jon Little Bird.”
He paused a moment before adding “P.S. Save some of this for me.”


Jon nodded at the paper, blew on it to ensure it was dry, and collected the stack of completed cards. He left his office and turned to the left, where in the side office Caroline was busy apparently wrapping up a face-to-face conversation with what sounded like one of the delegates to the Council of Native Americans. The sturdy woman with skin one shade lighter than obsidian and bright eyes gave a laugh and ended the conversation before turning to Jon. “Are you done with those? Bring them here and I'll mail them out.” She shook her head. “Don't know why you still bother with that snail mail. I hadn't ever sent a letter till you hired me here. Didn't need to. What a slow way to talk to people.”


Jon shrugged. “People remember it.”
He put them on the desk, and pointed to the letter to Nick Trano. “This one needs to go to Nick Trano, and would you please pick out a fine, but not too fine, bottle of scotch whiskey to send as a gift.”


Caroline nodded. “You got it. The good client gift. Not the regular client gift, and not the gift that says it's a bribe.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I'll find something for you. But if you ask me, you need a woman in your life.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And no that's not an offer and I mean that as one professional to another. Period.”


Jon chuckled. The only reason Caroline was not a high powered lawyer herself was that she chose not to complete her courses at Yale after her second child was born with Down syndrome. She was always at the top of her game – and particularly careful to skirt the very edges of political correctness in her own humorous way. “Thank you Caroline, I'll take that under advisement.”


She turned back to her screen as Jon turned to leave. “Wow. Look at this. Have you seen this scroll report out of Moscow? The Ascendancy himself just held a press conference.”


Jon shook his head and turned back to her. “No, I hadn't. What is it about?”


Caroline frowned. “I swear that man has just gone off the deep end. Apparently he is admitting that magic is real, your friend Mr. Trano was right, and he a wizard too.”


Jon stopped cold. The memory of the things he'd seen while prowling the paperwork in the Spirit World reflection of the Oval Office came back like a pin pricking a bubble. He blinked, twice. The world had changed, and a new age was upon them.

“Caroline, cancel all of my appointments and send out an immediate message to the councilors of the Council of Native Americans. I will hold a private teleconference...”
No, that was unsecure … “Scratch that. Book me a flight to Albuquerque.”
The Gathering of Nations would be there later this month, many of the tribes would hopefully have representatives there. “Tell them I will address them about this matter in private. Before the Gathering begins. Please get me a draft letter immediately.”


It was too, too soon. But what had been accomplished would have to be enough, for there was no going back now. The world wouldn't wait for Jon's plans to be completed. At least he wouldn't have to deal with any more paperwork for the moment.

Continued in Powwow


Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 11 2016, 10:08 PM.

The call to prayer was flowing through Victoria's window as she came into her apartment, juggling the large brown bag with the keys, finally managing to hit the door closed with her heel. She stopped for a moment, smiling, just listening to the musical shouts. It had almost been irritating when she'd first moved to the city, the numerous minarets all with their own calls. Victoria liked it now. It was familiar, safe. She knew she was home.

Victoria had only returned the other day to Jerusalem. The Third had been cycled off the front for some R&amp;R, dispersing into its base at Jerusalem for a while. A lot of the men just lived at the CCD military base; the barracks there were pretty comfortable. Plus they didn't need to rent anywhere in the city. Victoria herself didn't need much. She rented an apartment in the old city, over a fairly big square that always seemed to have some market in it. It was a nice little place. She lived alone, and didn't exactly need much anyhow. A couple of rooms, close to shops, open and airy. Victoria was simple enough.

The kitchen, living area, what passed for a dining room was all one big open space, allowing Victoria to quickly flick her boots off neatly in the entrance hall, and get her shopping packed away quickly. The apartment still had that musty smell in it, but it wasn't too bad. Ms Silverstein, the tiny, ancient widow next door always offered to clean and look after the place while Victoria was away, but she was... uncomfortable with that. Not that she didn't trust the old woman, but it was basic paranoia on letting anyone in unless she was there.

Standing back from the now sufficiently full fridge, Victoria stretched her arms out, cracking her neck slightly to a loud sigh of relief. Just with herself, at home, she could actually relax. The usual wall of stiffness went a bit, and Victoria hummed to herself as she poured out a glass of wine. Admittedly it was only midday but, in her opinion, after going a couple of months without a drop, she damn well deserved it.

Her bare feet padded along the rugs that she had all over the wooden floors. She was kind of shocked at how cheap some of the beautiful rugs she picked up from the market below were at times. Were there too many? Possibly. Still, they were easy enough to clean.

She went to the radio first, flicking through onto something soft and classical. Her eyes strayed to the piano in the corner of the room, before she decided to play later. Too tired. Needed to just sit back, drink, and relax for once. Victoria was saving up for a really nice grand piano. Something that was beautifully made and tuned, just perfect. Problem was she wasn't sure how long she'd be here for. Maybe when she had a definitive, stationary posting. Then to the balcony doors, throwing open the wide, glass doors to let the sound of the city battle with her music, getting some air flowing through.

With everything finally as perfect as it could be, Victoria slumped onto the sofa with no small measure of contention. Sipping her wine, she leant forward, placing her Wallet on the low coffee table, and finally got the internet up. She winced as she saw her inbox. That could be cleared later, when she could be bothered to hack through all of that. Victoria went to the news first, hungry for whatever she'd missed while she'd been away. They got most news on base, but it was usually pretty late. Apparently something big had come from the Ascendancy while they'd been on their last mission. With no small amount of trepidation, she flicked open the video, sitting back to watch their illustrious leader give his speech.

By the time he was finished, Victoria was as white as ghost, her hand shaking enough to spill some of her wine on her sweatpants. It didn't register. All she could do was stare at the holographic screen in front of her, blank after the finished video.

She wasn't the only one.

That they had an idea what it was, that the Ascendancy would be able to help her made her almost want to vomit in relief. Victoria wasn't some kind of freak. Well, alright, she was, but importantly there were other freaks.

Her glass went to the table, ignored, as Victoria hunched over her keyboard, desperately hunting for the form to send in. There wasn't much hesitation. Her oath to serve still stood, no matter what. And... maybe they'd be able to help her. Teach her. Stop something from going wrong.


Edited by Victoria Wolff, Oct 3 2016, 04:26 AM.

Lacey Frieburg, White House Chief of Staff
PPC




The White House Chief of Staff, Lacey Freiburg arranged for one of her deputy Chiefs to contact Nicholas Trano after a couple days of Intel gathering. The FBI did a full background check on his entire life, for instance. They even discovered the offense for every time he was sent to the Principle's office in school and whether his immunizations were up to date. When he came up clean, just to triple check, Lacey ordered a similar investigation into his family going back two generations. She could not afford a single skeleton in the closet to haunt the administration. President Dawson had enough controversy to thwart as it was.

Finally, when she was satisfied, she arranged to be taken to Trano's house. She had the authority to negotiate with Trano over the Cabinet position, but it wouldn't be official until Dawson himself shook hands over it. There was no point in wasting the President's time if Trano was going to decline the offer.

About five minutes out from his house, Lacey checked her appearance in the mirror, and swiped down the shoulders of her blouse to smooth away wrinkles. The trip to Aberdeen, South Dakota from DC wasn't short.

No security detail accompanied her today, just the car driver. Not so much as one of the deputy Chiefs of Staff came along. It was just her.

She slipped sunglasses into her briefcase when she stepped from the town car. The driver stayed behind and she strode to the front door alone, knocking purposefully.

Ayden had been receiving texts from Emily for days but she hadn't responded. It was a rash thing to do but it was best for Emily if Ayden cut off contact now. She was trying to become someone else. Ayden had taken two burners wallets from her cache and a few cosmetic items and a bag full of money in many different demonstrations for different countries. The rest of the stuff in the crate she shipped to an undisclosed location - she hadn't even told Connor where it was going. She knew that was all that mattered. It was her old life. No - her old old life. This was her old life now - Emily was her old life.

It gave her a twinge of guilt as she tossed the phone into the bedroom they were leaving for the last time. Their new passports were completely authentic. Their new identities were solid Ayden Hayes would go the way of the dodo and she'd become Nikki Haydenson, wife to Josh Haydenson. Connor's tribute to his son.

Today was their last day in Moscow. Ayden and Connor were going away on an extended vacation and they were going to arrive in the good ole' US of A as Nikki and Josh two completely new people. Ayden was surprised at how easily Connor had agreed to this but his life was on the line as much as her was. She only hoped her sources were as good as they'd always been and Ayden Hayes would dead end right there. But you never really knew for sure.

Ayden took Connor's hand and smiled. "You ready to go Josh?"
she said playfully. They weren't actually playing those parts now, but Connor needed to get used to the name. And it was fun teasing him. She would have to get used to calling him Josh. They couldn't forget. It wasn't something they could ever forget - not ever. The part was their life - it had to be or someone would find them and they would be dead. The Atharim would find them, hunt them and kill them. There was no doubt in her mind about that. If they wanted happily every after they could not slip up.

So I've been curious about what demarcated the end of the fourth age. From what I've been reading/impressions I've gotten, it seems like in the Fifth Age, knowledge of the Power was somewhat scarce. "Gods" would find ancient artifacts, rather than create them. Gods had incredible abilities that made them all-powerful in the ancient world, but didn't seem to have any of the knowledge of the Age of Legends, etc. I'm really curious about what happened to make it so. In the 4th age, the website says that men and women are starting to figure things out again, and it's basically like the 2nd age. However, it took calamity and the breaking of the world to end the 2nd age. The 5th age ends when the Gods start killing each other, and the 6th age ends when the Atharim kill all the Gods, and the 7th age ends when Ascendancy comes back, etc. However, there doesn't seem to be anything that ends the 4th Age.

In canon, the Aes Sedai are able to preserve some knowledge from the AoL for 3000 years, and even further it (healing severing, Warder bonds, etc). It seems like there must have been some sort of calamitous event to make 4th Age Aes Sedai cease to exist and have their knowledge lost. Has this been discussed before?

Sunlight streamed unadulterated on the newspaper sheeted across Morven's lap, a styrofoam coffee cup balanced on the bench slat next to her, half cradled in the grip of one hand. Air tickled the edges of the paper, barely touching the perspiration on her bare legs. Summers never clung so tight and sticky back home.

The latest figures reported staggering numbers of registrations. She was surprised at how many so willingly offered their identities, not least when Ascendancy spoke in the same breath of a society that would, she'd bet, give anything to get their claws into such a list. How would the government even begin to offer protection against a threat like that (she didn't even like to think of the possibilities) - but, more to the point, why should they? In fashioning himself a god, Nikolai Brandon cast the same glow upon all others who shared in his gift. Made them something more. Made them hateable. A target. Competitors.

Why would he want to protect them?

This morning the tabloids had splashed old photos of the Tower Bridge explosions, drawing new questions at the lack of incendiaries ever discovered at the scene. Hairline cracks multiplied into what might easily become deep fissures. The fear was a seed cautiously watered, uncertain of an enemy but determined to find blame for the sudden instability. Questions burst like a dandelion blown into the wind, the hedged answers little more than questions themselves.

Even the broadsheets were not much more circumspect in their rampant speculation. What can these people do?

But of Ascendancy himself, they spoke no ill.

The man was the talk of the moment. Articles of his life and rise, old news, dusted off and polished with new shine. She'd passed a dozen newsagents displaying glossy celebrity magazines sporting his severe, immaculate face. The secret to youth at 62! they sang. The newsfeeds replayed the footage a hundred times, imprinted with different commentators, new angles, rehashed analysis. Everyone wanted to put voice to such an historic event, to memorialise themselves within it. Even street vendors already hawked plastic replicas of Moscow's Triumphant Arch.

She folded the paper next to her on the bench, took a sip of bitter coffee, and settled to watch the rivers of people flowing endlessly in both directions; glad, for once, to be free of the current. Her eyes half lidded. It was nice to do nothing. Until she noticed the disturbance shift uneasily amongst the crowds.

Two men, hunched in heated conversation.

Averted eyes swept clear of the budding confrontation; a natural hollow surrounded them, left them standing in a bubble. Morven lifted the sunglasses from her face, perched them on top of her head. If looks could kill. Suddenly one of the men slammed back. Even through the forest of people she could see not a finger had been laid on him.

You're fucking kidding me. Instinct urged her to her feet. A bubble of anger at the sheer stupidity. Morven shoved her way close, frowning, and caught the aggressor's wrist in her hand. "Enough."


He scowled, surprised at the intrusion, and snatched his arm away. Something akin to fear flashed in his eyes before he turned and ran, shifting into the crowd headed for Kensington South.

"Asshole,"
she muttered.

The air was finally warm in Virginia. Sage hated the winter, it dried out his skin and it kept him inside because he couldn't stand the cold - it bothered the port and the incision scar and made it itch and painful. The air was cool, his wallet was in his front jeans pocket as he wandered down the streets of Alexandria on foot. It looked like he was just idly walking but he was doing so much more. His mind was split with the menial task and the rest was scanning through thousands of newly created pages on the internet. There were programs running in his head that searched out his friends, one that monitored the den's security systems for any breaches that would make his vision flash red if there was a breach.

The first time it had happened Sage nearly fell down the stairs of The Den. It hadn't happened often since then and it still startled him.

He had other trivial tasks running but they were background tasks he always ran most of the time he didn't even notice them unless they brought something to his attention. Small things like the coffee was running low in one of the cafe's. He didn't run anything he had managers and accountants and everything do those things. The cafe and the den paid for themselves and left him with an income and he could do whatever he wanted. The life he enjoyed so much - such as taking a walk for no reason other than that he could.

His walk was interrupted by a priority site that just went live. The CCD Magic Registration. Sage laughed out loud which received a few glares from others on the street as he walked along the river just across from our Nation's Capitol. He wondered what the government thought of that. But he didn't think long on it as he started poking around at their security.

It was a government site of course, he wasn't going to breach their security unless of course he saw a flaw, then he'd send a white hat hacker their way and and make them fix it. Not everyone had a small grain of morals about them. Not that Sage did, but he didn't exploit things that could be harmful to other people. He only gathered information. Information was like his drug, the more he had the better he felt and the more he needed in the end. All thanks to the piece of hardware stuck in his head. Not that he would change anything really. It was part of him now. He'd put his parents away for a very long time because they threatened him. He wasn't sure he could do more but he hadn't had to. There was a small pain of loss but they wanted to kill him to study him... Fuck that!

Sage sent packet after packet at the new registration site to bring it crawling to it's knees. Maybe someone would beg him or one of the other collective members to fix it.


Edited by Sage, Aug 9 2016, 04:37 PM.