The briefing was held in the courtyard of the Legion's headquarters in Sierra Leone. Dozens of Legionnaires had gathered, and were greatly outnumbered by the refugees-turned-aid workers that were still housed in the adjacent buildings the Legion had appropriated to house them all in the first day of the fighting. Most had been moved to more organized camps, and those few that remained were being trained in first aid, administration, cooking, and a myriad of other supporting skills needed to keep the city from floundering under the current atmosphere.

The briefing had was not voluntary. Most of the Legion's surviving soldiers in Freetown were present. What few vehicles at their disposal had been fueled and what little ammunition that had remained in the supply issued out before the briefing had been announced. Word had already begun to spread that Interi-President General Wallace-Johnson had demanded Jacques' presence. There was also rumours of a Legion supply convoy that had driven from Casablanca only a few hours from the city bringing the promise of reinforcements and much needed aid supplies.

Jacques emerged from the main building as Legionnaires were still filing out into the courtyard. The mood was tense and sullen. Memories of the Masiaka refinery and their cowardly withdrawal still fresh in everyone's minds. Most understood that had they fought there it would have meant death in the long run, but that was besides the point. That was the sort of politicking logic that saw most of them abandon their home countries and militaries of previous service. Do what was right, not what was economical.

He was shrugging into the heavy kevlar vest of the old FELIN 2 combat gear, his pistol strapped to his left thigh. Once the vest was strapped down, his white Kepi cap was produced from a pocket and neatly placed atop his head, the white neck cover protecting the back of his head and neck from the sun.

A pair of officers followed him out then jogged forward to join the gathered crowd as Jacques climbed onto the roof of one of the Legion's SUVs, where he waited in silence for a moment as the last stragglers joined the crowd and everyone fell silent.

“Many of you have questions. About Masiaka, about my decisions there. I gave the order to withdraw, to cede the refinery to the government troops. I will not explain that decision. I gave the order. I accept responsibility of the consequences.”
He would take the their blame for that. Having someone to hold the guilt for that decision would save many from placing it upon themselves. The responsibility of leadership was not without it's burdens.

“Now I have a request of you. I do not ask this of you lightly. And know that this is not an order. Should you choose, I shall do all in my power to see you returned to Morocco. Severance pay will be drawn, and you shall be returned to your countries of origin, or to wherever you choose as your next resident country.”
Jacques was unusually serious of tone; he was a gambler by reputation, and was taking a big risk with the offer. The Legionnaires gathered before him had joined a private security company. Good pay, risky employment, but they were not soldiers anymore.

“Legion Premiere is no more. The company has been folded, the private investors are seeking lawsuits over lost profits and stocks. The government of Morocco seeks the closing of our headquarters and the training camp at Arfoud. The Legion stands, and I have made a decision. Commandant Tuff and the senior officers have sided with me in this decision, and we have left any angry politicians in our wake in the past few days.”
He let the implication sink in on those gathered for a moment. He was creating his own personal army, and breaking laws to do it.

“The world suffers a lot. Not because the violence of bad people. But because of the silence of the good people. I am tired of being silent. I am tired of appeasing laws set by politicians. I am tired of protecting profit margins, rather then people. And I am tired of governments failing their countries. Wallace-Johnson ordered the slaughter of innocent people under the protection of his soldiers. Orders his soldiers carried out without hesitation. Katlego ordered the slaughter of children, orders his soldiers carried out without hesitation.”
The quote was of Napolean, something that seemed to surprise people whenever they learned it. He had ordered they abandon refugees, and they had hesitated. But they had obeyed out of trust. The deaths of those refugees was the catalyst that had sparked the will to fight back among the people of Freetown. That support was what he needed to take the city as bloodlessly as possible. The support of his Legionnaires was what would see that accomplished.

“Wallace-Johnson has called me to meet him. He expects that I shall bow my head to his rule, and promise you men to train his soldiers, to win him the country, and see the Temne people slaughtered. I have a different plan."
The order was that he go alone, but of course he would have an escort to the parliamentary building that the General had made his headquarters. That escort would include the Legion's ace in the hole, Jared Vanders, should the man choose to involve himself.

"It is folly for a man to pray to the gods for that which he has the power to obtain by himself. I have the support of the city police. The military garrison of the airport. City workers. They are poised to take control of key locations throughout the city, with your support. Wallace-Johnson's soldiers are cowards. They do not deserve the title. An organized resistance will see them surrender in short order, especially once I have cut the head from the snake.”


A signal was given through the HUD of his Landwarriors. Every Legionnaire gathered received a datapacket on their own Landwarriors, or their Wallets, or PDAs. Inside were instructions for those key locations, of whom they would work with in seeing those sites secured. Known patrol routes of Wallace-Johnson's soldiers. The Legion headquarters had been hard at work with the planning of Operation Rien N'Empêche.

“We are working on a very tight time line here, gentlemen. It is time a difference was made. Sierra Leone will be whole again.”

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Edited by Aria, Jun 22 2015, 04:10 PM.

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Edited by Aria, Jun 22 2015, 04:10 PM.

(Open thread)

Usually when Pervaya called White on his off hours, it was something involving an impromptu VIP job. It wasn't to talk to another operator about quitting the company. They had PR people for that sort of B/S. But, considering the person in question, it made sense.

So White had made a phone call, arranged a meeting, and a few hours later was seated in some high-end cafe in the heart of Moscow, the richest city in the world. As it wasn't exactly work related, White was dressed casually. Tan cargo pants and boots, button-down black shirt, sleeves rolled up tight and neat above the elbows, exposing powerful forearms. A tan shemagh was worn loose around his neck, serving as a scarf against the chill day air outside. A brown rough-leather jacket hung off the back of his seat, and the open black shirt hinted at the pistol holster worn on the left side of his chest.

Koloman sat opposite him, dressed in a snug navy-blue military-cut wool sweater and black cargo pants, his own pistol seated away in a simple hip holster. Both men carried their permits, of course, but firearms were, while not necessarily common, seen often enough in Moscow not to draw too many stares. The looks the two large, fit men drew in the high-end cafe were entirely based on their looks, instead.

Where White had a simple cup of black coffee, Koloman had chosen a London Fog. Earl Grey tea, steamed milk, vanilla flavouring. The man had a bit of a sweet tooth, it seemed. The barrista set their drinks on the table, and cast shy glances at either man as she did. White caught her gaze and flashed a ghost of a smile, and she blushed and quickly withdrew from the table. A tall, raven haired Russian beauty, but too shy for White's tastes. And besides, he was at the cafe for work-related reasons.

“So. I want to hear this from you, Koloman. What the fuck are you thinking?”


Koloman chuckled confidently and watched the waitress depart with their order, eyes lingering before looking to White. Both men shared a brief grin then they were back to business. “You should come with me. Hell, imagine the good you could do over there.”


White let out a bark of sarcastic laughter, “Good one. Do good in fucking Africa. I've killed enough of those bass-ackwards shitheads, thank you very much. Now what the fuck do you think you're going to accomplish?”


Koloman was still smiling; he was confident in his decision. He knew it was the right thing to do, and nothing White said was likely to rattle that belief. “The Legion's gearing up to do something big. Something good. What do we do here all day? Safeguard some spoiled rich sod that has never known a day of strife in their lives. Collect a fat pay check. Most of mine is spent on new suits, bribes, women, and at the gun range of course. Then what? Another fat-cat brat. There, we can save lives. Help people.”


White just stared incredulously at his coworker. Friend was perhaps too strong a word, although Koloman was likely the closest to one he had in Moscow. The man knew damn well how the world worked, and the naivety in which he spoke of going to Africa was almost painful. “Help people? For fucks sakes man. It's Africa. Nothing helps there. You can shoot all the warlords and child-soldiers you want. You'll miss a few, and they'll just step into the void. That's how it's always been. Fuck, even if you manage to prop up a new government, soon as you turn your back it just all goes to shit again. Every damn time.”


Koloman couldn't help but laugh at White's casual tone. As far as he seemed to care, they were talking about the benefits of different strains of grass seed. “This one is different, and you know it, White. He's been running around Africa all his life, and he still cares. You can see it in the press releases, the way the reporters aren't hounding him. He's not corrupt, so they have nothing to slander him with.”


“He's a rich playboy who inherited a company and has dreams of grandeur. He's going to get a lot of people killed, and that's all he'll be remembered for. And the pay is fucking terrible. Fuck, she makes more then one of those African private security twits.”
He nodded to the waitress who had returned with their drinks, and she glanced at him curiously when he referenced her.

“It's not about the pay. You saw what they did down south. His men went into that hell hole without hesitating. How many hundreds were saved?”
Koloman accepted his coffee from the waitress, and the girl glanced between the two men, hesitating a moment then leaving as another table waved or her attention.

“And for what? Two hundred of his men dead? You know full well what happened to their carcasses afterwards. And they may not have admitted it, but he got one hell of a fucking paycheck for it. Probably why he's got these damn delusions now. Chikadees go a lot further in Africa then that toilet paper half those hell holes use for money. Fuck, shiny rocks and pretty sea shells go farther.”
White had seen the press release, and had watched the combat footage. Who hadn't? It was powerful stuff. Wasn't a lot of editing involved. Hell, the man had sung to his dying troops. The man cared too much, and that was going to break him eventually. And when he eventually broke, a lot of people were going to die.

“When was the last time you did something that made that much of a difference, John? I'm growing soft here. Hell, I have no idea how you do it. I haven't been challenged in a long time. But that's not what it's about. I want to help people.”


“You already tried that one.”
White's tone was entirely deadpan, just staring at Koloman. “It's fucking Africa. One more gun isn't going to make a lick of difference there.”


Koloman smirked at that, “No, but I know more then how to just kill a man, John. So do you. Kill the right man, and do it the right way, and you take the fight out of his followers.”


“Just a matter of time before one of those half-starved idiots figure that out for themselves. You going to keep an eye on the Frenchie?”

How happy are ya'll with the wiki?

I'm in the process of looking for a different host mostly because all my sites are so slow on shared hosting. And I really want to start using my domains again for real things.

Do you like the way this wiki works? Or would you rather have something a little simpler?

I'm considering moving the wiki from Mediawiki to WordPress (I can hear FL groaning now)...

We WILL NOT lose any information if we change platforms I will write a script to convert from one platform to another.

So now is the time to speak up if you think a change is in need. If you don't like WordPress and it would hinder you to using it then I'm okay with staying with mediawiki but it's so clunky for our use that I feel another system might be better for our use case. But not totally my call here.

High Alert!

Going out to all Atharim in the Moscow Area. Be on the lookout for a reborn god.

One Sebastian Volodin, age 27, brown hair blue eyes, 1.82 m (6 ft), approximately 72.5 kg (160 lbs).

Report any activity to Martin Borovsky. DO NOT ENGAGE! HIGHLY AGGRESSIVE AND DANGEROUS!

Picture to follow:



[[ This goes out to every Atharim in Moscow. Feel free to report here via Text to Martin or incorporate it into your existing thread (can do both). Please PM Martin if you don't post here tho so I can make sure he gets the info IC. Thanks! ]]

[[Sorry couldn't help the reference]]

It was all over the news, but more importantly it was in the CCDPDs vision. A god fought with one of their own officers. This was not a good thing. This was going to be hard to pull from the grips of the mundane, even with a man on the inside it was going to be difficult.

Today, Martin would meet the others. Today Martin would put them out on their missions. Today the Regus could very well join in on their meeting and on their first official hunt. A true god had emerged, there were videos of the man and his abilities. He was just a common thug, no one was going to miss the bastard. No one.

Martin called in all those in the first order of Archangels. They would hunt this god, they would kill him and right the world. He was sure of it, it was their destiny, it was their legacy. It was time to fulfil that and bring the world back into balance.

There were several new faces under his command. He'd sent texts to one Jacinda Cross, an American who came across the great ocean that separated the two worlds and impressed the Regus enough. He hoped she was half of what he expected. A woman as old as him, who'd lived this long, this was no soft woman. And another who crossed the seas, Ichiro Yoshimura, a Japanese samurai who came for the honor he assumed. The rest were all native to Old World European or all within reach of Moscow or the Vatican by land. He trusted those men and women before he trusted those who were separated by the water, particularly the American. She would have much work to do.

Today they would all get a run down on new tech. And plan for the destruction of this one God. He doubted he'd let any of them take this one down, he was first, he intended to hunt this god and kill it, but he'd take all the help he could get.

The Guardian complex was a maze of canals, bridges, streets and signs, and that was only the parking lot. It was a long time before Jensen was finally inside the hospital, but the fire in his veins had not cooled by then.

The whoosh of glass doors opened for him, and the sterile expanse of a hospital lobby loomed ahead. This wasn't his first time in the Guardian. He was brought here the night Jessika found him by his old apartment, the night he first realized he could save a life on the brink. He came by ambulance, or so he was told after the fact, so his view of the emergency room was rather one-sided. Someone bumped into him so hard he stumbled aside. Two men labored by, one was clutching his arm painfully, the other pointing the way to triage.

Jensen unzipped his jacket as he watched their fate. The triage nurse directed them to a station to fill out forms, he assumed. The injured man hung his head, holding his arm close, while his friend did the work. They were in for a long wait as it seemed the entire waiting room was full of the sick and injured.

Nerves crept up his spine. He'd wanted to do this alone, if it would even work. He'd been able to use the Gift for the gravely injured but was unaware if it would work on the ill. He walked through the waiting room, heart sinking as he passed within arm's reach of chair-after-chair of the suffering. His pace slowed as he peered down upon the form of a little boy about four curled up in his mother's lap. He and Jess took Gabe, their oldest, to the ER once with a high fever. Jensen thought he was going to die of fear, but before he could do anything about this poor child, his mother glared and pulled her son closer. Jensen kept going. He needed to be alone, at least at first, with a patient to see if it even worked. He wasn't sure what he was going to imagine would happen, but he knew the waiting room wasn't the place to find out.

He approached the triage nurse. "Excuse me,"
she looked up as he spoke. She looked tired. "I'm here to visit someone,"
he said. She blandly looked down. "What's their name, and are you family?" He didn't know the name of anyone in the ER, and even if he were to venture a random guess, and by coincidence matched someone, he could not claim to be family without lying. "No, I'm not family,"
he said, dejected. She shook her head and didn't even look back up at him. "Nobody gets in," she proclaimed and Jensen's already sunken heart was ready to give up, "Unless they are family, a doctor, or a member of the clergy."

He gasped. The clergy.

"I'm clergy. A pastor."
He said it before there was time to process the claim. How often had he visited members of the church in the hospital? Hundreds. Why hadn't he thought it before? He should have worn different clothes. The nurse's look was skeptical, but Jensen quickly drew out a wallet and showed her some credentials... granted they were woefully out of date, and unlikely to be acknowledged in the CCD.. he hoped they would suffice.

She shrugged, dropped a visitor's pass on the counter, which he gladly scooped up, and spun away to tend to the next person. He hurried off before he could change his mind.

The last encounter with his rogue daughter had not been pleasant. And the drinks he'd had with her boyfriend had been insightful. The best way to hurt the girl and to make her come to him was going to be through that boy.

Giordano didn't take a life easily, he didn't do much of what he did out of natural spite, he just deserved it, so he took it. The Atharim had tailed him his whole life, had removed his parents from him. And then sought to kill him too, just for existing. There might be additional reasons now. And with his own daughter one of them he felt the need to be rid of that torment.

But this girl, this Aria. She was an abomination, worse than he ever was, she was Atharim. He would draw her to him. That was the plan, and the boy in the tattoo shop that lay across the street was the key.

He'd been gone for a few days, Giordano hated waiting, but he didn't the other boy in the shop, he was nothing really. When Aria's boy was alone in the shop Giordano stepped inside, the small bell on the door alerting the occupant to his entrance. Giordano smiled as he pulled both gloves from his hand and stuck them in one pocket. "Hello there." Giordano's right hand slipped into his pocket where he held a small pistol ready to be used as necessary, if the boy didn't listen or caused problems. "I think it's time to close up shop."

Sweat dripped down Jared's face, a few drops falling and hitting the floor. Sierra Leone was a hot and humid climate, but on top of that, Jared had spent time training in his magic. He had a feeling he would need to use it soon.

Jared was tired despite the forced rest. After attempting to sleep, which was difficult as every time he let his mind get quiet he heard the screams of the refugees in Masiaka - screams he likely heard more clearly than his comrades with magic enhanced hearing, Jared went on patrol which was immediately followed by practicing magic.

Jared took a seat in the basement and used a towel to wipe off his face, and as his mind cleared he heard the screams again. He shook his head, willing them away. He could have summoned mana, but he was too tired and just wanted to feel human again for awhile. After a few minutes, he stood and headed to the showers.

He didn't spend much time there, as he hadn't spent much time anywhere in the last couple of days. Anything to distract. He checked a clock as he walked back to his room. It was late and the sun had already set. He knew he should probably sleep, but also knew it would be a long time in coming. He grabbed his wallet and headed to the Mess area.

He didn't get a cup of coffee or even a water. Jared instead just sat down in an uninhabited corner of the room, yawning as he did, and began to see what was happening in the world elsewhere. Jared hadn't been in Sierra Leone long, but felt he needed to escape for a bit. Maybe the short escape would make his rest later come a little more easier.

Jared skipped anything on Sierra Leone, knowing first hand what was happening there. Instead he found other things to keep his time. Some police officer was attacked in Moscow by an "unknown energy weapon." It seemed as if the press was still trying to hide the existence of magic.

He paused on another article, unsure of why he did so. The headline read "Shale Industries to Expand." Jared read the article, familiar with the company that had invented the technology that he was using to read it. Shale Industries was setting up shop in Moscow - it seemed everything revolved around the CCD's capital now.

It wasn't a terribly interesting article, but Jared remained glued to it for awhile. He eyes hovered towards the picture of the young woman - Emily Shale, CEO. He recalled that she had donated something to Sierra Leone in memory of her late parents.

"Probably some rich snob,"
he thought, but still felt guilty for it. There were rich people who cared.

With a sigh he put the wallet down on the table and leaned his head against the wall to stare at the ceiling. Jared wondered if he looked as bad as he felt.