A Dark Operations helicopter darted across the stars. Cold, deadly mountains were the terrain far below, and above, distant starlight their only map for orientation. Its occupants were four military, not including the two pilots, and one apparent civilian....

They landed near a heavy gate, one which guarded the only passage in and out of the cityscape beyond. The blades whipped cold air onto the face of that 'civilian' as he disembarked. Immediately, he curled a black mask down his face. The eye-pieces were lit from within, and his clothing was laced with numerous state-of-the-art technologies. Yet he was all but hidden from sight, donned in full black gear as he was.

The gate was opened at their approach. Beyond a car waited on the other side to drive him into the heart of the city. But first, an officer stopped him on the way.

"Final communications check?"

"Affirmed," he replied.

"Locator check?"

"Affirmed," he replied.

He began to go, but the captain stopped him again. "Sir, are you sure you do not wish to take at least a pistol?"

The man, a shade blacker than the surrounding darkness, turned to gaze upon the officer. "I have all the weapons I need, captain. Besides, I will be closely watched."

He sprinted toward the waiting trucks and officially disappeared behind the confining walls of the closed city of Sarkovo.

Edited by Ascendancy, Jan 4 2015, 10:08 PM.

This post is for information in how to play in the WAR GAMES related to this thread: Evolution.

Three cities of unidentified location by the names of Sarkovo, Zatonovka, and Bos'yet will be host to CCD orchestrated War Games meant to study the effects of channelers in combatant situations.

The cities have each been a closed city since the rule of the USSR. They do not appear on maps or acknowledged by surrounding cities for fear of deep and severe repercussions. In some cases, they are described as mere villages by surrounding peoples, when in fact, a given city may be well over 100,000 strong in population.

The three in question for these war games have been closely monitored since the fall of the USSR. Internet or cellular use is not available in these regions. Only military have access to satellite phones or radio. All three cities are spread out across geographically isolated regions in the Siberian mountains. The primary language by citizens inside each city is English, as the take over of the CCD forced the use of the language into the education system and English-only radio or television are the only options for entertainment.

With the advent of the military-grade security around the perimeter, technologies have been installed across the cities to monitor the coming developments. Two weeks ago, twenty individuals (10 men and 10 women) were taken from Sickness containment camps and placed against their will inside these cities. At the same time, all law-enforcement has been evacuated beyond the perimeter walls. Any semblance of law and order derived from the larger government is ablated. The people are literally left to themselves.

You may chose to play an NPC that has been placed in the city of Sarkovo. You will have on you $50 CCD in cash, warm clothing appropriate for the climate, and nothing else. No identity, technologies, or means for help are given to you. You're likely dumped from a car in an isolated spot, such as an alley or parking lot, and left to fend for yourself. As a channeler, you are weak to moderately powered (nothing over a level 20: aka, a strong Aes Sedai or average Asha'man strength).

I will post the introductory War Games in the Rest of the World board and announce it here when they are open.

For questions, please post them here or contact me.

Michael was a strategist, but he wasn't Nikolai's only strategist. Nikolai leaned back in his seat, studying the faces of the members of the Collective today. By far Nikolai did not share the fullness of his plans with any given individual, but the Collective came close.

General Kondrat Borodin, Chief of Special Operations, gestured at the world map behind Nikolai, highlighting several key nations. He addressed the entire Collective before turning toward Nikolai, "The 'next evolution in warfare,"
he quoted Nikolai at their previous meeting, "In the mid twentieth century, the Soviet Union tested the effects of nuclear weapons on the general population. Only the highest ranking officials were aware of the existance of these so called 'closed cities.'"


The General's fingertips across the table called the map into motion and an area within the Steppe mountains was highlighted. The faces of Generals aware of this history flatly watched the map roam. Nikolai watched them process the information, all attentive, but familiar. All but the Commissioner-General of the Custody Police, he seemed the most curious.

"With the results from these tests, we learned valuable insight into the effects of nuclear warfare, but the end-game strategies had yet to be drafted. Nuclear war cooperatives led to the zero-sum fallacy. Where losing a war did not necessarily mean someone else won it."


Admiral Kennedy, Chief of Naval Operations drummed his fingers on the table and spared a look of boredom with Nikolai. He and Borodin were professional, but no love was lost between the two.
"What is this about, Ascendancy?"


Nikolai gestured at the map behind him. The satellite view of the mountains, pock-marked by enormous craters, the footprints of detonated explosives, hovered behind him.
"About the next evolution in warfare,"
he said, but recorrected himself. "Specifically, the next evolution in military exercise."


With that, he'd grasped the Collective's attention. General Borodin returned to his seat and Nikolai stood in his place, pacing before the map. "With the world filling with those men like Commander Vellas"
-he spoke carefully, 'men' distinct from their Ascendancy- "we must know how combat will play out. We need exercises to study the chaos to be spawned from such rapidly evolving conflicts."


The Commissioner spoke up, like a true detective, guessed where the Ascendancy was going. "The 'closed cities', the ZATO's, were publicized in 1989."


Nikolai lifted a finger, silencing the Commissioner, and with a look, warned against interrupting him again.

"Forty-four closed ZATO cities still exist, Commissioner."


Nikolai turned and the present map, familiar to only himself and General Borodin dissolved. In its place, red targets identified the location of three of these cities. Their names were buried beneath the monuments of the Soviet Union, and nothing but memories of century's worth of the dead recalled them. "Communication in and out are monitored, mail is redirected to ghost-town Post Boxes, and only with rare special clearances are individuals allowed to come and go."
He did not elaborate on what purpose these cities remained, but they provided a convenient 2 million people to experiment with.

"Three of these cities, chosen for their geographical isolation, have been recently fortified with military-grade borders. Two-hundred and twelve thousand people exist within these three cities, and twenty survivors each of the Sickness have been placed within the fortifications."


The Admiral lifted his chin, "War games. Conflict incited by superimposed tensions, controlled by the confines of the system, let loose to monitor their natural outcomes from which may be derived philosophies we can apply to nations."


Nikolai smiled a rare, cold smile. "Exactly."


The Police Commissioner, cowed from the earlier interruption, shook his head. "From what we've seen on our own streets, these cities will tear themselves apart as soon as our official law and order desists. Thousands will be at the mercy of chaos all for the sake of an exercise?"


Nikolai ignored him for the time being. He was going to need to have a private chat with the Commissioner-General of CDPS. Later. "Next week I am journeying to Altai Krai, the second Custody district of Siberia. One of the cities is going to have an external force to incorporate."


Kondrat Borodin cleared his throat, and Nikolai deferred to his most prominent General. "The Ascendancy's safety will be our top priority."


Nikolai agreed.

Jacinda smoothed the dress over her hips as she looked in mirror. It was a dark purple silk with gold accents at the hip and bosom. Not too low cut, though. Not that she was remotely modest. But she wanted to look like she belonged, not draw attention to herself. Her hair was done in a stylized braid that hung over one shoulder. The jade earrings complemented the dress.

The Villa she stayed in was small but a nice place for all that. She'd not stayed with Ricky after the quetz hunt. She wasn't upset with him. In a way, he'd saved her life. Under normal circumstances, after a hunt like that when the blood was hot and the fight had been good, she woulda had a nice vigorous bout of wrestling with him to celebrate. In the cave even.

But he was too busy worrying about the girl. Not that Jacinda didn't care, not really. Just that the hunt never stopped. The girl was out and if she was smart, she'd be able to make it on her own now. Instead, Ricky had decided to adopt her or whatever. Play house anyway. The kid was good-hearted. And a fool. He had no idea what he was getting into.

Not her concern, though. Not her life. So she'd kicked around the city for a few days. Ricky's intel was dry anyway. But in a dive bar she'd started hearing stories about the American, Oakland, and his taking on of the cartels. Not that local politics interested her. Rather, the things she heard about Oakland. The whispered rumors about abilities. Her ears had perked up at that. She did more digging and the rumors grew. Both of his background and of more recent activity.

It had been a long time since she'd hunted a god. Usually, the ones she'd gotten were pathetically sick and weak. Easy prey. Once, she'd taken out an entire family. There were twins who would call on the power. If ever there was clear justification for terminating a bloodline, that was it. She'd been good at it. Made it look like an accident. Still, a part of her hadn't been completely cool with the whole thing. But that had been a long time ago and she'd not had to do that since.

This Oakland though, if he was a god, he would be a new challenge. He was not sick or weak. Obviously. His power was something he consciously used. This would be a real hunt. So she had gotten closer, paid off people, learned what she could. There was some sort of public function the man was having in connection with the local government. Looked like they got their balls back now that they had a new player in their midst. Pathetic.

It hadn't been hard coming up with a cover to get in, nor some fake ids. She always had them with her. Today she would be Lucy Nolan, a reporter for an obscure American media outlet, a persona she'd used before. A search on the internet would even show articles that she'd "written" and published. Anticipation stirred in her as she made sure that she looked the part. She always felt this way when starting a new hunt.

Satisfied she'd fit in and be able to gather intel, she went to the car she'd ordered up and it delivered her to the Governor's mansion where the fete was being held. She held her purse in her hand with a few necessary items. She was relatively unarmed, aside from the small wooden knife at her thigh and the chopsticks in her hair the doubled as weapons. She breathed a sigh as she passed through the detectors without incident.

People milled about and she had second thoughts about her dress. She could've been nearly topless and wouldn't have stood out. As in the dresses of so many of the younger women- arm candy clearly- were as low cut as physically possible without falling off. One or two caught her eye and she smiled cat-like. She did like a nice form and she had to give it to them. They knew how to show off. But she wasn't here for that.

Her eyes scanned the room even as she took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. It did not appear that Oakland had arrived yet. She took a sip, enjoying the tickle of the bubbles in her nose.

In the bowls of the earth, the world was about to change. Eight men stood before him with an array of emotions from confused to expectant. The designated room had been cleared of everything. Nothing could pass the barrier between two worlds without examination and permission.

A little way off to the side, Marucs watched. Behind the recruits, a team of doctors waited, Dr. Weston foremost among them. The air was rife with wild tension. He could feel it in the bones of every soul in the room, if it was not fear, it was curiosity or hunger.

Cut in black, Michael was a tower of stark power. Even without the bubble of calm he felt at home. The energy in the room gave him life that did not pale in the face of these would-be Ascendants.

His message was plain but powerful. "Welcome, Ascendants. I am here to give you mastery over your power. You are the first, but you will not be the last. You have gained an extraordinary ability, but at a price."


A pale-faced man with hard eyes spoke up, his back stiff and gaze straight. A soldier. "Spare us the shit,"
he said in a French flavoured accent. "'With great power comes great responsibility.' 'You are maggots as you are.' I have heard it before. I did not survive to be put back in boot-camp."


Michael ignored the faces of the rest, focusing on the former soldier. "Your name?"
He asked in a neutral tone.

"Julian Monserre."


Michael stepped forward, some of the others fell back, some remained. He did not bother to take note of which. It was like looking into the faces of newborn children. Until they learned how to walk, he could not gauge them. Realising the power within changed a man for good or ill. It was then he would be most cautious.

"You remember what it was like. Good. Then demonstrate what comes next."
The man's confidence wavered as Michael held is eyes, but his pride would not allow him to back down. "Show me you are beyond it."


Several minutes passed in slience. Monserre grasped at the ascendant power five times before he caught it. Michael could here murmurs amongst the other seven as they felt the storm.

The 'storm' was little more than a sun-shower. It was barely a quarter of what he himself could summon.

While Monserre revelled in triumph, Michael remained cool. "A worthy feat. It is not easy to grasp such power. It takes some men days to do what you have."
Monserre's pride ballooned, but it was soon to be popped.

With deliberate calm, Michael stepped forward without haste and punched Monserre in the stomach. The wind lunged from his lungs and the power fled his feeble grasp, sending a spark of power through the man's body that threw him halfway across the room.

When Monserre struggled to his feet, his steps were unsteady and he looked like he was about to vomit.

Michael turned back to the other seven. "Julian was lucky he was not killed. It may be an old saying, but it applies to this more than anything you have done. We are playing with fire. At any moment, if you cannot control yourself or your power, it will devour you. It is an eternal struggle, and one mistake can prove fatal. Now, your names."


The replies were simple and boast-less, even if some still held a fire in their eyes.

The Korean man, Im Seung Jun. An smooth-shaved Iranian, Karim al'Shadis. Dominik Taichechski; his young Russian eyes burned bright with hunger. Samuel Leweski, another Russian younger still. Sanjay Ramanujan, a soft-spoken Indian. Anthony Petrovic, Bosnian IT expert and Allan Rykovi last, a British born Russian with a small smile.

He gazed at his recruits and measured their worth. Aside from the disappointment of Monserre, they were a mix of ordinary men who had lived ordinary lives, but they were his, and he would make them extraordinary.

Ricky held the door open for Marta and entered the bar after her. There wasn't only a lone female patron in the bar and the bartender Miguel. Since he took Marta in, Ricky spent less time behind the bar and handled more of the business end of things. Ricky smiled at him and led Marta to the bar.

"Miguel, could you get this little girl a cola."


Miguel smiled andcomplied. Marta took the offered glass and took a sip. "Can I sit over there"


Ricky nodded, and Marta headed over to.the table. Enirique frowned. He had hoped that today would change things a bit, but he had to keep working on building her trust. Regardless, something had happened today. He had taken her to a zoo and despite not smiling, he had seen her eyes light up at seeing the animals. She even had a slight smile when they saw the baby pandas. It was slow going, but today gave him the encoiragemt he needed.

"How's that going?" Miquel said.

"Rough, but I think I'm making progress."
he looked over at Marta. She was sitting at a table by herself dirnking her coca cola. "Did you get it."


Miguel smiled and pulled out a small stuffed panda. Seeing the smile gave him an idea. Ricky paid the man back and headed over to the table. "Marta, I have a gift you.


She looked up and Ricky handed her the toy. The brief smile didn't retuen, but her eyes lit up momentarily. It was only a moment. Marta took the bear and put it on the table and turned back to her coke.

Ricky headed back to the bar. "It will happen man. If anyone can help her, you can."

Ricky smiled and then turned to face the female patron. "Can I help you with anything."
He kept his eye on Marta , however. Despite the struggles he was dealing with, the little girl had changed him for the better. He knew that deep don she was sweet and couldn't wait to see it.

Within the corner office of a corporate building in downtown Dallas sat a campaign team around a board room table. Equal numbers men and women were present, and all were clean-cut, modest and professional. Pilar, a middle-aged lawyer with chestnut brown hair and lovely Texan tan, was seated to the right of the remaining empty chair. Her counterpart on the other side was a Cory, a 30-something year old campaign manager who earned a name for himself getting a republican governor in the state of California, a state that historically swung bluer than the Pacific Ocean. The remaining members of the team consisted of representatives from big business, including the now defunct Texas Oil, marketing specialists, and constitutional experts.

The door opened and both Pilar and Cory were first to greet the woman that entered. She was a beautiful women, but the severity of her expression gave her otherwise big and bouncy femininity a harsher edge. Her smile did not break that hard facade, but it did warm the room slightly. As well it should, a had cold-spell gripped Dallas lately.

She placed a thumb chip on the table and immediately brought up a screen from which they could all view.

Her voice was pleasant and patient, long Texan drawl quite noticeable to those without the natural accent: such as Cory. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed, drinking in the sight of the beautiful Jessika. "As you know, the leading issue on my platform for the Governor's race is the Texas sucession from the United States."
A few nods here and there followed.

"I've read this first draft and well--"
she crossed her arms, "I think a pair of illiterate illegals could have constructed something better."
Her smile tightened like the corners of her mouth might crack, but the porcelain glass of her face did not fracture.

She swiped a hand through the projection, like claws down a chalkboard, and it disappeared from sight. "Do it again, and this time, I want to see a draft devoted to succession, not flirting around with her like a whore on Market street."
She clapped twice and the room bounced into action, most everyone filed out to return to their desks.

Jessika planted her hands on her hips and turned disappointed toward Pilar, "You let me waste my time reading that nonsense? I expected better from you."


The lawyer stood, unafraid of meeting the smaller, although no less frail, Texan that otherwise dominated the room. "Apologies, Jessika. These writers need clear instructions. I think nobody really expects you'll go through with it when elected. They wanted to give a loophole, in case it was necessary."


Jessika's eyes widened, "I don't back down on my word, Pilar. Make sure it's done right this time. I won't waste another 600 pages of reading again."
Pilar nodded and Jessika turned to see a sight for sore eyes. Cory was about the only one that understood her. As though he read her mind, he pat her on the shoulder and lead her toward the window where he offered her an iced tea - sweet as his baby blue eyes. "Either way, it's good practice. When it comes time for the governor's debate, you have to know your own work better than anyone, and trust me, the incumbent's team will have a dozen people ripping your proposal apart, yet only you will be there to defend it."


Jessika was soothed by the tea and Cory's calm presence. She toyed with the collar of Cory's sunshine yellow shirt. "Thank you, sweetie. I don't know what I would do without you."
They held one another's eyes for a moment, until the voice of an assistant interrupted. Jessika looked over.

"A message for you, ma'am. It's from Mexico City."


Jessika glanced at Cory, taken aback. "Who in Mexico City wants to talk to me?"

((This thread is to mark Ricky's journey in attempting to gain Marta's trust and help her heal. This will be an ongoing thread that I post in containing mostly their interactions. If you would like to participate, please PM me first.))

Continued from Heart of Sin

Marta sat in the corner of the room on the floor. She was able to see the closed door clearly. The man Ricky had taken her here - said he adopted her. Did that mean he bought her and she was now his property? That's what El Diablo had said. He owned her and leased her out to people...whatever leased meant.

The man Ricky had been nothing but kind to her, but she didn't trust him. He was a man and she was a girl and men hurt girls. That's what they did. The kinder ones were worse. They made you think you safe and then they hurt you. it was always more than physical. It always hurt on the inside. She could feel the pain in her heart and stomach and it gnawed for days with the feelings of betrayal.

Among his kindnesses was this room. Ricky said it was her room - her own space. He had bought her a bed, a dresser, and a chair. There was a closet that had some clothes hanging in it and a pretty dress that he had bought her hung on the door. The dresser had clothes in it as well. He bought her toys too. She didn't understand why it was taking so long for him to hurt her. Maybe he liked making her terrified.

Sometimes Marta would start to shake and feel sick. It was then that she got angry and sad. Ricky took her to a doctor. The doctor always smiled and asked her how she was feeling. She wondered what the two were plotting. They said big words like "heroin" and "withdrawals" and looked at Marta sadly. Then the doctor would give her a shot and she’d feel better. They had gone several times and Marta had noticed there was less liquid in the needle than when she started. She heard them talk about “weaning” and didn’t know what it meant.

She hugged her knees to her chest trying to hide in the corner and buried her face in her knees. He had never tried to hurt her, but Marta knew it was coming. Most of the time, she stayed in her room, avoiding those kind eyes and bright smile. The longer the kindness lasted, the worse it hurt. it was then Marta began to realize that Ricky wasn't a man. He was a monster. The pain would be really bad this time.

She huddled in the corner in fear and felt the stinging tears in her eyes, overwhelmed by the thoughts. Ricky confused her. She didn’t know why he was being so nice and lying about it. He was mean too - she knew it. Mommy and Rafael were gone too, and it was her fault. If she hadn’t been born, none of this would have happened.

Marta tried to hold the tears back and kept the whimpering low. Some men got mad when she cried and said it"turned them off." She didn't know what they meant by that. Others smiled at her pain and enjoyed it. She wondered what kind Ricky was. Maybe if she made him mad, he would let her go away and then she would really be safe.

There was a knock at the door and Marta jumped. She didn't think she would ever get used to that. At the brothel they never knocked. Marta wiped the tears as the door cracked open. Ricky never looked in either - it was strange. “Marta, it’s time for dinner.” He always let her eat with him too.

She stood and walked slowly and carefully to the door. Ricky was waiting outside and she didn’t meet his gaze. You never looked unless they said it was okay to. “Sir, may I use the bathroom please.”


“Of course, honey. You don’t need to ask to do that anymore okay?”


Marta didn’t answer as she went to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She wanted to cry again. He said things like that a lot. That she didn’t have to ask to get dressed or go to the bathroom He said she didn’t have to wait on him all the time. She knew it was a trick. He was doing this so he could hit her. She saw through his lies and wouldn’t fall into his trap. She took this time to wash her face before sitting down at the table to eat.

Ricky asked her questions, but she didn’t hear or answer. She quietly ate and planned. She wanted Ricky to hurt her because it would hurt less the sooner he did it. Maybe if she made him mad enough, he would get rid of her. Of course, maybe she could escape. That’s it. She would run away. If she got away she would be safe and if he caught her again, he could start making him mad.

Edited by Enrique, Dec 31 2014, 11:27 AM.

There were always risks to working the street when trying to dig up information. Surveillance in the heart of DI was a hard thing to manage without being noticed. Cameras, security systems, high paid guards. And that was just the commercial sector. There was always the risk of running foul of a government-paid sort. A cop that actually gave two flying fucks and had a half decent eye for detail was a headache he rarely had any interest in dealing with. Luckily for him, Hood was very good at his job. His old job.

METZAVED Solutions held an office in one of the city's less prestigious high-rises. Still a sign of a very succesful company that there head offices were in Moscow, let alone only a few miles from the Red Square. To one of those 'careful eyes,' there was no way someone like Hood fit in with the local foot traffic. Tall, well built, and far too still. Everything about the man denied the likelihood of him being a computer programmer or common businessman.

Luckily, he did look like, and did work as, a security specialist and had the cards, equipment, and trade lingo to pull it off. After nearly a week of observation and espionage, Hood had gathered the information he needed. Persons of interests, financial and familial connections. Hell, he even knew what schools the Board of Investors had attended and what clubs they had been in...which, oddly, had proven the hardest part. Sad that a prestigious university had been harder to crack then a world-class programming company.

With the information gathered, it was just a matter of sorting through it for the next piece of the puzzle. He knew that someone was watching for whomever was poking around. The timely death of Mr Volodya Fyodorov, of Krasnyy Medved Security Solutions, the night he had given Hood the information that had led him to METZAVED, was ample sign that they were watching for nosy folks, but were probably expecting a reporter. How aggravated where they that no reporter had wormed out of the dirt yet?

As he often did when not working, Hood traveled by foot or metro. Considering the time of year, and the distance from METZAVED Solutions back to the safe-house, the metro was in order. He was one of few who enjoyed a small pocket of space on the otherwise crowded subway cars, and equally one of the few that had n real worry of pickpockets. In fact, he always hoped one would try their luck...but they never did.

The ride from the city center to his stop took the better part of an hour, and the train was steadily less crowded at each stop. It was still early in the day, such that most folks were headed the other way. The only ones that lingered were the homeless or the troublemakers. Of which there was no shortage in the Zamoskvorechye district.

There was a Kofe Khauz, a chain of 24 hour coffee joints popular mostly among the young crowd and night owls, located across from the Zamoskvorechye metro station, and Hood made his way towards it. Stopping for a cup of coffee would give him a chance to watch the metro station for any signs of pursuit; the next train was due twenty minutes after the one he had just left. Plenty of time to warm up and have a cup of coffee.

As he crossed the street, calmly waving traffic to a stop to allow his passage, he eyed a crew of shit-brained gopniks squatting at the mouth of an alley and being their usual public-nuisance selves. They were a pitiful Russian subculture that had somehow, and for the life of him he had no idea how, survived the many decades since their inception. Something to do with the fall of Soviets, as he understood it.

The group were up to their usual antics; loud 'music', bottles of cheap booze (probably homemade swill in recycled bottles) in hand, their ridiculous cheap brand-name sports attire. The alcohol and a dose of drugs was probably all that kept them from really noticing the winter chill, but who was he to tell them of the dangers of frostbite? Let them lose an ear or two.

They were the sort of people that Hood wanted to punch on sight. It was surely a sign of how well-adjusted he was to living among 'normal' people that he didn't go ahead and do it whenever the mood struck. He needed provocation first. It also made things easier with the law if anyone actually wanted to press charges. Self defense and all that.

So Hood had fully intended to ignore the gaggle of drunken idiots if it weren't for their own antics getting themselves onto his radar. It was a pretty cliche'd scene really. Really, the sudden convergence was almost enough for him to believe in a higher entity on high. One that must surely enjoy watching Hood punch things.

He was half way across the street when one of the idiot gopniks smashed an empty bottle of vodka on the sidewalk, spraying glass on baby carriage being pushed through the slush choked sidewalk, a woman and her baby on their way to the metro station to go into the big city. Another pair of tracksuit wearing idiots casually slashed an old man's grocery bag with a box cutter, and the group were laughing like the drunken idiots they were as they kicked the cans that fell out of the man's bags.

They weren't all that far out of his path, and he wasn't actually all that interested in a cup of coffee. Of course, he shouldn't have been drawing attention to himself, but how often was it that the universe handed him so ideal a punching bag?

The woman with the carriage hurried past, wanting nothing to do with the troublemakers, but the old man was someone Hood recognized from his neighborhood. Not the sort that could afford letting even just a few beaten up cans of food go to avoid a run in with a pack of gopnik thugs. The man was cursing the group out in Russian, which only earned him more laughs from the post-CCD generation punks.

Hood tugged his gloves on a touch tighter, flexing his fists a few times to make sure they had a good fit, then snatched one of the cans out of the air as a blond dye-job'd spiky-haired twit pitched it, likely meaning to hit the baby carriage. He bounced the can in his hand once, meeting eyes with the idiot that had thrown it, and just as the punk opened his gap-toothed mouth to curse Hood out for interfering in his fun, Hood whipped the can towards the idiot, catching him in the teeth.

The group, seven guys and two women, all froze in a brief moment of shock as one of their numbers was sent crumbling to the snow-crusted sidewalk, spitting blood and broken teeth. The old man didn't flinch though, simply snatching one of his cans from one of the momentarily frozen gopniks and quickly stepping out of the way. Or as quickly as man of his age could.

So something just struck me this morning as I perused books for a tabletop RPG my brother has. I seem to recall we had a master thief or two around. And there's magic in the world and stuffs. And it's all old and heralds back to past ages.

So shouldn't there be some interesting thingies that may be legit magical (Angreal, Ter'Angreal, stuff like that) that may be sitting in museums or in folks private collections all around the world? I mean, maybe Stonehenge is a massive Ter'Angreal of some sort (Portal Stones perhaps?). Maybe the heads of Easter Island are all stone-age replicas of a single one that's far older and still buried somewhere on the island? Or elsewhere, perhaps.

I've not had much coffee yet, so perhaps this is a thing that has already been discussed, but eh...figured I'd toss it up here now before I forget.