Cont from Charms


Reed blinked a few times to wet her eyes. They felt strangely slick without her usual contacts. The embassy security gate check did not allow for the wearing of any device that might block, retransmit, or alter the reading of a retina. Reed therefore wore none today. She had to make due without the Lens warrior in her left eye. The technology was not as robust as the land warriors Jacques preferred, but she would have preferred something. As it was, she was running blind. Ironically enough.

The Chinese flag billowed on invisible streams of air overhead. Every once in a while the seemingly weightless material unfurled completely and the Five Stars would show themselves. With a self-amused smirk, Reed gauged the reaction of her fellows, if there was any. The Legion representatives seemed overwhelmingly apathetic to the Chinese. Jacques had made his feelings clear yesterday on the roof.

She stood in security line just another rep of the Legion, apparently. When it came time for her scan, she stood in place while invisible eyes tingled up and down her body. She had nothing on her of note, of course. There was a borrowed Wallet in her pocket, but that was turned over to electronics checks while she was physically cleared. Her clothing was simple as it was yesterday. Well-fit, but not particularly snug pants fit her hips and thighs well. She wore shoes that were sturdy enough to withstand the African terrain, yet they themselves weren't exactly tactical.

After her body was cleared of anything that might compromise the Chinese, they asked to examine her jacket. She slipped a short, lightweight jacket from her shoulders and laid it across the arms of an expectant young man. He was Ministry of State Security, as were all the examiners in this convoy of secrets. The Ministry was around almost sixty years, and by now were terrifying in their efficiency. Their entire purpose was to circumvent measures against enemy spies, agents and counterrevolutionaries. More so, not only did the Ministry protect against such threats to the government, but to the entire socialist system as well. Dual designations gave the Ministry enormous leverage in the scope of their mission.

Reed smiled, amused, when the man returned her things. Foremost, her jacket bore a security tape, a small square about the size of a thumbnail that allowed passage in pre-designated areas of the Embassy. Primarily, the common areas. They'd come a long ways in the last ten years.

"Thank you very much,"
she said with a disquieting smile. The Chinese man did not respond.

And Reed was inside. Of course, that was the easy part.

Days and nights blurred for Ayden. Her hours at Chesterfields were so Chaotic that she ended up sleeping in her apartment most of the time. And every single time she woke to the same image and couldn't go back to sleep. The image of Connor dying. Ayden remembered her family dying, but the images never woke her from the dreams, she only knew that they had and she felt horrible. A vague memory that she was supposed to do something accompanied the dreams. But she couldn't place it. But she knew she knew what it was in the dreams.

But the dreams never came when she found time to sleep in Connor's arms. But that was rare, they could spend more than few hours together sleeping, their schedule's just didn't fit well.

Tonight Ayden and Connor's schedule had lined up perfectly. He got off work at the same time she did. He picked her up at Chesterfields and they went out for dinner and they spent the rest of the night in his apartment making up for the lost time. Not that their sex life had been disturbed by her chaotic schedule. But it would be wonderful to wake up next to Connor after a great night's sleep. And from their time alone, Ayden was rather tired when she drifted off to sleep with Connor's arms around her. She loved sleeping with him next to her.

Dreams were happy, at first. Memories and playful dreams. When the switched happened in the dreams, it was subtle at first. Ayden started to toss and turn in her sleep. Memories of her parents were tinged red with a bullet from a rifle. The scene of her parents advocating against the military when she'd gone missing, their images splattered with their blood. Other memories were changed to horrific scenes, all because Ayden hadn't done something.

The last image was the night she had shot Connor. There was some relief to the exacting need for something, something had happened that day that made things better. But as Ayden drew close the image she saw startled Ayden awake.

She sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart was pounding and sweat slicked her skin like she'd just run a marathon. Ayden's hand was clutching Connor's. She let it go abruptly, the images still in her head as she turned to look to find Connor looking concerned up at her.

Dressed, for once, rather plainly, Hood sat on a bench watching the entrance to the city metro. People came and went in a constant stream, old women and young couples off to the markets for the inexpensive produce that could be found there even in the heart of the Russian winter, some hurrying to reach the warm buildings the market fled to during the winter months. Others were more pragmatic about it and trudged along, embracing the cold morning air, accepting as something that they could do little about asides embrace.

A weather-worn shemagh was wrapped loosely around Hood's throat, serving it's practical role as a scarf, albeit one better suited to ward off the sun and sand, not the cold. A thick, heavy down jacket with fur-lined hood. As was common for old Moscovite culture, the jacket had a decidedly military cut to it, but Hood wore it more for functionality then for appearance. It had pockets, and was warm. Water proof, and treated against stains. Practical, functional.

Of course, it did look a bit more intimidating then those ridiculous brightly coloured plastic garbage-bag looking things the young folks were wearing these days. That was a fashion he had wished died years ago, but the blasted things seemed hell-bent to hang on. He shook his head in silent exasperation as a group of young men wandered past in jackets of bright yellows and shiny blacks or opulent blues. Ridiculous things. Looked like crap.

On the bench next to him was a nondescript backpack which appeared to be empty, or at most holding something slender or small. He didn't need to glance at his watch to tell the time; it was clearly displayed on the HUD of his Landwarriors, as was a photo of the man he was waiting for. He would routinely turn his head to sweep his gaze across the area around him, waiting for the facial recognition software to spot the man in question, and was satisfied when it finally flashed a man's silhouette and confirmed his ID to the picture.

An office manager for Krasnyy Medved Security Solutions (KMSS), Mr Volodya Fyodorov. The company had recently finished being investigated for four former employees who had been killed in their attempt to kidnap a very rich man by the name of Mr Talanov, and had instead stumbled on the man's former personal bodyguard, Mr John White, of Pervaya liniya Security.

Of course, that was all the cover story for what had been a contracted assassination attempt. Not that either company, or either involved contracting parties, were willing to admit to something like that. So it was all swept under the carpet as bad men doing bad things of their own accord, leaving their parent company, KVSS, free of any bad press.

The man seemed annoyed, more so then an early Monday morning away from the office would usually call for. The man's annoyance was of little surprise, or of any real care, to Hood of course. Who wouldn't be annoyed to enter their supposedly secure work office to find a post-it-note stuck to his computer screen with a copy of his own security code to disarm the building's security systems, and a note of where to meet whomever had placed the note?

Hood raised a hand and caught the man's attention, waving him over to take a seat on the bench. Mr Fyodorov hadn't always been flying a desk; the man was ex-military, although from what Hood could gather, it hadn't been anything particularly interesting. Mundane Air Force BS. Lent well to a resume for private security work though.

Mr Fyodorov approached Hood and stopped without sitting, staring down at Hood for a long moment before glancing around to see if they were being watched. Hood gestured for the man to remove his sunglasses, and with the aid of his Landwarriors was fairly certain the man didn't have any implants for eyes.

"Sit down, neighbour. You're drawing attention."
He jerked his head to the side of the bench such that the backpack would be between them both, and when the Russian man finally sat, Hood dug out a manila file folder and held it without quite offering it to the man.

"All I want to know is who commissioned the team. If you don't know, you will find out and pass it my way. If not...well, you know how these things go, Mr Air Force."
Hood's tone was neutral, almost bored, and certainly confident. This was exactly the sort of thing he did in a past life, after all.

Mr Fyodorov snatched the folder from Hood's hand and opened it to reveal a dozen printed photos, all of the interior of Mr Fyodorov's home. His two guard dogs asleep in the yard. The main panel of their security system turned off. His living room, with children's toys still on the central throw rug. His kitchen, the fridge door open and a hand holding up a glass jug of milk. He and his wife asleep in bed. His twin boys asleep in their room. The usual sort of stuff. With the folder was the details of what Hood mentioned; the four men's names, information on them. Even their bank statements, from before things had been fudged to make the men look like they had been acting on their own.

"Do we have an understanding?"


Mr Fyodorov was no longer looking irritated. He had visibly paled, and glanced at Hood with barely contained horror. "I have no interest in you or your family asides what information you can get me on this matter. Really, it's in your company's best interests. Your people never should have been stupid enough to take the contract to begin with. Shadow wars aren't meant to be fought where the police are involved. That's what makes them shadow wars, after all. Time someone reminded whoever payed you all that lovely money to remember that."


Mr Fyodorov closed the envelope, but Hood took it and returned it to his pack, casually checking the signal scrambler that sat in there as well. It had a very limited range, but any electronics he or Mr Fyodorov would have been carrying weren't likely to be sending anything. "We do."


"Excellent. You can get it to me..."


-----

Hood walked out of a nearby alley were a burn-barrel and a group of homeless men had set up for the time being, waiting for the lunch hour rush to go back to pan handling. The added fuel for their little fire was received without question.

The file folder. Synthetic skin pads off his finger tips. More synthetic skin pads off his face that had subtly altered his cheek bones and brow, all just enough to thwart facial recognition software from a distance. Better to be safe then sorry, after all.

With that little errand checked off his list for the day, he strolled into the market area. Two birds with one stone; he needed some groceries. Rune had near eaten him out of house and home after she had graduated from the smoothies.

Hi!

Anyone out there game for a game night sort of thing?

There are a few sites that offer free online games. I thought these sounded fun.

http://www.wordner.com

http://www.wolfire.com/desperate-gods

http://en.boardgamearena.com/

http://www.isketch.net/

http://www.pogo.com/games/monopolyclassic (POGO apparently has lots of games)

A guy over at Dragonmount put this together.



Pretty cool to see the overall pattern.

We all come across stuff that we feel compelled to share with Trano. Alas, he is off at fat camp. Therefore, we will compile these collections in one place as to make it easier on him when he finally breaks out.

Carry on.


The Murican accent

Yesterday's remaining hours was devoted to two chores: both of which were completed alone. Enzo unpacked his belongings. There weren't many. Serviceable clothing made up the bulk of his duffle bag. Enzo typically wore sturdy, heavy fibered pants built for the rough terrain of rock climbing in dark colours that might blend in the night. His shirits were combinations of t-shirts, hooded sweaters, and warm pull-overs. In winter months he wore a dark blue stocking cap, such as the one pulled low over his forehead when he left Tehya's building. He had fingerless gloves and an overcoat that fell below the waist. There was plenty of room to conceal a weapon, but he typically carried no more than a sidearm and knife when not on the hunt.

Completion of the second task was what allowed him to journey smoothly to Nikolskaya street. He'd studied the rest of the night far beyond familiarity with the region. Corrado always said knowledge was the greatest weapon, and to make plans for every contingency. They would study the layouts of cities for days before considering an ambush. They had to know the territory as well as the thing they tracked and in many cases better-than if they were to walk away with the kill.

Maps were embedded in a wrist band currently concealed beneath his sleeve. The band, a blend of fiber-carbon and rubber, would also cover fares, provide identification, and transmit data such as map files as needed. Despite apparently walking out with nothing on him but the clothes on his back, Enzo was incredibly prepared for the day.

On the sidewalk, he zipped the coat as guardian against the cold, and headed for the nearest train station. The next time he emerged topside, he was momentarily stunned by the grandeur of frozen Moscow. The downtown district was truly a wonder. Everything in sight was designed to inspire intimidation and awe. Unlike the great cities of Egypt and Europe, where grandeur was synonymous with art, Moscow's elicited one emotional response from him.

'They say we will all be Soviets.'
He could almost hear the fear in his mother's voice carried on the wind. She'd been strangely unresponsive when he told her where he was going. A surprising response, he'd imagined some sort of comment about his destination. She said nothing other than I love you.

He entered headquarters through a decoy entrance in an alley a block away. Once inside, a heavy iron door with a giant round wheel for a handle swung inwards like portals in submarines. He ducked to step through and followed a long, narrow passage that despite his lack of height forced him to bend at the waist to traverse. The passageway was pock-marked with tiny ventilation holes and Enzo guessed would fill the steel tube with poison gas if necessary. This was a bottle neck, meant to protect headquarters from unexpected breeches, and perhaps, slaughter anything that attempted to pass within. He set his jaw and continued another thirty meters where a second hatch waited.

A computer-voice broke the silence.

"NAME"


"Zayin. Vincenzo Dolan. Atharim Identifier çādē-ṣāmek-ṭēt-ṭēt."
The phoenician code rolled from his tongue cloaked in a french accent.

There was a quiet mechanical sound that made Enzo look briefly over his shoulder. When he looked back, a slot had opened in the hatch and a sort of viscous screen was revealed. He took a breath and gently placed his fingertips against the reader. The first time he'd seen one of these devices was in Vatican City. It was used to program his identity into the Atharim databases. He'd assumed it had something to do with fingerprints. He was wrong.

An electric chill shot up his arm. His jaw clenched and the hairs spiked on the back of his head. It lasted only a moment, but his identity was confirmed and he pulled his hand away. His fingertips were blue. They quickly returned fleshy pink.

Magnets released the hatch and he stepped into a beautiful room. The floors, walls, and ceilings were covered with white glass that glowed from behind. In the center of the room was an onyx black desk. A man in a full black on black suit sat behind it. He was distracted by a screen that Enzo could not discern so he approached and waited quietly.

The man spoke with a thick Italian accent but he did not pull his gaze from the screen. His fingers continued to work on the desktop. "You are Vincenzo?"


Enzo nodded. "Yes."


"Door at the end of the hall. Knock once and enter. The Regus is awaiting you."


Enzo glanced down the hall.

"Thank you, sir."
He unzipped his coat and took a steadying breath. He was surprisingly calm as he approached the Regus's office, a lonely silhouette summoned for what, he would soon discover.

To add to what is already known about ijiraq, we've added the following bit of information. This is not known to anyone ic as of yet.

Ijiraq exist in hives.

Hives cover a geographical location of hundreds of miles to up to a thousand miles. An ijiraq of a given hive can freely roam within range of the hive queen.

Hives are overseen by a queen.

A queen does not necessarily directly control the ijiraq within her hive. But the ijiraq must remain within range of their queen. If the queen shifts her location, the ijiraq shift also.

The queen is linked to the ijiraq in her hive, but the ijiraq of a given hive are not necessarily linked to each other.

So an ijiraq may share knowledge, senses and experience with their queen (kind of subconscious telepathy like between identical twins), but its not consciously controlled. A queen may then decide to disseminate information to the remaining members of the hive.

Due to this telepathy type existence that isn't necessarily a shared mentality a given ijiraq is quite loyal to his queen.

Ijiraqs are always males.

Queens are asexual despite their title.

Queens do not hunt.

Little else is known about the queens. Such as if they can communicate with each other, allow for overlap between their hives, or are allies or enemies with each other.

Continued from The Dust Settles

The next morning, Jared headed to deliver the report to Jacques desk. Jared summoned mana as he walked and it was really the first time he had held mana without utilizing a spell shortly thereafter. It was an amazing feeling. Whereas most of the time, things on the edge of his vision would be slightly blurred, while holding mana, Jared saw everything more clearly than he had before. He could smell the food cooking in the mess better and he could hear even the tiniest of sounds. He made a mental note to add that to his report later.

Calvin walked from the train station to the café. Is was a little brisk, but for the time of year it wasnt extremely cold. He could still see his breath, but the sun was shining in the sky. Calvin couldn't help but be in a good mood. They had agreed to meet at the café, and Calvin wondered if that was the right choice. They were just meeting as friends - it wasn't a date...was it?

He was meeting Sierra today for coffee, but he wanted to do more. Coffee could get boring and awkward especially if one of the people had a crush on the other. Calvin had come to terms with that idea. It was rough having to think about it still. His heart was still healing from having lost Mary and Benji, but he had made some pretty good strides. Neither one had made an appearance in his dreams since then, but he had let them go and hoped they felt content.

He would have to tell Sierra, but he had no idea whether or not her feelings were the same as his. It was only fair that she knew about that part of his past. He still wondered how to tell her. He didnt want to hurt or use her. For now, he would take things slow; he still didn't know much about her, but her smile made him smile, he enjoyed her company, and he already knew they had much in common - the wolves, a love of nature, and both had lost someone they had loved way too early.

Calvin arrived at the café and stood outside. The cold didn't bother him much and he preferred to wait outside. His mind drifted, wondering what else he could do today. They both liked nature, so maybe a walk in the park; he didn't know - he'd think more about it as they were getting caffienated for the day. He leaned against the café,.waiting for Sierra to arrive.