Jensen is looking for a way to find someone with an inside track on police scanner type of activity. Does anyone have any ideas? Or want to get involved? I only have a general idea of where this is heading at this point.

The political situation in Sierra Leone in recent years had been complicated. With the discover of what could prove to be some of the world's largest deposits of rhodium in the world, rivaling the rich deposits in Russia and the dwindling mines in South Africa, the situation had only grown more complicated.

Desperate to secure a fresh source of the super rare metal outside of the CCD, the United States and China had both been applying greater pressure on the Sierra Leone government, encouraging trade agreements and mining rights that would favour themselves over any other potential bidder. And to ensure it's stranglehold on the market, the CCD had begun flexing it's own influence.

With the discovery of the deposits, there had been a massive economic boom which had seen the construction of modern mines and industrial complexes in the southern portions of the country, populated mostly by the Mende peoples, who also controlled the country's government.

Wealth and jobs flowed into southern Sierra Leone, while the north remained mostly untouched by the increased wealth and opportunity. To appease foreign investors, all major infrastructure improvements had been in the regions of the mines and plants, in the south, and many in the northern half of the country, mostly of the Temne tribes, felt increasingly abandoned and ignored, left to suffer.

Increasing rumors of political corruption and bribery had led to ever-increasing tensions between the north and south halves of the country, and in light of recent elections, seeing the Mende peoples again in a strong majority rule, could prove to be the last straw in a country with a long history of military coups, assassinations, and civil war.

-----

Légion Première held a large number of contracts throughout Sierra Leone. If seeking a private security company to keep your state-of-the-art processing plant safe, you turned to the best. Twenty Legionnaires were tasked to a security contract for the sprawling industrial complex, and they had supplemented their man-power with a fifty-person team hired from the local population.

There was daily training regimes for the auxiliaries, and the platoon level of Sierra Leonean were slow to take to the difficulty and expectations of the Legionnaires.

However, it benefited both the Legion and the locals immensely. Potential recruits for the Legion, as well as a means to increase the cash value of their contract, and of course a direct link to the local community and the rumor mill, while the locals gained jobs and life skills that could lead to future employment, and a sense of involvement and trust towards the heavily armed Legionnaires that routinely escorted convoys of precious goods around their country.

The situation in Sierra Leone had been growing grim in recent weeks; reports were scarce as the Mende government strove to keep things under wraps, but it seemed increasingly evident that there was increasing violence on racial boundaries. Temne youths attacking Mende tribes people.

Lieutenant Afolayan, deployment commander of the Legion task force assigned to the American industrial facility, oversaw the marksman training of ten of the Sierra Leonean citizens that they had hired to bolster their security team.

The ten were next up on the perimeter fence shift, not yet experienced enough to be trusted to convoy escort, but their presence alone was intimidating enough to keep locals from trying to sneak into the compound and causing trouble.

"Encore."
He watched as the ten men hunkered down between the heavy metal riot shields they used for training purposes, locking their shields together awkwardly with much clatter, cursing and complaining before a high pressure hose was turned on them, hitting the shields mostly at their center-most points and walking across their line. The idea of the training was for them to learn how to control their shields and support each other against a surging crowd, to make sure their shield wall didn't buckle or flex. Any opening was a risk to the entire crew.

The ten men were tired and wet, but with only an eight hour fence patrol ahead of them, the training would not be so taxing that they could not do their jobs. Which was good, because they were going to be bloody exhausted by the time Lt Afolayan was done with them for the day.

One of the men slipped in the mud at their feet, and the hose immediately shifted aim to the man's floundering shield. He buckled and fell, pulling down the man next to him. A third turned as if to grab them, and the high pressure jet of water found his feet, knocking him down. In moments the entire line was floundering and shattered, and Lt Afolayan signaled the Legionnaire manning the hose to let up. He was about to call for them to reset when the Legion signaler came running.

Afolayan signaled for one of his Caporal Chef's to take over for him, then moved towards his next task of the day. Four empty dump trucks bound for one of the rhodium depots waited between a Panhard and a black SUV, the only vehicles the Legion had to spare. Afolayan counted his blessings to have even a single Panhard, since other detachment commanders were working with simple pickup trucks and SUVs at best.

Ten of the more experienced auxiliaries waited with five Legionnaires, undergoing their final kit inspections as the civilian truck drivers climbed into their rigs, ready to make the five hour drive to the depot.

A few quick questions to his men to make sure they knew the route to and from the depot, and their actions on should they run into trouble, and the convoy set out.

-----

Two hours into their trip, things went to hell. Local radio stations began making unconfirmed reports of fighting in the capital. An attempted coup d'etat, the president gravely wounded and moved to the main hospital in the capital, Freetown. Temne-sympathizing military units attacking the hospital, which was destroyed in the ensuing battle with the Mende-loyal Presidential Guard. Radio stations started going silent or began declaring the current government illegal and that a Temne-backed interim government would be formed under General Katlego, a well known Temne tribesman and senior member of the Sierra Leonean military.

Others encouraged sympathizers of the Mende tribe to strike back at the traitorous Temne. A few independent reporters were already delivering stories of violence by vigilante groups of either major faction attacking civilians of the other faction.

The convoy passed through a small town on it's way to the depot, and the Legionnaires within stared out the windows of their vehicles grimly. What locals that owned vehicles were loading them up with belongings, likely intent to flee to the capital. They were mostly of Mende ethnicity, and were dangerously close to the mostly Temne northern half of the country.

They continued through, although Lieutenant Afolayan was painfully aware that there were quite a few people in the village without vehicles to see them to safety. But as they reached the north side of the village, his gunner let out a sudden curse and kicked the Lt in the shoulder to draw his attention to the screen mounted on the dash of the Panhard.

Three large military trucks were barreling towards the town loaded with fighting age males in civilian clothes, rocking AK's and RPGs and machetes. Temne tribesmen and soldiers, if he didn't miss his guess.

"Turn us around, now. Center of town, space those trucks ten meters apart, drop the ramps. Get the people in them."
He slapped together a quick report and sent it straight to both the CEO and the management team in charge of the facility they were tasked to guard. He was bringing guests for an extended stay.

The vehicles turned wide, the Panhard relying on it's heavy bumper to plow through the brush that grew on the edges of the jungle road, and minutes later they were coming to an abrupt halt in the village, the auxiliaries and Legionnaires dismounting and rushing to secure the area and ready the trucks.

"You three! On me, now."
Lt Afolayan picked out three village men who were struggling to help people gather food and belongings, and the three only hesitated a moment before moving over to the Legion officer. "Women, children, water, food, onto the trucks now. We are moving you to a secure location. Temne vigilantes will be here in ten minutes, so move fast."


There was, blessedly, no argument and the three men started calling to the villagers to get things organized. "Sapper Aberash. Take the auxilaries, set up a road block then firing positions. The rest of you, over see the loading. Move now."


The sapper snapped to and grabbed hold of the Sierra Leonean auxiliaries, putting them to work moving debris onto the road to hinder the approach of the trucks.

Ten minutes wasn't enough time to get everyone loaded. When the trucks rounded the bend and came into view of the Legionnaires and the small village, Lt Afolayan was standing calmly behind the low barricade, his men still working to see the women and children, and eventually the men, loaded onto the dump trucks.

The three military trucks barreled up to the barricade but stopped short at the last minute, and the men in the back were hooting and hollering in excitement as they dismounted. They came forward as a mob, confident and ready for violence thanks to their superior numbers. Lt Afolayan stood alone against sixty armed men ready to commit terrible violence.

"Who are you? Do wish to die here soldier boy?"
A man wearing the tunic of the Sierra Leonean military, hanging open over a bright pink shirt, and a baseball cap backwards, waved a pistol towards Afolayan threateningly while walking towards the man as if expecting the Legionnaire to simply give way.

The Lieutenant frowned irritably at the man's state of dress. "You and your men will get back into your trucks, and leave the area immediately. In one hour time, the area shall be capitulated to your forces. The civilians are under the care of Légion Première."
He stared boldly at the apparent leader of the gang, entirely unperturbed by the presence of sixty armed and violent men. The crowd behind him were continuing to load onto the trucks under the firm direction of the other Legionnaires, while the auxiliaries were nervously hoisting boxes of food and jugs of water up as well.

The pistol waving man stalked closer, till one foot was planted on the edge of the barricade; a collection of firewood, garbage cans, carts and even a junked car, and leveled the pistol to Afolayan's head, where it wavered drunkenly in the man's grip. "And what are you goin' to do if I say we aren't leaving?"


The Legionnaire officer smiled, a wide white-toothed grin, "My CEO has given me two options to remedy that situation. The first, I can offer a $10,000 CCD wire-transfer to your personal account. The second, my men and I fix bayonets."


As he spoke, the three Legionnaires handed the task over to the men the Lieutenant had first chosen and moved forward, their rifles held at the low ready. Then as one they brought the weapons up and drew their bayonets from their frogs, barring eighteen inches of sharp steel which they calmly mounted to their FAMAS assault riles.

The crowd of men seemed unsettled by how bold the Legionnaire's were. They were of a tribal warfare mindset; the force with the most men won. Always. The force with the fewer men fled or surrendered. Always. When it came to actually fighting, one side usually broke after only a few casualties. Fights were rarely to the death.

The leader's weapon wavered and he glanced at the five Legionnaires and their frightfully long bayonets and bold, confident stares. His gaze moved back to the officer he was threatening, and he slowly pulled his foot off the barricade, "$10,000? CCD yeah? Yeah...yeah that'll work."


"Tell your men to lower their weapons, then give me your account information."
He pulled out his Wallet, and keyed it active, and watched the leader of the Temne tribesmen calmly.

The man watched for a moment, glancing at the armed Legionnaires then to the officer, then waved for his men to lower their weapons. The chance for money was more interesting then murder and rape, for the moment at least; they could always just kill the Legionnaires and the villagers after being paid.

The officer stuffed his pistol back in his pocket, and pulled out a Wallet of his own while his men shuffled and bunched together to whisper and plot their evil intents.

Sapper Aberash sat in the Panhard, watching from the shadowed interior, then hit the horn before pressing a button on a small wireless transmitter he held. Two claymores detonated on the front of the low barricade, a dozen meters left and right of where the officer stood, aimed towards the general area of the rebels.

Hundreds of ball bearings and a wash of explosive pressure hit the gathered crowd of fighters. Dozens were killed, and dozens more died as the fifth Legionnaire stood up in the roof hatch of the Panhard, calmly racked the action on the mounted MK19 automatic grenade launcher, and walked a burst of frag grenades through the survivors.

Aberash's boots hit the earth before the last grenade had detonated, and the three Legionnaires fired a few shots into the group as well, before calmly walking forward to start spearing the wounded with their bayonets. Lt Afolayan simply turned back to the gathered civilians and resumed barking orders; not long later they were all loaded up and rolling back to the plant.

Similar incidents happened near every Légion Première position, much to the chagrin of the companies that actually owned the expensive industrial outposts. But the Légion employed very intelligent lawyers and public relations officers, and their explanations were quite simple and well worded. Good public image meant a lot. These companies were now known for their humanitarian desire to protect non-combatants in a civil war. Sure they'd take a hit in the profit margin, but so long as it was kept short and they were back up and running before the loss of profits made them nervous.

Natalie Northbrook-Grey

Granddaughter of DVII's Patron, Edward Northbrook, and daughter to well-known philanthropist Eleanor Northbrook-Grey. Natalie's upbringing was one of privilege and splendour, the benefits of a private education and the obscene luxury afforded by living in the heart of London. Her earliest memories of childhood blur with activity, of caressed hair and kissed foreheads; an endless string of goodbyes framed by the soft glow of nostalgia. Her parents were often absent, but she has clear memories of their familial togetherness back then. The bonds that tied them might stretch the vastness of the globe, but they were unbreakable.

A staunch champion and benefactor of the Red Cross, her mother travelled often, leaving her three little girls to the care of extravagant wealth and the secure legacy of the Northbrook name. Their eccentric father, billionaire Alistair Grey, never tried to fill the gaping hole her absence left; he was distant, preoccupied, and always working. Natalie loved him anyway. She remembers stretching out in the plush carpet of his office with a picture book, or huddled by his feet under the desk while he worked. Though stern and unsmiling, he never questioned her silent company, and her sisters were usually too afraid of his piercing stare and clipped words to dare follow. Occasionally, when he noticed she was there, he would speak. Often she would just listen to the rumble of his voice, whether he spoke to her or to others via the network. Sometimes she fell asleep there.

She was always her father's daughter.

As she grew older, Natalie's sense of independence flourished. Though hardly shy she at least gave the impression of being reserved; unlike her siblings, she was uninterested in the limelight afforded by their family's name and standing within the CCD. Her face began to slip from public Northbrook photographs, and sometimes articles forgot her name. Since she was both studious and sensible, it was never an issue, if perhaps something her mother did not favour. Natalie was was content to spend time alone, and had plenty of preoccupations to fill it. Eleanor Northbrook insisted on the highest calibre of education for her children; Natalie and her sisters had learned French almost alongside English, and later Russian. Music centred her foremost hobby, in particular the piano. She read voraciously, studied hard, and occasionally stole away from their private mansion to taste the life of anonymity.

At seventeen, the balance of her world shifted. It never returned back to kilter.

Her mother had left for a charity gala in memorial of the Tower Bridge disaster, a function she had unsuccessfully cajoled Natalie into attending. Her father's study, which she still sometimes visited, was locked. He was out also. It was not unusual in the expansive lay of rooms and floors for the comings and goings of her family to pass like ghosts. Shadows chased open doorways, and in the echoing vastness of the huge house Natalie retreated to the piano. Annotated sheet music spread in an arc on the wood floor, untouched from the last time she had been in here. The curtains were flung wide, which in the daylight streamed in a flood of light. Now drizzle flecked the windows, and the sky was striated with red and purple.

At the majestic height of La Campanella, the room's acoustics flattened and a wall-light flashed an incoming call connected to her Wallet. It was full dark, the piano's ivory keys aglow in slanted moonlight as her fingers drifted from their placement. The cadence of the last chord hung like a vibration in the air.

"Yes?"


"Where are you? Are you home?" Her mother's voice. The words were calm, but something tight clipped their edges. The tick of the metronome counted the silence before Natalie answered. "Yeah."
Then. "What's happened?"


"Your father--" There was a hint of question, a breath of uncertainty, but it righted itself. "Stay there, Natalie. Don't answer the door. I'll be home soon."

The call disconnected.

She padded on bare feet back through the house, and on whim she tried her father's door again to see if he were home. The lock clicked open at the loose grip of her hand, and she toed the door. It gaped to pitch black before a bloom of soft lighting responded to her presence. It felt cold. Not like the sanctuary of her youth. And he wasn't in here; the room was not so large she could not see that at a glance. The door had been locked.

Natalie felt the trespass of crossing the threshold, but ignored the thud of her heart. The desk was scattered with paper - paper. She cast her eye over a set of freshly printed financial documents, then fanned them aside to pluck something underneath. She'd barely begun reading when the paper in her hand wisped with smoke, then began to curl under the lick of an orange flame. She dropped it reflexively, as a whoomf from behind blazed heat against her back. She spun, knocked backwards into the desk. Smoke pooled thick, and quickly, coiling like barbs in her lungs. The office burned. Vaguely, she heard thuds slamming against the door, but they echoed watery. She felt strangely euphoric as her eyes seared and filled up with red and black, and nothing.

She woke up in hospital, hooked up to oxygen. Her chest scorched every breath of air in, and scratched it out painfully. One painful breath after the other. She had no burns. None. But the nurses' soothing voices exalting her fortune as they tinkered with her monitors swam blurrily beneath the slick of fever. One blink, her mother was there. Another, gone. Angry voices raged outside the door. Silence muffled her ears. Sunlight streamed in long golden beams, but when it brushed her skin she screamed. Tried to. The coughing spewed out her insides and the world started beeping.

When she was finally allowed home, it was to a new house.

----*----

Her father was arrested in the summer of 2040, though it was eighteen months before the case finally saw a court hearing. The media was rife with rumours. The word terrorist stamped headlines alongside blurry photographs of her father, his security detail fanned out in frozen fury, outstretched arms thrusting away cameras and urging her father to shield his face. In every single shot, he refused to hide. Pale eyes sought the lens and glared it down. His lips were a thin pressed him. They called him proud. They called him a traitor. They called him monster.

Someone set filters on the newsfeed into their new residence - her mother, perhaps, or her grandfather. She saw the other stories anyway. The ones about the blaze that had taken half their old house, and scoured every inch of evidence with it. Conspiracy theorists painted devilry from the ashes, darkening the honourable Northbrook name with the smoke of Grey. In the articles, Natalie's own expressionlessly calm features stared back from the court stands; that same haughty stare, diamond hard as her father's. The journalists saw a father's daughter. A few bayed for blood. But she was a minor in the eyes of the law, and Edward Northbrook fielded the disaster with his daughter at his side. Together they coaxed the angelic from Natalie's icy façade, sculpted the doting and naive daughter from the emotionless accomplice. She was a Northbrook, like her sisters. Not a Grey.

They did no such thing for Alistair.

He was charged with embezzlement, accused of facilitating funds to anti-CCD terrorist groups in America. No defence passed his tight-lipped mouth. No explanation. Afterwards her family lay fractured, and Natalie's loyalties spun. Father became a black word, which only curled it tighter into the fist of her heart. They imprisoned Alistair in DI, a world away from London; at the very soul of the empire he had betrayed. His memory was a blighted mark, and though she remembered the way her parents fingers had used to absently touch in the brief memories she had of them together, her mother now refused to speak his name.

Edward Northbrook's status rocked in the wake of Alistair's betrayal, and scandal nipped at the heels of the Northbrook-Greys. Eleanor gathered her family protectively close, rallying them to a united front, but the bonds which had once felt unshakable seemed suddenly loose to Natalie. How quickly one of them could be cast free, forgotten. Exiled. Though her grandfather held on to his power and, eventually, equilibrium of a sort returned, Natalie drifted away.

At nineteen she abandoned home, shunning the golden education her mother had laid out for a beautiful and secure future. Her grandfather frowned upon this new rebelliousness, but ultimately advised Eleanor to let her go. She would come back, he said, when this silliness had run its course. After all, she was still a Northbrook. Indeed, loyalty never has sent her too far from the family she cannot forgive - though in what way they have even betrayed her she can't begin to define. It feels like the cinch of razors in her chest when she thinks on it, so she doesn't.

She used her mother's connections to push as much distance as she could between herself and London, which ultimately sent her to aid work overseas. Her mother, humanitarian so she purported to be, was both furious and fearful, but there was precious little she could do about it. She was the most diligent and high profile of the Red Cross's supporters; she could hardly deny her daughter's pledge to working on the ground. If Natalie had intended it as calculated punishment for her mother's lack of emotion concerning her husband, it certainly cut to the bone.

----*----

Pale blonde hair, light green-blue eyes. Fair skin, average tall and of petite frame. She has the grace and poise afforded by her privileged upbringing, and her accent is enunciated and crisp, advertising clearly where she is from. The intensity of her pale stare is sometimes mistaken for haughtiness, though Natalie is not usually concerned by what others think. She's independent minded and cool of demeanour. Having grown up under media glare, she's learnt how to keep her emotions close. Little ruffles her - or appears to anyway.

She values honesty and can be pretty blunt herself, but upholds a tradition of manners. Passion cores her cold exterior; when her temper flares, it is white hot. Recompense is often calculated (and more likely to be on behalf of others). She's perceptive of those around her, if her interests in looking out for them are usually veiled in apathy.

Quick minded, a deep thinker, and a keen musician. Though partial to dry humour, she's not usually unkind. She has the smirk of a cynic, and many would believe it of her; she guards her privacy, and trusts grudgingly - though once given she can overlook almost any fault. Any but the sting of rejection, and the knife of betrayal.

Her presence ghosts in and out of the media, but she refuses to speak for herself - and has never spoken of her father. She is only really known as the wayward middle daughter of Eleanor Northbrook, haunted by the lingering accusations placed after the fire. It is speculated that her work overseas is exile, either self-inflicted out of guilt or imposed by her family. Despite the efforts of the Northbrooks at the time of trial, the whisper of her involvement - or at the least her knowledge of - Alistair Grey's transgressions has never truly died. She is the chink in the Northbrook's fastidious reputation.

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Collecting on a Wager
  
  
  
• The Hunt
  
  
  
• The gift &amp; the pledge
  
  
  
• Loose Ends
  
  
  
• War Games
  
  
  

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Coup D'etat (Azubuike NPC, Ekene NPC, Jay, Jacques, various NPCs)
  
  
  
• The Dust Settles (Jacques, Jay, Ekene NPC)
  
  
  
• Understandings (Jacques, Jay, Ekene NPC)
  
  
  
• The Road to Masiaka (Jacques, Jay, Azuibuike NPC, Jared, various other NPCs)
  
  
  
• Operation Rien N'Empêche (No interaction)
  
  
  
• The Search (Jay, Jared, Ekene &amp; other NPCs)
  
  
  
• Full Circle (Alone/Olabisi)
  
  
  
• The Long Road Forward (Jay, Jared, Jacques)
  
  
  
• A Quiet Arrival
  
  
  
• A Night to Forget (Aria, NPCs)
  
  
  
• Experiments (NPC Alistair Pavlo)
  
  
  
• Spilled Drinks (Jay, Jared, Soren, Nox, Dorian, Emily)
  
  
  
• Through the Storm (alone)
  
  
  
• A Day to Remember (Ascendancy, Evelyn)
  
  
  
• Caesura
  
  
  Edited by Natalie Grey, Feb 21 2018, 07:30 AM.
  
  

Philosophical look at the One Power time!

Given that time is a Wheel, and bound by other physical properties than what we equate with time today, and that balefire has effects on time, I ask you this...
... do you think it is possible - and if so, how? - that the One Power can be used for time travel?

Jay "Hollywood" Carpenter



Occupation:

Corporal, Fox company 3rd Marine Raiders Battalion
Legionnaire 1e Classe, Légion Première



Biography:

In high school, everyone called him Carp.  Everyone meaning all the teachers, guys and nerdy girls.  The hot girls were apparently too high and mighty for nicknames, but it served to keep things straight in his head.  

"Carp!"
and Jay eventually glanced up, if he wasn't doing something more fun that is.
As opposed to:
"Jay!"
 and he lept to his feet.  "Yes, hot girl?!"
 Fine, so out loud he was smoother than that, but the stream of consciousness was all the same.

High school was great.  By graduation, he was sure life had piqued.  An all-star athlete, captain of the baseball team, and prom king he was a god in their podunk Iowa farmtown.  Best yet, he knew it too.  But Jay liked to think he stayed humble.  He danced with one of the nerdy chicks at Prom.  Sure it was mostly about a dare, but a good dare was irresistible, as was nerdy chick's cleavage.  
"Would you like to dance,
[insert nerdy chick's name he clearly can't remember]?"  


[Insert nerdy chick melting into his arms]

The prom queen made him pay for it later.  But no complaints from Jay.  Technically it was her idea.  

So high school was the peak.  The summer following graduation was spent pouring over college acceptance letters.  He even spent a weekend over at Iowa City with a few of the gang intending to enroll for the fall.  But every time someone asked him about college, Jay felt like he was going to have diarrhea.  College. Sounded. Like. Hell.  Not even the lure of college girls, college bars, and college towns could reduce the sting.  

So he spent the summer working on the farm like always.  Six am.  Five am.  By harvest season, he was up at four am, although that was really nothing new.  He'd been working the fields since he was old enough to drive a tractor - bailed hay before that - and shucked corn before that.  Hell, people around there gave babies water-soaked cobs to chew on for teething.  The farm was in his blood; and had been since his great-grandparents bought the land right after WWII.  

Soon, the "What are you going to do with your life, Jay?"'s
stopped coming.  Mom and dad assumed he'd be down at the barn every morning, good and reliable, like always.  Come Thanksgiving, after harvest season, burning season, and turning the fields were done, Jay was at the dinner table, and talk of the following year's planting season started.  Dad and grandpa were debating round-up brands.  Mom and Aunt Sarah were talking Black Friday shopping over in Des Moines.  Uncle Cooper and Coach Swanson (the neighbor [neighbor being the closest house a mile west down their dirt road]) were talking about the dwindling football season, and prospects for the spring baseball line up.  Apparently they already forgot there was a state all-star shortstop sitting at the table.

It was over a plate of apple pie (extra whip cream) when he freaked out.  He sat there, fork half way to his mouth, and realized he was living the exact life he always dreaded.  From prom king and all star to tractors and pie.  Although the pie wasn't that bad of a fate.  (He made sure to finish that plate, and a piece of cherry while he was at it.)  

"Mom, I want to go to Des Moines with you and Aunt Sarah tomorrow,"
he spoke up between bites.  "And this is great pie,"
he mumbled with a smile to put her at ease.  It probably only served to heighten her suspicion, but sure enough, he was in the truck heading to town the next morning.

The flight from New York City to Moscow as long and boring and something Ayden really hated about her job. People were always grumpy on long flights, herself included. First Class was by far better than coach, and with the paychecks she'd been bringing in lately it was luxury all the way. Much more fun to expense the client such details than to acutally try to use thing she didn't like.

The job in Moscow was still sketchy, she knew little more than her object was in Moscow, so she flew to meet her clients. As per usual Ayden flew in to the great Russian city a few days early to get the lay of the land.

Hotels had too many eyes, Ayden choose to rent an apartment instead. This stay in Moscow Ayden had choosen the Moscow Suite Apartments Abat. It was a ten minuite walk to the Kermlin. If she ever so desired to see such a place. Without her target in hand Ayden didn't have much to look at yet, she still waited, but it would be good get her current persona straight.

Her name was Natalia. And as classic comic book readers would recognize, Romanov was her father's name. It was intentional upon Ayden's part. It made for a good story when meeting strangers. For Ayden each persona was their own person, with their own story. Half the fun of new identies was finding out who they really were.

Ayden never went out in public under her own guise. Ayden Hayes was a ghost. Natalia Romonov was an American born Russian on her first trip to see her heritage. Her firey red hair tucked neatly in a short black haired wig. But Ayden always wore special contacts, they relayed messages in front of her, things like body temperature, distances and most any thing you could measure. They were simple and she had many different colors, today she downed a dark brown set to match her hair.

Wardrobe was key for a persona, and Ayden had plenty of shopping to do while in Moscow now. Ayden donned a maroon wool sweater and black jeans fitted nicely into thigh high black boots with a nice heel. The coat was barely warm enough for the Moscovian weather, it would have to do until she could find another.

With purse inhand Ayden under the guise of Natalia left her apartment and headed for Izmailovsky Market. She wandered the shops looking for clothes that Natalia would like.

Several shops later Ayden sat down at a table by the window in a little cafe and order the soup of the day, Okroshka and a cup of english tea and honey. While she waited for her food to arrive, she pulled out her book. The plane ride had not yielded to much reading and at this rate she's never finish the list of 100 she was determined to read. Frankenstien was 10th on this particular list. It was an old book, and Ayden preferred the paper bound version. There was just something about the feel and smell of an old book.


Edited by Ayden, Apr 24 2014, 12:29 PM.

As a kid, Jensen was not immune to the lure of Halloween. What kind of boy didn't enjoy dressing up, playing pretend, and letting their imaginations run wild? The costume shop surrounding him brought back memories of brighter, innocent days. Plastic bags were stuffed to bursting with costumes, pictures of what was within were modeled by people on the front. There was a faint smile on his face when he first entered the costume shop. It wasn't a Halloween themed place, unlike his memories of similar establishments back home. There were no skeletons or ghastly decorations for sale, only costumes.

There were a trio of young girls giggling and making suggestions for one another on the other side of the store, and Jensen suddenly felt childish for being here. Not only were he a grown man browsing costumes - all of which were ridiculous options - but also because it served to remind him exactly why he was here at all.

He sighed and swallowed his embarrassment, but still studied the floor as he passed by the girls on his way to the wall of masks at the back.

He had to crane his neck back to see them all: every shape, color and size were here from the simple black-eyed zorro masks to elaborately molded monstrous heads. Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the situation slapped Jensen across the face, and true to inner monologue, his cheeks flushed hot. He put his hands in his coat pockets, and stood there like a deer in the headlights, frozen with infinite options.

The strips to wrap around his eyes and temples seemed the least flamboyant, but as Jensen studied how he looked in the mirror, he knew his mouth and retinas were too exposed. If he were ever caught on camera, facial recognition software could likely identify him quickly. He spent enough time in the scanner during booking to guess how sensitive the technology was.

He put the mask back and looked for an equivalent with built-in lenses. The next one he grabbed was built with a stretchy-lyrca material that felt as though would breathe well. Lenses covered the eyes, they weren't colored or darkened, so seeing at night wouldn't be a problem. He didn't intend on walking the streets of Moscow, masked, in the light of day.

It fit like a ski-mask and covered his face to the neck. When he turned to gauge how well he could actually see, he found one of the girls, who was apparently trying on a scandalous mermaid costume, seashell bra and all, had come beside him.

He stepped back instinctively, "I'm sorry,"
he said, though he wasn't sure why he was apologizing. She had dark red hair and a pretty smile, but she looked at least ten years younger than him.

"Great mask," she replied, "Are you spiderman or something?"

Behind the mask, Jensen felt himself frown. A quick examination in the mirror explained it, though. The eyes were white lenses shaped like long, wide slits across his face. The mask itself was black, but printed with a sort of webbing he'd attributed to flexibility in the material. It did kind of look like spiderman.

He turned back to her, "Yeah, I guess I am,"
and pulled the thing from his head. His hair frizzed around his face in the unmasking.

He turned it over in his hands, checking the price, and trying to get up the guts to actually go through with the purchase.

Next thing he knew, the girl was handing him a yellow version of the same mask. "This one's great, too." The same webbing design covered the lycra, but the lenses were black rather than white. Yet somehow, they didn't filter the world with darkness as he expected. It was like a two-way mirror, light from within, dark from without.

He took the offer, and for some reason, really liked the suggestion. Yellow was cheerful. "Thanks,"
he replied, and turned to go. Her friends came up about then, and attempted to draw her off to the fitting room with them. She spun about, mermaid tail and all, and disappeared behind a curtain of giggling.

Jensen shook his head and went to the register.

That evening, he was sitting in a diner, new purchase still in the sack on the seat beside him. He picked at his food and kept looking into the world beyond the windows, trying to drum up the courage to wander out into it, and procrastinating by flipping through news stories.

When he saw a report of a shooting in a costume shop, five dead, and a body fallen in the center of it all, mermaid tail splattered with the gunshot wounds, he hung his head in shame. Moments later, he grabbed the mask and stepped out into the night.

Humans are not inherently logical beings. That was abundantly clear to Nicholas as he sat nursing a glass of whiskey in the near-darkness, the room's sole source of light emanating from his wallet's screen. The faces of the dead floated through the air, and Nicholas recognized one of them. With a wave of his hand, the image filled the air in front of him. Same bald head and beard, same vaguely mean expression. The man who tried to kill him. The man he killed. Some Arabic text at the bottom was likely his name. He couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

Nicholas didn't know why he felt so guilty. He wasn't a murderer; the man had been trying to burn Reed and her friendly band of mercenaries to a crisp. Nicholas only intervened to protect, and it wasn't until the man tried to kill him that he fought back. Still, the paired crack and thud of skull and body that Nicholas couldn't possibly have heard over the distance and the crowd kept replaying in his head. Strange that he hadn't been so bothered with lying to himself, at the time.

He had seen death before, of course. It'd been part of his job to document it. But there was a thick line between passive observer and active participant, and in crossing it he felt quite the same as he had a decade ago when Brazilian guerrillas tried and failed to attack the São Paulo naval base in their own failed version of the Tet offensive. There was just something about that transition between living being and inanimate object that he found more than unsettling. Even if he'd gotten over watching it happen, he didn't think he could ever be comfortable with doing it himself. Did that make him a coward? He sighed, and took a sip from his glass.

Reed appeared in the doorway then, likely preoccupied with commands from one or the other of her icily warring masters. She'd probably want to know about what happened, though. Best to get to it.

"I had to kill someone today, Reed."
He paused. That was a bit more... blunt, than he had planned. "At the riot. He was shooting fireballs at you and the Legion."
He flipped around the wallet. "This one. Know him? I'd like to find out he's a violent terrorist or something so I can stop feeling like I'm the bad guy."

I have apparently discovered the root of all evil.

This thing that makes dolls.

BUT GAME OF THRONES DOLLS,
therefore, is cool.

So, uhh, yeah. I made a Game of Thrones Jaxen.



Sinister. But fashionable. Yes? hah.

Here you go. Have fun.

Vatican City was the only city state in the former Europe that was not part of the CCD. Crossing the border wasn't a simple task. It meant long lines and people in those lines, frustrated and annoyed at the process they had to go through. Passports and Identity Cards were the quickest and easiest way to get through the line unscathed. Aria's sat in her hand as she tried to patiently wait her turn to cross the border into Rome itself.

Aria had walked from the Vatican to the border. She was tired and ready to sit down. Her feet hurt and wished she'd called for a taxi, it would have been faster, but this was her farewell tour of the city she had once called home. It was a natural tourist attraction, and a place people held pilgrimages too. The culture had of the city had not changed nearly as much as the world around it. It was a religious shelter and for Aria far to comforting for her task ahead. Sometimes the happiness and joy that proliferated through the city was far worse than the crimes that perpetuated in Moscow.

In a few matter of months, Aria's world had been turned upside down, inside and out completely thrown into a spiral. She questioned her duty, her life and her morality. She had killed a man, no he was a boy, they were kids, but it had been her, and that cut deep. She was given a free pass, no trial, no jury, only a cover up - one that lasted most of her life. Would God forgive her something so far in the past. Had she only know? How could the God of love not forgive her, it was not her fault, she didn't mean to, she had loved him. Or so that was the thought, the memory of it all was sketchy and distant, almost as if it were not real.

Was her life worth living? The Regus and Father Dimitri did not believe so. Most of the Atharim would probably agree, but if she had doubts, she was born and raised Atharim. Doctrine and procedure were part of her, if she doubted parts of their calling surely others did. But she wasn't a leader, who was she to think such things. She was Sentient, a monster, something meant to be killed on sight. Yet here she lived among them all her life. Been one of them. Is one of them.

The man at the gate scanned Aria's identity card. It flashed on his screen and he scrolled through all of her travels, looking for anything suspicious, she was sure. The metal detectors had surely alerted them to the two swords and two pistols lying in the bag with their paperwork lying at top. It wasn't the first time, nor the last time Aria would travel with her little arsenal.

He looked her up and down and Aria could feel the distrust emanating from him, but he nodded and she passed through with little bombardment.

Once in Rome Aria felt better. Felt more like her self. There was only one reason she didn't start her travels back to Moscow from Vatican City, she wanted to visit a market, specifically a glover. She had been far too long with out a decent pair of gloves. Despite looking everywhere, she could hardly find anything she liked that would work while holding her swords or her gun. It would work for one, but never for both. But she knew in Rome, that she would find one. It was after all the place she had purchased the ones the Bannik had ruined when she took it's head.

Aria could feel the stiffness in the palm of her hands from the never quite completely healed scar. It would probably feel this way the rest of her life. Hands were hard to heal when you didn't get the proper care. She hardly wanted to go to the Emergency Room and explain exactly how she received a brand on both her hands.

The air was crisp and smelled of the sea, even this far from the water. It was home, she missed it, but she would unlikely come back here. The shops like the markets in Moscow were open air, and the people took to the streets and cars were few and far between. The world was slithering along her bubble. The long coat sleeves of her trench coat kept people away from touching her.

Aria didn't wander long, it was best not to tempt fate. The glover she liked was still here, for that she was thankful. The woman behind the counter smiled when she looked up. "Posso aiutarla?" Aria smiled, it had been a while since anyone had spoken Italian to her. In Moscow it was either English or Russian, and her Russian was rather poor. "I'm looking for thin leather gloves."


The shop keeper smiled. "The tourists expect Italian."

Aria smiled. "I suppose I am not a tourist for now."


The woman lead Aria to a display of leather gloves. Some were bulky with sheep skin for warm, it was nearing winter after all. But there were a pair that looked about right. Aria picked them up and slipped them on. The fit was nice, the fingers were not too long, they were thin and Aria could easily close her hand in a fist. But they only covered to her wrist. "Any to the elbow, just like these?"
Aria held them up for the woman to inspect

She smiled brightly at Aria. "A fine selection. I'll be right back." The woman slipped into the back. Aria looked around at the rest of the shop. It was nice, the quality of leather far outstripped that of the vendors in Moscow, and there were even rarer materials present. Aria had never liked those finer things. Leather was durable, that's what she needed.

The woman came back with another pair. Aria slipped them on and they were perfect. "If you have another pair identical, I'll take them too."



She nodded and slipped into the back and returned quickly with two additional pairs. "For you, I'll sell you three for the price of two.

The price was large, but it was worth it, her small Atharim stipend would cover it, but little else excess until her next job. Aria wondered if the little jobs in between would detract from her ultimate goal. It was not good to let your abilities falter while you waited for the perfect moment, the perfect time to strike.

It was time to go home. Hard to believe that Moscow was home. She did miss it, her claw foot bathtub, the smell of old books permeating through the floor, she even missed feeling Dane lurking in the shadows. He never came out, but she knew he was there, the utter calm of his emotions was easy to pin point.

There was much to do, and the train ride would be a great start to that. Aria pulled her journals around her and scanned through the files that the Regus gave her, a plan was forming in her mind. It was the beginning of an end - either she ended the threat of Apollyon, or he ended her, either way it was an end.