Andrew had never known just how much it hurts to be thrown through a second story plate glass window, until about five seconds ago. He'd also never known just how much of a mind fuck it could be to see a room full of mist condense into the hazy form of a man. He spat the metallic blood that had been pooling in his mouth, then grinned as he realized just how ordinary his killer looked; Al-Hasan must have actually been a prophet, because Andrew was about to be murdered by a fucking ghost.

The return trip had been simple; second squad was already waiting at the exfil point when his buddies got there. He'd already heaved his sigh of relief when they landed in Somalia. The trip back to the base was barely another half hour. The debriefing had just ended, and a barracks on a United States Air Force base was the last place he was expecting to be attacked.

"The box..."
Casper was muttering something. His voice sounded like a rusted out engine running on gravel and tears - which was to say, not pleasant. "Starving."


"Oh, hell no."
Andrew tried to stumble to his feet, but before he could even sit up ghost boy was on him. The knee in his chest drove home a few shards of glass, and strained already cracked ribs. His reflexive gasp only widened the cuts. Hands tightly gripped his shoulders, but weirdly enough they seemed like they were only halfway solid. Drunk on pain and adrenaline, Andrew asked through gritted teeth, "So you're Muhammad? Figured you'd be... browner."


"Leviathan."
Casper paused, seeming to be waiting for something. Andrew took the opportunity to grab hold of the power. He had the feeling that if he didn't do something quick, he wouldn't be doing anything. So he reached out with threads of air. He doubted he could stay conscious long enough for anything fancy; there was quite a bit of blood pooling around him already. So he tried to slice Casper in half. Problem was, nothing happened, and Casper just grinned. "Good."


What followed was the most weirdly exhilarating feeling Andrew had ever experienced in his decidedly short life. The power was being yanked through him, far more of it than he'd ever tried to handle. But he couldn't control it; it was like being force fed cocaine. The hands gripping his shoulders seemed to be growing more and more solid. It wasn't until he was able to pick out footsteps in the distance that he had the presence of mind to scream.

A group of MPs rounded a corner, weapons at the ready. They must have been sent when security picked up the broken window. One shouted, "Get off him, hands on your head!"
The thing didn't seem to hear. "Last time I ask, get off him!"


Andrew had no idea how long it took for them to finally start shooting; the power being drawn through him was too great to allow things like a sense of time. But eventually, he heard the steady pop-pop of pistols firing, and the wet thud of nine millimeter rounds piercing flesh. The look on Casper's face was more of surprise than pain, and he jumped away. Strangely, the sense of emptiness Andrew felt when the ghost released his grip on the power overshadowed the pain of already broken ribs being pushed against his lungs.

"Holy shit, look at this guy. Call a fucking ambulance!"

Two hours after the EOA Chief of Staff reported the news of assault in Mecca, the Ascendancy's warcraft of an airplane touched down. They had circled the skies above the Arabian desert the entire time, and the delay gave him time to formulate the specifics of a plan, one that needed to be executed immediately. The Ascendancy was going to respond to the actions undertaken this night in Mecca, and the world would listen, and believe the version of events he outlined. Who would contradict him?

Unfortunately, no hellfire would rain down upon the city, yet the city would know a different sort of calamity all the same. Touchdown rocked Nikolai in his seat gentle as an infant in their crib, but the exact moment he was back in contact with the grim face of the earth, his fists unclenched their hold upon the armrests, and he released the long-held breath of an anxious flyer. Safely on the ground once more, the switch in his mind snapped upon the task at hand, that of a delivery unlike any he'd made before.

They taxied to a black, open field of the base tarmac illuminated by floodlights bright as small suns perched high on their poles. Not a single plane moved in the periphery except the fighter jets of his military escort, but they remained clear of the path his aircraft might need should an emergency take off become necessary.

Military transports were waiting. Unmarked black vehicles, SUVs and town cars were arranged several rows behind. A group of individuals stood sentry while the plane taxied into place. Officers and Custody-appointed leaders of the city were present as well, including the regional representative of the Patron of DV. Although civilian, they were given a place of prominence by which to welcome the Ascendancy to their home, as embarrassed as they were to do so in a time of such instability. Although, technically, DV was his before it was theirs.

Finally, behind a line of armed Custody Security Service agents waited a dozen members of the Press Corps, including the foreigners traveling among them. Nikolai ordered their express presence tonight. He wanted the foreign press to cover him, not the insanity inside the distant city. They were given a privilege to see the interior of a Custody base, but they rode in and out in covered vehicles to be there. Any details they observed would be only what he wished them to see.

Viktor, the Chief that delivered the news several hours earlier, met Nikolai as he emerged from his aircraft office. Nik buttoned his suit jacket as they walked.
"Confirmed, Ascendancy. We are ready. ZARS await final orders."


"At the end of my speech, release the video of the capture."
The man nodded. He and most of the personnel in his presence would remain on board. Their time on the ground would be short-lived.

Nikolai continued to the aircraft's primary exit. His chief Barrier agent emerged onto the staircase first. There was a final round of surveillance checking, and Nikolai followed. He stood alone at the top of the stairs for a moment, allowing himself to be seen. The force of his presence rippled electric through the air, the dead of a calm before the storm that broke when he moved. Members of the press whispered to one another. Some beamed with pride. Others swallowed their nerves.

An accompanying thunder rolled through his chest, and deadened the intensity of his gaze. At the base of the stairs was a podium. His symbol hovered in front of it. For a backdrop, the endless stretch of night-shrouded desert made for a dramatic image. The deep gray of his suit was without wrinkle, and the sharp cut of his sickled pin gleamed orange and gold on his lapel, but it was the blue of his eyes, cold as icicles, that greeted the faceless cameras pointed his direction.

Side to side glances summoned the personnel to his left and right. Mecca-born civilians, bearing their own DV pins and the Custody officer enacting land operations in the area joined him for the press conference. Whether with a bow of the head or a salute of the hand, Nikolai acknowledged each before the audience of a worldwide press, a reminder that he was the executive in charge of military operations across half the world. Then he began his address.

A dozen cameras focused on him. He looked into them as though he were meeting the soul of each and every individual to be watching at home.

"Citizens of the Custody, citizens of the world, tonight I am appalled to announce that a team of foreign special forces struck an unarmed, civilian population at the heart of our Custody, here, tonight in Mecca, on the eve of a conference for negotiation with the express purpose of murdering innocent civilians, in direct violation of modern warfare treaties."


The power rippling through his chest turned his voice into the edge of a knife. A politician's greatest weapon, one now casually poised against the throat of Frederick Dawson, and Nikolai was a master at slitting his enemies' throats.

"In the wake of arson, explosives and firefight with local law enforcement, several members of this team were killed. I am pleased to announce that the remaining members of this team, identified to be four individuals impersonating Custody forces, have been captured by a counter-terrorism ZARS unit."
To the side, Viktor disseminated the Ascendancy's earlier order.

The members of the press began to stir, and Nikolai raised his voice ever so slightly to shut them up. He was not done.

"AS I SPEAK they are being transported to a secure compound for questioning. In light of these events, it has become clear that civil authorities have exceeded their capabilities in dealing with civil disturbances in Mecca, therefore authorization has been granted to the Custody of Defense to assist local law enforcement to contain additional threats. In the next few hours, roadblocks and checkpoints in and out Mecca will be constructed to maintain order and safety for those wishing to exit the city."


The press righted themselves, furiously taking notes as they went. Some began to study the skies overhead as though they expected black op's to drop at any moment. The foreigners among them shifted in their unease.

The design of Nikolai's plan was to restore the rule of law in Mecca. This included utilization of information- and influence-operations designed to present a picture of the Custody's swift response and the inevitable defeat of insurrection. Thanks to Michael Vellas, military intelligence units were already in the area, groups that did an excellent job in writing their Intelligence Plan for the Battlefield, a reconnaissance and intelligence gathering regarding Hasan's largest supporters' patterns of behavior, distribution of riots epicenters, and pipelines of rioting support.

Due in large part to his successful work, there was already enacted a phased deployment of selected forces that were successfully, and immediately surfacing. Therefore, the deployment of Custody forces into the area would be swift, and limited only by the duration of time required to travel from area bases, or in the case of naval support, make their presence in the Red Sea known, a presence that had been there all along, hidden in the waters. Until tonight, any additional naval activity around the port city of Jeddah, which was already home to a navy base, had gone unnoticed, and Mecca would suddenly realize how far Jeddah's shadow stretched inland when battleships and submarines aimed their way. By morning, the city would be an unrecognizable haven of order.

The pace of the operation would be deliberate and controlled. Over the next few days, combat units would conduct overt Show of Force operations to remind any and all insurrectionists they were now facing professional military forces, with all the training and equipment that implied.

Army and Marine units would remove riot choke points both overtly and covertly with minimum essential force to continually ratchet up pressure on Hasan's leadership. Within days, Custody forces would tighten the noose as troops seized and secured power and water stations, radio and tv stations, and hospitals.

Tonight's foreign strike was the perfect excuse to surround Hasan. Nikolai might have thanked Dawson for his stupidity, because the assault played directly into his hands. Al-Hasan and his followers would come to know that an uprising against the Custody would be defeated. The USA would come to realize their best and brightest, when tossed about by a strategic imbecile, could be turned into Nikolai's propaganda in an instant.

In his closing remarks, Nikolai would speak directly to Al-Hasan. "After declining my invitation, Al-Hasan may consider our conference cancelled,"
he said. The delivery was cool, but patient. In one sentence Nikolai reminded the world of his generosity. He was the hero here, and Hasan the child to slap his hand away. Such was always the case, and he was growing tired of being the wiser man.

"As a religious figurehead and a citizen of the Custody, he will be allowed to continue to lead those of his faith for the time being, but he, and those acting in his name, must surrender all political action, gathering of arms, and organization of such arms to the Custody of Defense as demonstration of his willingness to protect innocent lives from further bloodshed. He may submit agreement of such terms to Moscow within the next fourteen days or face a warrant for criminal disloyalty and high treason."


"That will be all."


As Nik turned away, the line of a smile touched his lips. Perception shaped reality, and tonight, reality was his creation.

Now to endure the long flight home.

What have you seen lately that inspires you and your writing?

I'll start with 25 Moments (note, it has automatic background music) - a nicely-done site giving a glimpse of the history of mutants, leading up to the newest X-Men movie, Days of Future Past.

Also, this Wheel of Time Fan Art Pinterest Board.


Edited by Takeo, Apr 12 2014, 11:23 AM.

The state of 40's pop culture has come up in conversation lately. What is the pop-culture of 2045? What differences exist between the CCD and USA, for instance? How does this reflect the massive changes seen in the past 25 years?

Dive in!

There were many places in the city - and outside it - that Ori visited regularly, a web of connections and refuges utterly diverse in spectrum, from the glittery upper echelons of Moscow to its shadowy underbelly. A thousand tailored masks greeted a thousand faces; she rooted herself into both affection and trust, and used the resultant friendships ruthlessly. Until they broke, as they so often did, and her mastery became not friendship but, quite often, bribery. People were easy to discard when she cared for so few of them, and if they were easy to deceive then she considered it their own fault. She only ever used their own sins against them.

Whatever her many acquaintances thought of her, if any of them truly were fond of her dry smirks and sharp tongue, then for her part it was purely business. She played a role; she smiled, joked, flirted, and offered the selectiveness of her company like a guarded secret. It was the consciousness of the time, the need to feel superior, to feel important, to feel unique. It made her fucking despair, but it was so effortless to exploit. Few were perceptive enough to see beyond the smoke and mirrors, to realise how little sincerity coated her charm. Of those that did, Oriena found the sparse individuals that catalysed an actual interest, however often it turned out to be short lived.

Gus didn't quite fall into that category, but he was one of the few people in which she placed a modicum of trust. His bar - and actually, it had no name above the door - was a place she felt comfortable, and if its clientèle erred towards the brash side it had never particularly bothered her. He'd scowled when she'd leaned against the bar, and scrutinised her black eye - or what remained of it - with the same displeasure as Carmen, though unlike her he saw fit to make comment. "The fuck did that?" The swelling had gone, and the bruising had faded to mottled shades of grey and green. It no longer twinged with every flutter in her expression, so she smirked darkly and pressed the bottle of cheap beer he passed her to her lips. He got no explanation, of course. She didn't owe him one, and he wasn't vying to protect her honour or anything so absurdly overprotective. Ori liked that about him. When fights broke out in his establishment he diffused them with strict efficiency. He took no sides. He saw no victims. The quick gleam of his smile as she walked off, the bark of laughter that followed, suggested that he probably understood she had deserved it.

The pool table had the best view of the door, so it was where she'd stationed herself. Ingratiating herself with the current players wasn't challenging; men slightly glazed with booze were the easiest to wrap through her fingers, and they seemed happy enough to watch her stretch out across the table. She wasn't dressed for occasion, but tight jeans tucked into leather bike boots made an invite of her curves. Every so often dusky blue eyes glanced up, but otherwise she was concentrating on kicking their asses. And waiting.

Ori had called in some favours.

[[Open thread]]

The night after killing the Ijiraq Aria felt lost. She hadn't killed it on her own, she had no idea how to explain it to Father Stone, and had not reported it to him. She prayed he did not find out. But she knew one day it would happen. How does one create enough fire to turn the mist to ash? Or how to freeze it solid enough to sever it's head? Those were the two questions she had and there were no answers in any of the books in Moscow.

There was one book still left listed in the Monster A-Z reference book - The Journal of Elenora Martello. But it was not in Moscow, there could be only one other place she could easily find it, Atharim Headquarters in Vatacin City. Home!

It was hard to believe she thought of that dreadful room as home, but it was something she longed for. It was far better than the bliss of tonight's journey through neighbor hell. Aria drowned herself in the depths of her bathtub wishing for the dark damp cement walls she had called home. But that was a far off dream. She was here in Moscow, and for some reason she didn't really want to go back to the way it was before. Freedom had grown on her.

But she needed that book. It was the last resort if there was any more Ijiraq hiding in Moscow, and with the number of power weilding folks that seemed to permeate this god forsaken city, the Ijiraq had plenty of food. She wasn't about to reveal that fact yet, but finding a way to kill it was top of her list. It was a unique challenge, and one she intended to be victor over.

So the next morning Aria packed a small bag, her guns and swords in another and hopped a train to Vatican City. Aria thought it might be time to learn to drive or to risk being confined on an airplane without anywhere to go. The latter did not merit more than a cursory thought. Flying was not an option.

-----

It was a long trip and Aria hesitated doing into the building she use to call home. But the library awaited. The moment she stepped in the feelings of home set in. The solitude and the closeness to god was felt all around. It was like that in the city too, but not as much with more people so close together. Priest and Nuns wandered the halls, giving Aria only a glance before hurrying on their way. If they recognized her, none showed it, and if they did they hurried to be far from her.

She walked the halls for what seemed like hours, just remembering the years that had gone on in these walls. It was good and sad all at the same time. Aria had passed the library several times before she opened the great door that lead into the stacks of books far beneath the city streets. It smelled just like she remembered, and it felt glorious to be in the comforts of home. She hadn't expected it to feel quite so warm and welcoming.

Others of the Atharim were wandering the aisles, some carrying books, others studying the shelves. Aria went straight to a table and put bags down in a chair. Then went for the card catalog. It was an archaic system, but it was what they had. No one really had the time to do the mundane task of re-cataloging it all, so it remained the same.

The card catalog was no help, the book was not listed. Aria sighed.

A man stood behind her, he was guarding his emotions and Aria turned to find Father Dimitri standing there with a wide grin on his face.

Aria glared at him. "You lie to me and expect me to be happy to see you?"

The smile faded and he shook his head, "You read things you should not."

Aria laughed, "Father Stone said I do not need a handler and handed me your little note and box. Thanks for that by the way." The sarcasm in Aria's voice was nearly a jab in the eye. She despised that box with a passion.

Father Dimitri frowned but was soon back to his regular self, calm, cool and collected, like every Priest should be. "What are you doing here?"

She thanked the Lord he wanted to get this over with as much as she did. "I'm looking for the Journal of Elenora Martello."

He raised an eyebrow but shown no other recognition of the book. "How did you hear about that book?"

"It's in a reference book I found in Moscow, that lists books by creature." It was a fact.

He nodded and smiled. "I suppose it's time you gained your rightful place."

Aria was confused as he continued on, "Follow me, I will take you there."

Father Dimitri turned and waded down the aisles of books to a vault that very few had access too. "This is the family tome's. Most of our hunters are chosen from their family's, hunters who have been hunters for generations. Your mother was one such hunter, and so are you. But until now, you were too fragile to be given access to these. I still doubt your resilience in things, but you have earned your right to the tomes."

He walked into the vault indicating she should stay out. He disappeared into the depths but returned with a stack of books. "Some have been lost over the generations to hunters who have never returned. Your mother's journal is in here, as is the book you seek. Good hunting my little song."

Aria grimaced but took the things from him. Everything about this man grated at her now. He lied to her. She was not his little song. "Can I use my old room?"

Father Dimitri nodded, "No one has taken up it's space you are free to use it while you stay."

Aria nodded, "I'll only be using it for a short time." Aria had no intention of staying more than she had to.

-----

Aria opened the door to the place that she had once called home, nothing had changed. The light was dim and flickered every so often. It smelled damp and danker than usual but only for lack of use. It brought back memories, and not all so good.

Aria set the journals on the table in her old room and picked up the journal. She flipped the cover and a piece of paper fell out. She picked it up and started to read the hand written note.

"Dear Aria,"

That made her pause and look to the bottom of the letter.

"With Love, Always with you. Autunna Luna, your mother."

She was shocked by the revelation. She read the letter from the beginning.

"Dear Aria,

This is a journal that has been in our family since it has been written. It is the journal from the end of the Age of Escape, the sixth age, the age that came before in the great wheel that shapes the pattern of time. It is our legacy and our future to keep these volumes for future generations. The Atharim, has come from great roots and we just keep this knowledge in the hopes that our grandchildren's grandchildren will be safe from those that would call themselves Gods.

This journal and the other journals in this collection are our families legacy. You, my child who follows in my footsteps must keep with the tradition, catalog your adventures, pass them all down to your child who follows. I fear that I will not be able to raise you, the Atharim hunts me. I fear that Dimitri will soon find us and I will not be able to impart these words to you.

You are born of legacy. I wish I could be there for you my child. It is with sad regret that I write this. I was coerced by the man I was to hunt and kill. Instead I fell in love with the foul creature. But not by choice, it was his power I know now that made me love him. But it is with deep regret that you are a child of a Sentient. I do hope that the genes are not passed down to you, so that you may continue with the legacy. I fear for you my child. Take care and be safe. Learn well and take up the helm for our family, or I will be the last in a very long line of hunters.

With Love, Always with you. Autunna Luna, your mother."

Aria sat down on the edge of her bed in though. Sentient... The word rang so many bells in her head. So many things gone wrong with her life. Fury rose in her mind. Father Dimitri had to have known, at least suspected what the possibilities were. She wasn't sure if she should run and hide or confront him with this revelation. But the fury didn't allow for the former, Aria got up and took the letter with her and stormed out of her room to Father Dimitri's office.

Related to Dreams of Fire

Drayson stood calmly in the crowded subway station, hands clasped calmly to his front. He towered over much of the crowd, and for both his size and appearance was afforded a small circle of space around himself, save at his back. He stood with his back to one of the fresco covered pillars of Moscow's largest metro station.

It had been a long shift, even by his standards. Growing trouble in DV had led to increased background and security checks throughout the CCD; while not expected, they were still keeping a sharp eye out for potential extremist attacks in other regions. Moscow especially.

He had spent the last twenty hours overseeing the newly formed police task force's counter terrorism training. There were other organizations in the CCD that already existed for the task, but he had learned long ago that one needed to be prepared for everything, and this task force was to be the test pilot for similar teams later.

His gaze swept across the crowd with apparent disinterest; just another tired businessman on his way home at the end of a long day. Of course, he paid attention to details few in the crowd noticed; what people carried in their hands, who shied away from the two metro security officers standing in casual conversation near a vending machine and not doing their jobs to Drayson's standards. He would pay their shift supervisor a visit tomorrow. They were there to assure the people of Moscow were safe, after all.

One hand lifted to rub at tired eyes, and when he opened them again he found a pair of young girls staring up at him. The elder could have been no more then five, and the two studied him with open curiousity. He smiled tiredly and cast a glance at the crowd under his brows, before deciding on the likely parent of the two children. He opened his mouth to speak, then just shook his head in quiet amusement as the children's mother saw him and carefully maneuvered her charges ahead of herself and out of his sight in the crowd. At least someone was paying attention to their duties.

He could just barely make out the distant rush of wind in the tunnel that would signal the approach of the train he waited for, when a series of events distracted him from any thought of home and sleep. And of the paperwork he needed to do before he could sleep.

First was the sudden movement of the two terminal guards. Both men jerked upright and grabbed at their shoulder clipped radios, turning the little speakers there towards their ears in an attempt to hear something more clearly. At the same time, the lights flickered, briefly, and those in the tunnels went to emergency lighting levels. The station went next, emergency lights flicking on instantly.

The crowd quieted, asides from a few startled yelps. The sound of the train came to a distant stop, and Drayson worked his way through the crowd easily to the two metro guards, who were speaking into their radios and apparently getting no response. He pulled his badge and held it open to the two men, the exhaustion of his long day forgotten. "Situation?"


The two men glanced at his badge dumbly for a moment before realizing what they were looking at. Both looked suddenly relieved. One of them leaned in closely, while his partner tried to hide obvious worry as he glanced at the crowded station. "Chief Inspector. Something has happened at the central control station."


Drayson glanced towards one far wall of the crowded station. Sturdy, unassuming doors marked one of many entrances to the control room that oversaw the running of Moscow's entire metro system. Most of the functions were delegated to sub-stations around the city, but the one here was the biggest, and oversaw everything that happened with every train and tunnel and platform in the city.

He pulled his Wallet, and quickly thumbed a few commands into it. The Moscow metro systems were no stranger to terrorism, and the central command station was an ideal target to try and bring the city's entire public transit system to a crashing halt. Trains could be derailed or crashed together if someone knowledgeable of the controls were so inclined.

The commands he had thumbed in where to the head of the newly formed task force. Most of the unit was administrative and investigative; they were to track persons of interest, had access to the city's wide range of security systems, and through him had the ability to wire-tap or search buildings without having to hack through kilometers of red tape first.

They also had the cream of the crop of the city's various Special Purpose Mobile Unit (OMON) teams, who had just received the order to mobilize.

"Keys, now. Get the rest of your men here, be ready to evacuate, and keep everyone calm."
He took a keyring from the two security guards; any electronic locks he could bypass easily enough. Physical ones were a barrier even his Wallet couldn't get him through.

With the keys in hand, Drayson made his way through the crowd, ignoring the pre-recorded message of technical delays. Some small part of his mind pictured a bed he would not be seeing any time that night. The responsibilities of his office came with a 24-hour work schedule.

A minute later, he was out of the crowded metro station and into the service tunnels that ran behind the artistically detailed walls of the station proper.

Only the emergency lights were on there as well, and the tunnel was long, wide, and empty, save for three carts used by the night shift cleaning staff.

Drayson un-holstered his pistol and held it low to his side as he walked down the hallway, staying close to the left-hand wall. he stopped briefly by a service map of the tunnels, and once he had his bearings made his way to the central command station.

He passed a break room and glanced in the open door, frowning slightly at the sight that met him. Three of the night shift cleaning staff, who had probably arrived hours early for their shift, and two metro security guards lay sprawled about the small room as if someone had thrown them around. Furniture was knocked around the room, and blood spattered the walls, ceiling and floor.

His Wallet in hand again, he stepped part-way into the room and watched the hallway towards the command center. "Chief Inspector Drayson. Security breached at central metro command. Five dead. DOLAs are a go. Secure central station and metro command."

He received a surprised and worried affirmative from the shift commander for the newly founded task force. It reflected badly on the man in Drayson's mind.

Wallet returned to his pocket, on silent of course, he proceeded deeper into the service tunnel. Like a series of dominos, his message to the task-force would filter down to regional police and emergency services. The key was to try and gain control of the situation before news services could reach and contaminate the scene. The less information those vultures could get the better everything would be for people that were in harms way, and the fewer resources they would have to commit to keeping a lid on things instead of assuring the safety of the public.

He did not like reporters.

His journey to the control center was littered with broken bundles of wires strung along the ceiling, and banks of fuses blown and shredded. It was strange though; explosives or an overload would surely have meant smoke and fire, but there was no sign of either, as if the system had been shut down then destroyed manually. As if they had been crushed inside their housings, on closer inspection. Jaws of life, or some other heavy hydraulic tool might have managed that, but how could a group have gotten such equipment down there unnoticed?

Two more dead security guards lay in the hallway outside the command room, the doors of which were closed. Like those in the break room, they seemed to have been smashed against the opposing walls repeatedly. Neither man had drawn their pistol. Security cameras were destroyed, even those mounted and hidden in the concrete walls, again as if they had been crushed or torn free of their reinforced mountings.

Drayson's mind raced to piece the situation together. Multiple assailants? No...how could they have covered the distance of the corridor to the two guards and subdue them without either man pulling his sidearm? Maybe it was someone they knew? But that made no sense either. The way they were killed spoke of one violent individual, not a coordinated and armed group.

The destroyed relays and master fuses explained why the system had shut down. If central control went offline, all the lines would come to an abrupt halt. Without central control's oversight, the various secondary stations only had control of their own lines, with little input on how their neighbors ran things.

So what else could it have been? He remembered a monster that had led to the deaths of two good friends of his, in an old abandoned London subway station. Something that could possess a man's body and turn him against his friends. Could that have been it? It had been unnaturally strong, and had worn familiar faces? A Wefuke?

He approached the door to the control station, finding the heavy magnetic-lock doors offline and ajar. He paused, listening at the crack for a moment, and a desperate man's voice pleading with someone. Promises were given, the man's desperation growing more and more evident as the pain in his voice grew more pronounced. Pain and desperation that turned to horror and suddenly ended with the sharp sound of bone breaking against a solid surface.

The second man's voice was all the curses and rantings of a mad-man. An ex employee, from what Drayson could gather, but it still made no sense. It sounded as if there were only one man left in the room. One man could not have done all the damage he had seen reaching the control room.

Metal squealed and tore abruptly, and Drayson grimaced at the ear-splitting sound. He glanced at his Wallet a moment and frowned irritably; ETA 20 minutes. That wouldn't do. The team needed to be faster. He glanced back down the hallway, expecting to see more attackers, or any hint of the heavy equipment that would have been needed to accomplish what he had seen, but no answers were provided there.

One assailant, crazed and by all signs not armed. Not with a firearm at least. The room beyond sounded large, the man's ranting screams at least a few meters distant of the door. Even if he had some sort of tool, the distance was enough that Drayson could dispatch the man before the distance was closed.

Assuming it was a man. He had glimpsed the other side of the veil once already, and was painfully aware that man was not alone on the Earth. So what the hell was he dealing with?

Shaking his head, Drayson cursed his own stupidity and stepped back from the door. One practiced move of his thumb released the safety on his weapon, and a moment later he was jerking the heavy door open with one powerful pull. It swung on well oiled hinges and slammed in it's hinge-breaks before hitting the wall.

Drayson entered the room with surprising speed for his size, weapon up and leveled at the only man that stood in the room. The man was pasty white and sweating, spattered in blood, his clothes rumpled and soiled. His hands were raised towards one of the control panels, which even as Drayson watched suddenly crumbled in on itself as if under a heavy weight.

An invisible heavy weight, apparently. The man seemed to push down on something, and the panel finally gave way, metal screeching again as it caved in. Drayson's brow furrowed at the sight, then his gaze snapped back to the perpetrator. The ex-employee spun on Drayson, arms flashing out towards him and a look of mad glee on his face.

Drayson fired once, then everything went dark.

-----

He came awake with a start. His eyes snapped open, but the view that met him was...off. He had been standing in the doorway, but now he could only see ceiling tiles and an emergency light. And a face hidden behind a featureless face-mask. One of the members of the newly formed task force, from what he could tell of the unit name emblazoned on it.

They were twenty minutes out, how did they get here so soon? His mind raced to understand what had happened, and he tried to raise his left arm to rub at tired eyes, only to find a brief flash of pain as his reward. His brow furrowed irritably and he slowly turned his head to look at his arm.

He was in the hallway, near two dozen meters from the door at least. It was hard to judge the distance from where he lay. He was laying on the floor, apparently. And his arm was broken. Or maybe just dislocated. The officer kneeling next to him patted his other shoulder and removed his helmet; a she, apparently, not a he.

"Lay still, Sir. Dislocated your shoulder, maybe a mild concussion. Situation is secure though, Sir."
She grinned down at him, although it was easy to tell she was uneasy despite her attempted casual airs, then moved away to make space for paramedics that came swooping in with a stretcher for him.

He could over-hear the investigators, and one confirmed that Drayson had shot and killed what appeared to be the perpetrator. He sighed quietly and turned his gaze back to the ceiling. This was going to make for a lot more paperwork. And reporters...damn reporters.


Edited by Drayson, Mar 30 2014, 10:57 AM.

Continued from: Something To Do

Provost Boipello and three other men that had made up part of Mr Danjou's personal entourage for his visit to the ancient holy city stood in one of the Bedouin camps that dotted the city's outskirts. Gone were their FELIN 2 armour and gear, replaced with the traditional tob (robes) of the desert tribesmen. Each man carried a rifle brazenly slung over their shoulders, and khanjar knives tucked into their sashes.

The four men did not stand out much; they were African born, and the Bedouin tribes were known to travel far and wide, with the Islamic faith being a dominate one in Africa as well. They moved as a group, working their way among the tents and past the corrals of horses and camels and goat pens, their gaze focused on a crude cross with a body boldly tied to the rough timber planks.

The four men recognized Cpl Ime's remains only for the tattered and stained uniform and armour; the radicals that had taken his body had deemed his equipment unworthy of looting, apparently. All the better, as the FELIN armour included a GPS tracker that had led the Provost and his men straight to them.

They stopped at the edge of the tents as they gave way to the wide open space in which Ime's remains had been left. Dozens of men still lingered there sharing inflated stories of the attack on the foreign reporter and her camera man, and of the killing of the 'infidel' that now decorated their camp.

Boipello glanced at his watch briefly, then nodded to one of the men with him. Sapper Aberash caught the signal and pulled a strange green plastic device from a pouch among his robes. He cupped it in one large hand, and pulled a small antenna from it's housing, extending it fully. A simple hard plastic dial next to the antenna was quickly checked, and he waited for the Provost's signal.

The four men shifted impatiently, and some of the men in the clear area around Ime's remains glanced their way suspiciously.

Boipello's watch beeped once, and Aberash's hand squeezed down on the clacker in his hand. Somewhere in the camp a tiny charge went off, barely audible even if one were standing close to it. Wood and rope of a horse pen gave way and part of the pen wall collapsed. And with it's collapse, so to did a flash-bang grenade.

He turned the dial and struck the clacker again. And again. And again. Other pens collapsed, other flash-bangs detonated. A store of camp fuel went up from an incendiary grenade. The night sky was lit by flashes of bright light and flame. Horses screamed in the night and trampled out of their corrals. Camels groaned and panicked, much like their distant cousins, the horses. And then women and children screamed in panic as tents were trampled and fires spread. The carefully stacked and separated stores of fuel detonated as sealed cans detonated, spraying burning petrol onto nearby tents.

The camp erupted into total chaos; people were running, the men in the clearing around Ime's remains were distracted from the four suspicious strangers, rushing off to try to contain the chaos. And the four Legionnaires strolled in and took down Ime's body unmolested. Sapper Aberash took the dead man's weight across his shoulders, and they walked out into the night to their waiting vehicle.

Firetrucks and ambulances raced towards the Bedouin camp, arriving far too soon to be responding to the actual initial incident. They'd been called ten minutes before the first detonation. The Legion was brutally efficient, but they were not inherently brutal. Of course, it sat well with them that the camp was mostly young men, the fiery-hearted youths who were eager for war.

This would be just one more spark in the dry tinder that was Dominance V. Little did any of them know that there was a far brighter match struck at King Saud bin Abdulaziz University that very night.

A few hours later, Provost Boipello and his men, with Cpl Ime's now bagged remains, raced down the road towards the port city of Jedah, where a chartered ship waited to bring them back to African soil and a waiting private jet to finish their journey to Casablanca.

Takeo set his ivory chopsticks on the matching rest beside his plate, collecting his thoughts for a moment as he chewed his well-seasoned duck. You never knew what you'd get in the Rose Pagoda - the kitchen seemed to be complete with a revolving door in the back - so he appreciated the attempt at recreating an old familiar dish. Salty, but familiar. He didn't open his mouth until every grain of rice was swallowed, and then only after carefully wiping his mouth and cleansing his pallet with a fresh swig of water.

"Whether or not he told me anything,"
Takeo said, hands folding calmly in his lap, "You know I can't share any of it with you."


Across the table, at a span of about 7.5 thousand kilometers, Hara Ushijima sat virtually planted behind her end of the table. Though the holo was not high-def, it was easy enough to make out the seal of the Patron of Dominence IV imprinted in imperial red on every white porcelain plate, mug and bowl projected before her. A cleanly shaven head and a stern face - untouched by makeup, surgery or enhancement - declared her a staunch Fundamentalist. She wore every one of her sixty three years with pride and nobility, though a healthy diet and impossibly clean lifestyle would lead most to believe her far younger - even in her garishly outdated and overelaborate blazer and gold-piped v-neck. He had never seen her in anything less austere - in fact, for her, this was downright spartan.

"Of course not,"
the woman answered in an only barely discernibly feminine baritone; she was obviously once married to- and divorced from the military before donning this dubious duty. The Patron waved off his comments as she might a passing fly around her bowl, which she now neglected with perfect Japanese decorum, and trudged on. "I wouldn't expect you to answer on-air regardless."
A certain set to her eyebrow let him know what a waste of a breath she thought this conversation to be. "I need whatever intel you can give me, however, Privelege. You owe me that."
She stared. "The Americans have you on camera walking hand in hand with their darling explorer. Surely you talked about more than the Ballet and how you would braid each other's hair each night. You must know you look like a fucking baka, Tokeo, bowing and scraping for that, that… that..."


Quite the mouth on the new Queen of DIV.

"That celebrity?"
Takeo offered - one of her favorite obscenities - along with a slim smile. ""He'll be gone by morning, along with all the other stars," remember?"
Takeo quoted, and felt a pang of satisfaction as the older woman's lips pursed in obvious recognition. He shrugged it off. "Listen, Ushijima-san, Trano's supporters can spin whatever story they want. D-IV will only stand firmer behind us with every biting remark the Americans make. So let them squawk."


"That's not the point!"


"No, the point is this,"
Takeo said, and this time he was not smiling, "The Ascendancy has His eye on the gaijin, and the others scratching at his door. If He wants to give them a glimpse behind the curtain, that is His concern, and none of yours. Yours is not to ask questions - nor is it mine - but to follow orders."


"That!"
Hara barked, and her projected self actually did laugh, if you could call it that. It was more of a dry-heave, abrupt and hardly audible. "Coming from you? The self-proclaimed Bastard of Tokyo. When did Tokeo learn to obey?"


How had this woman come so far in politics? If she was not the puppet, she played one well. "Tokyo is not Moscow,"


"No argument there,"
Hara uttered, waving away an apparition who had appeared on her end with a fresh teacup and saucer in hand. It floated away and vanished on the digital ether from whence it came. "We'll do it your way."
The Patron fished under the table and brought out a wallet, which she dropped with a comforting thud on the desk in front of her. As it sprang to life, several dimensional graphs and charts unfolded in the air between them. "If you can remember my last message, I have several concerns you can pass on to the Ascendancy on behalf of your Dominance, assuming that is not too much to ask of the Privelege …"


Takeo motioned for another sake - it was going to be a long night.


Edited by Takeo, Mar 26 2014, 01:15 AM.

Continued from Hunt the Hunter and Direct Action

Hasan walked among his followers as the cool, still night air meandered past him, bearing just a hint of salt water smell on the lazy eastward breeze. Silence fitted his thoughts like the funeral shrouds wrapped around his bodyguards who were in tow. Sorrow and joy sang in his heart for them; sorrow that the Adversary had taken them and joy because they were undoubtedly in Paradise with almighty Allah. Who would not want that eternal reward for those whom they loved in this life? Attempting to understand the mystery that was the way of submission was a fine line to walk, like the keen edge of the sword.

Hasan plodded on in silence. He had insisted they bring the dead by foot all the way to the Grand Mosque. Let the people see what the devil had done and let them see the martyrs. The exhaustion that sank into his soul was but a part of the penance he planned to serve -- not because he'd done anything wrong, of course, but because it was only right that God's instrument should bear the pain and suffering of His people. Had it been only hours -- or even that long? -- since that horrible attack by that devil? And what was to be done about it?

Politics and demons make strange bedfellows
. It was obvious the jinn had some goal of its own to accomplish. The idea that the CCD would send uniformed soldiers to attempt a capture or assassination was simply ludicrous. Either the Great Adversary sent a demon in control of a CCD unit, or a demon faked the unit's allegiance to make it look like the CCD was trying to take him. The rage at defilement simmered within him, kept at bay only by the knowledge that he would not be tricked into waging the holy struggle against the wrong person. It was not political war he was being called to wage but one of holiness, against Shaytan himself. Allah commanded it.

Hasan distanced himself from the caravan for a moment and forged ahead upon the highway. And that was when he saw it -- out of the corner of his eye.

Flicker.

Was it in the shape of a man? Hasan turned his head and saw nothing, only a run-down dwelling off the side of the highway. Some sheep nibbled at sparse blades of grass.

Flicker.

There. Hasan turned his head the other way. Again, there was nothing -- but this time he was certain he had seen a silhouette of some sort. It had been there. The caravan was some fifty or sixty meters distant. Some sort of unseen wave rippled through them, like an invisible breath stirring grains of sand, and was gone just as quickly.

Malak al-Maut.
Hasan dropped to his knees right in the middle of the highway. He would have hardly been surprised to have glimpsed the Angel of Death earlier, at the Mosque, calling the righteous and the damned alike. One never saw him face to face until Allah decreed it was his time. To the holy, he would appear as the most beautiful creature; to the unjust, he was a horrible, hideous thing to behold, a visage worthy of nightmares.

Was the angel coming for him? Now? It made no sense to Hasan for this to be the end of his journey -- but it was nonsensical to question the wisdom of the Almighty.

He prostrated himself. "Allah's unworthy servant greets you, Malak al-Maut,"
Hasan called out. Some old writings said the Angel's name was Azrael, but the Holy Quran did not mention this. But one did not try to run from the angel of death. Not unless a man had something to fear, at least. "Allah knows the hidden things in my heart. If my service here to him is at an end, take me home."


There was no voice in response, not even the whisper of wind. Instead, the response was whispered to his soul.

Hasan's forehead was still touching the road surface when the first of his followers caught up. "What is it, Mahdi?" called out one of his students.

Hasan lifted his head. "Allah has sent the Angel of Death to us to bid us tidings,"
he said. He left the obvious unsaid: I saw the angel and survived.
No one, no one saw the Angel of Death until it was his time to leave the world. "The final struggle is at hand. It is the will of Allah that this shall come to pass and that we prepare for the end."


Hasan stood and said no more for the remainder of the night. Talk of angels and demons he left to his followers.

Prepare for the end.
Malak al-Maut was going to be very busy in the weeks and months to come.