Age: 29 (Nov 15, 2016)
Origin: San Antonio, Texas, USA
Occupation: Assassin for Hire

Psychological description: Unlike her persona, Ayden is not a hot head, she is cool and calculated. She gets right to the point with little small talk between things. Ayden enjoys taking risks, the riskier the better the pay usually. She is highly observant. Her greatest downfall is family. While she doesn't have anyone to care for, she doesn't typically take a job that requires her to separate the mark from small children.

Physical description: Ayden is 5'6", 125lbs with an athletic build. Ayden has almost forgotten that she was born with blond hair and brown eyes. She tends to wear her hair in flaming red hair style, her hair almost looks like it's made of fire itself. She tends to wear a specialty contact lens, not for vision problems but to make her iris also look like fire. But Ayden can be seen wearing any number of wigs, colored contact lens that she feels fit the current occasion she is out of her living quarters whatever they may be.

Powers & supernatural powers: Channeler - (specifically a Phoenix - lore explained later)
Current Strength: 8
Potential Strength: 15
Channeler Experience: Adept
Reborn God: Itzpapalotl - Aztec
Biography:
Anne Lowe

Life was never simple for the Lowe family. Peter Lowe and his loving wife were the typical Army family. They moved where they were told to go as Peter was station in different places. It wasn't until they landed in San Antonio, Texas that things changed. Peter's wife, Mary gave birth to their first and only daughter, they named her Anne. In his second year stationed at Fort Sam Houston, he was shipped of to Afghanistan for the on going war on terror. Peter never returned. Mary was left to raise her daughter alone.

But Mary and Anne were not alone for long, soon Mary met another military man, he was a big wig at the base and he was permanently based in San Antonio. Mary had found the perfect husband and father after her loving Peter had never returned.

Anne was born and breed to be Texan. Even at a young age her step father, Evan O'Shea, taught her how to shoot a gun, ride a horse, wrangle all sorts of animals. It was O'Shea's dream to one day own a ranch.

Anne did well throughout school, excelled in math and science and had joined the ROTC as early as she could. She would follow in both her father's footsteps. Anne's ASVAB scores were excellent, and her time in boot camp lead her into sniper school. She was an excellent marksman, cool headed and very observant. And most importantly Anne preferred to work alone, or in small teams.

By the age of 19, Anne was well on her way to becoming an excellent and very sought after sniper. But as the fates would have it, she grew violently ill. Looking back now at the situation, it is obvious what had triggered the very first episode - a new gift had emerged.

Illusion, Fire and Healing

It had been a standard training exercise early on in her sniper training. Anne had been sent out on a mission. The details of which didn't really matter, she was alone and it was her sole responsibility to take out her mark. There were no spotters in training.

The mission was simple, but the places to conceal yourself not so much. Anne hastily put together her spot and that was the first time that the gift had present itself. Anne's cover was about to be blown. Her spot was almost uncovered but the strangest thing had happened, the world became more clear, sights more crisp, smell more vibrant,and they looked right through her - like she didn't exist. There was no twitch of the eye, or a hesitation, she was not there, though she could clearly see them. At first thought she didn't know what to think, perhaps her cover had been better than she'd thought, but Anne knew better.

Two weeks later Anne was violently ill. Her head pounded, she could not keep anything down and she missed several days of training because she couldn't stand up. The mark on her record was always something Anne had hated. She truly disliked failure, in herself and in others.

The second episode was just as bizarre. Anne was out in the wood scouting out her next practice target. This time it was a hidden location she had to find in the woods. It grew late and she knew she wouldn't make it and traveling at night was something she didn't want to do, at least not until she knew her surroundings better, and that wasn't going to likely happen in this time frame. Anne took to making a small camp fire as the night grew dark. A twig snapped and she jumped. The darkness became less dark, and in a moment there was a small fire burning in the pile she had just created but she had not lit the match or put flint to tinder yet.

And again, this time one week later, Anne grew sick. She tried to power through, but the vomiting and fever kept her in the infirmary for three days. A second mark on her record and Anne was nearly at the end of her training, she was disappointed in herself but everyone else seemed to understand.

The third and final bout of sickness was the trigger for Anne's clarity. She understood all the bizarre things that had happened had been her. Anne found herself on a final mission. This time with live ammo. Everything leading up to the moment of clarity happened so fast. A friend in her unit had gone off his course and wandered into her area. Accidents happen, Anne had not expected anything live to be present in her area, so when she heard the cracking of a twig, she immediately shot, with out thinking twice.

Anne looked up from the scope and saw her friend fall with a piercing scream. Moment's later Anne was at his side. He had been shot in the chest, it looked like she'd barely missed his heart, or he'd be dead, instead he was gasping for breath. Anne started to panic, fear started to set in. But the world grew vibrant and as Anne tried to stop the bleeding she saw the most bizarre thing happen. The wound started to heal of it's own accord.

Anne looked around and saw nothing, but the world in such fine detail. By the time she looked down her friend was no longer gasping for air. He was lying on the ground as pale as a sheet but he was no longer wounded. He looked up at her groggily. Anne couldn't help but smile but she was still greatly confused. Had she really done that? Had all those other strange things been her too. There was only one way to find out - test the theory.

And that's exactly what she did. It was difficult at first. Anne got discouraged until she realized it only happened when she was afraid. It wasn't the fear itself, but the anxiety failure caused her. Anne finished off her sniper training and was sent to be a lookout for a top notch sniper in the Army Rangers. During her free time Anne learned to control her anxiety of failure and in doing so, she learned to control her new gift. The task was difficult and Anne had learned a lot from her partner and about her gift, by the time she was given command of her own sniper team Anne could use her gift at will.

The First Shot

Anne's first mission in the Army Rangers was not very eventful in and of itself it was the night following it that made the impact. Anne remembered vividly the action of the shot itself, she replayed it over and over in her dreams since she first took that shot. It is one of the most haunting dreams she has to this day.

Atop a roof in some third world nation Anne sat waiting for her target. It felt like forever before the mark showed up. Anne grasped the essence of her gift, the extension of her senses was perfect for this line of work. Anne lined up, the wind was perfect, the sun was not in her face, it was the perfect first mission. Anne squeezed the trigger ever so slightly and the bullet flew down and through her target like a hot knife through butter. With her sharpened senses, Anne could almost feel the bullet piercing the precious flesh of the mark's body. It was a very profound moment for Anne, most people feel a tinge of regret, Anne did not she looked forward to the next one.

That night sleep came easily to Anne. Her dreams were restful and she stirred little. But the day's activities started to seep into them. First the harmless dreams were tinged with the vibrant color from the eyes of her gift. The worlds morphed and changed into horrific scenes. The buildings turned to massive trees. Her mark turned to a woman wearing nothing but a loin clothe stood over an altar. A man reached in and ripped her heart from her chest and Anne could feel the glory and power from the sacrifice. It was glorious. The scenes flipped and filtered and moved around. A woman gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Anne knew that the sacrifice had been for the child and she could feel the praise and power emanating from them. She was their god...

Anne woke with a start, her heart leaped through her chest and her hands ached as is if she were the one to pull the still beating heart from the woman in her dream. Sleep did not come for the rest of the night.

Soon the dream was nothing more than memory, until the next mission. And the cycle would repeat itself. The sacrifices more gruesome than the next. The blood flowed longer and Anne remembered the dreams more clearly with each passing one.

Chastity White

Two years passed in the same cycle until the crash that should have taken her life. It was a typical mission in some third world nation. Her unit was sent to kill someone. Anne rarely asked questions. The chopper they were in was shot down. It went down like a fiery comment into the middle of some nowhere jungle. Fear took over and Anne survived only because of her gift. What happened she didn't know, but she knew it was her gift that had saved her, she had saved herself, but she didn't have any idea how.

Whatever god forsaken country they were was resistant to the US and the people that found Anne in the crash were not so nice. She endured days of torture that felt like months. Until one day they sat her in front of a black and white television and she watched as they proclaimed Anne Lowe among others dead. It was her mother and step father stepping up to protest. How things had changed since she had joined the military, a once very militant family was now very much against it.

A strange man flipped the switch off and turned to Anne. "You come work for us, and this will all stop."

Anne looked at him suspiciously. And he continued, "You are dead to your government, we made sure of that." He dropped a plain manila folder on her lap, the contents facing up. "Kill this man, and you can be set free." He laughed, "But you will work for us."

Anne was definite, "Why should I work for you?"


He smiled at her with great pleasure as he spoke, "I'll kill your precious little family."

It wasn't so much a weak point but the glances of the mark had made Anne want to kill him. He was a horrid man, but it really didn't matter, what she did.

"Fine."
She said with disgust, but only because she wanted free of this hell hole, one problem at a time.

He nodded and a second folder fell in her lap. This one with password and all legal documentation she needed to live a different life as Chastity White. Chastity completed the missions this foreign government sent at her. Some were righteous kills, others not so much. But the pay was decent and her family was safe. And she still got to do what she loved despite the dreams that affected her each mark she took out.

Phoneix

The last mission she did as Chastity White ended with Chastity dying in another ball of fire. It was not her typical mission. It was meant to look like an accident. Hard to shoot someone in the head and make it look like an accident. Even suicide was out of the picture on this one. But the pay was great.

Chastity had done her research, the mark was a frequent call girl requester. She posed as his next girl, and got in with out much question, apparently he was mean and the girls didn't like him. So when Chastity had canceled his appointment posing as his wife, she took the role up with ease. Chastity brought her own special brand of wine which he gratefully took. The poison inside should have made it look like a heart attack. But before the poison could do it's job, the man had tried to tie Chastity up, he pulled a knife on her and there was little to do but defend herself. Chastity cut the man's throat with easy. But it was no longer an accident.

Quick on her feet Chastity lit several candles and carefully arranged the body on the bed. Then she tipped the candle over. Oops. Chastity embraced her gift and enraged the flame. Soon it engulfed the curtain, then the room and then the floor and ceiling. Everything succumbed to the power of the flame. When the flame reached the body, Chastity raised her arms and the flames grew hotter and higher. The power was immense. She left unscathed.

Rumor abound about the fire, supposedly a woman walked out of the fire unharmed, but no one could find her. No one knew she had been there. Some started calling the mystery girl the Phoenix. And fire was soon becoming the former Chastity White's best friend.

Her employers thought she was dead despite no body being found, Chastity was happy to be rid of them, and started her own career. Her name became Ayden Hayes. Both names carefully researched and both meaning fire in some form or another.

Ayden took the Phoenix nick name seriously and chose her look based upon the myths and legends of the fire bird. Her hair dyed in flaming colors, contacts made to look like flames. Ayden was not an arsonist, she didn't enjoy setting fires, but fire had become almost better than shooting some poor mark in the head.

Ayden took jobs where ever she could find them. The issue didn't matter, money was money. It was all about the money and Phoenix was good at her job, the world would pay good money.


Edited by Ayden, Jun 17 2014, 01:59 PM.

Occupation:
Spy/Assassin for Hire. The previous corporation Annika worked for sold out and in turn most lost work. Those paid off books were essentially out of work. Therefore she is Unemployed, but works part time as a seamstress for a mom & pop store in her apartment building.

Personality:
In many ways, Annika personifies much of what her former self symbolized. Force, constraint and necessity. The aspects of Fate and Destiny, however, have been lost to the wheel although she does find herself pulled in certain directions that then place her in pivotal situations. Sometimes.

The default of her personality is Constraint. To pause, wait, listen; Annika is an old hat to constraint and it has become a dear friend. She does not often show excessive amounts of emotion, and when she does there always seems to be a hint of what she holds back. Even as a child, she spent less time playing with other children, but instead watching or interacting in a more limited capacity. One thing that seemed a theme was that loud was not often right, but the weight of words came from limiting opinion. She conversed plenty but when it comes to important subjects her words were rare but worth listening to.

Annika always felt a level of necessity for things. It was necessary for her to complete school, to follow up on an unknown receipt, to actually make friends, or acquaintances even if it isn't easy. She isn't necessarily stubborn so much as feels that need weighs heavier than desire. Relations are important to the the emotional state of being human, so there fore making friends is a necessity to that end. On the other hand, food is only a requirement for functioning and fueling the body. Extravagance and material wants are not something she indulges in as she doesn't feel the need for them. In many ways, kindness is a necessity of every day life even if her moral compass and goals are a little skewed.

However, her goals are a little more of a gray area. When driving towards meeting a goal, Annika is a Force to be reckoned with. Skilled in a variety of hand to hand skills and some weaponry, it is unwise to stand in her way. Not to mention her ability to collect and store information, she has a little black book of names and secrets she has collected over her lifetime that could cause problems to those that cross her. Annika is not one to forget, or forgive.

What she is working towards, even Annika isn't entirely sure. She dislikes power, but dislikes those that abuse power more. What she finds confusing is that an abuse of Power for the good of others to be a load of crock, yet selfishness seems fairly parallel in the damage it creates for others. Ultimately Annika searches for something to believe in, and has very few moral virtues as to how to achieve it.

Annika's hobbies include knitting, poetry, languages and her cat, Cat.


Appearance:
Standing at 5 feet and 6 inches, her most defining feature is her little flat nose that turns up at a perfect point. Small thinned lips of a soft rose, average cheekbones, and a thin but fit body Annika makes a striking pose when dressed in fame and flare. But then most anyone would, and Annika isn't one to dress up for an occasion unless necessary. Currently her hair is a natural blonde, but it has taken a variety of colors over her history and will likely change again as she needs it to. Hair is a rather versatile tool.

Often her roles in the past have had her infiltrating in business garb, and so she has a collection of basic and designer suits in both pant and skirt with matching jacket. Her more staple pieces are the white pant suit with a black and white print blouse or the black suit with a skirt and a solid colored top. She wears her hair in a variety of ways, but usually sticks to a single style for each job. Even at work Annika rarely wears jewelry.

In a more casual setting, she still has a similar business casual look, but instead of dress pants she wears dark jeans. While she owns a few skirts she tends not to wear them unless for work. Her hair is usually loose or pulled back into a messy ponytail. Annika has a medium length jacket to keep out the cold, and a off white knitted scarf made by her mother. The scarf is a treasured possession.

Power:
The discovery of her power was quite shocking to Annika. But its use as a tool gave it untold limitations and value. She has grown to use her power as a shield, manipulating air, water and spirit with relative ease. Her skill is rudimentary at best without a teacher, but she has been able to skillfully use illusions on herself to alter her appearance when she needs it, keep her tea warm, and keep herself dry during downpours. She's still working on the keeping herself warm in the winter without adding to her electric bill but Fire isn't exactly her most reliable element. Air conditioning, however, is now free.

Eventually she will have some control and talent with Compulsion, but as a starting character she is not nearly skilled enough, nor is aware of it as an ability.


History

Born in Samara, Russia, Annika is a mix of heritages. A Grandmother from England, a Great Grandfather from Ireland, and a Mother from Greece, somehow she has found a way to use it all to blend in to her surroundings. Annika never really stood out from others where she lived, even her blonde hair wasn’t really out of place among the children of her neighborhood and schools. Growing up with only her father, after a rather nasty divorce when Annika was merely three, she has never met her half siblings from her mother and has never felt a desire to look for a mother-like role in her life.

Annika was very close to her father. He was a shoemaker that did very well in his youth and had made it into a thriving business until the day he died when Annika was 15, and just graduating high school. Young and mature for her age, she found herself having to deal with banks and loans and corrupt people who took advantage of her youth and "bought" the business from her. What 15 year old had a use for a business that only involved men’s shoes? It did not help that only months after his death that she was greeted with a strange sickness. Ill enough to miss her own graduation, Annika agreed to the large settlement (not nearly large enough given the net worth of the company), and instead spent a month in the hospital quarantined. Fever raged, and heightened, and then broke. She was fine, free of whatever plagued her, and she returned to her home only to find it robbed of much of what her father and her built together. What else would happen to a house abandoned for a month?

While she missed out on her graduating ceremony, Annika still was able to complete her junior years of schooling years ahead of her age group. For the next two years, studied at one of the more prestigious colleges on scholarship, completing a degree in Social Science, minoring in international Law. (It seemed practical at the time.) on the cusp of turning 19 did she start on her Master degree and completed it within the year. By 21 she had earned her Masters, and an additional Degree in Law. What was fascinating about Law was how it had been used against her. Returning to her Father’s company, she started to look for a bit of retribution. It had been her fathers company, and to have been hers. Though circumstances had found herself understanding that it had been avoidable, being only 15 at the time, now she could at least avenge a little what had been stolen from her due to unfortunate chains of events.

It was unfortunate that she had not foreseen the ramifications of using her own name entering into the corporate aspect of the company. Within a year she had been able to move up a little, but only to be closer watched. Once they noticed her recording more and more documents for private use, instead of using legal means (which would have brought to question the original deal 6 or so years ago), and it being Russia, they sent someone to her home to take care of their little problem.

Annika learned quickly that she wasn’t like others. During the scramble that lever her with a broken computer, lamp, ripped books and an incredibly large mess of books. Not to mention the body in the kitchen and a stove that was now parked outside her building, She felt something.. euphoric. It was obvious that she was no longer safe, but it came with a renewed purpose that she was getting to where she needed to be. There was power in her body, and it was something she needed to learn to control. Also, if she was going to get into these sorts of situations she would need to learn self defense.

Becoming a infiltrator, a spy, or perhaps even an assassin, happened a little more organically. Annika didn’t draw from a terrible childhood, for it really was filled with good memories. Her purpose was perhaps built from a series of events, or even a mentor to give her direction. But as the years progressed, Annika learned. She studied, and oddly put her Masters degree to a different use. She used it to study people, patterns, and to find loopholes. Eventually she contracted out to a small Corporation when she was 25 where she spent a lot of time traveling all over eastern Europe. Even some time in west. Annika was able to regain control of her father’s company, now a moderately successful shoe and clothing company, through legal means after a few unfortunate deaths up the corporate ladder. It was a clean income, free of blood money and gave her a bit more comfort that would otherwise be challenging to gain.

4 years of steady work filtered down into a few jobs here and there. The last job was in Moscow, where Annika has found herself in an apartment complex above a collection of stores. Tailoring, a Grocer, Chinese (in Moscow?! Who knew!) and a shooting gallery. The Shooter made for a good way to burn off steam while leaving the tenants feeling surprisingly safe. Mostly, Annika is a little upset that she lost her contact in Moscow, and really hasn’t decided what she wants to do next. However, there are whispers of work for some other organizations, and Annika is curious to check them out.

The sun was a distant, useless star hung low in a sky blanketed by the haze of pollution.

As soon as he stepped into the frigid winter air, Eli finished snapping the buckle at his throat. His sneer for the cold sun deepened as the breeze whisked powdery snow around his legs. His hair plumed around his face, and his jaw tensed. He tucked fingerless gloves deep in his pockets and tried to erase the memories of what his blackened eyes witnessed within the hospital that finally spat him back out on the streets. The creak of old wheelchairs moaned in his mind. The smell of vinegar and bleach burned his nostrils. Dark, damp; within the prison-like tunnels he'd left behind, Eli's contempt had been a black god of mercy in comparison.

Most of all, he wanted to forget the madman that occupied the last hour of his life. What tumbled within that greasy scalp was pure insanity. Chthonic tales spewed from his puckered old lips like venom. He spoke of underwater volcanoes spitting snakes the size of buses. He spoke of the earth shaking, and the coming of a man whose feet broke stone with every step.

Snow crunched under Elias' feet like abandoned bones. The route in and out of the visitor's ward clearly was not well-traveled enough to warrant regular snow shoveling; security was likewise surprised at his early morning request for entrance. As he came upon the final wall, he wrapped himself in power and smiled to himself while the cameras registered his face. Every absurdity had a grain of truth somewhere, and deep in the mind of one psychotic scientist locked in the Guardian until the end of his days, Elias found a grain of truth lost in a sea of delirium.

That modicum of authenticity was going to help him uncover the truth of his uncle's demise.

Iron bolts snapped open, and he was released once more into the world while the Guardian had never known he was the greatest danger that could have walked out of their asylum this day. He turned down the street headed for the metro station, already forming a plan in his mind.
Edited by Elias Donovan, Mar 18 2014, 05:42 PM.

Elias Donovan

Age: 20 years old, born in 2025, Kanab, Utah, USA.

Channeling: 9/19; New.


Biography


Elias was born into the respectable Donovan family as the second son of five children. The Donovans raised their children as devout Latter Day Saints amongst the other congregations of Kanab. Elias’s childhood was spent in pleasant obscurity and consisted mainly of church and a nurturing community.

Like all of the Donovan children, Eli was instilled with a great sense of family loyalty and charitable nature. However, while he loved his family his teenage years brought not only the trouble of puberty, but also of doubt and discord. Unlike his other siblings, he started to question the beliefs of his family and friends. He was met with caring concern and stern warning not to stray from the path of righteousness.

Elias’s natural obstinacy was greater than his fear of reprimand and he soon chafed under what he considered an increasingly questionable faith. He felt the weight of the reserved and isolated community of Kenab and in his high school years found himself shunned by his peers. Those who did not shun him merely irritated him with their condescending pity over his personal crises and considered him confused and confounded by the disillusions of the wider world.

Irritation soon turned to contempt and by sixteen he had almost completely removed himself from the wider Kenab society, no longer attending church or observing the precepts of his childhood faith. Much to the concern of his parents, his mood became sullen and introverted. He dressed in the dark colors of Gothic theme, let his hair grow long, and stretched lanky and pale as he aged. He considered himself chained to the barren wasteland of Kenab and resentment grew steadily to a point where his parents despaired of ever reclaiming their child’s soul. To further complicate matters, he began to experience strange bouts of ill-health which was viewed with suspicion and even fear among the older residents.

At the height of Elias’s rebellion, the family decided to take a vacation to the famed Salt Lake to give Eli (and themselves) some time away from the disapproving gaze of Kenab and inspire love for creation in their apathetic son. It was on this trip Elias first used his unique abilities.

When they arrived at the camp site, Elias sought peace through isolation and set out on his own to find a quiet cove where he could sit undisturbed by subtle prodding and gentle concern, and there he returned several days in a row. Finally, to coax some measure of excitement out of Eli, the family rented a boat and he happily agreed to the invitation of a ride, if only for a change of scenery.

The wind heaved their sailboat all afternoon, and for once, he enjoyed the sensation of the wind in his hair. Until an unexpected chop swung a loosened berth. It clipped his temple and he fell. Kenab had not afforded him any chance to learn how to swim and he floundered hopelessly in the water, struggling for consciousness and soon found himself on the edge of death. As his lungs strained for air, the surface of the salty water seemed forever out of reach. In that moment, the power opened itself to him. He grasped it with frantic eagerness and found himself propelled to the surface and floating toward shore.

From that day on Elias resolved to make his way out of Kenab with a new determination and a few months later was given his chance. His paternal uncle phoned Kenab with exciting news. A marine biologist, he was selected as a team member of an elite scientific body to investigate some unusual findings south of New Zealand.

Elias jumped at the chance and begged his uncle to take him. His parents were surprised at the fervor of his pleas and desire, approving of what seemed like a sincere wish to follow in the path of his uncle’s footsteps. The truth was somewhat different – Elias would have taken anything to escape the dismal prospects that he envisioned in Kenab, including biology.

So Elias traveled to Wellington, New Zealand and enrolled in Victoria University on the recommendation and mentorship of his uncle. He welcomed the change with renewed vigor, but he still remained somewhat of a recluse.

New Zealand did him well. Within the year, it seemed the vigor and life of the island scratched at the walls he'd built around his heart. All went well until his uncle and the collaborative team mysteriously disappeared. When Elias made inquiries into the disappearance, he was met with a suspicious wall of silence and guessed there was more to the story than a vessel lost at sea. Driven by the desire to find the uncle that had delivered him from his personal hell called Kenab, Elias’s search led him to the heart of the CCD: Moscow.




Age 16. Kenab Meetinghouse


Elias leaned back in the cheap plastic heaps they called chairs and muted the droning buzz of one of Elder Calvin’s sonorous lectures on the particulars of prayer. Ezekiel (Zeke) and Isaiah (Izzy) sat either side of him with such rapt expressions one would think they though meant to become the famous prophets themselves!

Sarah glanced at him with a disappointed frown which cut. Shifting, he adjusted the black studded collar of his jacket and turned away. He hated the pity in her eyes more than the contemptuous dismissal of the others. He did not need her damn pity any more than he needed Elder Calvin’s advice.

Why couldn’t they just leave him be? He did not ridicule their absurd ideas. Why did they pester him? If he was content at taking his chances with eternal oblivion, it was his own business.

“Mr. Donovan, can you tell me which passage shows our eternal Saviour outlining the proper format for a prayer?” Elder Calvin said as Elias knew he would. He always asked Elias, although what the point was, Elias could not say.

He quoted three different passages from the scriptures with barely a thought. However much Elias dismissed their religion, he knew the Bibles inside and out, probably more so than the old man did. He saw the words for what they truly were, not some imaginary pure dream. Words, that’s all they were, plain and simple. And those words made almost no sense. How would Jesus have reached America of all places? Unless he was a particularly good swimmer - not even the Romans could have traversed the open ocean – there weren’t many other options.

And changing the skin color of the Native Americans? That was just plain racism. Besides, why didn’t they remember this supposed chastisement?

Elias’s face must have betrayed his thoughts as the Elder frowned at him. “Anything you want to share with the rest of us, Mr. Donovan?”

“No, Sir.”
Elias replied through gritted teeth. Who would listen to him anyway?



Age 19. Salt Lake.

The sun scorched Salt Lake with its fierce and unrelenting gaze. Beads of perspiration evaporated from Elias’s head almost as soon as they rose to the surface of his skin. Flicking up the collar of his black jacket to shield his neck from sunburn, he stared out over the vast lake.

His younger siblings all gaped and shouted in excited astonishment and even his parents held the great mass of water with some awe. Elias shook his head. Of course, it was his first time actually seeing so large a lake, but he hadn’t buried his head in the sand either.

Still...They were as good a family as could be. Despite their disapproval, they truly wanted the best for him. It was why he was here; to escape the constant gaze of Kanab.

Elias frowned. The doctor had said his infirmities were simply stress. Sure, the incessant pressure irked him to no end, but he had grown almost immune to it. The erratic fevers were like a dust storm blown through his mind, stress did not do that to people. At least, not him. His entire life had been nothing but stress, why would it affect him now?

“Are you coming, dear?” his mother said in her voice as mild as an autumn night under the stars.

“Yes,”
he replied, straightening his jacket with one last vigorous tug and set off to where his father and brothers had begun setting a camp.



Age 20: Wellington, New Zealand

Wellington was surprisingly conceited for a city perched on the edge of the known world. A year after his arrival in New Zealand, Elias continued to draw strange glares everywhere he went. The long coat billowing around his ankles served him well in the sting of winter's weather, though. Kenab was one endless season in comparison, but the night air of the Utah desert prepared him for the southerly wind blowing off Antarctica. He wore boots to his knees. Even as the wedges of the heels dug into the sand, not a single grain wedged its way inside. Lounged in a chair, feet crossed at the ankle, he was a black smudge in the middle of a sandy shore, but he was comfortable. Sea water lapped in front of him. The sun shone cool and distant overhead. He held a book in one hand, and moved only to turn a page or swipe away long sheets of hair from blowing across his eyes.

Yelling and grunting from up shore broke his concentration. He was paying for those C’s in high school calculus, but he was catching up swiftly. Unfortunately, the ruckus was growing close enough to no longer ignore.

From behind the rim of his book, he spared a glimpse. It was a trio of wisecracking Expat jocks. He recognized the ring-leader, Joey, from Intro to Economics. He was a barreling buffalo of a man with blonde hair that fell across perfect eyes, the wide stripes of his branded-Canterbury shirt barely contained bulging traps, and as usual, he was carrying a beer bottle in one hand and a rugby ball in the other.

One of his minions, a jet-haired, half-Korean, half-Canadian math major named Will Cho, sprinted down the beach. He turned in perfect formation and caught the ball chucked by Joey like the guys were working on American football passes. If it was a rugby thing, Elias could not say. He went back to catching up on geometric derivatives and tuned them out.

Elias quickly realized they were playing some sort of game. Will Cho was quickly barreled down by the second of Joseph’s minions, an Irish kid named Willem. Will and Willem. If it weren’t for the black or red hair, Elias would never be able to remember which was which.

Will grunted as Willem pounded him downward, laughing. He wrenched the rugby ball from the smaller man, and pounded his face into the sand. Will coughed and sputtered, sand pouring from his mouth between bouts of laughter. The sneer on Elias’s face turned cold.

He could take it no longer. “I say, guys, do you mind taking it down shore a bit?”
But nobody heard him. He tried again, “I say, GUYS?”


Joseph heard his request, and came jogging over and squat alongside Eli's chair.

“Donovan, right?” He asked with an idiotic grin smeared on his face.

Eli gave a curt nod. Joseph conveniently ignored Eli’s request. Instead, he plucked the book from his hand, and laughed when he saw the contents. He snorted a laugh and chucked the book back in Eli’s lap. “Calc on a day like this?” He gestured at the view of the cold, clear sea, and waved the boys over. “Come on Donovan, up for a game? Two-on-two!”

Elias brushed the man’s grubby fingerprints off his book, marked his place and gently placed it aside. The Will’s continued to batter one another in the background. They’d nearly rolled into the lap of ocean water by then. The water must be freezing. Served them right if they did.

“I don’t think so Joseph. Thanks though.”
He was hardly an athlete. Joseph looked disappointed.

“Suit yourself.” He replied, and for a moment, Elias thought he might finally be left in peace, but something in the distance caught Joey's attention. He hopped to his feet and waved.

Elias twisted around in his chair to witness a pair of girls waving back. One of them was Marie Strong. Eli’s breath caught in his throat, and the familiar sort of panic he'd not known since Sarah crept up his spine. Marie was in two of his classes. Rumor had it she and Joseph had been on a few dates. Eli's glare was razor sharp.

Joseph met them half way, and Elias prayed he wasn’t about to – his heart sank. He was bringing Marie and her friend, Elias had never cared to attempt memorizing her name, over. Suddenly his chair was turning into some sort of gathering spot. Like a flagpole planted in the beach to mark their territory. His eyes were drawn further down the shoreline. He knew he should have walked another half-mile.

Marie dropped a picnic basket nearby. The other girl unfurled a blanket and crawled on top. Marie peeked her perfect heart-shaped face around the front of Elias’ chair.

“Elias, right?” She asked. Eli nodded, and she smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming today.” Eli shrugged.

“That makes two of us,”
he replied.

Joseph was already digging through the newly arrived cooler. He plucked another beer. The Will boys descended upon them, drawn by the clatter of glass bottles like moth to the flame. Fantastic.

Marie picked a spot on the blanket. She was wearing a yellow, long-sleeved top that made her cornflower eyes sparkle blue as the sea before them, long pants and sandals. Weren't her toes cold? Elias shifted in his seat. He wore black boots tied nearly to his knees.

Willem chucked the rugby ball at Elias. It slammed into his chest. He tried to cover the pained grunt with a chuckle, but snickering erupted around him none the less. Marie did look a little concerned, and the sting of her pity stoked old, bitter embers in his chest. At least she glared at Willem when he plopped down alongside her.

Thank God his phone rang.

He tucked the rugby ball under one arm like Joseph had done, grabbed the Wallet and jumped from his seat. If they didn't know how to be polite with their toys, they weren't going to get it back for a while.

“Hello?”
He asked, then paused to plug his other ear with a black painted finger. “This is him.”


He fell deadly silent during the ensuing conversation. Any remaining blood in his cheeks quickly drained.

Panic crept around the edges of his heart, but despite the finger jammed in one ear, he couldn’t quite make out the words over the idiots carrying on around him.

He flashed a volatile glare at the gang that mutinied his peaceful study spot. “SHUT UP A SECOND!”
His temper broke with a raging yell, and upon the surprised look on Marie’s face, immediately regretted it. But he couldn’t think about her now.

“I’ll be right there,”
he said, and clapped the Wallet closed. He threw the device in one of his voluminous pockets and threw his books in his shoulder bag.

The gang called out after him, but they were mere white noise against the raging thoughts flooding his head.

Half way up the hill he remembered the rugby ball, turned, and looked at the group huddled on their blanket staring after him like they thought he was deaf. He squeezed it between his palms as rage, pain and disbelief flowed through him. With a whirl of his coat, flash of long hair, and a grimace that glued his jaw together, he chucked the thing as hard as he could. He smiled one of his last smiles as he watched it soar in a high arc toward the sea below, borne by unnatural wings

He turned and sprinted away, never having had the chance to see how far it flew but for what the winds of his mind bore it.

Two days later, in the midst of grief and pain over losing his uncle at sea, he grew desperately ill.




Two months later:

Frowning, Elias reread the details on the visitor's badge dangling prominently from his neck. Today's date was clearly printed. There was a snapshot of his face in the corner opposite the Coastal Ecology Lab logo in the other. The photo shown him pale and bitter. His hair fell around his eyes. His teeth were snapped shut, and his eyes were dry as a dead creek. The time stamp of his arrival - four hours ago - deepened his frustration all the more cynical.

With a grimace, he let the badge fall back to his chest and slouched further down in the seat. The movement caught the eye of the executive assistant seated nearby. He was a thirty-something year old man with short cropped hair, an ill-fitting suit and tie, and fidgety hands unfathomably busy with something that Elias could only guess. Certainly, the man did a terrible job at keeping the Dean's schedule organized because every time Eli showed up for their appointment, the Dean was distracted by important business elsewhere.

What could be more important than a missing team of your own scientists?

Melancholy clouds veiled the seascape beyond the windows. The Ecology Lab was literally nestled into the side of a hill across the street from Island Bay which at the moment was a monochromatic blur of mist, fog and rain.

It was a ten minute ride from Victoria University centred in Wellington, a commute Elias was all too familiar with by now. His appointments with the Dean oscillated frequently between the two facilities. Under any other circumstance, Eli would have been thrilled to walk the halls teeming with studies spanning every known aspect of marine biology. There were laboratories on every floor. The roof sported two satellite antennae. Five ocean-faring research vessels were stationed here – four now – he reminded himself. With the thought, a furious glare washed away any remaining semblance of patience. The fifth vessel, the one carrying his uncle and the rest of the missing team, was lost somewhere between the South Island and Antarctica.

His fists clenched. "That's it,"
he said to himself. The arctic seawater outside was a hot spring in comparison to the ice in Elias' voice. He rose in one graceful gesture and aimed the fires of his frustration upon the door. The door, locked, was thrown back from the jam before Elias even reached it. He silenced the assistant's objection with a single look and let himself in.

Sure enough, the Dean was inside. He was horrified by the trespassing, but the door slammed behind Elias before the man could so much as voice a single protest. He took the surprise well enough.

Confirmation of the man's presence – and weeks of constant dismissal – churned a deep rage that he barely kept from erupting. The Dean's scowl was one of defeat. He was going to meet Elias whether he was ready or not.

"Mister Donovan, I presume?"

Elias took a chair, but only to grip the armrests tight in his fists. Otherwise he was on the verge of hurling it through the window. Perhaps that would get the Dean's attention. For a few more minutes, he was going to be civil.

"That's right, Professor Roy."
Months of pallor, panic and worry etched itself into Eli's demands. He felt powerless and hollow again such as he hadn't felt since leaving Kenab, and here, the whole time, this man locked answers behind a keyless portal; Elias had played the gentleman, just as he was raised, but his patience extended only so far. He was ready to burn the house down if he didn't get the answers he needed.

"What can I do for you, then?" The Dean folded his hands, but his voice was tightened by the young storm billowing before him. As well he should be. Elias was at his breaking point, and this man was the first target in the path.

"I think you know. My uncle was in international waters on a research expedition, so the police will not get involved. Victoria University lacks the money and manpower to conduct a proper search and defers to the New Zealand government which continually stonewalls all of my efforts while your office refuses to even acknowledge what happened."


His heart throbbed fury in his chest. His eyes tightened, refusing to accept the possibility that an entire research vessel of highly trained scientists and sailors simply vanished into thin air. "Where – are – they?"


The Dean drew a long breath, but his eyes were numb. They saw the same thing everyone saw when they looked upon Elias. They saw an outsider, a stranger, a foreigner that did not belong in their pristine, green world. Elias was more suited to the desolate sands of obscurity to be hidden away than walking among the lush streets of Wellington. They saw a boy in eyeliner, not a man to make them shudder with fear, but times were changing.

"The search was called off four weeks ago, Mister Donovan. My sympathies go with you, son, but there is nothing else we can do. Geothermal ventilation sites are extremely unstable and neither ours’ nor the CCD's satellites orbit that far south." The Dean pulled some paperwork and pushed it toward him. "Furthermore, without your uncle's work permit for a host, your school visa will expire, and you will have to return to the United States."

Elias' world went white hot. He saw nothing. He felt nothing. Was he even breathing?

“– Mister Donovan?"

The trance fractured with rest of Eli's composure.

He stood. The sound of his boots crossing the slate floor pounded in their ears. The gray light of the misty day beyond grew bright as midsummer sun. Tendrils crackled and burst from his mind. They layered themselves across the Dean, tying him to his chair as Eli leaned in close. He seethed demands. He was not powerless, after all.

"Why would the CCD get involved?"
There was a thunder in his voice, distant, but for now was fixated upon the Dean. The man had one last chance to be of even minuscule use.

Dean Roy struggled against invisible bonds, unable to escape. Beneath Elias’ interrogation, he wisely sputtered a string of hurried answers. "Your uncle was collaborating with a MSU team. Moscow State University. Moscow. The CCD."

Eli stood upright. His hands trembled, shaking the Dean’s desk in his fury.

He severed the tentacles that'd flung from his mind and turned on his heel. The room shuddered under his heavy footsteps and he hesitated, confounded by the spray of cracks suddenly erupting underfoot. Beneath him, his footprints left behind crags and splits in the slate floor. Cracks snaked across the floor, up the drywall, and arborized tiny veins across the ceiling. As he looked upon the window, it glistened with as fine of fractures as the delicate ropes of a spider web. It held for one soundless moment before a loud pop shattered it from the center.

Snaps loud as lightning splitting wood rent the enormous pane of glass into a thousand crackling pieces and Eli barely managed to stumble out of its path. When it was over, and with the groaning howl of wind that followed, he regained his feet, and standing in the centre of the shattered peace, his coat and hair lifted on the gusts swirling around the office. Pulverized glass sparkled underfoot, mixed with sand blowing on sinusoidal vents of air that stung his eyes.

A deathly silence spread through the room. The Dean crawled out from under his desk in time to witness Elias' departure.

The sun was bleeding pink and gold into the horizon by the time she arrived at the cemetery. Snow crunched underfoot, and chilled the air that left her lips. No mourners braved the frigid temperature; only shadows and headstones pierced the blanket of white, stretching in a panorama almost as far as she could see. The cold bit through her jacket, froze the pump of blood through her veins, blanched her already pale skin. The silence of the dead did not disturb her. Nor did she find sanctuary in the dusk.

For some reason, she hadn't anticipated the wreathes and flowers around the headstone, and it hooked something in her gut that urged her to abandon her guilt and turn around. She owed nothing to this family; the loyalty of her blood ran weak. But she stood at the foot of the grave anyway, running her gaze over the cursive letting half hidden by an arrangement of roses, their petals drooping beneath the weight of glittering ice. When she finally knelt she probably looked reverential, but she was not grieving. Her brows were drawn low, and her expression burned. Anger roiled, conflicted.

She refused to name it jealousy, but dark thoughts sprung regardless the name she gave them. If Oriena had died all those years ago, extinguished by the very power that today made her great, her grave would have been sparse, perhaps even lacking a headstone, let alone offerings of grief to beautify her resting place. Fuck, if she died tomorrow there were few who'd mourn the loss. Her mother would grieve, she supposed. It was a short list after that. The cat probably didn't count.

"Should I have brought flowers?"
Bitterness coated her tongue, but not all of it was spat out; she swallowed a good deal of the acid and let it burn her insides. Numbness crept through her shins, and the skin stretched over her cheek ached. Goading Luka hadn't provided as much absolution as she'd hoped. She deserved the mottle of bruises, deserved the pain, but he didn't understand why. It had negated her intentions when he'd comprehended the punch that had laid her out flat and remorse had flushed his expression. She'd only loaded guilt onto his grief. That shouldn't have mattered an iota to Oriena, but when it came to the brother she refused to name so, her head was a tangle of snarled emotion.

This was a problem of time. Of patience, not always at the forefront of Ori's virtues. After all, Sofiya was dead. Flowers would die, and quickly in the embrace of winter. Memories faded. Life rolled on, and did not care for the dead. Ori half wished she'd brought some vodka, to drown her promises in liquid fire. She might not regret it, but she did wonder if she could have done something. Offered a hand across the precipice.

It was not a benevolent thought, but it was a new one, recently ignited and burning very bright.

The truth was, you didn't find success on an even playing field. People could pull themselves up by their bootstraps, sure, but that wasn't ever ideal. The same went for John Carlyle. He had no idea how, or why, but when he went to sleep at night he found himself in another world. Corporate espionage was never so easy.

It closely mirrored waking life, in the sense that the big things were where they belonged. Little things - like rockets on an assembly line or files on a mainframe - however, those were fleeting. Even his clothes changed constantly, from the soft comfort of a hand made Italian suit to nothing but his underwear, and back. Watches worth more than many people made in a year faded in and out of existence on his wrist. As he looked around the streets of Mecca, he saw windows open and close, piles of garbage appear and disappear, and yet despite those signs of habitation not a single soul seemed to stir. The Abraj Al Bait clock tower dominated the landscape; even in the so-called holiest of cities, the forces of capitalism could not be barred.

Things were coming to a head in the city, and the Custody was at a Rubicon. The fuse was already burning, and if Nikolai Brandon couldn't manage to put it out he would see half his empire destroyed within a few weeks. And at the center of it stood a man named Nicholas Trano. He was a bit of a goody two shoes, but also projected to take a huge chunk of voters if he chose to run in 48. The news organization he held controlling interest in had made and broke candidacies, and if he so chose he could hand pick the next president of the United States.

It was no surprise, then, that Carlyle found himself there. If he could gain the support of Trano, he wouldn't have any trouble taking the reins and turning America around before it fell on its face. If it isn't too damn late already,
he thought. God send that wasn't the case.

The sound of boots sliding to a halt on the pavement behind made him jump a little, but not by much. When he turned, he saw an old man staring back at him. It wasn't exactly a surprise - if he could do it, logic dictated that there must be others. The man stood as solidly as the clock tower behind him; either his old age had not yet caught up with him or something about this place revitalized him.

For a few seconds, he said nothing. Carlyle realized the old man wasn't staring at him, but through him. Just before Carlyle asked the man who he was, he spoke. "That must never happen." Carlyle placed the accent to somewhere in the midwest.

That made Carlyle tilt his head. "What 'must never happen?'"


His response was matter of fact. "If you choose to run for president in 2048, your country's best chance for survival dies with you." It was also down right insane.

"That doesn't make any sense. I'm the best chance the United States has to stay relevant."
He didn't know why he felt the urge to argue, but it was irresistible.

If the man's sudden appearance hadn't surprised him, the fact that in an instant he seemed to shift within arms length did. Before Carlyle could even respond, the man's hands were on his head. Then the entire city faded from view.

"This is the future, if you are successful." Carlyle had no body; the voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. If he still had a head, he would say it came from inside his brain. If only he could speak.

Visions flashed in front of him, stretching to fill his entire consciousness. Crashing markets, martial law, civil war. He saw Nikolai Brandon seeming to control lightning like he was a modern day Zeus, tossing fireballs at people as they tried to run away.Now that's a fucking metaphor,
he thought.

Then finally, he stood - or rather, floated - on the surface of the moon as he saw the Earth bathed in nuclear fire. Not much of a metaphor, that.

"Now you know what will happen. Do you still wish to continue?"[/color][/i] Carlyle was unable to stop himself from gasping when he found himself back inside his own body.

It was hard not to see the logic in what he was saying. After all, it - what the hell?

He unconsciously shook himself. "For all I know everything you just showed me is a lie. It looks to me like you work for the Custody."


A kind of pressure, almost imperceptible at first, but now nearly deafening in its force, clamped down on him. "I work for no one, John. I simply hope to bring about a better time. Join Nicholas Trano. At his side, you will have your victory." In a blink, he was gone. Strange, but Carlyle almost thought he heard faint laughter in the distance. He would have to call Trano in the morning.

Edited by John Carlyle, Mar 12 2014, 09:49 PM.

Just wanted to say hi to everybody. I've been lurking for about a month and have read through everything I think. Excited to join in, though I am new to RP in all its forms. Anyway, just posted my biography and wanted to introduce myself.

Stats

Height: 6'
Weight: 205 lbs
Hair: Dirty Blonde
Eyes: Blue
Build: Solid
Profession: IT Admin
Hobbies: Gym, Running, Reading, Writing, Music, Movies, TV, languages, history, camping, survival training.

In the 6th Age:
He was born as Priam, a solid man with simple needs. The god-wars had been raging for decades, with the people in the large cities bearing the brunt of the wars. Society in those cities was chaotic and stability was breaking down. But the back-waters of the world still had some peace as the war had not yet fully intruded on their lives. Priam was a son with an ancient lineage, the “Remnant”, a once proud and honored people that still maintained their warrior tradition. Not much remained of their memory except for the distant stories of once being the made by the first man Iasan; that they were Drakonodon, “Teeth of the Dragon”; the belief that one day they would be needed again.

Such stories heartened and defined them as they lived simple lives. Priam married Thetis but they remained childless. For 10 years, he and his wife along with father and mother and brothers worked together to survive on their rocky and hilly land, pastoral but for the occasional squabble or raid from the ever wandering nomadic peoples. It was a hard but satisfying life.

And then the god-wars forced their way into their lives. As Titan and Olympian fought and died and killed, one group fled to those same backwaters. Their god-powered transport was damaged and crashed near the home of Priam, killing almost everyone on board. He made his way to the wreckage and discovered an infant, sheltered in the arms of his dead mother. The child had the Olympian thunderbolt marked on the back of his head, indicating he was one of the god-children, born of god-parents and surely destined for god-hood himself. The cries of the child stirred something in Priam. His own wife, Thetis, had finally become pregnant, but had lost the child just a few days ago and was deeply grieved. He took the child home and showed him to her. Nothing could replace their baby. But this child had no mother or father. It would die without them. They opened their hearts to the baby and named him Achilles. He became their son, as much their flesh as any that might have been born of Thetis’ body. As long as his head was never shaved, no one would ever know. Not long afterwards, Thetis again became pregnant and had a second son, Iphicles. This child too was loved and both boys never knew they weren’t fleshly brothers, with all the affection and squabbles that brothers have.

But Priam and Thetis knew that Achilles would especially need them as he grew older. They were ever vigilant to teach their son compassion and justice now, while he was young.

*

Iphicles was crying while Mama comforted him. Achilles had pushed him down and was now looking defiantly at Papa, who had demanded an explanation.

“He broke my soldier! The one you made for me!”

“And?,” Papa said, upset. “Does that mean you can push him down for that?”

“But he broke it! I told him not to touch it. Instead he took it and broke it!” Achilles glared at his brother. “He did it on purpose!”

Papa spoke calmly. “Do you think he really wanted to break your toy?”

Achilles knew that Papa had him there, but he was unwilling to back down. “It doesn’t matter. I can be mad at him for breaking it.”

“Oh? And what about pushing him? Is it ok to hurt someone if they make you mad?”

Achilles thought about that. But then he saw his broken soldier. Papa had made it for him. It was special. He got angrier as he thought about his Papa making it for him and then Iphicles taking it when he told him not to and then breaking it. “Yes! He deserved it!”

Papa quickly stood up to his full height. Suddenly, Achilles felt very, very small. He was big for 7, but next to Papa, he was tiny, with his gigantic muscles and back from working the fields. Papa’s face looked mad and his voice became so quiet it was scary. “And so when I get angry with you for not doing your chores, does that mean I can push you down?” Papa hadn’t moved, but suddenly Achilles felt scared looking up at him.

And then Papa knelt down and gently took Achilles’ shoulders in his big hands. His face wasn’t scary anymore and his voice was nice. It was low and deep, but that made Achilles feel safe. “Son, being bigger or stronger doesn’t mean you get to hurt someone whenever you want.”

Achilles looked down. Papa was bigger than me, but never hurt me, even when he got mad. He wasn’t angry at Iphicles anymore. Instead, he heard his little brother crying and apologizing and it made him sad. He started to cry. Papa took him into his arms, against his chest. Achilles felt warm and safe there. And ashamed. “I’m so sorry Papa.” He looked at his little brother, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Achilles,” Iphicles was saying through his tears.

He felt bad he had hurt Iphicles. As much as he wanted to stay there, he pulled away from Papa and went to hug him. “I’m sorry Iphicles! I know you didn’t mean it. It was an accident”, he said. He saw how little his brother, only 5, was compared to him. Just like me and Papa. He looked at his Papa and saw him smiling. It made him feel good inside.

Papa came over to them and pulled Mama to them until they were all sitting next to each and hugging or holding hands. “Son, we will always be bigger than some people and smaller than others.” Achilles tried to imagine Papa being smaller than someone else. It was hard. Well, some of his uncles were taller than Papa, but they didn’t actually seem bigger. “It doesn’t matter, though. We protect people, Son. We are protectors.” Papa looked him directly in the eye and his voice was strong, but not mad. “Especially, Achilles, especially we protect those smaller or weaker than us. We are not bullies. So you protect your little brother.” Achilles felt those words go into him. I am a protector. I will protect Iphicles…and all the other kids too.

Papa then smiled at him. Iphicles had stopped crying too. “Remember who we are, my sons. Drakonodon. ‘Teeth of the Dragon.’”

Achilles fought a smile. He loved that story. “Papa, will you tell us about when Iasan made the Drakonodon and killed the serpent Ydra?”

Papa smiled. “Ok.” Papa let go and sat back, crossing his legs. Mama was next to him. He looked from Achilles to Iphicles and back.

“Long ago, long before the Titans or the Olympians or any other gods, there was Earth and Sky. Sky was young and the new Light streamed from the infant Sun. Mist rose from the earth as the Light touched the water, creating light and dark clouds, pushing and pulling and swirling into each other. Sound was new and fresh and moved like liquid throughout the new-formed Earth. It was perfect.

Then, among the dark clouds, a darkness appeared- the seed of chaos. It was just a pinpoint of darkness, but it sucked in the dark-clouds. The clouds spun as they went into the darkness. The darkness rained black oil and it fell to Earth, burning her. She groaned and heaved as the oil cut her.

But the white clouds spun about themselves too, sucking in the Light of the Sun. Those clouds became one brightly shining ball of Light. And then the ball became a crystal egg- blazing with the light- and it floated to the ground. Earth opened herself and a mountain in the shape of an open hand emerged from its depths to gently cradle the egg of light.

And the egg cracked and the light within broke free.  It took the shape of a man, strong as crystal and bright as the sun.  Light shone from his face and chest, and he wore lightning on his belt.  In his hands he wielded a great sword with which to fight the Chaos.

At the very same time, the black ball too had become an egg, lighting of black licking about its surface. And then it too cracked- sickly green light oozing from the cracks. It split open, the shell fragments falling slowly like leaves to the ground. Out slithered Ydra, the beast of the darkness. Ydra’s black eyelids opened and green fires blazed behind those eyes. Ydra came forth covered in scales that dripped black oil. Small heads sprouted from Ydra, growing until there were 13, sitting atop long slender scaly necks.

Iasan strode forth, his crystal sword blazing in his hand. He struck at the closest head and the neck sizzled as the sword cut through it. The head dropped to the ground and melted. Three times Iasan ducked the hissing heads and struck, until three heads littered the ground. But as Iasan severed that third one, one of the other heads bit into his side and tore a chunk of his flesh. Ydra seemed to grow from the meat in its teeth. Earth screamed and her mountains were shaken. Sky darkened until the star shapes could be seen, Eagle, Bear, and the Great Dragon. And then a new head burst forth from each severed neck, growing larger and larger.

Iasan cried out in pain and fell back, weakened, as blood and water spilled out from his side and flowed onto the ground forming a pool. Iasan looked up at Sky and saw the Great Dragon’s stars twinkling. Sky, wanting to come to his aid, bent himself down until Iasan could touch the great blackness of the vault. Iasan snatched 12 teeth from the Great Dragon’s mouth. The stars burned and smoked in his hand and he plunged them into the pool of his blood and water. The stars sizzled and then began to grow, becoming men.

Each man was wreathed in dark shadow like leaves, eyes sparkling in the glow of their crystal spears. They stood and helped Iasan up. Looking at them, Iasan smiled grimly, determined, and turned back to Ydra. He lifted his sword and suddenly it was pure light. Iasan ran toward Ydra, cutting off each head in turn. And behind him followed the Teeth of the Dragon made flesh. As soon as each head was lopped off, one of the men shoved his glowing spear into the neck. The spear head blazed and burned and no new heads grew.

Finally, Iasan stood face to face with Ydra. He grabbed Ydra’s tail with his right hand and spun him about. Then he hurled Ydra out away from Earth. Sky cried as Ydra pierced him and passed through him, off into the unknown.

Then, spent, Iasan collapsed, blood continuing to flow from his side. Around him stood the Teeth of the Dragon, the Drakonodon. “Hear me, my people! I die, but you will live. From my body will come the nations and races of men. I charge you Teeth of the Dragon, I charge you to watch over them and protect them.”

Iasan’s head then fell back and he died. The hand that had held the stars had turned black. It melted an opening into Earth. The other hand, white as bone, also melted and burned another opening into Earth. And out of those openings men and women came forth. These were the first gods to walk the earth.

Iasan’s legs melted and there grew from his right leg a large man clad in animal skin, thunderbolt in his hand, its light reflecting in his eyes: Perkwunos the Striker, The Provider. And from his left leg grew another man clad in robes, holding bone dice in his right hand and scales in his left hand: Kmir the judge.

Finally, Iasan’s feet melted, and from each toe came a different man and woman, all the ten nations of mankind.

Thus there came from Iaman all the people of Earth: the gods who took the power of Iaman as their own, the Thunderer under whose rains we shelter and live, the Chooser who gives us what is unknown in life. And finally, my sons, the Drakonodon. We are the last remnant of those people. We are all that is left of the Dragon’s Teeth.
But we remember our charge.”
Thetis, Achilles and Iphicles repeated after him. “We remember our charge.”
*
Achilles took his Father’s instruction to heart. Never again did he lash out in anger. Instead, when he saw injustice, he acted. Together, he and Iphicles his brother became known as the Son’s of Thunder for their fearless exploits. As the god-wars grew in scope, so too did their back-water villages grow. People flocked to their region, running, fleeing, escaping, hoping to find refuge and peace. Other villages and cities sometimes attacked and Achilles and Iphicles joined their father in the defense of the city. Eventually, the god-wars themselves came, causing pain and ruin and devastation. Achilles had seen the misery written in blood that they had caused, and his hatred of them grew.
During one bloody attack, Achilles saw his brother Iphicles struck down by a god as he fought another god, head shaved so the lightning bolt on the back of his skull gleamed in the light. At that moment, in a fit of rage at seeing his brother go down, Achilles channeled for the first time, killing both gods instantly. He was able to help his brother to safety.
Afterwards he confronted his father about what had happened and Priam reluctantly told him the truth of his origins. He told him of the markings on the back of his skill that was hidden by his hair. Achilles was hurt and scared.
*
Achilles felt at the back of his head, trying to sense the markings Mother and Father said were there, trying to see if he felt any difference, something that set him apart. He felt like his was drowning, like the time he had been in the ocean and had been pulled under by a current. He couldn’t breathe. His foundation was his family, his father and mother, his brother. And now, I find out that Father isn’t my….He rejected that thought violently. What am I?

“Son, I know this is so hard.” Priam’s eyes glistened with tears. “But we love you so very much. Nothing has changed for us.”

“Nothing??!!” The thought made him explode. “How can you say that Father? Nothing has changed? Everything has changed!” He felt at the back of his head again. “All my life you told me I was your son.”

“You are my son!,” Priam tried to say, but Achilles went on.

“You taught me how to be a good man. And now I find out…now I learn I’m one of them? I’ve hated them all my life. You taught me that. I’ve seen the refugees, the ones who escaped.” The memories came to him. A woman in tattered and burned clothing, eyes red-rimmed with tears, streaks of white on her soot-stained face. She stumbled along the road, almost ready to collapse. In her arms she carried a child, looking maybe like he was three. He had been burned horribly when a stray fireball from one of the gods struck the house. One of his eyes was milky white, with the skin fissured and red and black all over his face, his ears melted into twisted lumps. He wasn’t moving. They had tried to help him, but the boy was dead. That winter the woman threw herself into the river and drowned. A small girl found in the woods, scared and skittish, bony arms and ribs visible thrown torn clothing, cuts and scrapes on her young body. How long had been hiding? He heard of the disappeared girls, taken from their homes to the houses of the gods, to be used and traded. An ocean of people’s pain that meant nothing to them. And Iphicles, body broken and blood pumping from wounds made by jagged wood fragments jutting from stomach and neck. Fear and revulsion welled up inside him. “And I am one of them?!” He was angry and terrified. “I have this…this power. Will I change too?” He whispered “Is that what I will become?”

Priam took him by his shoulders, squeezing hard with his hands. “You listen to me son. Listen! Look at me!” Reluctantly, Achilles looked him in the eyes. They were hard and clear and his face was as fierce as he had ever seen. “I am your father! I raised you. And I know you better than anyone!”

Achilles felt those words go into him. They pierced his heart. They were something to hold onto. “Son, you are going to be something in this world. I don’t know what. But I believe in you. Your mother believes in you. Iphicles believes you. You are going to inspire goodness and hope in others. That I do know.” He felt his father’s sincerity. He believes in me. It was as simple as that. Father believed in him. Father trusted him. He clung to that anchor.

*

From that point on, after surviving the sickness, Achilles used his power and worked surreptitiously to sabotage the gods as they and their wars grew in the area. He and his father and brother organized others to carry on the work underground. At one point, Achilles was discovered and had to flee, eventually making his way to Asia Minor. There he came across another god, Enki, and discovered that he wasn’t alone in not letting his ability to call on the power make him evil. They became close friends. As they traveled and helped people, they eventually met others like them- Prometheus, Tammuz, and Utnapishtim. After enough time had gone by, they returned to Achilles home, only to discover that Priam and Iphicles had been killed by the gods during their underground activity. The death cut Achilles to his heart and he wanted revenge. But his father’s words stayed with him. “You are my son. I believe in you.” He knew he had to find a way to help the people stand against the gods, especially the Drakonodon remnant, to stop them once and for all. And so rebellion continued to spread, as more and more people took up anything they could find. Even gods who had not been evil, or those that sought redemption, such as Hektor, joined their cause, making the rebellions more successful.

They learned of a weapons facility at Troy, run by the eminent god-scientist Helen, and decided to get inside and steal anything the rebellion could use, or failing that, to destroy the place. Using an inverted weave of invisibility, Achilles and many of his companions hid inside a materials shipment and were able to sneak in. Unknown to him, though, Hektor had been a spy for the Olympians and alerted the gods. Achilles was able to kill Hektor, though, and they escaped with losses. Achilles redoubled his efforts and soon conducted successful raids on other facilities. These activities inspired both humans and those gods that chose to help them in other regions of the earth, finally helping to tip the balance in the favor of mankind.


Eventually, though, Achilles was killed when a mortal, Paris, thinking him to be just like the other Olympians gods, shot him from ambush with a weapon.

7th/1st Age

Connor Alexander Kent was born in 1998 in Flagstaff, AZ, USA, the son of Liam Kent. He grew up in northwest New Mexico amid the environmental disasters that affected US coastal cities. The regions further inland began to receive a huge influx of people fleeing, seeking to start over in more stable and less volatile areas. The four corners states, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico, together with the mid-western states of Wyoming, Idaho and the Dakotas had been able to not only survive but also thrive due to the abundant farmland and natural resources, including coal, oil and natural gas, they contained. These mid-west states became economic power-houses and occupied the position California once did, making them largely responsible for helping the US limp through the disasters of the era. Even the entertainment industry followed suit, with Phoenix, AZ becoming the new Hollywood. Now, more than ever, people the world over turned to entertainment to distract or help them get through their lives. Northern New Mexico had a couple large cities and was served by the booming natural gas industry. There was relative affluence but also great poverty.

Connor’s father Liam had been a long distance hauler, while his mother Katerina nee Delov had worked as an airline agent. Connor’s father died in 2012 when he was just 13 years old. His father hadn’t been very involved in his life, so when he died, Connor missed more the idea of having a father than the actual man himself. There was one exception, though, one thing that always made him think of his. Music. During those few times when he got to ride with his father to Nebraska or Texas, the iPod was their constant companion. At those times, his dad would share his love of music. He would discuss specific artists and bands, music trends and influences, or what the context for a style of music was, the revolutionary styles and sounds that came at specific periods of time. He could go on for hours about the cyclical nature of music, the endless push and pull between catchy light-hearted love-themed popular music and music that had an edge, dealt with difficult or depressing subjects, or tried to effect a social change, always using his library to illustrate his points.

When his dad died, Connor got his iPod and in a way, it was like he carried a piece of his father with him. So as the years went by, while loving contemporary music as much as his peers (including the Smoles, Rasputin’s Download, Knee Jerq, Czar Tomorrow, Crutch Rocket and the now elder stateswoman of pop, Katy Perry), he also loved the oldies his father had shared with him: Pink Floyd, The Police, U2, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Beastie Boys, Rage Against the Machine, NWA, Dre, and Wutang . He would go for runs or hang out in his room, and later drive, and they kept him company. His dad kept him company. At yet the same time, without consciously meaning to, he found himself disappointed in his father, that he had not known how to be more a part of his life. He determined that he would try harder to show the affection and direction for his own children that he had desperately wanted from his own father.
Connor grew up and started working as an IT administrator for a middling sized business. At the age of 23, in 2022, he married Jamie Anderson, a nurse. In 2023, their son Hayden was born. The labor had not been without problems, and he ended up being delivered by C-section toward the evening.

*

Connor felt a profound sense of peace and determination as he watched the delivery team wash, weigh and take his newborn son to the NICU. Jaime was sleeping from the anesthesia and was wheeled back into her room. After some time had gone by, he was finally allowed into the NICU in the evening to see his son. They were concerned that his lungs weren’t fully developed and oxygenating fully. So small. 5 pounds 12 ounces. 15 inches in length. He was under an oxygen delivery system of some sort and sleeping. He was so tiny that the container that usually was positioned over a baby’s head with an opening for the neck instead went down to his shoulders. His little hands were clenched into tiny fists- perfectly formed nails white- though he seemed still and at peace. My son, he thought to himself over and over again. My boy, and he tried to imaging this infant crawling or walking or talking or all the other things he’d eventually do. He looked at his head, fine brown hair on his mottled red skin. Hayden’s face crinkled and then he sneezed, his whole body jerking, and then he started crying. He had woken himself up. It was a high-pitched cry, unsure of what it wanted. He laid his hand on Hayden’s chest, his whole hand span- thumb to little finger, encircling it to the blanket. He could feel the tiny quick heartbeat. Skin to skin, soft and warm, he felt a connection with his son. “Shhhh buddy. It’s ok. Shhh,” he whispered. After a moment, Hayden grew still and his breathing became regular in sleep. He wondered at the person behind those closed eyes. Who are you, little one? What will you be bud?

He felt an awesome sense of responsibility. The next few decades of his life had a tight focus now. He felt awe at this trust given to him and prayed in gratitude, in humility, and for guidance. He looked at his hand on his son’s torso, felt that connection. “I swear to you, my son, I swear to you before God himself, that I will be your father for all time. I will be there for you no matter what. I will protect you and teach you. I promise you, my little boy. I promise you I will be the best father to you that I can be.” It came from his soul, the deepest place he could imagine. It was a holy vow, something done only a few times in life, every bit as sacred as the marriage vows he had taken only 12 months before. It was a promise and he would live up to it the best he knew how.

*

Life always starts with the best of intentions. That could be said of Connor and Jaime’s marriage. But people are people. They were never a good match, though they both tried, especially for Hayden’s sake. Eventually, Jaime left him though. Though he was devastated, his primary concern was his son. Now, more than ever, Hayden would need stability. They divided things amicably, determined to work together to meet Hayden’s needs. They would share custody, with one parent taking turns as primary for the year. When Jaime moved to Denver, that necessitated an adjustment to their schedules. Every two weeks, Connor would drive up to some remote town half-way to Denver and either get Hayden for the weekend or leave him with his mom for the weekend, depending on who the primary was. For years, Connor and Jaime worked at making sure both parents got to spend time with their son. The trips were long and at times got old. But they also were perfect times to just enjoy each other’s company.

*

2036

Connor waited in the car while Hayden went into the store to get some snacks. 13 years old, now, Connor could see the man Hayden would become peeking through that face that was still more a kid’s. He still couldn’t believe he was the father of a teenager. He didn’t feel old at all at 37 years of age. He felt the same as he did in his late teens and early 20’s, the same person. Smarter, sure. More experienced, yeah. He’d done a lot more in life and took things in stride that once would have been nerve wracking. But underneath it all, he was still the same person he always had been. And yet now he had a son whose coming adulthood was only a few years away. It was sobering. I still have so much more to do, he thought, overwhelmed. Driving a car. Managing money and paying bills. Getting a job. So much left to do.
Hayden got into the car with a couple bags of chips and almonds, some beef jerky, a sports drink for himself and some water for Connor.

“They didn’t have any pistachios, so I got you almonds.”

“Thanks,” Connor said as they backed out of the parking lot and got back on the road.

For a moment Hayden busied himself opening his drink and chips, then asked “Who’s Tupac?”

Connor was taken a bit by surprise. He hadn’t heard that name is a while. “What?”

Through his chewing Hayden said, “There was this magazine eDisplay that said that someone had seen Tupac. They had this picture of this old bald black guy at astation trying to gas up his vehicle. Like it was important or something.”

Connor couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously?” He laughed out loud again. “Wow. They were saying that when I was kid too.”

“Yeah, but who was he?”

“You’ve never heard him? I guess it has been a while. Hold on,” he said and called up the iNet Music Library on his dash to find a song. The library began listing song titles and he stopped it at one. ‘Changes’. “There we go. That’s a good one. That's Tupac." The song started up and ran for about a minute before Hayden spoke up.

“That’s just old rap, dad. So what’s he doing at a gas station and why would they put that on a magazine?”

Connor faked being hurt. “Hey!! You shut up!,” he said laughing. “That’s some good music right there.” It was funny.

“Whatever,” Hayden said, but he was laughing too.

“So Tupac was killed back a long time ago. Think it was in the 80’s or 90’s or something. Probably 90’s now that I think about it. A gang war I think. My dad mentioned something about it. Rappers from the New York ambushed him or something like that. You know Po Diddly, right?”

“That super old guy in that Old Navy commercial where he’s wearing silk pajamas and lives with all those girls?”

“Yeah, he used to be a rapper. Think he called himself P. Diddy or Puffy or something. He was in on it too I think. Anyway, Tupac died, but then kept coming out with new albums. Like he had recorded a billion songs before his death or something. Kind of became of joke. But some people started saying he had never died and was in hiding. Like Elvis.”

“Who’s Elvis?”

“Are you kidding me?” he said, chuckling. “You’ve never heard of Elvis?”

Hayden took a swig from his bottle and then said, “Nope. But I bet he’s old if you know about him, ” he said before giving him a wide smile.

Connor laughed. “You watch it boy. I’mma havta beatcha when we gets home,” he said in an exaggerated accent. Then he thought of his dad. “Your grandpa would be rolling in his grave to hear you talk. Would tell me I have neglected your education. Never mind. Just funny that people are still saying he’s alive. Makes you wonder if he’s got another new album coming out this year.”

The windows were down and it was a hot day, being the middle of summer. For a while, the song played, the music competing with the sound of the air. Connor was content to let Hayden take over the radio when the song ended and choose what he wanted. Some of it was ok. But some of it…he just didn’t get it. Stanislov? Russian prog-metal just wasn’t his thing at all. But at least it wasn’t Nickelback. Still touring and putting out music in their 70’s- and they still sucked after all these years. At least Foo Fighters were out there, though, still doing good stuff. The truck started climbing as they entered the passes and it got a little chilly, so he rolled up the windows. “So what do you want to do tomorrow? Go out for breakfast?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe that Mexican place? Love some Huevos Rancheros. I’d like to go swimming with Brad and Soren…and maybe we’ll invite some others,” he said nonchalantly.

“Ok.” Connor felt like teasing a bit. “You gonna ask Rachel to go too?,” he said innocently.

Hayden looked at him with an embarrassed smile. “What? I don’t like her.”

“Uh huh. Ok.” He’d seen the way he acted around her. He knew what that looked like. He stopped teasing. “It’s ok if you don’t like her. But I’m just saying that if you do, that’s ok too. It’s normal.”

Hayden was quiet for a while. He put a movie on the dash, some action film starring Jaden Smith he’d seen a thousand times. Like Independence Day had needed to be remade. Connor’s mind drifted and he just followed the road. The mountains were beautiful. After a while, Hayden turned the volume down a bit.

“Dad?”

“What’s up bud?,” he said absent-mindedly.

“So….if you do like a girl, how should you talk to her?”

Connor smiled. Just another reminder his boy was growing up. It felt bittersweet. He was excited to see the person Hayden was becoming. He could even envision the day when Hayden was less of a son and more of a brother, a good friend. The thought warmed his heart. It had begun. “Well….girls are like guys mostly. In some ways. So you have to remember that. Treat her like you’d want to be treated. You know, the Golden Rule.”

Hayden thought about that for a bit. “Ok…but they’re not just like us. They like stuff I don’t care about. Or they get upset about the weirdest things.”

“That’s true. So you have to take that into account. Remember how to be a friend?”

Hayden remembered and repeated back to him, “Be really interested in other people. Show them respect. Treat them with dignity.”

“It’s the same thing. You don’t have to like everything they do, any more than you do with Brad, right? He loves football and basketball and you don’t. Are you still friends?”

“Yeah.” He thought for a moment. “Ok, I get it.”

“Just remember the difference between being a nice guy and being a good guy. A nice guy worries too much whether other people like him. He ends up letting people walk on him. You know people like that?”

“Yeah. Lavon always lets the guys at school tease him and he just laughs nervously. He’s afraid they won’t let him hang out with them.”

“Exactly. But they don’t really like him because he does that, do they?” He took a drink of water. “A good guy wants to be liked too. We all do. It’s natural.” He paused to let this sink in. “But he wants to like himself too. So he doesn’t let people treat him bad. That’s the same with boys and girls.” It had been a hard lesson to learn. But it was one of the most important. Dignity. “Just don’t let yourself be treated badly, bud. Don’t be a doormat to anyone, even a girl you like. And if people try it, you can kindly but firmly let them know it’s unacceptable. If they don’t stop, you don’t need them.” He looked at Hayden and said with all sincerity, “You’re better than that.”

“Ok dad.” Then Hayden turned the movie back up. Maybe he got it and maybe he hadn’t yet. But Connor would make sure to repeat the lesson. Self-respect was important. Following your principles and not deviating from them, even when others might not like you for it, was the path of a good man or woman.

*

Connor watched his son grow into a good and decent man. He had good friends, always moving easily among different groups of people, but always staying to true to himself. Eventually he graduated from High School and began studying architectural engineering. All those years building with Legos or popsicle sticks had made his choice of careers pretty easy. When Hayden was 19, he was attending UNM, loving his classes, and had even found a girl that he really liked and liked him in return. There was no hurry. Connor had made sure that Hayden knew to take the time to really figure out what he wanted in life, to be patient. That if he was careful and ruled his heart, he’d be ok for the long haul.

*

But this time, Connor was wrong. Time was not on their side at all. During the summer of 2042, Hayden had been rock-climbing when he had an accident and fell 40 feet. He was taken to the hospital but miraculously, he wasn’t injured. Connor and Jaime had driven down before the doctor had cleared him and decided to stay a while longer. But just a few days later, Hayden began to complain of head pain and fever. At first, Connor and Jaime thought it was just a head cold and Jaime began to take care of him at home.

But he got worse. Jaime, who by this time as a nurse had seen many cases of the now rapidly spreading “sickness”, became worried. Worried because she knew the course this thing could take. But worried also because she had heard of rumors regarding patients with the sickness: of the CDC, under the influence of WHO, requiring that medical care givers report not just the victims themselves, but their family as well; of patients taken by the CDC and never seen again; of too family members disappearing or coincidently getting into accidents. So far, they were just rumors, but Jaime had seen enough. She was seriously concerned and confided those concerns to Connor. They didn’t take Hayden to the hospital.

Hayden got worse and seemed in agony. Jaime researched anything she could find to help. But Connor felt powerless. He was just a computer guy. He didn’t know medicine, apart from what biology he’d learned in school. He couldn’t do anything for his son. Jaime had to do it. Hayden cried and writhed in pain and Connor prayed and prayed and held his hand. When Hayden slept, Connor looked at him, remembered that day so long ago, when Hayden had lain in the NICU. Remembered his promise.

“Oh my son. Hayden. My beautiful son. Please, please…..,” he repeated over and over again, eyes closed, brows knitted together. He knelt over his son, head bowed on his bed, tears soaking the sheets. “Oh God. Father. Abba! Please.” He breathed in deeply, let it out slowly, putting his soul into his words. “Please Father, please, help him. Help my son. Help my son, please Father, please.” Over and over again, he prayed and pleaded.

At one point, Hayden woke, delirious. “Mom? Dad?”

“I’m here bud. I’m here. Your mom is too.” He felt some relief that he could talk to his son. “We’re here. Hayden. We love you so much.” Jaime was next to him, holding Hayden’s other hand. Tears streamed down her face. She had found that her fears were all too well founded. A trip to the hospital would kill Hayden.

Hayden’s head was burning up, but he stayed awake for a bit. “I hurt. It hurts…it burns.” His pain through gritted teeth made him stop.

“It’s ok, Hayden. We’re here my son,” said Jaime. She looked haggard, bags under her eyes. Her son, the child of her body, was suffering and she could do nothing either.

Connor and Jaime stayed with their son, through the screams, through the wrestless sleep, through the cries and struggle. At times Hayden was more lucid, and at times he was delirious. And Connor and Jaime tried to comfort him as best they could, praying and pleading. Jaime administered pain killers and sedatives, to stop the pain or to help him find some peace in sleep. She gave him nutrients and plenty of water in the hopes of his fever breaking. Connor read to him, the Bible, his favorite books, anything he thought Hayden might like. And while Hayden seemed to suffer less, he didn’t get any better.

Hayden died two days later, having squeezed his parent’s hands one final time. Connor died too that day, in his heart. Dead, he thought numbly. My little boy is dead. He remembered all their times together, remembered Hayden running and playing and reading and watching TV. He remembered driving and seeing his son in the passenger seat, just sitting there listening to music or talking. He remembered when Hayden was little and he sat on his father’s legs to watch TV when Connor took a nap on the couch. He remembered holding his son in his arms, so tiny, so helpless. He looked at this tall young mad, sprawled in the bed, body lifeless, and just broke down and cried. He cried everything. He cried and held his son. Jaime cried and cried, going through her own personal hell.

Connor broke that day. He was done. He didn’t know what else to do with life. He spiraled into heavy drinking, trying to lose himself in the haze of alcohol. He didn’t care anymore about anything. Friends and family tried to comfort him, tried to help him. But he didn’t want help. He wanted his boy. He wanted to die.

And then, sitting in a bar, Connor overheard a conversation between two men. It was about the sickness. It was spreading. But the conversation took a darker turn, as the men talked about what they had heard regarding the rumors of disappearing patients and their families, the very things Jaime had talked about. Connor called her and asked her about what she knew. It wasn’t much, except that it was happening. WHO and maybe others were targeting people with the sickness. It made him angry. If Hayden had been able to go to the hospital, maybe something could have been done. Instead, he’d only had them and it wasn’t enough. Jaime told him, though, that in Moscow, Central Dominance, the sickness was being researched. The Ascendency had set up some kind of facility and had staffed it with the best scientists and equipment.

Connor felt a fire in his heart, a purpose, born of anger. He needed answers. He needed to know what had happened to his son, why he had died. Why he had not been able to go to the hospital. He was going to get answers.

He sold everything he had of value, cashed out the little 401k that he had, contacted his aunt Ivana Delov who lived in Moscow, and arranged to stay with her. He’d find work to support him eventually.

More importantly, he would find answers.

Continued is....Combing the Grid


Edited by Connor Kent, Jun 20 2014, 08:24 AM.

I've been giving a lot of thought lately to the idea of cultures and tradition assigning their own versions of creation myths in the context of time being circular.

The "real" creation would have taken place up to an infinite number of turnings of the Wheel ago. So let's think about creation myths starting with our own, present day theories and working backward.

A few examples:

Big Bang theory - scientific theory
Genesis accounts of creation
Popol Vuh
Māori myths
Greek cosmogonical myths
Sumerian creation myths (oldest)
So on and so forth...

Clearly many of these seem preposterous to "modern, scientific minds," but at the height of their tellings, were accepted as fact.

Let me ask the question. What is the creation myth in the Wheel of Time books?

The universe and the Wheel of Time are brought into existence by the Creator. At the moment of creation, the Creator's antithesis, the Dark One, is also brought into existence. The Creator imprisons the Dark One in a prison outside the pattern.

The Third Agers clearly believed this as truth. The Aes Sedai taught it, after all.

But could it be a myth based on who-knows-what just like all the other creation myths? Other than the fact that we know there is a Dark One, what if it's based on nothing at all that even closely resembles the truth of creation, or anything since?

Damien sat amidst the perverse glamour that was the Manifesto’s Block 1. In a tailored jacket of deep blue and matching jeans with original ruby buttons which were hand crafted into the shape of gauntleted fists he looked at home amongst the nouveau rich of Moscow. He had his hair trimmed but not cut for the occasion and bold dark locks of fragrant hair framed his face and shoulders.

The price for his outfit and admittance had come from his Mexican client who had made his fortune in the tequila market. The man owned half of Mexico City to hear his thugs and prospectors tell the tale. Damien was not impressed by his client’s wealth or assumed power. Not when he was now thrust into the heart of Custody’s most wealthy.

He dismissed a scantily clad waitress who offered him a glass of rich dark liquid with a glance and a wave of his hand. Instead of his time in prison marking him as an outcast, Damien wore the mantle of luxury like a crown designed for no head but his. The women shot him amorous glances and the men nodded to him with a modicum of respect.

He had soon learned to spot the real powers in the room. They were often not the most grandiose nor the most conceited. The room trembled under the steady gazes of the quietly self-assured who needed no adornment to placate their empty pride.

Damien was one such man, although the denizens of Moscow had yet to learn his worth. He needed only the light that shone brighter than the chandeliers that hung above. He held it with a absent ease that came from years of use and confidence. Compared to his days in San Quentin where his grasp had been complete, the peaceful perversion of wealth did not demand his attention.

Damien rose from his seat as an old man in a traditional styled black suit approached. He was flanked by two suited men who scanned the room with what would seem idle curiosity. Damien inclined his head and gestured to the lounge opposite. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you Mr. Osoliev.”


He waited for the man to sit before he resumed his own. “Ahh, Mr. Oakland. A curious man you are indeed. I trust you have taken full opportunity to enjoy the pleasures that I have assembled?”


The pleasures he had not sampled, nor did he intend to. They were glamorous, but lacked lustre and any true essence of pride or power. Like painted puppets who danced on the strings of their master. “This night has surpassed all of my expectations already, Mr. Osoliev.”


Osoliev smiled and waved a thin hand. "Please, call me Yulian. Damien – may I call you that? – Damien, you have excited much interest amongst the businessmen of Moscow. While others may consider you a rabid hound, I respect your bold ingenuity. I see a bright man who could go a long way. Hopefully we can come to a mutual agreement to make that a reality.”


“You are too kind, Yulian,”
Damien replied with a lazy smile. “I believe we both share the same interests. It will be a pleasure to come to an agreement. Mr. Estande will not disappoint, I assure you. He welcomes the Custody’s business with open arms.”


Yulian clapped his hands together with joy. “Excellent! I knew that he was an intelligent man. Let us celebrate! I have prepared a unique surprise for all of my honoured guests. I trust you will enjoy this, Damien.”


At his signal the two men moved through the crowd and soon the lights dimmed and the din of chatter subsided. Damien leaned back in his seat as spotlights beamed and centred on a platform amidst one of the canals half-formed and backed by a curtain.
Edited by Damien, Mar 10 2014, 09:49 AM.