The only things chasing Jaxen the last couple of months were women dying to rip his clothes off. Some were actually a little too rough, a harsh judgement coming from Jaxen, but who could blame them? In that regard, they were kind of monstrous, but so far, no cannibals, no dungeons, and nobody with snake tattoos on their wrist. Although. That one Asian girl with the lizard thing on her back what was her name? - eh, who cared, Jaxen couldn't pronounce it anyway - she'd made him do a double take before taking her home. She was into some weird shit. Nobody would call Jax a goody two-shoes, but he had a particular disinterest in being tied down these days.

Oriena's warning about snaky hunters lurking in the shadows finally dulled to a back of the brain kind of memory. In short order, Jax's lifestyle returned in fits and starts. A quiet night out in low key bars - which explained quality finds like Lizard Lady - stretched into underground clubs which expanded into red carpet strolls and headliner parties.

He did hit a plateau with practicing this new skill he'd discovered. Tony was right, no more sickness. But the work was dangerous. After shocking himself to near blindness one night on his own, he decided to give Tony another call. He might have tracked down Jon, at least to brag about the night after they parted ways, and maybe buy the guy a beer for good wing-man work. But the guy was busy or out of the country or something. And Jaxen found Moscow suiting him quite nicely these days.

Mecca wasn't exactly a beautiful city, all things considered. There was a certain humor in bulldozing priceless historical sites in order to build five star hotels and McDonalds, he supposed, but it didn't quite qualify as art. Nicholas walked the streets of Mecca barefoot in the two white cloths of the ihram, the traditional clothing of the Hajj. He felt ridiculous, but he figured it was a small price to pay.

Nicholas wasn't sure what suicidal impulse had brought him down to the city's streets. Boredom, most likely. For weeks he'd been cooped up in a hotel room in Moscow, only to be paraded about in front of Brandon's cameras. He looked more like Brandon's bitch than anything, regardless of what scathing articles and live feeds he put out. Was it really any wonder that he was driven to drink?

He frowned. Sobriety.
Now that was interesting. His head rung like a tamborine and his hands shook like he was some kind of addict, but he felt no cravings for liquor. He had something much, much better after all. The first time he'd tried to channel the power sober, it was like being a rodeo cowboy. Even if it was all in his head, he'd felt the absolute certainty that one wrong move would mean the death of himself and those around him. It wasn't like in the movies with some cool hand-wavey things and magic words. You had to grab it and take control, a single slip of the mind more dangerous than tossing bullets in a fire. Not to be melodramatic or anything.

He paused in his walk, taking the chance to drink in that sense of invincibility. Clearing his mind was so much harder without anything to dull it. What took less than ten seconds felt like minutes, as he tossed every emotion and stray thought into a little box. Then he stomped on it for a little while until the magic happened. All at once his senses amplified. He felt every stitch of the white robes, he could smell camel shit three roads away, see the hairline cracks in the foundations of the house he was standing next to... and hear the shouting of ten or twenty pissed off Arabs. If there was one thing in common drinking had in common in magic, it was that it made you feel goddamn invincible. Nicholas decided to see what was going on.

A couple blocks away and he had his answer. A woman stood surrounded by a group of angry men. Her blonde hair was blowing in the wind, and by her clothes he judged her western. A black bullet proof vest with the word "PRESS" standing out in bone white made it obvious what she was. An idiot. She should have at least put on a headscarf with things as they were. Nearby, the guy who was presumably her camera man was taking a vicious beating. It didn't look like things were going to end well for either one, if the stories that had been pouring out of the city since dawn were any indication. The group had decidedly too much rope with them.

Now, how to fix things without getting himself lynched or exposed. "Nicholas Trano: Evil Hell Demon from Hell" wasn't exactly the article he wanted his more conservative constituents reading. Then he remembered: the Legion Premiere's CEO had taken up residence in the same hotel. He was a bit of a dipshit from what Nicholas had seen, but mercenaries were mercenaries. It wasn't like he expected the guy to do an actual mission. He just didn't want to see the woman murdered, and he wasn't confident enough in his abilities to try to save her unless absolutely necessary.

So he made a call.

Hopefully they could send help. CDPS was already dealing with riots in half a dozen places around the city, and he doubted they'd be here any time soon.



Edited by Nick Trano, Feb 16 2014, 10:52 PM.

Morning Mass, led by the venerable Pope Patricius I in Domus Sanctae Marthae.

"A return is needed, to ourselves. We need to embark on an internal pilgrimage, to that often far-off place within ourselves, that place of reflection and meditation we refer to as the conscience, where we may weigh and measure and take stock, as the year ends. This is the specific action of reasoning creatures, of human beings who must choose between good and evil, or between lesser evil and greater good."

Armande tuned him out.

Overhead, a white ceiling yawned, and aided the design of a lofty space, but it was all an illusion. The room was grand, but not large. Marble stretched from Armande's chair in the back to the altar in the front. White also, it shone like the heavens with rivers of gold. The same gold as what streaked the Papal vestament adorned by the Holy Father.

Ordained clergy filled the rows separating Armande's place in the back to where the Holy Father delivered his speech. IF the Holy Father had noticed Armande's presence, he continued with the remainder of his homily and did not acknowledge him.

He looked well, but despite words to the contrary, there was a tension to his eyes that spoke of unease with the world. For this, Armande admired his counterpart. Pope Patricius I, and his predecessors though Armande could not ascribe to their countenance personally, doggedly clung to the Faith in everlasting redemption, even to the dismissal of all earthly ills. The Vicar of Christ was dealt the burden of guiding the souls of man to spiritual peace; but the Regus was their worldly champion. He would forge a legacy for humanity that would guide their children to their rightful place; that is, toward freedom.

The Eucharist prayer had begun. The offeratories were made, and Armande stood with those around him. A series of prayers followed. The epiclesis called upon the Holy Spirit to imbue the bread and cup with the body and blood of Christ. The words of Jesus at the Last Supper were recounted, followed by a narrative of his death and resurrection.

Armande fell through the motions with crisp replies of the tongue and devout movement of the hands, but his soul was empty of faith. As the Holy Father ignored the flesh, so also did the Regus ignore the spirit. They were two halves of the same whole, a balance of body and spirit, distinct but connected at the same time. Where one office ended, the other began. Just as the white robes of the papal capes, the mozzetta, reflected the stretch toward heavenly futures, the long, black cassock of the Regus' robes reflected the death of what has already been: a cataclysmic past that must be amended if mankind is to be saved.

By all outward appearances, he was as penitent and pilgrim as any other participant, but he was the first to depart at the end of mass, hands tucked behind his back, and luminous eyes burning with the significance over this reunion with his counterpart. His attendance meant one disturbing thing. That the end was come unless the warriors of the Atharim stood to stop it.

Patricus I saw him then, without mistake, and the heavy burdens both men carried crashed about their senses. They would meet in private.

[[Continued from Blind Eye]]

She’d lied about the cab. Crisp autumn wind bit her skin the moment she stepped out onto the pavement, like the tips of a thousand knives. Looking out at the skyline this morning, she’d lamented the sunrise, like every bloody streak of it was her own blood draining out into the horizon. From the ashes of yesterday’s masochistic anger bloomed today’s guilt; not an emotion she dealt particularly well with, so she was almost glad for the sharp torment of weather urging her thoughts to focus on the physical. Not that it stopped her bracing with folded arms against the wind, sleek coils of dark hair rippling about her shoulders. She was the only moron out here without a coat.

The nearest metro station was her destination. No cash on her, of course, but a life lived on the streets had taught her everything she needed about getting what she wanted. It was warmer on the train, and mostly empty; she was not sure of the time, but she’d probably just missed the squall of rush-hour traffic. This hour belonged to the old, the jobless, and those burdened with motherhood – though this close to Moscow’s elitist centre, there was little sign of the usual hopelessness. The wail of a baby further down the carriage, the listless shuffling of the elderly too afraid of death and solitude to stay at home; these were the markers that graduated her journey home. When a guy staggered in and passed out on a seat opposite, suffused in the metallic stink of stale booze, she knew she was almost there.

Home was on the outskirts of Zamoskovreche, a residential area not quite suburbia but at least grasping at the prospect. The realtor had suggested it a potential investment, and Oriena had agreed. She’d bought it for her mother originally, but the woman had dug in her heels against leaving her own apartment. If Ori didn’t understand her need to stay in the heart of Moscow’s poorest streets, she didn’t argue either. So, despite potential, the house remained a shell. A place of practicality rather than comfort. No photos hung on the walls, and there was little in the way of decoration to distinguish a touch of personality. She had money now, but little incentive to spend it on things she deemed immaterial.

Echo slunk around her feet the moment she passed the threshold, and she picked him up without pausing to think about it. He rumbled a pleasant purr, nudging his face into her neck, trying to coerce the devotion that was his due. Little fucker was always insanely pleased to see her, which she secretly found rather gratifying. She’d never had pets as a kid – you just didn’t keep pets where she’d grown up – and this one had chosen her rather than the other way around. He stuck around whether she paid him attention or not, whether she fed him or not, until he’d chinked a little crack of fondness in her apathy. She knew she’d finally caved when she gave him a name.

After a little fuss, she plonked him down on the sofa. She was hungry, but too agitated to eat. A shower, another shower, a glass of water to battle the faint headache. Trying hard not to think. Yesterday, avoidance had burned aggressively in her chest, indignant and furious. The guilt had gnawed even then, if only a little, a nuisance diluting the force of her hatred. But it had been easy to ignore. Easy to drown under strong liquor, and then Jaxen had made forgetting even easier. But though she might brood protectively around her stubborn pride, her spine would not curl to the indignity of actually hiding. She tied her hair in a knot, changed into running clothes. Stuffed in earbuds. Zipped up a hoodie. The mechanical set of her movements flowed one set to another, culminating in the slam of her front door. Still fucking cold, and gloriously bright. She tugged up her hood.

Ori knew where she was going. Knew too the only way to actually get there was to trick herself into it.

When she was a kid, she’d had found a damp, muddy flyer stamped a thousand times underfoot in one of the mostly derelict neighbourhoods around her house. Nine years old, an age when most girls were playing with dolls, and she was sifting through trash to find little pieces of precious. She’d laid the leaflet out on a chunk of broken wall to dry, then folded it in her pocket like a prized piece of muslin. It was for a boxing club, new back then – or as new as things got in Zamoskvoreche, which meant that it was tired and worn and scabby. An endeavour in local charity: so kids could fuck each other up in a ring instead of the streets, and with fists instead of knives.

It accounted for the leanness of her limbs – that and the running, though the benefit of the latter had been a lesson learned much later. For a while, before she’d understood the talents she’d been born with, it had been a sanctuary. A place to vent frustrations, to feel that the dissatisfaction she sensed at life – and it was already burning a hole in her chest, even then – could serve some brief purpose. It was as close as she ever remembered to a little slice of acceptance. When clocking someone right in the face because they’d pissed you off was not met with shocked abjuration, but applause.

Of course, fate had fucked that up, years later, when she’d met Luka.

Night had come and gone and Aria had gotten very little sleep. Between monsters and the strange man she'd met in the cemetery Aria's dreams were hardly peaceful. The world around her seeped into her every waking moment, and when she slept it was even worse.

But morning dawns a new light, a new day and the start of a new quest. How does one kill an Ijiarq when they just get up and turn to mist when you try to kill them. There had to be another way.

With trench coat, swords and guns all sitting at the ready, Aria started for the headquarters library from her tiny apartment above the shop. She looked around and sighed. It was a far cry from her room underneath the Vatican Historical Society. Aria wondered if this is how other hunters lived. But it didn't matter she had a job to do no matter what she felt about her course and the Atharim itself at the moment. But it she wasn't about to let a monster hurt another human if she could help it.

The walk was short and Aria was thankful for the brevity of it. The back entrance was guarded as per usual. The walk into the dank basement left a chill in Aria's bones. But the library, it was warm, the fireplaces were lit and the soft flickering glow of the fire was comforting.

Aria started straight for the books on monsters. Hopefully someone from some day and age knew how to kill an Ijiraq or knew something of it. But for now she had to find a book on them or something. That was going to be the challenge unto itself. She wished for the comfort of her old library, but this one would do in a pinch.


Edited by Aria, Feb 12 2014, 12:48 PM.

The renovations were nearly complete, finally, and he felt no shortage of annoyance that they had taken as long as they had. In the empty lot next to his place, in an old busted up refrigerator open to the air, a few locals had gathered to load up on bits of scrap wood, the leftovers from the last bits of major work he had had to do. The scraps would be used by the less fortunate families in the area in their wood stoves to cook food, or in burn barrels to stave off the night air's chill. Either way, it'd be put to better use then if he just tossed it out with the trash.

Strapped to a heavy duty hook in the ceiling and floor was a particularly heavy punching bag, one of the few pieces of 'furniture' to adorn what was probably supposed to serve as the living room in a normal person's home. A single metal table with four uncomfortable looking metal chairs. A weight bench with a stack of weights and bars to put a proper gym to shame. Tension bars, dumbbells, kettlebells, resistance bands. The drywall was up and painted, the insulation and wiring all done. The floor was simple non-porous stone tile, the sort that blood was easily cleaned off of with no residue for forensics to find later. Even the spare bedroom was done; four simple military-surplus cots sat neatly stacked in the corner, sleeping bags tucked into durable storage bins.

In the yard he had erected chin up bars, and the walls of the seacans were neatly painted in a thick, uniform coat of rust-resistant paint. The roof had been improved as well, a shallow peaked frame to prevent rain from pooling on top, and to make for easy snow removal in the winter. It almost looked like a real home from the outside.

His three uninvited guests were curled up under the porch out of the wind, although one was awake at all times, watching the street. They weren't pets, after all, and survival meant being wary.

Sweat dripped from his brow as Hood finally spent some quality time with the weight bench. The bar sported plates totaling to 300lbs, and was raised and lowered in slow, determined movements that were cut short at the one bark that was sounded from under the deck. The dogs had spotted someone. And since it had been just one bark, he could safely assume it was someone they recognized.

He sighed quietly and set the bar back on the rack, then sat up. A bottle of water was plucked from the floor and a long sip was taken. The sound of footsteps on the deck. He frowned at the door, then stood, picking up a sawed off pump shotgun from where it leaned against the wall nearby. A practiced brush of his thumb to make sure the safety was off, and he crossed to the door.

A flatscreen TV mounted to the wall served as a monitor for his security cameras. He didn't have satellite television, or even peasant cable. Just the security cameras. Satisfied with what he saw, he opened the door a moment after the visitors knocked, and tapped the sawed off against his thigh, eyeing Seth and Rune.

He wore a simple grey sleeveless shirt and black cargo pants. He even had boots on; being ready to leave at a moments notice was apparently important to him. He was silent for a long moment, staring at Seth as if sizing the man up, then nodded slightly and stepped back, glancing at the street outside. "Should call ahead next time. Would have picked up some of that hipster shit piss-water you like so much."


"Four cots in the spare room, pick one. Shelf in the fridge is yours. Market back the way you came, nothing open at this hour though. Rules are simple. One. Safe house. I keep it safe. Two. My safe house. I keep it safe. Three. You clean up your mess while living in my house. I clean up my own. Four. Get your own beer. I can make an exception for the night."
More or less the same thing he had told Rune the last time she had visited.

Andrew was shaken out of his nap an hour before drop. Sleep was always a valuable commodity for any soldier, and the back of an airplane was as good as a five star hotel when necessary. High Altitude High Opening meant forty-five minutes sucking on pure oxygen. The alternative was death by decompression sickness, hypoxia, or rapid deceleration when his unconscious body hit the ground. He’d take the oxygen.

If Andrew hadn’t been briefed on the mission, he might have shit himself when he woke up to the sight of seven Custody Vegas geared for war. Luckily for the airmen who would be cleaning the plane out, that wasn’t the case. The faceless black helmets and heavy armor plates that were Custody standard were all part of the plan.

He’d already read the file, and the finalized plan was simple: HAHO onto outskirts of Mecca, sneak up on the King Saud Bin Abdulaziz University and pretend they were going to take Mohamed Al-Hasan into Custody custody. It was a typical SUBGRU op. JSOC created its Subversion Group for one specific task: subvert Custody influence across the globe. That included inciting rebellion wherever possible, supporting and training militants, and asymmetrical war tactics Washington still unironically referred to as terrorism. Command called them PSY-OPs.

He stretched his limbs, trying to acquaint himself with the sluggish servos and motion enhancers that were standard Custody tech. They were still running second generation motion amplifiers for Christ’s sake, outdated shit that belonged in a fucking museum. When NATO dissolved they stole a lot of top level tech, but powered exoskeleton technology was still in its infancy at the time. The divergence was pronounced. Where the United States used slimmed down, stealthy models and MR fluids, he felt like he was in a medieval plate mail in the Custody suit. And it was powerful--even if he couldn't stand up to a full magazine from an AK-47, he felt like he could punch through a wall.

The whole point was to build a Custody public relations nightmare; hard to do while rocking the red white and blue. At least the suit was pressurized. If everything went as planned by the time the orange bastard reached Mecca the hajis might finish Andrew's job for him. He triple-checked his suit’s seal. A single breath of atmospheric air could kill him, and with all the chances he took on a daily basis, the unnecessary ones were best avoided. Ten minutes until jump time, and everyone was ready to go.

Aside from him, the entire team was fluent in Russian. Andrew understood the language but a Massachusetts accent isn't easily broken. He had his orders: stay quiet. Let everyone else do the talking. If absolutely necessary, he could still communicate on encrypted comms but his helmet speakers were to stay off. The ruse was too important to fuck up.

Mole was shouting orders at the top of his lungs. It was no mean feat to be heard over four turboprops, even in an XMC-130. Stealth didn’t mean quiet. “Line up! Gear check! Jump in five minutes!” He’d be damned if the only job requirement for being an NCO wasn’t a good shouting voice. The man was none too tall, but built like a defensive lineman. And of course there was the mole, now concealed by his Custody issued helmet.

They fell in, two lines of four men each. Custody ranks and badges replaced US insignia. Apparently Andrew qualified as a Sergeant. Mole was a Warrant Officer. Andrew was in third place, and checked the lines of his buddy in front of him. They were all linked in with integrated Land Warriors but Jordan had one of only two sat-comm units in the squad. If both guys somehow missed the drop the mission would go FUBAR quick. At least the dead man's switches in the suits wouldn't leave any evidence.

Every man in the squad was outfitted with the Custody's latest and greatest combat exoskeletons. The only non-Custody standard modification was the addition of a Land Warrior suite to the visor. Standard issue Custody rifles were strapped to everyone’s backs--AN-94’s, PP-2000’s, a VSS. Not American hardware, but the team had long since mastered their use.

Everybody's lines were good, and they had three minutes left on the clock.


Edited by Andrew Koehler, Feb 15 2014, 05:33 PM.

Darkness was taking over the forest of Losiny Ostrov. Although the sun hadn't set yet the dense canopy made it darker then it was. After months of travelling by night and resting by day he got used to walking in the dark. He thought the years in dark isolation would have given him a trauma... but nothing was further from the truth. It was at night he got the consolation of the moon. The only thing that kept him going, the light in the darkness. He got up and listened to the forest preparing for nighttime. It's funny how the night sounds different in each region of the world He thought, not hearing any crickets or jackals, the sounds he had gotten used to in northern africa. Here it sounds like a silent assassin, almost as if something is creeping up on me.

He checked his knapsack and took the Amulet Baba Yaga had given him out. "If only i knew how to use it... i feel them chasing me" He thought again, like every night about the men that had taken his moon. All of them had had the strange tattoo on their forearms If only i knew who they were.

Before entering the forest he had asked around about it in the surrounding villages. For centuries the forest had been a forbidden area. Only the tsars were allowed there, Rasputin had shown a lot of interest and was allegedly banished from the court after visiting the heart of Losiny Ostrov. He even heard whispers of Hitler showing interest and Stalin wanting to know everything about the forest. And even though most of the forest had been open to the public since mid last century, the heart of the forest kept being closed to the public.

He was getting closer, he just knew it. He petted Calamorro, got on his back. And he felt he was getting closer. If only I could make the amulet work... He thought once again while his paranoia seemed to get a grip on him.


Edited by Panteni, Feb 4 2014, 03:44 AM.

The Custody Press Corps was a group positioned on an elite tier. The reporters assigned to the corps were given accreditation to report on the innermost echelons of CCD politics. During speeches, the reporters dutifully copied the Ascendancy's words. At events, they followed every wave for insights others could not read. But to gain access to the Ascendacy's office, a one had to be either from a favored news outlet or a favored reporter. Of the two-dozen members with permanent positions, only two, maybe three, names were lucky enough to speak with the Ascendacy himself. None were so cherished that they dared make fun of him or his guests, however.

With these corps guest reporters, Brandon was playing a brand new game. Reed knew he was planning more than the puppetry it appeared. To be honest, she didn't care to know any more than what her superiors assigned to her. Right now, she'd been told to care about one such guest - an American reporter named Nicholas Trano.

Trano was proving to be a pain in her ass, that was for sure. But she'd handled worse than a white-boy, Connecticut Mister Wizard. For whatever reason, ZARS and the CIA both thought Trano was a threat to the enemy - that being each other - so Reed was here to make sure he was taken care of.

For what it was worth, Trano was getting a grasp of the understandings inherent to his position. He didn't ask many questions, but those he did posit were acknowledged at one level or another. He was there to prove free speech. Because if anyone was going to ask the hard questions, and expose corruption, it would surely be America's catholic-playboy.

What the fuck had he done so far? A whole shitload of nothing. Maybe Reed should be happy, she mused. His head kept low meant he'd dodge most of the flying bullets, but this was the heroic savior of America? By the time the press corps landed outside Mecca, she had to wonder.

"Alright, Trano." She told him when they were finally given a quiet moment to themselves, a central location out of which the press corps would work for the duration of the conference. She had on her usual jacket, a short cropped thing, but this time over a plainer shirt, snug jeans and ankle boots. There wasn't a grain of sand smart enough to work its way in her shoes. Not in this outfit.

"Looks like we have the evening to chill. The fireworks start tomorrow." She detangled his tie from the badge looped around his neck, and poked him on the chest. "So get some rest tonight. I'm going out for a few hours." She winked, "You know, the usual spy stuff. Don't swallow a bullet while i'm gone."

Origin:

Springfield, Massachusetts, USA.

Occupation:

United States SEAL. Operator for SUBGRU, a special task force dedicated to the subversion of Custody influence across the world.

SO3 (E-4), breaching specialist. First confirmed channeler in the United States special forces community.

Psychological description:

Some might say Andrew's bravery has yet to be tempered by wisdom, but they would be liars. Raised in the roughest gang lands of a destitute Massachusetts, he has been forced to remain on the defensive since before his tenth birthday. His fearless nature and ability to ignore consequences are, to some degree, an act. He is entirely aware of the consequences for failure; he simply values the mission above all else.

Physical description:

Koehler is 6'2" tall, white, with the heavily muscled physique expected of any special forces operator. His beard is shorter than that of most other operators.

Powers & supernatural powers:

Koehler has devoted his attentions, quite understandably, to the use of channeling in war. As such, he is quite adept with fire and earth, and passable with air. However, his ability with water and spirit is abysmal. His trademark weaves include the use of razor-like weaves of hardened air to silently kill sentries and other opponents as well as combining fire and earth for explosives. He can create force fields to stop bullets for short periods of time. He still relies on gunpowder weapons in firefights, primarily because he has not yet mastered the ability to channel under duress.


Biography:

Andrew Koehler was born at the Boston Medical Center near Mattapan, Massachusetts on June 6, 2022. A few days later, his father perished in the tsunami that decimated Boston on June 10. The Koehlers were not a wealthy family to begin with, and Mattapan already had the unfortunate nickname of 'Murderpan;' not exactly the ideal place to raise a family. Andrew's father had been struggling to hold down a minimum wage job in Boston and with his death, Janice Koehler and her newborn son quickly became homeless. The first few years of Andrew's life were spent moving between various homeless shelters and the homes of friends and family members.

Although the interior of the United States fared quite well in the wake of the disasters, the east and west coasts remained practically destitute. Massachusetts, a state once known for its rapid growth, stellar health care and top-notch education system, was among the worst hit. It wasn't until 2027 that Janice Koehler was able to find work, and even then it took several months before she could find housing for herself and her son.

Andrew spent his developmental years in Springfield, an impoverished city in western Massachusetts which had managed to avoid the destruction suffered by Boston. In a town of that nature, young people are quickly forced to organize into groups for defense against larger predators. Despite somewhat innocent beginnings, their sinister ends are forthcoming: few escape the gangs.

It started with seemingly insignificant acts; borrowing money so his mother could make rent; being saved from a jump; having somebody's back in a schoolyard fight. Before long Andrew was yet another little homie running drugs for his protectors.

When he wasn't working odd jobs to help his mother hold onto their little household, Andrew was absorbed in his school's sports programs. Football, soccer, wrestling--physical activity offered the clarity the rest of his life lacked. On the field or in the ring, he could forget the stresses of his outside life and just play the game. It wasn't a coincidence that he was soon being asked to dish out beatings to rival gang members.

While certainly not stable, Koehler's formative years were at least consistent until the year 2040.

---

Central High was a shithole; the fact that Andrew could even read and write was a miracle. He wanted to get out of there quickly, before the Kings realized he was even there. Kicking a Corona's skull in didn't make you any friends, but the fucker shouldn't have tried to touch his girl. Andrew didn't even know why he bothered to go to the party--all people did at them was try to measure dicks. None of them even seemed to realize how meaningless their little lives were. Dropping out or barely stumbling out of school, lurching between minimum wage jobs and then drowning in a barrel of alcohol before thirty if they hadn't already been stabbed or shot.

He pulled up his hood against the famed Massachusetts weather, which gave the extra benefit of hiding his face from outside observers. Not that his frame was common enough to avoid the interest of anybody who was actually searching for him. Andrew tried to avoid the gangs as much as he could, but the reality was that staying out of the game just made you everybody's bitch. Hiding on sports teams and in classrooms could only protect you so much. He finally rounded the corner onto Tyler Street, and his house came into view.

The place was rundown--hell, it should have been condemned years ago--but it was the closest thing to a home he'd ever known. Mom was probably putting dinner on the stove already; they'd had a good couple weeks. He did whatever he could to help her with the bills. She'd never given up on him, no matter how much stupid shit he got himself into--not that he'd ever been caught, but mothers have a way of reading bruised knuckles and blackened eyes.

The spare key was hidden in a splintered corner of the deck, and after unlocking the door Andrew knocked loudly on his way inside. He was thankful for the meager warmth. Even with the drafty windows, at least the house was above freezing.

He greeted her as he stepped into the kitchen, his backpack held lazily in one hand. "Home in one piece, mom."
Janice Koehler was in her middle thirties, with the look of a woman who might have been pretty once. She did indeed have dinner on the stove, and it must have been a special occasion. Steak and potatoes were sizzling in oil, and it looked like she had something in the oven as well.

When she turned around, he could tell she was happy. "Your recruiter called."
That could only mean--"The waiver came through!"
He dropped his backpack on the floor, and almost lost his balance too. When he went down to the station they offered him everything short of blowjobs to get him to sign up. Then they saw his grades.

Still--"I can't just leave you, mom. What the hell are you going to do when I'm gone?"
The Navy offered everything he could ask for--pay, status, education, the chance to serve his country--but he'd have to leave her behind.

That earned him a smack that left his ears ringing. She was livid. "Don't you ever try that self-sacrificing bullshit with me again!"
Amazing how moms could go from sweet as sugar to rage in a blink of an eye. "You're going down there tomorrow and signing those papers."


It wasn't worth fighting her. He'd figure out what he was going to do later. "Yeah, sure mom. I will."
Even as obviously insincere as it was, it seemed like that weight had been taken off her shoulders again for the time being. She went back to being happy, he guessed even a masquerade of glee was better than constant misery.

Her cooking was great, as usual, and as they sat down at their rickety little table to discuss their days he felt a rare moment of security. That little house was the only place he'd ever felt he could let his guard down. Apparently she'd been doing so well at the hardware store they were going to give her a raise.

"That's great mom, I--"
The bullets ripping through the thin walls of their home cut the sentence short. His mother toppled out of her chair, and she wasn't bleeding. He was in a daze as he sprinted through the house. The car was revving its engines. It was a nice car.

A masked man screamed from the rear window, "Fuck you, Andy! You're dead!"
Emmanuel Garcia. Same bastard he beat up a couple days before. In that moment, Andrew experienced the worst feeling he had ever felt in his life: powerlessness. Left to watch the creatures who murdered his mother drive away. Every muscle in his body was tensed, and his breathing was ragged. Then, to the surprise of him and every single one of the bastards in the car, something wonderful happened.

Flames burst from under the hood as the car seemed to be crushed in the hands of a giant. The screams only lasted a moment. But the satisfaction was only momentary. When the police found him holding his dead mother in the kitchen, he was barely coherent.

He woke the next day in a hospital, apparently having suffered a severe fever. He'd lost the only person tying him to Springfield.

---

Graduating BUD/S was the single greatest achievement of Andrew's life. He still wasn't entirely over his mother's death, but at least he knew she'd be proud of him. She probably would've yelled at him for not making Honor Man, but at least she would have been half-kidding.

He had the stupidest grin on his face when he shook hands with the Senior Chief and received his trident, but the man understood. Andrew had lost everything to be there, and he made it through.


Edited by Andrew Koehler, Feb 4 2014, 10:47 PM.