Despite immersion in the familiar surroundings of the Ascendancy's suite and office, a comfortable night's sleep was a near impossible achievement while in-flight.

The nerves that made Nikolai seek comfort in the shadows creeping around the ceiling wasn't from a lack of faith in his security. The plane that carried him around the world was indeed an advanced military aircraft. Its on-board electronics were shielded with enough physical force to withstand electromagnetic pulses from a nuclear blast. Avionics and defenses allowed the aircraft to withstand or otherwise out-maneuver a direct air attack. No, he was as safe here as anywhere, but he was quite uncomfortable nonetheless.

Frustrated, Nik threw back the blankets and flipped on a lamp. Since he was awake, he might as well get some work done. Jet engines hummed in the distance, but otherwise all was quiet. He powered up his workstation and spent a few minutes browsing news of the day. Similar briefings would be discussed at breakfast, but there was something to be said about keeping his own thumb on the pulse of the world. The same could be said about his finances, projects, business and calender.

He was scanning an article on advanced carbon composites when an alert flashed in the corner.

His brow lowered thoughtfully. Every year, the same blinking code alerted the anniversary. There were only two alerts Nikolai anonymously recognized year after year. The other occurred in late spring, commemorating his father's suicide. Though he was older now than his father had been at the time, Nik could still hear the pop of a gun muffled by a single door. He could still smell the heat of discharge, and see the dripping of blood spatter on the wall. Every time he made a soldier fire a gun at him in close range, he still wanted to flinch. Panicked that he would open that door and relive his father's suicide all over again.

This anniversary was no less painful, but more bittersweet. Every year he told himself he wasn't going to recognize it. Every time an Atharim sprung from the weeds intending to cut him down, he vowed to end the tradition. He was, after all, funding the very organization that wanted him to lay in a pool of his own blood.

Of course he didn't blame them. He remembered the distance that glazed Garret with animosity when they both realized what he was. He remembered the horror when Garret's father climbed the hill and found the face of a long-lost adopted son rather than the monster he thought he'd been chasing. Both of them - all of them - had forced Nikolai's hand.

His jaw clenched, and he pulled up the alert's request for a cash transfer. It was his own personal account, funneled through a string of bogus names that concealed its source. One click of the button and the Vatican Historical Society would be another two-hundred million fatter, plus extra to account for inflation. Every year, another anonymous donation. Every year, he paid for the bullet that might be the one put in his chest and finish the job Garret couldn't.

He saved their lives, and Garret thanked him with threats. He moved to the edge of the world, and the Regus hunted him down and annihilated everyone he loved. He unified half the world under a single, peaceful symbol and they called him a dictator.

Simmering with the frustration that built all night, he stalked away and shoved open the window shade. An arid shoreline stretched far below, a sharp line that defined sparkling blue from dull brown.

So high up. Hurling forward at thirty-thousand feet.

His stomach lurched and Nik threw a hand to the wall, but he made himself look at it. Look and realize that he was completely and totally at the mercy of the sky, something he could not control. The rational side of him tried to feed the sense that his fear of heights was all that made him seek solid footing; it wasn't. He didn't believe it, but the look out the window served its purpose. It calmed him down, strangely enough.

He returned to the workstation and roughly clicked through the series of approvals. He was none too pleased with his lack of conviction, but besides the attempts on his life, the Atharim did noble work. He had to believe they kept people safe.

"I am not the enemy,"
he told the screen, wishing it would listen.

A moment later, alerts from the crew informed him of the aircraft's initial descent into Kuwait City.

Forbes releases annual Billionaires list, Nikolai Brandon remains #1, no surprises there.


The richest people on the planet, 2045



The ranks of the world's billionaires, as monitored and tallied by our global wealth team, have yet again reached all-time highs. The 2045 Forbes Billionaires list now boasts 2,481 names, with an aggregate net worth of $12.1 trillion (CCD, dollars), up 4% from last year. We found 449 ten-figure fortunes. Once again, the CCD leads the list with more than 65% of the names, unsurprising given the sprawl of CCD citizenship includes 70% of all people on the planet. However, broken down by Dominances, Dominance I, also called the Central Dominance, is home to the majority of billionaires, with at least 100 such individuals living or operating within the CCD capital itself.

Resurgent asset prices are the driving force behind these additions to the super-rich club. Investments from CCD super-rich in otherwise less than hospitable areas have proven to be a successful gamble in places such as Ethiopia, Argentina, and Mexico, countries adjacent to but not wholly immersed in the greatest economic black holes (such as Morocco, Egypt, Brazil, and Honduras).

Our reporters dig deep and travel far to compile this list. Net worth is determined by valuing individuals' assets - including stakes in public and private companies, real estate, yachts, art and cash - while still accounting for debt. Outside experts in various fields are also used for consultation.

The world's richest person is again Nikolai Brandon, unsurprising given Brandon's personal amalgamation of the vast CCD operated public corporations, and his majority ownership in such corporations.


<table>
<thead><tr><th colspan="2">Brandon's response to annual list</th></tr></thead>
<tr>
<td>
"Success is not only about the bottom-line,"
Brandon was quoted as saying, "but about satisfaction in delivering the best product possible. Improvements can always be made. We can always expand. We can always deliver more. The market will determine who succeeds and who fails. It always does."

-The Ascendancy, Nikolai Brandon
</td>
<td></td>
</tr>
</table>




Despite rising tensions in the Fifth Dominance, their primary driver of economics in the region has largely been unaffected. Should terrorists strike any of the petrochemical or oil centers located around the Persian Gulf, Brandon's personal bank account would largely escape the damages. Instead, other members of the Billionaires List may fall far in their current ranks.

We do not include royal family members or dictators who derive their fortunes entirely as a result of their position of power, nor do we include royalty who, often with large families, control the riches in trust for their nations. As these numbers do not truly reflect individual, entrepreneurial wealth. While excluding purely driven CCD net assets, Brandon still remains the leader in personal, entrepreneurial wealth, a spot he has held for the last seven years. For now, it seems he is unlikely to be overtaken any time soon.


Forbes ©, 2045

Comments: OPEN

Adherence to a strict itinerary was held in the utmost importance to Nikolai. Never to waste a moment, as the caravan returned to the airport, he spent the ride reviewing the next day's slate of appearances with an adviser rather than reflecting on the weight of the day, the frenzy of travel, or the restlessness of never-ending duty. Reflection would come in the morning. Before breakfast, before dressing, before so much as leaving the room he slept in. Every day, five precious minutes he devoted to meditation. Practices cultivated during his time in Siberia, long before destiny clawed him forward, yet after tragedy of betrayal shoved normal life from his reach.

For now, he dismissed the dream of solitude and reviewed the slate. Updates and briefings would coincide with breakfast, scheduled to take place about an hour before touching down in Riyadh. After yet another official arrival ceremony, he would visit the city's Holy Mosque and have a bilateral meeting with local officials. In the afternoon, another plane ride would take him to Hafar Al-Batin, where much of what occurred in Riyadh would be repeated. Finally, they would fly southwest for another droning series of ceremonies in Buraydah. Then end the day in Medina.

He needed to be in these cities. He needed to look these men in the eye until he was confident their hearts and loyalty continued to be his, but something tugged at the back of his mind. Another need. Obedient to the whispers in his mind, he swiped the DV map to the left, and followed the finger of the Persian Gulf to its end.

Kuwait City. The report landed on his desk, of course. As had the names of the soldiers who died in the action of upholding basic civilities. Their pictures still hovered on the edge of his memory. One young man had that same ornery glint in his eye as Garret once had, the friend who had unfairly forced his hand. Nik rested the tablet to his lap, and looked out the window a moment. Even in the cold of desert night a line of people had come to stand along the street to catch a glimpse of the motorcade's passage.

He swallowed the old taste of grief, and turned back to work, uploading a change of orders and thinking of the worthlessness of it all: untimely death. Men cutting down one another for fanatical, senseless reasons boiling from bigotry and intolerance. Al-Hasan's cause was absurdity personified, and although Nikolai's patience for this childishness was running dangerously thin, he was going to allow Mecca a chance to save itself. Or like their so-called God's wrath over the depravity of Sodom and Gomorrah, the city would meet obliteration.

At the airport, his staff sought confirmation of the sudden rearrangement in travel plans: an unannounced stop in Kuwait City. 'Why?' His chief of staff asked.

"I'm going to visit Amira,"
Nikolai said before ascending the plane's airstairs. "And her cousins,"
he added as derision deepened his voice. He generally disliked being forced into these kinds of situations, but now that he was in the game, he played to win.

An array of salutes and nods, and the team scattered in response, already moving heaven and earth to see it happen.

The Ascendancy today met with Patron Yaser Adnan al-Qasimi and his appointed Governance-Directors for the cities of Mecca, Kuwait City, Medina, and Karbala during a closed-doors meeting at Dominance headquarters in Dubai. A crowd of press, businessmen, and prominent citizens including descendants of the former shiekdom gathered to greet the Ascendancy, but heightened security limited the scope of direct contact. However, a public address was broadcast earlier this afternoon, stating that the state of affairs in Dubai was as safe and sound as ever. The city is indeed open for business.

So far, no additional skirmishes between the Mahdi loyalists and CCD officials. However, director staff have still been blockaded from entering their headquarters in the cities of Mecca, Medina and Karbala, effectively haulting all government business in the region, including the transmission of paychecks for Custody employees. However, because basic services such as utilities - including water, electric, and sewer - are operated by private organizations, general welfare in the cities remain high.

Hospitals have released the last of those injured in the recent terrorist attacks. It seems, for now, things have quieted down in time for the Ascendancy's tour to begin.

Aria had received the message to meet, she disliked the fact that her wallet was so easily hacked into by the hacker, but at least she knew they were capable. Hopefully enough to get into the land warriors. She barely slept last night, her excitement bubbling to the surface, almost like a kid at Christmas. Sadly she had to meditate several times before her emotions got out of control.

It was rare that Aria had anything to get excited about but two things on the same day - the sword and a contact for her latest pet project. Life was looking up. If only it wasn't so complicated. Monsters and men and women who could wield a strange power that could shred any Atharim to pieces. But that was for a later date. She had to prepare for her meeting with the hacker.

It really wasn't much she would throw out there in the open like that but a meeting in public was probably a good thing. Who knew what you were getting into. At least Aria remembered the cafe they were to meet at. It had been a rather eventful day her first time in Moscow alone in the big city. The shop signified a starting place and a curiosity.

Aria had been waiting for a chance to get back to Artskaf to check out the painting again and to find the owner. Perhaps it would lead to a wolfkin, but then it could all be speculation as well, pure imagination. But Aria didn't think so.

She arrived early and sat at the table by the window with her swords strapped to her back the the two pistols in their holster at her waist. She had yet to find a pair of gloves that would work for her. She hadn't intended to enter any shops today, she didn't want to look meek or like someone who could be take over easily. Aria had no idea what kind of person she was dealing with and she was prepared for the worst possible scenario.

Before his plane touched down in Dubai's international airport, the festivities peripheral to the Ascendancy's arrival had begun. This included a significant presence of behind-the-scenes security that made sure to coordinate every single step of his path between the runway and his first meeting.

The usual fanfare was present when Nikolai emerged from the militant aircraft, although the cut of his suit was far more the savvy businessman than a conqueror.

The horizon was largely identical to what he remembered. As was the temperature; the cold of Siberia had long seeped permanence in his veins. He squinted painfully through the sunlight, but forced a smile and waved at what press was allowed to be present before descending to the tarmac.

The limousine ride consisted of a torturous route through the capital. Two additional motorcades, identical to his, wove their own path to the target location. Without knowing which one held the Ascendancy, it was an additional measure to foil plots that might endanger his life. Similar measures would be undertaken throughout the rest of the tour across the arid deserts of Arabia, those and many more, but traditional methods were not Nikolai's sole means of defense.

Since leaving Moscow, Alric accompanied him almost every minute of the day. He was the only one in the Ascendancy's personal security team that could sense threats from fellow gods, and given Nik's suspicions, he anticipated no shortage of work to occupy Alric's attention. Of gods and men, one way they behaved in common: betrayal was thick as blood.

Walking behind the walls of enemy territory, Nik himself did not let down his guard either. It was a shame that his own Dominance required the effort. Since the fertile crescent was discovered by the birth of man, the people of the region knew peace for only one time in their history: during his reign. That was what Nikolai bred - unity - and now, an usurper sought to dig up the bones of the past. Little else infuriated him more than needless bloodshed.

And Nikolai would be the one to stop him.

Jacques Danjou

Origin: Aubagne, Frace
Currently: Casablanca, Morocco

Occupation:
CEO of Légion Première

Psychological:
Jacques is commonly known as a charismatic and business savvy man. The CEO of a well known mercenary and private security company prevalent in Africa, he is seen by most of his clients in nice suits and well groomed, discussing contracts and the implications of various laws and legislation as they pertain to the employment of mercenaries. To others, he is seen as the life of the party; one to always have a good story or joke, no stranger to the dance floor, and quite the card shark, winning more then his fair share of poker games. To few outside Légion Première, he is seen as a soldier and commander, just as at home overseeing combat operations as a general of more conventional armed forces.

Physical:
Jacques is of average height and slender build, and is quick to smile (or smirk mischievously). He is often dressed in more subdued colours or earth-tones, with an unusual penchant for shades of gray.

Powers and Supernatural Powers:
None.

In the months before mainland Europe decided to join the CCD, the French Foreign Legion and it's benefactors played an expensive and dangerous gambit. Over the course of six months, an entire regiment of the Legion was misplaced, written off, retired, and honorably discharged. Soldiers and equipment were stationed in a French military dockyard in Casablanca, Morocco, and systematically forgotten. By the time France joined the CCD, the 1st Regiment of the Foreign Legion no longer existed on the books.

A week later, Légion Première registered itself as a private security firm specializing in larger-scale operations. Over the past 20 years, most of the original Legionnaires have retired or passed on, but the traditions of the Legion remain strong, making Légion Première an unusually professional mercenary group, with it's soldiers highly sought after by oil, energy, and mining companies all over Africa.

At first glance, Légion Première is a business. Without good profit margins, the company would have gone defunct years ago, unable to keep it's expensive equipment operational or to pay it's employees. However, at it's core, it's a professional military force with long and deep-routed traditions. 'The Legion dies; it does not surrender.' A mentality that has set it apart from similar private security companies, whose members are often drafted from various militaries and are usually hot-shots and glory hounds. Légion Première takes the contracts most other companies deem too dangerous, and it's fees are exorbitant by comparison to others. But, as they say, you get what you pay for.

-----

Lagos, Nigeria, 21 May, 2230hrs, 2041:

The room was deathly quiet. Five men studied each other in silence as they sat around a circular table. A small fortune sat at the table's center; a sea of poker chips, gold watches, car or boat keys. Four of the men were very successful business men; some of the richest men in Nigeria. One was the house dealer, a middle aged Nigerian man who had been working in the casino for most of his life. And one was the stranger to the group. The outsider, the foreigner, and worst still the one doing most of the winning.

The foreigner drummed his fingers on his cards which still lay face down on the table, and eyed the small fortune that sat at the center of the table. He glanced occasionally at his opponents, sporting the ghost of a sly grin, as if he already knew the outcome of the game before the other players.

He'd kept it up the whole night. Whether he lost a hand or won, he took it all with that same grin. One of the older business men cleared their throat impatiently, and the foreigner's grin widened. A quiet chuckle and he waved his hands apologetically, "Yes, sorry friends. It is Mr Dangote's watch. Very shiny, is it not? Limited edition Patek Philippe, right? Yes well. All in."
He casually pushed the large collection of chips and baubles on his side of the table into the center, then looked to his competition, one eyebrow raised and that sly grin back to that dangerous ghostly hint of confidence.

Two of the Nigerian business men folded with little hesitation but no shortage of complaint. The third folded after a few moments later. Mr Dangote was last, and the man shot the foreigner a long, calculating glare before barking a curse, "I call, Mr Danjou. And I swear that if you win again..."


Jacques' grin widened again; he was certain he was going to win, and did so love threats. But before Mr Dangote could finish, the door to the room slammed open, revealing two large black men in the service uniform of Légion Première stepped into the room. Both men had holstered pistols and sturdy black batons, an unusual sight inside the casino, and both sported red sashes on their left arms marking them as the Légion's provosts.

The Nigerian's lept to their feet in fright and anger, the dealer going so far as to thrust a hand beneath his table as if reaching for something. Both provosts had their batons in hand before the dealer could finish the move, and the man froze to the sound of the air-charged rods extended with an audible crack and a more concerning crackle of electricity.

Jacques stood and patted the dealer on the shoulder, "Calm down monsieur. They are here for me, am I right?"


The two men calmly retracted the batons and tucked them away, although one never took his eye off the gamblers and dealer. "Capitaine Danjou. Operation Cold Spirit has met with some difficulty. Your presence is required in Maiduguri, ASAP."


Jacques' frown vanished, as did the casual slouch. He adjusted his bowtie and turned to the Nigerian businessmen he had been gambling with for the past few hours. "Terribly sorry gentlemen, but you heard these armed gentlemen. Time for me to be away."
He turned to leave, then stopped and waggled a finger at the pair of provosts, indicating them to wait a moment.

He reached back, flipped his cards to reveal a winning hand, then carefully plucked Mr Dangote's watch from the pile, "If it is as bad as I think it is, Mr Dangote, you men can keep the rest. Would be like taking the shirt off a man's back, yes?"
Then he walked out, calmly setting the expensive watch on his wrist, the two provosts in tow, one giving the men a curt, serious nod before closing the door to the private room.

(to be continued)

Something sweet and innocent that was actually quite sinister and haunting. Passion mixed with despair. Sorrow and fury. Playful plucking that rises into complicated elegance and speeds past what the mind can track and so instead leaves it numb to everything.

Numb to everything but the music.

His wrists were light and loose. Shoulders fluid and elbows open. One does not play the majestic instrument that was a piano with only their fingers. They play with their entire body. They make love to the music; he commands and manipulates it. His torso sways to the rhythm. The rise and fall of a pedal forced all the notes to echo and overlap long after a key was struck; much as a crying throat beneath one's shoe. He stretches his arms wide, owning every harmonic, and sometimes, purposefully clashing them together in stretches of sound to rival the purity of demons' song. He manipulates every aspect of the performance, designing a melody that left his audience in oblivion.

Dane quickly glanced at the woman cozy on the bench next to him. Behind the frame, the black lacquer of a grand piano stretched before them both. The chair he'd occupied for forty-five delightful minutes remained empty nearby. Cigar long cold of its smoldering and half a glass of port likewise remained abandoned alongside. The piano lid was held at a sharp angle, casting the music toward the bowl of the room where warm wooden walls were stained with its timbre like an old sponge. But every stroke of the key resonated deeper than walls and chairs. It touched a chord in the soul, if such a thing existed, and wrapped his new pianist friend with a warm blanket of melodic trust in her partner.

She smiled invitingly in response to his and without missing a beat of their duet. The sheen of her black hair fell slick as a mop of wet blood down the pale flesh of her shoulders where her dress pooled at the small of her back. Every time she touched the pedal, a cord of muscle burst from the side of her calf in the sensual line of her stake of a stiletto.

When he first entered the gentlemen's bar at the Ritz Carlton, the room was yet unfilled for the evening but for a few solitary figures drowning their sorrows in expensive alcohol. It had been the backdrop of elegant instrumentation that drew him on in, and the slender shape of the exotic princess lost to the world in which she created that sealed the imagery in his mind.

A knowing smile eased him into the deep comforts of a chair, and soon, Dane had crossed one leg over the other and watched her with glowing captivation. Never once did he look elsewhere. Not when a round of crude patrons slammed their conversation at the edge of his periphery. Not when the bar back shattered a glass. Only her. This lovely orchid, unique and special. Soon, she began to play for him, sneaking quick glances above the resonating strings, and silently, she flirted, tilting her cheek one way or another, petting the keys with the pads of her fingers, or tucking one ankle behind another when she realized his eyes had fallen.

She didn't skirt away when he leaned in from behind her. The scent of her shampoo curled pleasantly in his nostrils, and wisps of hair tickled his cheek. For some minutes, he did not sit, but instead reached around the width of her back, and eased into higher treble octaves; easing into her trust that he would not ruin the song, but rather, enhance what she could not do alone. She played along, enjoying the enchantment of their silent game. When he finally slid on the bench, she made room, though the sides of their thighs barely pressed together, he knew she was unafraid of his proximity.

Perfect. That was the point. Whether playing a symphony or playing a game. A master manipulated the art of the unexpected. Sweet and sinister; elegant and savage. And his lovely new friend would not expect what was to come from so graceful an artist. Indeed, Dane was an artist. And she would be his art.

When he peeled her wrist from the keys, the music stopped and was replaced with the dull ache of petty conversations all around. He watched her eyes while he kissed the back of her hand. Her pupils dilated, and her breath came shallow. "Thank you for the duet,"
he said softly. A lovely, lovely thing she was.

He laid her hand in her lap and excused himself, leaving her with the ghostly promise of what had yet to come. She resumed playing as he walked away, not to look back. Not for many hours would he look back.

He abandoned her as he had the port and cigar, but dismissed the idea of collecting either on his way to the bar. A wave of the hand summoned the bartender. He leaned casually on the rail. "A fresh Cuban,"
and he glanced at one of the men in his immediate presence. "And one for my friend, as well."


He returned his cuffs to his wrists and slid into a chair alongside Nicholas. "A pleasure, Mister Trano,"
he greeted, British accent crisp and elegant as the man's salt and pepper hair, but mixed with sounds that also hinted at somewhere else.

Once his sleeves were fixed, he extended a hand in offer of a gentlemen's greeting. He wrapped his palm around Nicholas' and introduced himself with a wide smile. "Dane Gregory."




Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 9 2013, 09:31 PM.

The cold slab of marble slowly leeched warmth as his palm pressed against it. A shiver rose up his arm as a trickle of sweat beaded down to meet the sensation. Similar beads slithered down the curve of his back, and dripped from the fringes of his hair. His reflection was muddled to that of an eerie shape indistinct from the other forms behind him. Cabinets, hooks, doors, slats. All fogged, all dull, but he knew they were there. He knew they were there.

His only company was the soft trickle of a fountain. A thin sheet cascading down the convolutions in the adjacent wall. When he spit the chalky bolus of peppermint into the basin beneath him, it echoed only as far as the fountain allowed. In the distance, the spray of a shower drowned the rest of the rinsing, and his lids fell low...

The spa at the Ritz Carlton was designed to infect and overwhelm every sensation. Its success astounded. From the slice of a straight blade up his throat. To the cool envelope of a blackened pool. Dane disappeared, swallowed by the intrinsic trance of it all. It curled his blood from within. At first, a tickle, a tease. But soon, the sensations overwhelmed, and everywhere he looked, imagination filled what the acoustics in his head could not echo. The humidity choked. A knot twisted in his stomach. When distant shower fell quiet, and any drips following were drowned by the nearby fountain, his breath came swift, panting. Running.

Chasing.

There was a new shape in the mirror now. Another figure, muddled, foggy, standing behind him. He carefully placed his toothbrush back in the holder, wiped his palm on the towel around his waist, and turned. He smiled as a fat old man waddling to a sink. The barber's straight blade was suddenly in Dane's hand. His bare feet left wet prints on the floor as he moved. A trail of a hunter led to its next target.

He silently appeared next to the gentleman. "You need a shave."
A flick of the thumb and the razor popped open. He smiled and smiled. Smiled until it hurt. The fountain bubbled loud. The marble flooded hot....

But another distant sound pierced the peaceful trance. His smile wavered. He heard it again. And Dane realized it was the clearance of a throat and the sound of his name. "Mister Gregory,"
it said, and Dane's lids rose once more. Condensation had run rivulets of water down the mirror while he'd stood there. The streaks reflected the spa's butler posed behind him, presented in alternating stripes of clear and opaque forms. "It is time for your massage, sir."
He held a bathrobe open for Dane's use.

A gentle nod and Dane turned to slip his arms in the sleeves. Folds softer than the pillows of a woman's lips wrapped him in warmth. He knotted the belt and followed the butler from the club room. As he left, he passed the old Russian as the man crossed the locker room floor. Dane stretched an arm and pointed to the man's throat. "You should get a shave while here."
He smiled, just another guest being helpful. "The barber has steady hands."


You're welcome.

Dane never really understood the difference between the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches. For that matter, he could throw Protestants on the bonfire as well. From sacraments to sainthood, the lines billowed and blurred. Much like holy robes flowing on the wind.

Both had celibate monks and priests, and the dedicated women who served alongside. The latter of course, were as pure and pious as the white walls of the convent across the street. Located on the southwestern bank of the Moscow River, the New Maiden's Monastery was the little sister to the Ascension Monastery located behind Kremlin walls. Although Dane's car daily drove him along those famous red bricks during his stay in Moscow, he had yet to walk the cobblestone streets on foot. It was on his to-do list, however. The museums were said to be marvelous.

This street, however, was the object of the day's tourist trap. Originally a sixteenth century fortress, the high walls and corner towers were eventually adopted by the noblewomen who founded Novodevichy Monastery. Their fortitude explained how they held strong and untainted through Napoleon's marching, Stalin's insanity, German bombing, and pre-ASU rioting. But would they survive the Mockingbird? None could yet say.

As the bell-towers began their hourly chime, a cold wind suddenly blew off the river. Its tentacles plucked remaining any leaves still clinging to the twisted woods that lined the street. They tumbled around his legs, crunching underfoot with every step. Disturbed by the gust, Dane readjusted the slope of his hat above his eyes and made a note to purchase new gloves. Snug riding gloves were sufficient for the french countryside, but he was growing fond of Moscow. Perhaps he will stay through the winter after all. There was still the Nutcracker to see, after all.

As the gust died down, a hint of song rose in its place arcing over the convent walls like a fiery arrow. He ceased his stroll and listened a few moments.

The nuns were singing holiday carols in their ancient, onion-domed cathedral.

It gave him a marvelous idea. He merrily joined in on their song and returned to the car, singing to himself, "..all is calm, all is bright."