Dane stood in the lobby of the Galina Vishnevskaya Theater and Opera Center, studying the portrait of one Galina Vishnevskaya, the legendary soprano responsible for its foundation. She was a classic diva of the previous century with a large round face, drooping cheeks and beady eyes. In the portrait, her hair was piled into a high coif and a wide fur collar was nestled across her bust.

Chimes called the end to intermission, and Dane strode swiftly toward the entrance to his box. There was just enough time to stop at the bar on his way. As a lad, Dane enjoyed magic shows and he did not wish to miss a minute of this one. The air was thick with mysticism. Brows were pinched with awe. And revelry filled as many glasses as did champagne.

The real show, however, was not on stage.

Dane leaned eagerly against the railing until bent wrists sent his fingers tingling, but he was too enraptured to reposition. His view? The crowd below. Row after row of childlike curiosity illuminated by the bright stage lights that held them transfixed. The wonder of it was hardly matched by another spectacle.

Hardly, but not unrivaled.

It was with great misfortune that Dane had to withdraw early from the show. He had taken ill with a headache, for which he blamed overindulgence in champagne. A quiet room and Panadol awaited. Perhaps a massage as well. A cab was called. "The Ritz-Carlton,"
, he told the driver. As they sped away, his crisp accent cut through the noise of the radio, "do you know when the Bolshoi performs The Nutcracker?"
he asked. The driver thought for a moment, "Christmas Eve, I think."

Dane smiled, imagining it. "How lovely."


The headache served him well, however. As a few minutes before the curtain fell a noxious gas was pumped through the theater's antique ventilation ducts. First felt as a tickle in the back of the throat, then a cough here and there. Men loosened their collars and ladies rubbed irritated eyes. So close to the grand finale, none sought the refuge of washrooms and fresh air.

That night, the curtain fell to the silence. When the magician finally realized applause was not to be replaced with disappointed heckling, he timidly held a hand to his eyes and squinted beyond the lights. Three-hundred and fifty nine silent faces were slouched in their seats, never to clap again.

That night, investigators found a card, hand painted with the profile of a mockingbird, tucked into the frame of Galina Vishnevskaya's portrait. Othewise, they had no leads.


Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 10 2013, 07:13 AM.

Dane raised the collar of a warm tweed coat so that it blocked the wind. It climbed the university buildings like swarming spiders. It wrapped his scarf around his throat like a noose and inched cold fingers beneath his collar. Far from home, but then again, who cared? Light strung pine trees and glittering holiday decorations were uniquitious.

Such as the arcing walls of a great silver egg. It was nestled in a haystack of steel and glass. A planetarium of the great Natural Museum, a wonder of MSU. No wonder schoolchildren crawled all over the campus. Breaks from the monotony of classrooms and textbooks, a chance to learn true experience, and on a Saturday no less.

The dome reflected the shine of a sinking sun. Night fell so early in Moscow, this time of year. One would think it was nearly time for a nightcap, not afternoon tea.

There was a cafe across from the museum giftshop. Perhaps they had tea, and those little Russian teacakes. They were delicious, and the celophane crackled when he crushed it in his hand. Like fireworks.

Speaking of, they should be going off any moment.

He waited in a corner, teacup warming in his hands. Thankfully, there was time to get the blend steeping before the power went out. The collapsed building next door must have cut the powerlines. Unfortunately, the soundtrack of Christmas carols went with it.

As he had the dark cafe to himself, the dulcet tenor of his voice mimicked Tchaikovsky in its place. Sweet as a mockingbird. I should really see the ballet while in town. He thought to himself, and took a sip.

"Perfect."
He smiled and crossed his legs. Enjoying himself. "Yes, The Nutcracker, I think, will do nicely."


He snapped a lid on the cup and left his calling card on the counter. It was a square painted with the profile of a mockingbird.

Investigators would have themselves a lead, now. When he saw the moniker in the day's headlines, a thin smile curled Dane's lips.

'Mockingbird sings again.'

Yes, how truly terrifying.
Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 7 2013, 07:23 PM.

Dane Raphael Gregory


Background:

British father, French mother. Primary and secondary school was in a French-Catholic academy, although, by Custody Law, french was only a secondary language. He sang in the boys' chorus at a very early age. He was seemingly uninterested in cultivating relationships throughout his time in french DVII. Most of his boyhood schoolmates misinterpreted his timid inquisition and disassociation as one of a closeted homosexual who was too afraid to shame a family that once clung to styles of Earldom in the age before Custody annexation. This was far from the truth.

Appearance:

Dane is soft spoken, and otherwise free to smile. With thin dark hair and dull gray eyes. He has an angular, bony face and narrow build. His manner and appearance lends to seeming younger than a man of his late twenties. Despite a comparatively frail appearance, he has a cool presence that is unconcerned with judgement, criticism or intimidation, a deviation from the anxiety of his youth, and likely correlated to new found abilities. He dresses quite gentlemanly, otherwise, preferring tweed, cashmere and scarves in traditional patterns and masculine, lordly colors. His accent is posh, crisp and defined but tends to oscillate heavily toward a french country upbringing.

Powers:

A channeler, his first touch of the Power was dramatic and eye-opening. He was the victim of a robbery turned into attempted sexual assault, but the only thing touched was a cold nerve, and he has not known fear since.





Dane had a dulcet singing voice and often hummed the common tunes of childhood to himself. While canvasing the picturesque scene before him, one moment in particular came to mind. A Parisian park that was created around a small château from the 1770's. Strolling through which he hummed the fitting ballad, "Over the Rainbow." He hummed it to himself now.

The memory inspired a little experimentation with the words for a moment. His throat and mouth played with the sounds as they passed his lips. A young woman with pigtails pushing a carriage passed nearby about then, and overheard the quiet stranger on the bench. She smiled shyly as though she perhaps wondered if the gentleman lounging on this fine autumn's morning was someone she should recognize. Not yet, my dear. He smiled generously and tipped a nod of his hat, a tweed Yorkshire style, and ceased the song as she continued on. The lovely weather fit, but the selection was wrong. A conductor needed the perfect soundtrack as an artist needed the right brush; the chorus should live up to the view.

Indeed the view was spectacular. This little triangular patch of green was a nice respite to the cement, stone and industry of inner London closing in around them. He lounged, quite comfortable, legs crossed and content to watch the people who'd likewise come to this green mirage in a desert of gray stone. Before him, the murky waters of the river Thames lapped onward, continually washing away the exhaust and grime of oily engines toward the sea, but the foul river faded as indistinct backdrop to tourists prowling for pictures in front of it. Posing this way and that, likely aiming for the perfect angle to share the destination of their travels with friends and family back home. London's famous Tower Bridge made for a dramatic photograph, after all.

The woman with the carriage was nearly to the shadow of the bridge by then. The famous towers of this bridge above, to which this park was dedicated, loomed long in the morning sun. From the distance, Dane made out the sudden wailing of the infant, and the woman circled to gather the child in her arms. Comforting it.

A thin smile tweaked his lips. One loafer gently tapped the ground in beat with the song came to mind. "...Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird.."
Why a mockingbird would comfort a child, Dane did not know. Mimicking something one was not was actually quite terrifying to conceive. Evolution was a sinister bastard.

A gust of wind rustled the fringes of his fine hair, and with it, carried the sound of other children playing nearby. He turned his head, just as a bumbling toddler caught too much speed and tumbled to the grass. It began to scream. Someone, a nanny by the look of it, came running to its side.

Ahh yes. That was it. A gleeful grin, and he returned to the immaculate bridge ever-reaching for the twin riverbanks. A moment later, he seized every instinct within, and detonation, hotter than the jolting current of a wet finger in a socket, crushed stone and metal in a crescendo of fiery infernos. The land boomed with explosives that shook his very ribcage and seared his very bones. Spheres of flame roaring unconstrained, mushroomed from the towers. Enormous blocks of debris erupted and projectiles arced toward the water's hissing surface below, cascading like the volcanoes of the earth vomiting wretched molten interiors. Frightened shrieks chilled the air. Panic sent men and women alike to their faces.

Though swarming with the force of it, Dane eased to his feet. The woman and her carriage were lost to clouds of dust now wafting across the far end of the park. He brushed his sleeves clean, placed his hands in his pockets and walked away humming, thinking of the toddler that inspired it all. "London bridge is falling down.. falling down. Falling down."



Epilogue:


London, DVII: Explosion collapses interior of London's Tower Bridge, the iconic symbol of the ancient city. Twenty-four cars, two buses, and 79 pedestrians fell to the waters below. The total death count is unconfirmed at this time. Investigators have no leads.

Venice, DVII: A barge filled with highly flammable toxic chemicals split in two, and for twelve hours, fire burned across the oily surface of tainted Venetian waters. Seepage continue to plague interior city infrastructure. Ten dead, economic cost and clean up is unknown. Investigators have no leads.

Oświęcim, DVI: The one-hundred year anniversary of Liberation Day to memorialize the mass murders at Auschwitz concentration camp ended in tragedy when uncontrolled fires engulfed the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and grounds, roasting an estimated four-hundred fifty visitors and dignitaries within, including descendants of those to have survived the camp during WWII. More than three-thousand people were in attendance that weekend. Arson has been confirmed, but investigators have no leads.

Belgrade, DVI: Thousands of party-goers lining the city's club-district ran in panic as missile-like projectiles fell from the quiet night sky. A mass of panicked locals and tourists were shuffled like rats in a maze this way and that through the city center while the projectiles rained down. Sixty-one were confirmed dead and more than two-hundred were injured. Investigators have no leads.

As these attacks appear without apparent motive and strike at seeming random targets, the people of DVI and DVII now join their brethern in DV living in fear.


Fear.

Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 7 2013, 07:31 AM.

Alla had been floating on cloud nine in the past weeks. She’d finally met a lovely man, Anton, and ever since, her life has seemingly been on an upturn. Anton was as deep as he was mysterious. He didn’t talk much of his day job, only to say that he worked in the dirt, but came to her to play within the clouds. It was the little things he did for her; flowers spontaneously being delivered to work, a email telling her that she was on his mind. Every now and again after they parted after a date he would drop a butterscotch with a small tag with his initials on it in her coat pocket before he left, for her to discover later. It was both of their favorites and what had started them talking in the first place. Almost childlike giddiness infused her days. Her friends remarked on her changes both congratulating her but also cautioning her on not falling for the gentleman too fast lest she scare him off.

Anton alleviated her worries. She’s had more than her fair share of creepers hound her; both at work and socially; but he was different. A brunette colored tress curled around her finger as he focused on the wall in front of her. Her dress, which he bought for her just before arriving at the restaurant, was a red princess cut with matching heels. His approach back to their table drew her eyes to feast on his visage. Alabaster skin contrasted slightly against the dark grey colored suit. His dark eyes were the only rebellious thing he clung to; using black colored contacts to hide true colors. While it wasn’t something she would normally be attracted to, it did add a touch to his mystery. Her red lips parted as her mouth turned upwards when he took his seat. “I didn’t miss our waiter did I?
” His voice was a soothing tenor; deep enough to draw the image of a coarser man but his intonations seemed to wrap his words in satin. “I ordered water as well as your usual wine.
” His smile was subtle. Like it was a secret that he shared only with her. “Thank you. Now, tell me of your day.
”

He listened to her with his attention undivided as she talked of things ranging from her current work projects to the current gossip running about her office. It shocked her how he took an honest interest in everything she brought up. She paused in her recanting of her day long enough for the waiter to take their order and accept a small note from Anton before he took hold of her hand. It still shocked her when his cold digits entwined with hers. He apologized after feeling her diminutive hand tense, but she quickly waved it aside; she was just used to being the cold one!

She looked over as her waiter and another were rearranging tables as the band in the far corner began a new song. She felt him pull on her hand before her attention returned to him, only to see him pull her to her feet and move out into the open space and pull her close. He moved with a practiced grace and confidence that forced her to merely follow along his lead, almost like his touch and hungered desire that radiated in his eyes placed her in a bedazzled haze. Soon the music, the attention of the staff and guests watching them, all other distractions and worries that she held within melted away as she lost herself in the flow of his dance.

The meal and the rest of their time ended too quickly for her liking and once again he excused himself from accepting her invitation back to her apartment. It was polite, as always, but tonight it was different. “Maybe I’ll join you while you sleep tonight.
” He spoke as if it were a promise, but still she knew that he could only mean in her dreams this night.
The taxi ride home was dreadfully tiring. As usual, her outings with Anton left her with little energy, as if he made her wait on their dates with shallow breath. Slowly, the euphoric wave she was riding on was slowly returning her to reality.

It was now that her fears began to arise once again. For the past few days, she had this feeling she couldn’t shake. She paid and exited the cab and walked briskly towards her building. Unseen eyes began to look at her, the lights that lit up the sidewalk offered her little in the way of comfort. The hairs on her neck began to straighten; goosebumps raced down her flesh as she spun around, mace in hand only to spray empty air knowing without a doubt that whomever was after her was mere inches away from wrapping their hands around her throat. She finally remembered to breathe after a moment of watching and listening for her stalker but she only listened to the empty darkness that seemed to close in on her. She could hear her heart beating in her ears and soon the sounds of her rapid breathing and racing heart were all that filled her ears. Sweat dotted her brow as her fear began to consume her.

It took her moments that seemed like eons to start moving again. The clanking of her heels reminded her of reality and that there wasn’t anyone following her. She began to use the coping tools her therapist taught her to calm her fears; focus on her breathing, slow, deep, and calming and she allowed her legs to move swiftly, burning the adrenaline coursing through her body. Of course. The elevator, she found out as she entered the building, was all the way at the seventh floor which was naturally at the top of the building and her very own floor. She took the time at the stair well to take off the heels and glance behind her. She didn’t hear anything to alert her of anyone entering, but still she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed.

Grateful for the carpeted stairs, Alla wasted no time hustling up the flights of steps and soon found herself entering a hallway that was… off. There wasn’t anything apparently wrong as she inspected the decor of the hallways. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was missing, but it all just reeked of being wrong. As if she were on the wrong floor. Finally. She knew she’d feel safe once she was in her own home. Her keys rattled against one another, filling the hallway with their tinkling sounds.

The opening and slamming of her door gave her little in the way of relief. She placed her keys back into her purse and dropped it only to hear it hit the floor. She paused for a moment looking at the black spot that she heard the sound coming from. She never missed placing her purse there. Flicking the light switch didn’t help either. Switch must’ve finally given out. There was a floor lamp at the direct opposite of the door and she moved to it. The way should’ve been a clear path but she found herself bumping into the couch and stubbing her bare toes on the end table before reaching the lamp.

“What the hell…” She muttered to herself. Even the damn lamp didn’t feel right. As the light clicked on she inspected it but to no avail. She knew that it was the same lamp but it wasn’t hers. She began to feel herself losing control, panic soon started pushing all other rational thoughts. Alla retraced herself back to the door, searching her pockets for her phone. She felt before she held the crunching sound of wrapping in her pocket. Soon, and gratefully, a surge of ease moved through her as she began to unwrap the familiar golden candy, savoring the flavor of butter-scotch as well as the return of Anton and the safety she made him feel.

Her mind simply stopped thinking when she opened her eyes once more as a figure, pale skin, large black eyes and a permeable hunger emanating off him smiled with pointed teeth, with a near glee like feeling. Her scream resounded off the walls as she ran towards her bedroom after the man switched the lamp back off. Her heart raced frantically as she hurried to shut the door. Tears poured like the rain that began to pound on the windows. What the fuck?! The light shed by the lightning outside illuminated the room momentarily, but her body made her take in every detail. Including the man, not quite the same clung to the corner of the room, giving off the same sense of hunger, watched her as she realized just what was reality for her.

With each flash of lightning he drew closer to her. Her heart was nearly beating out of her chest, so hard that even through her labored breathing,she thought it could be seen through her breasts. Her hand moved towards the light switch. Her breath froze in her throat as cold but hard as iron fingers gripped her wrist and moved her hand to the switch that she was searching for.

As the light came on and shown her the terror that she feared a voice; a tenor that could’ve belonged to a coarser man but wrapped in satin, spoke the words she always wanted to hear from her husband.

“Welcome home.
”

Jessika Thrice platform calls for independent Republic of Texas



Dallas Chronicle
<small>-Turner McIntosh, 2045</small>



Gubernatorial candidate Jessika Thrice rescheduled last night's fundraiser for next Monday. Following her last speech given to a sold-out, high-profile fundraiser in Houston last weekend, the momentum she has gained from religious, minority, and the range of socioeconomic households has been unprecedented.

Thrice's economic views has won her support from Big Business, her grassroots cultural, moral, and religious standings appeal to the conservative Catholic and Christian base (1), and her most controversial platform - that of Texan secession from the Union - arguing self-government and self-regulation appeals to the low-income and urban voter. It appears that Jessika Thrice will be the next governor of Texas, and if she gets her way, the President of a free and independent Republic of Texas.

Click the link
below for a clip from her keynote address at Texas A&amp;M University. (2)


/PlayVideo




"Exactly two centuries ago, the Republic of Texas ceased to exist. A glorious and triumphant nine years did she last. The Texas Declaration of Independence symbolised the autonomy and fierce independence that differentiated the people from that of Mexico and the United States. Despite recognition from France, Britian, and the United States, battles continued and the Republic gathered a heavy debt. We traded our independence for money. We set aside claims to the vast stretches of Texan territory in exchange for forgiveness of these debts from the United States government, and in 1845 the United States swallowed the mighty Republic.

Two-hundred years later, what has our forefathers' compromise purchased? The United States now carries heavy debts owed to foreign superpowers. China verges on calling in their debts, and who can blame them with the empire that's grown around their borders? Texans understand what it means to strengthen defenses, buckle down, and hold the fort! But what happens when China calls in their debts? Where will the casualties fall?

While China's threats pummel Congress' ears, your federal lawmakers discuss another cop-out! All for money! Annexation to the CCD is not an option for Texans! Our great state's legislators in Washington are losing the battle. Although they call for Federal reforms to match Texas' successful template, the Federal government is unwilling to listen and President Dawson is no better.

See, Texans are no longer indebted to the country that swallowed the Republic two-hundred years ago. If the state were its own country, our economy is so vast and diverse, that we would have the sixth largest economy in the world! (3) We have the means to be a free and independent land once again!

Which is why when I am elected governor, I will draft a resolution that calls for secession of the state of Texas from the United States of America. We will be our own people once more! We will cry our own anthem at the top of our lungs! And we will again be the Republic for which we proudly stand!"


/Roar of applause/EndVideo


<small>Footnotes:

(1)Jessika Thrice, also known as Jessika Thrice James, dropped the use of her married surname after disassociation from her first marriage to Pastor Jensen James, who disappeared in 2041 following investigation of fraud. Formal charges against the James' household were never filed. Recent polling from the base of her religious-supporters shows sympathy with her situation, and do not hold her accountable for any moral misdeeds on the part of Mr. James.

(2)The Jessika Thrice Campaign funds for TAMU appearance were provided by the League of Independent Texans Movement

(3)Largest world economies by GDP: CCD, China, USA, Canada, Australia, Mexico, Republic of Texas</small>


Edited by Jensen James, Dec 6 2013, 07:36 AM.

Whereas we believe lightning to be released as a result of the collision of clouds, they believe that the clouds collide so as to release lightning: for as they attribute all to deity, they are led to believe not that things have a meaning insofar as they occur, but rather that they occur because they must have a meaning.
-Lucius Annaeus Seneca
AD 58

Nikolai's attention shifted from one book to the next. Upon his desk was opened three volumes, the centermost winning the treasure of his contemplation for the time being.

Consideration of this Hasan, this man who saw fit to claim himself the title of an Islamic savior, had driven Nikolai into the pages of research such as he hadn't delved in forty years. The sacred tome of the Atharim given him for study that day beneath Vatican City he knew by heart, but its pages were filled with convolutions of prophecy undefined by Wilhelm Ravid himself. Surely there was something he had missed? Something yet to be translated?

A quiet hum of electrical light dimmed into screen-saver mode, but the transition tore at his concentration until Nikolai finally swung in his chair and powered down the entire unit. A blessed peace fell as a result, leaving him to the more traditional lamps that illuminated his personal living chambers, though bright they still were. Meters beneath the surface of the Kremlin was the sole place Nikolai fell most at peace. Despite his every intention to contain the chaos of the world, only here was he able to reach the core of his identity. Polished floors ran underfoot, stone hewn roughly five-hundred years ago held aloft ceilings which were painted with long-faded mosaics to conceal an otherwise ugly basement. Nobody questioned his choice, though he had his pick of the palatial monuments of Russia above. Here everything was geometric and solid, and in their consistency Nikolai found uncomplicated beauty. In his gaze around the room he used for an office, he caught a reflection of himself staring back from the smooth surface of a cold mirror on the opposite wall, and he wondered, yet again, how long his will alone could hold before the land staggered unbidden across the uncertain terrain that led to war.

His back straightened, and suddenly the man behind the desk sat taller than before and his gaze more penetrating, even as he stared back at the reflection of himself. Centered on the wall behind and above him, just as the long-dead Regus of the Atharim displayed the ancient shield of the Ravid family, was also positioned the heart of Nikolai's legacy. The great symbol of his empire, the double crescent of his office, colored black and orange on a sheen of sleek gray. It was a mathematical equation made into form, though few recognized the genius of cycloids but statisticians and philosophers. The symbolism was perfect when Nikolai began to contemplate the mark he would adopt for himself when the ASU was born. Similar shapes, crafted points and beautiful curves, he likewise assigned to each and every Dominance in the CCD and already had the flags of DVIII, DIX, and DX chosen. They would come in time, of this he was sure.

But his symbol was not alone. Gilded around the shape was a halo of epithets. Centermost was his own, Ascendancy, self-defined as one arisen above mankind, burdened with glorious duty to lead and sustain the children of the world with the heavy, loving hand of a father to billions. The others, smaller but no less significant, were other phrases. Archon. Amulet.

And Apollyon.

He continued to consider himself in the mirror. His gaze rose from his own powerful expression to that of the ominous title. Of all the gods, the Atharim knew the most about Apollyon, though Nikolai had deemed they actually knew very little. According to Garret, Wilhelm, and the rest of the conclave as they existed forty years ago, Apollyon would shake the world with change and usher in an age of everlasting peace. He was a herald, but victory could not be purchased without sacrifice. It was this river of red that Nikolai was willing to chart, but he would not allow himself to feel the sting of regret. It was the greater purpose he saw. The eyes of a deity could penetrate the decades far greater than a mere mortal.

In that moment, he seized his divine gifts into his grasp and willed into existence dense sheets to curl around the harsh lights fluorescing the room. As a consequence, they dimmed to a manageable, dim glow that would otherwise be far too dark to read what was printed on the pages before him. More than once he'd surprised Custody Agents with his ability to read in otherwise unbelievable darkness. The shadow cloaked him as surely as the black robes of his initiation, but it focused his attention as a beam of laser light itself. He would finally be able to concentrate.

With none but his own eyes to witness, he slid from the jacket of his suit and began to elevate the sleeves of the shirt above his elbows. The freedom gave him better range to hover over the books in which he was sure hid the answers he sought, but the scars on the flesh of one arm ran five deep trails, and he peeled the sleeve back to his wrists once more, unable to gaze upon that which marked his flesh with destiny. Subconscious anger tightened the power's spheres until nearly all light was bent from mortal eyes. Even in his greatness he strained to see, but at least the scars were invisible to him now, hidden by cloth and the shift of light. He glanced where he knew the mirror hung once more, but he was all but invisible to himself.

That was when the idea struck.

As he pushed from the chair, all light in the room returned full blast as the manifestation of his will dissolved what had capped them into darkness. He strode from the desk, anxious with the attempt churning in his imagination, until he was positioned fully before the mirror. It was a rare relic of the Romanov's. Sleek glass framed by heavily carved wood, gilded and jeweled. The gaudy decoration was unfitting in an otherwise ascetic space, but the symbolism reminded Nikolai of legacy, and how easily it was lost.

But as of now, he was uncaring of the mirror itself as more than mere inspiration. Mirrors and darkness, they were only manipulations of light, after all. They could be used as a way to hide as sure as a cloak could drape a man with anonymity -- a man hidden from the world.

The infinite force of the ages spun from his mind. He tried three of the five elements first, but his guess was incorrect, and the pillaring image of himself never wavered its reflection.

His jaw tightened and he tried again, seemingly staring at himself, but the shape of a god in a man's flesh was not what he viewed. The greatest of his accomplishments were done with the five elements together, but now he sought elegance, not raw power. And what was more refined than a wisp of flame and a gust of wind? It was the absence of air, after all, that smothered fire, contained and hid it from existence.

Fire and Air curled together before him like a shield.

The light folded, and suddenly, it curled around the reflection of himself until Nikolai's own eyes beheld only the threads of power while the image of himself disappeared from all view.

Elation soared glorious victory, and he gasped with well-earned astonishment. Except for the shield, he was invisible.

He smiled to himself, but the moment he moved to clasp his hands behind his back, the spell was broken, and the folding of light dispelled. He returned to full view.

The smile faded as he considered himself once more. "Interesting,"
he said. Soon after, he returned to his desk, recovered the lights with their shades, and continued his reading.

Who are we waiting on? If its me, uhh, well, I'll try and work on a post today.

I blame Hood.

In Michael's opinion, there was nothing worse than mornings and the cold.

Captain Zokoskev's call had forced both upon him. His face was stony as he passed through the halls of the military's Kremlin precinct. It had an official name, but he didn't care. He was more concerned that the damn place - the heart of the CCD - didn't know how to heat a room.

He shifted his dark, bulky coat as his footsteps echoed through the empty corridors. He frowned as he neared the Captain's office at the two guards at the door.

As he approached, they stopped him. The one on the left with greying hair and a serious expression cleared his throat. "...Officer...Vellas?" The frown was not uncommon. Most of the soldiers didn't like the fact he did not follow the usual protocol. Hardly his fault the CCD jumped at the chance to learn what the Australasian military was thinking. A poor decision, as it turned out. He knew what they wanted from him, but he did not oblige them. Luckily he was excellent at what he did, or else he was sure they would have tried to dispose of him.

"Yes,"
he answered in a cool voice. His arm still ached, and the gun at the man's side served as a cold reminder of the danger he faced.

The man was hardly pleased, but he gave way and opened the door. Michael nodded in thanks as he passed and entered Zokoskev's office.

"Vellas." Zokoskev's balding head bobbed in acknowledgement from the other side of his steel desk. Despite his paunch and unassuming presence, the man was extremely capable. "Shit is about to hit the fan."

Michael said nothing, taking a seat opposite the Captain.

Zokoskev's smile was sharp and shrewd. Many found it unsettling, but Michael found it a refreshing change from the dull eyed cronies clamouring for favour. "Good, I knew I chose you for a reason. As I said, the situation in DV is...well...fucking grim. The Top Hats want a force ready to go in if negotiations fail."


"So you chose me?"
his voice was flat.

"You don't get a choice, Vellas. They wanted the best. They don't fuck around when it comes to war - and this could be a messy one."

Michael gave a nod, not exactly relishing the prospect. "Very well. What do you want?"


The man's smile widened. "You and I will be the only one's from our Division going to DV. The rest will be sitting at home in the fucking cold - let them freeze for it!. As such, our superiors have generously provided us with someone to give us a brief briefing on what to expect."

He handed Michael a piece of paper with the orders.

"A physician?"
Michael's brow rose.

"Captain Weston is highly respected. She takes orders from the Ascendancy himself. You would do well to listen to what she has to say."

"What is it exactly we are going to be briefed on? Nothing has happened."
He knew well enough that didn't mean anything, but he was curious to see the man's reaction.

The Captain scowled. "That I don't know. We will find out soon enough."

Edited by Michael Vellas, Nov 29 2013, 10:57 PM.

Allah, in your wisdom, show me the way. Show me the true path.


Hasan looked up from his simple rug of braided sheep's wool and gazed out the window, affixing the black cube of the Kabbah in his vision. The Keramat flooded through him, and his hands meshed with the individual fibers of the rug, each one standing out and pricking him, filling his fingers with sensation as he communed with the gift of God's very presence within him. He could feel the reality of his physical position relative to the Kabbah, and it seemed he could just reach out a hand and bridge the two points together.

Individual threads sprung up, as if to create that bridge. Hasan pushed his will -- would God bless him with the knowledge he was seeking? The Keramat took the shape of a doorway that only needed to part in the center, just one slit to part the gap between where he was and where he was destined to be --

The threads collapsed, and a huge CLAP reverberated through the small room. Hasan jerked back as if whipped, releasing the Gift and hissing with pain.

The door to Hasan's chambers opened. Hasan turned to find Bashir entering. In recent years the man had taken to wearing a long if neatly groomed beard, and more gray than black filled it out as of late. Hasan's former teacher was indeed starting to show his age. Fascinating how the man still claimed Hasan looked almost as he did fifteen years ago.

The man knelt on the floor and averted his eyes. "Mahdi, I hope I have not disturbed you in prayer. I heard a noise."

Hasan stood from his place on the floor, offering Bashir a hand to bring him to his feet. "Be at ease, friend. Submit to God and God alone."
It still disturbed Hasan a bit that his former teacher behaved in such a way around him, constantly affirming his belief in Hasan's divinity. Of course, as Hasan was indeed God's messenger it would perhaps not be inappropriate for one to supplicate himself in such a manner. But God's final messenger was not himself God. Hasan made certain to remind himself of this every day in prayer. Anointed or not, his purpose was to be a tool with which God would use to accomplish his will on earth. "You did not disturb me. I hope you have news?"


Bashir stood with Hasan's assistance but still kept his eyes a shade downcast, not quite meeting Hasan's gaze. "The governance-director for Medina is promising to use force to reclaim his offices. He claims the Ascendancy's impending visit will cast off those who are resisting him."

The Ascendancy. Hasan wasn't sure what to make of the man. The person had swept through the Middle East twenty-five years ago and gained the allegiance of such a diverse range of peoples -- most notably people who claimed allegiance to God and God alone -- and now was set to come and lay the law down for the unruly children who dared question the CCD's true place in the world. The only true place for a leader was to be subservient to God -- no other form of governance was proper. Such arrogance the leader of half the world showed -- and arrogance that would be punished by God in time.

"Rest easy, my companion. Do not concern yourself with earthly governors. For it is written by God's messenger that God maketh none to share in His government."
And, as that was indeed the case, it seemed something would need to be done about Sharif Abdul Kassan. The man was rabid, frothing at the mouth over losing his seat of power, and had washed his hands in plenty of blood during the most recent infighting. He, like many others, was determined to cling to the corrupt ways of false leaders and corrupted prophets -- and he was going to attempt to use the weight of the CCD to legitimize his continued grasp on earthly power.

It saddened Hasan that his use as a tool of God's will had so far brought so much violence. It hadn't even been at his direction, so far. But one did not build a temple without fracturing a few stones. Orders for dealing with that man would go out within the hour.

"What else do you have to bring me? Anything of those touched by the hand of God?"


Bashir nodded. "There has been another brought to Mecca. This makes sixteen men and seven women so far who bear the symptoms of that strange affliction that touched you so long ago. Amira is making them comfortable as you have instructed."

Hasan turned back to view the Kabbah as Bashir delivered the news. Another had been brought. Simply thinking upon the sickness took Hasan back to a time when he lay prostate with nothing but his faith to hold onto, and his faith had won out in the end. He'd tried his gift of healing on the ones brought so far but it seemed there wasn't actually anything wrong with them. Which had heightened Hasan's suspicions that these were people touched by God as Hasan had been, and perhaps were enduring his Tribulations as Hasan had been forced to. That made them special indeed, in their own way. He would gather them and take them under his protection.

He continued to consider the Kabbah as he replied to Bashir. Perhaps there was some mystery, or revelation of God, that lay there. The One True God had made the place holy. The Muslim world revolved around it -- and for now it also revolved around Hasan. "Very good, Bashir. Anything of the Ascendancy?"


"The Ascendancy has extended you a personal invitation for you to meet with him."

At that, Hasan's face twisted into a grimace. The man was coming to Mecca for his summit. The arrogance of the man to think he would be welcome in the holiest of places -- to think this would be a good place for mediation -- just showed the man's ignorance. Mecca was not a place for people to work out their differences. It was a place to put all things aside before God. Anyone coming here who wasn't ready to be a servant of God was a blasphemer.

"I am not a politician,"
he said, turning to Bashir. "I am merely God's instrument. His tool to establish a world aligned in perfect submission to Him. This world has been out of alignment for too long."


He paused, and took Bashir's hand. "I will send you to meet with them in my place. Should it be needed, I will go myself if the need comes, but now is not the time. You are to deliver to them the messages we have discussed. Chief among them is that it is no longer acceptable for a man to rule his people unless he submits to the will, and the law, of God before all else."


Bashir knelt and kissed Hasan's hand. "As you wish, Mahdi."

Hasan shook his head with no little mirth and withdrew his hand. "It is not as I wish, but what God himself wishes. Do not forget that, old friend. I am merely his instrument."


As Bashir left, Hasan turned back toward the Kabbah and knelt upon his rug. The Keramat flooded him again and he touched his head to the floor.

There is no god but God, and Muhammad is his prophet. Allah, in your wisdom, show me the way. Show me the true path.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING