Title: Teen With 'Superhuman Strength' Spits Blood At Firefighters During Drug-Fueled Party: Police

The Huffington Post | By Sebastian Murdock
Posted: 10/03/2013 2:20 pm EDT | Updated: 10/03/2013 3:19 pm EDT

A wild drug-fueled party in California got even crazier when two teenagers allegedly spit blood at firefighters who showed up to help a guest who had reportedly suffered a seizure.

Emergency crews responded to a Mill Valley, Calif., home early Sunday after receiving a report that a teen had experienced a seizure while on LSD, according to KTVU.

When they arrived, paramedics and firefighters were blocked from entering the home by a 16-year-old boy allegedly covered in blood. Police told KTVU that the teen refused to let responders inside the home, displaying "superhuman strength" while resisting emergency crew efforts to open a gate.

"It's interesting that both firefighters and a deputy both described this individual as having superhuman strength," Marin County Sheriff's spokesman Lt. Doug Pittman told the station. "This is something we used to see years ago with the use of PCP. We don't see that very much anymore."

Authorities told the station that the responders called for backup once the 16-year-old and his 18-year-old girlfriend began spitting blood into the faces of firefighters.

Officers from five neighboring cities showed up to calm the scene. When emergency workers were finally able to get inside to assist the seizing teen, they discovered eight other partygoers allegedly covered in blood.

Inside, deputies said they found what appeared to be marijuana, heroin, cocaine, and a designer drug similar to ecstasy, according to The San Francisco Appeal.

Deputies determined the blood had come from self-inflicted injuries of the blood-spitting 16-year-old.

The two spitting teens, along with another 18-year-old male, were all charged with resisting arrest, being under the influence and assaulting emergency workers. All three were taken to a nearby hospital to let the drugs wear off before being booked into either Marin County Jail or juvenile hall.

A 16-year-old girl whose family owned the house was also charged with a misdemeanor under the county's Social Host Accountability Ordinance, according to SFist.

An investigation is ongoing, and authorities say other charges may be added.

Published by The Huffington Post, 10/03/2013. U.S.A (real article])

Encrypted Message


((To understand read me))

Hopefully this works. I'm looking for someone to integrate a wallet and a government issue set of goggles. Pay isn't great to start with, but if it turns out great you can have all the credit and the patents etc. As well as sell it to another bidder. My uses are private and I don't care what ya'll do wit it later.
pose.




Comments are: OPEN


Edited by Aria, Nov 12 2013, 02:48 PM.

Tensions rise in Middle East
Mahdi faction shuts regional governors out


<small>Al-Jazeera LIVE</small>


Good afternoon from Dubai, I'm Samir Abdukhaliq and here are your headlines at the top of the hour.

Tensions continue to arise across Dominance V as the man proclaimed by his followers to be the Mahdi continues to draw followers. The Ascendancy himself, Nikolai Brandon, is coming in just a few days to visit the Dominance in an attempt to negate the escalating violence, and it seems it can't happen a moment too soon.

I'm sure you all remember the attack on the Grand Mosque in Mecca that took some inexplicable turn when the attackers were struck by lightning. Well, just two days ago, there was another strike by lightning which claimed the lives of about a dozen individuals who were also found with various weaponry about themselves.

The CCD has been fast in its response to bring troops into the region, setting up checkpoints for weapons searches in various parts of the area. One such checkpoint flared up in a fiery battle yesterday morning. Apparently loyalists of the Mahdi faction refused to surrender their weapons to CCD officials, claiming they were needed for defensive purposes. When CCD troops moved to seize the weapons, the Mahdi loyalists resisted, sparking a skirmish that left three CCD soldiers and six civilians dead.

From Mecca, the Mahdi faction has apparently blamed the CCD for targeting the wrong faction as the aggressors in this current flare-up of religious violence. A declaration came today from Mecca to his faithful:

(Roll video clip)

AL-HASAN: "Do not lose heart as the unbeliever moves to take your protecton away. Allah will show the right path if you submit yourself to his will. And he will prove himself supreme over all transgressors."

(end video clip)

More news has come today that Mahdi supporters have moved to prevent several provincial governors from entering their places of work. In Medina, protestors barred the entrance for Sharif Abdul Kasan into the city hall. Similar actions have been noted in other cities across Saudi Arabia and Iraq.

That's all for now, I'm Samir Abdukhaliq and this is Al-Jazeera Live.


Copyright Al-Jazeera News, 2045, Dubai, D.V.

Comments are: OPEN

<small>((Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the time tag:

Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>

Jensen took the train to work straight from John's. He cut it close as it was, and thankfully the Moscow metro system was famously punctual. He'd spent the good part of the ride with his forehead pressed against the window, staring into the blur of tunnel lights streaking by, and the rest of it rounded over in his seat and wringing his hands. He had a lot to think about.

He was thankful for the monotony of the night's shift. Forklift driving didn't require a college degree, but it was dangerous work, but it gave his mind the chance to focus on something else for ten hours. He'd barely noticed the passage of time until the horn sent him to a break room for a sandwich.

Come morning, he was worn out again. It was part of the reason he sought a job over third shift at all. The solemnity of nights were hardest when left alone with only one's guilt for company. His solution had been to work himself to exhaustion and collapse every morning without the energy to do more than shower off the grime. It worked too well, sometimes.

The day's sleep was fitful and restless. He tossed and turned and not just due to the ridges of an uncomfortable Murphy's Bed. He'd always been an animated dreamer, but nightmares were only a regular occurrences in the last few years, and they did not make for pleasant bedmates.. so to speak.

He meandered around the small apartment he did not call home but lived in nonetheless and went mindlessly through his regular morning's routine. Mindless because his attention was firmly plagued by wondering when exactly he was going to make good on the promise to himself, John, and God to fast and pray. He had to work again tonight, and he had no intention of not fulfilling the agreement with his employer to actually show up. God probably wouldn't be too pleased with someone breaking one of the Ten Commandments, lying, in order to stay home and read their Bible.

Although it was tempting. In fact, shortly after the shower, he hastily wrapped a towel around his waist and sat at the small desk that served as a kitchen table and started flipping through the three-hundred year old Cambridge Bible John had presented to him. Before he knew it, an hour had passed, his coffee cup was long ago emptied, and he was still in a towel.

It was an extraordinary book. He couldn't imagine anyone in the world who wouldn't appreciate it, no matter their affinity for religion, history, or knowledge. If nothing else, it was in pristine shape. If John used this Bible for his daily devotions, he'd treated every single crisp page with the reverence it was due. Jensen was almost nervous to turn a page for fear of damaging it.

There was a book, however, he could pour himself into without fear. His own Bible.

The night he fled Dallas, he'd not had the specific book he used on a daily basis, nor the book from which he preached, which were two very different things, in his possession, but he did have the Bible he kept in his car on hand. The car was ditched in Mexico City, three days after the... incident, and God Bless the poor people of the city, but it was likely stripped to a thousand pieces within twenty-four hours. A gleaming white Mercedes attracted dangerous attention south of the Border. There were many long hours where he'd white-knuckled it. So no other trace of his passage remained. Any belongings he'd left inside were long gone. Everything but this Bible and ten million in cold cash.

So with the Cambridge Bible unfolded alongside, Jensen just started reading. He didn't know what he was seeking. Answers, he supposed. To questions posed by John and those echoed in his own mind. He reread passages about angels appearing on Earth with a critical eye. He sought out the chapters in Revelation about the reign of the Anti-Christ. He tried to place himself in all of it somewhere, but the harder he looked, the more forlorn he became.

Frustration gnawed discomfort in his chest, and he flipped the cover of his car-Bible shut with more force than he'd meant. The thing teetered dangerously, then tumbled right through his fingers to the floor, landing in a loud, flat thump. A tangible consequence of an impure heart.

"I'm sorry,"
he told the book as he bent to pluck it from the floor.

As he was inspecting it, there was a rustling sound behind him, like wind blown through those closed shutters. No chill of outdoor weather washed onto his bare back, yet chills shot down his spine.

Stomach sank with tension, he looked over one shoulder, and his jaw dropped.

Appeared half-way in the room was a very normal looking man. He had thin brown hair swept across his forehead, the stubble of a thin, groomed beard spotted gray, who was dressed in a plain button down shirt untucked from his slacks. He was watching Jensen with a kind, but concerned, expression. It was his eyes Jensen would always remember. Like they knew every thought in his head, but loved him anyway.

Jensen shot to his feet. His chair skid backward. There was a flash of fresh air across his waist like he'd dropped the towel, but when his hands went to grope for the cloth, they found the slick nylon of running shorts instead. Kind of weird, but he didn't take much time to investigate the rest of his attire, but apparently he was ready to go for a long run.

The front door was still bolted from the inside. The window was closed, although the curtains were thrown open--no, they were tied back. Jensen blinked, briefly unsettled.

The gentleman put up a hand. "Be at ease, Jensen. You are dreaming, my son. This is a dream, but it is also real."


Jensen gaped. He'd always been an active dreamer, but this was an incredibly real dream. "I don't feel like I'm dreaming. Who are you?"
The curtain was closed again, and the Bibles, the car and Cambridge books, were both gone from the table. As was that cup of cold coffee. That, he rather wished was still there. His hands itched to ground themselves on anything.

"Let's say I am an Angel of the Lord,"
he clasped his hands before him, and a great wave of calm washed over Jensen whose clothes suddenly dissolved into similar attire as the angel's: an untucked button-down and slacks. Jensen's forehead wrinkled with wide-eyed shock.

The angel went on. "I have met you in this place to give you a message."


Jensen approached, feeling as though he'd been wandering in the desert his whole life and had yet to find water, and although hesitant to believe this was real, he feared this pool of water would turn out to be filled with shards of broken glass.

Jensen felt he'd hardly taken a step, but the next moment, the angel was standing right before him. In fact, it seemed the whole room shifted around him rather than the other way around. He placed a warm hand on Jensen's shoulder.

"You have gifts, Jensen,"
the angel's eyes burned bright into Jensen's soul, "spiritual and physical. Do not fear them. Draw upon them, and do the work you are meant to do. You are living in a wrinkle in time, but it is not the end. There are no ends."


The blood drained from Jensen's face. In his heart, he trusted this messenger with his very life, but doubt spiked fear behind the wrinkle of his brow. He shook his head, imagining falling from the grace of heaven and landing in everlasting damnation. He grew dizzy merely meeting the angel's gaze. He looked away. "I am not worthy. Why me?"


The angel cupped Jensen's face in his hands, as a father would of a fearful son, and drew his attention once more. That sense of calm washed over once more. "We may never know why one soul can sense the Light and others do not."


Jensen's eyes fell sullen, "how am I to know what I am meant to do?"


"Look inside yourself. Look to the Light."
The angel looked away, as though seeing far beyond these four walls. He nodded to watching eyes unseen, then there was another quiet howl of wind, and Jensen was suddenly alone.

He looked to his clothes and found the towel once more. The Bibles were back on the table, and the curtains were open again.

He gasped himself awake. Actually awake, this time.

He sat up in bed, half panicked and half elated. An angel of the Lord had appeared to him in a dream. Not bothering to dress, he practically lept up to make a phone call before he could talk himself out of it.

"Hello?"
A woman's voice answered groggily. It was the middle of the night in Texas. Jensen remained quiet, and she spoke again with more earnestness this time. "Hello??"


Jensen's voice was calmer than he'd thought it would be. "Jess?"


"Speaking. Who is this?"
There was a hesitancy cutting across her groggy voice.

"It's Jensen."
Then--Silence.

A request for face to face came through almost immediately. Jensen suddenly regretted his hasty decision-making, at least he could have put on pants for pity's sake! He grabbed a shirt, a button-up ironically, and threw it on. He'd barely managed to step into shorts before Jessika's screen came through.

The light of a lone lamp shone in the background on her side of the call. Jensen didn't recognize the room she was in, but it had the standard decorations of a cookie-cutter hotel.

She was as disheveled as he, but only because Jensen knew what to interpret. He drank in the sight of her, and his heart wanted to sing, but he made himself sit still.

Likewise gazing into a screen of himself, Jessika threw a hand across her lips. She still wore her wedding ring. Jensen absently rubbed a bare finger. His was packed away in a box in the closet.

She'd always been a strong woman. He loved that about her. She could weep for joy as fiercely as she could grieve, but it appeared the last four years suddenly broke through the dam of her frayed emotions, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Please don't cry, Jess."
He urged, achingly. How badly he wanted to hold her.

Those big beautiful blue eyes opened once more. floating in a sea of bright red. "Jensen. It really is you? Oh, my God. Please! Where are you? What happened? Are you alright?"


Jensen cut her off, "I can't tell you where I am. But I am fine. I'm better than fine, actually. Jess-"


This time she gawked, "What! Why not? Are you in trouble? My God you are in trouble. The blackmail. Are you in jail? Does someone have you?! I swear I will--"


He lifted his hands, wishing he could imbue her with the calm as had that angel. "--Jess, I disappeared because... because I'm something more than a man. I thought I was possessed, and I ran half out of my mind with fear. But now I know the truth, and I don't fear it anymore. An Angel of the Lord came to me. I have something to do for the kingdom. I think... I think I am an angel, too."


It was still hard to believe, but it was also hard to argue with both John Smith and an angel coming to his dreams, like some prophet of the Old Testament. Those guys surely didn't believe it either.

Jess's face wrenched with pain. Her voice cracked one single, disbelieving sob: "Oh, Jensen. Please tell me where you are. I'll come to you, and we'll get you the help you need."


Jensen couldn't believe his ears. "I know it sounds crazy, Jess! If only I could prove it to you..."
he held out a hand and the familiar orb of light swirled into existence once more. Jessika barely glanced at it, and the confidence with which Jensen wielded the light into being wavered uncertainly. It winked away. "Jess-,"
he started, but she was now looking elsewhere, eyes darting fast across another simultaneously opened screen. She was searching for his coordinates. Then, in surprise, she mouthed a word that Jensen recognized: 'Moscow'.


His breath caught in his throat. Her gaze locked sternly onto his. Her mind was made up. "Jensen, stay where you are!"


Jensen shook his head, "Jess please don't come!"
Not into the belly of the beast itself! If John was right, the apocalypse was about to break, and Jensen was going to be in the middle of it.

"I'll be on the first flight."
Their connection was severed, and Jensen blinked horror at the after image of his wife. Angels. Demons. War. He felt like he was going to faint.

He powered down the Wallet and hastily threw belongings into bags. It looked like he would be taking John up on his offer to relocate. Jessika couldn't be with him. It wasn't safe!

And though Jensen did need help, he doubted it was the kind Jessika had in mind.

Time flies when you are having fun. Rather when the Regus keeps you busy. The parchment had been translated sussed out emotionally. Aria hoped to never touch the thing again. One day the world would end, but Aria hoped it would never be in her lifetime. But the signs said other wise.

But meeting that mysterious man who could fling monsters around like they were leaves on the wind made Aria question her beliefs and teachings. How could something that had the morals to save another life be evil?

Sadly life moves on and the mysteries remain mysteries. Hunting was life. Aria was out hunting for something else this time. It wasn't a monster or a reborn god, but the elusive hacker.

It wasn't like she could put out an advertisement that said Looking for hacker to hack government issue goggles and a proprietary wallet system for integration for Atharim purposes.

Aria had been going to the underground making friends for nearly a week. It was easy to bribe those down on their luck. Food, money, new shoes whatever it was they needed Aria could get her hands on - with in reason of course.

She'd found a few boys who touted around computers. But they had already failed at the small little task Aria had asked of them, to find the specs for the goggles. Surely a hacker could get them. But these boys were nothing more than that - boys pretending to be hackers who knew little more than playing a video game or two.

Today was probably going to be her last meeting with them. Hopefully they had found something useful.

The boys were just more than teenagers, probably no more than 19 years of age. They were greased over from lack of showers or rather money. They both wore ragged leather shoes and oversized clothes. Hand-me downs in the worst shape possible but the boys were always in good spirits.

The taller of the two boys smiled when he saw Aria approaching. He had tried to wrap his arm around her and Aria deftly avoided him. She had gotten rather good at avoiding someone's touch, wanted or unwanted it was not something she needed right now. "Did you find something?"

The second lad shook his grease blonde hair emphatically yes. He spoke in a quiet voice, "Though I don't think you'll like it."

"Try me." Aria was optimistic. It didn't pay to be half empty glass type of person.

The blonde boy smiled at her, "We found a web site. It has some resources that you might find useful." He handed Aria a peice of paper with a link neatly written on it.

Aria nodded, "I suppose that'll do." Aria handed the boys a small wad of cash. It wasn't much, but it was all she could manage right now until she had another hunt, her funds were rather limited. "Thanks. I'll see ya around."

The boys frowned disappointed. Aria turned and left, there was no point giving the boys any hope of any friendship. They had merely been a means to an end. Besides, they were nearly half her age.

Aria held the small snippet of paper in her hands and hoped that the website would show more promise.

((OOC anyone can jump in, no more plans for this thread))

I wanted to clear something up that perhaps I didn't explain very well. The atharim's ouroboros tattoo is wildly different from person to person. Its individualized to the person's liking. The only similarity is the location. the inner left forearm.

Furthermore, dragons and snakes are incredibly popular. There will be many, many people with the image tattooed on them, probably even on an arm, who are not Atharim.

Likely some people have a simple little circle, of the plain, thin snake eating its own tail, but others will have full tattoo sleeves with a tiny, hidden image of a the symbol hidden among a more complex, full tattoo. For instance, Nikolai's was a long, slender shape with a single twist in the center more like an infinity symbol and looks much more like a dragon than a snake.

So you can see how the concept of many people all bearing the exact same tattoo going overlooked all this time is kind of a false notion. As any and all of these below in any range of sizes, even encircling the arm itself, could count as an 'atharim' tattoo. Likewise consider the history of tattooing as well. It's widespread practice was not adopted until the last century.

Due to life and work events I wasn't available to post and I apologize for any hold ups do to my absence. I should be back in the swing of things within the next week or so.

Continued from: A glittering spider

"It's getting cold, Makar. How long we have to sit on this brat?"
The younger of the two men, Giedrius, still into his early thirties, tugged irritably at the collar of his puffy jacket then shrugged the strap of an SMG higher onto his shoulder. He chose not to wear gloves despite the chill evening air; they interfered with one's weapon handling after all, and any that would be warm enough to keep the chill off would be too bulky to use the weapon properly. Besides, that's what pockets were for.

He had just stepped out of the building, into the pool of ugly yellow light cast by the light above the door and moved to stand next to his fellow guard, an older Lithuanian man. Both were martial men; long years of military service in the CCD had hardened the two, but left them without many applicable skills in life outside the service. Hence their choice of career. Hired muscle, kidnappers, murderers, the usual.

Makar sat on an old wooden crate used to cart bottles of vodka, his own rifle straddled in his lap and staring down the length of the alley, and hadn't any input to offer to Giedrius' question. A bear fur cap and a heavy high collared great coat gave the man a very classic Russian look. At his companion's silence, Giedrius grumbled irritably and zipped his coat to his chin.

The radio sitting in Makar's lap squawked, their boss demanding his hourly radio check. Makar didn't stir, and after the second request he slapped at the sleeping man's shoulder to wake the old fart up. When his hand came back warm and sticky and wet he let out a sickened yelp and quickly scrubbed his hand on the older man's back, "Damn it Makar, too much to drink again?"


He looked down at the seated man, who still hadn't stirred, then frowned in confusion. Something wasn't quite right. Giedrius tapped at Makar's shoulder again, then carefully grabbed the man by the forehead and tilted his head back, gawking at the sight. A knife, a KA-BAR, jutted from the bottom of Makar's jaw, the hilt resting against the dead man's chest at the right length to keep his head up as if he were sitting awake.

Giedrius blinked once, then reached for the radio instinctively, but the world spun suddenly before he could reach it. An explosion of pain tore through his chest then suddenly vanished with all the air in his lungs. He blinked, then realized he was looking up at the back of the nightclub they were holding the girl in. He could hear a voice, a familiar one...

"Makar. All quiet. Giedrius complains of the cold."
The older man's voice was unmistakable and calm. Bored even. Unsurprising, considering he had said that very same thing a dozen times or more in the past two days. Giedrius calmed down, but only for a moment as the boss responded in the affirmative. A figure stepped over him, dropping the radio and a digital audio recorder on his chest as the man passed. Not Makar...too tall, too...not Russian looking. He tried to move, to look at the man, to reach for the radio, but nothing seemed to work any more. His mind frayed and panic began to overtake him; the man stopped at the door, and snapped his fingers as if he had nearly forgotten something, then turned back to Giedrius and knelt to rifle through his pockets. The keys to the door were plucked from Giedrius' pocket.

"Shouldn't give the outside guards the keys to the door."
The man's accent was hard to place; middle-eastern maybe, but speaking in Russian so fluently. He patted Giedrius on the chest with the key and rolled Giedrius onto his side. There was a strange pulling sensation and a quickly fading flash of pain and he was dropped onto his back again, to see the man holding a knife dripping black in the sickly yellow light. "Also shouldn't pass a door without checking your corners. Thought you lot were soldiers. Guess you weren't good ones."


Then the man turned and walked back to the door, holding of all things a tiny little .22 pistol with a silencer; an absolutely ridiculous weapon. Giedrius chuckled at the sight; then choked and gurgled as his lungs filled with blood. He was dead before the door fell closed.

-----

Stepping through the door into the building, Hood listened to the muffled sounds of techno garbage playing in the club proper, somewhere beyond the unfinished walls of the back storage areas of the club. The turn-coat guard had made it easy to hunt him down; he had made great efforts to hide his repeated patronage of a nightclub in the red light district, one of the countless that rose and fell in a matter of months. Those efforts were just what Hood had been looking for. Scants days after the meeting with Mr Talanov, Hood took a casual stroll through that neck of the woods and zero'd in on the tracking device the man had planted on his own daughter. The range was minuscule as such things went, a few hundred meters at best, but with the right scanner in hand he had little trouble finding it and confirming his suspicions.

Had Mr Talanov been a 'good' man, then that would have been where Hood's work would finish. Daughter found, the police would be informed and would execute a raid to rescue her. But in the sort of circles Mr Talanov walked, that was a sure sign of weakness. Hence why Hood had already killed two men and was off to do in a few more yet. He casually adjusted the shemagh he wore wrapped about his face, and with a few practice flicks of his eyes his Land Warrior's HUD brought up a variety of programs. Motion tracker a thermal imaging filter, and a map display of the building's layout which he had acquired from public records. A microphone system registered subtle sounds, displaying intensity and direction. Most of it was redundant and ignored, but he wasn't so arrogant as not to pay some small attention to what all the high-tech gear had to say.

The door had led into a wide hallway which led to storage rooms where stocks of liquor, spare couches and furniture were stored for the club proper. The rooms were dark, save one that sported the constant flicker of a television, although no sound registered above the distant thrum of the garbage music kids listened to these days. Hood muttered under his breath as he approached the open door, kneeling near the opening and keeping a few inches off the wall. Another tool was produced from his pocket, the telescopic camera he had used in the sewers when hunting the Rougarou some short weeks ago. A quick peek revealed exactly what he expected; another man, sprawled on a couch and facing a television with headphones on so he could hear the program he was watching over the music.

The man was facing the door, but with the television between him and it, he couldn't actually see into the hallway; the light of the television would blind him to anything beyond it. A moment was spent to assure himself that there was no sort of warning system; no string nor laser waited to warn the lounging man shoulder trouble come knocking. Hood sighed quietly as he stepped into the room, walking up behind the television. The lounging man, absorbed in his programs, didn't notice anything amiss until the silencer of Hood's little pistol emerged into the light cast by the television. A dumb expression crossed the man's face before Hood pulled the trigger. A nice, tight little grouping into the man's chest and throat; from so close, the .22 rounds had little trouble piercing meat and bounding off bone. Between the low caliber, the silencer, and the loud music, there wasn't much to be heard of either the weapon firing or the man's gurgles.

He dropped the magazine from the little pistol and slid in a fresh one as he moved back into the hallway and headed for the stairs up to the second level. With a little under an hour before the next radio check, he had no need to hurry, and it took him many long minutes to make it up the two short flights of stairs. There was little of interest in the narrower hallways of the second floor, leaving only the third. According to the building's plans, the third floor was entirely devoted to office space, and was the most likely area that Mr Talanov's daughter was held.

He froze near the top of the stairs, eyeing the closed door that resided there. The audio display spiked occasionally, a tiny read-out indicating two voices beyond, although the program was unable to guess at what was being said. He knelt, carefully snaking the camera beneath the door, tilting it left and right to better understand what was ahead. A large room, sporting a few desks and computers, and two men stood arguing. One he recognized as the turn-coat, while the other seemed to be a business man, possibly the club's owner.

The images were recorded to his Land Warriors, and Hood tucked the camera away. He had finally come to his first major obstacle; electronic security. Closed circuit cameras, one in the corner far left of the door, the other across the room in the far right; a simple enough set up. Unimaginative but efficient, as such things went. Hood adjusted the shemagh around his head. It was more then mere cloth of course; the fabric was treated with a military grade chemical designed to confuse thermal imaging. The same chemical was on the clothes and gear he wore. Not that the cameras beyond had any thermal capacity; hell, he'd be impressed if they were HD. But it wasn't those cameras he was worried about. Surely they had more useful security measures in place if they were sitting on the daughter of a man like Mr Talanov.

Satisfied that he was as ready as he was going to be, Hood calmly opened the door and walked through. The turn coat and the business man both turned to look at him in surprise. The suit's surprise quickly changed to horror; presented before him was a clearly large, powerfully built man, without a trace of skin showing beneath clothes of darkest black and grays. Strapped about him were pouches and weapons and wicked knives.

The turn coat was a bit more collected about it; surprise flickered briefly to concern then to the practiced calm of a man who had stared down a gun barrel a time or two before. The man glanced briefly to a desk scant feet away, where sat his trusty Kalashnikov, carelessly set aside. When had he grown so complacent? He knew better then this; he should have known a heavy weight like Talanov wouldn't go to the police, that the man would try something like this. A show of force was exactly what was required to save face, after all.

Hood and the turn coat locked eyes; or as best they could through the impassive lenses of Hood's Land Warriors. The suit started to babble; demanding to know who Hood was, pleading innocence, the usual drivel. He didn't actually pay the man any attention, but as the man's voice grew more shrill with panic Hood just growled and jerked his pistol up. "Shut the hell up. Just running a little errand."
A few quiet pops and the well dressed man dropped. The turn coat took the chance to lunge for his gun, and a side door burst open to reveal a washroom and another armed man surging out the door, an auto-shotgun tucked to the man's shoulder and the trigger held down.

Buckshot tore through the drywall to Hood's right, the bursts of dust and wood chips quickly sweeping closer to him as the gunman drew closer to his mark. Hood dropped to the floor on his back, tugging a black cylinder from his vest. A grenade spoon flittered free as the item was held in an open palm, and when Hood's back hit the floor he tossed it deeper into the room and rolled to his chest, face down and hands to his ears. The flashbang went off as it bounced from a desk, filling the room with bright flashes of light and deafening claps of sound. Of course, Hood's Land Warriors had flash suppressant capability, and he wore ear defenders to ward off the worst of the sound, but being in the same room as the detonating flash-bang was never a pleasant experience.

The gunman was good; he dropped to a knee and squeezed his eyes shut just before the thing went off, but the turncoat was caught off guard; rifle in hand he had just enough time to spot the bouncing grenade before it went off and he dropped to the floor screaming in pain and clutching at his blinded eyes. The gunman rose, blinking rapidly to try and banish the sunspots in his eyes, shotgun up and at the ready as he aimed to where he had seen Hood leap to the floor. He almost managed to jerk his weapon to the ready when Hood did pop up again, some meters right and dangerously closer then the man had expected.

Hood had dropped the .22, now that noise discipline was no longer an issue. He came up with his Mateba instead, and the heavy caliber revolver barked as viciously as the shotgun had as Hood put three rounds into the gunman. The fellow had been wearing a simple ballistic vest, steel plate instead of the oft preferred ceramic. It stopped the first round, the metal denting alarmingly and likely breaking a few ribs. The second round hit too close to the first for the plate to stop it, and it punched through at an angle, exploding out the side of the man's torso and painting the wall behind him red. The third slipped through unobstructed, at least till it hit the second plate on the man's back. It probably bounced a few times before emerging from the top of the man's shoulder, but the fellow was already dead by then.

Hood rose to his feet as the third round was fired, and swiveled the pistol towards the turncoat, who was still writhing on the floor and screaming obscenities, but before Hood could put the fellow out of both their misery, another door was kicked open, revealing a stairwell that probably led down to the club proper, and another guard that had been standing on the 'civilian' side of the line. Like any good bouncer, he was a large, intimidating looking bald black guy, wearing a too-tight shirt and dress coat that pulled tight at the shoulders. Hood immediately recognized the sunken knuckles, the cauliflower ear and the oft-broken nose. A boxer, eh?

Hood was able to notice those important details so quickly, mostly because the man had emerged from a door far closer then Hood would have expected for such a stairwell. Quite the odd location for it, next to the bathroom, so close to the stairs to the back half of the building. Seemed like a poor choice, in regards to fire hazards and such. He stepped back and twisted his revolver to bear on the big man, but the fellow turned out to be far quicker then his size indicated. A meaty fist impacted with the Mateba, knocking it out of Hood's grasp, and he barely managed to duck a quick jab at his head.

Hood was forced to give ground initially, batting at the huge man's forearms to deflect or slow incoming blows. Hood took a wide swing against his shoulder and forearm, ducking into the man's reach, and quickly turned the situation around. He ducked into the man, rolling his shoulder into the fellow's chest, then snapped one arm back and up to drive his elbow into the fellow's chin. His other hand reached out to lock an iron-fisted grip onto a tendon at the back of the man's knee, twisting it sharply as the fellow staggered back from the elbow hit.

The fellow yelped in pain but didn't drop, instead awkwardly staggering back and giving his leg a kick to try and work the kink out of his knee. Hood followed close, grabbing the fellow by the lapels and driving his knee into the big man's crotch, at the same time as cracking his forehead into the man's nose. Blood exploded from the wrecked cartilage, and the fellow gasped in pain. The bouncer took an awkward swing to try and keep Hood at bay, and regretted it instantly.

Hood caught the man's arm against his side, pinning it beneath his own arm and grabbing the wrist, which he twisted sharply. The bouncer's arm twisted and straightened out, locking the elbow, and before the fellow could use his superior strength to try and toss Hood away, Hood's elbow snapped down into the bouncer's own elbow. Cartilage tore and bone snapped, blood spurting free as bone tore through flesh. The man screamed in pain, jerking away from Hood instinctively to try and cradle his ruined arm, dropping to his knees. Hood let the man go, but once the man had fallen, he stepped in with his side to the fellow's back and drove his elbow sharply into the bouncer's cauliflower-ed ear.

By the time the bouncer dropped to the ground, unconscious and bleeding out, the turncoat had finally recovered enough to be staggering to his feet, using the AK as a crutch. Hood crossed the room quickly, kicking the weapon out from under the man before he could get his footing, and pulled a kukri from it's sheath in the small of his back. The blade was shaped much like a boomerang, with the sharpened blade along the inside edge, and that edge was quickly situated at the kneeling turncoat's crotch. Hood held a fistful of the man's hair, jerking his head up to be looking the man in the now panic-stricken eyes. "Who hired you?"

The conversation was short; just as Hood had expected, the turncoat's selling price was always negotiable. Keeping one's testicles was a highly agreeable payment. Content with the man's answers, Hood struck the man unconscious then produced a hypodermic syringe, giving the fellow an injection to keep him soundly unconscious for a few hours. He had a special treat for Mr Talanov. The man's daughter was easy to find; she was tied and gagged in one of the offices. A little worse for wear, but alive and relatively healthy, all things considered. She didn't fare well with the view on the way out the back of the building, and was more then a little confused when Hood wasted a few minutes running a powerful magnet over the various computers and hard-drives. One of them were likely connected to the cameras, and he had to hope the recordings weren't forwarded and stored off-site. A little messy, but it would get the point to Mr Talanov's enemies.

Hood carried the unconscious turncoat out to a waiting van further down the alley, which had pulled in shortly after he had cleared the two guards at the door. Another member of Pervaya liniya Security waited there as the getaway driver, and they were all long gone before the police arrived to do their 'investigation.' It would be written off as some sort of mafia-related incident and be quickly forgotten.

An hour later, Mr Talanov was reunited with his daughter, and a blindfolded and bound turncoat sat in the man's boathouse, waiting for Mr Talanov's personal attention.

Continued here: A Blind Eye


Edited by Hood, Nov 6 2013, 08:27 AM.

The first prophecy discovered in a sunken vessel in the Gulf of Mexico by the Smith Foundation. It is somewhere in the vicinity of 5000+ years old and was transcribed in over six languages in order to ensure the survival of the text. It is presented here in it's Greek form and translated into English. This may be the prophecy of the Fifth Age Atropos regarding the coming of Apollyon. How is made its way across the Atlantic in so many languages from an age so far removed is unknown.

Έρχεται. Το ένα προείπε της από Άτροπος. Το αντιτορπιλικό. Η αναίμακτη κατακτητή, ο οποίος δεν θα κατακτήσει με στρατούς και μηχανές του πολέμου, αλλά και με χρυσό και πονηριά. Θα σημάνει την αρχή του τέλους. Θα πρέπει να επισημαίνονται με το σκοτωμένο ζώο, και ο κόσμος θα καταρρεύσει με τον ερχομό του. Απολλύων έρχεται. Φύγετε πριν από την επιστροφή των νεκρών θεών.


He is coming. The one foretold of by Atropos. The Destroyer. The bloodless conqueror, who will conquer not with armies and machines of war, but with gold and guile. He will herald the beginning of the end. He will be marked with the slain beast, and the world will crumble with his coming. Apollyon comes. Flee before the return of the dead gods.

Continued from Kings of the Castle


Jon had his concerns the driver of the sedan would pick up on the obvious signs he was being followed by a marked taxi cab. Jon had a feeling the cab driver wouldn't be too keen on trying to tail a suspected government vehicle, so he had to keep the driver in the dark. Fortunately for him, it seemed the sedan was taking the most direct route to wherever its destination was, on busy streets where numerous cabs darted back and forth. In fact, Jon's own driver wasn't even the only one who was taking a passenger straight from Kallisti's to the agents' final destination.

The sedan pulled up to a club in the Tagansky District east of Zamoskvorechye. A clear lit sign hung from the exterior: "Kistyami." Jon snapped a picture of it and his Wallet translated the sign for him. Tassels. How classy.

Jon paid the cab driver and stepped onto the curb. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the suits exit the sedan and enter the club. The bouncer outside took one look at something the man presented -- maybe a badge? -- and opened the door. The other agent apparently stayed in the sedan this time.

Jon kept hold of the power as he approached the bouncer. The man, a big guy dressed in a blue blazer, with thick forearms that looked more like massive calves attached to fists that looked strong enough to crush rock, cocked an eyebrow at Jon. "One hundred to get in, two drink minimum. Don't touch the girls." The or else was implied in the man's flat tone.

Jon shrugged and offered his Wallet to complete the transaction. Once done, the guy opened the door for him.

Music -- modern dance music with its synthetic rhythmic pulsing -- assaulted Jon as he entered. Truthfully it wasn't all that loud, but with his senses enhanced Jon felt the full force of it. The atmosphere was much, much different than Kallisti's. There, the mood was relaxed and sensual -- warm and welcome, even. Here -- well, what Kallisti's hinted at, Kistyami reached out and slapped you with. Certainly not Jon's cup of coffee. Up on the stage a tall blonde beauty was doing some very naughty things to a pole. Interesting, as she was the one wearing the uniform hat and from the looks of it had at one time been dressed in a Custodian jacket, which now was tossed off to one side along with the rest of the uniform. Jon had hardly walked ten feet toward a booth before he was approached by a short woman with auburn hair, a serving tray with drinks in one hand and absolutely no clothes on.

"Drink? Dance?" she asked. She looked ... well, cold. Certain parts of her anatomy were perkier than Jon would think normal -- almost painfully so, he'd think. Jon hoped she was well paid, or at least well tipped.

"I'll take a..."
Great Spirit, the mere thought of more alcohol right now made his stomach churn..."One of those, if I may."
He grabbed the drink and found some cash in his pocket -- enough to cover about five drinks and then some. "Keep the change -- oh, and have you seen my friend about?"


He gave the nude waitress a brief and somewhat vague description of Nick's appearance. She took the money with a smile -- Jon had no idea where she was going to put it -- and rolled her eyes at the question. "You're looking for him too? No, I haven't seen him here. Just like I told the other guy. Twice."

Jon glanced around. Yeah, there -- over at the bar -- was the other suit, all right, speaking quietly with the bartender. "Thanks,"
he said. He left the serving girl where she was and crossed the club floor to the far end of the bar. There he took a seat and set his drink down without taking so much as a sip. He was about thirty feet away from the suspected agent who was looking for Nick.

The suit broke off his conversation with the bartender and stepped back from the bar. He appeared to start having a conversation with himself. Probably talking to his supervisor or the agent sitting outside in the sedan over some sort of communications link. The bartender came over to Jon to ask if he needed anything, but he waved the man off without a word. Instead he spun the same sound enhancing weaves he'd performed earlier. This was getting easier. Yes, he was definitely getting stronger, more adept at harnessing the power of the Great Spirit. Additionally, the more power he used over time the easier it got to maintain control and expand his abilities. He wondered just how strong he'd become and what he could do with this power -- what were the limitations, exactly?

It sounded like the guy was having an argument with whoever was on the other end of the transmission. And he sounded frustrated. "...The same story. No one's seen him. That must mean our trace got messed with, right?.....Well, that is a good question! Who's got the capability to do that? Who's Trano running with?...Well, if I can't find one person who's seen him, what's that tell you?"

Jon let the weave vanish. Whatever Nick Trano had managed to get himself caught up in -- it just sat at the bottom of Jon's stomach like he'd swallowed a lump of charcoal. These guys were bad news. They'd traced his signal from Jon's phone call to this place, but Nick wasn't here. There must have been something done to Nick's Wallet signal to mask his real whereabouts. So if these guys were expecting to find Nick here and didn't -- that didn't sound like it would bode well for Nick's future. At the very least it would expose the ruse that had masked Nick's movements.

Should he interfere? He could, certainly. Just tell the suit that he'd seen Nick here earlier. That would be the friendly thing to do. Was Nick Trano a friend? A professional acquaintance, maybe. Their relationship to date had been brief -- some of their political interests aligned, of course, and Nick Trano had been more than happy to give Jon the publicity he needed -- practically an open microphone. That had been a friendly thing to do. And now he was the one in need. But was it enough to risk getting into the middle of whatever potentially dangerous situation was developing around him?

The man put his Wallet away and started back toward the front door, passing behind Jon's stool. Great skunk's piss, in a few moments Jon wouldn't have a choice any longer to do anything -- the man would be off in his sedan with the other agent and the opportunity to act would be gone.

Screw it. He lashed out with a thread of air, made solid, and snagged the very tip of the man's shoe as he stepped. The man tripped and lost his balance, falling forward. Jon turned and grabbed the man's arm before the man hit the floor.

"Are you all right? You almost took a bad spill, there,"
Jon said to the man. "Who knows what's been on that floor."


The man regained his footing and pulled his arm back, a scowl forming on his face as he brushed off his suit jacket. In a moment, the man's angular face turned back to stone as if the fall had never happened. "I'm looking for a friend, have you seen him?" The man gave Jon a much more detailed description of Nick Trano than Jon had given the waitress -- so thorough Jon could have drawn a sketch on the spot even had he never seen Nick's image.

Jon chuckled. "Yeah, I did, he was just up here a minute ago. He's probably in the bathroom."


The man blinked. "Really?" His eyes narrowed. Jon returned the stare with an impassive, unconcerned look. Honestly, if the guy wanted to catch his reflection in Jon's spectacles he could just ask to borrow them.

"Wait," the man said. He pulled out his Wallet again and glanced at it. "You're..."

Uh oh. This guy had Jon's photograph and was expecting Jon to be miles away instead of at the same club where he'd supposedly called Nick Trano.

The weaves formed almost before Jon realized what he was doing. Thoughts of Anatoly Kant's suicide spun through Jon's consciousness, splitting open scars of guilt Jon had thought he'd cauterized. Indecision gripped him -- was it really right for him to mess with another person's mind after what he'd done to Kant? How could he bear to do such a thing to another? The mind medicine was too powerful a thing to just fling about at his convenience.

Another thing caught his attention then, overriding his internal monologue, that being the bulge under the man's jacket and the hand that was moving for it. That made the situation more severe -- warranting drastic measures. So he let loose.

"You don't look recovered from that fall, let me help you get your feet,"
Jon said, and reached out to steady the man's arm again. He sent the weaves into the man's mind. He could feel the weaves touching the man's brain, firing into synapses and creating false impulses. Not too much -- Jon feared that it might just break the man's mind, if it was too heavy. He was starting to get a better understanding how it worked, and what it was capable of doing. All he needed to do was create a false memory and wipe out an existing one -- a very, very short term memory. It would be as innocuous as him forgetting that he'd checked the time on his Wallet five minutes ago.

"You will not remember this conversation and you won't remember seeing me here,"
Jon spoke to him in a whisper, even though no one was close enough to hear over the music. "Nick Trano was in the bathroom. You and your partner can leave and there's no need to come back, or keep looking for him. And any lapses you might notice later in your memories of being here you will dismiss as unimportant."


Jon released the man and completed the weave. There was no recognition of Jon in the man's eyes, but apart from that he didn't seem any different. Temperament and personality all seemed unchanged. In fact the guy jerked his arm back again just as he'd done before.

Jon gave the man his best smile. "All right, you better now? Better check your shoelaces, wouldn't want to fall again."


Jon turned away from the man and back to the bar, hearing the man mutter "fucking tourist" under his breath. He heard the man retreat toward the front door and start talking again on his Wallet: "...whole thing was a waste of time -- he was in the fucking bathroom! ... yeah, it checks out, let's get the fuck out of here and go get some chow...nah, Thai food gives me heartburn..."

Jon chuckled to himself, and stood, sliding the untouched drink over to the far side of the bar. He released his hold on the power altogether. He was starting to get a headache -- perhaps he'd been holding it, or doing too much with it, for too long. That apparent symptom was something to keep in mind.

Well, one crisis was taken care of. Now he had to figure some way to contact Nick that couldn't be traced. He needed to know he was in danger -- and it obviously wasn't safe to call him again. Problem was he had no idea where to find him.

The bartender came over. "Everything okay with that guy?" He cocked his head in the direction the agent had gone.

Jon nodded. "I think he just had a rough night."
He tipped the bartender even though the guy hadn't even served him anything and left the club. The sedan was gone from the street.

He hailed another cab and this time gave the driver the actual address of his university apartments. As the driver sped away from Club Kistyami, he turned the problem over in his mind: how to warn Nick when he had no idea where to find him and no secure way to reach him?

Then Jon's eyes widened as the obvious solution struck him. Of course. Jon knew exactly where to find Nick Trano.


Edited by Jon Little Bird, Oct 28 2013, 05:35 AM.

The car pulled to the gate guarding the grounds of an immaculate estate. His sources confirmed its recent acquisition by the Smith Foundation when its owner extended the invitation to come today.

Their car was admitted entrance, and swung smoothly around the circular drive. When they came to the front steps, Armande emerged without waiting for his door to be opened for him. He viewed himself a servant first and foremost. He was no more king of the Atharim than the Holy Father was of the Church.

The ignorant would confuse him for a cleric, but he was confident Mr. Smith would not. It was a common misconception forwarded by his position over the Vatican Historical Society and some of his more conservative clothing such as what he wore today. Armande abstained from any color but the most pilgrim and penitent, but the muted selection of his current attire, a stylized cassock, similar to the ankle-length robes of the Roman Catholic church, was the shade of spent ash and his high-necked collar was of the warm blanket of desert sand. Together with Armande's white-flecked hair, his luminous blue eyes were all the brighter and piercing with the knowledge of the Age. None could say he was a drab man.

He held his hands behind his back while waiting at the door.