<small>From: Signals and shards</small>


Nikolai was not a man of whim. That he was not in his office practicing the forthcoming address to the media was a conscious choice. Depending on the reaction of the American media, his team would make a decision whether or not to make a public speech or simply issue a press release. In the meantime, Nikolai was not about to waste time practicing a talk he may not need to give. Not when there were more pressing issues at hand.

His daily briefings always included an update - if there was one - about progress in the Facility. Details were always skipped. He had no insight as to how many subjects the Facility currently housed. He had no idea as to how many were on staff. From a few sentences to a simple, no update, and short of a breakthrough finding, the leader of half the world devoted a rare amount of his faculties to the topic.

Yet here he toured the Facility for the first time since his initial walk-through two years ago. The front corridors were transformed from what he remembered. The former bunker was cold and sterile now, white and modern, in these common-use areas such as where he was now led. The Facility Director was a stout old man of great prestige, recruited from within the government, and already wielding a great deal of clearance as a bioweapons defense scientist. It was his formulations which coursed the Ascendancy's circulatory system for years now: vaccines and anti-toxin boosters among others. These agents of immunological protection were administered only to the highest level of government: men and women that if they were suddenly lost to bioterrorism, plague or epidemic, the government would fall into chaos. Nikolai hated the very idea of chaos in his regime.

Their progress was ongoing. A long, difficult process to say the least. Mapping genomic function was like charting every individual ray of light to streak across the galaxy from a trillion stars, and in the Facility, each subject was their own galaxy in this enormous, overlapping universe of mystery. Which was why a specialist named West -- or Weston -- was now recruited to their team. Nikolai nodded in approval of the news.

A number of the subjects had died. He could not recall how many, though Director Stephenson had said the number not two minutes beforehand amid an avalanche of other directive updates. Nikolai was not particularly listening. He had another reason for being here.

Their tour of the Facility took them down a level below the main floor. Formerly, these rooms once secured weapons. An arsenal of the Soviet era. Now this sub-basement, so far below ground it would have been fully protected from a direct nuclear strike at the surface, had been reworked for another purpose. Identified by six-inch thick steel doors spaced at even distances apart, magnetically sealed individual bunkers completely contained those waiting within.

At his left, the director continued to speak. To his right his primary body guard flanked. Behind, two more men in suits and synced LW's continually scanned for danger. Nikolai was as safe here as he was anywhere, but neither caution nor manipulation was not the reason he seized the furious power he commanded. The moment he did, his expression darkened, not an evil countenance, but one of menace, aura and confidence. In these moments, his title was so befitting, it could send a man to his knees in respect.

This time, the Ascendancy did nothing with the power he so often used but simply wrestled it to his will, forcing it to fluctuate across his very soul until it cowed to submission. With the enhancement it brought, he stretched forth his mind, and attempted to sense something, anything, as they passed door after door.

Continued from: Dealing with Devils

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime Michael and Jaxen exited the Undercity.

Jaxen - as Michael learned his name was as they retraced his steps to escape - was one eccentric bastard. He supposed he didn't blame the man for wanting to be gone from that hell hole, but he blinked when the bastard straightened his coat and demanded he hurried up. Unless he had stumbled into that nest of monsters while on an evening stroll - something Michael seriously considered, from what he had seen of Jaxen - he doubted the man had any idea of the way out.

Michael wasn't bothered, he was just glad Jaxen had not tried to kill him - at least, not after he had learned of his powers, and not mistaken him for a monster. In fact, the man's blasé attitude towards it all was rather endearing. Which was just as well for him, since he would soon find out he had a lot more in common with Michael than he probably wanted.

They paused as the exited the Undercity, and Michael did not waste time now that they were free. He took a quick look around - nobody was out at this early hour in the morning, nobody to overhear - and spoke.

"There is one more thing,"
Michael said. He wasn't exactly sure how to tell someone they had superpowers - he hoped the man didn't think he was Batman and start dressing in a cape - so he cut to the chase. "You saw what I did. You felt it. Well, you can do it to. The 'Sickness'? You know of it of course. Well you have it, but it isn't a disease. It's the start of something new.I can explain it later, but for now, there is one thing you need to know. If you don't get it under control, there's a good chance you will die. I can help you, but I will only offer this once."


<small><small>[fast forward and moding done with permission]</small></small>


Edited by Michael Vellas, Aug 17 2013, 12:38 PM.

Takeo's beer was getting warm. Imported from his homeland, the Kirin label had been peeled off in one expert show of boredom, revealing the familiar smiling chibi face of the company's founder, flashing the ubiquitous two-fingered peace sign of his generation. It was supposed to signify that the bottle had in fact been molded and filled in Japan, though Takeo knew of at least two counterfeits in Moscow alone. He took a long drink and set it down silently on the almost black petrified table. Drops of perspiration twinkled in the amber glow of ancient chandeliers hung low over the elevated deck and splashed cooly against the back of his hand.

The building had once been an opera house. Another import, this time from former Germany. Before that, however, it had been a mansion, a decadent palace all but ignored by the powers that be. Fallen into disrepair, the Germans had plucked it up for a steal before losing their heads in the Dominance stock race. Now the building was a vintage monstrosity of its former glory. Divided and parceled to a half dozen boutique sharks, Takeo sat in a loft built over the old stage, which currently held a quartet of nude performers. Two were singing a cover of a current chart-topper Takeo had never heard before. The other two were either dancing or having sex, he couldn't quite tell.

"We're in," Kasumi said, her voice little more than a groan. The girl - technically a woman at 22, though Takeo never thought of her as such - sat crouched over a pair of custom computer cubes and enough cords and wires to pacify all four of the performers downstairs.

Following the cables to a monitor showed little more than static signals and shards, but, as Takeo watched, the screen skipped a beat and the void was replaced with Nikolai Brandon himself, speaking into camera at what was soon revealed to be the American President. There could be few others who would earn such an instructor's backhand from Brandon.

The President did not take it well, as was no doubt the plan. Takeo raised his mostly empty bottle aloft and one of his kids - Haji, this time - skitted off down the stairs. Only the Privileged's people were allowed up that grand inclination.

"He's nervous." Jun was one of those people. His false blue eyes were transfixed on the screen. He had an awkward profile with those odd blue irises and that too-round nose, but a square jaw clenched in nominal compensation.

"Obviously," Kasumi hadn't looked up from her own miniature dual screens, green-lacquered nails flying over her instruments. Whatever she did, Takeo was glad to have her doing it for him. "Wouldn't you be nervous talking to Bra--"

"Not the gaijin!" Junichi barked, shooing her words with an absent wave of his hand. His eyes flashed to Takeo, and Takeo met them, curious, then watched the screen with him. "The Ascendancy..." Jun said, pointing at the hacked footage not four feet from his fingertip.

Takeo accepted a cold beer from his winded assistant and watched his old friend Nikolai. Jun was perceptive about people. It was one of the reasons he was on Takeo's payroll. But, Takeo did not think it was nerves that had the most powerful man in the world straight-backed and straight-faced.

He's excited.

Takeo eased back in the relaxed leather loveseat he occupied by himself. Nikolai had reason to be excited. The President had walked into this trap willingly; only he could walk himself out. It seemed so obvious, though. The man knew he couldn't keep his head around Nikolai. So why agree to this 'private' conversation? Nothing was private in this Age.

Or had he agreed? Takeo took a closer look at the American. He could be an actor. That could be CG or makeup or some other illusion.

"Get confirmation from the President's office," Takeo said to his staff. He looked across the table, specifically at Sergei. Kasumi nodded to herself, and Takeo added, "Legitimate confirmation." She grinned to herself, nodded again, and turned off one of her monitors. After the world leaders' little public tiff was over, she put on a collage of news screens. Takeo ignored them for the moment. He watched Sergei as he made a few calls. Kasumi would get him what he needed, but he wanted to see Sergei's process.

"The Whitehouse confirms there has been a breach," Sergei said, his crisp accent a mix of German and Russian that always made him sound harsh somehow. He spoke forcefully into the phone, rattling off his identification and demanding to speak with the Press Secretary in person. A moment later, a wallet sprang on and a miniaturized projection of the Secretary stood on the table next to Takeo's beer.

She wasn't speaking specifically to them, of course. She was fielding probably hundreds of calls. In fact, after a few minutes it was obvious she was only a recording. On a loop. The President has no comment at this time but is deeply upset by the behavior of the Ascendancy - funny how he remembered Nikolai's title this time. The President would address the press at 2000 PST. Others added it to calendars. Takeo took a drink and turned to watch the performers. There was time.

Ascendancy apologist says dictatorship is welcome.
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

Jon Little Bird's been busy over in Dominance I--or Russia, as it was previously known--fighting in their academic Colosseum. Academia within the CCD has never been known for any particular level of enlightenment. Still, it's hard not to giggle like a six year old girl when you're watching Little Bird give them a sound thrashing.

The academics of the CCD seem convinced that "capitalism" is a form of government. Of course, that doesn't resemble their dictatorship in the least--and even if it did, a government that's designed to profit off the people is a terrifying idea.

The highlight of the day came when the esteemed Professor Adamo Napoli stepped into the ring. After trying--and doing a pretty good job--to play the role of the intelligent, mature and dare I say fatherly scholarly type in the beginning, he tripped and fell flat on his face.

The man admitted, literally, that the CCD was a dictatorship. In the same line of thinking, he stated that the CCD being a dictatorship was a good thing. He even stated that the dictatorships of the past--remember, this includes Soviet Russia, Nazi Germany, Congo/Zaire/DPRC, Iran, Iraq and a dozen other failed states--were, and I quote, "purposeful forms of organization of a most highly developed capitalism" and the exact same as the CCD.

If you're anything like me, you probably want to ask, "Mr. Trace... how in the hell is that man one of the CCD's top scholars?!" To which I would respond with a simple "I have no idea."

I'll be keeping you up to date with regular updates on Jon Little Bird's exploits in Moscow. Expect to hear more about the success or failure of his lawsuit for the Minutemen tomorrow.

<em>Published by Vulpesnet, 2045. U.S.A</em>

Comments are: <strong>OPEN</strong>

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

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

continued from: Renovations

Aria felt like she was in school all over again. Here memorize this. She sighed and glanced at the paper and took the keys offered her. It wasn't uncommon to have to memorize things, but typically you had a little more time than rushing out the door. Aria tucked the keys in her jeans pocket and hoped that she'd remember the information on the paper.

It wasn't long before they were descending down into the tunnels below. Aria had paid very little attention to the getting out, it was only important to know how to get back in. Aria didn't hope to be tracking through these tunnels from this starting point again. While she had nothing against her two companions, she didn't want to be around two people with such open hostility towards one another. Sure they were behaving better now that things were getting underway, but who knew what would set one of them off again. The last thing Aria needed were two emotion filled roommates.


The three of them trudged through the muck of the tunnels following Rune and her coordinates. Aria was comfortable following. The air was stuffy and there were more smells that Aria didn't like not the least of which was bodily waste. The stench of things lingered far longer and Aria hated that everything always brought emotions her way. Aria focused on Rune, and on following her and the lamp she held. Aria didn't want on herself, as she preferred to have her night vision, but this place was probably far more dangerous with out a little bit of light.

Time passes slowly when you are keenly aware of your surroundings. Some say it passes faster, but Aria found the opposite true. She watched for things that would jump out at her. Nothing ever did, which was a good thing. In the distance you could hear the drip of water and the mummurs of someone in the shadows. But it was always at a distance.

They came to the place where the last Atharim hunter's signal had been found. It was not a place she ever wished to be. The sight, the smells and the lingering emotions were very powerful, things were not right here, that was certain. There was much to learn and Aria had a much harder time than she typically did in singling out one particular monster. There seemed to be more and they went in all sorts of directions. Aria leaned against the wall as she tried to regain some sense of balance. Too much at one time.

The candle and flame were all that Aria had time for. She leaned against the wall and waited for Rune to see what she had to say. Aria needed more time to make sense of things.

(OOC: Aria can't tell what's recent and what's not, old and new are mixing for her.)


Edited by Aria, Aug 12 2013, 12:30 PM.

The red light district was hardly the ideal place for a good girl to find work. Good girls didn't come to places like this.

Claire explored these streets in a perfume of imagery she was both drawn to and repulsed by. She paused in front of a window of a toy shop, peering in at what was displayed. The open streets of Brooklyn posed similar wares, though far less openly, and boasted business ventures only the locals knew where to find. But here, in Moscow's urban center, as gust of wind brushed her bangs and her eyes followed its path, she was keenly aware of no longer being in the US.

She decided she was not repulsed by her surroundings, but as she moved away from the shop window, she was not particularly interested in being a customer either. She needed a job.

It was mid-afternoon, and Claire took the chance that the business she sought was going to be open at this hour. Neither was it too early for the Seers to still be sleeping, but it was not so late in the day that business would pick up. If Moscow's enchanted seekers of fortune were anything like New York's, that is.

The pay by purchase phone in her skirt pocket did nothing to provide her with an address nor so much even the name of local psychic shops. The far more reliable method was to ask around, which Claire's outgoing, fearless personality enabled her success with relative ease, even in a city unfamiliar with speaking with strangers. Evidence of one such shop was in the plastic bag wrapped around one of her wrists, tangled up with an arm of bracelets, bangles and ties. From one end stuck out the tell-tale gathering of incense sticks. Their faint aroma followed in her wake. At least it muffled the scent of old urine and dry booze. Not that such bothered her. She was a New Yorker, after all.

She passed love shops, host and hostess clubs, hourly hotels, toy shops, and live-action theaters: the scroll above the door tickering the naughty name of something to do with Shakespeare held a strangely suggestive allure. Claire had never been keen on frequenting theaters or operas of the elite. If she went to Broadway, it was not to watch Phantom of the Opera. Yet she was intrigued by the idea of a sex-show turned play. Would it be like watching live-action porn or would it be more artistic than that? Did critics review the acting? It was an interesting idea. Perhaps if she wandered the district at night she would have been of a mind to find out, but the day-time seemed to dull her interest, and she decided to keep to her plan.
Edited by Claire, Aug 12 2013, 07:33 AM.

Takeo Onoda
Age: 34
Born: Shinjuku Ward, Tokyo, Japan, Dominance IV
Current Location: Moscow
Occupation: Privelege of Dominance IV

Personality: A disciplined and decorated life - equal parts Yakuza-made-politico and orphan-cum-billionaire - has manifested into the blunt but beloved "Voice of Tokyo" that is Takeo Onoda. Often affectionately renamed 'Tokeo' by right media, of which he is a reluctant member, Takeo lets little slip when the cameras are on - or off. He is ever the image of intense repose; the chaotic harmony that is his namesake. Through meditation, physical training and endless mental effort, Takeo is driven, obviously, but also deliberate. Unleashed unto the CCD, Takeo's disparate roots intwine to produce one hearty banzai that will require the care of both the Ascendancy and Japan to thrive.

Physical: Of average height, Takeo has the sinewy, lean build of a trained martial artist, with long and dextrous limbs and digits, and scrutinous black eyes. He is of mixed Korean-Japanese lineage, and has a clean olive-tan complexion, few blemishes and no freckles, tattoos or piercings. He keeps himself trim, along with his always-crisp jet black hair, manicured nails, and smart, refined wardrobe. Well-fitted suits, often grays and blues but with the occasional pop of color, are his norm, along with brandless pieces of solid colors, and lots of black. His many associates and hangers-on sport similarly turn-of-the-century minimal threads. And they all have the accessories to match: watches, swords, motorcycles, cars, drinks and women. Ever conscious of his image, Takeo is rarely if ever anything but the cool, polished poster child for obedient Japanese CCD citizens.

Powers:
Dreamwalker

Background:
Takeo "Tokeo" Onoda (小野田 猛雄 Onoda Takeo; born July 10, 2013) is the 2nd and current Privelege of Dominance IV; Publisher of The Yomiuri Shimbun newspaper; Producer, Host and Commentator of various Japanese television, radio and web programs - though primarily affiliated with CCBS, NTV, The Japan Times and NHK - and Host of his immensely popular plog, "Day IV". Born in a brothel in the fallen ward of Shinjuku, Tokyo, in what once was Japan, Onoda has had a prophetic rise from less-than-humble beginnings to the very lap of luxury that has long been the subject of much conversation, along with no few books, films, parodies, articles, documentaries, manga and at least one thriving video game franchise. And, ever the entrepreneur, Onoda has cashed in on every step along the way (case in point, one stone step from his childhood brothel went for $803,2013 CCD in 2034, to an American). Onoda is also acclaimed as one of the first children adopted by a city - Tokyo. He was then the first child to file for emancipation from a city - Tokyo - and the first to sue a city - Tokyo - and win, for charges of kidnapping, forced labor, child labor and child abuse, among many others. And, as a result, he was a multi-millionaire, and instant celebrity, by age 15. A graduate from Kyoto University, Onoda was also a ninjutsu, taijutsu and weapons instructor before leaving the University system to pursue his career in politics. Financially savvy, with the support of the people, Onoda was quickly tapped as Privelege after the Dominance's first choice was assassinated 13 days after his coronation.

Early Life

Takeo was a healthy, vibrant child from the moment he was plucked from his mother’s lifeless corpse in a brothel I’m old Tokyo. The Yakuza, owners of said brothel, serve the CCD in Japan as a private police force, a spy network and, in many regards, a litmus test of the health and prosperity of the Fourth Dominance. Largely autonomous, they nonetheless show deference to the Ascendancy for the boon of wealth and technology that came with CCD intervention. After dwindling in numbers in the latter half of the last century, they have since rallied a large following of men, and women, wanting more control over their lives, and more freedom. Their nostalgic lifestyle, rooted in its own lore and mythos, is a popular alternative to the usual grind of everyday life in the staunchly regulated Dominance. They have their hands in every level of government, from local police to the newly appointed Privelege, and they use their influence judiciously and without remorse.

When Takeo was strong enough, he was released from the small Yakuza-owned hospital in which he'd been placed, and promptly drafted into the city's foster system. Along with many orphans of his age, he was under constant observation, watched day and night for behavior, temperament, aesthetic and overall adaptability. He was an amenable child, it was decided, one that was slow to upset and accepting of almost any situation in which he was thrust. For this reason, he was chosen.

Taken from his foster parents - themselves members of the Yakuza upper echelons - Takeo was enrolled in a new, highly controversial government program. Located in a newly renovated district in central Tokyo, the Kago School was at once a training facility, a prison and an entertainment venue all rolled into one. The children - surprisingly equally represented by boys and girls - were trained in martial arts, tactics, strategy, unconventional warfare, espionage, weaponry and guerilla warfare; the tenements of ninjitsu. All the while, these modern ninja were being filmed, edited, manipulated and packaged from the Dominance's immense pleasure. "The Kago" was an allmedia raving success, across the CCD, not just within Dominance IV, and unwitting stars, such as Takeo, were born.

Takeo took to the programming instantly and unquestioningly. HIs dedication to the art and the dogma of the semi-religious Kago School's teachings were what drew his massive fan base. He ignored conflict, but was quick to end it once it did chance upon him. The Kago School allowed combat, obviously, and promoted through subtle manipulation and crowd control. Fights to the death were rare - usually saved for special episodes or corporate tie-ins - such as the fight over the last Mountain Dew, or the love triangle involving the Lundt chocolates. The little ninja themselves rarely amounted to anything. Those who survived were typically drafted into the Yakuza or the CCD's own special forces, as assassins or instructors themselves. A very few - namely Takeo, his closest companion Kuichi and the beautiful Noriko - were followed on actual hits, though they never knew where the video and audio feeds were sent.

It was a rare 'live' event the night Takeo struck out on the streets of Akihabara. He was instructed to avoid detection, and so he did … for awhile. The video was filmed from a combination of a polycam affixed to a headpiece on Takeo's brow, along with various surveillance and street cameras typically operated by the city. Every move Takeo made was broadcast instantaneously across the globe, and, as such, he made it three blocks before being stopped by a crowd of teenagers.

"Are you Tokeo?" shouted one of the girls, running up. The others had a wallet projection out, showing themselves from Takeo's viewpoint, and screaming wildly at their own reflections on the 'big screen'. "We're on The Kago!" he heard more than once.

"Mission compromised," chimed a hollow female voice from Takeo's ear just as he motioned his fingers for his handscript to interpret for him, the system powered down, and Takeo's heart rate began to plateau. He turned to leave, and hesitated only slightly as one of the boys yelled to him to come back, that they wouldn't compromise the mission any longer. Only 13 at the time, Takeo nonetheless immediately pegged them all as idiots and made no effort to engage. He had failed, though his name on their lips would haunted him for years.

He ducked into a pachinko parlor to avoid what his hud whispered was a camera emerging from a nearby pocket. How were they hearing his mission briefs? There was no sign of a tap. Takeo ignored the ghoulish pachinkoma patients and headed out a side exit - into the arms of two massive men waiting there. A woman in front of him began to speak - official-looking, in a business suitdress - but cut off as he twisted his arm free of one goon and racked the other with a fist to the crotch; he doubled over and a strike to the temple dropped him completely. Takeo dove forward, out of the reach of the first man and rolling casually over the second, before touching down on light toes to face the woman. She made some gesture, and Takeo's world went black…

Media Sensation

Takeo was released from the Kago School to a frenzied news conference on the steps of the courthouse. His lawyer, a freckled child not much older than Takeo, did most of the talking. His client was too stunned to field their questions. In truth, Takeo was calm - his training would not permit otherwise - contemplating his next move. It seemed simple enough. Buy a boat with his settlement and sail to some distant world - America, maybe - where their children were not exploited and publicly humiliated. Simple is a relative term, however, and Takeo had little with which to relate. He'd known only his training, his studies, his prayers.

"Are you going to sign with Nike?"

"Did you really kill those three Russians…?"

"Where is Noriko?"

Noriko. If for no other reason, Takeo would stay in Tokyo. She might still be alive. She and Kuichi. And the others. Takeo knew his purpose. Not to run. To fight.

"Was any of it real?"

Takeo Onoda changed that day, or at least showed his true potential; a pawn stepping in to check his king. No longer the inept rat racing through some unseen maze. Takeo smiled as he thought of the analogy. He would become the cheese. He let his lawyer talk, went to his hotel room, and immediately began his assault. Stealthily, he began gathering information. With the world's resources a few clicks away, he brought himself up to speed. It was terrifying to know just how famous he was. His name appeared first when searching the name Takeo. His trial was everywhere, from CNN to NHK to seemingly every plog, allcast and forum known to man. At least, to every Japanese man. He was not so popular abroad, apparently. No surprise. There was even fanart featuring his likeness. And porn. A lot of porn.

Disgusted, but determined, Takeo began to speak. He made a poorly-shot video addressing The Kago School personally - along with any 'den of perversion' in the great Dominance that was his home. He promised he would use every inch of his training to bring down these dens, these programs, these men - by any means possible. No pleading would deflect his sword, no cry stay his gun. He made an oath - heard by millions - to kill.

And the world cheered.

The sewer rat would save the children of the world from their own despicable parents. The parents themselves laughed and beckoned he try. It would make for fascinating viewing.

But not everyone was cheering. Social workers were banging at his door, when that door was not shattered across the hotel floor from CCD officials, police and Kago agents all eagerly seeking an interview with Teen Tokeo. Takeo learned to stay on the move, mobile. With his nest egg compounding interest in the bank, Takeo took to the streets, the rooftops, the clubs. Anywhere conversely derelict or teeming with supporters. He began teaching karate or judo or parkour duringg the day. Corporate sponsors took this as a sign that perhaps they'd been too rash. Surely this child was not seriously planning to kill - again. The reformed assassin. The pious ninja. The righteous killer. Now this was a man they could get behind.

Corruption begets corruption, and perhaps the attention was filling a need emptied by his self-expulsion from the School, but Takeo took to the limelight like koi to a pond. He began making appearances - accepting grotesque amounts of money, and, ever the miser, squirreling it all away. He signed contracts. He sold his name, his image, his likeness, his voice. There were Takeo action figures. Takeo Adidas - they offered more than Nike. Takeo-approved Swiss knives. He accepted to be interviewed, he sold his story in writing, on video, at appearances. He endorsed Toyotas - remember the time on The Kago when he ran down that child molester? He sold huds, swords, guns and rice.

He opened a charity, a halfway home for children displaced in the foster care system, from exploitation, prostitution or slave trade. The Kago program was dismantled, along with nine other institutions of similar disdain, and Takeo's rhetoric calmed. His past was eroding as he constructed a new future, always in the public eye, but now conscious. Awake.

Current Affairs

At 18, a perceptive early buyout of an ever-expanding gaming system stock, as well as his many endorsements and a new consulting position with the CCD and local police made Takeo wealthier than some small pre-CCD nations.

At 22, Takeo ran for and was elected to the City Council of Tokyo. He also released his first book, "Tokeo's Revenge", an instant bestseller.

At 25, a shrewd business decision resulted in Takeo's acquiring a major percentage of the city's lower-income housing. The Tokeo Bailout saved the city from severe budget cuts and earned Takeo several million paychecks per month. His cleanup efforts did not go unnoticed - by the public, the media or the CCD's generous tax incentives.

At 28, Takeo left civil service for a title of Publisher at the Yomiuri Shimbun media group, where he was also a contributing writer and public figure. Contracts with CCBS, the Tokyo Times and NHK fell in line quickly thereafter and made Takeo an official, self-made billionaire before his 29th birthday.

At 30, Takeo was made Privilege by the Ascendancy himself, a man he'd met only once.

At 32, Day IV, Takeo's vlog on the state of Dominance IV, his life in Moscow, and Japan's place within the CCD earned him a Pulitzer, among other accolades.

At 34, Takeo had his first Dreamwalk. In it, he found Noriko. And lost her again.

This board is meant to provide snippets of current events from around the globe.

OOC, these threads provide a springboard by which you can take a plot and develop it! If a story takes your interest, you are free to use it at your will.

Admin will keep up with plots as they are "adopted" by current players and post updates as replies to individual threads. That way we can avoid duplication of plots which have already run their course to conclusion.

Check back often!

Claire Novak



Age

Claire was born in 2025 in New York, and thus is now 20 years old.


Powers and supernatural powers

Claire is a channeler with the talent of Foretelling; she has only seen one vision of the future of which she has an abstract interpretation. She is also a fortune-teller, a form of a prophet, which is more specifically tied to describing the significance of treasured or important objects than it is of the person who owns them, though sometimes the two are entwined. This prophecy is not in her control as it manifests at times and in circumstances she cannot predict, however she does need to reserve focus, meditation and calm to heighten her fortune-telling. She has only ever had one full vision.

As she was taught to channel before ever touching the source unaided, she never developed the Sickness. However she attributes channeling to spells, charms and talisman, therefore her mastery of the power is limited to Adept.


Are you a reborn god?

Yes; the goddess, Atropos. In the Greek, Ατροπος, which means "She who cannot be turned."

The Moirai were three sister-goddesses of fate who personified the inescapable destiny of man whose individual lives were depicted as single threads in an overall web of destiny. It was these threads which the sisters could read, track and manipulate. They were among the oldest channelers to ever live, well over five-hundred years beyond their contemporaries, a magnitude which contributed to their fearsome legend and final depictions as ancient, wizened women. As such they were deemed Θεαι Αρχαιαι, or "Ancient goddesses."

The first was Klotho who spun (or predicted) the thread of a future life. She had the ability to foretell the birth of prominent figures of fate, be he man or deity. It was her which sourced the prophetic return of gods to the Atharim legend: and named one "Apollyon."

The second sister was Lakhesis. She measured the direction and length of an individual thread. Her foretelling was mixed with a pinch of fortune-telling. Her fortunes, when sought by mankind, could guide the course of that person's destiny, though she did not have the power to change or induce it. Yet all three of the sisters could distribute good and bad fortune to men and nations.

The final and eldest sister was Atropos, the goddess most associated with death, though she had no authority over it. She is most associated with a pair of scales, a sun-dial, or the cutting instrument by which it was said she ended the lives of men and gods in the cutting of their threads.

Together, the sisters' powers were independent of the will of the ruling gods. At the helm of necessity, they directed fate through sharp foretelling of the Pattern, and watched that the fate assigned to every being by eternal laws might take its course without obstruction. They were also revered as more than readers of destiny. They sat in attendance of the great Zeus in his very court. They directed the furia. They ordained heavenly marriages and witnessed the binding of eternal oaths. They blessed the birth of the new gods Apollo, Artemis, and Athena. Accounts describe their participation in the wars of the gods, titans, and giants.


Psychological description

Perhaps the best interpretation of her psychological description is depicted in the following quote from legend.

"There were men fighting in warlike harnesses, some defending their own town and parents from destruction, and others eager to sack it; many lay dead, but the greater number still strove and fought . . . and behind them the dusky Keres (Death-Spirits), gnashing their white fangs, lowering, grim, bloody, and unapproachable, the beasts struggled for those who were falling, for they all were longing to drink dark blood. So soon as they caught a man overthrown or falling newly wounded, one of them would clasp their great claws about him, and his soul would go to chilly Tartaros. And when they had satisfied their desire for human blood, they would cast the body behind them, and rush back again into the tumult and the fray.

The Moirai (Fates), Klotho and Lakhesis were over them and, finally, Atropos less tall than they, a goddess of no great frame, yet superior to the others and the eldest of them. And the Keres beasts all made a fierce fight over one poor wretch, glaring evilly at one another with furious eyes and fighting equally with claws and hands, the fates made no move to stop them, but rather watched on."


Physical description

Claire is small of stature, willowy as a reed, but unyielding to the storms of intimidation. She feels fear, yet defiantly forges on, fearing (and respecting) the finality of only death itself; though she is unsure if death is truly the end of all things.

She has pale skin and light-brown, dark blonde hair kept to an edgy, pixie style. She favors fashion and design, things of beauty and aesthetic and enjoys adorning herself in a personal style made of an array of the Boroughs' second-hand boutiques and designer sample-sales.



Biography

Claire was born into a long line of women gifted with extraordinary abilities: her mother, aunt, grandmother and great-grandmother, all the way back the long line of their family since before they immigrated from Poland after the first World War. Each one of them were touched with an inflection of the stars themselves. They were psychics; all of them.

And they were all frauds.

During the war, her family escaped to the highlands. Romani roots gave their wagons a quick speed, and the camps of their people hid them among wood and stone for the long dark season of war. They were gypsies, but less so of Hollywood's glamour and glitz and more filled with terror and starvation. Old grannie Babica, with her bright white hair brushed to a painfully bright sheen, her intricate earrings the sort to tangle a young child's fingers, nestled her captive great-child Claire close one afternoon. It was then that she relayed the full history of their family. Of the peace and prosperity they could bestow to a sad, gloomy world. Grannie Babica shared the stories of their past as they had been told by her grandmother. But the old and wizened frequently look to the past as they near the evening of their lives; perhaps the old lady really did believe she helped people. Maybe Claire did too.

It was Babica's daughter, Venetia which capitalized on Grannie's 'fortune telling.' The atmosphere of nineteen seventies America lent itself to a market desperate for meaning. The trinkets of her gypsy mother's fortune telling were transformed into heirlooms of profound meaning. The candles and prayers of her mother's religion were funneled into specific purposes. By 1980, Venetia's psychic shop had a long line of customers and clients.

Claire's mother, Mina joined the business in 1998, though she was raised in the shop's waiting room more than she was in the living room of their Brooklyn home. Mina had an eclectic gift for gab. Combined with an overwhelming interest in the magical realm, she was a natural.

Then it was Claire's turn. The fourth generation of fortune-tellers and psychics of the Novak women had a vivid imagination. Her mother always taught her to "listen to her inner voice," and embrace the center of this New Age. But Claire had something her mother didn't have: raw nerve. She embraced the Spiritualism religion: focus, meditation, communication and afterlife. She was a headstrong New Yorker, and in this city, its impossible to not find others who believe as you do.

It started as Claire's idea. Perhaps it was the shady atmosphere of her life, but more likely, she was drawn by a sense that the world hid something she could not quite grasp. She'd always had a knack for fortune telling. Old grannie Babica said Claire had the true gift, but the younger generation of Novak women would only smile and agree dismissively.

It was more than that. Claire was drawn to the things unseen she was certain was there, but her restless searching was attributed to the rebellious nonconformity of a teenager. While others tried to find acceptance in clubs and teams, Claire flit from one organized religion to another without satisfaction. Fearful she would turn to drugs, her mother fed this ravenous desire for knowledge to her daughter with whatever she could: the Hermetic Tarot held Claire's interest for a few months, paganism held the most promise until Claire one day ceased attending the circle which adopted her, and in despair she tried to live the life of an agnostic for an entire day.

That's when she met June, Deena, and Cameron; they came for a reading together. It was June, though who returned the next day, asking to buy Claire a cup of coffee. The rest was history.

At first Claire was sure their practices were innocent. After all, they went to yoga classes together. They swapped clothes as often as boyfriends. They celebrated New Years together. They love their annual pilgrimage to Atlantic City.

They were simply friends.

So what if they were a coven? Its not like they did anything illegal, technically.

Like all her other dabblings, Claire was open-minded at first. The coven started originally with June, the oldest, who met, and immediately identified with, Deena. Cameron was the third to join a year later, though Claire can sense that Cameron feels like an outsider, a third wheel even after finding Claire.

The answers Claire sought seemed to radiate from the mystic truths in witchcraft. She finally felt like a veil was uncovered, and while the answers to all her questions - about fate, destiny, life and death - they were still there, but she finally felt in control of her own fate. With the power to manipulate, to meditate, chant and read the signs, her fortunes became more precise, more tuned to the object occupying her attention.

They were little steps. Candles lighting and unlighting; the rational part of Claire's mind attributed the coincidence to being in a drafty house. Tissue lifting from the altar. Predicting the cards. The ringing of the bell when nobody was touching it. And so on.

It was their ritual Saturday night, hanging out in the shop until closing. At five till midnight, after Claire hadn't seen a client in two hours, she went ahead and told the girls to get things set up in back while she locked up the front.

She was thinking about the spell they were going to practice tonight. Levitation. If successful, the spell would be the most powerful Claire had ever cast, though June claimed to have been able to attempt it on her own in the past; Claire believed this claim: as the founder of their coven, it was clear June was the most powerful of the four witches. She eagerly plunged the bolts on the door at the front, locking it up, powered down their register, and hit the lights.

Finally, on the way out, she grabbed a pair of scissors from the front desk. To conduct the spell, the caster needed to snip a lock of hair from the one she were to levitate. Deena volunteered to have it done. Claire smiled softly to herself at that thought. Nobody would notice a few strands missing from Deena's long, luxurious hair, but Deena claimed she was going to get it all cut off anyway.

She wandered through the halls to the back where the reading room was going to be transformed to a safe circle, but no voices met her on the way. No sounds of setting up the altar. No scent of recently punk'd incense wafted through the halls; only the stale after smell still lingering from the shop's last client. As she came closer, Claire realized a bright light still glowed from around the frame of the door when candles should already be the sole source illumination.

Nervous, Claire moved the scissors to her other hand, touched the knob and gently pushed open the door.

The three girls were sprawled on the floor. Gunshot wounds bloodied their heads. They hadn't even started to set up the altar yet.

Claire panicked. She backed up and ran for the stairs when she ought to have run to their bodies, the phone, or out the front door. Instead, she ran to find her mom, who was asleep in the apartment above their shop.

She met a man walking out of her mother's bedroom. He was in a dark coat and wore a hat. His face and form were indiscernible by the shadows swathing the nighttime apartment. He held a gun.

He looked at Claire, startled. As though he hadn't expected to find her, then spoke in a gruff, but surprised voice: "I was told there were only three of you."

She knew exactly what to do. All she needed was the first word of the spell on her lips, and a river of fury, cold and merciless, gripped the killer's very bones, lifting him from his feet. He levitated, contorted into the shape of a stigmata by the spell continually uttered by Claire's lips, and her fists tightened. The edge of metal blades dug into her palm.

"My family's shop..." She said accusingly, then twisted the words of the incantation with sudden, sharp inflections. She snipped his vocal cords. The man gasped in soundless pain.

"My mother..." Claire took an empowered step forward, clenching the scissors, picturing Deena's bloodied hair. She repeated the incantation once more and snipped again, and his pants darkened an ominous streak. He struggled in his invisible bonds.

"My friends..." She stood beneath him now, peering up to meet his eyes. They were alight with pain, fright, fury, and defiance. Claire only felt the clarity of power in that moment. She held life and death in her hands; she spoke a final time and snipped again. His eyes bulged momentarily, then his head fell limply forward; neck severed from within.

She let him drop and stared at his broken, crumpled form, snarled with the venom of hate and grief, then turned to run to her mother's bedroom.

That's when the vision took her. She saw death. Not the hooded figure and not the demons of religion, but a man. He was cloaked with layers of identity such that she could not quite tell his exact appearance; yet she knew him nonetheless. She saw an eternity of power and darkness looming like a great schism before her. And she saw the future: the fate of mankind, solid and strong at first, then molded to a pack of dusty ash which blew away flake by flake until nothing remained. Death was on the Earth, and she knew where to find him.

An anonymous call summoned the police to the Brooklyn psychic shop the next morning, but by then everything was taken from her. Yet Claire was now transformed into someone with purpose. She knew the meaning in life was choked by the roots of death. She escaped the mourning of past, knowing her vengeance would only end with the gas chamber, compelled to look to the future. Grief came with her; baggage she could not discard or lose, yet one month later, she landed in Moscow.

Hi guys! ^ _^''

so like where are these rooge's holed up anyway?