Michael sat on his bed, his legs crossed and arms limp, a familiar pose he adopted when he was troubled. It had saved his life, in more ways than one, the simple technique the Aboriginal's had taught him.

It was, of course, used by many throughout the world and he had known of it long before he had met the natives of Australia. However, they gave him the key to unlock it's true potential.

The fiery river of ice and molten Power flowed through him in torrents that threatened to scourge his very being. He wove all five powers in an endless cycle of repetition that he let dissipate before it formed. The exercise was not one he had been taught; it came naturally when he wished to sooth his tumultuous emotions.

The past few days had unhinged his self-control like nothing had before. It was as if a door inside his mind had been ripped from the wall and thrown into the wind, leaving him dangling on the edge of sanity.

It was very much like the struggle for the Power that welled up inside.

What was he becoming? A monster, like the ones who had killed Tony's niece? Was this 'Power' a drug that brought madness in exchange for power? Was it a disease?

Questions upon questions with no answers plagued Michael's restless soul.

He found himself spinning threads unconciously into patterns he had never seen nor did he know their use. He did not know, but it came to him as natural as the instinct to breathe. The patterns mesmerised him as they spun faster and faster in the air before him, so fast that his eyes could not keep track of the movements. Practice and familiarity guided him where his eyes could not and he felt the Power pulse in time with the beating of his heart, his emotions thrown into the raging river, lost forever.

Clarity followed in the wake of discarded trivialities. It was not a clarity that bore momentous discovery of some deep hidden answer to all of his problems, nor did it cure his confusion, but it did bring him peace for a time, and the ability to think without the pressures of reality.

He would be eternally grateful to Tony for his help, but he was glad that the man had begun to stand on his feet again. Soon, he could no longer rely on the limited knowledge the Russian man could give him. Soon, he would have to find what he searched for on his own.

First, the ones that hunted him. They knew who he was - what he was -, perhaps more than he knew himself. Yes. They would be the first he sought out, and they would tell him what he wanted to know if he had to melt all of the ice in Russia.

There was no anger in his thoughts, only grave resolution. He had to learn, and fast. If he did not, he had the feeling things could go very, very badly.

<big>Yuri Obrechennyy
</big>


Yuri's daddy always told him he wasn't going to live to see 25. 'Course, 25 had come and gone, so what did that fucker know? Working for the man, always coming home late – every night. Fucking drone. He was probably at work right now, punching numbers or whatever the hell he did. Still believing the man was going to ever work for him. And if he ever did come home, always mad at something Yuri had done. Like it was his fault he was a screw-up.

Yuri, why didn't you take out the trash like you told your momma you were going to?

Who gives two shits about that? It's boring. What's she going to do about it? She's too busy banging the neighbor when you're off at work, asshole. Bet you don't know that.

Yuri, you did what to the cat?

Its funnier without any hair on it. It's art. Fuck, don't you get it?

Yuri, are you high again?

Yeah, off your stash. Don't think I don't know what you do before you go to sleep. Nothing but a hypocrite, dad.

Yuri, you got kicked out of school again? After all we went through the last time to get you back in?

Nobody likes me there. So I had to beat the crap out of a couple of them. Not my fault.

Yuri, are you ever going to think about your future?

Yeah, fuck the future. And fuck you too, while you're at it.

Yeah, 20 and still taking up space in the crappy duplex on Arbat Street that was the best daddy could afford even after all those years of working. That was the kind of thing to cramp a dude's style, but why buy the roof over your head when you can get a bed for free? He lounged with one shoe off on the loveseat in the living room, flipping through the channels on the Net. Why weren't there any good tits on at this time of the evening? Telltale signs of his latest high ringed his cheeks and the bridge of his nose in flakes of gold. His buzz was wearing off, good thing there was another can of spray paint in his dresser drawer.

Yuri's parents were arguing in the kitchen. Whatever. He knew it was about him again, how he'd gotten “busted” throwing up a fresh tag. Damn pigs knew his artwork now, probably kept a file on it any time some new graffiti popped up. No one saw him do it. He was too quick for that. That was just who he was – what he was known for. No one could tag up an image of the Ascendancy like he could, nice goatee, spiky hair and a fat dick in his mouth.

Yuri's buzz cleared enough for him to catch a few of the words from the kitchen.

“--has to go back,” his father was saying.

His mom was sobbing. “We tried that before!”

That caught Yuri's attention. He looked up from his slouching position at the loveseat and turned his head toward the kitchen.

“He needs more help than we can give him. At least he'll be safe from himself and others at the Guardian.”

The Guardian? No, not that again. They'd pigeonhole him up in some room with nothing to do, dope him with drugs – bad drugs, one that didn't give him any rush, but just threw chains on his mind and willed his spirit away. The staff didn't give two shits about what went on there, either. There were some really fucked up people locked up in there, who did some pretty bad stuff.

Yuri leaped from the loveseat – he always was quite agile, able to land on his feet – and stormed into the kitchen to face down his parents. Yeah, he got right up in his dad's face, pushing the small graying man back against the kitchen counter.

“Don't you talk about me like I'm not here! You don't care about me at all, you fucker!”
he screamed.

Yuri staggered back. His cheek stung. His mind, clouded as it was by the paint he'd sniffed, took a moment to process the fact his father had struck him. That hadn't – ever – happened before.

“You are out of line, young man,” his father said, wide eyes locked on Yuri. “The consequences of your actions leave us no choice but to send you back to the Guardian.”

No. He rubbed his cheek. “You hit me, you asshole,”
he muttered. “I'm not going back and you can't make me!”


His mother stepped between the two men. “Yuri, Dimitri, calm down,” she said, voice quivering and tears in her eyes. “Son, it's because we love you and we won't watch you throw your life away!”

His father glanced at his wife. “You'll see it's for the best. Come on, we'll get your bags packed for you.”

Something gave way within Yuri's hazy mind. I will – not- go – back! He imagined a force field pushing anything and everything away from him in a rejection of his very existence.

There was a harsh clap in the kitchen, like the boom of a supersonic jet. The cabinets blew out, throwing splinters of wood and chips of ceramic crockery. His father was thrown against the refrigerator and smacked his head on the white vinyl, and his mother was struck in the gut by a flying cast-iron pan.

His father slumped to the ground, and blood trickled from a gash on his head. His mother doubled over and lay on the white tile, breath knocked from her lungs. Yuri stood at the center of it all, untouched.

Fuck, yeah. That was awesome.

Yuri turned to leave the kitchen, and caught his mother's tearful glance. He looked at his dad. The man was unconscious, but breathing steadily. “He'll live, ma,”
Yuri said. “I'll see you later.”


He left his mother there and went up the stairs to his bedroom. Grabbed his green cloth backpack and put some clothes in it. His cans of spray paint, and a couple of nudie mags too. Threw his leather jacket – a gift for his eighteenth birthday – across his shoulders. He went across the hallway to his parent's room. Grabbed his dad's stash from his top dresser drawer. Had probably about 50 grams of weed in there. Mom's jewelry box had some necklaces and bracelets that would be worth something, too.

Under the nightstand, yeah, there it was. His dad's other stash. A good amount of cash the man had managed to sock away from the eyes of his spend-free wife. That'd buy him some good drugs. And a nice piece as well, a chrome-plated Walther PPK with a couple of mags. Could be dangerous being out in the undercity. Nobody would fuck with him if he had that piece.

He shoved it all in his bag and jetted out the front door. Grabbed his skateboard on the way out. His mother was still lying on the tile floor in the kitchen.

<big>"We've lost Dayton."</big>



Editorial

<small>The Washington Post/Martin Lowe</small>



Electricity – produced from fossil, nuclear or renewable resources – is the backbone of a prosperous society. As electricity use increases, so does gross domestic product, a fundamental measure of economic health and prosperity. That is why America is building new power plants on a massive scale to ensure that there is sufficient electricity to encourage economic growth for the foreseeable future.

Critical reaction has already surfaced, saying the US nuclear industry has become completely profit driven &amp; subject to poor regulatory supervision, factors which led to complacency. With the coming online of the recent plants in Georgia and Dayton, nuclear energy now constitutes 30% of the US power supply, with quickly diminishing coal reserves providing another 20%, and CCD sourced natural gas at 50%. In the next ten years, however, completion of additional nuclear plants across the country are estimated to overtake dependence on CCD fueled energy -- decreasing the need of import to a mere 20%. That future is now in jeopardy.

For most of the last century, US electrical grids were a symbol of progress. The inexpensive, abundant power they brought changed the way the world worked–filling homes, streets, businesses, towns and cities with energy.

But today's antique electrical grids reflect a time when energy was cheap, their impact on the natural environment wasn't a priority, and consumers weren't even part of the equation.

Consider what we are facing today: with this latest disaster, Congressional committees are evaluating the future of nuclear energy in America. Between the unanticipated pace of the accident, complete destruction of all containment sources, and technologically advanced high-power density of modern reactors, thousands have died, more are seeking treatment for radiation poisoning, and the state has essentially been lost.

The nuclear power initiative implemented in the 2020's guaranteed safety, but no technology provides no test-runs. The nature of the accident itself still puzzles scientists. Analyst Kevin Bressen went on to explain the characteristics of a reactor meltdown:

"The fuel rods are long uranium rods clad in a [zirconium alloy casing]. They're held in a cylindrical-shaped array. And the LiquiGel molten salt coolant covers all of that. In power plants of the last century, the coolant was pure water which when descended below the level of the fuel, then the temperature starts going up and the cladding bursts, releasing a lot of fission products. And eventually the core just starts slumping and melting. However the nature of the LiquiGel is such that evaporation from boiling is impossible short of temperatures sustained in the sun's core. As the coolant systems remained operational, therefore, overheating of the fuel rods was not triggered by a loss of coolant activity. What then did? Then the pressure vessels failed and overheated fuel burned through the interior steel chambers. Once containment was compromised, we had a worst-case scenario on our hands."

What is the exchange rate between the CCD dollar and a human life? Even if such a horrific scale could be written, it is better to maintain the integrity of our land even if we submerse ourselves beneath the home of another banner. For what is freedom if we perish walking from sea to shining sea?


Comments are: OPEN


<small>((Post comments as replies to this thread. Include a name or as anonymous, date and time zone of the commenter.))</small>

"The Scroll" refers to a website and app commonly used by PC's of 2045.

It is a "clog" - one of several which have come into popularity the last decade. Essentially it is an aggregate of articles, opinion pieces, and blog posts from writers around the world which can be presented to PCs a number of different ways.

Primarily, 'The Scroll' reads like the ticker tape of the stock market, featuring headlines of new content which can be customized to the character's preferences. This scroll will embed in websites, Wallet homescreens, television channels, anything with a digital medium.

However the scroll can also be uploaded and used on any computer or Wallet as a tile grid with articles and links clustered by theme, topic, author, or a number of other preferences.

All posts on this board are meant to be articles written by NPCs or PCs and accessed via The Scroll. Anyone may post on this board, but if so, format the post as you would any other article, blogpost, or news story. Include the source that published it and the author's name. Provide an opportunity for other PCs/NPCs to comment in the replies.

This board differs from the Current Events forum. That forum functions as headlines from around the CCD which writers can use as jumping off points for plots. This board is strictly works published online, but may be discussing the events referenced in the Current Events forum.

For an example of how to format posts, please see Does Anyone Remember Shame - by Nicholas Trano

Regus,

As per your request for skilled Hunters, one of my best is flying to Moscow. As you well know, we don’t have the organized cells and hierarchies of our European cousins. I am sorry that it took this long to track him down.

I have taken the liberty of attaching a short dossier on the Hunter in question. I believe you already have his niece under your command.

Donec, qui aberrare non reuertisse.
-Father Woods

Seth Marx

DOB: 19970910
SSN: 023-87-3397
Ht: 1.78m Wt: 81 KG
Hair:: Black Eyes: Blue

Condensed Psych Profile:

Despite suffering from minor depression, Marx remains an effective hunter. He is, however, reluctant to work with other Hunters aside from his niece Runehilda Marx. When placed in subordinate roles, he has reportedly been a constant challenge for those set above him. This most likely stems from the less centralized nature of the American Atharim network and the culture of independence that it has fostered.

In speaking with the man, he has demonstrated a certain amount of sarcastic humor. However, he has also demonstrated a marked lack of ability to connect to other human beings on an emotional level. At first, this seemed to indicate signs of sociopathy. However upon further examination seems to simply be his manner of coping with his line of work.

One worrying development is the extent to which he enjoys the Hunt. Reports from other Hunters have accused him of toying with and causing unnecessary suffering to the creatures he is set upon. The validity of these reports has yet to be entirely confirmed.

Biography

Seth Marx was born in rural Oklahoma to James and Christine Marx in the year 1997. He had two older brothers (Jonathan, Michael) and his sister Violet would be born four years later. Our earliest records of Marx family service in the Atharim dates them to the late 1700’s. Michael Marx died of a brain tumor in 2008.

Being a resident of rural Oklahoma, Seth was trained from a young age in rudimentary firearms usage. Hunting trips in the countryside around his home were common. Being a member of one of the oldest Hunter families in the United States, he had the entire bestiary memorized before he had read his first novel.

Seth went on his first Hunt at age 15. It was a standard three man clean-out operation on a rougarou colony that had been kidnapping campers in western Arkansas. The hunt went bad, and his brother Jonathan Marx was fatally shot, although Seth and his father did complete the Hunt.

The rest of his early years were fairly standard, until his father was gutted by a harpy outside Paris, Texas in 2017. He tried to assume James Marx’s position as the head of the family, but his mother killed herself soon afterwards leaving only him and his seventeen-year-old sister.

Two years later in 2019, when it turned out that the Bigfoot sightings reported in Minnesota were actually a pack of oni, he jumped at the chance to leave Oklahoma behind. It took four years for him to put a significant dent in the population. However, right as he was making headway he was attacked in his cabin by an eight months pregnant Violet Marx. She had been possessed by a Wefuke spirit, and he was forced to kill her.

He was able to save the baby, cutting her from her mother's womb and naming her Runehilda Marx. He had initially planned to shield her from the Atharim, but when she began to suffer symptoms indicating she was Furia, the codes dictated that he train her as a Hunter. The pair left Minnesota in 2030, after Seth was reasonably sure the oni population had been destroyed.

Records are thin after that point, although there are records that they spent some time in Alabama. What we do know for sure is that he devoted the next fifteen years to molding Runehilda Marx into an effective hunter. Since her departure for Moscow, he has been working alone.

I thought I'd post the rules to the game Jon's offered to play with Oriena and Jaxen in the Kings of the Castle thread.

A little backstory: I was researching games of chance, odd card games, parlor games, etc. for something Jon might want to play with the two, and nothing really grabbed my attention. So I made up a game to play instead. I called it Numbers' Gambit. It has a chance element to it, a truth or dare element, all the things that make a great game, right?

Yeah, well what can you expect when I pulled it out of...uh, let's go with thin air. Anyway, it might actually be kind of fun to play as a drinking game or whatever, so I thought I'd publish the rules that are also equally pulled out of...thin air. Might be a fun icebreaker at your next party or something.



Numbers' Gambit
A game pulled out of thin air


Players: 3 (or more, as long as you can make the dice roll equally distributable among the players)

Equipment: Stack of blank index cards (or bar napkins, or whatever) and three pens. One six-sided die. Booze.

How to play:

Each player antes up a “forfeit.” The type of forfeits to be played for are to be determined beforehand. In the game Jon will be offering to Oriena and Jaxen, the forfeit is an agreement to submit an honest answer or make an action demanded of the winner. (Yes, a spin on truth or dare).

Each player takes an index card and writes down a number from 1 to 20. The player puts the card face down and doesn't show it to the other players.

One of the three players rolls a single die. The “shooter” moves to the player sitting to the right with each round.

If the die lands on a 1 or 2, the players give their card to the person sitting on the left. 3 or 4, the player passes the card to the right. 5 or 6 and the player keeps his or her card.

Players reveal their numbers. The highest number is the “winner” and the lowest is the “loser.” the player in the middle is the “judge.”

The winner may now collect his forfeit from the loser, who must comply. The Judge may be appealed to if the loser believes the demand is too over the top, inappropriate, etc. The judge may also be called upon by the winner to ensure the winner's forfeit is properly collected. Judge's decision is final.

Since it is likely that all players will find themselves in all roles at any given time, a player who behaves poorly in some rounds (as a winner, a loser or a judge) might find him or herself in a less forgiving position later on – this encourages proper gamesmanship.

TIES: ( haven't really worked out ties yet but this is a start)

Two-way tie for the loss: IF both players have a “1” they are both losers and must both submit to the winner In this case, there is no judge. The dual losers are screwed. Otherwise, both losers take a drink without a forfeit and the game continues.

Two-way tie for the win: IF both players have a “20” they must mutually agree on the forfeit to be demanded from the loser. Again, there is no judge in this position. Otherwise both “winners” take a drink without a forfeit and the game continues.

Three-way tie: All three players drink and the game continues to the next round.

This game can be modified to be played with more players and a die that allows for equal distribution of pips among the players. For instance, two six-sided dice can allow for 4 players, with 1-3 being pass the number to the left, 4-6 to the right, 6-9 across the table and 10-12 players keep their own number. You could also go D&amp;D and break out the D4, the D8, the D10...etc.

Anyway, have fun with it if you choose to. Maybe it'll catch on, but my feelings won't be hurt if it doesn't. I realize I put way too much thought into this.

JLB

Igor's looked as Igor's had always looked since the day his great grandfather had opened the doors. The crumbling red paint on the outside had always been crumbling, it was just much more so now. The beat up old door that squeaked when you walked in. Vlad never bothered to oil it. It was an easy fix, but it was part of the way it had always been. The red neon sign outside blinked Igor's was always on, no matter the time of day.

If you had never been to Igor's before and expected the inside to be the same as the outside you would be highly mistaken. The inside was luxurious. The walls were painted in faux marble. The chair rails and molding were all specially carved pieces of dark wood that looked like mahogany but were much cheaper. All the woodwork from floor to ceiling was polished nightly.

The floors were white tiles that were bleached nightly. The ceiling glittered with fake crystal chandeliers. Everything about the place was fake, but the no one seemed to care, it was in the Red Light district after all.

In the background Russian classical music played from the Might Handful. They were not Vlad's favorite, but it kept with the mood. If you wanted authentic Russian Cuisine this is where you came. Igor's probably could have moved uptown, and you could pay a high dollar for what they served, but here in the Red Light District, you could go unnoticed for many a thing. And Vlad liked it that way, as had his father and his father before him since the opening of Igor's.

Vlad hardly paid any attention to the front of the business. The restaurant pretty much ran itself. The day manager, Ivanna Pavelova scheduled everything and insured that the books were correct. Vlad should really think about paying her more, but that was something to think on later, today he had other things to deal with.

The office in which his father had died had become his. Vlad still remembered that day clearly in his mind. He tried to focus on the events that had happened but he couldn't place it.
Vlad was kicked back in the leather office chair with his feet kicked up on the desk in front of him. He was waiting for the boy to come in, he was late. Vlad flicked pulled the unlit cigar to his lips and lit the end with a mere thought. It was only seconds to the onlooker, but it was a long drawn out process for him. He had to grasp the power and call upon the elements and weave the fire onto his cigar. It had taken years to just learn that. But now it was natural - as easy as a piece of cake as they say.

The knock came and Vlad called out. "Voydite!" As his father before him, if you wanted to work here you had to speak Russian.

Character Name: Vladimir Igorovich Perov

Age: 32

Origin: Moscow

Occupation: Restaurant Owner (Igor's in the Red Light District)

Psychological description: To put it bluntly Vladimir is a son of a bitch. He's the guy who you avoid at work, the one that is always up in your face about something or another. He's a dedicated and brilliant but he lacks motivation, and he prefers to work alone. But he tries to put on the face of someone who is not. He rarely succeeds in covering his true nature.

Physical description: Vladimir is 5'11". You wouldn't know it by looking at him but he has numerous tattoo's depicting various things all over his body, but none can be seen while fully clothed.

Powers &amp; supernatural powers: The DarkOne's Own Luck (ie: Mat's luck)

Current strength level: 14

Potential strength level: 16

Channeler experience level: Expert

Are you a reborn god? Nope

Biography:

Vladimir was born in Moscow, raised in Moscow and never had any dreams of leaving Moscow. Born into the business his great-grandfather had started before the CCD even came into existence. Igor's was a hole in the wall in the Red Light district that served authentic Russian cuisine.

Vlad was a smart young man, he went away to University at Harvard when he was 16 years of age. Vlad studied Chemistry while there. He spent 3 years at Harvard, during the summer between his third and forth year, Vlad came home to visit the family and series of unfortunate events took place.

The trip home had been relatively uneventful for Vlad, not atypical of any flight overseas. His plane left at 6am and he landed at JFK airport on time at 7:17am. Vlad realized after he got to the airport he could have taken a later flight to JFK. If it weren't for airport security Vlad would have taken a look around as his next flight didn't take off until 2:20pm. He had several hours to wait. The took off on time, he hated the plane trip. It was no fun sitting in coach while they flew over the ocean, there wasn't even anything good to eat on the plan. Nine and a half hours on a plane was torture, it was one reason he tried not to go home too often. The trip was awful.

Vlad had to take a taxi back to his home to dump his stuff. A note on the table from his father, "Come by the restaurant." Vlad tore the note in half and threw it in the garbage bin on the way out. He hadn't even had time to take a shower. He knew better than to pretend he didn't see the note. Knowing his father he had cameras on the whole place and someone watching to make sure he did as instructed. Vlad grabbed his vintage motorcycle and headed for the Red Light District. The bike was much easier to secure inside than any of their precious cars he could have taken. But his father would be upset if any of them got a scratch. At least the bike was his.

Igor's looked as Igor's had always looked. The crumbling red paint on the outside. The beat up old door that squeaked when you walked in. The blinking sign that said Igor's was missing the R in neon. Vlad wondered if his father knew. Surely he wouldn't have let it slide. But he wasn't going to be the one to tell him.

But inside, was lavious. The walls were painted in faux marble. The chair rails and molding were all specially carved pieces of dark wood that looked like mahogany but were much cheaper. The floors were whiter than the anything Vlad had ever seen. They were bleached nightly. He had haded that job as a child. It smelled and your clothes would be stained forever if you got any on you. The ceiling glittered with fake crystal chandeliers. Everything about the place was fake, but the clientelle didn't care, it was in the Red Light district after all.

The place was hoping for the early morning hour. He hoped his father didn't expect him to have to work on his summer break. Vlad received a few courteous nods from some of the patrons. Others sneered at him. He could only wonder about their thoughts, probably thinking he was a foolish bastard for going off to The god forsaken America to study in god knows what alien technology. He laughed at the thought. It was always good to laugh, even if you got strange looks. He only smiled as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. His father was no where in sight. Vlad didn't expect him to be in the kitchen, his father was a horrible cook!

The kitchen was bustling with the chef telling the sous chef where to go and what to do. English might be the CCDs official language, but if you didn't understand and speak Russian you didn't work at Igor's, it was the plain simple fact. But if you intended to work tables, well English better be on that plate too. Vlad got a nod from the chef and waved him out of the way. The back of the kitchen lead to the freezer, the large pantry and my father's office.

Vlad's father was named after his father's father - Igor, just as Vlad had been named after his grandfather. It was tradition in the family, the first born son was named after the grandfather. It has been that for as long as anyone could remember. There was no sign on the door, it could have just been a supply closet for all anyone else knew. Vlad rapped three times on the door before his father called out, "Voydite!"

Vlad took a deep breath and grabbed the handle to the door and made his way into his father's influential office. On the outside it might look like a supply closet, but on the inside, much like the restaurant itself it was lavious. Decked out in real mahogany paneling, lush red velvet curtain's simulating a window, though Vlad knew a window did not exist there. The desk was made of mahogany as well with gold inlay for decoration and the handles were said to be pure gold, though Vlad doubted that extravagance. Vlad nodded to his father who was on the phone speaking Russian to someone Vlad probably didn't want to know.

Igor ignored his son for what felt like hours. Apparently the phone call was more important than his own son. Vlad's anger grew inside. He had come all this way back to the restaurant as his father had asked and he just let him stand there like he was some lackey.

By the time Igor had finished the phone call Vlad felt like his father should be able to see smoke coming from his ears. Igor didn't even look up at his son, he didn't say anything, clearly he had to see him standing there. But he never moved, never glanced at his son. Vlad reached a moment of pure anger and things went haywire. Igor started to pant and breathe heavily. Vlad stood and stared at his father, he could almost feel his father's heart giving way under his hand. It had to be his imagination.

It was only moments and his father slumped over in his chair. The life was gone in his eyes and Vlad hurried to the phone and tried to feel for a pulse all at the same time. Emergency crews came and Vlad told them what had happened, he had been stunned into silence, he couldn't move. They said it was shock. Vlad didn't believe it was.

His mother planned the funeral and they were all required to attend, but that morning Vlad woke up with the worst cold he had in his life. He shook like he was bathing in an ice bath, but his temperature was through the roof. Vlad could barely move but he managed to make it to the funeral and sat in the back row. He had to make an appearance, but he felt too bad and he left early with out a word and crashed in the car that would drive them all to the plot for burial. He couldn't even make it home if he wanted to.

Two days after he caught sick, Vlad was back to himself, he was up and around like nothing had ever happened. It was summer break, but instead Vlad started picking up the pieces of his father's business. It was now his. Vlad never returned to the United States to finish his degree, instead taking over his father's business.

Taking over his father's business hadn't been luck. But a month later luck was on Vlad's side. A woman was walking in the lobby of Igor's. She was prancing around in 6 inch black spike stilettos yelling on her cell phone. She was shouting in Russian and all of Igor's could hear the woman even though everyone tried not to. One of the staff was sweeping near by. Neither of them were watching what they were doing. Everything happened so fast. The next thing Vlad knew he was catching the woman as she fell. Everyone was amazed at the feat of heroics but it was nothing new to Vlad, strange things happened to him like that most of his life.

Vlad remembered one time as a child when a bully was about to beat him down but the moment before the boy was going to throw his punch a bigger bully came over behind the building ready to smoke before heading home. But the strangest and luckiest thing Vlad had happen as a boy was winning the lottery from a ticket he had picked up off the ground. It wasn't like they were poor and needed the money, but there it was staring him in the face a winning lotter ticket. His father promptly turned it in without a second though as to who the rightful winner was. No one ever turned up to say otherwise, so Vlad assumed they didn't even know they had lost it.

Vlad ended up marrying the woman he caught. They have a son who will be six this November.

Luck had to be on Vlad's side when he found the most impossible thing. It had been a rough couple of months getting his father's business under control. Vlad was yelling at some of the managers of various things in the business. The accounts were wrong, and someone had to own up to it or Vlad was going to have heads. In anger, Vlad saw a dim darkness, if there was any such thing. It called to him. He blinked but it was not there, but he felt it. A power, he grasped it and the moment he did he had to gasp for air. It was like he was drowning in the power. He fought for control, and when it obeyed his will he found one of his managers gasping for air before him. Vlad remembered the face, he had seen it on his father's the day he died. Vlad smiled and he thought about squeezing tighter and the man fell to his knees. The others just stared and watched as he gasped for breath. Vlad let go of whatever it was and the man fell to his hands and panted like the dog that he was. Vlad smiled at the others. They just stared at him and at the man on the floor. No one fessed up that day. But no one baked the books like that again.

At first Vlad could only touch the power when he was angry. Which he used to his advantage. He never killed again with the power he had, but he did use it to make his partners obey. It took Vlad years of practice to be able to freely call the power at will. He practiced everyday trying to do it while calm, but for the first several years that would make him angry. But the more he grasped the wonderful power, the easier it became and about 5 years after his first knowing attempt Vlad could call upon the power inside at will.


Edited by Vladimir, Aug 26 2014, 09:06 AM.

It had been so long since Tony had been outside in a crowd it nearly overwhelmed him. The stranglehold he had on the power was the only thing that stopped him from scurrying back between the cracks the lost and forsaken people of Moscow fell through, never to be seen again - alive at least.

The dark avenues and eyeless corners had been his home for so long that the 'normal' life made his back itch as slinking through the dangerous underground world would an honest citizen. There, life had been simple. He had power, and power was life. In the open - at least on the surface - the law and morality ruled the day and no amount of power could save him from the CCD hunting dogs.

Despite all of this, he felt alive. The events of the past few days had woken something in him that he had thought lost forever. A desire to achieve, to strive, to survive. A fragment of his old life amongst the elite of Moscow. Of course, he could never return to the spotlight, but there was something he could do. Jaxen had reminded him of that.

So he walked along the streets of Moscow, drinking in the bustling life of street side shopping. The massive coat he wore was a bit too small around the waist - he had to borrow it from Michael since he had no decent clothing to wear out.

With a faint smile that had not faded since he had awoken, Tony spotted the National Bank of Moscow's dreadfully dour eastern branch. Two armed security guards eyed him as he strode through the reinforced sliding glass doors.

The interior of the bank was nondescript. Professional and austere reflecting the pompous self-importance he had seen so often in the high echelons of CCD society. He smiled at the tidy middle aged woman behind the bars of the help desk. She frowned at him, taking in his somewhat less-than-perfect appearance.

"Good morning, a pleasant day,
" he said with some of his old flare re-ignited. She didn't smile - that was disappointing. His skills had grown rusty over the years, and he wasn't the charming rich kid he had been.

Oh well.

"I would like to make a withdrawal,"
he dropped the smile and got down to business. Was it the world that had darkened with him, or was he jaded from years of despair?

The woman pursed her thin lips, the lines of her frown pronounced with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Tony had tried with his own hair this morning - it was thick and long, he hadn't had it cut in years - but it felt like someone was pulling it out of his skull. Perhaps the woman simply liked pain - at least she was in the right profession.

"Sir, the National Bank of Moscow is reserved for the most privil-"

Tony cut her off, weaving a small trick to making his presence dominate the room. Not threatening - he did not want to alert the guards - just dominant. "I know where I am, my sight is not so bad."
he said through clenched teeth. He found he did not have the patience to charm these bastards as he once did. "If you would allow me to speak, I would offer you my credentials."


The woman shut her mouth with a satisfying audible clicking of teeth. She looked at him differently - perhaps he was a rich kid come off a drinking binge.

Which was almost the truth.

Tony pulled out the card from his pocket. It had the name Martin Gorbcheisky embedded in it. He couldn't use his family's name, but back in the early days he had been smart enough to siphon some of the wealth into a fake account with the help of some officials he had befriended once upon a time. He handed the card to the woman who took it with a perturbed expression.

"How much would you like today, Mr. Gorbcheisky?" she said after a moment at the computer. The respect was an addition that only served to piss him off further.

"Twenty thousand CCD,"
he replied in a flat tone.

***

Two hours later Tony adjusted the cuffs of his new jacket, a fine piece of tailoring. It was unlike the silky smooth suits of his youth. The black coat was stiff and precise with gold threaded through with fluid accuracy. His family had a crest - the crown of the Tzar's, a foolish attempt at grandiose. He did not use it, but give them the right amount of money, the tailors could work as fast as lightning.

He had created a new crest. Simple, stark and bold. The golden threads wove a pattern of rebirth, fire and passion. The Phoenix was the symbol of the new Tony risen from the ashes of the old Tony Soloyov. Hardened by pain and death, he was made anew, and nothing would stop him from pursuing his goal.


Edited by Tony Soloyov, Sep 3 2013, 07:52 AM.

Spectra's gown was more carefully layered strips of cloth than an actual dress so that every step, bend, and movement she made seemed to come dangerously close to unraveling the whole thing. Although that was exactly the point.

Green orbs pale as frosted glass shone with all the mirth swirling around her. All other eyes, duller and blander, but filled with envy followed her breathtaking journey through the club. Heavy lashes defined their perfect symmetry and were two sparkling jewels perched atop the line of her cheekbones. The electric light of Manifesto struck and sparkled the copper of her skin and bounced blue from the seeming black night of her hair which was twisted to one side and cascading romantic curls down the front of her shoulder.

Outside this world, she was the supermodel sprawled across building ads blinking seduction and controversy in the effort to sell perfume, lingerie, lipstick, anything worthy of her face.

In here, she was a spider surveying the tunnels of her world, roaming and waiting for which fly was brave enough to come close. For the time, Spectra deigned to waft from the cacophony of the main club venue toward the private, luxurious lounges off Block One.

Where, as soon as she was shown in, she was met by the faces of modern day Lords garbed in an array of traditional white thawb, tunics, and long headdresses. She smiled gloriously at the reception and was welcomed with opened arms.