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?

Continued from :The Heart is

Her apartment squarely in order and an afternoon still to pass, trying not to let the overwhelming feeling that her world had just spun completely on its axis overtake her, she decided that getting out was the only alternative. She would head back to the market, be amongst people, get what passed for "fresh" air in this part of the city.

Normally, she would have driven to the open aired market, but she didn't want to today. It wasn't so far that she couldn't walk and with her pistol at her side and new thoughts of ways to protect herself she had never imagined before spinning in her mind, passing through barely familiar territory didn't worry her much. She passed people occasionally, walking or sweeping their stoops, stopping at a convenience station for a cup of coffee, or rushing about whatever business pressed them, but she counted no more than 7 at any time, and as the walk progressed, the numbers dwindled.

Maybe the car would have been a good idea. She didn't remember the streets being this desolate the last time through, but the perspective of a driver was quite different than that of a pedestrian. This new block smelled of filth and ash, like too many snuffed out cigarettes.

She heard it before she recognized that the scent was attached to it. A girl screaming. Zoe? No, it wasn't Zoe, of that she could be sure, but the thought of her led her back to that threshold of sensation, and as she opened herself to it, she knew something was wrong. The charred smell was fresh, the scream was of an older girl, and there was a feral snarl that she had not heard before but now could pick out coming from the alley ahead.

The sight which greeted her eyes almost made her turn around and run. A girl, surely no more than 13 or 14, stood atop a dumpster weilding a broom handle at three men, clawing for her. The girls clothes were ratty and one man's shirt seemed to be burning on the shoulder, though he, strangely, seemed to take little notice. The man in the center suddenly kicked the burning man away, then used his spot to try to scramble on top of the lid himself, earning him a sharp rap upon the head from the girl.

Something about these men felt wrong. It was as though their mental faculties weren't working properly. They were all turned away from her, but their postures were all wrong and not one of them seemed bright enough to use the box right across the alley to get up to the girl. The girl herself, blonde hair matted into long dread locks and wild looking brown eyes focused on keeping the men-things at bay, looked ill herself, as though she hadn't had a decent meal or a good night's sleep in a while.

Then, as the center man's arms finally gained purchase on the girl's ankle, it happened. A streak of fire coursed from the girl's hand, down the broom handle and set the man's hair alight. Finally, this sparked Nadia into action. She hardly knew what she was doing when she felt that savage burning within her again leap out as she dashed into the alley, and a wide disc of blue fire hit the final man, sending all three darting back a few steps to see their new aggressor. Nadia didn't have time to spare a glance at the girl as she created a strong current, like the wind, to toss the men into a heap in the corner.

Ignoring the blaze, snarling like a wild beast, they regained their feet and lunged again, this time at Nadia. For the first time, she could see that there truly was something very wrong in their eyes. They shone with the light of a carnivore swooping in on their prey, with a hunger and determination. She felt no sympathy for these men. She remembered the terror she had felt at the rape which had brought about Zoe's life. These men must have been here to do the same to this poor girl. In her mind, she imagined a wall of air, trapping the men where they stood, and sure enough, the tendrils again danced out of her mind and the men froze in place, hammering into an invisible wall, almost like glass, but as solid as rock.

For the first time, Nadia noticed that the girl had come to stand behind her. She had to focus on keeping that wall up, but it was time to end this. The flames might kill them, but they were taking too long. Reaching into her coat, she pulled out her gun, aimed, and fired at the men, three short reports echoing down the alley, then all was quiet again aside from the sound of the flames slowly licking away at the now corpses.

A shiver ran through her and she rubbed at her forehead. What had she done? What had to be done. She wished that she could fully believe that. "Does anyone live in that building?
she asked, pointing to the one on the left of the alley. It appeared to be nothing but an old warehouse, and most of the windows were already busted out. The girl shook her head, and that was the only permission Nadia needed to find a crack in the outer wall, and imagine putting pressure on it, so much pressure that the bricks split and the corner of it nearest the bodies collapsed.

Finally, she let go of that light that she felt inside. "We should go."
As the girl nodded, though, she collapsed. Nadia scooped her up onto her back, tying her long scarf around the both of them for extra support, and headed back towards her home. Maybe once the girl's shock was over and she had had a good meal, she could tell her more about what the hell had happened out there.

Having seen little movement forward in his case in the courtroom on his first day in Moscow, Jon took his place in the lecture hall.

"So Mr. Little Bird. You argue that progress of legal Prudence cannot happen in the circumstances currently having arisen in the CCD?" The moderator spoke.

"That is the case," Jon replied. "Here-as my current legal suit has made certain - there exists a relationship between The Executive power and the judiciary that is inherently imbalanced. The court clearly has no power to compel the Ascendancy, and this can mean only that a de facto dictatorship Relationship exists here."

"The Ascendancy was elected democratically" shouted his opponent.
"But it is not the means but the result," Jon replied. "If one man is not held to the rule of law, the rule breaks down and is no longer of any significance. And it becomes a pathway to tournament in which he can sent the rights of others by being beyond reproach."

"But the peace and prosperity brought by him!"

Jon cut his opponent off. "These things are worthless when bought by a dictator. They are gifts, not rights, that can be withdrawn at whom. A benevolent monarchy might be ideal for a time. Who would not want a single individual to rule for the interests of all? But when that the wise monarch passes the kingdom is in peril as the heirs try to grasp into power.

"This sort of representation is doomed from the start. I don't claim the Minutemen aren't a bit nuts in their belief they need to prepare for invasion and vocally oppose any threat. But if they can be made a target by the actions of one person and that person is above reproach from law, then you have no law. Only the inclinations of it's single individual. That is not freedom but oppression.

"Under such a system, every benefit you have you have not earned nor are entitled to. They are merely given and can be taken away at a whim. That is not rule of law."

The Academics clapped. Well, they were no matter. The Camera Filming this Mattered.

Tomorrow it was back to the Kremlin. A response would come. If it didn't, he would just keeping flogging the Horse of public opinion.

(edited 8-12 for formatting purposes, removing typos, miscapitalizations etc. resulting from posting via mobile phone)
Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 13 2013, 01:52 AM.

Finally, Nadia had a day to herself. She was off of work for the day while her office was being sprayed for pests, Zoe was off to school, and the little apartment in Bazhenov Square was all hers. She stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, peaking out the 4th story window to see the young children, too young for school, playing in the park. Filevskiy, she had been told it was called. She wondered if her parents had taken her to the park before they moved off... maybe even the same one.

An errant thought, and one not worth troubling herself over. Dishes now complete, she set about the work of trying to make their little house a home. Curtains were raised over the window behind the couch, a painting hung near the TV. Boxes containing books were broken down and discarded as their contents were loaded onto a shelf. The desk, Nadia's tablet laying across it as it charged, received a gift of a small plant in a decorative pot.

In the bedroom she shared with Zoe, a painting someone had done of the two of them hung. It was interpretive and didn't resemble them perfectly, but the way in which the artist had captured the love between mother and daughter had always stood out to them both.

Soon, though, she found that 500 sq feet of space didn't require much decorating and, finished, she dropped onto the couch to contemplate her afternoon. She thought maybe she would go down to the park and watch the children play while catching up on the news on her tablet. That led her to thoughts of how Zoe's day was going...

Her conscious mind drifted away, following the thoughts of the dark headed girl now cloistered safely in a class room. Again, she felt as if the world around her grew a little more clear, a little sharper, and she let herself be led as she reached for something... almost a light, but not quite. What was this? Suddenly, she felt like the strength of a mighty river was flowing through her veins. She gasped, but held onto this feeling of new power, not trying to subdue it, just trying to ride on the current...

She remembered feeling this a time or two before. She had heard whispers, read conspiracy theorist reports, even one that suggested that the Ascendancy himself had some special power, but she had always brushed it off as falsehoods. Power was what power was, whether political or electrical, and it wasn't something that came from within, like this seemed to be.

Hesitantly, she fumbled around with thoughts. What could she do with this? Well, some tea would be nice. Without knowing how she did it, she directed a cup to visit the faucet and water poured down into it. She pushed down her fear and confusion, allowing a tea bag to join the saucer and slowly, wobblingly, the whole contraption moved towards her before dropping indelicately upon the coffee table before her. She could almost feel tendrils or something reaching out around her, manipulating the cup, the spoon, the tea bag. The tendrils felt like the wind, gentle enough to guide something delicately, but strong enough to blow down the apartment complex were she to let it loose.

The water, she felt like she could almost command herself. It was its own mighty force, sitting delicately in the cup now, but she could sense the potential energy within it, enough to drive currents thousands of miles over the ocean's surface or sweep over continents in a tsunami, all contained within her tea cup.

It's cold. How do you fix cold? Moving the water fast enough may do it on its own, but she would have needed a bigger container. Perhaps... she stopped thinking about it so much and just let her mind go, and suddenly as though the power burned, a new feeling erupted from her, a tendril more lively even than the wind, and coming with a sense of destruction she hardly sensed before. In moments, the water was boiling in the tiny cup and she quickly worked to quell that before she accidentally set the building alight. Why am I so calm about all of this?

She shook her head violently and the world returned to normal. She sat on her sofa, dipped the tea bag into her cup, and contemplated the reality of a world she had denied for too long... and wondered what other things she had denied that might be true.

Michael had not expected that he would be made to return to the Undercity quite so soon.

The dank claustrophobic tunnels rubbed his nerves raw and the smell made his nose itch. He would have done without the heightened senses that holding the power brought, but his memories of this forsaken place were not exactly pleasant.

He had already fended off two prostitutes who had offered their services for his indigo coat. Even if it wasn't freezing and the coat meant nothing to him he still wouldn't have taken them up on their offer. Like as not he would catch something deadly, and he already had enough people trying to kill him without adding whores to the list.

He had been offered the usual range of drugs as well. He had never been interested in them - he barely drank as it was - but with the power he held the prospect seemed laughable.

What could be more potent, more addicting than the rush of the power singing through his veins? It was so very dangerous, but he was learning - like the young learning how much alcohol they could take without falling over. Except, it would be death if he stumbled with this drug, and he had no intention of falling.

He arrived at his destination, a rusted door with one of those knobs he used to see in the movies. The ones that you had to spin like a wheel to open.

He approached and gave the door a soft knock, which reverberated around the damn tunnel like he had kicked the door in. After much mumbling and cursing, the door squealed and opened, revealing a young woman in a mini-skirt and bra. She looked him up and down with a deliberately seductive gaze.

"I'm afraid I'm not working at the moment. Come back tonight, though, and I'll give you a discount."

She made to shut the door but Michael stopped it in a vice-grip, his rage cold and controlled.

"I am not here for business. I am here to talk,"
he said in a cold voice. "About Katalina Soloyov."


The woman's face drained of colour and she backed herself into the far wall. It was a small room, perhaps as big as two prison cells. She had little more than a bed and a collection of trinkets which had no value aside from the sentimental.

"K-Kat? I don't know anything about that! She just disappeared, I swear." It seemed that murdering one's neighbours was a common accusation around these parts. Michael could not remember much beyond his training in the Undercity. It was all cared about at the time.

"Tell me what you know,"
he said, not taking his eyes from hers.

"Like I said... I don't know much. She just disappeared."

"And you heard nothing? You saw nothing?"


"I was working..." she took a breath, wringing her hands.

"Do not lie to me,"
he said, regretting how it made her wince even as it happened. "Katalina may still be alive. If you hide anything from me, I will kill you."


Simple words, so simple, yet they tore at his heart. He would not relent though. He would not see an innocent woman dead because some whore was afraid he would call the Custody of Defence.

The woman sat down on the bed with an audible sigh. "I...I only saw shadows... I heard something like screaming... I'm not sure. I was high...It could have been a bad trip."

"What did you see in the shadows? Did you hear anything said?"
he pressed.

"Shapes...people. You know, the usual. I don't remember words. Just screaming. Terrible screaming." The woman shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Is there anyone who would want to attack Katalina?"


The woman laughed although she looked like she was about to cry. "This is the Undercity. Half of the place would jump at the chance to get a hold of a pretty girl like her, but nobody had tried for a long time. The last idiot who did got his cock cut in half."

"So she was not defenceless?"


"Are you an idiot? Any young girl around here needs to learn to defend herself or she ends up in a whorehouse worked like a slave."

Michael mused on what Tony had said. "What about strange tales? Unusual occurrences - even for the Undercity
," he scanned her face for any reaction as he spoke. "Ghosts, demons, monsters, cannibals."


There. He saw the hint of fear in her eye at the last one. "Cannibals, then. Tell me, what do they say about people eating human flesh?"


She was reluctant, but he held her gaze until she answered. "Stories... Rumours. Rapes, disappearances. They say that one woman had a chunk of her arm eaten while she was raped. All kinds of tales, none of them are ever true though." She didn't seem convinced.

"Where do these things happen, anywhere specific?"


She shook her head. "Happens all over the Undercity, it doesn't matter where you go, you will hear strange tales. People vanish in the middle of the night without a trace, that kind of shit."

Taken in the night. Alone.

Michael walked out of the room, and turned before he closed the door. "Thank you for your help, I shall remember it."


He didn't wait for a reply. He strode down the tunnel, the power raging through him. Tonight, he would be taking stroll, it seemed.

Jon stode the steps to the Kremlin. In the back of his mind he felt his knees tremble as he ascended the marble steps, almost an urging for him to back away. What was he doing, entering such a seat of power to challenge their rule with no real plan to speak of? Something emboldened him. Perhaps it was the brazen face he'd shown to Nolan Trace during their interview. Or perhaps it was the spirit walk he'd taken the night before, while his plane was still coasting toward its destination, and the...things...that had happened there. No matter.

He still wasn't sure what had struck a chord with him that had pushed him to represent the Minutemen. Perhaps it was just the challenge of seeing if he could do it. On the other hand, it rubbed him the wrong way for anyone to be pushed around by a greater power. People should be dealt with on equal terms. If all were not equal under the law, then what good was the law?

He walked into the central rotunda and after a few questions was quickly directed to the clerk of the Supreme Court of the CCD. It still retained the same chambers of the old court of Russia many  years ago, and like then, the chambers were improminent, as if court was an afterthought. Courts should never be an afterthought, Jon said to himself. The law should apply to everyone.

Jon found the clerk and smiled to her. “May I help you?” she asked with a thick accent that spoke of northern regions, possibly Siberia. It was interesting she'd addressed Jon in English, though, it was certainly making an effort on her part.

Jon didn't let his appreciation show. He dropped a stack of paper on her desk. “I have heard the Supreme Court is in session,” he said. The woman nodded, gathering the papers he'd unceremoniously dumped upon her. “I am filing an injunction against the CCD on behalf of the Minutemen for the actions taken to limit transfers of funds due to their designation as a terrorist organization. The Supreme Court is in session, you've said?” The woman nodded again, clearly confused and perhaps a bit intimidated. Jon noticed this and used it to his benefit: “Please file those. I will present my case before them in five minutes. Please notify them.”

No kidding, five minutes later Jon was facing three Justices of the Supreme Court of the CCD. He could tell they weren't amused.

The one on the right spoke, a gray-headed man with very white teeth: “You think you can just barge in here and get a hearing granted?” he asked. “Who do you think you are?”

Of course, Jon had just done that exact same thing. “The Supreme Court is the primary court in matters of national security and international relations,” he responded. “Both of these criteria are met by the actions taken by the CCD against my client. This establishes this court's jurisdiction. As to my abrupt demand for a hearing, quod est necessarium est licitum. That which is necessary is legal. Time is running out for my client, and it is upon the shoulders of the court to hear me out and rule accordingly.”

“Very well...um, who are you?”

Jon smiled. “I am the plantiff ad litem for the Minutemen organization seeking an injunction against the designation of the use of “terrorist group” as a means to classify the organization, its members, in all avenues of daily life under domain controlled by the CCD, including but not exclusive to travel, surveillance and financial transactions.”

The woman sitting in the center cocked an eyebrow. “ Are you even recognized to practice law here ? Plantiff ad litem? What court appointed you representative of the organization?”

Jon smiled. “Why, you did. Or will, right now. It is not lawful or right to take actions against any person or group without affording or allowing that person or group an opportunity to contest the status, excluding wartime relations, of course – of which these do not apply here. Therefore the court cannot infer a legal status such as terrorist group upon any individual or group unless that individual or group has been afforded appropriate legal representation.  I am the person chosen for said legal representation.”

He felt so smug. While careful not to get to heady of the feeling, he still relished it : “Ergo, the court is in a position where it may either appoint me as plaintiff ad litem to the party and recognize my right to bring this suit against the  CCD or it can deny representation and thus legally negate the CCD's declaration of my client's status.” not that it would mean anything other than really, really bad PR if they would choose to do so.

The female judge in the center sighed. “Very well. The Court recognizes you as plaintiff ad litem in the matter of...Minutemen v. Dominion...” It was clear she was not used to listing the CCD as a defendant. “It would please the Court for the Plaintiff to state its argument.”

This had gone better than Jon had planned. He had hoped to at least create an attraction, but at the moment he was dealing serious blows. Court reporters were taking notice.

Interview with Little Bird
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

The interview with Little Bird went very well. He's every bit as intelligent as you'd expect from someone who got a law degree from Yale in a year. We'll definitely be following up with him over the next couple weeks to see how his efforts are panning out in Moscow.

Interview with Little Bird Coming Up
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

It's been a hectic week. Dayton's gone up in flames and the President's just got caught up in a nasty scandal--see this nation burn in hell before letting it join the CCD? Hey, I like the dedication but he could have phrased it a lot better. Not looking good for re-election. Anyways, I've gotten a request from Jon Little Bird for an online interview while he's in Moscow representing the Minutemen in a debate on CCD law.

Most of you are probably scratching your heads right now and wanting to ask me, "Mr. Trace, who in God's name is Jon Little Bird?" Those of you living within a hundred miles of an Indian reservation probably already know him well--love him or hate him. The fact is, he's famous for standing up for the little guy. And you can't get much littler than the Native American minority in this country.

Jon Little Bird graduated Yale law in a year, with the highest honor they've ever bestowed. He's been the Council for Native Americans' number one legal attack dog whenever their treaties with the U.S. are breached, and from what I can see he has won almost every case he's taken on. Even ignoring his performance at Yale, when you consider how often the concerns of Amerindians get sidelined in this country that's a very impressive record. And he's going to the heart of the CCD to debate the Minutemen's status as a terrorist group.

Of course, the opinion of the judiciary system in the CCD matters about as much to their executive branch as the opinion of Piers Morgan--when is he going to retire?--does to ours here. But according to Little Bird, if you convince enough of the people that Ascendancy's acting out of line, he'll have to revoke the status in order to save face. 

I've made my opinion on the matter of the Minutemen being considered a terrorist group known in the past. It's ridiculous that what is essentially a cluster of activists has been labelled terrorists. It's a clear ploy by the CCD to crush dissenting opinions. Little Bird asked me to interview him in order to give the plight of the Minutemen greater exposure on the world stage. How could I refuse?

<small>Editor's note: The interview is scheduled for tomorrow at 12 PM EST</small>

<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>

Nikolai sat at a spacious, historical desk.  It was a relic of the Russian regime, one of many pieces the Ascendancy chose to preserve during the capital’s evolution over the last twenty-five years.  Centered in the heart of his government, and positioned in the center of this very room, it, along with every inch of the space around him, was designed to dwarf and belittle those who dared approach. 

It was from this room he held conferences with equivalent offices around the world; equivalent in name-only.  From this exact vantage, heads of state met the eyes of the man who forged the greatest empire in history.  And shuddered. 

As soon as his current call ended, he leaned back thoughtfully.  His posture had been tall and militant before.  Now, his state relaxed since he was no longer being broadcast to Washington DC.  Theirs was meant to be a private conversation: a secure, live call between himself and the President of the United States. 

However, Nikolai immediately flicked his thoughtful gaze to one of the men standing opposite.  To one of several who had been off-camera, he signaled with a firm nod.  The young man was suited, the Ascendancy maintained a mandatory dress-code for those in his perimeter, but he was clearly uncomfortable in the high-profile company.  But as this engineer was one of the best, which was why he was recruited to the greatest office in the world to begin with, the Ascendancy could forgive the idiosyncrasies of a scientist. 

The man nodded, scratched at his hair nervously then turned to begin directing line after line of code into a glass projected panel on the wall.  At his direction, the security connection in their broadcast system momentarily weakened.  Then he confirmed the presence of no less than a dozen hackers within a few seconds.  Just long enough for any one of them to download and rebroadcast what should have been a secure video transmission between himself and President Dawson.  Another signal, and moments later, the appropriate firewalls were reinstated. 

“Done sir.” 

The video was leaked.

”Thank you.  That will be all, Carl.”  Nikolai waved his Press Attendant and Media Privilege to the desk.  Carl gathered his things and left. 

***


"Mister President, our intelligence sources the Minutemen as the terrorists responsible for this accident as seeking to blight my arrival to Dayton--undermining the entire Summit." Nikolai had claimed, sitting straight and true, hands folded against the edge of his desk, only a few minutes ago. 

"Of course you would say that, Brandon," the President spit, foregoing the honorific use the Ascendancy’s title.  By now, both powers were aware the Dayton Disaster was no mere accident.  The party responsible was still a matter of debate.

Nikolai opened his palms briefly and in doing so demonstrated his desire to maintain their dialogue, "How many more of these reactors, these untested technologies will you inflict upon your own people before you see reason, Frederick?"

The President narrowed his gaze, offended and disgusted by the logic any common man could abide. 

Nikolai continued calmly, "I am submitting my proposal for USA-to-Custody annexation to your House of Representatives once more.  The American people deserve the chance to think for themselves, rather than you holding them hostage.  As it once was, in the time of the Founding Fathers, New York City will a capital again.  This time of the newly established Dominance VIII.  To maintain democratic culture, the DVIII Patron will be nominated by popular vote.  And--"

The President could take no more of this.  He slammed his palms upon his own desk in the Oval Office and stood, leaning into the camera, voice thin and cold.  "How dare you speak of our Founding Fathers.  I would let the entire nation burn in hell, every child ripped from their mother's arms, and every carcass left to rot in the fields before betraying the noble sacrifice of their great Revolution.  This conversation is over."  The screen went black.  Nikolai remained calm while facing the temper of his greatest enemy.

Then he signaled the uncomfortable engineer...


***

It was a political move of course.  Back and forth on a dangerous chess board they played. 

Nikolai anticipated President Dawsons reaction to their conversation, and he anticipated the media’s reaction to the video as soon as hackers generated a sell to the highest bidder.  It would soon spread worldwide, if it hadn’t already.  That video, of the President of the United States behaving as a schoolboy outraged at the patience of his taskmaster, would undermine the rest of the man’s questionable authority, but it was the cold-blooded admission which would execute his Administration: he would rather see the flesh of his country rot from its bones than give up his power. 

Congressional members of the same party up for reelection would distance themselves, financial backers would go dark, and dissent would mildew the White House walls.  As an incumbent going into election season, Dawson likely hammered himself into his own coffin behaving as he had.  Using the choice words he had; and the media only cared about headlines, not context...  You reap what you sow, Nikolai recalled his father’s dying schema with a faint smile.

Which meant it was now time to collect the President’s future competition.

Nikolai turned to his Press Attendant, ”Now. Get Nolan Trace here.” 

“Yes, Ascendancy.”

As the two men departed, Nikolai reluctantly released the fury of life he’d wielded during the taping.  He often reached for it when dealing with the public.  His senses were sharpest, his mind quickest when centered so.  It cast his expression with the edge of an unseen aura and many a man avoided meeting his gaze when he was so clad with power: Mister Trace included -- who turned aside and rubbed his temple.  Weak and predictable.

Yet ever since that ill-fated interview, a shard of doubt worked at the edge of Nikolai’s impenetrable consciousness.  A splinter which dug in a little more deeply every time he heard his own title.  He was an ascendant man; he was the god of prophecy; he was doing what was right.  The world needed him.

He rose, buttoning his suit coat.  ”Inform the State Office, he announced.  I’m going to the Facility.”  He left and a team of security agents fell in step alongside him. 

He must have been mistaken about Trace; about what he felt. 

Soon the man would be in Moscow.  Soon he would find out.