Thalia Averill Milton

Born to privileged parents in DVII some twenty-four years ago.

Her mother often declared she had been born facing backwards; that she was more concerned with antiquity than the brightness of the future. Such an odd child. Thalia remembers those words like a punctuation mark throughout her childhood, but with a faintly nostalgic pleasantness rather than dismay. An odd child indeed, but perhaps only by virtue of her context.

Thalia was not stupid, but she was not a focussed child either; much to the chagrin of parents who valued a tight regimen of schooling, were both successful in their respective fields, and had already been blessed with older daughter, Aylin. Perfect Aylin. Oddly enough, despite their very polar differences, Thalia adored her older sister; her quiet diligence, her precision and care. Her cleverness.

Thalia liked to draw, and to read – though books were not so sacred as to escape the markings of her pencil. She was an idler, a daydreamer; queen of childhood castles and purveyor of fantastical stories. Her parents did not discourage her, exactly, but they did try to impress upon her the importance of education, of hard work, and of success. It wasn’t until years later that Thalia understood why they had been concerned. It isn't something she admits to herself these days.

By the time she reached school, her interests grew to encompass both literature and history, which were academic enough subjects to satisfy her parents. Plus, she quickly found that being  discovered with her nose in a textbook left her less likely be disturbed than if she was found drawing. She did not grow out of it, exactly, so much as she learnt to slide herself within the ideals of her parents expectations. Study first, idle later. She kept reams of sketchbooks, but by the time she entered adolescence had stopped trying to garner approval for her scribblings anyway. Truthfully she was not interested in the attention – she did not do it to please an audience; it was a compulsion, an obsession. A necessity.

At university, much to her parents diligently concealed disappointment, she chose to study history. It was something of a compromise, since she didn’t actually want to study for a degree at all. By then Aylin was studying to become a psychiatrist at Moscow State, so it was natural for Thalia to fly the nest in that direction. It seemed a grand adventure, and by the time the plane landed she’d half convinced herself it was what she wanted. Moscow awed her; the mix of new and old, the endless clash of ancient and stark beauty. She supposed she’d been sheltered up to then; not that her parents had been the coddling sort, but there had still been carefully wrought parameters to her freedoms. The sudden breadth of independence barely phased her, even when she became quite lost and almost didn’t make it to the university.    

The fairy-tale she painted in her mind didn't end well. Despite a sometimes sharp mind, Thalia was too lacking in discipline to excel in her studies. She would spend hours in libraries, only to emerge without so much as a single written note. Then, when the time came to compose essays, she would instead find herself doodling in the margins of the pages, or staring vacuously at windows. Or walls. The reading interested her, the learning interested her -   but only in the way of a collector. She hoarded the knowledge but lacked the motivation to do anything with it. Well, nothing relevant to her degree, anyway, and though she persevered for the sake of her parents (for the money they had plied into her fees, and the strings they had pulled to get her a place) it was no time at all before her grades slipped. Mere months.          

And then she got sick.

Well, truth told, it had come and gone over the months since she left DVII, only to  culminate severly during her first semester. Four days of absence and ignored phonecalls passed before Aylin banged on the door to Thalia’s dorm room, and found her sweating drowsily in bed, surrounded by dozens of scrumpled up pieces of paper. Flu, Thalia insisted. But Aylin was pale. Especially when she smoothed out a few of those crumpled pages.

Thalia never knew what Aylin told their parents. Drink, maybe. Drugs. Her parents wanted her home, of course, but they trusted their reliable, eternally sensible eldest daughter. It was just as well they did, for Thalia’s sake; because even she realised, somewhere amid her fevered brain, that girls died from the Sickness. And not just some of them; most of them. That or they disappeared. Aylin knew, because she had seen it, and without her intervention Thalia would have numbered among one or other of those fatal statistics – she knew that without even knowing how she knew it.

She survived. Thanks to Aylin, thanks to the screwed up drawings scattered about her bed that day – thanks to a lineage of screwed up drawings, in truth –  and thanks to a Russian called Yana who had been coolly convinced Thalia was a demon. Months of fugue followed.  Thalia never went back to her course, and used the remaining of her parent’s funding to rent a small studio apartment. She went to great pains to forget the clutches of the Sickness, and to forget the psychiatric unit where Aylin interned. But most of all she forgot the face she had been sketching for years; forgot that, as it turned out, the face belonged to a real woman.    

There were worse places to recover than the heart of the new world, and Thalia adapted. With no job and no qualification, it was natural to turn to the one thing she was good at. Her first major sale was the portrait of a woman surrounded by the ethereal glow of sunrise; except, in Thalia’s mind, it was not the sun at all, but the woman. It was bought by a religious zealot, who for obvious reasons believed it a religious painting, and from there her reputation trickled steadily upwards. Six years later her apartment is bigger and she rents a small studio. Thalia’s art sells well and she is rarely without commission, but her income can be erratic. The majority of her sold work consists of paintings, though she still keeps piles of sketchbooks and sometimes does portrait commissions. She specialises in realism, at least in style. Plenty of her work features the abstract and fantastical, and much of it has an ethereal quality that has become her signature.

-*-

Her temperament is full of jagged edges and contradictions, like a thousand souls stuffed in one body. She’s sensory, compelled by beauty and typically indulgent to her own whims. Intuition forms a greater part of her rationale, not that she’s incapable of logical thought so much as she’s learnt the value of trusting her instincts. For the most part she’s laid-back and adapts easily; quite content to watch things unfold naturally and to be swept alongside for the ride. In fact her sense of calm is infectious, or at least the way she is self-assured without the overbearing of arrogance. She’s the kind of person who gives the distinct impression they know what they’re doing, even when out of their depth,  though composure should not be confused with being sensible, especially if pushed beyond the bounds of her integrity; a point at which she is often misjudged (despite the similarities in appearance, she is not her level-headed sister).

There are times when cracks mar the surface of the Thalia she recognises as herself; when it feels like a great big thumb presses down on her mind, and the pressure of it is crushing. In these moods she’s either unfathomably distant or grievously short-tempered, hardly like herself at all. Usually it’s the prelude to a project, to clear her head. Even in her best moods it isn’t unusual for Thalia to spend great gaping breaches of time alone, lost in work or study, though she’s not a loner by nature. She doesn’t spend much time socialising with other artists, perhaps because – although it’s an intrinsic part of her life – she does not define herself by it. Otherwise her haunts are as varied as her fleeting interests, and she isn’t especially selective of her company – depending on the whim of the day. Her obsessions sometimes include people, though she tends to form no lasting attachments. It’s a big city, after all.

She's grown to have little true fear – at least for her safety. When her survival depends on it, Thalia finds a way to defend herself. A way that makes her feel like a burning sun, so sweet and alive and dangerous. She side-steps the memory of these moments, just as she side-steps the other anomalies in her life. Thalia hears lots of things; she might be classed as eccentric, but she knows not to advertise  some forms of peculiarities.  

Desc: Brown hair worn long to the waist, wavy and haloed with frizz. 5'2''. Porcelain pale and on the delicate side of plain. Naturally expressive with wide grey eyes. Fond of jewellery – fond of anything beautiful, really – though she tends to dress simply. A mural of tattoos decorate her back, the main feature of which is a woman in the art nouveau style, surrounded by poppies.

The Older man enters the this "place of enlightenment". small in stature, humped over with just a thin cane for support he glances around the room. Wondering **is there people to help and do I want their help"**. He slowly wonders the room scanning seemingly at random, but knowing exactly what he wants. He is new to the city but has already heard what is in the heart of the center of knowledge, he dare not use his magic.

Finally a young clerk approaches "good day sir, may I help you". The old man ponders for a minute then replies "I am looking for Celtic lore" "that is quite a topic, do u wish to read or purchase?" the clerk responds, the old man remains silent. Finally the young clerk leads the older man to a back row of dusty tombs. "not many are interested in this old of lore anymore it is refreshing to find a scholar in this day and age." The Old man remains quiet and carefully studies each tomb. The disciplined young clerk never leaves the side of the old man. Finally the old man points to 5 volumes and says "these is wish to buy". The young man quickly gathers the tombs and having dealt with many eccentric scholars before does not blink an eye. from under the old cloak of the old man he produce his "wallet" the new electronic device of the time. After the payment the young clerk wraps each tomb in a leather cloth and binds them neatly. Taking the package the old man leaves with out a word. After he leaves 3 men clothed in black step out of the shadows, they say nothing only nod to each other. After a short time One man in black leaves and looks up and down the street, the old man could not have gone far, but is no where in site. After a brief search he puts the old man out of his mind, there is rumor of a wealthy young Fishing tycoon in town whose sister had died of the pandemic.

Exiting the shop the old man quickly turns into an alley, at the back of the ally he turns again at each turns he becomes a little taller and a little younger finally turning back onto the street he appears as he normally does, a young man of 27 in a tee-shirt and sailor dungarees. The young man wheres a back pack now with a distinct bulge. Having found some old tombs he did not already own he headed back to the wharf, where his ship was docked. He planned on staying for a small time but trusted no hotels Moscow. He may appear a ship-rat, many would not guess he is the heir to the wealthiest family in Ireland. Silently he wondered if he would go unnoticed by the powers that be or if he would have to dress up and put on his dog and pony show.

Manix Lir (Dead)

Age: 27
Origin: Ireland

Occupation : Fishing boat captain and Naval Merchant, Son of the Wealthy Larson Lir'. His Family has been in the fishing and trading business for as long as their family has existed.


Psychological description: On the Boat he is all business, very Disciplined and expects the same from the crew. On Shore he is isolated, an introvert. Prone to disguises and walking the wharf. Among family and shipmates he transforms into a outgoing prankster known for practical jokes and throwing the best private parties. As his family before him he believes in the old Celtic Gods, worshiping Manannan Mac Lir, God of the Sea. His time on land is numbing his sense of humor as the true facts of his sister death and he lived thru, weighs heavily on him.


Physical description: He is of medium size 5'11" with a muscular frame. He keeps well groomed, stylish hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He carries many Celtic Tattoo ruins, handed down for generations. Unless dressing for the occasion (disguised as beggar or to meet the Ascendancy) he'll remain in dungarees and t-shirt.


Powers & supernatural powers: He has control over the wind, stronger control over the water. His time and situations, at sea, has allowed him to discover how to heal and form masks of power instead of the usual disguises used by the mundane. He is used to be weaker when on land and for some reason he does not understand he had to be in contact with some type of water to do these magic gifts from his God. A fashioned water flask rest on his belt that carried the water of his home. This flask had been "warped" during a power burst. allowing him to be as strong on land as at sea. The flask is always with him even though he has broken his self imposed barrier.


Current strength level: 40
Potential strength level: 40


Are you a reborn god?: Manannan Mac Lir, Celtic God of the Sea, tho refuses to believe in "reborn Gods".


Biography: He was born in 2020 and as family tradition dictated he was born on the sea. From birth he was taught about the seas and about the Celtic Gods the family still worshiped. He was 6 years old when he first went out on the sea, but this amazing event was marred by his return to find out his 15 year old sister had died from the mysterious pandemic sweeping the world.

Growing up he learned all the back streets of almost every port in the Eastern world and was able to speak , dress and disguise to almost any culture. He also learned the fighting skills of each nation he visited, with and without weapons, as well as being an elite Viking (Lir' Family Special Forces) He used this skill in his teen years to gather information for his father, which often meant using his new found fighting skills to help the family to come into the wealth and power they enjoy today. At the age of 16, off the Indian shore a sudden storm came up, a storm of the century. Every storm in his life he had rode it out on the bow of the ship soaking in rain and wind, this one was different. Fear struck him, he could hear a voice in the wind, he ran below deck but something drew him out. The ship heaved and start to list, throwing out his hands he screamed as loud as he could. He woke the next morning the storm had passed as quickly as it started. When they returned home a week later, he became very ill. Feverish with wild dreams his family feared the loss of another child. He survived, but he felt different. Something had changed.

It took many weeks before he realized he could "feel" the Sea, no matter where he was. He could feel the tides, the waves the storms and life flowing within the waters. The longer away from water he would feel sick, like that fist illness, so he made sure he kept close to the sea he loved. He began to use the "feel" of the sea to control its motion. tides and channels sped his fleets along, he learned how tame the waves, and to calm the wind, though he had less success with this. At 22 he saw for the first time the flow from his hands to the water and he could see the colors and what looked like weaves in rug. He practiced constantly, learning there was 5 "colors" he could control to one degree or another.

The next few years was spend working the colors and weaving different types of rugs. He found some colors were brighter than others, blue and red being his brightest. He began to associate the colors with elements and while on shore tied to master fire. On land he had no magic. At first he had to be in contact with some type of water, any water, but had to be on his person, he broke that barrier at age 26. This allowed him to use the magic anywhere, but was still weaker away from the sea. He carried a flask of sea water everywhere he went, even tho fresh water would allow him to work magic as well. He learned the blending of colors did different magic, water tempered fire and allowed precise control.

His greatest discovery was at sea. He was using the magic to calm the swells that threatened to sink his fishing vessel, when a deck hand was knock over striking his head. While keeping his magic focused on the waves he sent a second wave of magic to the sailor. He could feel the water in his body, the heat in his blood, and the earth in his bones, water was building in the brain of the sailor crushing the brain, dissipating the water he calmed the heart and drew the blood from the brain back to the veins, there was a crack in the skull he mended, then withdrew. He was exhausted but still had the magic going to the waves, on his knees he passed out. Later when he woke, he was on a strange ship, when he passed out the sea attacked the fishing vessel and sank it. The deck hand who with him was completely healed, but 7 souls was lost. Bed Ridden for 7 days he learned that though he could do much there was limits and consequences to the magic. he continues to learn his healing arts, he would heal the most minor cuts to the worst of broken bones. Learning to wield the power inside the body with exact precision.

He experimented carefully, knowing now the magic nearly burned him alive, more than once, he focused on mastering what he had already learned. He could control the seas, he could heal, he could use the wind to hear at long distances what others say, he could also use that wind as a shield. He knew how to use the offensive magic, fire to burn, wind to push or bind, and worst of all how to boil the living water inside a body, but the more magic he used the more rest he needed after words. Now at 27 he continues to use his disguises and knowledge of many cultures to gain information and he has once again began to learn new magic and has made it his mission to find the reason his sister died and he lived. All his ill gotten information leads to one point, he needs to go to Moscow, to follow the rumors of other magic users, but first he must find more of the old Celtic lore. All he and his family, for generations had collected he had learned inside and out and he knew he was missing something in his magic. He was able to use the 5 elements but he found an odd reference to a 6th element used in magic. the Answers had to lie in Moscow.


Edited by Manix, Oct 13 2016, 08:10 PM.

As much as Jax hated the idea of going to Mumbai as a kid, something happened while he was there all those years ago. Probably had something to do with the timing; he had been a red-blooded sixteen year old at the time after all. The tragedy which occurred still haunted him to this day. An unyielding horror. One that crept up at the oddest of times and pretty much confiscated every ounce of his thoughts, at least for a good while. It had the power to stir him from a good night's sleep; or likewise help with a good night’s sleep.

That's right. He developed a thing for Indian women. God help him.

Such was how he came to be in this tragic set of circumstances: kept prisoner by the dark-haired exotic still asleep in the other room. They were like cats. Call and call and call and you're ignored. Then for inexplicable reasons, you can't peel the paws away. Actually, that wasn't so bad. But a bit of understanding as to what went on behind those fluttering black lashes would really help out.

A swig of coffee later, and Jaxen was powering up his Wallet. That of course being the brand name for the tech he carried at all times, the device which stored, well, everything. It was about the size of an old-fashioned billfold, which were still carried around by the 'regular joes' of the world. While the decryption programs were running, a glance out the windows revealed the sprawling skyline of Moscow City, the modern metropolis of skyscrapers in the business district a couple miles west of the Kremlin. The top of one such building being the location of his apartment. The glance also revealed the time: a sunny mid-morning. A fact which the Wallet confirmed-- now that it was awake. 10:45 AM; partly cloudy It was going to take a while to get used to the time change. It was almost midnight in California-time.

In the next room, he heard the sounds of the shower start. Which meant Aisha was up. He smirked for a second, wondering if he should put on pants or something. But the idea was forgotten by the time the electronic glow of the Wallet brought him back to the present.

First things first. Mail. He wasn't particularly fond of it, but it was a necessary evil in life. A quick swipe across the touchpad threw a larger version of the Wallet screen's contents in midair off to the right. He briefly glanced at the list of people awaiting contact and quickly returned attention back to the main screen. Nothing world-ending; they could wait. Market updates came next, even though he really didn't care about them. Jaxen was a small fish in a large pond when it came to the stock markets. Still, another swipe threw that image to the air off to the left. He pulled up his favorite tech news channel next, and sent it hovering to the field of view below the mail, sound muted for now; the shower was still running. Finally, a proper scene set, he pulled up the latest news about inner Moscow happenings, specifically the section on the Kremlin district, and started scanning for anything of note.

That's when he saw it. Baccarat Maison. The famous Parisian crystal maker opened a second mansion location. Out of the whole world, they chose Moscow. Out of all of Moscow, they landed on Nikolskaya street. Which was an excellent location. Jax needed a warm up before hitting the main event--the one that drew him back to Moscow in the first place.

A flick, and the Baccarat website overlaid the tickertape scroll of stocks. The place was opened recently. Three main floors. A show room filled the main level and a private residence sprawled the two floors above. Living quarters for a name Jaxen didn’t recognize: then again, he’d been out of touch for a while. Though clearly it'd have to be someone with ties to the Baccarat fortune. Who else would live there? The building itself was hundreds of years old, like every other structure on Nikolskaya street, which meant architects, construction crews, utilities upgrade, security installations, and Custody permits for the move-in: all the good stuff; all easily hackable.

He downed another swig of coffee as the rain of water silenced in the distance. He probably had a good twenty minutes before Aisha strolled out in search of coffee--assuming she was like every other woman on the planet. Therefore, he had plenty of time to work. At least to figure out which security system was installed. Though to do so quickly was going to require a keyboard, such as the laser outline the Wallet projected on the table in front of him. He had a full-sized system in an office for real research downstairs. But this was just messing around. He was still in his briefs for gods sake. More importantly, he was still waiting on breakfast to show up.

Completely focused on the task at hand, Jaxen never heard the soft-footed Aisha come in. Until she was practically standing right behind him.

“What are you doing?” She asked. He nearly jumped out of his shorts.

A rapidly punched keycode and pounding heartbeat later and all five screens collapsed simultaneously from midair. The view out the windows returned to his line of sight.

Jax twisted in time to see a surprised look cross Aisha’s face, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t seen anything. He leaned back nonchalantly, and ran a hand across his untamed hair.

“Not much, just getting a feel for what I’ve been missing lately.” He grinned and pat his knee as though summoning her. She looked amused by the idea, but tightened the belt on the robe she must have found in the bath and sauntered over to the windows instead. Her hair was wet from the recent shower and pulled back into a tight, jet-black bun to keep water from dripping down her back. Though clearly the concept wasn’t foolproof. The robe was sticking to the curves of her spine here and there. Her slim body seemed to drown in the robe otherwise meant for him. Not that he was a big guy, but by comparison.

“Beautiful view,” she commented, having only seen its nighttime parallel.
“Yep.” He answered playfully.

She turned, a coy smile parting her lips ever so slightly, greatly darkening the glint in her eyes. Yep. This was a problem. Such that when she sauntered back and swiped the hibernating Wallet from the table, he couldn’t bring himself to snatch it back from her. No more than feigning a playful attempt anyhow.

She powered it up, but Jax reached for his coffee cup without worry while she perused his recent log. That keycode decimated any trace of recent activity he’d prefer to remain private. Such was how she came across the Baccarat website.

“This is the Parisian crystal!” She exclaimed with that same breathless accent that pretty much steamrolled him last night.

“Oh? You’re a fan?” He replied.

She nodded quietly in answer, blinking in wonder at image after image of their stunning works of art just a few minutes away.

“There’s a thing going on tomorrow night,” he came close to retrieve the Wallet, catching her eye as he did, “I was thinking about going. But sadly, I don’t have a date.”

She smirked, “I’ll have to get something else to wear.”

Jax set the Wallet out of reach and hovered over her chair, not so subtly getting a glance down his robe folded ever-so loosely across her chest. She laughed. “Then you better get on that,” he whispered in her ear, pulling the belt as he did.

Jax was the youngest kid in a modern, "mixed" Muscovite family. He had seven siblings. The oldest of which was the only full-blooded relative. The rest were the result of his mother's and father's various re-marriages, one adoption (a sister named Zoey), and one "accident" (the accident being him). It varies depending on who tells the story, but the deep roots of familiar passions between his parents warped sensibility long enough for one last romp together, and nine months later came into this world bouncing baby Jaxen.

Suffice to say, life in the Marveet estate was cramped. One would think twelve bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, two pools, and a twenty-car garage would be enough square footage. Think again. Jax was constantly out "getting fresh air" throughout his youth. To which he frequently rolled his eyes when it was pointed out that nightclubs were hardly refreshing. What can a guy say? One man's fog-lamps is another man's sunrise. Eventually, Jax gave up arguing, shrugged indifferently and went back to doing what he always did. Which was pretty much anything he wanted.

He was threatened with military school at sixteen. As appealing as life as a CCD henchman sounded, Jax talked his way into boarding school instead. Hardly the way he'd have things turned out, but still. Seriously. Mumbai? Stuck in the jungle? Monkeys? Shy women? But, there were worse places than the capital of DIII--he was almost stuck in London.

Like some of the other CCD capitals, Mumbai was a marvel for tourists. And where there were crowds, pickpockets circled like vultures. Eventually, everyone was a target for a pickpocket, Jaxen included. Though he was more annoyed with replacing the identity cards in his wallet than losing anything else--his bank accounts were too well encrypted to really clean them out. But the first time he actually saw a swift hand glide smoothly in and out of a jacket pocket, well, he blinked in awe. The bulbous old man who was robbed had no idea he'd been ripped off. After that, Jax started to pay more attention. Over the next few weeks he determined there were really three main ways to rob a man. The first was the most obvious. Stroll up somewhere isolated, threaten with a weapon, and demand valuables. Boring. Any crackhead can pull that off. The second way involved a team working together on some con. They distract and disorient the target, and the would-be good samaritans are in and out of a bag, purse, or pocket like nothing happened. Which took way too much coordination. And was also boring.

The most challenging was by far the famous sleight-of-hand. Practicing the art wasn't so hard: deceit, misdirection, distraction. Whatever. The real difficulty was working up the guts to do it for the first time. His whole life, society said stealing was wrong. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't. Who can say? But mankind is strange, after all. Stick two guys in an elevator and they'll stand as far apart as possible. Shove ten guys in an elevator, and nobody pays attention to anything. Bump shoulders? A quick "sorry bro," and its shrugged off. Jax had a dozen such chances before he ever brought himself to go through with it for the first time.

He was at a rave. Nightclub of course. Halloween night. He'd drank less than his usual, and kept a sharp eye out for would-be targets. Would it be the glittering fairy? She had a small card-case tucked in her tights against her thigh. How about Dracula? He kept a cigarette lighter and a wallet inside his cape. That's when he spotted them. Turns out, the would-be target was a nerdy 'american' tourist. The man was actually Japanese, but was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt with an old-fashioned digital camera slung around his neck with a fanny-pack wrapped low on his lips. Pretty good dancer too. And he was surrounded by a group of friends who obviously all came together. It was too perfect.

Jaxen, himself dressed as a pilot, slid amongst the group pounding the dance floor. Nobody noticed the newcomer, except the girl he ended up alongside. Another fairy. Or maybe a Tinkerbell? Ah well they all looked the same. He made his way alongside the man with the fanny pack, which obviously had something valuable inside, but there was no way to tell what it was. Sat-phone? Maybe? Didn't matter.

Heart pounding, Jax accidentally bumped into the guy's hip. While one hand stabilized them both from staggering out of the way, his other deftly unzipped the fanny pack, retrieved the first thing he found, and shoved it in his pocket. The Japanese-Hawaiian tourist backed away, holding his hands up and Jax's heart leaped into his throat. Everything led up to this moment. Then the guy apologized for the run-in, turned and started dancing once more. Jaxen grinned a devilish grin, took the apology, and decided to take off in favor of finding a toilet.

Adrenaline pumping his veins, he slipped his hand in his pocket as he strode away. It was a wallet. He got away with it. Nobody was coming to kill him. He grinned at the prize in his hand, feeling flushed and ecstatic, and glanced over his shoulder. Hawaiian shirt was tearing it up, oblivious that anything had happened. A second later, Jax returned, tapped the guy on the back and offered the wallet.
"Uh, you dropped this brother!" He yelled over the music. The guy gasped and started thanking him with sloshed, but sincere, gratitude.

"No problem!" Jax replied and took off.

After that, he was hooked.

He suddenly took on a surprising interest in electronics, programming and surveillance--much to his family's surprise. But two years in Mumbai was bound to change anyone, even a rebel like Jaxen. Right?

Ten years later, Jaxen had quite the resume. Museum jewels were the first on his bucket-list. They were small and easily hidden away. Good things to practice on. He worked his way up to a Cezanne worth $5 million. Then getting into the Bank of Zurich. Emperor Maximilian's coronation sword came home after that. The Tower of London was a bit of a challenge, but absolutely worth it. By the time he touched-down back in Moscow, the call of the Kremlin was pounding in his ears: the Everest on his horizon.

---

Occupation : Uh, being the youngest in a Central Dominance billionaire family, Jax doesn't have much in the way of an official job. Just hobbies. The primary of which being a thief.

Psychological description: Jax is a light-hearted guy. Thrill, competition and challenge gets him going in the morning. That, and, strong coffee.

Physical description: About 5'11" - he doesn't stand out in a crowd; unless you count dashing good looks, of course. His "jobs" are pretty physically demanding, as he works alone rather than in a part of a team, therefore he's in good shape. He's the kind of guy who can repel and skydive, and is pretty proud of his fastest time rounding the Moscow Garden Ring in less than 6 minutes. In a $400,000 McLaren Spider.

Powers & supernatural powers: No supernatural powers. Just a normal-bloke. With a fast hand, quick eyes, charming tongue and as a few lady-friends have described, "magic fingers."


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Feb 3 2018, 10:01 PM.

The Ascendancy formalizes law which allows the energy industry to maintain extensive armed security forces. This reflects a steady rollback of previous efforts to cut down on the proliferation of private security forces, but may also reflects promising interest in moving into the global private military services industry.

The 2030's saw a massive expansion in the private security sector as well as the emergence of virtual corporate armies. However, since the CCD rise to power, there has been a steady campaign to consolidate and control the non-state security sector. The private security industry, which is worth over $20 billion a year, has far fewer rights to use lethal weapons, while corporate protection services are similarly limited.

However, the energy sector, it should be noted, has traditionally had greater leeway in the CCD, reflecting both its power within the political system and also its need to secure facilities and pipelines which are often remote and sometimes in volatile regions. In 2032, Kremlin-owned companies were allowed to issue lethal weapons to their security personnel. However, the new law will free them of final constraints, including on the scale and use of lethal weaponry to nearly match that of the Armed Forces.

This follows a pattern of a gradual return to the militarization of the economy. Now, the Ascendancy indicates that his government is reversing its previous policy and supports the creation of CCD private military companies — mercenary organizations — as “a way of implementing imperial interests without the direct involvement of the government.”

A local physician is under investigation for apparently beating a patient who had just undergone cardiac surgery, investigators report. The patient reportedly escaped soon after the incident.

A surveillance video has since circulated evidently showing the physician closing a curtain around the room and proceeding to punch the patient in the head and beat him on the chest.

The incident reportedly happened at the Guardian Center for Cardiovascular Surgery in southern Moscow. The district's only Kremlin-run hospital has a reputation for violence.

Tabloid sources report the physician was nearing the end of a 32-hour shift when he suddenly "went beserk." The doctor alleged the surgery-patient was threatening staff lives. The cardiologist has been taken into custody for mental examination. He has no other criminal record. The patient in question reportedly escaped out the window.

Thieves identified as originating from a Los Angeles organization stole $2.5 million worth of high-end vodka by busting a hole in the exterior of a warehouse outside Moscow. They made off with 4,000 bottles of the superpremium vodka produced by Gold Symphony.

The thieves appeared to know exactly where to tunnel the hole, therefore must have been aware of the warehouse interior layout.

The gold-encrusted bottles of vodka normally sell for $500 a bottle and upwards of $2,000 in nightclub bottle service. It features 24-karat gold on the label reflecting the golden, amber color which the company claims is due to aging in cognac barrels for up to three years.

Investigation is underway to recollect the product. The warehouse owner has been detained for questioning.

John 'Hood' White
Birth name: Keith Alexander

Origin: Hartford, Connecticut.
Current Resident: Sea-can cabin, south-east city limits, old industrial park and train yards.

Occupation:
Ex-American Special Tasks operative.
Tentative asset for the Atharim.

Psychological Description:
Once upon a time, John was a charismatic teenager. The classic 'Captain of the Football Team' high school all star, coupled with a sharp mind had him as everyone's bet for most likely to succeed. Seventeen years later, there's little of the energetic and optimistic boy left. John has become introspective and quiet. The years have not been kind to him, and he has seen more then his fare share of the horrors the mundane world has to offer. And a few of the things of the not-so-mundane. He is a quiet man, hard working and rarely seen to actually relax.

Physical Description:
John is exceptionally fit, although his usual attire doesn't advertise it too openly. He often wears a shemagh, a type of traditional scarf that has been long adopted by combat arms troops the world over. There is an ever-present intensity to his stare, the sort that few are willing to meet for long.

Powers and Supernatural Powers:
None.

Bio:
John watched, with front row seats, the decline of the American war-machine over the past few decades. Gone were the bottomless pockets and the blank-check operations. Moving a fleet of warships is an expensive thing; millions of dollars in fuel, food, and supplies, not to mention man-hours and maintenance fees.

He had graduated with solid marks in school, but in light of the floundering global economy, a university education was out of reach on his own. At that time, military service still offered huge discounts towards university in exchange for years of service, and with little work to be found elsewhere in the country, he joined the Marines. Three years and two deployments to hot-spots in Africa and South America saw him singled out for bigger and better things. The next five years were spent in training. Language and culture training, escape-and-evasion, foreign weapons use. Demolitions, history, questioning techniques, psychology, and more. As far as his parents knew, he had died in a helicopter crash while on a training exercise in California.

Gone was the age of huge troop deployments and long, drawn out wars. Instead, they were turning back to the brush-fire wars and black book operations of the Cold War. Small, elite teams would be sent in to train militias, rebels, and military's that were opposed to the spread of the CCD, often no matter what their own policies might be. These teams were tasked with assassinations, kidnappings, industrial sabotage. They helped establish a net of contacts and double-agents, or to set up automated spy stations to eavesdrop on the heart of the CCD.

John was nicknamed 'Hood' after a practical-joke gone awry when a few of the more senior members of the team he was attached to arranged to kidnap him while on a low-threat mission in South Africa. Over the next 6 years he traveled all over Africa and South America, as well as forays into Europe and the Middle East.

His last mission was to the Middle Eastern country of Oman, District V. Smuggled in through merchant vessels, delivered on site by teams similar to the one John was member of, a communications relay.
-----

"It's fucking hot."

Hood could only grunt in agreement. The two men wore shemagh's wrapped loosely about their heads, and with the scraggly beards and deep tans, they almost managed to blend in with the crowd of men around them. Both men held tickets and chickadees (slang for CCD dollar bills), although neither were really paying much attention to the camel race, even as a dozen of the beasts and their jockeys thundered past scant yards away.

Hood adjusted his sunglasses as he turned a bit to scan the crowd around them. The glasses were more then just protection from the sun; fixed with a tiny camera and computer, it scanned faces in the crowd, referencing them against a facial recognition program. "Got him."

The HUD on his glasses flashed the outline of a man in the crowd, and Hood nudged the other man. The two made their way through the crowd, and the man they had been looking for didn't spot the two Americans until the last moment. The man visibly started, and turned to try and make a quick get-away. He was stopped in his tracks by two more American men who were approaching from behind him, boxing him in.

The man spun around to face Hood and his friend, quickly adopting a pleasantly surprised look as the two Americans loomed in on him. "Ah! My friends! You are early, aren't you? I did not expect you for two days!"

"That's the point, Nizam. Now, lets go for a walk." The Americans dropped their wager stubs and tucked away their money as they made their way back out of the crowd. Hood stuck with Nizam, while the other three fanned out into the crowd as if nothing were amiss, and to make sure they hadn't drawn any unwanted attention.

"Yes early is good, my friend! Very good. Expecting storms soon, and we would not want that would we?" Nizam wasn't hard to read; the man wasn't loyal to the CCD, but he wasn't loyal to the US either. Just to who ever had the deeper pockets at the time. They just had to make sure to keep him off balance enough that he couldn't get second thoughts on who had the deeper pockets these days.

The crowd thinned then ended abruptly as they moved away from the camel races, revealing a vast swath of open, featureless ground and towering mountains in the distance. "We need to move quickly, Nizam. Is everything arranged on your end?" Hood's tone was one of carefully checked annoyance. Between the heat, the bugs, the crowd, and a cockroach like Nizam as their guide, none of the men on this detail were particularly chipper.

"Oh yes! Yes of course friend! All is ready! Well, almost all. I have only one buggy for you. The other does not work, you see. Most unfortunate. The mechanic tells me the wheel wells are broken, my friend." The man wrung his hands together nervously; he played the same game every time they had to work with him. Come up with some sort of last minute problem that could only be solved with more money. If only he would come up with things that made any sense.

"How much, Nizam?" The other men had emerged from the crowd at various intervals and distances apart; six in total, all similarly dressed. None blended in perfectly, but they didn't scream foreigner at first glance, asides that they were taller then most folk in these parts.

"Very expensive, sadly. To get a new buggy on such short notice. $5,000. CCD, of course, my friend." Nizam knew full well that the Americans had no choice but to pay. They could not risk threatening him, nor could they find another supplier that they could trust not to just sell them out.

They approached Nizam's vehicle; a well used, but equally well maintained Land-rover, and Hood dug out a fat envelope which he slapped against Nizam's chest before he and one of the others climbed into the back seat of Nizam's vehicle. The other four had acquired an old beater Toyota Corolla, a dime-a-dozen vehicle in the region.

-----

Ten hours later, two dune buggies tore their way through the rocky foothills west of the town of Sur, in Oman. Established ten years ago, an automated electronic espionage station had been set up in the mountains near Jebel Kadhar. It picked up a broad range of frequencies, which were then transmitted by laser-comms to satellites in orbit once every week, when one of the necessary satellites passed directly overhead. But the machine's on board computers had gone wonky, and were in need of maintenance. Since there was no local Maytag service station that they could phone, the higher ups figured the next best thing was a six-man special operations team, smuggled in by civilian transport and packing light.

The six men were no longer dressed in their man jammies (Shalwar kameez, for men of course), instead favoring cargo pants and t-shirts in browns and tans, with load-bearing vests stuffed with magazines and gear. They were ready for trouble, but hoping for none as they tore through the Oman country side, away from small villages and isolated family compounds. They drove with no lights, the drivers of either vehicle instead sporting compact NVGs, and neither's foot lifted far from the floor, tearing along as fast as the old buggies could manage.

-----

It took the six men two days and one flat tire to make it to the malfunctioning machine. The machine had proven to be an easy fix; it had apparently fallen victim of an angry mountain goat, which had managed to knock the machine off balance and cracked the case. A scorpion had crawled inside and fried itself on one of the motherboards. The scorpion in question had spent most of the ride back taped to the top of the second buggy driver's helmet until the man had finally found out and nearly put the vehicle into a ravine, thinking it was a live one when he caught a glimpse of it in the rear-view mirror.

They continued to travel mostly at night, and were less then 50 klicks out from Sur when their luck ran out. They had arranged to meet with Nizam and some of the man's people at a small abandoned hamlet some twenty kilometers west/south west of the town of Sur. From there, Nizam would take most of their gear, which he would likely sell for a tidy profit, and smuggle the team back to the harbor and a ship waiting to take them back out to international waters and relative safety.

They stopped a few minutes out from the little collection of compounds and spent an hour just watching and listening, to try and judge if there were any unwanted guests waiting for them. None of the men trusted Nizam further then they could throw him. The sun dipped over the horizon, and there continued to be no signs of movement among the dozen or so compounds below. No sign of unwanted visitors, but no sign of Nizam or his people either. A problem.

"Hood. One finger right of the well. Reference, open door. Window left. You see anything?" Zoolander, lovingly nicknamed after his unintentionally perfect impersonation of the 'Blue Steel' stare, handed over a pair of binos, and Hood scooted out from behind his comfy rock to grab them and take a look.

It took him a moment to find what Zoolander was talking about, but soon enough he was able to focus in on what seemed to be a piece of fabric fluttering from the window. "Looks like the scarf Nizam was wearing the other day. They're probably hold up in there waiting for us, right?"

The binos were passed around as the rest of the team took a peek and they all came to the same conclusion. Minutes later they were back in the buggies and working their way closer to the village. They parked the buggies a kilometer out, where two of them waited with the vehicles and the other four proceeded on foot, with one of their number jogging ahead, another hanging back a ways. A few minutes later, their point man was pressed to the wall of the first compound, and peering through the narrow cart-track that spaced it from the next walled home. The team took a knee, surveying their surroundings with NVGs, the sun now long past the horizon and no moon yet to offer any light to work with otherwise.

Another few minutes were spent listening, and when nothing was heard they started moving again. The point-man vanished down the alley as the rest of the other three moved up. One man put his back to the compound wall, knees bent and hands cupped, and Hood took a few running steps before stepping on the man's knee, lunging up, other foot into the man's cupped hands. The man stood up quickly, throwing his arms up to help launch Hood over the wall, and he landed on the opposite side in a crouch, weapon up. He scanned the area quickly, then slapped the dried mud wall behind him before he started moving, and seconds later another man dropped over the wall to follow him.

The man that had been rear-guard took a knee in the alley, watching the way they had come, while the point-man moved up to the alley's mouth, watching the street ahead as Hood and Zoolander moved through the courtyard and up the carved steps to the home's roof. They both took a knee, studying the street and other roofs, the entire team waiting in silence for a few more minutes before moving on. They continued like that, entering and clearing some of the compounds on their way to the town square and the well.

Hood would glance back towards the buggies occasionally, and the HUD on his glasses showed the green triangles which represented the IFFs of the two men waiting there, indicating their distance, and even their heartbeats and vitals. He could see the same of the other two men, who were working their way through the next compound as he and Zoolander readied to check the last one that would lead them into the town square. None of them had spoken since departing the buggies, and all six men were calm and focused as they secured the area.

But then a warning flashed on his glasses. Heightened pulse and movement of the two men waiting at the buggies, and before he could even turn his head to look at them, the warning had changed to indicate one of the men had suddenly flat-lined. The entire team froze and looked in the same direction for a moment. One green triangle was moving away from the buggies, before stopping suddenly and changing to red as well. None of them had heard any weapons fire.

Hood's eyes worked furiously, pulling up a map and way-point system. Locations were indicated and fed to the other four men in the team. The other two would fall back and take over-watch of the way they had come, placing themselves on separate roofs where they could cover each other to at least some degree, while he and Zoolander would advance to the hut that had Nazim's signal. Hopefully the weaselly little man hadn't sold them out, and had vehicles there waiting to get them the hell out of here. Another flick of his eyes activated the two dead men's last-resort packages. Thermite charges would incinerate most of their bodies and gear, making it next to impossible to identify them.

The four remaining men moved quickly. Hood kicked open the shoddy old sheet-metal door of the compound's gate, and Zoolander ran through before sliding to a stop at the town well, using it as a bit of cover to scan the area. The other two men ran back the way they came, doing much the same to gain access to previously cleared compounds and thundering onto the roof-tops. Hood followed in Zoolander's tracks and moved to the window where Nazim's scarf still fluttered, and he pressed himself to the wall next to it, scanning the buildings around him. "Nazim! It's us. Jig is up, someone's on to us. We have to move, now."

There was no answer, and Hood and Zoolander shared a glance. Warnings popped up on his glasses again; the other two men had spotted movement, coming towards the village. Three bogies, that were as of yet unidentified. "Nazim. I'm coming in." He crouched low past the window and came to the open door. There had been a door in the frame until recently, but now there was just jagged splinters of wood littered about the floor. Hood froze, then quickly ducked through the door and hugged the wall within, weapon sweeping the room. Body parts were everywhere in the otherwise empty room, but more disturbing was the relative lack of blood.

The two men on sentry's pulses suddenly spiked, and they both opened fire. Short, controlled bursts at first, two from either man. Then curses of disbelief. "Movement! No bloody idea what they are! Good hit, no effect!" The two men thumbed the fire select, and the next bursts of fire were longer. Full-auto fire ate through their magazines, and the movement indicators continued to draw closer to the village.

"The hell is going on? Did Nazim sell us out or what?" Zoolander snapped at Hood when he stepped out of the abandoned house. He took one look at Hood and was able to surmise that things had gone tits-up bad. "Well fuck. So the hell do we...the hell is that?!" Zoolander's gaze moved to the corner of the house, and he staggered to his feet to take a step back. "HOOD! The fuck is that?!"

Hood had needed a moment to catch his bearings after what he had seen in the house, and hadn't even heard Zoolander at first. Not until the man started yelling anyway, then he glanced dumbly at his friend before turning to where the battle hardened man was aiming. What he saw didn't even fully register at first. Something snapped in the back of his brain, broke like a dry stick. Everything went numb, and he just started firing.

Tattered black robes seemed to drift out of the darkness, too long arms and a too-narrow head coming towards him. The details of the thing stood out so painfully clearly in his mind; it had no feet. None. The robes just sort of...hung, tattered. And they didn't really seem to move much either. Just hung off the thing. The face was pasty white, and so long. And the eyes...his finger jerked on the trigger by muscle memory more then conscious thought, and everything seemed to snap back into motion.

He steadied his stance, tucked his rifle and kept firing, squeezing the trigger repeatedly. Rounds passed through the thing, occasionally ruffling the robes, but mostly just sending up puffs of dust from the wall behind it. Zoolander followed suit, as if he too had been jerked away by the sound of weapons fire. The thing seemed to lunge at him, but then a round seemed to bite into something and it jerked back. Both men flipped to full auto and continued firing, rounds tearing into the mud wall next to it, and the thing jerked and twitched before letting out an impossibly loud screech before it slammed into the wall and fell to the ground in a wash of sand and dust and old, bleached bone.

Both men froze, staring at the remnants of the thing. Another warning flashed on his glasses, the green triangle of one of the other team members flashing red. The man had made a run for it, apparently, and was a few hundred meters out of the village back towards the buggies. The other man was running too. He seemed to be mumbling to himself as he ran. Hood and Zoolander shared a look, then started running towards their remaining team member, empty magazines clattering to the earth and fresh ones slapped into their weapons.

They ran full tilt down the street, and Zoolander peppered an alley with fire as another of the things seemed to loom towards them. Again, most of the rounds seemed to pass through it unnoticed, but a few found some purchase and the thing jerked back, falling behind them. They charged around into another street in time to spot their remaining team mate throw himself through a closed gate, tumbling into the street in a puff of dust. He was rambling incoherently between ragged sobs for air and had lost his weapon along the way. The man scrambled to his knees but made it no further before one of the creatures fell upon him, emerging suddenly through the now open compound gate.

It grabbed the man by the shoulders, lifting him with frightening ease. Hood and Zoolander slid to a stop, and in a brief moment of silence they could hear bones shattering in the man's arms before he started screaming and struggling. The creature bit into the struggling man's skull, and he started struggling and screaming even more. Even over his screams Hood and Zoolander could hear the sound of bone shattering and crunching, and a horridly lewd sucking sound.

They shared a glance, then started walking towards the thing and their dying comrade, weapons up and firing. The man jerked a few times then went limp, while the thing holding him threw the dead body aside. As before, most of their rounds didn't seem to hit anything, but enough found purchase that the thing was driven back then expired much like the first one had, leaving dust and cracked, aged bones.

Hood didn't remember much after that. Their fallen comrade's body, arms shattered and twisted. There wasn't much blood either, his body seemed...dehydrated, maybe? Like a mummy. He and Zoolander were running and gunning. Trying to get out of the village, but there were more of those things. They actually managed to put down another one before they got separated. He kept running, till he heard Zoolander's screams. His identifier was a long time before it went red. Hood stopped running then.

By morning, he had killed two more of the creatures. One he managed to lure into a claymore; explosives proved to be far more effective then gunfire. The second nearly got the jump on him. It managed to break his arm before he was able to break free and toss himself through a window, a grenade dropping behind him. Again, the explosion killed the creature, but the pain of the arm, made worse with throwing himself through the window and landing on it, knocked him out.

He awoke some time after sunrise, to a group of five men; locals, but not Nizam's people. They spoke in Arabic, probably unaware that he could understand what they were saying, but he wasn't opposed to what he heard. They needed to clear out of the area quickly; they had already burned the few bodies they had found, and wanted to be long gone before the authorities might wander over to check things out here. They were far from Sur, but there was always a chance someone had heard the commotion during the night. And they had decided to take the American with them.

In the following days, Hood learned about the Atharim and what they did. Hunted monsters. Kept people safe. It was an easy sell. He never quite signed on the dotted line, never fully joined their ranks, but if they needed a heavy hitter, he was on call. He worked in Oman, and throughout District V for a year before the Atharim pulled some strings and got him moved to Moscow.

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