The beer was not terrible.

Then again, when Ryker put the bottle to his lips, any memory for comparison was long ago dulled. He was studying the logo of a griffin on the bottle label when a voice interrupted.

"Well? Did I tell you, or what?" The waitress, hand on her hip, was smiling expectantly. Long brown hair, wide-eyes, and a narrow waist. She wasn't ugly. Ryker lifted the bottle in mini salute. His leather jacket crinkled softly with the movement of his arm.

"You were right. It's not terrible,"
he replied.

She chuckled and journeyed to the next table.

Not terrible summed up the entire bar, come to think of it. The floor was old, but mopped. The tables wobbled on uneven legs, but were wiped down. The servers competent, but not dreadfully unattractive. It was the kind of place he could blend in when he wanted. It was filled with the kind of people that he needed to study.

He swung the stool slightly, bottle resting the cap of his knee. The jeans darkened slightly where the condensation dripped. He shifted the bottle aside, then, casually swiping the wetness away.

His best eye sharpened as he measured the entrances and exits, the manner and carriage of those in view. A kitchen smelled like cooks worked at a steady pace. When the door to the back swung open, he glanced two such cooks. He wasted no more thought on them.

Beer sipped, he watched.

Ilesha hadn't really found a reason to stay in Moscow. Sure there was Kallisti girls - but Ilesha wasn't sure she wanted to associate there. It wasn't that she was a prude, and it had other benefits, but it felt like she was going to be used. For what she didn't know. She had nothing to offer.

And then there was Thalia who seemed as confused as her about things.

There was no amount of things to do in Moscow and she wasn't hurting for money. She could work motorcycles here just as easily and Ilesha had picked out the potential jobs for the past week. But she got a phone call early one evening.

"Hello?" She answered the unknown number from home.

"Ilesha, hunny. You're father had a heart attack."

Ilesha gasped. It was not common problem these days but it did happen. "What happened?"

Her mother went on for about an hour telling Ilesha all about how they were lucky and how things had to change. Her mother hadn't even mentioned her coming home. But Ilesha offered. "I'll be home in a few days."

Her mother protested but Ilesha had hung up resolved to fly home and help her family. Her priority changed now that they needed her.

[[ Ilesha's going on ice, if anyone needs her she'll be home in NYC ]]


Edited by Ilesha, Feb 5 2018, 12:42 PM.

Origin: Kiev, Capital of Dominance II

Appearance: 6'2", muscular and broad shouldered. Dirty blonde hair that's thinning prematurely, gray eyes. Numerous scars from poorly healed wounds. One eye is murky but not completely blinded and scarred from fire flashed in his face. Otherwise, he would be called handsome.

Age: 32

God reborn: Rāvaṇa



Biography:

The gray and orange screen of a .ccd government website blinked patiently. The blazing office of Channeler Oversight logo dominated the background. Just looking at it curled the taste of disgust in the back of his throat.

The man pacing before the work station clasped his hands behind his back and calmly spoke a command to fill the first field. There was no one to hear him. None but the computer system.

"Ryker Petrović."

"Male."
He added.

As he spoke, the fields on the screen were filled. This was the magic registration form put out by the CCD. The website was likely to have been blocked by the American government, but this was no ordinary office. The log in was no ordinary password either. The man did not resist questioning long before giving up his clearance status. Ryker's was long ago revoked.

The next field was CID. This number identified him as a citizen of the Custody. Behind his back, his hands clasped ever more tightly. It was just a number, he told himself. Just a number.

He stripped an orange shirt from his back and dropped it to the floor. The back that was revealed rippled with muscle. Broad of shoulder with fists like iron, Ryker had little in the way of conflict with the others around him. Yet a mass of scars criss-crossed those muscles, scars of the many fights he sought. Most were old and decently healed. Others were barely visible but to his discerning gaze. One was new enough to pucker bright pink over one pec. Each one was a mistake that forced him to learn. The lessons were hard. But he learned. He learned.

He forced his eyes to fall across the CID printed in big block letters across the shirt's shoulders, marking him a foreign invader. The orange marked him a member of Block Five, but the number was not so easily cast off as doffing a shirt. A biosensor barcode was tattooed on his wrist with the same information. There was no removing it short of amputation.

Ryker sighed and read his CID aloud, "719A433"
. Promptly, threads of fire curled into the fibers of the cloth. The orange shirt was incinerated within seconds. Good riddance, he thought. Today was the last day to wear any such item. Never. Again.

The field populated with his number.

The next field asked for location. Ryker smirked and looked around him. The room was spartan. A metal desk and rackety wooden chair sat abandoned in the center. The frame of an old printed photo fell broken on the floor. The family within would mourn their deceased. Perhaps. The man was a bastard. Likely his family would not miss him.

Other than the computer system, the only thing to look at was a thick, glass window overlooking a dead yard. Ryker knew the place well. If he closed his eyes he could see the asphalt, smell smoke, and hear the crunch of boots in the gravel. Even here, they made them march. And the chanting. God. The fucking chanting.

The warden's office was stamped with the official seal of the United States Army. Their beloved military prison was about to burn. But not until he finished this form.

Location: "San Quentin Military Prison Complex, Marin County, California, USA."


Ryker outright laughed at the next field in question. Occupation.

Currently, as he was standing in the office of an executed warden with full control of the Prison's security system, he could claim warden. As a prisoner, he cleaned toilets. As a free man, he was a special operator. And before the military, he was a father and husband. So which of these glorious occupations to claim?

The laughing ceased. He left the field blank and moved to the series of questions that followed.

Summarize what you can do with magic. Easy.

"Fires. Bombs. Melting. Forming. Moving. Killing. Blocking. Crushing."
There was one more thing, but he omitted that detail.

Most of those powers were fairly recent developments. Even Ryker was unaware of the extent of this power within. He practiced ceaselessly in solitary confinement. The best place to focus on the oneness within was without the distractions of the fucking assholes around him that he was forced to endure. It started slow, of course. He still recalled the day another prisoner escaped nearby grounds. Although originating from a civilian complex, word of another man of the power that cast off the shackles of bondage and reclaimed his life spread like wildfire. Within these walls, Damien Oakland was a legend. Soon another would claim that title as well.

The overcrowding at San Quentin was atrocious. So much for the golden justice of the United States. Rooms built to hold 10 contained 100 men. Often the pestilence that spread in such close quarters meant those of like disease were confined together. Tuberculosis in one meant anyone with a bad cough were thrown in, destined to a fate worse than the run of the mill cold. Addicts were thrown together in another that fought over a single needle as a vial of bad drugs were tossed in by the guards just for their sheer amusement. But of all the places to find one self, the black block was the worst. Ryker shivered with disgust just to think about it. A single skin lesion would get a man confined to a destiny almost worse than death. Even a simple infection from a poorly healed wound taken on the Yard would land you nestled in the wings of the Black Death, as the inmates called it. If a man didn't have syphilis when he went in there, he had it a few hours later. The inmates made sure of that. In there, HIV was the least of their concerns. You would die of syphilis long before then.

This power seemed to protect against illness and infection, though. Once the fevers passed, of course. He had a fever after the first time, certainly. But he was a dead man if the guards learned of the sickness. He quickly picked a fight with another inmate, granting him one of the scars on his back, and made himself pass the worst of it in 48 hour solitary.

How long have you been able to touch magic?

"Twelve months."
He answered flatly. Twelve long months since that first fever. Twelve miserable months trying to master it after Oakland escaped. The darkness and solitude did their work. This power inside was his power now. He waited until that much was confirmed long before this day. This day he would be free. This day was his last inside.

Have you ever been targeted for your magic?
"No."


Prejudice?
"No."


Anything else we should know?
That question gave him pause.

"They call me a national security risk. An unlawful combatant. A prisoner of war in a war that does not yet exist. As soon as I leave this cursed desert, I will return to the fatherland, no thanks to Custody intervention. I expect a glorious homecoming."


He hit submit and the form dissolved into the ether of the internet.

The power erupted into his grasp in that moment. When Ryker emerged from the warden's office, he left a train of carnage behind him. That day, Oakland's legend burned with the rest of the inmates.

He left one alive. One skinny guard that quivered in fear at his feet. The noisy calls for mercy did not touch Ryker's heart. But what stayed his hand was a single memory of kindness this worm once showed him. The act was repaid in the moment Ryker passed him by. And there would be one to relay the tale, assuming he escaped the hellish inferno consuming the complex.

**

A month later.

**

Mexico City to Cape Town to DV to DI.

The air force escorted him to Moscow. When he emerged onto the tar mac, cutting an imposing figure in the uniform of Assault Team Vega, hair neatly cut, and wounds tended, his eyes narrowed warily when a black limousine pulled up. The orange and black flags of the Ascendancy waved on the breeze. The motorcade was a black train of death, and Ryker summoned the power into his grasp when the door opened just in case they were here to kill him.

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips when the Ascendancy presented himself. A glorious home coming indeed.

"My personal gratitude for your service to the Custody."
The man said even as the power filled him in turn. It dwarfed Ryker's own, but neither commented on it even as they both sized one another up.

Ryker bowed his head ever so slightly and joined the man in the limousine. When they emerged at the Kremlin grounds, Ryker was promoted to Commander, allotted expenses, and assigned to what was sure to be a bloody and glorious campaign. He was given everything he asked.

Except one thing, but Brandon was unlikely to yield that so easily.

A fan term for Wilders in WoT has generally been that these people are "sparkers" - in that they are born with the spark to channel. At some point in their lives, they will channel whether they want to or not. If they don't control their abilities, the one power will kill them eventually. Otherwise they develop a block. These are the characters we have been allowed to play in the FA so far in the game.

Learners, on the other hand, are people who have the inborn ability to learn to channel. However unless someone guides them through the process, they will never do so on their own. There are many more "learners" in the world of the WoT in the books than sparkers. So far, in the FA game, we have not been allowed to "discover" that someone can learn to channel.


UNTIL NOW!!!



The game is now officially open to PC's "learning" to channel if they are "learners". Of course, you will need to RP out in a fairly realistic manner that PC's discover someone can in fact learn if they aren't born with the spark.

Of course the discovery that someone is a learner is different for men and women.

Men
In order to test if a man can learn to channel, the channeler forms a simple weave such as a little flame dancing in mid-air between them. The applicant concentrates on the flame and if the candidate can learn, a resonance is felt by the tester.

Women
In the testing to see if you can channel, a woman channels a simple weave and waits. Within five minutes if a woman has the spark, the candidate will try to channel the flow, and the test is confirmed. It takes longer for those who only can learn. However, a woman who has the spark can be detected by another female channeler without being tested.

Factoids:
*generally, Sparkers are stronger in the OP than learners
*there are many more Learners than Sparkers.
*A learner can learn at any age, however sparkers manifest in teens (women) and 20's (men) on average. If they haven't sparked by a certain age, they won't do so.


Have fun!

They said she should paint. So she painted. They said she should draw. So she drew. They said she should write a letter.

She couldn't think of anyone to write.

She used to write her stories. She longed to do so again, but it was best to forget the nightmares that plucked at the fringes of her sanity. She missed her little pets. They said she shouldn't snuggle with them at night. They said her pets weren't real.

They felt real. They kept her warm at night.

Mara tapped a pencil on the paper. They wouldn't give her a keyboard to write. She had to use her own fingers. She didn't mind. The eraser end of the pencil was marred with bite marks. The other end was worn down to a nub. The graphite slid across the paper in a pleasant, swooshing sound. Daiyu wrote in her native language. She was too tired to work with English.

She yawned and began the letter.



Jet,

My name is Mara. You might remember my other name. Daiyu. We are cousins. How are your family? How is Melany? She was always very nice to me. I have not seen my family in a long time. I don't live in China any more. I live in Moscow now. I have been placed in the Guardian sanatorium, but all they do is give me pills and lock me in a room. Father and mother left me here after my novel was published. They want my money. I'm not insane. Can you help?

Sòng Daiyu (Mara)

Edited by Daiyu, Feb 1 2018, 09:23 PM.

I made a page that takes EVERY single in character thread and put it order of the very first post on the thread from oldest to newest.

The story as we posted it. There are a few places where that's not right but in most cases the order is correct.

This should help any new members any any of us looking for a chronology of things to see quickly.

I will eventually make on for each character. My goal is to pull all the posts and save them as a back up.

It should update every 15 mins to stay on top of all new posts

*removed link*

Continued from...HERE.

Halfway to her next destination Stuart, Bob and Phil reported lights on in the house. Well okay. Quandary: show up in tactical assassin evening wear or go with a Plan B? She settled on Plan B.

Big Brother landed for a gear swap on a cleared rooftop and Nika fished out an emergency disguise she’d put there a while back for surveillance. Boots, hippy tree pants, tacgloves, vest...all went into the drone’s storage pod. She jumped into some skinnyish-kid pants which fit fine over both the exo and dragonsilk both. They were super thin nowadays, the technology was great. A green cartoony video game dinosaur shirt was pulled over the Arovex.

She only found one shoe. “Seriously BB? Where’s my other shoe?” Papa John’s pizza drone didn’t answer. “We’ll discuss this if I make it home, mister.” The assassin removed her balaclava and replaced it with a very neon green wig topped with a black and white striped floppy watch cap thing. Tendrils of bright green splayed out above her shoulders like a spider plant. A jean jacket with built in sweatshirt hoodie completed her outfit. Except the shoes. A semi-annoyed sigh accompanied the quick search on her forearm tacpad.

This was an artsy area so there’d be donation drop bins. Sure enough… Nika found what she needed in the second charity bin she’d pilfered through. Kinda. Hightop kid shoes. They lit up when you walked, it was pretty cool. She liberated a satchel and some fingerless knit gloves with the foldover mitten option too. Smelled like french fries. Nika figured she looked about 12. Great. She recalled six microdrones and had them land in her hood.

Big Brother went to join the big drone traffic while the assassin walked like a joe along the dim street. The safe house was small, two stories. It’d have a back door and her little scouts had reported nothing lurking but still, she’d go in the front.

Nika pulled off her glove and keyed in like she lived there. Her entrance was quick and she clicked the door shut even as the drones rose to fan out along the ceiling. Gun in hand, she stayed where she was - yes in the kill zone - and called out. “Heeeeey, peeps…” Young, naive, cautious, worried. “Anyone home?”

Danika did not grow up poor. She attended private schools in Chicago suburbs. She went to prom and bought a fancy, sparkly dress at an upscale department store. Her mom let her borrow diamond earrings for the night. She didn't grow up poor, but she did not grow up makin' it rain dollah bills either. She had to save allowence for months to buy that sparkly dress. Threats of public school kept her grades at the top of her class. She worked for her stuff.

The mall - she couldn't bring herself to say GUM - was like walking into a fairy tale. The interior was carved stone. Archways stretched a mile ahead. Men and women far more glamorous than she criss-crossed marble floors. There was even a one-year-old bumbling toddler in a designer outfit that probably cost more than that sparkly dress.

There was another credit burning a hole in her pocket, though. She had no idea where to start, so she followed the crowds inward.

Dorian went into the office despite his desire to stay home with his family. But Dorian had to show up for work. Not only was IA looking into him but an Atharim was also there. Abt was a good officer - he kept many Atharim from being discharged from service in the police force around the world.

But Dorian knew this wasn't going to be the case this time. He'd opened a can of worms that was going to bite him in the ass eventually. That eventually was now.

Dorian wasn't sure what the Captain knew of his involvement in things lately, but Dorian was sure IA knew. They always knew.

There was a note sitting on Dorian's make shift desk that said, "See me. - Abt" There was a flashing light on his desk phone that said probably the same thing. Dorian wasn't even late, the man was in early.

It was best not to keep IA waiting...

The bike screamed down the straight, rider tucked in behind the windscreen. A board emerged from behind the fence, large cards read; +1.32 ST2. Blue eyes darted over before snapping ahead once more. Her HUD was glitching again so the board was a welcome backup. A pair of men behind the wall followed the rider and bike as it streaked by before hovering over the tablet in front of them. “She's two seconds off your time, Alex.”

A third man chuckled. “Still on Setting One too.”

The engineer went on. “Yeah, I just told her to switch though. If that works, you'll pick up some time in the corkscrew. Rizza will love that.”

The man smiled. “I'm not worried about Rizza.” He looked up at the track screens as different camera views followed the rider around the twisting circuit. The hollow tapping on a tablet stopped. He smirked. “Okay, I'm not overly worried about him.”

“That's more like it.” There was another silence before the engineer spoke again. “So...have you asked her yet?”

Alex grinned mischievously. “Actually no. I'm going to just send her out in free practice. If she doesn't freak out...” That immediately prompted a strange look from the engineer but the man plowed on. “...If she doesn't freak out, then I'll have her run the second practice and then see what happens in qualifying.” The engineer just stared. “Luca...” A hand smacked the guy's shoulder playfully. “Look at what she did in in the liter class. She's brilliant, composed and smooth. You said so yourself! Plus, look at what she helped me do last year. I had nothing to help me fight off Rizza and now I'm right on his heels.” He was serious. “Hargrave had to go, Luca. He is absolutely useless on a GP bike and you know it.” Dangerous too but that was left unsaid.

The engineer sighed. “I know, Alex, and yes James'll be happier on the Yamaha but...she's a rookie. A true rookie...”

“She's got the license, Luca, she's got two GT championships including last year and everyone in the world knows it's really three. If not for that fucking psycho fan..." Luca's eyes went wide. "No, stop it. The bloody media was unfair about it and everyone knows it. Can you blame her for not talking about it? Really? ...and she went back to GT and completely dominated. Again.
Fresh offa that.” He had a look about him, one that said he meant business. “Fresh off. GT is nuts. You wanna see her splattered all over a cobbled retaining wall?” More silence met him. “For crying out loud! If she can control those monster machines on the street, the street Luca, she can handle MotoGP.” The man's brows rose in emphasis. "She's been testing GP bikes for five years. Nika is the real deal. She's been ready."

“...I mean clearly, look at the data.” The two eyed each other.

The increasing crescendo of a closing engine turned both the men's heads toward the last turn leading to the straight. A bike appeared sliding along on slick-black rubber, rear tire leading until the line was reasonably straight, before the optical illusion of standing still at the end turned. The bike became a bullet once more, its rider having guided the machine to rights again while rewarding the maneuver with a full throttle.

Alex flipped a switch near the barrier and the light bar suspended over the finish line read a solid green. The bike screamed past, chased by the dual-tone popping of the Ducati’s exhaust and the unmistakably-sweet smell of burnt high octane race fuel. Yay fossil fuels. The echo bounced and vibrated through the empty stands with fervor. Both men remaining silent for Turn 1, watching the young woman trail-brake once more to slide the rear wheel out and point the bike into the next turn as soon as possible.

“Time?”

His reply was automatic. “She's only had a lap, Alex.” Luca glanced at the tablet. “Well. Picked up .12 already.”

A huge grin met that announcement. "She's jumped right to the middle of the satellite times." Alex laughed in an imitation of a long forgotten comic from last century and rubbed his hands together. “We're going to make so much money...” And in his best Yoda-voice, because Star Wars was forever.. “Proud Paolo will be, yes.”

Luca laughed too. He knew the jokes well. Alex Castori was not a man concerned with money but then neither was Paolo Bisciotti, the Sporting Director for the racer's factory Ducati team. Winning and having fun, that was Alex's goal and through five championships in MotoGP alone he had done just that. So they let him. Teaching his young protégé the same thing might be tough though. She was as serious a person as they'd ever met, almost (There could be some real stiff dicks in motorsports). However the older racer was convinced that he could crack her stoic shell...because the fans were going to eat her up.

Neither the men across barrier and fence, then track then barrier and another fence noticed anything beyond their tablets, flat screens and the rider. Twenty minutes passed before the pit board came out one last time, its large black display digitally carded with a large, 'P I T.' The bike screamed by, a blur of red, full on the throttle until it seemed too late to save at turn 1 without shooting across the sand runoff beyond. Once more the rider's knee stuck out as she sat up in the seat before the rear tire slid from side to side and ultimately settled to the left. The bike seemed to fold over in a precisely smooth action not unlike a gliding turn of a fighter jet. The figure in the distance skimmed a knee over red and white painted rumble strips lightly as the machine arced around the wide turn impossibly close to the pavement. It was unbelievable really that the bike could remain whole on such narrow strips of the slick tires. But it did. The bike exited the turn to stand upright once more and a roar of its historic and established L-twin driven engine echoed down along the stands even after the bike and rider could no longer be seen.

The men huddled over their work once more, occasionally glancing up at the screens above to the feed from the track drones. A short time later the bike could be heard again but it slowed and entered an apparent opening in the barricade not previously visible from the main grandstands. The rider appeared relaxed, shifted in her saddle and keyed the helmet's visor up before disappearing beyond the buildings across the way.

Nika coasted into the garages stopping just before running over a mechanic who did not move out of her way. From the way he did not appear worried and the fact that he held the bike by its front fairing once she'd stopped indicated this to be normal and a part of his job. Another man emerged from within the open garage the bike had stopped in front of and grabbed the tail of the bike just as the rider swung her right leg forward over the tank and handlebars and hopped off. A somewhat scuffed black glove was removed and tucked under her arm as the other glove was removed as well. Bare fingers actuated the strap release under her chin and the black leather-clad rider disappeared through a side door into the building.

She emerged shortly and while still wearing the black skin tight leather suit, her helmet and gloves were elsewhere. The young woman turned upon exiting, her black-stubbled head a prominent feature amid the area. All along the paddock people worked, all wearing the same red and black liveried pit shirts. They paid the rider no special mind as if she were a regular sight here.

Nika turned left and disappeared once more, this time into a garage bay. A man met her, his average size served only to call attention to how small she really was. They hovered over a laptop, yes a laptop, that the man held with the carelessness only an engineer could accomplish. She pointed to various points on the screen and offered feedback where he asked more pointed questions. Ultimately the conversation was short and ended with her straight faced nod and his triumphant smirk. He ambled off nearly dropping his laptop several times as he typed with one hand and held the thing with the other. The woman turned and waved to someone out of sight that offered a departing salutation. Everyone else around had converged on the bike she'd come in on. There were three more just like it parked on rear stands nearby.

She disappeared through the side door once more and emerged three minutes later in street clothes. The fit was comfortable and she cut a pleasing figure. Black and grey Merrells poked out under the legs of jeans a tad long but not offensively so and a sporty charcoal pullover marked over the chest and back with 'Ducati Corse’ rounded off her simple attire, the front zipped up to cover the black tee beneath. She had a hand in her pocket and waved minimally to another farewell once the door closed. A cold hand rubbed at her bare head walked down the lane toward the parking area where riders and crew parked their vehicles. She waved off an offer of a ride in an ancient golf cart bedazzled in ridiculous spinning rims with a shy smile. Retro was in.

There were quite a few very nice cars in the lot; two Ferraris one red the other a yellow convertible, numerous Porsches, Teslas, Hummers, a gaggle of Mercedes and several poor saps with a Land Rovers. She hated those things.

Two rows in saw her hit a button on her fob. She’d disabled the proximity sensors in favor of manual because she was a woman and skeevy people could be lurking. The security here was good but she wasn’t looking to get carjacked. In her old car. The lights on a ten-year old black sapphire metallic M3 Sedan flashed once. It was a sleeper. She climbed into the driver's seat, adorably perhaps, the bucket seat was not far from the steering wheel. She was short after all. The woman closed her door, locked it, and buckled her safety harness The car was in pristine condition and seemed as though it could have been delivered straight from the dealer that afternoon. But a decade ago. The flawless black leather interior even smelled new. She’d bought the car when she was 18 from a now-deceased mobster-she did not kill-as a 'Plan F' getaway car. Beneath the beautiful exterior the BMW was retrofitted with top of the line, cutting edge bulletproof plating and glass, custom suspension and a rocket-fast tuned motor. The passengers were safe from nearly everything save a direct hit from a tank. Or maybe a meteor.

Nika pressed the start button, the M-Class v12 engine roared to life and sounded like a fucking race car. She released the e brake, shifted into first gear and then pulled slowly forward and out. Smooth as liquid silk.

The car had almost nothing personal in it, no little baubles or even loose change. The exception was hanging from her rearview; a little blue cartoon alien called 'Stitch.' The windscreen’s HUD was minimized to the basics. She was on manual drive and integrated safety features wouldn’t key news alerts or anything remotely distracting like that due to safety regs. The climate controls sensed she was cold and brought the cabin temperature up. Her seat heater turned on too.

It had been a productive day testing for Alex on the track. She did like that bike of his and was in a good mood having managed not to ride it into any walls. Her index fingers tapped to some old American music coming in faintly through the speakers but she kept her hands light at 3 and 9 o’clock as nearly-black eyes flitted over her surroundings. Always searching.

A half hour through the flashing lights and cacophony that is evening traffic aboveground anywhere nowadays saw her turn the wheel and pull into the bay of her condo’s building. Security had long ago necessitated the advent of such procedures. Crime. Tsk. In her building, which had been inherited from her parents -her half Russian father specifically- it had a great security system. Recently upgraded to keep the tenants happy what with the explosion of trendy skyscrapers in the area.

You drove up to the bay, the bay door opened, into the bay you proceeded which happened to be 14’x22’x8' exactly, the bay door closed. Security measures scanned for intruders, the concierge said hello unless you opted out of personal contact, blah blah, the bay lifted you to your front door. You got out, got your crap out, locked your car...unlocked your door and you were home. Simplistic. Then, the lift stowed your car underground in the parking caddy. No nosey neighbors to deal with, no weather, no fucking media. It was great.

“Hello Nika.” Her AI offered a greeting as she entered, turning on the lights. “The door is secure.”

“Thank you, Gillian. Anyone come by to kill me today?” She emptied her pockets into a basin appeared to turn from within the wall; key, wallet. Her shoes were poked into a floor cubby that had also opened. Nom nom. Condo hungry. Mmm, shoes! Sometimes she even said it aloud.

“Not today, better luck next time.” The calming voice stated.

“Rats.” Nika stretched her shoulders and padded into the kitchen. The panels in the foyer closed.

“Hungry?”

“How ‘bout two chicken burgers, no bun and steamed mixed veggies?”

“Sure. We have that in stock. Regular settings?”

“Yup. Save that menu indefinitely under 'Boring Betty.' ” She finished washing her hands and blotted them dry on an old-fashioned hand towel. “A bottle of Waterlytes too, please.” The dark countertop parted briefly and the woman’s request rose from below like a missle from the silos of yesteryear. Nika grabbed it and drank as she walked.

Through the open living area, past a cozy library, reading nook, bathroom, guest room, other guest room, office, and workshop. She stopped and took a long pull from the bottle, eyeing the disemboweled engine floating on a mag stand. The motorbike’s carcass, looking rather empty, stood upright nearby. Mmm...maybe the pistons tonight?

“Have the oil rings arrived yet?” She’d sourced them from the US a month ago.

“They have not.”

“Too bad.” Nika continued on through the last room; her bedroom. She changed into shorts and a soft tee for bed, even though it was early.

“I have the news.” Gillian stated.

“Did anyone get nuked?”

“No.”

“Anything really weird happen?”

“Nothing significant, no.”

“Did Princess Charlotte have her baby?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t care.”

“Noted. You have 3,487 new messages.”

“Ugh. Anything flagged seven or higher?”

“MacGinty says your helmet is broken.”

“Yeah, I knew that. What adjective did he use to describe it?”

“He said it was fuh-ckt.”

Nika chortled. It was so funny making the AI curse.

“Dainese has offered you a sponsorship for the 2046-2048 seasons.”

“Ooh, really? I do like their stuff…forward that to Francesca.” Her agent, the spitfire Italian woman handled that kind of thing. Nika plopped on the couch.

“Yes, really. I do not detect a false address. Message sent. End of level seven or higher messages. Your dinner is ready.”

Nika ate at the bar, feet swinging above the polished floor. “When does the new Deadpool movie come out?”

“Deadpool: Classic Deadpool is slated for a July release.”

“Damn. How are my babies?”

“Dave is sick, he reports a malfunction in heat sensor 1. You have 1 in stock. Carl, Bob, Stuart, Kevin...” Nika let her go on for a minute, “...are all charged and report no anomalies.

“Excellent.” She recycled her dishes. “Add a mixed case of sensors and a tube of Molybdenum to the ASCazon order for delivery tomorrow.”

“Done.”

Nika washed her hands again then went back to the couch to relax. An hour into a book Gillian piped up.

“Would you like to hear a song?” It was the beginning of a coded sequence.

“What’s the song?”

“Get Back Up Again.”

“Anna Kendrick?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.”

The lights dimmed and things unseen shuttered and clicked. Gillian’s voice deepened from the sweet AI just moments before.

“You have a message from the Atherim...”

Nika put her book aside.

“Show me.”