January 2, 2046. El Borj, Morocco.

She’d been flown in from Barcelona first via a sleek Gulfstream XLT8950 not at all out of place in the Catalan’s posh playboy airport and then deployed midair aboard a Personal Evasive Warfare Pod. Which was a less dignified means for travel.

The P.E.W.P. deployment device was developed by the Americans as a top secret infiltration method for their SEAL teams back in 2025. After only two years of service the method was scrapped, due largely to an unintended consequence involving the vibrations created from subsonic deployment upon the human excretory system. SEALs called it the poop device.

The castaways were then reported decommissioned and destroyed but the designs were snatched up by none other than Sir Elon Musk. A decade further of development, redesigns, design merges and testing by SpaceX saw the initially cumbersome pod evolve into what was essentially; a human glider. No one was really sure how that happened. It turned out to be mostly useless though as one British test pilot described operating the suit akin to, “trying to crab about on all fours atop a ball of ice in the middle of the ocean.” Still the name stuck, even if the project was scrapped and Musk gifted the surplus in utter secrecy to his friend, the Pope.

PEWP was then pushed about and shuffled around until finding a home aboard jump craft, for training, although the jumpmasters used it solely to threaten the unruly. Having never seen the system successfully tested, it devolved into a mostly harmless game to gauge machismo. The idea was to see if you could use the suit to land, without deploying your parachute. This was always a failure simply because of the change in aerodynamics from not wearing the parachute model the suit was designed with initially. No one had bothered to read the instructions though to change the fin configurations to match.

Nika was fifteen the first time she deployed in one, or rather, was thrown from a Lockheed Martin MC-230J by a cantankerous Irish jump instructor. Ground control, not having registered a chute deployment, were well into grilling the priest about the accident when the deceased showed back up on the tarmac. The teenager strolled past the group stating she’d missed the landing zone and wanted to try again. Nika later admitted to Father O’Roark that she’d hit the landing zone but her knees had been shaking so badly it had taken her twenty minutes to calm down behind the jump shed. Mainly because during their heated argument on the plane, Nika had forgotten to put her parachute back on.

O’Roark credits shock to consenting to her jumping again and the third time (depending on who was counting), he asked if she was mad. The girl grinned at that and responded pointedly, she was in fact utterly terrified before cannonballing off the rear ramp. Jump four was the closest she came to an untimely demise but by the fifth jump (a month later) she had an ace up her sleeve.

Since stability seemed to be the main obstacle in deployment, Nika had the idea to wear the protective base layer she used under her racing leathers. Safety systems for riders had evolved through the years from mere surface protection and padding to airbags and finally to something the media had immediately dubbed, ‘the stiffie suit,’ and later, ‘tumbleweed.’

Riders just called them jammies and started an unofficial, if fierce, contest to see whose prints were the most ridiculous and outlandish. Cartoon bunnies, red hearts and naked cherub aside, the technical composition became a baselayer of transgenic engineered spider silk reinforced with a carbon nanotube exoskeleton. It was thin, pliable and light enough to wear under racing leathers yet designed to become rigid in the event of a crash via a small electrical charge. The onesie was so nondescript in appearance that Nika stole her first from Ducati after swapping it with a thin wetsuit. They were prohibitively expensive and at 15, she was not yet a millionaire.

Perhaps it was stubbornness, or maybe it was the respect in O’Roark’s eyes but Nika never told the priest how she was able to control the flight system. She’d never heard of anyone else using it successfully, nor could she imagine briefing people with a straight face.

...the proper deployment of your PEWP… No.

Almost a decade had passed, a couple of hacked market upgrades and some open source coding later had the assassin happy with her PEWP suit.

Currently she had developed programs to stabilize the freefall enough to pick off ground threats with her rifle d'sniper or simply scout the terrain from above without having to deploy microdrones. Those little buggers were expensive!

Scouting the area via freefall, the FLIR filters of her Heads Up Display pinpointed the Atharim hunter team’s positions at her target landing zone as well as the ambient temperature, altitude, rate of fall, etc. She’d synced a throatmic into the neck of her jammies and microwired the connections after a mishap with bluetooth connectivity last year nearly got her killed. It was via the throatmic she issued commands to her computers' systems. Can’t have that go down again. There was a touch interface on her arm too but her hands were otherwise occupied. And sure, there were ways to beat thermal imaging and things that didn’t show up but a cycle through movement sensors left her reasonably satisfied nothing nasty was lurking. If it was? Well, Geronimo!


Edited by Nika Raskov, Jan 29 2018, 04:06 AM.

Lost.

The charter to New Zealand was lost. No other ship captains would take Elias into cursed waters even if he could offer an endless bounty. None took an interest in his pleas. He was forced to seek alternate interests.

His meager contacts in the world of marine biology would not touch the subject of mythical sea monsters with a ten foot pole. Those kind of campaigns ruined careers, a wise investigator told him shortly before hanging up on him.

Tony and the crew were out of ideas. They patrolled the Moscow River for weeks and no more signs of the creature dwelling beneath the ice emerged. Elias himself walked the banks pouring his powers into the water like luring fish to bait, but his answer was silence and shivering cold.

He contemplated talking to Aria, such was his desperation. He had been told once before that monsters were real. Perhaps slaying an ancient aquatic creature would sway her people to taking him to the ocean, but given the Ascendancy's warning on the Atharim, it was best to not cross swords until safer allies could be identified.

Which was how he was led to the Antiquities and Museum of Natural History on the campus of MSU - grasping for last straws. The internet was rife with stories of monsters and discoveries of magical artifacts of late. One such far-fetched tale spun a fantastical web that most dismissed as pseudoscience and Fake News; but something about the portrait of the man involved caught Elias' eye. Something about the tale pricked his senses.

The world of antiquities he came to learn was a universe in and of itself. The shuffling of invaluable trinkets made and lost fortunes with as fierce and dangerous a trade as to rival drug routes over continents.

"Meet me in the Mythic Creatures exhibit. I won't be hard to miss,"
his message to the dealer detailed. This was his last chance. Hopefully the bait worked.

Age: 23

D.O.B: 6/26/2023

Origin: Forme, Italy

Current Location: Moscow

Height: 5’2

Weight: 105

Occupation: Assassin

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Loyalty:  Atharim


Psychological description

Nika remembers life before the murder of her parents; those memories and feelings of love and inclusion are hers alone.  She does not share them.  Nor does she seek them out for fear of having what she loves ripped from her life once more.  As Atharim operatives her parents taught lessons of right and wrong; good and evil.  At age seven she experienced what those then abstract concepts meant in the rudest of ways.  The destruction of her world reinforced within the girl an unparalleled work ethic...toward the eradication of the channeler menace.  Her parents had also taught the value of practice and study; for this was the key to their own successes.  

The Atharim took over her care and initially she lived within Vatican City, her schooling and training began with other children.  Nika recognized the value of the lessons taught in direct correlation to what she’d experienced.  She was a studious and model student, obsessing over each aspect of her training until it was mastered to her satisfaction.  However, Nika was found to be too intense.  She never played or seemed to have fun like the other children.  In her physical training she did not hold back regardless of the opponent or odds.  There was no balance.    

A neutral group of priests took over her tutelage and removed the girl from the Vatican.  They started her once more in the sport she’d once loved.  Using it as a method of focus and an outlet, this they believe, turned her away from the path of destruction.  Through the years she has excelled in both ventures; promoted through racing ranks as well as the Atharim early on.  She was the youngest full factory rider at the premier level of motorcycling as well as the youngest member on many hunting teams.  While the press calls her a darling-demon, whispers within the Atharim name her soulless.  Had the zealots taken notice?

The Atharim have tested her countless times for serious psychological defects after questionable, if debatable, moral decisions in the field. Nika has no qualms about killing women and children. The channelers who murdered her parents were going to kill her too, regardless of the fact she was a child. They set the bar that day, not her. Some members of the Order maintain she’s insane. Some praise her dedication. More attack teams refuse to work with her despite her skill, letting rumors steer them. Nika has become the one they call for the delicate tasks no one else will touch.

This is fine by her.
 

Physical description

A professional motorcycle racer by day, Nika is as physically fit as any rider at the top level.  At 5’2 and 105 pounds, she’s not busty or curvy but can cut an attractive figure when dressed appropriately.  Her dark hair is kept buzzed short.  Nearly-black eyes rarely soften in their intensity.  The young woman’s dimpled smile though, if you can earn it, is worth the wait.  In the public eye, she’s the humble rider; not generally showy or cocky but will defend her record with facts if pushed.  She lets her on-track actions speak for her.  Her bearing is confident despite scars from racing and her other vocation.

When on assignment, she uses guile and subterfuge as she’s easily overlooked when posing as a child, beggar or other destitute. A shaved head makes wearing a wig all too easy and she also conceals her identity from fellow Atharim.  As her talent was recognized at a young age she was groomed to be an Asset.  No file exists to tie her to the Atharim.  She is not marked by the Ouroboros; a fact lost perhaps with the death of her second handler.  Few still alive know her code name.  Fewer still know who she is. She is a ghost.

Biography

Summers were always for family, her father often said.  It was July of 2029...right after her birthday.

She was exiting the motorhome, bag in hand, when the screaming started.  It was her mother but Nika didn’t know it at the time.  Shrill and drawn out in the same tone; it sounded like a tea kettle.  The girl turned, flipping her long, wavy black hair over her shoulder and clomped up two steps to check the stove inside.  No one had made tea since Sunday morning at the race track though, so her young features scrunched together and a mischievous brow arched the exact same way her father’s did when he was perplexed. Her mother always had a wry comment about that when it happened.  The girl hurriedly kicked off her shoes; mom said nothing but God’s feet were allowed on her carpet then had gotten a good laugh out of her husband’s suggestive remark about now being a god.  Nika hadn’t understood what that conversation ended up really being about although.  Sometimes her parents spoke a different language, even if the words were all familiar.  Grownups!

There was a trophy on the bench.  It was golden and shaped like a great urn.  Of course it wasn’t REAL gold; she’d asked the man who’d presented it to her.  He’d laughed and said she could win one of those when she was older and racing for the great Italian teams.  Her shrugged acceptance and thoughtful expression had made the man laugh even more.  This was her first win in the upper division and her father was so proud.  He’d been a motorcycle racer too, before she was born, and a famous one at that.  His trophies lined their expansive basement along with checkered flags, banners and other racing memorabilia.  Marchello Raskov, Factory Ducati.  Sometimes he’d take her on rides through the mountains on the back of one of his bikes.  She loved that more than anything.  Well almost.  Nika also loved her mother’s passion: shooting.  Lea Raskov was the reigning Olympic gold medalist although the girl couldn’t ever get the events right.  Long rifle and pistol? She knew it wasn’t the air events…  While they had a range, also in the basement, mostly the girls shot outside.  Dinner was often what they had hunted that day.  Nika was not as interested in cooking the meals but was allowed to scamper down to the garage once their kills were dressed properly.  

The girl hugged her trophy before placing it back on the bench.  “I will win you many friends, as many as Papa has!”  A dimpled grin sealed the promise and with a skip she was off to the galley.

Nothing was on the stove.  The tea kettle was sitting on the counter, cold as can be.  This drew a frown.  What was whistling?  Wait, it stopped.  Or had it.  Was it outside?  She tried to remember if the noise had muted when she came inside.  The girl squinted and tilted her head.  It had started again.  Hmm.  

She slipped her shoes on, folding the heel in on one.  That drove her nuts!  The girl bent over and stuck a finger in the shoe to right that wrong only to be rewarded with a nail tear.  The shoe was fixed though and so the child continued down the steps, unaware she’d stepped on a shoelace and pulled it loose.  Really? Her nails were too short to tear. An examination proved otherwise and she nibbled at the offending digit while scooping up her mother’s heavy purse, which was why she’d come back to the motorhome in the first place.  

The family had just returned from an epic month-long holiday which had included the beach, her last race of the season and, a trip to The Vatican.  For two weeks.  They’d done so much there too.  There was a huge library and her mom took her to a range where she’d met a lot of priests…

So they were on their way to go eat dinner because there wasn’t any food in the house.  Her dad had backed the motorhome into its garage behind the house but her mom had forgotten her purse.  Anyway, her parents were waiting in the car...what was that noise?  If it was the car, it was what her father would say was an ‘expensive sound.’  The girl rounded the terrace, clomping on the terracotta drive.  Natural break gone, the noise came suddenly.

It was her mother.  Lea was screaming her husband’s name.  She was in the car which was pushed back off the drive, a trail of debris strewn forth like Porsche breadcrumbs.  The entire driver’s cockpit was...gone.  Scooped like a giant jagged hand had torn it free.

The girl jerked forward after staring incomprehensibly and kicked something just as something else moved in her periphery.  Dark eyes found her father sitting on the ground, looking stunned.  Marchello was reaching toward her, mouth moving soundlessly.

‘Papa?’ she was as confused as he appeared to be.  Nika looked down to see what she’d kicked.  It was a leg.  Her father’s leg.  The world morphed into shades of black, gray and white. Her brow furrowed.  She picked up the limb, gently, and ran through air that seemed to thicken at each successive step.  The knees of her jeans tore on rough stone as she slid next to her father but the girl did not feel it.  The leg.  She did not see the blood.  The leg was warm.  She was still grasping her mother’s purse.  Her mother always had a scarf…  Marchello was pointing again though his arm had dropped to his lap.  ‘Papa…’  She didn’t know what to do.  Nika clawed through the bag; her mother kept everything in there.  Everything to fix anything.  Her father was pointing still, mouth moving soundlessly.  She heard him in her mind, what he’d told her on a walk through the Vatican’s many halls.  

“There are bad men in the world...bad things.”  

It was as if she could feel the comfort of his arm on her shoulder now.

“Bad men?”  She’d looked up into his somber face questioningly.

“Yes, very bad.”  He smiled a smile she’d never seen before.  “But your mother and I, we fight these bad men; the monsters.”

“Monsters.”  She drew a breath in through her nose and frowned at the floor before turning a fierce gaze upward.  “Then I will fight them too.”

He smiled.  

Her father fell back against the drive.  Color returned to the girl’s world.  A shadow grew from her left; oblong at first, then widening into shoulders, a torso.  Footsteps penetrated her fog, dull like a Vibram-treaded boot.  

The girl turned her head slowly.  There was a man six feet away, far enough to avoid the expanding crimson pool.  His expression was haughty as arrogance poured off in waves.  He rolled his head over his shoulder, looking toward the car.  “Kid just brought her daddy his fecking leg, like he was gonna mend that?  Hilarious!”

Another figure was near the car.  Then the car was suddenly on fire.  Lea screamed from within.  The second man chuckled and stepped away from the heat.  

“Little Atharim turn into big Atharim.  Kill her.”

The shadow man turned his head back toward the girl.

In the purse her hand closed around the grip of her mother’s pistol, as if ordained.  The man stepped toward her, leaned forward and reached out with a clawed hand.  Time slowed impossibly again but in this moment, the girl felt unaffected.  Nika withdrew the weapon, clicked off the safety, doubled her grip...aimed and squeezed the trigger.  

She was in the woods behind their house.  It was cold and they were hunting rabbit.  Rabbit should only be hunted in the winter because of parasites, her mom taught her.  ‘Aim for the eye,’ she said, ‘it’s more humane.’  “I thought you said, aim small, miss small!”  Her mom laughed.  ‘Yes, I said that too.’

Still grinning, the man’s head haloed a fine mist of pink...as well as varying sized chunks of similar hue, stark white bits of bone...  Unfortunately her attacker had been leaning forward at the time of his death, weight shifted also forward, so he fell forward.  A grown man’s dead weight eclipsed the seven-year-old and pinned her to the ground.

The Fire-man advanced.

Her mother was screaming still.  Awful, raw screams of agonizing pain.  Later Nika would recognize her own name.  The sound would wake her in the night.

Leather-soled footfalls echoed in the courtyard.  Terror shook her.  She’d dropped the gun.  She was pinned.  The girl screamed animal-like and managed to wrench free her forearm.  A small hand patted through the tinny wetness beside her, her father’s blood.  

The footfalls echoed closer.  He was yelling something.

A small hand pushed at the cold .380.  It slid.  She clawed at it desperately…

An indescribable heat enveloped her, choking away the oxygen.  She couldn’t scream but wanted to.  Another long shadow grew, bobbing.  Menacing.  Her arm and hand were hot.  She had the gun.  Fired blindly.  The first round blew into the corpse’s hip.  The second passed harmlessly through the oncoming channeler’s pant leg.  The third, his thigh.  Nika heard him roar, barely glimpsed his stagger around her meat-blanket.  That was enough.  She willed her hand steady and emptied the magazine.  

Lea had stopped screaming.  The roar of intense fire filled the backdrop.

The man was making terrible noises.

Air came in greedy gulps.  The weight atop her leaked warm blood into her hair, down her face and neck.  Into her ear.  Her back was slick with it too.  A metallic, earthy odor.  The girl couldn’t move.  Nika sobbed around screams.  Inhuman wailing drowned out all else until, hoarse, she could scream no more.  Then there was only the black.

So Mikhail walked. So fucking bored. No fun anywhere. Pretty much pissed him off too. Guess he should move. His shtick was up here. Not that these assholes had more than two brains between all 37 of them. Somehow they had finally figured out he was behind all the crazy shit that happened around the neighborhood.

So suddenly everyone was walking wide of him and being all nice and god he just wanted to.poke someone in the eye to see an honest reaction. Ehh....but he didn't, not really. Didn't seem right to blind someone on a whim. Not unless it was funny, anyway- and they deserved it.

So....he's walkin down one fucking street or another and realizing that he has nothing to do. Fucking Ascendancy. Outing a bunch of people who weren't doin more than having a little fun. Guy deserved payback for that. He kinda wondered if he ever could get close to the guy. He smiled at the idea.

Prick would all be watchin for assassins from governments or higher ups. Not some rando who just thought it would be funny to smack the guy on the back of his head.

Actually, he laughed at the idea. Douche's hair all perfect and manicured and shellacked or whatever and then SMACK!!! HAHAHAHAHA! Cowlick all stickin up and he's lookin around wondering what the hell just happened and Mikhail is lookin all innocent and no power cuz he was so very quick and the asshole-supreme-holy-kiss-his-ass ruler of the world would have to find a stylist cuz he looked like a doofus.

God, he would about die laughing if he could pull that off. Talk about a dick who took everything far too seriously. Ruining it for all honest folks like himself.

Anyway, so he's walkin along, bored enough to set something on fire or see if he can get the Mordvinovs and Kolomovs fighting again when finally (thank you universe for some fun, finally) some asshole pricks are picking on some old lady.

He's no superman. There's no fun in being predictable. Or being at someone's beck and call. But these fuckwads beg for it. And he can be a hero too, when he wants too....well or when it would make it funnier.

He flips his lighter and siezes the power and his eyes flare and the street lights up. And suddenly its like he can feel them.

Melted clothes later and they are running. Well, trying to. Melted clothes really fucking hurt. Get into skin. But hey, his motto that he invented just right then and there is "don't wanna get melted? Don't try to rob old ladies." It's a good one, if he didn't say so himself. Everyone should live by it. He is wise, after all.

He laughed at himself. Dick! And on a whim (hey, he's being a hero, now, what do you expect?) helped her scoop up her groceries, stuff like apples and....what was that? Yuck. Sardines? Not even if he was starving.

Old people....

Well not old, now that he was closer. Not really. Maybe 10 or 15 years older. She just had that slow tired way of walking. Weary with life or whatever. And she looked tired. Rode hard or whatever.

Yeah, he didn't mind helping out. Even put a smile on just for her.
Edited by Mikhail, Jan 28 2018, 12:14 AM.

Jet Terrones Walks Away from Red Hot Blues

<small>Article by Gerrianne Taylor</small>

Few artists in the height of popularity can simply walk away. But true to form, Jet Terrones surprised everyone at Wednesday night’s US Choice Music Awards ceremony by announcing his departure from the industry. With an uncharacteristic humility, thanking everyone who helped “get him where he was,” he said that like “an athlete dying young” he was leaving Red Hot Blues at the pinnacle of success. His decision to leave the group he helped to form 10 years before, and to leave the music industry completely was to “pursue private endeavors.” When later asked in a press conference if he could elaborate he just smiled and responded, “Well, if I told you it wouldn’t be private now, would it?”

It was long thought that his oft chanted threat to quit the music industry if he ever felt he could no longer contribute in a meaningful way - that he would walk away and never look back - was just to draw attention and keep public interest and just an ongoing publicity stunt. It appears today, it was no empty threat.

The mystery surrounding this announcement has all the Swags gossiping. This reporter has heard several rumors, but is not ready to venture an opinion one way or another regarding their veracity.

When Jet’s twin sister, the much loved and respected midnight luna-evangelist Melany Torrones was asked to comment, she said she didn’t have much to do with her brother since he turned to “that evil music.” She cared about his eternal soul, and hoped that his stepping away was a sign that he was coming closer to the goddess.

When asked if there was any hope that he was making any moves to reconcile with his sister, Jet snorted and wiping his eyes, refused to comment.

Jet has been sighted several times in the last three months in the company of his cousin, Beto Trujillo, renowned Justice Department attorney and Fordham University alumni. Something is in the works, but right now, like usually with this master of evasion, nobody knows exactly what’s up.
Edited by Jet, Jan 26 2018, 11:04 PM.

Age 28
Height 5 10
Weight 170
Eyes light brown
Hair light brown
Build athletic

Always has a grin or twinkle in eyes. Just having fun.

Mikhail grew up in Zamoskvoreche district, amid the squalor and crime and violence.

Mikhail's father was just muscle, a grunt for the Solntsevskaya Bratva, the largest crime family in Russia. The family had amassed powerful ties to the government (all the way to the top) and to the new crop of billionaire oligarchs that sprung up after the fall of the Soviet Union.

What goes up, though, must go down. When Nikolai Brandon began his ascent, knocking out rivals, making new connections, providing influence and largess to those who chafed under the current holders of power, many of those politicians, plutocrats and their families lost their place. And the criminal organization that had provided so much in the way of greased palms, enforcement, laundering, assistance of takeovers (hostile and otherwise), workers, etc, the Solntsevskaya Bratva also lost.

New families, the Kolomovs, the Mordvinovs, the Stoyas, the Perov's and others grew in power and wealth, influence and respect, reducing Solntsevskaya Bratva to a shell of what it once was. Old hatreds, resentments and vendettas decimated their ranks. Those who survived moved away or gradually found their place into the other families, trading information, contacts, muscle and money for influence and survival.

Mikhail’s father was too far down the totem pole to have any real enemies. Well none who were as good as he was, anyway. So he survived, albeit now amidst the squalor of a Moscow that had once been his. He told his son the old stories, recounted his glory days, and constantly complained about how everything had changed. “There's no loyalty. We had been great once. One day we'll get our chance.”

But Mikhail totally got a different message. For him, the ending of all the stories his pops told had one thing missing. The most important thing of all. The fucking punchline! The realization that all of it was one big joke. Pride in the family? Hah! In your position? Yeah right. What you had?. Nothing was really yours anyway. Loyalty? Loyal-what?

In fact, as far as he is concerned, everything is part of the joke. The funniest (or saddest, depending on his mood) part of it all is that most don't even realize it. They take everything so fucking seriously. He doesn't. So he has his fun. He gets his things and likes them. But he’s not attached to anything. He's not surprised when it leaves.

So yeah, Mikhail liked his dad ok. He loved his mom more. When he visited after moving out, she’d always made sure to cook his favorites. But, life happens, you know? They died. Nothing spectacular. No massive illnesses or major violence or anything. Just got old, he guessed. First dad and his heart attack. Then mom and her stroke a year later. He was 16.

He didn’t laugh about it. He wasn’t heartless. He missed them. But that was life. Just life... Can’t complain when life acts like life, right?

Still, woulda been cool if they coulda seen him channel. That had happened all at once. He’d been doing work for someone- not good to name names, you know. Can’t be spreading information and all that. Had to travel to find a guy who was hiding and not doing his duty for the community (or at least paying for it). Anyway, some dickhole Gopniks jumped him. He hated those fuckers and their stupid Addidas shoes and jackets and shit, all crouched around watching people, passing the bottle. Pack of mutts like what roamed his neighborhood. Bout as civilized, too.

Anyway, they jumped him as he was lighting up a cigarette and then a bottle flashed and he was on the ground or something- hard to remember, what with all the boots in his face and balls- and something snapped and suddenly the air smelled of burning whatever-the-hell they make Addidas out of and then they were running and despite the pain in his head and balls he laughed and laughed.

Stumbled up and made it to his one bedroom apartment and collapsed on the bed where he shivered the best part of 3 days. So, that was fun, you know? Sheets all soaked and he had missed his date with Nadya. Her pissy message on his wallet made him laugh though. Ah well, he’d make it up to her. All part of the system anyway.

Bottom line, though, was that there were times he could sense a light in the distance. Course he had to be holding that lighter, so, there was that. He supposed he coulda been holding something else when it happened, though. That would have made things funny. Haha, universe. Another joke, right? Almost- seriously, no joke- almost he wished it had happened that way just to see the looks on people’s faces when he channeled. "What the hell is that guy doing with that?"That woulda been even better. Hilarious

Oh yeah, forgot to mention. He loved showing off what he could do. Not like ‘Derrr, hey guys, check out what I can do.’ He just liked channeling in public. People didn’t have to know it was him. It was just funny to watch their expressions as they jumped or something fell over or a car exploded.

He found that fire called to him, just like it had when he was a kid. And he was the receptive kinda guy who picked up that call.

So that’s Mikhail. Just out to see what new joke the universe has in store. Play some of his own. Get his, while he can. Leave ‘em wanting more.


Edited by Mikhail, Jan 26 2018, 10:50 PM.

The safe house was quiet, after all, Ichiro was the only one here. At times like this, he preferred solitude. Losing comrades was always bad. Ichiro had done his mourning, however, and was looking to go elsewhere. He would stay at the safe house for the night.

The whetstone made a gliding sound as Ichiro finished sharpening his blade. Sharpening was always done in a methodical fashion and he placed the blade back in it's scabbard.

He breathed deeply, imagining a light that increased in intensity as he inhaled and decreased as he exhaled draining his emotion into it. He was calm now. Opening a bottle of water, he took a drink and rested. The next day he would check on Cross.

The wolf pack leader - which was a female (something that confused Enrique) - decided to allow some pups to come into the city to allow for Marta's training. A young male pup name Splashing Fish was assigned to Marta. With a name like that, Enrique thought investing in some extra towels would be a good idea.

Marta spoke to the mother wolf, thanking her, and telling her that she would watch over Splash like her brother. Enrique doubted the wolves would like being pets, and Marta seemed to instinctively understand that. It was something that Enrique was grateful for.

Before they went to bed that night, Enrique spoke to the two women. "i have a house in town. Not a bad place - the basement in finished, and your are more than welcome to stay there if you wish. No charge."
The offer was genuine. They were helping Marta and that was payment enough. He assumed they'd want to stick together. It appeared as if the two were a couple. "If not, Marta's schooling is online - so we can work around whatever schedules you have. We'll leave early tomorrow morning so that the wolves don't become too restless with me around."


Enrique gave them his address and contact information so they could get a hold of him when they were ready. The next morning they would get up early and prepare to leave. Enrique made sure to let Marta know that she had to check with Chases Butterflies before they left. He wasn't about to take a pup before its mother was ready to let it go.

The night was chilly and the street quiet. It had rained earlier and the air smelled of wet asphalt and garbage. Other smells too, but he wasn't exactly in a categorizing mood. The heavy sounds of bass music up the street competed with the shhh of traffic on the road. The Little Kitty was not the classiest place, that was for sure.

Anyway, where was he? Oh yeah. Last two days had been.....crazy. Looked like while he and Alex were hooking up, Nox had gone off and gotten himself in some real trouble. A city block torn up, chunks of rock and concrete and building material and whatever the hell else there was- was that lead spikes?- covered the place. Looked like a fucking war zone.

And Nox had been arrested, along with some pretty boy soldier (the way a couple of the guys had joked) or something. And then both of them just disappeared.

He wasn't sure about the soldier, but he had an idea about Nox. Well, more a suspicion. Not that he was a genius or anything. But it seemed familiar. He remembered a certain padded cell, the prodding of needles, tests. Course he'd also been suffering from the sickness, so for him the memory wasn't all that bad. It had saved him. And the Ascendancy had come to him, taught him to control himself, and put him back out on the streets with something in his record that gave him some sort of pull. Enough that the Cap had pulled him onto Domovoi.

No, not a bad memory for him. But he wasn't Nox. Nox could be a dick. More than one, really. Like a whole bag of dicks. But he was honest. Despite what he'd said to Alex- hey, his head was full of tequila and she was hot and he just wanted to kiss her, what did she expect?- he really did believe the guy's story. He doubted Nox wanted a job in the CCD, or would follow orders or whatever they wanted him to do.

And, of course, nobody told him anything. Pissed him off.

Top it all off, he got a call from Uncle Pol. He'd not seen him in years. To be honest, he didn't know why he was being called. He'd known Pol his whole life- his daughter Olena was Ivan's first kiss, first love, really- but it wasn't like they had any heart to hearts. He was pop's friend.

So why the hell was he calling Ivan and asking him to meet him at 2 in the morning down the street from a seedy strip club? Not like Ivan hadn't been tired or anything.

Bah, he was just being a pissy little bitch. Pol had gone down hard after Olena had been shot, bleeding out in his arms. That was a punch to the gut. They all took it hard. But Pol never climbed back out of the bottle.

He owed him. For pops. For Olena's sake.

Hello!

I told Ascendancy that it's totally okay to use Torri n the Facility whenever you need her around. I probably won't do much more with this character than be a presence as-needed.

So what do you want to accomplish down there? That'll give me some ideas of how to proceed.