02-15-2014, 02:17 AM
Mecca wasn't exactly a beautiful city, all things considered. There was a certain humor in bulldozing priceless historical sites in order to build five star hotels and McDonalds, he supposed, but it didn't quite qualify as art. Nicholas walked the streets of Mecca barefoot in the two white cloths of the ihram, the traditional clothing of the Hajj. He felt ridiculous, but he figured it was a small price to pay.
Nicholas wasn't sure what suicidal impulse had brought him down to the city's streets. Boredom, most likely. For weeks he'd been cooped up in a hotel room in Moscow, only to be paraded about in front of Brandon's cameras. He looked more like Brandon's bitch than anything, regardless of what scathing articles and live feeds he put out. Was it really any wonder that he was driven to drink?
He frowned. Sobriety.
Now that was interesting. His head rung like a tamborine and his hands shook like he was some kind of addict, but he felt no cravings for liquor. He had something much, much better after all. The first time he'd tried to channel the power sober, it was like being a rodeo cowboy. Even if it was all in his head, he'd felt the absolute certainty that one wrong move would mean the death of himself and those around him. It wasn't like in the movies with some cool hand-wavey things and magic words. You had to grab it and take control, a single slip of the mind more dangerous than tossing bullets in a fire. Not to be melodramatic or anything.
He paused in his walk, taking the chance to drink in that sense of invincibility. Clearing his mind was so much harder without anything to dull it. What took less than ten seconds felt like minutes, as he tossed every emotion and stray thought into a little box. Then he stomped on it for a little while until the magic happened. All at once his senses amplified. He felt every stitch of the white robes, he could smell camel shit three roads away, see the hairline cracks in the foundations of the house he was standing next to... and hear the shouting of ten or twenty pissed off Arabs. If there was one thing in common drinking had in common in magic, it was that it made you feel goddamn invincible. Nicholas decided to see what was going on.
A couple blocks away and he had his answer. A woman stood surrounded by a group of angry men. Her blonde hair was blowing in the wind, and by her clothes he judged her western. A black bullet proof vest with the word "PRESS" standing out in bone white made it obvious what she was. An idiot. She should have at least put on a headscarf with things as they were. Nearby, the guy who was presumably her camera man was taking a vicious beating. It didn't look like things were going to end well for either one, if the stories that had been pouring out of the city since dawn were any indication. The group had decidedly too much rope with them.
Now, how to fix things without getting himself lynched or exposed. "Nicholas Trano: Evil Hell Demon from Hell" wasn't exactly the article he wanted his more conservative constituents reading. Then he remembered: the Legion Premiere's CEO had taken up residence in the same hotel. He was a bit of a dipshit from what Nicholas had seen, but mercenaries were mercenaries. It wasn't like he expected the guy to do an actual mission. He just didn't want to see the woman murdered, and he wasn't confident enough in his abilities to try to save her unless absolutely necessary.
So he made a call.
Hopefully they could send help. CDPS was already dealing with riots in half a dozen places around the city, and he doubted they'd be here any time soon.
Edited by Nick Trano, Feb 16 2014, 10:52 PM.
Nicholas wasn't sure what suicidal impulse had brought him down to the city's streets. Boredom, most likely. For weeks he'd been cooped up in a hotel room in Moscow, only to be paraded about in front of Brandon's cameras. He looked more like Brandon's bitch than anything, regardless of what scathing articles and live feeds he put out. Was it really any wonder that he was driven to drink?
He frowned. Sobriety.
Now that was interesting. His head rung like a tamborine and his hands shook like he was some kind of addict, but he felt no cravings for liquor. He had something much, much better after all. The first time he'd tried to channel the power sober, it was like being a rodeo cowboy. Even if it was all in his head, he'd felt the absolute certainty that one wrong move would mean the death of himself and those around him. It wasn't like in the movies with some cool hand-wavey things and magic words. You had to grab it and take control, a single slip of the mind more dangerous than tossing bullets in a fire. Not to be melodramatic or anything.
He paused in his walk, taking the chance to drink in that sense of invincibility. Clearing his mind was so much harder without anything to dull it. What took less than ten seconds felt like minutes, as he tossed every emotion and stray thought into a little box. Then he stomped on it for a little while until the magic happened. All at once his senses amplified. He felt every stitch of the white robes, he could smell camel shit three roads away, see the hairline cracks in the foundations of the house he was standing next to... and hear the shouting of ten or twenty pissed off Arabs. If there was one thing in common drinking had in common in magic, it was that it made you feel goddamn invincible. Nicholas decided to see what was going on.
A couple blocks away and he had his answer. A woman stood surrounded by a group of angry men. Her blonde hair was blowing in the wind, and by her clothes he judged her western. A black bullet proof vest with the word "PRESS" standing out in bone white made it obvious what she was. An idiot. She should have at least put on a headscarf with things as they were. Nearby, the guy who was presumably her camera man was taking a vicious beating. It didn't look like things were going to end well for either one, if the stories that had been pouring out of the city since dawn were any indication. The group had decidedly too much rope with them.
Now, how to fix things without getting himself lynched or exposed. "Nicholas Trano: Evil Hell Demon from Hell" wasn't exactly the article he wanted his more conservative constituents reading. Then he remembered: the Legion Premiere's CEO had taken up residence in the same hotel. He was a bit of a dipshit from what Nicholas had seen, but mercenaries were mercenaries. It wasn't like he expected the guy to do an actual mission. He just didn't want to see the woman murdered, and he wasn't confident enough in his abilities to try to save her unless absolutely necessary.
So he made a call.
Hopefully they could send help. CDPS was already dealing with riots in half a dozen places around the city, and he doubted they'd be here any time soon.
Edited by Nick Trano, Feb 16 2014, 10:52 PM.