05-05-2020, 03:29 AM
(This post was last modified: 05-05-2020, 04:15 AM by Ascendancy.)
The tale that unraveled slowly came into focus. Nox was scattered, frantic with the emotion with which it was relayed. What happened to him struck the core of his being; and it was clear that Atharim was not his identity. The Atharim was a vehicle to a life’s purpose. Nikolai was not so ignorant as to assume altruism drove Nox into the fight. There were many reasons a man may devote himself to one cause, but Nik didn’t care to dig to depths only a psychiatrist dared plunge. Nox was a protector through and through. No matter what he else, Nikolai could trust that proclamation.
The map was astoundingly detailed. He did not think even the Custody had a comparable record. The history of the tunnels beneath Moscow was riddled in infamy. The first worm holes were excavated almost a millennium ago, when the battles against the Tartars spilled native blood that spawned a glorious regime. The data was loaded to their system along with an order to interweave it among their own intelligence archives. Together, a complete picture of what was known may emerge. Some said there were fully unmapped layers to the undercity, and that none really knew how far into the earth they delved. Nikolai was morbidly fascinated with the undercity, but he’d skim the information later.
The story seemed to wax and wane, skipping chronologic sense and explanations of identities: Nova? Chup? That last one was Chupacabra, he finally discerned the slang for himself. He didn’t remember much detail other than word associations: desert, dog, blood. Vaia Plus was also vaguely known to him. They were a powerful industry in Moscow and throughout the Custody, but nothing unusual prickled his memory in a way that may lace their involvement in monsters, tunnels, blood and demise.
As the story concluded, Nox withdrew into himself. Nikolai was respectfully wary, poised on the verge of seizing the power in order to contain what may erupt, but nothing happened. Nox regained control of what warred within, and Nik’s jaw tensed at the darkness.
“You did the right thing coming here. What you describe has the potential to massacre millions of unsuspecting people. It’s a matter of time before happened to you happens to someone else. We can’t let that come to pass,” he said.
Nox wanted to consult the Atharim, the very people who continued to send assassins to kill him. Nikolai understood the dilemma. “The Atharim aren’t going to help you. They would have done so by now. You say Domovoi is inadequately experienced, and you’re ready to plunge in guns blazing again. I respect that, but we need more weapons than the gun at the hip of a cowboy.”
He turned to summon images of the Facility. The laboratories were greater than what Nox previously experienced the last he visited it. One doctor in particular was summoned. She was in her thirties, with light brown hair tied back into a neat bun. She had the air of military training pressed to thin lips despite the white coat.
“This is Doctor Weston. She’s been doing research on channeler genetics,” he said and swiped to the image of another woman. She was about the same age, but her dark hair and big eyes gave off an aura of drama and intelligence. “And this is Doctor Zayed. She is doing channeling detection research, trying to understand the energy of this power we use. We have science at our fingertips. A few simple tests may unlock the key to understanding what it is that’s happened to you. We need to understand how this infection that’s gripped you is transmitted, how to stop it other than amputation, and how to cure it. Things the Atharim should have been doing, but they have poured their resources into killing innocent children when they should be eradicating monsters,” he said, detest in his tone.
He thought Nox would submit to a few tests. Perhaps Doctor Weston could design some sort of anecdote that could curb the cravings Nox described. It would at least give him some comfort in the meantime.
Now, what to do about the creatures themselves. Nox was right. Domovoi was not prepared for such a massive mission. After a moment’s thought, he slipped the suit jacket from his shoulders, draping it gently atop the sofa. Then he carefully unbuttoned the cuff of the accompanying white shirt, showing Nox the arm beneath. Something pulled him into the fog of a past he rarely discussed. Perhaps it was because nobody understood the gravity of what he showed. None except another Atharim. Armande would have, had he taken such a gesture. Instead, he shared it with Nox.
The ouroboros tattoo was barely discernable. It was once a simple design. Nikolai did not enjoy the act of being tattooed and wanted it over as quickly as possible. The skin was obscured by four puckered lines that once split the skin down to the bone. The claws avoided the radial artery, knowing exactly where to slice to avoid instant death of its victim. They liked the blood warm.
“A dreyken did this. He drew his fingernails of his other hand along the scars, reliving the motion. ”The tattoo was so new, it still hurt. He called me a baby Atharim when he sucked the blood from his fingers. It was my first and last hunt,” his gaze lifted to Nox’s. Nikolai still looked young, and for a brief moment, a flash of boyhood seemed to show itself behind the blue eyes peering through his hair. He was handsome in a way that inspired instant trust, and it was determination that replaced the momentary vulnerability. He smiled with a sort of triumph only a hunter may appreciate. Nox would appreciate. “That night was the first time the power came to me,” he spoke like they shared a secret. They did. “I never yearned for a second hunt. My destiny carried me to a seat greater than the Atharim,” he spoke gently, locking Nox with the sort of gaze that promised something unspoken. The idea was very intriguing, though. The tunnels called him home.
He began to reroll the sleeve. “I’m going to see to it that you get a prosthetic. The advancements are so cutting edge, even the 3d printed skin has touch receptors that interface with neural networks. Unless you want a silver arm like someone out of a comic book,” he smiled, teasing.
The map was astoundingly detailed. He did not think even the Custody had a comparable record. The history of the tunnels beneath Moscow was riddled in infamy. The first worm holes were excavated almost a millennium ago, when the battles against the Tartars spilled native blood that spawned a glorious regime. The data was loaded to their system along with an order to interweave it among their own intelligence archives. Together, a complete picture of what was known may emerge. Some said there were fully unmapped layers to the undercity, and that none really knew how far into the earth they delved. Nikolai was morbidly fascinated with the undercity, but he’d skim the information later.
The story seemed to wax and wane, skipping chronologic sense and explanations of identities: Nova? Chup? That last one was Chupacabra, he finally discerned the slang for himself. He didn’t remember much detail other than word associations: desert, dog, blood. Vaia Plus was also vaguely known to him. They were a powerful industry in Moscow and throughout the Custody, but nothing unusual prickled his memory in a way that may lace their involvement in monsters, tunnels, blood and demise.
As the story concluded, Nox withdrew into himself. Nikolai was respectfully wary, poised on the verge of seizing the power in order to contain what may erupt, but nothing happened. Nox regained control of what warred within, and Nik’s jaw tensed at the darkness.
“You did the right thing coming here. What you describe has the potential to massacre millions of unsuspecting people. It’s a matter of time before happened to you happens to someone else. We can’t let that come to pass,” he said.
Nox wanted to consult the Atharim, the very people who continued to send assassins to kill him. Nikolai understood the dilemma. “The Atharim aren’t going to help you. They would have done so by now. You say Domovoi is inadequately experienced, and you’re ready to plunge in guns blazing again. I respect that, but we need more weapons than the gun at the hip of a cowboy.”
He turned to summon images of the Facility. The laboratories were greater than what Nox previously experienced the last he visited it. One doctor in particular was summoned. She was in her thirties, with light brown hair tied back into a neat bun. She had the air of military training pressed to thin lips despite the white coat.
“This is Doctor Weston. She’s been doing research on channeler genetics,” he said and swiped to the image of another woman. She was about the same age, but her dark hair and big eyes gave off an aura of drama and intelligence. “And this is Doctor Zayed. She is doing channeling detection research, trying to understand the energy of this power we use. We have science at our fingertips. A few simple tests may unlock the key to understanding what it is that’s happened to you. We need to understand how this infection that’s gripped you is transmitted, how to stop it other than amputation, and how to cure it. Things the Atharim should have been doing, but they have poured their resources into killing innocent children when they should be eradicating monsters,” he said, detest in his tone.
He thought Nox would submit to a few tests. Perhaps Doctor Weston could design some sort of anecdote that could curb the cravings Nox described. It would at least give him some comfort in the meantime.
Now, what to do about the creatures themselves. Nox was right. Domovoi was not prepared for such a massive mission. After a moment’s thought, he slipped the suit jacket from his shoulders, draping it gently atop the sofa. Then he carefully unbuttoned the cuff of the accompanying white shirt, showing Nox the arm beneath. Something pulled him into the fog of a past he rarely discussed. Perhaps it was because nobody understood the gravity of what he showed. None except another Atharim. Armande would have, had he taken such a gesture. Instead, he shared it with Nox.
The ouroboros tattoo was barely discernable. It was once a simple design. Nikolai did not enjoy the act of being tattooed and wanted it over as quickly as possible. The skin was obscured by four puckered lines that once split the skin down to the bone. The claws avoided the radial artery, knowing exactly where to slice to avoid instant death of its victim. They liked the blood warm.
“A dreyken did this. He drew his fingernails of his other hand along the scars, reliving the motion. ”The tattoo was so new, it still hurt. He called me a baby Atharim when he sucked the blood from his fingers. It was my first and last hunt,” his gaze lifted to Nox’s. Nikolai still looked young, and for a brief moment, a flash of boyhood seemed to show itself behind the blue eyes peering through his hair. He was handsome in a way that inspired instant trust, and it was determination that replaced the momentary vulnerability. He smiled with a sort of triumph only a hunter may appreciate. Nox would appreciate. “That night was the first time the power came to me,” he spoke like they shared a secret. They did. “I never yearned for a second hunt. My destiny carried me to a seat greater than the Atharim,” he spoke gently, locking Nox with the sort of gaze that promised something unspoken. The idea was very intriguing, though. The tunnels called him home.
He began to reroll the sleeve. “I’m going to see to it that you get a prosthetic. The advancements are so cutting edge, even the 3d printed skin has touch receptors that interface with neural networks. Unless you want a silver arm like someone out of a comic book,” he smiled, teasing.