08-20-2016, 08:56 PM
Marcus watched the exchange between Oakland and Ascendancy. And he'd give credit where credit was due. The man knew how to keep tensions from growing as easily as he could stoke them.
And strangely, Marcus found himself liking the man. There was no sycophancy, no simpering. And yet none of the barely concealed contempt or tolerance or dislike that Vellas radiated- was still radiating even now. Oakland could flip on a dime, judge the mood and immediately flow into it like quicksilver.
It was a trait Marcus appreciated, as another practitioner of the art. When dominance was required- demanded even, as it had been out on the square the very first time they spoke- then that was the tack. But emotions were like clothes, easily shed, from one moment to the next, to be replaced by another that befitted the occasion. Marcus knew how he had learned it, in home after home, where each foster parent or sibling was as different as the next, the mood of the house an odor that one must sample and judge before knowing how to fit in, what brought what consequences, and so forth. Idly, he wondered if Oakland's time in San Quentin had been the school he'd learned the quality.
No matter, though. It was what it was and a deal was struck. He suspected Ascendancy disliked being told no. The man was not in the habit of hearing that. But these were different times. Indeed, it seemed a new age, even. The Age of the Ascendants. Gods walked the earth. Battling would have repercussions whose extent were truly were only in their infancy.
It was a new Cold War, only this time the weapons were the Ascendants. Men that he knew of, so far. He suspected Spectra. Perhaps the girl at the Almaz as well. What he wouldn't give to meet a woman who could use the Force and speak to her about it. It felt as if only half the possible knowledge was available to him. What women did- if they had the Force, and he was not fool enough to believe this was purely a male thing- was still unknown to him. And things that were unknown were like an itch. The longer it stayed that way, the more eager he hungered to scratch it.
The feel of the metal ball in his pocket was suddenly noticeable as he shifted his weight, in the way that you suddenly became aware of sensations that had become so constant they became invisible. The way the regular sound of the train near Mrs Swerlin's house eventually became unnoticeable after just a few months.
Yes, that was an itch he longed to scratch. He had something, there. But he could do more, he was sure. Swords were all very well, even ones that would withstand anything done to them. But it seemed almost a pedestrian use of the Force, to simply create a melee weapon. There was something else there.
And then the meeting was done, Oakland given rooms as befit his status, and he and Ascendancy were soon out walking in the halls and eventually wound their way down into the basements. He was content to wait on the man to tell them why they were headed there.
"In the announcement, I spoke of the Atharim. Tell me what you know about them."
Marcus glanced at the man through his peripherals. He had an air of probing. Immediately, his mind raced into calculating mode, trying to anticipate where this was going. A 'mentat' state, smiling inwardly at the comparison. Indeed. It was very apt.
To the question. "I had not heard of them until your speech. However,"
- he paused as certain details he'd connected earlier at the Almaz clicked into place with Ascendancy's revelation. Though to tell all of it was too dangerous. He could not give Malik and his...hungers away. The girl he'd rescued would have to be secret. His mind calculated the information trail to him. She hadn't seen his face. Even on the train, he'd worn his hoodie up. She'd never turned around once as he followed from distance, Force enhancing his senses. And down in the tunnel he'd woven a disguise, not as intricate as the one Oakland had used, but certainly more terrifying. The only one who saw his true face had died screaming out his soul early the next morning. I hunt monsters every day.
Yes. Now he understood.
"I have encountered....one person who piqued my interest. In retrospect, it is possible that he has some knowledge of the Atharim. At the Almaz there was a match between men that truly could not be called men. One of the spectators, an Ascendant, was able to stop one of the creatures that escaped with the Ascendant power. He later remarked to me that the stories were true. His words: There really are things that go bump in the night. When I tried to prise details out of him using different angles of approach, he deflected. A past he did not want to discuss, was all he would say. I do have his contact information, though. But other than that, I know nothing."
And strangely, Marcus found himself liking the man. There was no sycophancy, no simpering. And yet none of the barely concealed contempt or tolerance or dislike that Vellas radiated- was still radiating even now. Oakland could flip on a dime, judge the mood and immediately flow into it like quicksilver.
It was a trait Marcus appreciated, as another practitioner of the art. When dominance was required- demanded even, as it had been out on the square the very first time they spoke- then that was the tack. But emotions were like clothes, easily shed, from one moment to the next, to be replaced by another that befitted the occasion. Marcus knew how he had learned it, in home after home, where each foster parent or sibling was as different as the next, the mood of the house an odor that one must sample and judge before knowing how to fit in, what brought what consequences, and so forth. Idly, he wondered if Oakland's time in San Quentin had been the school he'd learned the quality.
No matter, though. It was what it was and a deal was struck. He suspected Ascendancy disliked being told no. The man was not in the habit of hearing that. But these were different times. Indeed, it seemed a new age, even. The Age of the Ascendants. Gods walked the earth. Battling would have repercussions whose extent were truly were only in their infancy.
It was a new Cold War, only this time the weapons were the Ascendants. Men that he knew of, so far. He suspected Spectra. Perhaps the girl at the Almaz as well. What he wouldn't give to meet a woman who could use the Force and speak to her about it. It felt as if only half the possible knowledge was available to him. What women did- if they had the Force, and he was not fool enough to believe this was purely a male thing- was still unknown to him. And things that were unknown were like an itch. The longer it stayed that way, the more eager he hungered to scratch it.
The feel of the metal ball in his pocket was suddenly noticeable as he shifted his weight, in the way that you suddenly became aware of sensations that had become so constant they became invisible. The way the regular sound of the train near Mrs Swerlin's house eventually became unnoticeable after just a few months.
Yes, that was an itch he longed to scratch. He had something, there. But he could do more, he was sure. Swords were all very well, even ones that would withstand anything done to them. But it seemed almost a pedestrian use of the Force, to simply create a melee weapon. There was something else there.
And then the meeting was done, Oakland given rooms as befit his status, and he and Ascendancy were soon out walking in the halls and eventually wound their way down into the basements. He was content to wait on the man to tell them why they were headed there.
"In the announcement, I spoke of the Atharim. Tell me what you know about them."
Marcus glanced at the man through his peripherals. He had an air of probing. Immediately, his mind raced into calculating mode, trying to anticipate where this was going. A 'mentat' state, smiling inwardly at the comparison. Indeed. It was very apt.
To the question. "I had not heard of them until your speech. However,"
- he paused as certain details he'd connected earlier at the Almaz clicked into place with Ascendancy's revelation. Though to tell all of it was too dangerous. He could not give Malik and his...hungers away. The girl he'd rescued would have to be secret. His mind calculated the information trail to him. She hadn't seen his face. Even on the train, he'd worn his hoodie up. She'd never turned around once as he followed from distance, Force enhancing his senses. And down in the tunnel he'd woven a disguise, not as intricate as the one Oakland had used, but certainly more terrifying. The only one who saw his true face had died screaming out his soul early the next morning. I hunt monsters every day.
Yes. Now he understood.
"I have encountered....one person who piqued my interest. In retrospect, it is possible that he has some knowledge of the Atharim. At the Almaz there was a match between men that truly could not be called men. One of the spectators, an Ascendant, was able to stop one of the creatures that escaped with the Ascendant power. He later remarked to me that the stories were true. His words: There really are things that go bump in the night. When I tried to prise details out of him using different angles of approach, he deflected. A past he did not want to discuss, was all he would say. I do have his contact information, though. But other than that, I know nothing."