https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Tue, 21 Apr 2026 10:17:05 +0000 MyBB https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1934.html Sun, 21 Dec 2025 20:18:17 +0000 Patricus I]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1934.html
The memories of Norway and Siberia clung to him like incense after Mass. The Key of Cunning lay buried deep within the Apostolic Archives now, classified among relics whose natures were best left unquestioned. Yet it called to him. Not with words, not even with thought, but with the subtle allure of something unfinished. He resisted, as was expected of him and as was required. That such a temptation could arise at all was troubling. That he felt it was worse.

Armande had fallen into silence in the weeks that followed. The women who accompanied him spoke little as well, offering weariness as excuse and solitude as shield. Armande himself spoke often of patience, with all the gravity of a cardinal instructing a novice. Patience! To the Pope himself. One of the Fruits, he had called it. The absurdity of it sparked a glare had it not also rung true in some distant corner of Philip’s soul.

And yet, patience was no balm. The other keys remained hidden, scattered like seeds on unbroken ground, and Philip knew without evidence or reasoning that they must be found. That they must not fall into the wrong hands. Whether it was instinct or something more, he could not say. Only that the sense of purpose had not left him.

Rome swelled with celebration in those holy weeks. Chorales rang out beneath the dome of Saint Peter’s; pilgrims crowded the piazza like waves pressed against the shore. Then, as Epiphany gave way to Ordinary Time, the announcement came: the Pope would journey to Moscow.

Not a summons nor an obligation. A choice. It would be his first meeting with the Ascendancy; a public gathering, one announced with careful language and diplomatic tact. Many had asked for such a meeting before; all had been denied. Until now.

The Ascendancy could not know the truth behind the change. But Philip was ready.]]>
The memories of Norway and Siberia clung to him like incense after Mass. The Key of Cunning lay buried deep within the Apostolic Archives now, classified among relics whose natures were best left unquestioned. Yet it called to him. Not with words, not even with thought, but with the subtle allure of something unfinished. He resisted, as was expected of him and as was required. That such a temptation could arise at all was troubling. That he felt it was worse.

Armande had fallen into silence in the weeks that followed. The women who accompanied him spoke little as well, offering weariness as excuse and solitude as shield. Armande himself spoke often of patience, with all the gravity of a cardinal instructing a novice. Patience! To the Pope himself. One of the Fruits, he had called it. The absurdity of it sparked a glare had it not also rung true in some distant corner of Philip’s soul.

And yet, patience was no balm. The other keys remained hidden, scattered like seeds on unbroken ground, and Philip knew without evidence or reasoning that they must be found. That they must not fall into the wrong hands. Whether it was instinct or something more, he could not say. Only that the sense of purpose had not left him.

Rome swelled with celebration in those holy weeks. Chorales rang out beneath the dome of Saint Peter’s; pilgrims crowded the piazza like waves pressed against the shore. Then, as Epiphany gave way to Ordinary Time, the announcement came: the Pope would journey to Moscow.

Not a summons nor an obligation. A choice. It would be his first meeting with the Ascendancy; a public gathering, one announced with careful language and diplomatic tact. Many had asked for such a meeting before; all had been denied. Until now.

The Ascendancy could not know the truth behind the change. But Philip was ready.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1885.html Thu, 16 Oct 2025 21:33:37 +0000 Eliot]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1885.html Reliquiae, as it were. 

But first he had to approach Durante, and that was truly the easiest part of it all, even courting Helena proved to be more difficult than it would be to finding the boy, and convincing him to help. And even if he said no, Eliot was going to give him no options.

That was why he had asked one favor of Jacob Dean. One favor to keep his little secret about harboring a godling. It was easy to manipulate folks when they had such juicy things to put out there.  Durante, he hid nothing, he was an open book. Though it was hard to make things stick with his pet hacker, but Nox hide nothing except his extra-ciriculars for the Atharim.  And the Atharim kept those hidden more so than he did himself.

Three days before Eliot approached Durante outside his home on his daily run, he released a multitude of videos into the dark web. And into the virtual sphere. There was some raw footage of Nox clearing the tunnels. Fireballs flying from the sides of the screen as creatures of the horde fell. Sometimes they came from other angels that weren't Nox, but Eliot cut away any glimpses of the others. It was easy when it was just him and Carpenter flinging fireballs. They stayed out of each others way and the horde melted under their attacks. It was epic.

There were no names, but there were subtle queues that this was the same 'angel', who had been fighting at the Almaz and dancing at Kallisiti. The change in name had been most beneficial.  An Angel, though not the angel Nox perhaps wanted.  But still the footage had been linked to him, and he to it perpetuity now. Fighting monsters was part of his persona.

Now all Eliot had to do was give him a proper face to the Reliquiae. He would lead even if he didn't want to. But he'd have the choice first.

It wasn't long before Nox crossed the street and in front of the bench he sat. Eliot called out. "Nox Durante. Might I have a word?" Eliot pulled his left sleeve up revealing the snake biting his own tail as the boy passed by. Eliot was frail and feeble, he was no threat to him, but he drew upon the power that they both shared. It was not a threat, but a welcome invitation to sit and talk.]]> Reliquiae, as it were. 

But first he had to approach Durante, and that was truly the easiest part of it all, even courting Helena proved to be more difficult than it would be to finding the boy, and convincing him to help. And even if he said no, Eliot was going to give him no options.

That was why he had asked one favor of Jacob Dean. One favor to keep his little secret about harboring a godling. It was easy to manipulate folks when they had such juicy things to put out there.  Durante, he hid nothing, he was an open book. Though it was hard to make things stick with his pet hacker, but Nox hide nothing except his extra-ciriculars for the Atharim.  And the Atharim kept those hidden more so than he did himself.

Three days before Eliot approached Durante outside his home on his daily run, he released a multitude of videos into the dark web. And into the virtual sphere. There was some raw footage of Nox clearing the tunnels. Fireballs flying from the sides of the screen as creatures of the horde fell. Sometimes they came from other angels that weren't Nox, but Eliot cut away any glimpses of the others. It was easy when it was just him and Carpenter flinging fireballs. They stayed out of each others way and the horde melted under their attacks. It was epic.

There were no names, but there were subtle queues that this was the same 'angel', who had been fighting at the Almaz and dancing at Kallisiti. The change in name had been most beneficial.  An Angel, though not the angel Nox perhaps wanted.  But still the footage had been linked to him, and he to it perpetuity now. Fighting monsters was part of his persona.

Now all Eliot had to do was give him a proper face to the Reliquiae. He would lead even if he didn't want to. But he'd have the choice first.

It wasn't long before Nox crossed the street and in front of the bench he sat. Eliot called out. "Nox Durante. Might I have a word?" Eliot pulled his left sleeve up revealing the snake biting his own tail as the boy passed by. Eliot was frail and feeble, he was no threat to him, but he drew upon the power that they both shared. It was not a threat, but a welcome invitation to sit and talk.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1872.html Mon, 15 Sep 2025 14:42:33 +0000 Nox]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1872.html
New information the Ascendancy will want to hear personally

Though he never expected to meet with the man himself, he was always pleasantly surprised the most powerful man in the world took the time to meet with him -- personally.  He could just send a guy no matter how important the information was that Nox needed to relay to the Ascendancy. He had a handler, though he'd never actually met them in person but still the day to day stuff was not Nikolai Brandon's problem, but this -- this not channeling, healing and linking -- that was important.  Important enough to request the audience directly.

Nox did the usual.  He came dressed like always though this time he was sans the big puffy coat he'd been wearing.  There was no need for it with the warmth of the power flitting around his skin keeping him warm.  Though he dropped the power once he was inside. He didn't want to set off any of the Nine Rods of Dominion -- and he wasn't exactly sure he wanted to see Jay anytime soon.  That rejection stung alittle more than it had when it happened.  A lot hurt more now, than it had a week ago.

The receptionist looked up and gave him a curious glance.  She wasn't new. She knew who he was but Nox gave her his best smile. "I've an appointment with the Ascendancy -- Nox Durante." She nodded towards the chairs. "Someone will be with you shortly."  As usual they always doubted someone like him had a meeting with the Ascendancy. It'd be funny if one day the Ascendancy actually greeted him.  But that wasn't likely unless he was on the way out and it was a walk and talk meeting.  He didn't think the Ascendancy did those -- he was a normal person and he was always busy.]]>
New information the Ascendancy will want to hear personally

Though he never expected to meet with the man himself, he was always pleasantly surprised the most powerful man in the world took the time to meet with him -- personally.  He could just send a guy no matter how important the information was that Nox needed to relay to the Ascendancy. He had a handler, though he'd never actually met them in person but still the day to day stuff was not Nikolai Brandon's problem, but this -- this not channeling, healing and linking -- that was important.  Important enough to request the audience directly.

Nox did the usual.  He came dressed like always though this time he was sans the big puffy coat he'd been wearing.  There was no need for it with the warmth of the power flitting around his skin keeping him warm.  Though he dropped the power once he was inside. He didn't want to set off any of the Nine Rods of Dominion -- and he wasn't exactly sure he wanted to see Jay anytime soon.  That rejection stung alittle more than it had when it happened.  A lot hurt more now, than it had a week ago.

The receptionist looked up and gave him a curious glance.  She wasn't new. She knew who he was but Nox gave her his best smile. "I've an appointment with the Ascendancy -- Nox Durante." She nodded towards the chairs. "Someone will be with you shortly."  As usual they always doubted someone like him had a meeting with the Ascendancy. It'd be funny if one day the Ascendancy actually greeted him.  But that wasn't likely unless he was on the way out and it was a walk and talk meeting.  He didn't think the Ascendancy did those -- he was a normal person and he was always busy.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1863.html Thu, 24 Jul 2025 23:01:19 +0000 Ascendancy]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1863.html

Nikolai Brandon & Timothée de Volthström

The world outside fell under winter like a closing fist. Since the announcement of Dominance IX, the city was even more energized, and Nikolai made sure to pour fuel on that fire. The rich of the city were even richer. The future was bright. The grass was green and the sheep were flocking.

From his position at the head of the Hall of St. Andrew Nikolai watched the world’s pulse beat in light and silence. A global map flickered before him. Gold markers glowing across the dominances. Red zones blinked across the African continent, portions of the United States, and finally, China. Resistance, unrest, logistical slowdowns. But nothing was critical. Not anymore.

Behind him, Timothée de Volthstrom entered, CEO of the infamous Banque Volthström was announced by a single chime, Nikolai finished reading an update before looking up.

Texas reports 98.7% adoption of CCD-standard digital commerce. A promising sign. But signs weren’t results.

“Must be faster," he said to himself.

He didn’t speak to fill the space. Words were tools. You use them when they move something forward. Timothée stood where he was supposed to. Silent and respectful, self-sure in that French way his branch of the Volthstroms never seemed to outgrow. Even now, he dressed like a man who believed in elegance as authority. A black coat. White gloves. A priceless antique pocketwatch he hadn’t looked at once.

“You have a pitch?” Nikolai said, powering down the screen and turning to address him. The Hall was empty but for them.

Timothée inclined his head. “Yes sir. We call it Tiles.” He took a small titanium alloy Tile from his inner coat pocket - smooth, marked with something that Nikolai could barely discern.

Of course they had a name. The Volthstroms loved branding. So did Nikolai. Naming something was how you taught people to obey it. He gestured to continue.

Timothée stepped forward like a man invited to present a gift, not a tool. He was both things, really. A servant and a builder. “The CCD Dollar has served its function. It conquered through liquidity. But now it stabilizes. It equalizes. That makes it dangerous. Each Tile is programmable. Tied to identity. The value is fluid: measured against behavior, employment, and ideological integrity.”

Nikolai blinked in surprise that quickly blurred into intrigue. This was the real shape of conquest. Not bombs. Not armies. Choice, restructured. 

“Instead of one unit for all, we introduce relational worth. Two people can each hold a Tile, but only one can buy a ticket. Or medicine. Or a seat.”

“And who decides their value?” he asked.

Timothée didn’t flinch. “You do, of course. Through the systems we’ll build. Their actions will dictate the outcome.”

He liked the answer. But more importantly, he liked that Timothée understood it wasn’t his vision. He wasn’t here to pitch it. He was here to install it.

“Distribution?” Nikolai asked.

"You convert CCD Dollars 1:1 into Tiles during the transition window. After that, all previous currencies are void. Each Tile is stored in a personal wallet—called a Vein—linked to the new Global Identification Registry. Movement, transactions, and asset permissions are all filtered through the Central Lattice, which we’ll administer under… oversight.”

Nikolai felt himself itching to know more. “And enforceable?” He asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “If someone fails to meet standard, breaks the law, owes a fine., their Vein can be suspended. Their Tiles lose power. Their permissions narrow.”

The wheels spun quickly in his mind as he stepped toward him.

He didn’t intimidate. That was too blunt. Instead, he closed distance and watched where Timothée’s eyes tracked. Not his face. The space around it. The calculation.

“How will people accept this?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“You make it a celebration.” Timothée replied. “Tiles will feel like freedom. Customized economy. Personalized reward. They'll believe it’s a step forward.”

Nikolai nodded once. “Because we’ll show them the numbers. We’ll give them leaders who succeed. Faces that rise. And every failure will be personal, not systemic.”

Timothée’s expression shifted, ever so slightly. He understood.

The Volthstroms were always good with systems. But they needed Nikolai to give them clarity of purpose. They’d rule by algorithm. He ruled by vision.

“Build the infrastructure,” he said. “We will role this out to a select few, giving them a taste of what was to come. Set up a meeting with Myshelov to determine who exactly they will be."

“Any concern about dissent?” Timothée asked, cautious but carefully curious.

Nikolai answered, pensive. “A man who earns too few Tiles cannot afford to rebel.”]]>

Nikolai Brandon & Timothée de Volthström

The world outside fell under winter like a closing fist. Since the announcement of Dominance IX, the city was even more energized, and Nikolai made sure to pour fuel on that fire. The rich of the city were even richer. The future was bright. The grass was green and the sheep were flocking.

From his position at the head of the Hall of St. Andrew Nikolai watched the world’s pulse beat in light and silence. A global map flickered before him. Gold markers glowing across the dominances. Red zones blinked across the African continent, portions of the United States, and finally, China. Resistance, unrest, logistical slowdowns. But nothing was critical. Not anymore.

Behind him, Timothée de Volthstrom entered, CEO of the infamous Banque Volthström was announced by a single chime, Nikolai finished reading an update before looking up.

Texas reports 98.7% adoption of CCD-standard digital commerce. A promising sign. But signs weren’t results.

“Must be faster," he said to himself.

He didn’t speak to fill the space. Words were tools. You use them when they move something forward. Timothée stood where he was supposed to. Silent and respectful, self-sure in that French way his branch of the Volthstroms never seemed to outgrow. Even now, he dressed like a man who believed in elegance as authority. A black coat. White gloves. A priceless antique pocketwatch he hadn’t looked at once.

“You have a pitch?” Nikolai said, powering down the screen and turning to address him. The Hall was empty but for them.

Timothée inclined his head. “Yes sir. We call it Tiles.” He took a small titanium alloy Tile from his inner coat pocket - smooth, marked with something that Nikolai could barely discern.

Of course they had a name. The Volthstroms loved branding. So did Nikolai. Naming something was how you taught people to obey it. He gestured to continue.

Timothée stepped forward like a man invited to present a gift, not a tool. He was both things, really. A servant and a builder. “The CCD Dollar has served its function. It conquered through liquidity. But now it stabilizes. It equalizes. That makes it dangerous. Each Tile is programmable. Tied to identity. The value is fluid: measured against behavior, employment, and ideological integrity.”

Nikolai blinked in surprise that quickly blurred into intrigue. This was the real shape of conquest. Not bombs. Not armies. Choice, restructured. 

“Instead of one unit for all, we introduce relational worth. Two people can each hold a Tile, but only one can buy a ticket. Or medicine. Or a seat.”

“And who decides their value?” he asked.

Timothée didn’t flinch. “You do, of course. Through the systems we’ll build. Their actions will dictate the outcome.”

He liked the answer. But more importantly, he liked that Timothée understood it wasn’t his vision. He wasn’t here to pitch it. He was here to install it.

“Distribution?” Nikolai asked.

"You convert CCD Dollars 1:1 into Tiles during the transition window. After that, all previous currencies are void. Each Tile is stored in a personal wallet—called a Vein—linked to the new Global Identification Registry. Movement, transactions, and asset permissions are all filtered through the Central Lattice, which we’ll administer under… oversight.”

Nikolai felt himself itching to know more. “And enforceable?” He asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “If someone fails to meet standard, breaks the law, owes a fine., their Vein can be suspended. Their Tiles lose power. Their permissions narrow.”

The wheels spun quickly in his mind as he stepped toward him.

He didn’t intimidate. That was too blunt. Instead, he closed distance and watched where Timothée’s eyes tracked. Not his face. The space around it. The calculation.

“How will people accept this?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“You make it a celebration.” Timothée replied. “Tiles will feel like freedom. Customized economy. Personalized reward. They'll believe it’s a step forward.”

Nikolai nodded once. “Because we’ll show them the numbers. We’ll give them leaders who succeed. Faces that rise. And every failure will be personal, not systemic.”

Timothée’s expression shifted, ever so slightly. He understood.

The Volthstroms were always good with systems. But they needed Nikolai to give them clarity of purpose. They’d rule by algorithm. He ruled by vision.

“Build the infrastructure,” he said. “We will role this out to a select few, giving them a taste of what was to come. Set up a meeting with Myshelov to determine who exactly they will be."

“Any concern about dissent?” Timothée asked, cautious but carefully curious.

Nikolai answered, pensive. “A man who earns too few Tiles cannot afford to rebel.”]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1846.html Wed, 28 May 2025 17:13:25 +0000 Nox]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1846.html
The first text he sent to Jacob.

Need to talk. Pick a day/time/place and I'll be there

Jacob's reply came back rather quickly

Going Hunt. Meet up afterwards

The Atharim needed to know he could no longer hunt channelers. He could but it was far more dangerous and more likely to get caught and he really didn't want to anyway.  But it was what it was and he would sit down with Jacob and they'd talk.

The second text went to his contact for the Ascendancy.

I need to debrief with the Ascendancy himself. In person. Important information to relay.

He was pretty sure that the whole thing would be a hassle and that they'd have to go in and out of negotiations on whether or  not to let him near the ascendancy. He's had ample opportunity to kill the leader of the known world he could have done it many times -- not that he'd survive the encounter,

Hours later the response came with a date and time and Nox was there at the Kremlin fifteen minutes before the appointment and walked into the Kremlin sans gun and knife even though he absolutely no protection for dying now. He unzipped his coat as he walked inside, he missed the warm bundle of baby he usually kept nestled against his chest, but now wasn't the time. 

His voice was neutral, devoid of any emotion as he walked up to the desk. "I have an appointment with the Ascendancy."  He wasn't wearing a suit like everyone else in the building. He was getting the side eye from security. He didn't care. He didn't feel anything. It wasn't like he was a stranger, he'd been here a few times before, dressed exactly the same, jeans, t-shirt except this time he work heavy hiking boots to stay warm and keep traction as he walked the streets of Moscow.  He should use the car Sage provided them, but he didn't. He could drive if he truly wanted to but it all seemed so frivolous and he didn't want to be in a car anymore than he had to. He preferred his own two feet.  Living in a car tarnished the luxury.

Nox showed the receptionist his ID and they went through the whole thing. He wondered how many hoops he'd have to jump through.]]>
The first text he sent to Jacob.

Need to talk. Pick a day/time/place and I'll be there

Jacob's reply came back rather quickly

Going Hunt. Meet up afterwards

The Atharim needed to know he could no longer hunt channelers. He could but it was far more dangerous and more likely to get caught and he really didn't want to anyway.  But it was what it was and he would sit down with Jacob and they'd talk.

The second text went to his contact for the Ascendancy.

I need to debrief with the Ascendancy himself. In person. Important information to relay.

He was pretty sure that the whole thing would be a hassle and that they'd have to go in and out of negotiations on whether or  not to let him near the ascendancy. He's had ample opportunity to kill the leader of the known world he could have done it many times -- not that he'd survive the encounter,

Hours later the response came with a date and time and Nox was there at the Kremlin fifteen minutes before the appointment and walked into the Kremlin sans gun and knife even though he absolutely no protection for dying now. He unzipped his coat as he walked inside, he missed the warm bundle of baby he usually kept nestled against his chest, but now wasn't the time. 

His voice was neutral, devoid of any emotion as he walked up to the desk. "I have an appointment with the Ascendancy."  He wasn't wearing a suit like everyone else in the building. He was getting the side eye from security. He didn't care. He didn't feel anything. It wasn't like he was a stranger, he'd been here a few times before, dressed exactly the same, jeans, t-shirt except this time he work heavy hiking boots to stay warm and keep traction as he walked the streets of Moscow.  He should use the car Sage provided them, but he didn't. He could drive if he truly wanted to but it all seemed so frivolous and he didn't want to be in a car anymore than he had to. He preferred his own two feet.  Living in a car tarnished the luxury.

Nox showed the receptionist his ID and they went through the whole thing. He wondered how many hoops he'd have to jump through.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1844.html Mon, 26 May 2025 00:46:36 +0000 Marta]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1844.html
Marta wasn't just here to see the pretty church though and think.  Not today.  Today she was actually going to pray.  She went to the side and genuflected before putting down the kneeler.  She crossed herself as Splash lay down next to her.  She folded her hands together, resting her elbows on the pew in front of her. She looked up at the crucifix above the altar with Jesus hanging from it. She wasn't as devout in her prayers as some, but she did believe.  She had found herself praying more lately.  Sometimes she wondered if what she was planning was the right thing - if she really should stand up to the cartels. As she looked up at Jesus, she wondered what he would do if he was her.  She still didn't have an answer.

Her prayer today wasn't for herself.  Sage had told her not to worry.  Hayden had told her not to worry.  Everyone was telling her not to worry, but she couldn't help it.  It upset her how much Nox was hurting - or rather not hurting. He was numb, and that scared her more than it would if he was in pain.  So when she prayed it wasn't for herself.  It was for Nox.

God...if you can hear me. Help him...or help Sage help him...or anyone.  Please.

As was her custom, she never really spoke her prayers out loud - at least not her personal ones. She spoke the ones for Mass out loud like everyone else did. That was her whole prayer.  She kept it simple and to the point.  As she finished she felt moisture on her cheek and wiped away the tear.  Even if her prayer was done, she remained knelt with her hands folded, her eyes focused on the crucifix at the front of the church.]]>
Marta wasn't just here to see the pretty church though and think.  Not today.  Today she was actually going to pray.  She went to the side and genuflected before putting down the kneeler.  She crossed herself as Splash lay down next to her.  She folded her hands together, resting her elbows on the pew in front of her. She looked up at the crucifix above the altar with Jesus hanging from it. She wasn't as devout in her prayers as some, but she did believe.  She had found herself praying more lately.  Sometimes she wondered if what she was planning was the right thing - if she really should stand up to the cartels. As she looked up at Jesus, she wondered what he would do if he was her.  She still didn't have an answer.

Her prayer today wasn't for herself.  Sage had told her not to worry.  Hayden had told her not to worry.  Everyone was telling her not to worry, but she couldn't help it.  It upset her how much Nox was hurting - or rather not hurting. He was numb, and that scared her more than it would if he was in pain.  So when she prayed it wasn't for herself.  It was for Nox.

God...if you can hear me. Help him...or help Sage help him...or anyone.  Please.

As was her custom, she never really spoke her prayers out loud - at least not her personal ones. She spoke the ones for Mass out loud like everyone else did. That was her whole prayer.  She kept it simple and to the point.  As she finished she felt moisture on her cheek and wiped away the tear.  Even if her prayer was done, she remained knelt with her hands folded, her eyes focused on the crucifix at the front of the church.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1696.html Wed, 11 Dec 2024 21:07:05 +0000 Danika]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1696.html
Danika stood in front of the projection table, hands flexing in her gloves as she stared at the equations glowing in midair. Her equations. A lattice of Kerr-Newman metrics, quantum energy tensors, and nonlinear dynamics that coiled and looped in neon-blue threads, shifting slightly with each twitch of her fingers. 

"Okay, Danika. Where are you?" she murmured to herself, narrowing her focus. She inhaled deeply, counting to three, then exhaled, counting to five. The numbers soothed her, the rhythm cutting through the noise in her head. Her thoughts fell into step, each piece of information locking into place like puzzle pieces. This was her process. Order from chaos. One variable at a time. 

Her voice emerged in a precise, muted tone as she narrated her notes for the system’s records. "Throat instability remains unresolved. Negative energy density partially compensates for collapse, but quantum foam interference destabilizes the Casimir boundary. Casimir boundary fails. Wormhole fails." 

She raised her left hand, and the equations rearranged themselves, isolating the unstable throat region of the simulation. The wormhole—their wormhole—the theory put forth by her, Allan, and Marcus hovered in holographic relief. A gleaming ring of luminous particles, twisting inward toward a dark, swirling center. It was beautiful. Flawed, but beautiful. But it refused to hold. 

The projection pulsed red, collapsing into a cascade of error codes. 

Her fingers twitched in frustration, but she immediately stilled them. "No," she said softly. "Frustration is irrelevant." She repeated the phrase to herself, her tone flat, her posture rigid. Frustration was noise, and noise had no place here. Her job was to listen to the signal. 

Revisit the theory. Her mind pivoted, setting aside the failure and combing through the math again, step by step. 

Danika tapped her fingers in the air, summoning a new set of visualizations. The Kerr-Newman manifold unfolded in three dimensions, its curved spacetime geometry glowing faintly. She zoomed in on the throat region, watching the exotic matter distribution spike erratically before the whole thing collapsed. Again. 

She let out a sharp breath, narrating once more for records. Perhaps AI could help her solve the issue at hand. "Problem: The throat collapses. Cause: Insufficient negative energy density to stabilize quantum fluctuations. Solution...?" She trailed off, her mind racing ahead. 

Her right hand flicked, pulling up a new layer of equations. She scrolled rapidly, her lips moving soundlessly. The Casimir boundary worked, sort of. But the exotic matter injection destabilized the foam. That created a feedback loop. If I... adjust the foam density... No, that breaks symmetry.

Her thoughts spiraled, one idea leading to another, a chain reaction of possibilities unraveling into dead ends. But this was the part she loved. The hunt. The puzzle. The moment when everything else disappeared except for the pure pursuit of understanding. 

The violet glow came quietly, creeping up her fingers in faint, flickering tendrils. She barely noticed it at first, so engrossed was she in the equations. But as her concentration deepened, the glow intensified, tracing faint shadows across her skin, pulsing in time with her thoughts. The magic always came when she worked like this, threading itself through her mind and her hands. 

"Magic is just science we don’t understand.” The reminder was automatic, a mantra she'd repeated to herself since the first time she'd accidentally blown up a lab table. She couldn't let it take over. The math was still the foundation. The magic was just... supplemental. Like a compass, pointing her toward something she couldn't see. 

The equations shifted again, reshaping themselves as her magic whispered through the system. For a moment, her heart leapt. The negative energy density evened out. The throat stabilized. The hologram flickered... 

And then it imploded. Again. 

Danika blinked rapidly, forcing herself to suppress the flicker of disappointment. "It's not enough," she murmured. "Still missing something." 

Her hands dropped to her sides, the glow fading as her magic subsided. The hologram dissolved into a blank field of light, awaiting her next input. She stared at it for a long moment, her mind tracing the edges of what she knew—and what she didn’t. 

"The throat won't stabilize on its own. I know that." She rubbed her temples, the faint pressure grounding her. "Exotic matter density isn’t the problem. It’s... it’s symmetry. It’s alignment. Something isn’t balanced. Remember the two constants.” Of course she was referencing her famous double constants, Zayed’s numbers: ι•Ν and Λ•Γ.

Her mind jumped to a memory of a man’s voice. Calm, steady, annoyingly good at pointing out the flaws she didn’t want to see. "Danika, you can’t brute-force a wormhole,” he’d said during their last argument. ”It’s not just math. It’s geometry. Dynamics. The whole system has to sing together, or it falls apart." 

"Sing together." The phrase stuck in her mind, poetic, but accurate. She could almost hear Marcus chiming in, his tone playful but his insight razor-sharp. "You need the conductor for the orchestra, Danika. I can see the symphonies in my sleep. You’re the engine; I’m the melody." 

Danika turned back to the projection table. Her equations were good—better than good. But there was a piece missing, something she couldn’t see alone. Allan had an intuitive grasp of spacetime dynamics that felt like sorcery. Marcus, meanwhile, had a talent for simplifying the complex and grounding her theories in practical engineering. Together, their strengths complemented her own. 

---

"Casimir" refers to the Casimir effect, a real-world phenomenon from quantum physics. The Casimir effect occurs when two uncharged, parallel plates are placed very close together in a vacuum, and an attractive force arises between them due to fluctuations in the quantum field. This effect is often used in speculative science and sci-fi to theorize about "negative energy density," which is key to many hypothetical physics concepts, such as stabilizing wormholes.]]>
Danika stood in front of the projection table, hands flexing in her gloves as she stared at the equations glowing in midair. Her equations. A lattice of Kerr-Newman metrics, quantum energy tensors, and nonlinear dynamics that coiled and looped in neon-blue threads, shifting slightly with each twitch of her fingers. 

"Okay, Danika. Where are you?" she murmured to herself, narrowing her focus. She inhaled deeply, counting to three, then exhaled, counting to five. The numbers soothed her, the rhythm cutting through the noise in her head. Her thoughts fell into step, each piece of information locking into place like puzzle pieces. This was her process. Order from chaos. One variable at a time. 

Her voice emerged in a precise, muted tone as she narrated her notes for the system’s records. "Throat instability remains unresolved. Negative energy density partially compensates for collapse, but quantum foam interference destabilizes the Casimir boundary. Casimir boundary fails. Wormhole fails." 

She raised her left hand, and the equations rearranged themselves, isolating the unstable throat region of the simulation. The wormhole—their wormhole—the theory put forth by her, Allan, and Marcus hovered in holographic relief. A gleaming ring of luminous particles, twisting inward toward a dark, swirling center. It was beautiful. Flawed, but beautiful. But it refused to hold. 

The projection pulsed red, collapsing into a cascade of error codes. 

Her fingers twitched in frustration, but she immediately stilled them. "No," she said softly. "Frustration is irrelevant." She repeated the phrase to herself, her tone flat, her posture rigid. Frustration was noise, and noise had no place here. Her job was to listen to the signal. 

Revisit the theory. Her mind pivoted, setting aside the failure and combing through the math again, step by step. 

Danika tapped her fingers in the air, summoning a new set of visualizations. The Kerr-Newman manifold unfolded in three dimensions, its curved spacetime geometry glowing faintly. She zoomed in on the throat region, watching the exotic matter distribution spike erratically before the whole thing collapsed. Again. 

She let out a sharp breath, narrating once more for records. Perhaps AI could help her solve the issue at hand. "Problem: The throat collapses. Cause: Insufficient negative energy density to stabilize quantum fluctuations. Solution...?" She trailed off, her mind racing ahead. 

Her right hand flicked, pulling up a new layer of equations. She scrolled rapidly, her lips moving soundlessly. The Casimir boundary worked, sort of. But the exotic matter injection destabilized the foam. That created a feedback loop. If I... adjust the foam density... No, that breaks symmetry.

Her thoughts spiraled, one idea leading to another, a chain reaction of possibilities unraveling into dead ends. But this was the part she loved. The hunt. The puzzle. The moment when everything else disappeared except for the pure pursuit of understanding. 

The violet glow came quietly, creeping up her fingers in faint, flickering tendrils. She barely noticed it at first, so engrossed was she in the equations. But as her concentration deepened, the glow intensified, tracing faint shadows across her skin, pulsing in time with her thoughts. The magic always came when she worked like this, threading itself through her mind and her hands. 

"Magic is just science we don’t understand.” The reminder was automatic, a mantra she'd repeated to herself since the first time she'd accidentally blown up a lab table. She couldn't let it take over. The math was still the foundation. The magic was just... supplemental. Like a compass, pointing her toward something she couldn't see. 

The equations shifted again, reshaping themselves as her magic whispered through the system. For a moment, her heart leapt. The negative energy density evened out. The throat stabilized. The hologram flickered... 

And then it imploded. Again. 

Danika blinked rapidly, forcing herself to suppress the flicker of disappointment. "It's not enough," she murmured. "Still missing something." 

Her hands dropped to her sides, the glow fading as her magic subsided. The hologram dissolved into a blank field of light, awaiting her next input. She stared at it for a long moment, her mind tracing the edges of what she knew—and what she didn’t. 

"The throat won't stabilize on its own. I know that." She rubbed her temples, the faint pressure grounding her. "Exotic matter density isn’t the problem. It’s... it’s symmetry. It’s alignment. Something isn’t balanced. Remember the two constants.” Of course she was referencing her famous double constants, Zayed’s numbers: ι•Ν and Λ•Γ.

Her mind jumped to a memory of a man’s voice. Calm, steady, annoyingly good at pointing out the flaws she didn’t want to see. "Danika, you can’t brute-force a wormhole,” he’d said during their last argument. ”It’s not just math. It’s geometry. Dynamics. The whole system has to sing together, or it falls apart." 

"Sing together." The phrase stuck in her mind, poetic, but accurate. She could almost hear Marcus chiming in, his tone playful but his insight razor-sharp. "You need the conductor for the orchestra, Danika. I can see the symphonies in my sleep. You’re the engine; I’m the melody." 

Danika turned back to the projection table. Her equations were good—better than good. But there was a piece missing, something she couldn’t see alone. Allan had an intuitive grasp of spacetime dynamics that felt like sorcery. Marcus, meanwhile, had a talent for simplifying the complex and grounding her theories in practical engineering. Together, their strengths complemented her own. 

---

"Casimir" refers to the Casimir effect, a real-world phenomenon from quantum physics. The Casimir effect occurs when two uncharged, parallel plates are placed very close together in a vacuum, and an attractive force arises between them due to fluctuations in the quantum field. This effect is often used in speculative science and sci-fi to theorize about "negative energy density," which is key to many hypothetical physics concepts, such as stabilizing wormholes.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1620.html Sat, 20 Jul 2024 01:08:02 +0000 Ascendancy]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1620.html Early Winter, 2046

Six months since Texas left the United States.

Updates from Evelyn informed him that the federal government was in chaos. Lawsuits were filed back and forth, largely ignored by Texas, whose borders with adjacent states were closed. Simultaneously, the border between Texas and Mexico became quite fluid, and intelligence suggested that Jessika Thrice and Damien Oakland were seen together multiple times. He would soon have a new update for Evelyn.

Nikolai leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming a victorious rhythm on the armrest.

The secure line connected and the de facto president of Mexico appeared on the screen, his rugged features illuminated by the dim light of his office. It was around 9 pm local time.

"Damien," Nikolai greeted, his voice a blend of camaraderie and command. A flicker of tension passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of a tenuous alliance. “It's time."

"Mexico is ready," Damien responded, his tone confident and not dissuaded by the presence of the Ascendancy, “The border situation is under control. All the cartels are accounted for. I’ve spoken with the leaders of our southerly brethren, and I have no doubt that left alone between Dominance VIII and Dominance IX, they will join you in days."

Nikolai’s eyes gleamed. "Then it's settled. Make the announcement.” Damien nodded in acknowledgement, but he showed no other deference as the call ended.

Damien’s image vanished, replaced by the blank screen, and Nikolai allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. His plan, months in the making, was unfolding with impeccable precision. He turned his chair to gaze out over the Kremlin grounds, contemplating the significance of this moment.

Next, he initiated another secure video call, this time, Jessika Thrice’s face appeared on the screen, her expression a mix of ambition and barely contained excitement.

"Consider it done, Ascendancy,” Jessika said in her upbeat, Texas drawl, eyes gleaming. "Texas is yours. As agreed, I expect my new title will be formalized posthaste."

"Of course,” Nikolai replied smoothly, a smile tugging at his lips. "Are you ready for your triumphant arrival to Moscow, Privilege?"

Her lips twisted into a proud smile, “Yes I am. I will be there as soon as you summon me.”

The call ended, leaving Nikolai alone with his thoughts. A triumphant elixir of power surged as he exhaled with relief. Texas and Mexico, united under the CCD’s banner, were just the beginning. Central America would fall like dominos, each state a stepping stone in his grand design. This was the beginning of the end of the USA.

He rose, his silhouette casting long shadows by the rising sun. He had orchestrated every detail, manipulated every player. From the fall of the most powerful cartel in central America, the Amengual Cartel, to create a power vacuum that would follow to usher in the era of Damien Oakland, to giving Jessika Thrice, Governor of Texas, exactly what she wanted in exchange for her loyalty. The chaos in the United States, the cessation of Texas, the strategic positioning of Jessika and Damien—it had all been part of his master plan.

With a final glance out the window, the earliest staffers were beginning to arrive, but before they did, Nikolai summoned the image of a grand map adorning his office wall. His fingers traced the new borders, the territories soon to be under his control. He imagined the announcement, the shockwaves it would send through the global community, the inevitable submission of the remaining Central American states and the final fall of America.

The corners of his mouth curled into a cold, satisfied smile. The world would soon witness the completion of an empire, his empire. And nothing would stand in his way.]]> Early Winter, 2046

Six months since Texas left the United States.

Updates from Evelyn informed him that the federal government was in chaos. Lawsuits were filed back and forth, largely ignored by Texas, whose borders with adjacent states were closed. Simultaneously, the border between Texas and Mexico became quite fluid, and intelligence suggested that Jessika Thrice and Damien Oakland were seen together multiple times. He would soon have a new update for Evelyn.

Nikolai leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming a victorious rhythm on the armrest.

The secure line connected and the de facto president of Mexico appeared on the screen, his rugged features illuminated by the dim light of his office. It was around 9 pm local time.

"Damien," Nikolai greeted, his voice a blend of camaraderie and command. A flicker of tension passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of a tenuous alliance. “It's time."

"Mexico is ready," Damien responded, his tone confident and not dissuaded by the presence of the Ascendancy, “The border situation is under control. All the cartels are accounted for. I’ve spoken with the leaders of our southerly brethren, and I have no doubt that left alone between Dominance VIII and Dominance IX, they will join you in days."

Nikolai’s eyes gleamed. "Then it's settled. Make the announcement.” Damien nodded in acknowledgement, but he showed no other deference as the call ended.

Damien’s image vanished, replaced by the blank screen, and Nikolai allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. His plan, months in the making, was unfolding with impeccable precision. He turned his chair to gaze out over the Kremlin grounds, contemplating the significance of this moment.

Next, he initiated another secure video call, this time, Jessika Thrice’s face appeared on the screen, her expression a mix of ambition and barely contained excitement.

"Consider it done, Ascendancy,” Jessika said in her upbeat, Texas drawl, eyes gleaming. "Texas is yours. As agreed, I expect my new title will be formalized posthaste."

"Of course,” Nikolai replied smoothly, a smile tugging at his lips. "Are you ready for your triumphant arrival to Moscow, Privilege?"

Her lips twisted into a proud smile, “Yes I am. I will be there as soon as you summon me.”

The call ended, leaving Nikolai alone with his thoughts. A triumphant elixir of power surged as he exhaled with relief. Texas and Mexico, united under the CCD’s banner, were just the beginning. Central America would fall like dominos, each state a stepping stone in his grand design. This was the beginning of the end of the USA.

He rose, his silhouette casting long shadows by the rising sun. He had orchestrated every detail, manipulated every player. From the fall of the most powerful cartel in central America, the Amengual Cartel, to create a power vacuum that would follow to usher in the era of Damien Oakland, to giving Jessika Thrice, Governor of Texas, exactly what she wanted in exchange for her loyalty. The chaos in the United States, the cessation of Texas, the strategic positioning of Jessika and Damien—it had all been part of his master plan.

With a final glance out the window, the earliest staffers were beginning to arrive, but before they did, Nikolai summoned the image of a grand map adorning his office wall. His fingers traced the new borders, the territories soon to be under his control. He imagined the announcement, the shockwaves it would send through the global community, the inevitable submission of the remaining Central American states and the final fall of America.

The corners of his mouth curled into a cold, satisfied smile. The world would soon witness the completion of an empire, his empire. And nothing would stand in his way.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1618.html Sun, 14 Jul 2024 19:59:59 +0000 Quillon Hawke]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1618.html
Quillon wore his long purple robe, the collar high and curled around the back of his neck, with the symbol of the Veilwardens sewn upon the breast. Beneath were simple clothing, black trousers and a scoop-neck shirt. The robe kept him warm, but he was born and raised in Moscow, the temperature would need to plummet before needing adding a coat and scarf.

He began his oration, imploring to those passing to turn to the Ascendancy, a modern day god in flesh form, and of course, to join the Brotherhood in their acknowledgment of such a being. Several people stopped to scan their information, no too few because the current speaker was so intense about his oration.

After a short time, a Red Devil approached, one of the armed security who monitored the Red Square’s safety. Quillon frowned, saying as the Guard approached: “Now hold on, I have a permit to be here,” which he promptly showed. The Devil, in his orange, red and black uniform shook his head. “Permit is only good for coded areas. This isn’t one of them. You’ll have to move on.” He pointed.

Quillon guffawed, “Not according to your own damn website. This is perfectly legal.”

The Devil folded his arms, growing impatient. “Look, we’ve been lenient with the Brotherhood plenty of times in the past. Coded areas change frequently. Move on or you’ll be issued a citation. I hate to ban another one of you.”

Quillon begrudgingly packed up his stuff, casting a jealous look at the red walls of the Kremlin before ducking off toward a side street. Finally, he found a decent corner outside an artist’ gallery and began again.]]>
Quillon wore his long purple robe, the collar high and curled around the back of his neck, with the symbol of the Veilwardens sewn upon the breast. Beneath were simple clothing, black trousers and a scoop-neck shirt. The robe kept him warm, but he was born and raised in Moscow, the temperature would need to plummet before needing adding a coat and scarf.

He began his oration, imploring to those passing to turn to the Ascendancy, a modern day god in flesh form, and of course, to join the Brotherhood in their acknowledgment of such a being. Several people stopped to scan their information, no too few because the current speaker was so intense about his oration.

After a short time, a Red Devil approached, one of the armed security who monitored the Red Square’s safety. Quillon frowned, saying as the Guard approached: “Now hold on, I have a permit to be here,” which he promptly showed. The Devil, in his orange, red and black uniform shook his head. “Permit is only good for coded areas. This isn’t one of them. You’ll have to move on.” He pointed.

Quillon guffawed, “Not according to your own damn website. This is perfectly legal.”

The Devil folded his arms, growing impatient. “Look, we’ve been lenient with the Brotherhood plenty of times in the past. Coded areas change frequently. Move on or you’ll be issued a citation. I hate to ban another one of you.”

Quillon begrudgingly packed up his stuff, casting a jealous look at the red walls of the Kremlin before ducking off toward a side street. Finally, he found a decent corner outside an artist’ gallery and began again.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1539.html Mon, 11 Sep 2023 23:20:29 +0000 Ascendancy]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1539.html
The restaurant Turandot was opened on Tverskaya Boulevard in December 2031, immediately becoming fashionable as one of the main gastronomic and architectural attractions of Moscow. Turandot was as culturally popular as the Kremlin, the Bolshoi Theatre and St. Basil’s Cathedral. 

The large, two-storied building, hiding behind the walls of a mansion was constructed over six years to a cost of 20 million dollars. It was built on the fantasy of the luxurious dining hall of medieval European palaces and upon its opening, became one of the most gorgeous restaurants in Moscow, and by extension, the world.

Turandot was a feather in the cap of the prestigious and powerful Stoya family, one of Moscow’s great mafia families. Their ownership never hindered the restaurant’s popularity, but in fact might have bolstered its infamy. It was a common place to glimpse oligarchs and bureaucrats, for instance.

Nikolai emerged with Barrier Preator Agents already waiting for his arrival. He trusted others were inside and more surrounded unseen. He hadn’t actually glimpsed Alric today, but the man was always close when Nikolai left the confines of his fortress home. As soon as he did, he paused to greet the pedestrians held back from his passage. There were gasps and excited angling of Wallets. Video rolled and people waved him over. He stopped for a few selfies under the watchful eyes of the Barriers, shook hands and smiled.

Soon he entered Turandot, mood lifted as sure as if the people hefted him upon their shoulders. This was Myshelov’s favorite restaurant, and from time to time, Nikolai agreed to meet the Patron of Moscow there. Not only was it good to be seen out and about, but the Stoya’s benefited as well. Sure to that, Mr. Stoya himself greeted him with a handshake and shared words of appreciation for his return. Nikolai’s presence only extended his favoring of the family, which quietly suggested that they remained in his, and the government’s, good graces. They would continue to exert their power and keep their domain under control in the city, and so round and around the relationship went. As it did with all the families of the new aristocracy.

The main hall was two stories high, and there were round tables in the lower atrium surrounded by several luxury booths for privacy. It was beautifully furnished with magnificent crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of the dome, making the environment even more romantic and otherworldly.

He passed through the restaurant to many a turning head, nodding face, or smiling woman. Myshelov was already waiting at his preferred table: second level beneath the rotunda, center to the back. The entire floor was vacant of restauranteurs, for respect of the privacy of their conversation but also for reasons of practicality. Barrier Preator agents took up guardianship at the exits. More were in the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of the meal to come.

“Myshelov.” He greeted the aging man with a handshake.

“Ascendancy. You look well. Then again, you always do.” He bowed his head with a smirk as they both sat.

A server poured their drinks and presented menus, which were given proper attention. Myshelov ordered the same thing as always. Nikolai rarely indulged in alcohol, but Myshelov was one of the special few with whom he imbibed. He never acquired the taste for straight vodka, having at least preferred to mix it with tonic, but there was an unspoken understanding between him and the people of the world he came to dominate. The first time he met the man was over vodka in Minsk, and the tradition was maintained these decades later. He sipped the drink out of respect for that tradition but was grateful that behind the scenes the high-proof was secretly been diluted.

They toasted to the clinking sound of crystal glasses and got to business.

“How fares Moscow?” He asked as he folded the napkin across his lap.

“Your city is well, Nikolai.” Myshelov began. He always called it that, a description that Nikolai long endorsed, and they both understood. “How fares the world?” He asked in sly response. 

Nik suppressed what he truly thought but shared as much in a glance. Myshelov was aware of more than most, and he could read between the headlines.

Nikolai redirected. “Your son? Well I hope. I see he makes as many headlines as ever.” He liked to keep abreast of the personal lives of those in his employ, whether they be the staffers of the Executive Office of the Ascendancy or the offspring of the Custody’s patrons. It wasn’t with overwhelming warmth that he inquired, but he knew such things were important to those around him. It was with such personal touches that his benevolence grew to near cult-like allegiance by nearly all who met him.

They spent the first course discussing much of the administrative updates that Myshelov would have otherwise shared more traditionally, but what Nikolai could not discern from official reports, he gleaned from the man’s opinion via the animated expressions with which he shared them. Finally, by the time the main course was served, Myshelov had some disappointing news to share.

“There was an incident you should know about.” Myshelov was rarely grim, but there was weight to his words. Nikolai nodded that he continue, knowing their surroundings were secure. “Mr. James revealed himself.”

“To whom?” Nikolai asked, calmly taking a sip of his coffee.

“Two of Konstantin Vasilev’s children and Scion Marveet’s oldest.”

He wasn’t sure which was the more disappointing. Konstantin, who had no marks against him, was loyal and effective, or Scion, whose offspring already proved to be the opposite. Regardless, Myshelov would know the score. It was the Patron who brokered Jensen's dalliance with the city's powerful. “Wasn’t there a man assigned to Mr. James? Tasked to make sure that did not happen? To keep him safe?”

“He’s been handled.” The explanation was enough, Nik waved away details he didn't care to hear.

“And what is your recommendation? Can we trust them to discretion?” Nikolai leaned back in his seat, contemplating the situation.

“With the right leverage, but there are some things only the Ascendancy can manage.” Myshelov wiped his mouth down, holding his gaze as courageously as ever. He was astonishingly effective at what he did, including the oversight of the oligarchs and crime lords of the Dominance, but he was right.

There was a time when Nikolai first won the Presidency that it took a great deal more effort than simply walking around to effect leverage. Many years of dedicated work led to this day. “When?”

“Konstantin and Edita are throwing their anniversary party. Your attendance will shore up the family a great deal, and with all your efforts focused on claiming new Dominances, walking among your own people will be a good reminder of who exactly rules in Moscow.” Myshelov fixed him with a sly look that Nikolai was never quite sure if it was humor or pride.

“It’s advice I will take, Myshelov. We’ll make sure Mr. James attends as well. We don’t know if the children revealed this secret to their parents, but I’ll speak with Scion and Konstantin if I must. I’d rather it not come to that, but I want them to know that they are being watched, and that my eye can be a blessing or a curse. I think they will agree which is the better for us all. You’ll be there as well, I assume? Please make sure to bring your son, also.”

Their dinner concluded soon after, but Nikolai, with Myshelov at his back, tarried a while to meander through the restaurant, shaking hands and greeting familiar faces as they passed.]]>
The restaurant Turandot was opened on Tverskaya Boulevard in December 2031, immediately becoming fashionable as one of the main gastronomic and architectural attractions of Moscow. Turandot was as culturally popular as the Kremlin, the Bolshoi Theatre and St. Basil’s Cathedral. 

The large, two-storied building, hiding behind the walls of a mansion was constructed over six years to a cost of 20 million dollars. It was built on the fantasy of the luxurious dining hall of medieval European palaces and upon its opening, became one of the most gorgeous restaurants in Moscow, and by extension, the world.

Turandot was a feather in the cap of the prestigious and powerful Stoya family, one of Moscow’s great mafia families. Their ownership never hindered the restaurant’s popularity, but in fact might have bolstered its infamy. It was a common place to glimpse oligarchs and bureaucrats, for instance.

Nikolai emerged with Barrier Preator Agents already waiting for his arrival. He trusted others were inside and more surrounded unseen. He hadn’t actually glimpsed Alric today, but the man was always close when Nikolai left the confines of his fortress home. As soon as he did, he paused to greet the pedestrians held back from his passage. There were gasps and excited angling of Wallets. Video rolled and people waved him over. He stopped for a few selfies under the watchful eyes of the Barriers, shook hands and smiled.

Soon he entered Turandot, mood lifted as sure as if the people hefted him upon their shoulders. This was Myshelov’s favorite restaurant, and from time to time, Nikolai agreed to meet the Patron of Moscow there. Not only was it good to be seen out and about, but the Stoya’s benefited as well. Sure to that, Mr. Stoya himself greeted him with a handshake and shared words of appreciation for his return. Nikolai’s presence only extended his favoring of the family, which quietly suggested that they remained in his, and the government’s, good graces. They would continue to exert their power and keep their domain under control in the city, and so round and around the relationship went. As it did with all the families of the new aristocracy.

The main hall was two stories high, and there were round tables in the lower atrium surrounded by several luxury booths for privacy. It was beautifully furnished with magnificent crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of the dome, making the environment even more romantic and otherworldly.

He passed through the restaurant to many a turning head, nodding face, or smiling woman. Myshelov was already waiting at his preferred table: second level beneath the rotunda, center to the back. The entire floor was vacant of restauranteurs, for respect of the privacy of their conversation but also for reasons of practicality. Barrier Preator agents took up guardianship at the exits. More were in the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of the meal to come.

“Myshelov.” He greeted the aging man with a handshake.

“Ascendancy. You look well. Then again, you always do.” He bowed his head with a smirk as they both sat.

A server poured their drinks and presented menus, which were given proper attention. Myshelov ordered the same thing as always. Nikolai rarely indulged in alcohol, but Myshelov was one of the special few with whom he imbibed. He never acquired the taste for straight vodka, having at least preferred to mix it with tonic, but there was an unspoken understanding between him and the people of the world he came to dominate. The first time he met the man was over vodka in Minsk, and the tradition was maintained these decades later. He sipped the drink out of respect for that tradition but was grateful that behind the scenes the high-proof was secretly been diluted.

They toasted to the clinking sound of crystal glasses and got to business.

“How fares Moscow?” He asked as he folded the napkin across his lap.

“Your city is well, Nikolai.” Myshelov began. He always called it that, a description that Nikolai long endorsed, and they both understood. “How fares the world?” He asked in sly response. 

Nik suppressed what he truly thought but shared as much in a glance. Myshelov was aware of more than most, and he could read between the headlines.

Nikolai redirected. “Your son? Well I hope. I see he makes as many headlines as ever.” He liked to keep abreast of the personal lives of those in his employ, whether they be the staffers of the Executive Office of the Ascendancy or the offspring of the Custody’s patrons. It wasn’t with overwhelming warmth that he inquired, but he knew such things were important to those around him. It was with such personal touches that his benevolence grew to near cult-like allegiance by nearly all who met him.

They spent the first course discussing much of the administrative updates that Myshelov would have otherwise shared more traditionally, but what Nikolai could not discern from official reports, he gleaned from the man’s opinion via the animated expressions with which he shared them. Finally, by the time the main course was served, Myshelov had some disappointing news to share.

“There was an incident you should know about.” Myshelov was rarely grim, but there was weight to his words. Nikolai nodded that he continue, knowing their surroundings were secure. “Mr. James revealed himself.”

“To whom?” Nikolai asked, calmly taking a sip of his coffee.

“Two of Konstantin Vasilev’s children and Scion Marveet’s oldest.”

He wasn’t sure which was the more disappointing. Konstantin, who had no marks against him, was loyal and effective, or Scion, whose offspring already proved to be the opposite. Regardless, Myshelov would know the score. It was the Patron who brokered Jensen's dalliance with the city's powerful. “Wasn’t there a man assigned to Mr. James? Tasked to make sure that did not happen? To keep him safe?”

“He’s been handled.” The explanation was enough, Nik waved away details he didn't care to hear.

“And what is your recommendation? Can we trust them to discretion?” Nikolai leaned back in his seat, contemplating the situation.

“With the right leverage, but there are some things only the Ascendancy can manage.” Myshelov wiped his mouth down, holding his gaze as courageously as ever. He was astonishingly effective at what he did, including the oversight of the oligarchs and crime lords of the Dominance, but he was right.

There was a time when Nikolai first won the Presidency that it took a great deal more effort than simply walking around to effect leverage. Many years of dedicated work led to this day. “When?”

“Konstantin and Edita are throwing their anniversary party. Your attendance will shore up the family a great deal, and with all your efforts focused on claiming new Dominances, walking among your own people will be a good reminder of who exactly rules in Moscow.” Myshelov fixed him with a sly look that Nikolai was never quite sure if it was humor or pride.

“It’s advice I will take, Myshelov. We’ll make sure Mr. James attends as well. We don’t know if the children revealed this secret to their parents, but I’ll speak with Scion and Konstantin if I must. I’d rather it not come to that, but I want them to know that they are being watched, and that my eye can be a blessing or a curse. I think they will agree which is the better for us all. You’ll be there as well, I assume? Please make sure to bring your son, also.”

Their dinner concluded soon after, but Nikolai, with Myshelov at his back, tarried a while to meander through the restaurant, shaking hands and greeting familiar faces as they passed.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1413.html Mon, 05 Dec 2022 00:16:50 +0000 Jensen James]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1413.html iáomai, ee-ah'-om-ahee, Greek
Iaomai is used literally of deliverance from physical diseases and afflictions and so to make whole, restore to bodily health or heal.



“You are an interesting man, Mr. James,” spoke a deep voice roughened by a hard life. Jensen didn’t know what to expect when he was summoned to the meeting this afternoon. All he knew was the time and the name of the hall buried deep within the Kremlin’s many offices. He’d wandered the halls for weeks now that he was becoming a recognized face. There were few smiles and rare nods of heads but he was recognizing others in return. When he swiveled in the chair, the man that entered was similarly known to him, but not from happenstance passings. It was one of the men that ushered them from the United States. He’d kept close company with Scion Marveet, Jensen recalled them speaking frequently. He was dressed in a suit not unlike the one Jensen wore, but it was clearly a label where Jensen’s was off-the-rack delivered to the guest room he occupied. 

“I’m actually quite boring,” Jensen replied in acceptance of the bottle water being offered. He twisted off the cap eagerly. He’d not had much water that day, although he’d been drinking plenty.

“I would disagree,” the man responded, pushing forward a screen. It woke when Jensen dragged it nearer, and his throat tightened when he realized what it was displaying.

It was video of the auditorium where the  Patheos rally took place. The gathering had meant to be a show of unity between all the world religions in support of the revelation of channelers. A shooting ended the event, and Sigvard nearly died. The Gift was captured on camera and Jensen became swarmed like the crowds seeking to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe.

He pushed the screen away with a sigh. “There is a world of hurting people. I can’t save them all, but I can’t save anyone from in here.”

“The Ascendancy agrees,” he replied.

Jensen shook his head with incomprehension.

The man went on. “My name is Special Agent Commander Kaleb Devarona. You’ll be under my protection. Please follow me,” he said. Next, Jensen was led to a part of the Kremlin he’d never seen before. He’d never even seen the entrance to the elevator. When he emerged, it was in some sort of tactical operation facility. Although not exactly like the research facility he’d seen previously.

There were no doctors or laboratory equipment here. This was for people like the Special agent commander. Jensen was led to a room with locked panels surrounding every wall. The special agent showed Jensen one in particular.
“Put your hand on this scanner,” he showed him. Jensen complied curiously as the reader scanned his palm. The light turned green and the sound of magnetic locks released.

A three-piece white suit was revealed. At first glance, it was cut like a business suit but for the cloth seeming to be made of something more structured than silk. It was designed with white with shades of gray and silver accents. The Ascendancy’s emblem was displayed on the shoulder but for being completely silvered. It also included a hoodie and gloves.

Jensen picked up what he thought was a bag, but upon turning it over, found it to be a mask. It was soft and stretched easily. It was also just as white as the rest of the outfit, and there appeared to be a different texture over the place where the nose, mouth and eyes would fit.

Kaleb came to stand beside him. “You’ll be an agent for the Ascendancy, but we have to protect your identity. The Custodies are working on erasing the knowledge that Jensen James can perform miracles, but until then, this is for your safety as much as anyone’s.”

Jensen blinked. “Ascendancy is going to let me help people?” he asked.
“Yes. That was the plan all along, Jensen. We had to figure out a way to do this safely. The suit is a carbon fiber kevlar grade. It will stop a bullet. The mask has some tech in it that you’ll need to train with.”

Jensen tugged the mask over his head and as soon as it slid into place, the eyes illuminated.
“I can’t wear this while I heal people. Someone on their death bed will be terrified,” he said even as he peered upon the world through this new technological gaze.

“You’ve no idea what kind of facial recognition technology exists, Jensen,” Kaleb explained. “There is only one way to make sure you aren’t  identified. Remember, this is for more protection than just you.”

“What do you mean?” Jensen asked.

“You’re acting at the behest of the Ascendancy,” he pointed out the emblem on the suit’s lapel. “That will offer you protection, but as you said, you can’t heal the whole world. For every person you help, there will be ten who demand your head simply out of envy.”

Inside the mask, Jensen frowned. This was the dilemma that kept him stonewalled for so long already. How could he help someone without helping everyone.

“Then there are the patients themselves. The world might tear you apart trying to get your attention. Anyone that you help along the way may be a target. Are you ready for this?”

The weight of the task was overwhelming, but he knew he couldn’t wait to get started.
“I am so ready,” he said and immediately started to undress.




((Costume's inspiration came from the early renditions of Mr. Knight's design.))]]> iáomai, ee-ah'-om-ahee, Greek
Iaomai is used literally of deliverance from physical diseases and afflictions and so to make whole, restore to bodily health or heal.



“You are an interesting man, Mr. James,” spoke a deep voice roughened by a hard life. Jensen didn’t know what to expect when he was summoned to the meeting this afternoon. All he knew was the time and the name of the hall buried deep within the Kremlin’s many offices. He’d wandered the halls for weeks now that he was becoming a recognized face. There were few smiles and rare nods of heads but he was recognizing others in return. When he swiveled in the chair, the man that entered was similarly known to him, but not from happenstance passings. It was one of the men that ushered them from the United States. He’d kept close company with Scion Marveet, Jensen recalled them speaking frequently. He was dressed in a suit not unlike the one Jensen wore, but it was clearly a label where Jensen’s was off-the-rack delivered to the guest room he occupied. 

“I’m actually quite boring,” Jensen replied in acceptance of the bottle water being offered. He twisted off the cap eagerly. He’d not had much water that day, although he’d been drinking plenty.

“I would disagree,” the man responded, pushing forward a screen. It woke when Jensen dragged it nearer, and his throat tightened when he realized what it was displaying.

It was video of the auditorium where the  Patheos rally took place. The gathering had meant to be a show of unity between all the world religions in support of the revelation of channelers. A shooting ended the event, and Sigvard nearly died. The Gift was captured on camera and Jensen became swarmed like the crowds seeking to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe.

He pushed the screen away with a sigh. “There is a world of hurting people. I can’t save them all, but I can’t save anyone from in here.”

“The Ascendancy agrees,” he replied.

Jensen shook his head with incomprehension.

The man went on. “My name is Special Agent Commander Kaleb Devarona. You’ll be under my protection. Please follow me,” he said. Next, Jensen was led to a part of the Kremlin he’d never seen before. He’d never even seen the entrance to the elevator. When he emerged, it was in some sort of tactical operation facility. Although not exactly like the research facility he’d seen previously.

There were no doctors or laboratory equipment here. This was for people like the Special agent commander. Jensen was led to a room with locked panels surrounding every wall. The special agent showed Jensen one in particular.
“Put your hand on this scanner,” he showed him. Jensen complied curiously as the reader scanned his palm. The light turned green and the sound of magnetic locks released.

A three-piece white suit was revealed. At first glance, it was cut like a business suit but for the cloth seeming to be made of something more structured than silk. It was designed with white with shades of gray and silver accents. The Ascendancy’s emblem was displayed on the shoulder but for being completely silvered. It also included a hoodie and gloves.

Jensen picked up what he thought was a bag, but upon turning it over, found it to be a mask. It was soft and stretched easily. It was also just as white as the rest of the outfit, and there appeared to be a different texture over the place where the nose, mouth and eyes would fit.

Kaleb came to stand beside him. “You’ll be an agent for the Ascendancy, but we have to protect your identity. The Custodies are working on erasing the knowledge that Jensen James can perform miracles, but until then, this is for your safety as much as anyone’s.”

Jensen blinked. “Ascendancy is going to let me help people?” he asked.
“Yes. That was the plan all along, Jensen. We had to figure out a way to do this safely. The suit is a carbon fiber kevlar grade. It will stop a bullet. The mask has some tech in it that you’ll need to train with.”

Jensen tugged the mask over his head and as soon as it slid into place, the eyes illuminated.
“I can’t wear this while I heal people. Someone on their death bed will be terrified,” he said even as he peered upon the world through this new technological gaze.

“You’ve no idea what kind of facial recognition technology exists, Jensen,” Kaleb explained. “There is only one way to make sure you aren’t  identified. Remember, this is for more protection than just you.”

“What do you mean?” Jensen asked.

“You’re acting at the behest of the Ascendancy,” he pointed out the emblem on the suit’s lapel. “That will offer you protection, but as you said, you can’t heal the whole world. For every person you help, there will be ten who demand your head simply out of envy.”

Inside the mask, Jensen frowned. This was the dilemma that kept him stonewalled for so long already. How could he help someone without helping everyone.

“Then there are the patients themselves. The world might tear you apart trying to get your attention. Anyone that you help along the way may be a target. Are you ready for this?”

The weight of the task was overwhelming, but he knew he couldn’t wait to get started.
“I am so ready,” he said and immediately started to undress.




((Costume's inspiration came from the early renditions of Mr. Knight's design.))]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1396.html Thu, 28 Jul 2022 17:50:36 +0000 Ascendancy]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1396.html Consul Alexandrova Lesya Vladislavovna
Consul on Public Engagement, Propaganda, and Interdominance Relations
Responsible for the private face of the CCD, especially in relation to other nations. It oversees the international image of the CCD and carries out clandestine operations to promote CCD interests throughout the world.

---

Not even eyedrops helped relieve the aches in Alexandrova’s eyes. This business with the homeless displacement took all of her attention. Between days of meetings, marketing and planning the Kremlin had effectively controlled the messaging around this blip in the day to day lives of ordinary people. Nikolai had been his usual obtuse self whenever he received her reports. There was more to the story than even Alexandrova knew, but it didn’t surprise her.

The official word was that there had been a fire in one of the tent cities and a few of the homeless had been displaced as a result. They were quickly relocated by Custody officials for theirs (and most importantly, the public’s) safety.

The work had been intense, and Alexandrova was eager for a well-earned soak in the bathtub and a pinot. The Consul slipped her devices into her bag, slipped on her jacket, and locked up her office. By her estimate, the wider Consulate would be mostly empty excluding the overnight staff – employees dedicated to round the clock propaganda posts – but among the head-down workers, one face caught her attention.

Her new assistant had similarly been busy, but luckily, she was energetic and eager to prove herself. Noémi had no idea of the real reason Alexandrova had assigned her a last minute task. The work probably could have waited until the following morning except that the request derived from the highest of Kremlin levels.

“Thank you again, Noémi. Hopefully you are almost done?” Alexandrova stayed and chat for another minute – making sure that the assistant didn’t need anything else – before departing herself.

At the exit, Alexandrova looked over her shoulder one last time. It wasn’t that many decades ago that the Consul saw herself in the young woman’s place. The feeling left her nostalgic as she departed to find her own pleasantries for the evening.]]> Consul Alexandrova Lesya Vladislavovna
Consul on Public Engagement, Propaganda, and Interdominance Relations
Responsible for the private face of the CCD, especially in relation to other nations. It oversees the international image of the CCD and carries out clandestine operations to promote CCD interests throughout the world.

---

Not even eyedrops helped relieve the aches in Alexandrova’s eyes. This business with the homeless displacement took all of her attention. Between days of meetings, marketing and planning the Kremlin had effectively controlled the messaging around this blip in the day to day lives of ordinary people. Nikolai had been his usual obtuse self whenever he received her reports. There was more to the story than even Alexandrova knew, but it didn’t surprise her.

The official word was that there had been a fire in one of the tent cities and a few of the homeless had been displaced as a result. They were quickly relocated by Custody officials for theirs (and most importantly, the public’s) safety.

The work had been intense, and Alexandrova was eager for a well-earned soak in the bathtub and a pinot. The Consul slipped her devices into her bag, slipped on her jacket, and locked up her office. By her estimate, the wider Consulate would be mostly empty excluding the overnight staff – employees dedicated to round the clock propaganda posts – but among the head-down workers, one face caught her attention.

Her new assistant had similarly been busy, but luckily, she was energetic and eager to prove herself. Noémi had no idea of the real reason Alexandrova had assigned her a last minute task. The work probably could have waited until the following morning except that the request derived from the highest of Kremlin levels.

“Thank you again, Noémi. Hopefully you are almost done?” Alexandrova stayed and chat for another minute – making sure that the assistant didn’t need anything else – before departing herself.

At the exit, Alexandrova looked over her shoulder one last time. It wasn’t that many decades ago that the Consul saw herself in the young woman’s place. The feeling left her nostalgic as she departed to find her own pleasantries for the evening.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1317.html Wed, 04 Nov 2020 20:21:22 +0000 Ascendancy]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1317.html
Business with his Deputy-Consul Chief of Staff, Viktor Stepanovich concluded, and the man splintered his direction away from the Ascendancy just as the latter turned to enter the wing devoted to government engagement, propaganda, and interdominance relations.

He passed the worker stationed near the entrance desk with a polite smile and quick inquiry into the state of her new puppy, pleading that she bring the animal for a visit sometime. Nikolai loved dogs, the greater and grander the better, but this life did not seem to allow the luxury of a pet. She promised to do so soon, and Nik proceeded through the wing to the executive offices in the back. 

He continued the charming intrusion along the way, gesturing or politely greeting those who caught his eye. He seemed to be able to remember everyone by name and include some small insight into their lives. Finally, he stopped, “Is Aleksandrova in?” he asked.]]>
Business with his Deputy-Consul Chief of Staff, Viktor Stepanovich concluded, and the man splintered his direction away from the Ascendancy just as the latter turned to enter the wing devoted to government engagement, propaganda, and interdominance relations.

He passed the worker stationed near the entrance desk with a polite smile and quick inquiry into the state of her new puppy, pleading that she bring the animal for a visit sometime. Nikolai loved dogs, the greater and grander the better, but this life did not seem to allow the luxury of a pet. She promised to do so soon, and Nik proceeded through the wing to the executive offices in the back. 

He continued the charming intrusion along the way, gesturing or politely greeting those who caught his eye. He seemed to be able to remember everyone by name and include some small insight into their lives. Finally, he stopped, “Is Aleksandrova in?” he asked.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1288.html Thu, 03 Sep 2020 17:55:35 +0000 Angelika]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1288.html
Durante had contacted the Inquisitor. And before the man disappeared off the planet he'd mentioned the boy god wanting to share information.  

Angelika sent the boy a private secure text

I am Dr. Woźniak an Atharim scientist. You mentioned to the Inquisitor the tunnels? and help?

His response was not immediate but it came in just as the nights started to get dark 

Dr. Weston and co await you at a secret Kremlin facility.

It was cryptic, but it gave her a who and a place just not a why or when.  She supposed it didn't matter.  And scheduling an appointment wouldn't matter one way or the other.  The Kremlin was a big place, and the front desk was the most logical place to start.

She looked the average business woman.  Nothing fancy, nothing too strict, but business like.  The suit was tailored to fit, she did not look like the nerdy scientist she preferred to walk around like.  Today was all about impressions.  And not dying.  It was a dangerous avenue to undergo, but she doubted that they'd kill her on the spot, she after all had never killed a single soul unlike others -- and Durante walked these walls -- he was a hunter, a killer... exceptions to be made.

At the front desk she smile though it was forced. "My name is Dr. Woźniak. I was sent by a young man, Nox Durante to meet with Dr. Weston.  It is about a project down in the bowles of the city."]]>
Durante had contacted the Inquisitor. And before the man disappeared off the planet he'd mentioned the boy god wanting to share information.  

Angelika sent the boy a private secure text

I am Dr. Woźniak an Atharim scientist. You mentioned to the Inquisitor the tunnels? and help?

His response was not immediate but it came in just as the nights started to get dark 

Dr. Weston and co await you at a secret Kremlin facility.

It was cryptic, but it gave her a who and a place just not a why or when.  She supposed it didn't matter.  And scheduling an appointment wouldn't matter one way or the other.  The Kremlin was a big place, and the front desk was the most logical place to start.

She looked the average business woman.  Nothing fancy, nothing too strict, but business like.  The suit was tailored to fit, she did not look like the nerdy scientist she preferred to walk around like.  Today was all about impressions.  And not dying.  It was a dangerous avenue to undergo, but she doubted that they'd kill her on the spot, she after all had never killed a single soul unlike others -- and Durante walked these walls -- he was a hunter, a killer... exceptions to be made.

At the front desk she smile though it was forced. "My name is Dr. Woźniak. I was sent by a young man, Nox Durante to meet with Dr. Weston.  It is about a project down in the bowles of the city."]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1282.html Wed, 19 Aug 2020 17:10:34 +0000 Allan]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1282.html
Still in uniform Allan made his way to the Ascendancy's private chambers. No time had been given and Allan would wait as long as necessary for the man to allow him entrance into his private affairs. There were rumors of his relationship with the US Congresswoman, and now that they were separated by oceans those rumors had not ceased only changed in directions.  Allan held no stock in those rumors anymore than he had with others around the compound.  But he had listened none-the-less.

Allan wondered about the book or knowledge on offer.  Where did the Ascendancy get it?  How did he know about the Atharim? Why did he put so much stock in the boy who could channel, when he could obviously end the man's life with just as much ease.  Trust was not something to be given lightly.  He was a proclaimed enemy of channelers -- yet he was one.  The dichotomy was deafening in Allan's ears.  How could he do both?  Be both?

Allan knocked on the entryway door and waited for his mentor to answer.  There might be just a handing over of the book or a long night full of conversation.  With the Ascendancy, Allan never knew.  But no matter what it was a joy to spend the time with the man.  So much better than his own father.]]>
Still in uniform Allan made his way to the Ascendancy's private chambers. No time had been given and Allan would wait as long as necessary for the man to allow him entrance into his private affairs. There were rumors of his relationship with the US Congresswoman, and now that they were separated by oceans those rumors had not ceased only changed in directions.  Allan held no stock in those rumors anymore than he had with others around the compound.  But he had listened none-the-less.

Allan wondered about the book or knowledge on offer.  Where did the Ascendancy get it?  How did he know about the Atharim? Why did he put so much stock in the boy who could channel, when he could obviously end the man's life with just as much ease.  Trust was not something to be given lightly.  He was a proclaimed enemy of channelers -- yet he was one.  The dichotomy was deafening in Allan's ears.  How could he do both?  Be both?

Allan knocked on the entryway door and waited for his mentor to answer.  There might be just a handing over of the book or a long night full of conversation.  With the Ascendancy, Allan never knew.  But no matter what it was a joy to spend the time with the man.  So much better than his own father.]]>