<![CDATA[The First Age - Government Facilities]]>

<![CDATA[The First Age - Government Facilities]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Thu, 30 Apr 2026 10:26:21 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Monster Manual (CCDPD)]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1961.html Thu, 05 Feb 2026 17:23:32 +0000 Marisol]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1961.html ”Detective Guerro,” Captain Dolohov’s voice grabbed Marisol’s attention. She entered his office as he gestured for her to do so. ”Get the files together for the case you’ve been working on. The dead man - pale with the burnt eyes. Domovoi is taking it over.”

Marisol sighed in frustration. ”Sir, I’ve been..”

The Captain raised his hand to silence her. ”I know, detective, but you know the regulations. Someone from Domovoi will be here to get the file and evidence. And get ready for a long night. Weather isn’t letting up, we might be stuck here for awhile.”

Marisol was dismissed and she left feeling the frustration deep in her bones. It was a frustration all detectives had at one point or another. You do the work and as things are coming together and then another unit steps in and says they’re taking over. She had worked hard on this case. It had started with a welfare check call. Someone called because their friend had been acting strange - reporting increasing paranoia that he was being stalked. When the friend had lost contact, he’d called for a welfare check. The fire department showed up and had found a corpse.

Marisol had come to the scene. The body had been pale. Almost like it had been drained of blood. The eyes were burnt, but it looked like it had come from the inside. There were other burn marks too, incompatible with the eye burns. There were burn marks around the room in the apartment as well as water stains. Papers were swept around like a wind had blown through it. The smoke detector hadn’t gone off - it had appeared damaged. Marisol had found journals there. The victim had written them. They gave credence to the witness’s story. There were repeated entries that stated the victim had multiple times seen something out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked there was nothing there.

Marisol’s reports had been meticulous. Other detectives gave her a hard time for it sometimes, but DAs loved it. Her cases never got thrown out of court for something as mundane as the evidence was mislabeled. She documented everything: pictures, witness statements, the journals, and the toxicology and coroner’s reports. Some had thought maybe drugs - but the toxicology report was clean. The coroner had been stumped as well, labeling the cause of death as “inconclusive”. Everything was there. The more she dug into the case, the more she felt that the victim hadn’t been paranoid. Something had been following him. Her report didn’t state that yet. It was a gut feeling at this point.

Marisol took the paperwork to the evidence lock up to collect it for the Domovoi people. She’d get everything together for them and have it in order. Some cops didn’t organize it. A small little jab that they were pissed that their case was being taken. Marisol was a team player, and even if she was frustrated, she wasn’t angry. She understood it. She had been a minute away from calling them herself. But even if she wasn’t angry, she couldn’t keep the frustration out of her posture as unbuttoned her suit coat to take a seat and begin to make sure she had everything in order. [/b]]]> ”Detective Guerro,” Captain Dolohov’s voice grabbed Marisol’s attention. She entered his office as he gestured for her to do so. ”Get the files together for the case you’ve been working on. The dead man - pale with the burnt eyes. Domovoi is taking it over.”

Marisol sighed in frustration. ”Sir, I’ve been..”

The Captain raised his hand to silence her. ”I know, detective, but you know the regulations. Someone from Domovoi will be here to get the file and evidence. And get ready for a long night. Weather isn’t letting up, we might be stuck here for awhile.”

Marisol was dismissed and she left feeling the frustration deep in her bones. It was a frustration all detectives had at one point or another. You do the work and as things are coming together and then another unit steps in and says they’re taking over. She had worked hard on this case. It had started with a welfare check call. Someone called because their friend had been acting strange - reporting increasing paranoia that he was being stalked. When the friend had lost contact, he’d called for a welfare check. The fire department showed up and had found a corpse.

Marisol had come to the scene. The body had been pale. Almost like it had been drained of blood. The eyes were burnt, but it looked like it had come from the inside. There were other burn marks too, incompatible with the eye burns. There were burn marks around the room in the apartment as well as water stains. Papers were swept around like a wind had blown through it. The smoke detector hadn’t gone off - it had appeared damaged. Marisol had found journals there. The victim had written them. They gave credence to the witness’s story. There were repeated entries that stated the victim had multiple times seen something out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked there was nothing there.

Marisol’s reports had been meticulous. Other detectives gave her a hard time for it sometimes, but DAs loved it. Her cases never got thrown out of court for something as mundane as the evidence was mislabeled. She documented everything: pictures, witness statements, the journals, and the toxicology and coroner’s reports. Some had thought maybe drugs - but the toxicology report was clean. The coroner had been stumped as well, labeling the cause of death as “inconclusive”. Everything was there. The more she dug into the case, the more she felt that the victim hadn’t been paranoid. Something had been following him. Her report didn’t state that yet. It was a gut feeling at this point.

Marisol took the paperwork to the evidence lock up to collect it for the Domovoi people. She’d get everything together for them and have it in order. Some cops didn’t organize it. A small little jab that they were pissed that their case was being taken. Marisol was a team player, and even if she was frustrated, she wasn’t angry. She understood it. She had been a minute away from calling them herself. But even if she wasn’t angry, she couldn’t keep the frustration out of her posture as unbuttoned her suit coat to take a seat and begin to make sure she had everything in order. [/b]]]> <![CDATA[Nice Place]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1949.html Thu, 29 Jan 2026 01:10:25 +0000 Ryker]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1949.html
So imagine his surprise when he got summoned. In person.

Ryker didn’t like surprises.

And he especially didn’t like Butryka.

The place had once been his own personal hell. Back when Oriena had twisted his thoughts into string and watched him tangle himself in it. That bitch had left marks, even if the bruises were long gone. But he’d taken the assignment. Not because he was loyal. Because he was suspicious. Some small voice in the back of his skull told him this smelled like a trap.

But Ryker had learned a thing or two since last time. And this time, he had a plan.

Coming in as official oversight with credentials gleaming and name logged was a different beast entirely. No cold intake cell. No head mask. No guards shoving him into an overcrowded cell. They waved him through like he was royalty. The facial scan barely buzzed before unlocking. And the real kicker? They didn’t even pat him down.

The switchblade in his jacket pocket felt heavy now, more like an insult than insurance. He almost handed it over out of spite, just to prove a point. But the guards were already ignoring him, scanning someone else. Uniforms crisp. Eyes flat. Not one face was familiar.

Good. Or maybe bad. Hard to say anymore.

The second thing he noticed was the change in the air.

Butryka used to reek of damp concrete, old piss, and desperation. Now it smelled sterile. Cold. Artificial, like metal cooled too quickly. The corridor ahead gleamed like something out of a high-budget space thriller. Matte gray paneling along the walls. Embedded lights that adjusted hue as he passed. Cameras that tracked his movement without blinking. No keys. No locks. Just soft biometric clicks as doors whispered open.

“Nice place,” he muttered. “Shame about the purpose.”

A functionary with sharp eyes and a smooth uniform led him deeper into the prison. No name offered. Just the practiced tone of someone who’d forgotten how to speak without clearing everything through three layers of protocol first.

"This block’s nearly complete," the functionary said, gesturing to a line of cells with thick, transparent doors. Smartglass, Ryker noted; opaque from the outside but letting in just enough light to make the occupants visible from inside. “Each one is isolated by directional neural dampening fields. No communication. No channeling. They go in warm, come out quiet.”

“Or don’t come out at all,” Ryker said flatly, examining the cell nearest to him. It was empty, but the cot inside looked more like a slab: something you’d strap a body to, not sleep on. Restraints discreetly recessed along the edges. A fine gray mist clung to the corners of the ceiling - a chemical suppressant, maybe. Or something worse.

“They’re not all criminals,” Ryker said after a moment. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

The functionary stiffened. “They’re all threats.”

He passed another wing, this one active. Two detainees were visible through the smartglass both sitting stone still, eyes hollow. No marks. No bruises. Just an absence of... will. He’d seen that look before. In soldiers who’d survived things no one should. And in himself, in the mirror, once.

A panel near the door blinked green as they approached. The functionary hesitated, then motioned him forward.

“You’ll oversee final inspection,” he said. “From today forward, this facility falls under special jurisdiction. CCD Protocol Warden-8.”

Warden-8. Ryker had heard of it. The code name for the black-level sites that didn’t exist. Sites where due process was a myth and containment meant forever.

He nodded, slow.

"Fine. I’ll need access to security routing, staff logs, and the override protocols.”

“That’s... unusual,” the man said.

“Yeah,” Ryker replied. “So’s sending me in to test your systems. If there's a hole, I'll blow it wide open.”

He moved on before the man could answer, boots silent on the polished floor. He let the walls close behind him with a hiss, left alone with the quiet hum of the corridor and the weight in his gut that hadn't eased since stepping inside.
He wasn’t sure if he was the jailer now or just another version of the prisoner.]]>
So imagine his surprise when he got summoned. In person.

Ryker didn’t like surprises.

And he especially didn’t like Butryka.

The place had once been his own personal hell. Back when Oriena had twisted his thoughts into string and watched him tangle himself in it. That bitch had left marks, even if the bruises were long gone. But he’d taken the assignment. Not because he was loyal. Because he was suspicious. Some small voice in the back of his skull told him this smelled like a trap.

But Ryker had learned a thing or two since last time. And this time, he had a plan.

Coming in as official oversight with credentials gleaming and name logged was a different beast entirely. No cold intake cell. No head mask. No guards shoving him into an overcrowded cell. They waved him through like he was royalty. The facial scan barely buzzed before unlocking. And the real kicker? They didn’t even pat him down.

The switchblade in his jacket pocket felt heavy now, more like an insult than insurance. He almost handed it over out of spite, just to prove a point. But the guards were already ignoring him, scanning someone else. Uniforms crisp. Eyes flat. Not one face was familiar.

Good. Or maybe bad. Hard to say anymore.

The second thing he noticed was the change in the air.

Butryka used to reek of damp concrete, old piss, and desperation. Now it smelled sterile. Cold. Artificial, like metal cooled too quickly. The corridor ahead gleamed like something out of a high-budget space thriller. Matte gray paneling along the walls. Embedded lights that adjusted hue as he passed. Cameras that tracked his movement without blinking. No keys. No locks. Just soft biometric clicks as doors whispered open.

“Nice place,” he muttered. “Shame about the purpose.”

A functionary with sharp eyes and a smooth uniform led him deeper into the prison. No name offered. Just the practiced tone of someone who’d forgotten how to speak without clearing everything through three layers of protocol first.

"This block’s nearly complete," the functionary said, gesturing to a line of cells with thick, transparent doors. Smartglass, Ryker noted; opaque from the outside but letting in just enough light to make the occupants visible from inside. “Each one is isolated by directional neural dampening fields. No communication. No channeling. They go in warm, come out quiet.”

“Or don’t come out at all,” Ryker said flatly, examining the cell nearest to him. It was empty, but the cot inside looked more like a slab: something you’d strap a body to, not sleep on. Restraints discreetly recessed along the edges. A fine gray mist clung to the corners of the ceiling - a chemical suppressant, maybe. Or something worse.

“They’re not all criminals,” Ryker said after a moment. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

The functionary stiffened. “They’re all threats.”

He passed another wing, this one active. Two detainees were visible through the smartglass both sitting stone still, eyes hollow. No marks. No bruises. Just an absence of... will. He’d seen that look before. In soldiers who’d survived things no one should. And in himself, in the mirror, once.

A panel near the door blinked green as they approached. The functionary hesitated, then motioned him forward.

“You’ll oversee final inspection,” he said. “From today forward, this facility falls under special jurisdiction. CCD Protocol Warden-8.”

Warden-8. Ryker had heard of it. The code name for the black-level sites that didn’t exist. Sites where due process was a myth and containment meant forever.

He nodded, slow.

"Fine. I’ll need access to security routing, staff logs, and the override protocols.”

“That’s... unusual,” the man said.

“Yeah,” Ryker replied. “So’s sending me in to test your systems. If there's a hole, I'll blow it wide open.”

He moved on before the man could answer, boots silent on the polished floor. He let the walls close behind him with a hiss, left alone with the quiet hum of the corridor and the weight in his gut that hadn't eased since stepping inside.
He wasn’t sure if he was the jailer now or just another version of the prisoner.]]> <![CDATA[Possibilities [Moscow Fire Department]]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1874.html Thu, 18 Sep 2025 18:37:11 +0000 Cor]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1874.html
Cor removed the cigarette and blew out the smoke, deep in thought. The Blackthorn fire still on his mind. In the end, it was ruled as an accident. Cor was sure it wasn’t, but he couldn’t prove it. Things just weren’t adding up. The damn house went up too fast, and the CCTV in the area going offline just reinforced that. But technically it was all circumstantial evidence. There was nothing else to go on overall. So it went down in the books as accidental.

A final inhale on the cigarette, and Cor blew out the smoke as he snuffed the cigarette out. He placed the butt in the receptacle next to the door before heading in, leaving his door open. Unless he was meeting with someone, his office door was open. The crew was sitting down, playing cards it seemed. It wasn’t a heavy day, but he knew they would all drop whatever they were doing if the call went out. They waved at Cor amicably as he entered, and he returned it with a smile as he entered his office. The Blackthorn Fire had him thinking of a lot of possibilities. Possibilities that he decided he wanted to discuss with someone else - just to see what they thought. He was about to call for someone when the door to the department opened. A brunette wearing a paramedic coat walked in and was about to join the rest of the crew. She would do.

”Raikov, come in here. Want to chat for a bit,” he said, smiling inwardly. She had taken a long lunch today. He didn’t care, but the use of her last name might make her think she was in trouble. At the very least it would get her attention.]]>
Cor removed the cigarette and blew out the smoke, deep in thought. The Blackthorn fire still on his mind. In the end, it was ruled as an accident. Cor was sure it wasn’t, but he couldn’t prove it. Things just weren’t adding up. The damn house went up too fast, and the CCTV in the area going offline just reinforced that. But technically it was all circumstantial evidence. There was nothing else to go on overall. So it went down in the books as accidental.

A final inhale on the cigarette, and Cor blew out the smoke as he snuffed the cigarette out. He placed the butt in the receptacle next to the door before heading in, leaving his door open. Unless he was meeting with someone, his office door was open. The crew was sitting down, playing cards it seemed. It wasn’t a heavy day, but he knew they would all drop whatever they were doing if the call went out. They waved at Cor amicably as he entered, and he returned it with a smile as he entered his office. The Blackthorn Fire had him thinking of a lot of possibilities. Possibilities that he decided he wanted to discuss with someone else - just to see what they thought. He was about to call for someone when the door to the department opened. A brunette wearing a paramedic coat walked in and was about to join the rest of the crew. She would do.

”Raikov, come in here. Want to chat for a bit,” he said, smiling inwardly. She had taken a long lunch today. He didn’t care, but the use of her last name might make her think she was in trouble. At the very least it would get her attention.]]> <![CDATA[Turncoat (Moscow Police Department)]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1847.html Wed, 28 May 2025 18:00:53 +0000 Legione Sumus]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1847.html [Image: Eva-Green-New-Three-Musketeers-adds-Mila...-Dumas.jpg]

[Image: Eva-Green-New-Three-Musketeers-adds-Mila...-Dumas.jpg]

Aaliyah Zevros
Aaliyah wrapped her hands around the cup of coffee to still her shaking hands. Finally she was in Moscow. She had tried not to delay, but the closer she got, the more nervous she got. If she was right, Giovanni was in this city, and so was Omar. If she was found by either of them, she’d be dead. Even so, she found it hard to gather the courage for her last step.

The door to the cafe opened and a woman stepped in, her coat bearing the shield of a police officer. Aaliyah watched the woman go to the counter and order, a smile on her face as she spoke amiably with the barista. That alone seemed nice - just to be able to talk to someone. Coffee acquired, the cop walked out of the cafe.

Aaliyah stood up and followed, leaving her own coffee untouched on the table. The cop was entering an unmarked vehicle, Aaliyah wasn’t worried about that. She quickly moved.

”Excuse me, officer,” Aaliyah said. Her fear must have shown on her face because the woman’s smile quickly turned into a frown. Aaliyah continued before she lost her courage, speaking quietly as to not draw the attention of passers-by. ”My name is Aaliyah Zevros, a ranking member of Al-Janyar. I’m turning myself in and intend to cooperate fully with the authorities.” Aaliyah held out her hands as she said it, showing she held no weapons. She had nothing on her except the Isis knot. She did actually intend to cooperate. At best she could enter witness protection. If not, she’d probably spend the rest of her life in jail.]]> <![CDATA[Rock Bottom]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1641.html Sun, 08 Sep 2024 16:33:16 +0000 Raffe]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1641.html In Absentia]]

For weeks he’d kept his life together, constructing an artifice of routine and going through the motions like each one was nothing more than a touchstone to mark the normal passing of time. The twins and Sterling. Sage and Paragon and Kallisti and the girls. Nox’s texts. But the distance crept in, inch by inch, and when he looked down on his life, he recognised nothing in it. By the time of the excruciating Vasiliev ball he was finding it difficult to relate to any of the things he knew he ought to care about, and Kristian’s words set up a haunt in his mind that ran its doubts over everything that remained.

He gave Lily to Sterling for safekeeping. Told Carmen he needed some time away from work; assured her there was no reason to worry. There was no plan, just an emptiness that he could no longer bear to pretend away for the sake of others. He smiled when he left.

His last clear memory was of the Carnival, resplendent with Halloween revelry. Shadows and ghouls, darkness beckoning, a bacchanal promise.

Raffe walked into the Veil’s Embrace. He didn’t remember coming out.

He didn’t know who found him, or how. Frost crunched the ground now, the season succumbing to the skeletal clutch of winter’s icy caress. Weeks more had passed. Life quietened and died around him; Raffe wasn’t in the city anymore, but madness chased memories, and he only knew it because he was later told. Hollows carved his cheeks to diamond peeks and made solitary monuments of each rib. Track marks and bruises decorated his arms and legs; failed attempts at capturing meaning, addictions he’d always denied himself. He had vague recollection of a honey-coated tongue, but the words whispered away on the wind; he didn’t want to be saved. And then, as though no time had passed at all, he remembered the sterile walls of Paragon.

He let himself hibernate through the parade of scientists, eyes often closed even when he wasn’t asleep. White coats that coaxed him to talk, insisted he eat. He never even noticed when the scenery changed once more.]]> In Absentia]]

For weeks he’d kept his life together, constructing an artifice of routine and going through the motions like each one was nothing more than a touchstone to mark the normal passing of time. The twins and Sterling. Sage and Paragon and Kallisti and the girls. Nox’s texts. But the distance crept in, inch by inch, and when he looked down on his life, he recognised nothing in it. By the time of the excruciating Vasiliev ball he was finding it difficult to relate to any of the things he knew he ought to care about, and Kristian’s words set up a haunt in his mind that ran its doubts over everything that remained.

He gave Lily to Sterling for safekeeping. Told Carmen he needed some time away from work; assured her there was no reason to worry. There was no plan, just an emptiness that he could no longer bear to pretend away for the sake of others. He smiled when he left.

His last clear memory was of the Carnival, resplendent with Halloween revelry. Shadows and ghouls, darkness beckoning, a bacchanal promise.

Raffe walked into the Veil’s Embrace. He didn’t remember coming out.

He didn’t know who found him, or how. Frost crunched the ground now, the season succumbing to the skeletal clutch of winter’s icy caress. Weeks more had passed. Life quietened and died around him; Raffe wasn’t in the city anymore, but madness chased memories, and he only knew it because he was later told. Hollows carved his cheeks to diamond peeks and made solitary monuments of each rib. Track marks and bruises decorated his arms and legs; failed attempts at capturing meaning, addictions he’d always denied himself. He had vague recollection of a honey-coated tongue, but the words whispered away on the wind; he didn’t want to be saved. And then, as though no time had passed at all, he remembered the sterile walls of Paragon.

He let himself hibernate through the parade of scientists, eyes often closed even when he wasn’t asleep. White coats that coaxed him to talk, insisted he eat. He never even noticed when the scenery changed once more.]]> <![CDATA[Student and Master]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1599.html Mon, 11 Mar 2024 14:32:30 +0000 Michael Vellas]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1599.html Redacted time between the establishment of the Garden and present
"It is no use, Karim. Trust me, I have tried." Michael said in a tense voice.

The Iranian Rod of Dominion was not perturbed by his superior, unlike most. "Not even a scratch? You have seen it done enough, Commander. I can go slower."

"Enough. As I said, I have tried. Healing eludes me. My talents lie in other areas. I believe that is the way of this Power. Some things a man can do without thinking. Others, they can practice their whole lives and not master."

Karim al'Shadis, Rod of Dominion, inclined his head, conceding the point. "Perhaps you are right. I only did as you asked. Something new each week."

Michael let himself smile a little. Of all the students he had, Karim was the only one he actually trusted. He kept weekly training sessions with the man, allowing himself to explore the Power without pretense. Of course, he never revealed the depths of his ignorance even to Karim either. He was tasked with training and controlling an army of men with superhuman powers. It necessitated he be stronger and smarter than all of them. At least until there were enough men he could trust to be loyal. Michael knew that unless he earned the respect of his students, fear would run thin, but he needed that fear to last until that time came. No wonder Nikolai gave the job to without much protest.

"Embrace the Power, Karim. Let us continue our sparring sessions. This time, I shall be attacking."

The Rod of Dominion obliged, and Michael did the same. He spun simple webs of Air and Fire. "Now."

At his word, the webs split into half a dozen snake-like prongs of fire that came at the Rod from all sides. Karim spun a web of Spirit thicker than any of Michael's own and spun the scythe-like web, slicing through each of Michael's attacks, causing a jolt of jarring rebuff each time.

"Again," Michael commanded. Using less power seemed to dampen the recoil of having them cut. He spun more webs, some of pure air, some mixing in Spirit that acted like a spider's web that would reinforce the web of power, making it harder to cut. Karim dealt with the webs thrown at him, although his response was slower every time a new wave began.

Soon, the man was exhausted and sweat rose from Michael's pores. "You're getting better," Michael said as Karim sucked in deep breaths. "Faster. However, you should focus on minimizing the power you use. Using a hammer to swat a fly wastes energy."

"It is not so easy to judge when that hammer is between you and a face full of fire," the man replied.

"That's why we practice. Why *I* practice. You know as well as I, we are not gods, and not all may wish to join the Custody peacefully."

"You have said as much many times before, Commander. I know you and the Ascendancy are correct. Can a man not complain without a lecture?" Karim smiled.

Michael grunted. "Very well. No more talk. This time, you attack me. Hold nothing back. Fight like you want to kill me."

He could not help but smile as a barrage of webs rained down upon him. As he honed his skill and precision he felt at home in the midst of combat. A small part of him relished the day he came up against someone who was trying to kill him, whether it be a jealous Rod like Petrovic or a rogue man who had the power.]]> Redacted time between the establishment of the Garden and present
"It is no use, Karim. Trust me, I have tried." Michael said in a tense voice.

The Iranian Rod of Dominion was not perturbed by his superior, unlike most. "Not even a scratch? You have seen it done enough, Commander. I can go slower."

"Enough. As I said, I have tried. Healing eludes me. My talents lie in other areas. I believe that is the way of this Power. Some things a man can do without thinking. Others, they can practice their whole lives and not master."

Karim al'Shadis, Rod of Dominion, inclined his head, conceding the point. "Perhaps you are right. I only did as you asked. Something new each week."

Michael let himself smile a little. Of all the students he had, Karim was the only one he actually trusted. He kept weekly training sessions with the man, allowing himself to explore the Power without pretense. Of course, he never revealed the depths of his ignorance even to Karim either. He was tasked with training and controlling an army of men with superhuman powers. It necessitated he be stronger and smarter than all of them. At least until there were enough men he could trust to be loyal. Michael knew that unless he earned the respect of his students, fear would run thin, but he needed that fear to last until that time came. No wonder Nikolai gave the job to without much protest.

"Embrace the Power, Karim. Let us continue our sparring sessions. This time, I shall be attacking."

The Rod of Dominion obliged, and Michael did the same. He spun simple webs of Air and Fire. "Now."

At his word, the webs split into half a dozen snake-like prongs of fire that came at the Rod from all sides. Karim spun a web of Spirit thicker than any of Michael's own and spun the scythe-like web, slicing through each of Michael's attacks, causing a jolt of jarring rebuff each time.

"Again," Michael commanded. Using less power seemed to dampen the recoil of having them cut. He spun more webs, some of pure air, some mixing in Spirit that acted like a spider's web that would reinforce the web of power, making it harder to cut. Karim dealt with the webs thrown at him, although his response was slower every time a new wave began.

Soon, the man was exhausted and sweat rose from Michael's pores. "You're getting better," Michael said as Karim sucked in deep breaths. "Faster. However, you should focus on minimizing the power you use. Using a hammer to swat a fly wastes energy."

"It is not so easy to judge when that hammer is between you and a face full of fire," the man replied.

"That's why we practice. Why *I* practice. You know as well as I, we are not gods, and not all may wish to join the Custody peacefully."

"You have said as much many times before, Commander. I know you and the Ascendancy are correct. Can a man not complain without a lecture?" Karim smiled.

Michael grunted. "Very well. No more talk. This time, you attack me. Hold nothing back. Fight like you want to kill me."

He could not help but smile as a barrage of webs rained down upon him. As he honed his skill and precision he felt at home in the midst of combat. A small part of him relished the day he came up against someone who was trying to kill him, whether it be a jealous Rod like Petrovic or a rogue man who had the power.]]> <![CDATA[The Omnibus of Gods]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1518.html Wed, 09 Aug 2023 16:40:20 +0000 Allan]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1518.html
There were curiosities among it. Traveling instantaneously from one place to another, using devices that teleported you to different timelines, a fucking multi-verse of realities. It was like reading the most base sci-fi and fantasy book alive and yet these cultists believed it to be true. And to be fair Allan believed them. They were barely scratching the surface with the nine. The Ascendancy shared his knowledge to a degree, but they were all stumbling in this new found era of power. Floundering and fumbling. One day they'd reach those heights and be worshiped again. But there were dangers out there -- the Atharim being one of them, creatures like the Ijiraq too. They needed to be hunted to extremes and eradicated like they had eradicated these so called gods. Turn about was fair play.

Something about these traveling gateways pulled at Allan. He had no idea why, or how or even what it meant, but he was drawn to it. How would one even begin to think about such things? Teleportation via science was just theory in its most base form -- a baby thought even. It still was impossible. But this wasn't science. But with the power and science, maybe they could create something? Wasn't the consul working with programs and scientists and defining things with the utmost care. Surely someone would have a thought. A skill -- a talent for such numbers, equations. Or maybe the ability itself reborn.

Allan set about the facility looking for intrigued fellows. It was a big place. And lots of faces. But the labs, they'd be his best bet.]]>
There were curiosities among it. Traveling instantaneously from one place to another, using devices that teleported you to different timelines, a fucking multi-verse of realities. It was like reading the most base sci-fi and fantasy book alive and yet these cultists believed it to be true. And to be fair Allan believed them. They were barely scratching the surface with the nine. The Ascendancy shared his knowledge to a degree, but they were all stumbling in this new found era of power. Floundering and fumbling. One day they'd reach those heights and be worshiped again. But there were dangers out there -- the Atharim being one of them, creatures like the Ijiraq too. They needed to be hunted to extremes and eradicated like they had eradicated these so called gods. Turn about was fair play.

Something about these traveling gateways pulled at Allan. He had no idea why, or how or even what it meant, but he was drawn to it. How would one even begin to think about such things? Teleportation via science was just theory in its most base form -- a baby thought even. It still was impossible. But this wasn't science. But with the power and science, maybe they could create something? Wasn't the consul working with programs and scientists and defining things with the utmost care. Surely someone would have a thought. A skill -- a talent for such numbers, equations. Or maybe the ability itself reborn.

Allan set about the facility looking for intrigued fellows. It was a big place. And lots of faces. But the labs, they'd be his best bet.]]> <![CDATA[Same Old Routine]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1441.html Mon, 20 Feb 2023 13:57:50 +0000 Allan]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1441.html
But he had to push all that aside and return to the day to day life of one of the nine. The boring training. The routine drills. The patrols. The one off missions here and there. It all seemed very mundane after battling with others like him in an all out fight for his life. There were other monsters in the world -- he wanted to hunt them -- kill them. It almost drove him to pick up the bottle again. It pained him to sit idle.

Allan took on anything and everything he could to keep his idle hands busy. Including sneaking visits to the Ascendancy's chambers to read the book the Atharim had lost the day they attacked Nikolai Brandon. It made Allan smile that he had something no others did -- access to this volume. But that was another days reading -- today he was to meet a man -- a specially trained man and give him a tour of the place. And to be of whatever service he could be. He had become a glorified babysitter. He hoped it was more to othat. But he'd rather be doing things elsewhere. But he waited for the man at the entrance to the underground facility. Someone would show him the way here.]]>
But he had to push all that aside and return to the day to day life of one of the nine. The boring training. The routine drills. The patrols. The one off missions here and there. It all seemed very mundane after battling with others like him in an all out fight for his life. There were other monsters in the world -- he wanted to hunt them -- kill them. It almost drove him to pick up the bottle again. It pained him to sit idle.

Allan took on anything and everything he could to keep his idle hands busy. Including sneaking visits to the Ascendancy's chambers to read the book the Atharim had lost the day they attacked Nikolai Brandon. It made Allan smile that he had something no others did -- access to this volume. But that was another days reading -- today he was to meet a man -- a specially trained man and give him a tour of the place. And to be of whatever service he could be. He had become a glorified babysitter. He hoped it was more to othat. But he'd rather be doing things elsewhere. But he waited for the man at the entrance to the underground facility. Someone would show him the way here.]]> <![CDATA[Sleeping in the lab]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1273.html Sat, 01 Aug 2020 01:36:30 +0000 Danika]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1273.html “Huh? Who? Where am I?” She sat up on the wobbly cot in the corner of her lab. Her eyes squint in the bright lights that flicked on, and memory fuzzed recognition.

A technician rounded the bench, but after a greeting, went off to check the sensors on their cold fusion box. Danika hadn’t left the room all day (and night) and apparently was still there the next morning just in case something went wrong.

“What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes to the crunch of yesterday’s makeup under her knuckles.

“Seven o’clock, Dr. Zayed. Do you want me to bring you some coffee?” The technician leaned to check the array blinking alongside the box.

Danika stood. Her clothes were wrinkled, but nothing that a spritz of water and a few seconds under the hand-dryer in the bathroom couldn’t fix.

“How’s it look?” she said, peering alongside the technician. In his white lab coat and neatly cropped hair, it was he who was frequently mistaken as the senior researcher for weeks until everyone recognized the eccentric scientist for who she was.

He shrugged, nodding approvingly. “Actually, I can’t believe it’s held stable for more than five minutes let alone all night. You were right. I am sorry to have doubted,” he said.

“Of course I was right. Don’t beat yourself up. Some people can’t fathom this level of theory.” She cued up a holoscreen and began to make notes. The technician scratched his chin idly, seemingly just standing there. “Well?”

“Ma’am?”

“Coffee?”
“Oh, yes ma’am.”

Just before the door closed behind him, Danika yelled out after him. “300 milliliters with two and a half sugars and 28 milliliters of creamer exactly.” She was sure he heard, so she waited patiently for his return.]]> “Huh? Who? Where am I?” She sat up on the wobbly cot in the corner of her lab. Her eyes squint in the bright lights that flicked on, and memory fuzzed recognition.

A technician rounded the bench, but after a greeting, went off to check the sensors on their cold fusion box. Danika hadn’t left the room all day (and night) and apparently was still there the next morning just in case something went wrong.

“What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes to the crunch of yesterday’s makeup under her knuckles.

“Seven o’clock, Dr. Zayed. Do you want me to bring you some coffee?” The technician leaned to check the array blinking alongside the box.

Danika stood. Her clothes were wrinkled, but nothing that a spritz of water and a few seconds under the hand-dryer in the bathroom couldn’t fix.

“How’s it look?” she said, peering alongside the technician. In his white lab coat and neatly cropped hair, it was he who was frequently mistaken as the senior researcher for weeks until everyone recognized the eccentric scientist for who she was.

He shrugged, nodding approvingly. “Actually, I can’t believe it’s held stable for more than five minutes let alone all night. You were right. I am sorry to have doubted,” he said.

“Of course I was right. Don’t beat yourself up. Some people can’t fathom this level of theory.” She cued up a holoscreen and began to make notes. The technician scratched his chin idly, seemingly just standing there. “Well?”

“Ma’am?”

“Coffee?”
“Oh, yes ma’am.”

Just before the door closed behind him, Danika yelled out after him. “300 milliliters with two and a half sugars and 28 milliliters of creamer exactly.” She was sure he heard, so she waited patiently for his return.]]> <![CDATA[45 Novoslobodskaya Street]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1241.html Tue, 23 Jun 2020 20:47:05 +0000 Ryker]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1241.html
[Image: Ryker.P_.jpg]

Black dreams faded to flashes of light. Bumps and jostling rumbled the inside of an unpleasant vehicle. He rolled his head aside, but a swarm of nausea washed his stomach weak. His eyes scrunched shut. Holding back the bile by strength of will, he swallowed it back down and tried to move.

Restraints.

But he was too weak to fight them. Shadows hovered. Men in helmets and riot gear, but the patches were Custody, not States. Memory slipped and so did his consciousness. The black void of empty dreams returned.

+++

A gurney held his body when next he woke. More restraints. A ceiling rolled overhead, cloaked in shadows and slicked with grime. Arms lifted him. Grunts of frustration for his weight. Iron bars gonged, loud locks rolling and smashing shut again. He was dumped on the floor, which he clawed at, seeking something to hold onto.

Then a kick to the stomach. He groaned. More kicks. His back flared hot. His chest and abdomen crushed. He pulled his arms in, curling around in a ball protecting softer tissues. The beating went on a while. Or until he passed out again. He wasn't sure how it ended.

When next he woke, his pants were at his knees and his ass was on fire. Fury worse than what he unfurled on Oriena lit hellfire within when he realized why. He stretched for the pain-fueled ancient power, intent on leveling the building with a look, but Oriena’s wall remained intact. His fists pounded the ground as though it may shatter the shield. It didn’t work. Instead, he snarled and looked around. The demon that blazed from his eyes was beaten and overthrown, but it rattled the cages as he searched this new hell.

A small room meant for ten occupied dozens – maybe a hundred men swallowed life as he knew it. Others were unconscious near him. One laid in blood pooled under a broken jaw, the eyes empty. Shouting mixed with screams of terror echoed in the distance.

He crawled away, pulling his pants upward as he did. This wasn’t a jail.

It was worse.

Shit. I’m in the goddam Butryka.

*Butryka is a predetention holding center in the middle of Moscow City along 45 Nvovoslobodskaya Street. The building is nondescript unless one knew what to look for. There is a subway across the street. Regular neighbors and businesses flank it. It is probably the most feared "center" in Moscow, if not all of Russia, which is saying something given the notoriety of the prison system there.]]> <![CDATA[From Ashes]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1233.html Fri, 05 Jun 2020 11:22:26 +0000 Morven]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1233.html
Early-hour guard duty wore her patience to ground-up dust, though only because it gave her too much time to think in the fucking silence, when the only movement in the shadows was the puff of her own frigid breath. The Custody’s offer hadn’t been any kind of choice at all, given the ruin Marcil made of her career, but it didn’t stop her thinking about what she’d left behind. The patients in Moscow’s shitty Guardian complex she was not there to treat. The lives she did not save. Her contemporaries had always questioned her dedication to such a dirt-poor institution when she could have been making real money from her god-given talents. But for Morven it had always been about justice.

She hated Marcil for that.

Hated, too, not knowing what had happened to Sage Parker. Though the kid had a fucking computer lodged in his brain, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t have found her if he’d needed her. She knew he wasn’t dead at least. That would have to be enough.

Beyond that she had discovered she enjoyed the training. She’d always been athletic, spending most of her summers hiking with her sister in the Cairngorms, and even when her studies robbed most of her leisure time Morven had taken care of herself. She took to the physical training like a duck to water, and revelled in the challenge of it. She was competitive and ambitious; driven to excel by consistently performing to the very edge of her limits. This was the sort of discipline she had been made for; one in which she was not required to show tact around gentler feeling. The camaraderie discovered amongst the others in her troop was not something she had ever thought to look for, or had ever felt missing from her life, but it proved a powerful euphoria.

Not that the path was smooth by any means; she had a temper, and blood that ran hot, and sometimes a pride easily injured. Weapons handling seemed particularly pointless at first, given that a bare twist of her mind gave a far more potent result. But there weren’t any channelers here, nor anyone to teach her. She was instructed to show one careful demonstration of her abilities one night, and that with ranking government officials she did not even know the name of at the time, but it was made quite clear that she was not to use her edge for the duration, nor to allow others to know of it -- which admittedly didn’t always stop her pressing against the boundaries. Caught wrong, though, Morven accepted the punishment with equanimity. Justice was justice, after all, and once she ken the reason it made sense. The military couldn’t be seen to be training fucking channelers after all. Not for violence, anyway.

Officers training followed as Spring rolled around. She’d been originally trained for the ER, and working in the chaos of the moment was wired into her psyche; it was the rote tasks she found more challenging, particularly after the adrenaline of military basics. Caring for the more mundane aspects of her comrades at the medical centre that was now her temporary base seemed a startling reevaluation at first, skills she did not lack but did not always exactly favour. She was a good doctor, but she was not one known for her empathy. Least not if you did not deserve it.

She expected deployment after that; Africa was a fucking mess, and they said even America was about to carve itself up in the south. But when the summons came it was not to service at all, it was back to Moscow before she’d even passed out. That ground her teeth, to begin with. It seemed that now she had proved her soul to be signed in blood to the Custody’s cause, the real specificity of her training was to begin; the reason the agents had made the offer in the first place, following her forced registration. She was an asset, she got that; a rare commodity, if not so rare a gem as Jensen James. But first that skill must be honed.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been studied, though the cavernous halls of the Facility far outstripped even the Network’s breadth of resources.

She quickly discovered, to some disappointment, that the Ascendancy only surrounded himself with male channelers, and she already knew from Soren that she could neither learn from them nor teach them her own tricks. The Dominions, the Consul, Alric. Ironically enough the most prominent scientists in here were actually women, though Morven had little in common with either of them -- even Danika, who resonated the self-same gift. She didn’t think the woman’s feet even touched the ground when she walked, her head was so high up in the fucking clouds. So what time Morven did not spend accepting the tests of her power and wondering what the fuck they actually intended for her future, she spent in the Dominion’s gym, whether she was welcome there or not. It seemed a general consensus to them that she was to be an auxiliary to their work -- the nice little woman who’d patch them up when they fucked up. Well, at least until she bust Taichechski’s nose so she could show him just how she could put it back together for him. Seemed their opinion on her changed after that.]]>
Early-hour guard duty wore her patience to ground-up dust, though only because it gave her too much time to think in the fucking silence, when the only movement in the shadows was the puff of her own frigid breath. The Custody’s offer hadn’t been any kind of choice at all, given the ruin Marcil made of her career, but it didn’t stop her thinking about what she’d left behind. The patients in Moscow’s shitty Guardian complex she was not there to treat. The lives she did not save. Her contemporaries had always questioned her dedication to such a dirt-poor institution when she could have been making real money from her god-given talents. But for Morven it had always been about justice.

She hated Marcil for that.

Hated, too, not knowing what had happened to Sage Parker. Though the kid had a fucking computer lodged in his brain, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t have found her if he’d needed her. She knew he wasn’t dead at least. That would have to be enough.

Beyond that she had discovered she enjoyed the training. She’d always been athletic, spending most of her summers hiking with her sister in the Cairngorms, and even when her studies robbed most of her leisure time Morven had taken care of herself. She took to the physical training like a duck to water, and revelled in the challenge of it. She was competitive and ambitious; driven to excel by consistently performing to the very edge of her limits. This was the sort of discipline she had been made for; one in which she was not required to show tact around gentler feeling. The camaraderie discovered amongst the others in her troop was not something she had ever thought to look for, or had ever felt missing from her life, but it proved a powerful euphoria.

Not that the path was smooth by any means; she had a temper, and blood that ran hot, and sometimes a pride easily injured. Weapons handling seemed particularly pointless at first, given that a bare twist of her mind gave a far more potent result. But there weren’t any channelers here, nor anyone to teach her. She was instructed to show one careful demonstration of her abilities one night, and that with ranking government officials she did not even know the name of at the time, but it was made quite clear that she was not to use her edge for the duration, nor to allow others to know of it -- which admittedly didn’t always stop her pressing against the boundaries. Caught wrong, though, Morven accepted the punishment with equanimity. Justice was justice, after all, and once she ken the reason it made sense. The military couldn’t be seen to be training fucking channelers after all. Not for violence, anyway.

Officers training followed as Spring rolled around. She’d been originally trained for the ER, and working in the chaos of the moment was wired into her psyche; it was the rote tasks she found more challenging, particularly after the adrenaline of military basics. Caring for the more mundane aspects of her comrades at the medical centre that was now her temporary base seemed a startling reevaluation at first, skills she did not lack but did not always exactly favour. She was a good doctor, but she was not one known for her empathy. Least not if you did not deserve it.

She expected deployment after that; Africa was a fucking mess, and they said even America was about to carve itself up in the south. But when the summons came it was not to service at all, it was back to Moscow before she’d even passed out. That ground her teeth, to begin with. It seemed that now she had proved her soul to be signed in blood to the Custody’s cause, the real specificity of her training was to begin; the reason the agents had made the offer in the first place, following her forced registration. She was an asset, she got that; a rare commodity, if not so rare a gem as Jensen James. But first that skill must be honed.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been studied, though the cavernous halls of the Facility far outstripped even the Network’s breadth of resources.

She quickly discovered, to some disappointment, that the Ascendancy only surrounded himself with male channelers, and she already knew from Soren that she could neither learn from them nor teach them her own tricks. The Dominions, the Consul, Alric. Ironically enough the most prominent scientists in here were actually women, though Morven had little in common with either of them -- even Danika, who resonated the self-same gift. She didn’t think the woman’s feet even touched the ground when she walked, her head was so high up in the fucking clouds. So what time Morven did not spend accepting the tests of her power and wondering what the fuck they actually intended for her future, she spent in the Dominion’s gym, whether she was welcome there or not. It seemed a general consensus to them that she was to be an auxiliary to their work -- the nice little woman who’d patch them up when they fucked up. Well, at least until she bust Taichechski’s nose so she could show him just how she could put it back together for him. Seemed their opinion on her changed after that.]]> <![CDATA[The pit of doom]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-605.html Thu, 22 Feb 2018 20:48:00 +0000 Jay Carpenter]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-605.html
Speaking of lacking views, the only thing surrounding him were bunks. Each neatly made, he found himself tucking his own into good order out of sheer habit before going off in search of someone when a wave of darkness rushed his senses. It immediately cast his heart into a harder beat as he followed its origins.

When he came upon an open chamber that reminded him of a concrete gymnasium, he flat out gawked like an idiot at what he found.

Five men faced one another in line. Each wore athletic apparel as more than one brow was slicked with a sheen of moisture. Jay suddenly felt ridiculous shirtless in sweat pants and bared feet. But what really stole the show was the symphony of flows lashing around the room. He could barely follow the lights, though the sweep of each weave cast a shadow on his heart that made him want to retreat.

Instead, his fists opened and closed, itching with anticipation. The power rushed into his grasp and filled him to the brim. It was only a moment before one of the men spun on a heel and thrust a storm of power at him.

He threw up a shield of light, and his own arms in front of his face. A flash of light sparked like a beam across his eyes, but the attack never landed. The flows were cut by another. Jay didn't even know that was possible.

Blinking, panting, he looked up when a clap landed on his shoulder. One of the men, an Indian a few years older than himself helped him up.

"You must be the newbie. Welcome to the pit of doom, Carpenter."
He leered with a smile.

Jay blinked as each of the five came to appraise him.

"Uhh-- Thanks?"
He tried to smirk, but honestly, was too fucking shocked to do anything but stand there like a fool.

]]>
Speaking of lacking views, the only thing surrounding him were bunks. Each neatly made, he found himself tucking his own into good order out of sheer habit before going off in search of someone when a wave of darkness rushed his senses. It immediately cast his heart into a harder beat as he followed its origins.

When he came upon an open chamber that reminded him of a concrete gymnasium, he flat out gawked like an idiot at what he found.

Five men faced one another in line. Each wore athletic apparel as more than one brow was slicked with a sheen of moisture. Jay suddenly felt ridiculous shirtless in sweat pants and bared feet. But what really stole the show was the symphony of flows lashing around the room. He could barely follow the lights, though the sweep of each weave cast a shadow on his heart that made him want to retreat.

Instead, his fists opened and closed, itching with anticipation. The power rushed into his grasp and filled him to the brim. It was only a moment before one of the men spun on a heel and thrust a storm of power at him.

He threw up a shield of light, and his own arms in front of his face. A flash of light sparked like a beam across his eyes, but the attack never landed. The flows were cut by another. Jay didn't even know that was possible.

Blinking, panting, he looked up when a clap landed on his shoulder. One of the men, an Indian a few years older than himself helped him up.

"You must be the newbie. Welcome to the pit of doom, Carpenter."
He leered with a smile.

Jay blinked as each of the five came to appraise him.

"Uhh-- Thanks?"
He tried to smirk, but honestly, was too fucking shocked to do anything but stand there like a fool.

]]> <![CDATA[Rerouted]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-606.html Tue, 16 Jan 2018 21:27:00 +0000 Jay Carpenter]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-606.html Continued from Spilled Drinks

Despite what the rumors in high school said, this was Jay's first experience in the back of a squad car. His hands were dormant, but wrenched behind his back hard enough to put his shoulder at a questionable angle. The interior of the car door was disturbingly flat. No handle to open. No arm rest jutting out. Just padding. Best not think about being locked in a box. He forced his gaze higher. As they departed the scene, the glow of red and blue flashes faded. The city seemed darker, now. This was no area of glittering towers or historical buildings. In fact, Jay had no idea poorer areas of Moscow even existed.

His memory swirled with the events of the last twenty-four hours. Yesterday he was excited by the prospect of a night out of uniform for once. Not that he wanted to leave it behind. It felt strangely wrong to walk around in a regular shirt and jeans, just as walking away from duty for a well-deserved night of freedom was wrong, but he did it anyway. Sane people took nights off. A concert was suppose to be fun.

Enter cannibal monsters. Jay had seen the worst of humanity. There were enough bodies at his feet to attest to it. Maybe he was one of them. But at least he was a monster that killed something worse. But cannibals. Right in the middle of chaos. If he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes, he wouldn't believed it. Coincidence put Nox there. If anyone else sat the next seat over, Jay would have enjoyed this nice ride last night rather than delaying it a day.

The comings and goings of other police vehicles caught his eye. The car approached a precinct and a voice came over the intercom. Jay only barely heard it from his padded box. He shivered at that thought.

"Hinshaw. Come in."
"This is Hinshaw." The officer responded. Jay stretched his senses, listening.

"Reroute suspect to beta four thirty."
"Ten-four."

They sped away from the precinct and Jay looked over his shoulder as the building blurred by. He frowned. This wasn't boding well.

When he was eventually pulled from the vehicle and a black bag thrust over his head, he realized this may have been a bad idea.

]]> Continued from Spilled Drinks

Despite what the rumors in high school said, this was Jay's first experience in the back of a squad car. His hands were dormant, but wrenched behind his back hard enough to put his shoulder at a questionable angle. The interior of the car door was disturbingly flat. No handle to open. No arm rest jutting out. Just padding. Best not think about being locked in a box. He forced his gaze higher. As they departed the scene, the glow of red and blue flashes faded. The city seemed darker, now. This was no area of glittering towers or historical buildings. In fact, Jay had no idea poorer areas of Moscow even existed.

His memory swirled with the events of the last twenty-four hours. Yesterday he was excited by the prospect of a night out of uniform for once. Not that he wanted to leave it behind. It felt strangely wrong to walk around in a regular shirt and jeans, just as walking away from duty for a well-deserved night of freedom was wrong, but he did it anyway. Sane people took nights off. A concert was suppose to be fun.

Enter cannibal monsters. Jay had seen the worst of humanity. There were enough bodies at his feet to attest to it. Maybe he was one of them. But at least he was a monster that killed something worse. But cannibals. Right in the middle of chaos. If he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes, he wouldn't believed it. Coincidence put Nox there. If anyone else sat the next seat over, Jay would have enjoyed this nice ride last night rather than delaying it a day.

The comings and goings of other police vehicles caught his eye. The car approached a precinct and a voice came over the intercom. Jay only barely heard it from his padded box. He shivered at that thought.

"Hinshaw. Come in."
"This is Hinshaw." The officer responded. Jay stretched his senses, listening.

"Reroute suspect to beta four thirty."
"Ten-four."

They sped away from the precinct and Jay looked over his shoulder as the building blurred by. He frowned. This wasn't boding well.

When he was eventually pulled from the vehicle and a black bag thrust over his head, he realized this may have been a bad idea.

]]> <![CDATA[Out of place]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-607.html Wed, 03 Jan 2018 20:31:00 +0000 Danika]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-607.html
Despite the fact that she wore a rather simple black, pants suit she felt sorely out of place. Everyone she passed in the halls were dressed immaculately. Even the man answering the phones had a hawkish look on his face and wore a freaking pocket square in his jacket.

She was given a temporary office to use. It was quite a bit smaller than the office she occupied at MSU, but it was near Consul DuBois' office. She didn't want to know what happened to the person that recently vacated it.

It was hours past dinner time when she finally packed up her stuff and got ready to leave.]]>
Despite the fact that she wore a rather simple black, pants suit she felt sorely out of place. Everyone she passed in the halls were dressed immaculately. Even the man answering the phones had a hawkish look on his face and wore a freaking pocket square in his jacket.

She was given a temporary office to use. It was quite a bit smaller than the office she occupied at MSU, but it was near Consul DuBois' office. She didn't want to know what happened to the person that recently vacated it.

It was hours past dinner time when she finally packed up her stuff and got ready to leave.]]> <![CDATA[A New Power Rising]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-608.html Thu, 28 Jul 2016 09:06:00 +0000 Michael Vellas]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-608.html
Pure and beautiful silence.

For months there had never been a moment's silence in the hell hole Nikolai had thrown him into. If it was not the sound of his students working on their art, it was the persistent hum of the White-Cloaks' machines, forever working to find an answer to the one question everyone wanted to know.

What manner of power did he wield?

Michael had not been a good subject. Some of the others like Im Seung Jun, the meticulous former surgeon and Karim al'Shadis provided them with much better answers. They wondered at their power, they wanted to know how and why.

Michael cared little for such things. He was a bonfire in a storm that could snuff him out at any moment. It was enough.

His eight students stood in a line like soldiers. Perfectly still and blessedly silent. Michael himself stood across from them in the main training room, scanning the line.

They had come far in the preceding months. Very far. Some were even talented. All were dangerous.

And now the time had come to unleash the beasts he had created.

Some would stay, men like Sanjay Ramanujan, men who would do well at teaching other prospective ascendants. The others... he would take them to the surface.

Petrovic and Taichechski in particular. Those two were dangerous. They hated him. He could see it in their eyes. So he would keep them close, and if the day came when they mustered their courage to defy him, he would be ready.

"Ascendants,"
he began in a soft, cool voice. "Today you are no longer students. Today you become more than infants. You have done well to survive, and now you will be rewarded for it."

Michael hardly saw what was to come as a reward, but they didn't know what they were getting into. They did not know Nikolai, the man who sought to play God.

"Stand proud. Today, the Ascendancy will welcome you as brothers."

As slaves...]]>
Pure and beautiful silence.

For months there had never been a moment's silence in the hell hole Nikolai had thrown him into. If it was not the sound of his students working on their art, it was the persistent hum of the White-Cloaks' machines, forever working to find an answer to the one question everyone wanted to know.

What manner of power did he wield?

Michael had not been a good subject. Some of the others like Im Seung Jun, the meticulous former surgeon and Karim al'Shadis provided them with much better answers. They wondered at their power, they wanted to know how and why.

Michael cared little for such things. He was a bonfire in a storm that could snuff him out at any moment. It was enough.

His eight students stood in a line like soldiers. Perfectly still and blessedly silent. Michael himself stood across from them in the main training room, scanning the line.

They had come far in the preceding months. Very far. Some were even talented. All were dangerous.

And now the time had come to unleash the beasts he had created.

Some would stay, men like Sanjay Ramanujan, men who would do well at teaching other prospective ascendants. The others... he would take them to the surface.

Petrovic and Taichechski in particular. Those two were dangerous. They hated him. He could see it in their eyes. So he would keep them close, and if the day came when they mustered their courage to defy him, he would be ready.

"Ascendants,"
he began in a soft, cool voice. "Today you are no longer students. Today you become more than infants. You have done well to survive, and now you will be rewarded for it."

Michael hardly saw what was to come as a reward, but they didn't know what they were getting into. They did not know Nikolai, the man who sought to play God.

"Stand proud. Today, the Ascendancy will welcome you as brothers."

As slaves...]]>