The heist & the key

[Jaxen Marveet]

A fine flurry of snow drifted down when Jaxen and Bode stepped out of the transit tunnel. Moscow in mid winter bore its cold proudly, but Jaxen didn’t seem to notice, moving through the flakes like an arrow. Despite the weather, a steady line of people moved toward the Sanctuary of Ascension.

Jaxen wasn’t built for obscurity, even when he meant to be invisible. His face was sharply defined: strong brows set over chocolate eyes that missed nothing, a neatly trimmed beard that suggested he cared about symmetry more than comfort, and a wide, expressive mouth that seemed to unconsciously telegraph disdain, amusement, or impatience all at once. His hair was dark and thick, deliberately tousled so it looked effortless. He cut a presence that was both interesting and predictable.

Most of the time.

Today, his clothes were a careful performance. Not flashy, but unmistakably chosen. He wore a dark, insulated winter coat in muted charcoal tones, the kind that read as practical at first glance but had subtle flourishes of leather trim and seams hinting at someone who chose function with at least a quiet eye for form. A well‑worn scarf wrapped around his neck, knotted snugly against the cold rather than fashioned for effect, its deep navy threads just visible beneath the coat’s collar. Denim pants were dark and solid, and his boots were practical with a faint polish. He blended in without sacrificing too much style.

He should have felt out of place among the crowd shuffling toward the Sanctuary, but he didn’t. Part of Jaxen was carved from that rare stone called presence, an instinct for stepping into any scene he wanted and appearing integral to it. He studied the procession of devotees and curious onlookers, scanned faces starting at the snow‑dappled plaza and stretching back into the line, and cataloged their rhythms as if they were cues in a ballet he was meant to anticipate.

The Sanctuary’s tower loomed ahead. He had researched the space as much as possible, but this was the first time on site. Even the falling snowflakes seemed to gather near the doors in reverence. People in thick coats and scarves leaned into each other, chatter soft behind gloved hands. Some carried tiny drones that darted and hovered, capturing this moment of ritual and anticipation like digital fireflies as they filed indoors.

Inside him, a different kind of current hummed. Not the chill of snow, but the constant undertow of the Emissary’s presence. It throbbed at the edges of his thoughts, insistent and repetitive: Get the Key. Get the Key. Yet he mostly ignored the Emissary's insistence like a buzzing in his ear and navigated the queue. They weren't here to worship. His eyebrows flicked at the screens above the entrance broadcasting sweeping visuals of rejuvenation and miracle testimonies as they approached the entrance, but he wasn’t immune to the spectacle either. The world of the Brotherhood was one of showmanship as much as belief, but Jaxen respected a stage when he saw one.

He tugged at his scarf, a habit rather than necessity, and exhaled a plume of warmth that mingled with the snow. He didn’t just want to get inside; he wanted to see what made this place tick. And once he saw, he would know more how to adjust their plan for the moment.

Nearby Bode matched his quiet stride.

[Nesrin Aziz]

Nesrin gave every carefree indication that she’d left the details entirely in Jaxen’s clever hands, but in reality she’d been far from idle. She was perfectly willing to let him do all the hard work, and claim all the accolades he wanted for it too, but she was her own best contingency. By now she knew this place like the back of her hand, though not because she’d ever been here in person. There was a limit to what the dreaming place could reveal though; layout, design, but not the knowledge she craved. Ephemera morphed and changed moment to moment there, more maddening than enlightening. Though the most interesting piece of intel she’d uncovered in her preparations had not been found there at all.

She was nondescript in appearance today. Gone was the sleek, shadow-enshrined creature of Kallisti. No make-up, hair natural. The hood of her coat was drawn up, a few inky curls spilling free and already frosted with drifting snow, and her scarf was pulled close, just a pair of thick-lashed eyes and the freckle-dusted bridge of her nose visible. Even her hands were clad in lined leather gloves. A subzero rooftop terrace with a hot jacuzzi to dip into was one thing, but Moscow in the dead winter was frankly miserable. It was only the thrill of anticipation glittering her gaze with interest, rather than simply letting herself hunch against the frigid temperatures.

Getting into the Sanctuary wasn’t the problem. Like many places of worship, its atmosphere of divine reverence protected as much as any real security measure. People didn’t normally stray where it felt forbidden, especially when an actual god might strike them down. Getting into the vaults was something different, though.

But that’s what Jaxen was for.


As they walked her eyes wandered over the grandiose spectacle of the plaza. The Monument itself had been impressive even before it had been commandeered to its new narrative, and Nesrin could appreciate the audacity of the effort, but the statues and plaques they passed amused her for a whole other reason. She wasn’t looking at a would-be-god, or a leader or men, or even the individual who’d united half the world under his banner. She was considering the most absurd kind of inheritance, especially for a girl half-raised in a brothel.

Brandon had told her answers were in the hands of fate. But the only hands Nesrin trusted were her own.

The Brotherhood would be circling the Hall of Stars like vultures looking for fresh meat. And not that Nesrin lacked a saint’s patience, but being waylaid by the faithful would be yawn-worthy at best. She slipped an arm through Jaxen’s with all the comfortable familiarity of a matching puzzle piece. The rules didn’t apply through such thick winter layers. And it was only passing enough to ask a question.

“Skip the queues?”

They could cut through the gardens. There were several doors used by novitiates discreetly tucked away if you knew where to look. But it was phrased as a curious question, not a suggestion. She’d plied Wicked for information the moment she’d left him in Kallisti, and like usual, Wicked was only too eager to oblige her whims. Not that he needed much pushing to share what he knew. Primarily she’d wanted to know if Jaxen really was as good as thought he was – and apparently he was. Or at least, if Jaxen said he could do it, he’d find a way according to Wicked. So whatever her usual predilections, she would leave the decision to him, curious to see what he would do.

[Sage]

[[ooc: not gonna interferer but Sage would be too curious to not monitor things ]]

Sage didn't know the plan, he didn't really care, but he was Bode's eyes and ears. He was there and everywhere. Even as he sat at Paragon doing whatever it is they wanted. Though for now he just waited and watched. He watched everything; every feed was his, and they barely even knew he was there.

[Jaxen Marveet]

She slipped her arm through his in a way that made him glance aside and twitch a surprised smile. He could play the gentleman when he wanted, but it was the least fun role to take on. But he pat her arm with his gloved hand and glanced at her half-spoken suggestion of how they might find alternate entrance.

Then he beamed a big smile and walked straight on. “I prefer to walk in the front door.” He pat her arm reassuringly, waiting patiently until they were finally inside.

This was some scheduled healing ritual day at the Sanctuary, which explained the abundance of people loitering about. First thing he noticed when they came inside was the sudden rush of warmth that made him unzip his coat and shove his hat and gloves in a pocket, in favor of scrubbing his hair free of its woolen dome.

He allowed his eyes to drift over the people around him. There were far too many people for the brotherhood members to tend to one by one. Which worked in his favor and why he chose this time of day. The visitors moved like tranquilized notes in a symphony of collective faith. Jaxen took it in with a slow grin, not because he believed a word of it, but because this was the kind of environment that felt like fun to him.

Without warning, one of the screens flickered with odd visual feedback glitches, and Jaxen felt that tiny spark at the back of his feelings. Curiosity.

A pair of people in oddly fashionable Sanctuary outfits drifted past. One, a blonde man with long bangs, held a tablet scanning faces like an automated usher; the other was a round faced brunette girl that smiled with the hollow warmth of long practice. Jaxen watched them ease past, eyes warm but distant, and an idea formed quickly inside his mind.

He took a breath, deliberately calm, and shifted. Hands slipping just a fraction. Posture relaxed, shoulders easing backward. Like someone not trying to do anything unusual.

He stepped to the side, escaping into a corridor leading off the main chamber where instinct whispered that it led somewhere interesting.

Had he planned it?

Nope. Never.

A stroller passed behind them going the other direction, a mother murmuring to her child about miracles as they drifted by. Ritual drones hovered overhead, capturing riveted faces.

Jaxen walked, not hurried, not slow. Just… normal. Almost boring in his normalcy. A sensor blinked at the end of the corridor suggesting that a higher clearance would be required soon. 
Instead of freezing, he walked like he belonged.

When a voice crackled quietly from some distant speaker: “Access required. Please stand by.”

Jaxen altered course, angled a few degrees toward the nearest wall, and adjusted how he carried himself.

The Ancient Power faded, and when he turned back, he was younger (with brunette hair and plump lips painted with nice red lipstick) with eyes flicking between screens and real life, and adjusted the strangely fashionable uniform of the Brotherhood draping his significantly altered physique. Beside him, Nes was taller, blonder, and actually quite attractive if he said so himself. He winked one mischievous brown eye and pressed the previously swiped digital badges against the sensor. When the passage requested facial recognition, he (she) happily obliged.

Beyond the automatic door behind him lay layers of quiet spaces rarely seen by public guests: administrative offices, maintenance halls, sealed research archives, and a muted corridor with a faint red symbol blinking on a screen. Somewhere beyond that, he assumed the vaults awaited. If not, well, they would have fun exploring.

[Nesrin Aziz]

Amusement glimmered, though beneath the layers of her scarf only the eyes showed it. She was grinning though. “Don't usually get turned down when I offer a back door,” she said, and slipped her arm free with a low laugh. By the time they made it through the line her feet were starting to feel numb inside her boots, and the snow was still falling. Maybe that was normal for Moscow; this was her first winter here, and nobody seemed alarmed by it. Inside it was warm at least; Nesrin pushed back her hood and loosened her scarf as she let her attention wander. It had “slipped” her mind to mention there was a small chance she’d be recognised, but she didn’t expect Lucien to be circulating amongst the masses. In fact she didn’t expect to see him at all.

She watched her surroundings the way practically everyone did when they first stumbled into the Hall of Stars, face slightly upturned to the domed ceiling and its shifting celestial galaxies. The walls were obscured by the crowds, but she already knew their depictions: the Ascendancy and his miracles. The Luminar and his visions. Her expression was a perfect softness of swept-away awe, lost in a sea of similarly seeking souls, but inside a knot twisted and pulled itself tight. She couldn’t exactly say why, and she didn’t linger on the feeling. But this place felt like the bad kind of lie.

Jaxen remained in her peripheral while he scoped everything out. No one was watching him, and when he slipped down an arterial corridor she followed.

It was only because she’d been watching that she even realised what had happened in his subtle turn. Wicked's gossip had spoiled the surprise of him being a “god” (not her words), but nothing prepared her for an application of power she’d never even imagined possible. She didn’t school the astonishment from her expression, nor that the gleam of her interest was very quickly the hungry sort for the glimpse of a secret laid bare. Not that she could see the threads he’d used. He (she) winked at her, and with a smirk Nesrin reached to boop his (her) nose, curious to see if the illusion held. It did. She felt the gloves still on her hands, but she saw a white, masculine hand brush that cute little button nose.

Other circumstances, she'd have plenty of questions. But not on a job. With a brief smirk that said as much, she simply adapted. Her mind was whirring.

If Nesrin walked like she knew where she was going after that, it was because she did. She even gave a grave nod to someone similarly dressed who passed in the opposite direction, and did not have to reach for the power to smooth her passage and convince them she belonged here. What a welcome novelty. Ahead would lead them to the main elevator bank, which could conceivably take them all the way up to the atrium, or down to the subterranean levels (which housed the vault, and was therefore not actually a listed option). It would require more clearance than they likely had with the swipe badges, but she didn’t think that would be a problem for Voxel. With enough time, anyway. And that would have been where she led them, except he’d chosen this day, and revealed this neat little power, so instead she took another direction entirely.

The library was about what one might expect: fancy shelves filled with scrolls and leather-bound books, shadowy nooks perfect for some extracurricular distraction, all blanketed in the heavy, silent feel of a mausoleum. A large stained glass window might have bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colours but for the mute of heavy snow beyond. A curved desk lay beneath, dotted with neat piles of books and other curios. There was no computer, no screen – nothing she could see at least. The space felt timeless, like it had always existed. Like it always would.

As though summoned, a man drifted towards them from the stacks, dressed in robes similar to their own. His lips parted in greeting, only to pause in recognition of their stolen faces. Nesrin had no idea whether that was a good or bad thing, and she didn’t pause to find out. “Relax, we belong,” she told him under her breath. Beneath the heavy drape of her sleeve she placed a subtle touch on his arm. Contact wasn’t necessary, but it usually helped. The familiar faces helped more though, because the weave slipped in as smoothly as a knife in butter. She could see it sometimes, the way the light in someone’s eyes adjusted, accepted, trusted. Then, at a normal volume, she added: “We could use some more help in the Hall of Stars. This weather, you know? So many new seekers. We’ll see you out there.”

She dismissed him with a glance, utterly confident that he’d obey, though when he nodded and headed for the door she turned to watch him leave. “Well would you look at that white male privilege,” she said with a laugh. To say nothing of a little magic, obviously, but Jaxen didn’t need to know about that. Still, she was grinning like a devil when she rounded the desk. Lucien’s dreams were often prosaic, and he dreamed of work often enough that she had no problem slipping her hand underneath to negotiate the hidden compartment. No fingerprint scanner, just a puzzle of touch. For a man with gifts as Lucien apparently had, of course he was entirely analogue minded.

The key was for a door, a bronze plaque screwed to its surface engraved with the words: “The Librarian.” Inside was an esoteric, intimate office space. Windows looked out onto the library, and Nesrin twisted the privacy shutters after she closed the door behind them. She’d been in here before, but in the dream the papers all fluttered and merged and faded, unreadable. At a glance most of it seemed historical research. The long dead sort. Lucien had been employed by the British Museum before he’d inexplicably left for the Brotherhood, so none of that was surprising (or of interest right now). Yet nothing in Lucien’s background had really explained his apparent wealth, at least until she’d unearthed who exactly had paid for his education. Disparate puzzle pieces clicked, and suddenly his confession about once touching an object tied to her made sense.

“Vault’s below us,” she said to Jaxen conversationally. “That should take us down.”

The private elevator door she pointed out was an incongruous modernity, nestled amongst the bookcases along the walls. She had no idea what security would need circumventing to allow them access, and it would be beyond her abilities anyway. Unlike the other, this one only had two floor options, each labelled only by direction: one, an arrow up, the other an arrow down. Meanwhile, Nesrin turned her attention to riffling through the room. Her movements were quick, practised, capable, as though the gears inside her had shifted once again. She wasn’t sure she’d find anything here, but it was probably the best chance she’d ever have to look.