Raffe fell into a routine based purely on survival. Months had passed; he knew by now he was kept in a government facility, no longer monitored by Paragon but something more deeply classified. The details were incidental things he had no opinion on. The power he’d never wanted was gone – that should have been a revelation, but it only made sense in a way Raffe acknowledged and then set aside as irrelevant. Bastian knew. The Commander. Presumably the Ascendancy, though Raffe never met him. The private experiments to explain his condition continued behind closed doors – not to cure it, but to understand it. Raffe didn’t ask questions, he only consented. Nor did he ask what was gleaned.

They’d kept a box of his things, retrieved from Kallisti after he’d left. His whole life’s worth, including his wallet, Nox’s ring, and an unopened Christmas present; but he never went through any of it. The man he was now had no levity left to him, no joy, and no right to darken his old life. Memories of the masquerade – of Noemi’s soft concern, and Kristian’s description of the yawning abyss he saw inside – lurked in his mind sometimes. But it was the discomfort of trying to pretend he was still the same person inside, not the horror of what he might be now. So he rarely looked back.

The night at the carnival was little beyond a blur, and the weeks after that nothing but haze. The trackmarks on his arms were healed, the withdrawal long past. Sobriety had been cold. But Bastian enforced self-discipline with the tenacity of a man who wielded the same weapon inwards, and exacted the same standards in others. He wasn’t kind, but he was thorough. Every moment was accounted for and put to purpose. Exercise. Meditation. Raffe had never picked up a weapon in his life, let alone something so archaic as a sword, but he did as he was instructed and learned that too. It was easier not to question, to live inside a body that worked like a machine. He ate when he was told to, and what he was told to. His body grew lean and strong. When he caught himself in the mirror, which he rarely did, his face was drawn and angular. White ghosted his temples, stark against the burnished curls.

He didn’t seek company. There were other Dominions, but he barely saw them. The Garden housed other men learning how to wield the power too, but he avoided them, and Bastian’s stern eye encouraged a distance. Only Morven crossed it on occasion, not because he was special, but because she did not ever seem to account herself as beholden to the hierarchy and rules. She offered Healing more than once, eyes narrowed like she sensed something broken beneath the surface. But he only declined and moved away.

Whatever instinct had blocked her from the ability, the confrontation in the tunnels had snapped it free. She felt it now, a pulse of warmth and light just beyond her ordinary senses. The shame of the temptation to embrace it warred with her resolute acceptance that this was what she was. The compromise she had no choice but to be. Just because something felt right did not mean it was right.

Dusk was settling on the streets. Snow drifted thick and silent; not dangerous yet, but it was settling hard. She walked alone.

Long months of devoted practice had tightened the muscles and reflexes the past years had let soften. Eido moved with an understated, agile grace, head tucked against the weather, eyes softly observant. She wasn’t hunting, or not that kind; she was looking for her brother, and walking because it was better than stillness. Kōta hadn’t answered his wallet, and she was checking his most usual haunts – those she knew of, at least. Kōta maintained his connections with the underworld in Moscow; talked just enough of Yazuka influence, new clubs, and new clients, for her to understand the circles he called home. He had mentioned Haruto's name in passing once, just pointed enough that she caught the meaning, though she'd only inclined her head and never asked more about it. Since Zephyr had erased their names from the Atharim lists, he had delved back deeply into the world once denied him, and Eido had reluctantly let him go. The admonishment of him seeking a real life was often on the tip of her tongue, but he only ever raised an amused brow and ushered her to a mirror. He wasn’t wrong. And she could never meet her own eye in that reflection.

He’d been bouncing between crime families for weeks, skimming the surface of their conversations while filtering real intel back to the Patron. Keeping up appearances, cracking jokes over cheap liquor with men who’d kill their own blood for looking sideways at their daughters. Then pinging updates to Marcus in dry bursts. The consul rarely responded. When he did, it was usually a thumbs-up or a blinking dot that never finished typing.

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.

They'd been shopping. The weather was shit. It was worse than Chicago back home. And it was cold. Cade hated the cold. He was grateful Anna had decided to help him pick out some new furniture -- not that the stuff provided wasn't great, but he wanted his own things about him and the landlord was of course cool with that and would move the things out when new ones arrived, so at least the place wasn't empty.

But while they were out Cade picked out new bed sheets, towels, some cool plates and glasses. It was starting to feel like home. The weather was getting worse but he hoped it would hold out, he wanted to pay Anna back for all the help by cooking he a hot meal -- something his dad used to make for them on cold winter days -- a bit ole pot of homemade chilli.  The sauce had been simmering while they were gone, so the new apartment smelled wonderful.

Anna was helping him carry the smaller things up and he smiled as he offered to take them from her to put on the counter "I hope you'll stay, let me serve you some of my dad's chilli and some homemade corn bread." That was his step-mom's recipe.  He didn't really have anything from his mother, he would have to ask Nox if there was anything special -- though from the way Nox cooked Cade was pretty sure he did most of the cooking even as a kid.

((OoC - this is a semi-closed/solo thread - it just means I have something particular I’m trying to accomplish here - open to thread not being a solo - if you wanna join in/get rescued in the Snowpocalypse - send me a message))

Day One
Location: Near Red Light District

”Moscow FD for Rescue One,” Anita spoke into her headset.

”Go ahead, Rescue One,”, the voice of the dispatcher said. 

”Rescue One is on scene.”

The dispatcher confirmed. Anita moved quickly. They had been on alert due to the upcoming storm. The snow was beginning to fall and was already falling faster. The car in the ditch had not only swerved, but had flipped over before landing again on its wheels. It was pretty banged up. The driver had to be going like a bat out of hell. Probably intoxicated. It didn’t matter now though. 

”Need a neck brace and a back board,” Anita ordered her crew. They were already doing so. They were well trained, but the orders were coming more from habit than anything else. 

They approached the vehicle - a small sedan. Thankful the door opened. The victim, a male - maybe mid 20’s, was silent. Anita put a hand on his chest. She let out a breath as she felt it move up and down from his breathing. She also caught the heart beat. 

”Sir, can you hear me?” she asked. No response.

A medic handed her a neck brace and she put it on. She had no idea if how hurt he was, so better to be safe and assume spinal injury than not. Another medic went to the other side and they stabilized the spine with a back board before carefully extricating the man from the vehicle. They loaded him carefully on to their stretcher and into the ambulance. 

Anita heard the driver inform dispatch they were en route to the hospital. Anita began to assess. The trip to the hospital would not be as fast as she would like. She did what she could, gathering as much information as she could and stabilizing the patient as much as possible. They passed the patient on to the hospital along with Anita’s findings. 

”Rescue One for Moscow FD,” the dispatchers voice came as Anita handed over the patient. 

”Go ahead MFD,” she responded. 

”Rescue One, you are needed at…” the voice continued. Anita sighed. It was going to be a long, hard day.

They had been side stepping each other for a while and after a session with the kids Hayden stuck around while to wait for Nox. He waited until he had settled in to eat before he approached, and it wasn't until Nox was done that there was enough awkward silence between them.

He sat there finishing his food.  Nox left with a grin and put the baby into her bed in the back room.  He came back and leaned against the hallway door. "I assume you wanted to talk. You've been avoiding me."

Hayden chuckled. "I wasn't sure you wanted to talk to me."

Nox shrugged. "I'm not upset with you. You didn't talk me into anything I didn't want to do."

Hayden walked over to Nox and stood in front of him.  "Then what is it? I feel the tension, see it in the way you look at me."

Nox sighed. "You see me as me. You like who I am. You want to be part of my family. You just don't want me." He pushed passed like his words meant nothing. Like they didn't matter and started to clean up the kitchen.

"Nox. I don't do relationships, you know this."

He nodded. "I know that, Hayden. That's what I'm pissed about. The man I fucking love doesn't want my help, doesn't even want me in his life anymore. He won't ever trust me because of the fucking Horde in my head. The horde was gone, and any chance I had with him is gone forever. I'm just pissed at the fucking world and all the shit in it. I know I fucked it up."

Nox shook his head. Hayden could see the clenched fisted, the anger boiling inside that he was keeping to himself. It was such a small thing, he looked calm, he sounded calm but Hayden knew there was fury just below the surface. "I'll watch Lily till Liam or Marta come to collect her. You know where to find me."

Nox stared at Hayden with sadness etched all over his face. Hayden didn't like seeing the look much less directed at him. And Nox knew it.  He turned and walked back out of the house.  Hayden spoke to the AI in the room. "Monitor him Sky. Make sure he doesn't do something stupid."

"On it."

Snow was beginning to fall, but it was still light. Tatyana, Madison, and Mackenzie were on their way to Nox's building in the Red Light District.  They were all bundled up.  The world seemed to be moving faster today. People were rushed, trying to get home or something.  An ambulance rushed past as they walked.  Tatyana held the girls' hands and kept them close. The twins had worked their way into her heart since they had "stole" her ring. 

It had taken some convincing, but Mackenzie had eventually decided to go to the building. It had been Madison's idea to come here so they could spar properly. Tatyana had needed some convincing too.  It wasn't quite the day for her meeting with Nox, and if she could think of another way to break her block, she would have. Ever since finding out that Nox had been the cause of the twins' orphan status, she found herself disliking him more. 

Tatyana lived in the tunnels with the girls, taking a alcove for herself.  She wasn't aware of how much the girls knew of her drug addiction.  She tried to keep it from them, taking her meds when they weren't looking.  Tatyana was certain they had seen her high multiple times though.  They were smart kids and probably knew what was going on, but anytime they asked she just said she wasn't feeling well. It was an apt enough description. Today she had taken her pill, but it was wearing down. She spent time with the girl's when he wasn't high, and probably was sober more than she had been before.

The trio arrived at the building.  Tatyana kicked the snow off her shoes as they entered the building. She didn't like Nox, but didn't really want to make a mess or get on his bad side even if she was sure he, Hayden, and Ashton disliked her as much as she disliked him. "You two okay? Still warm?" she asked them, with a smile, wishing she could use her magic to help get them there a little better. They all wore hats and gloves given to them by Zeke's church, so it hadn't been too bad. "We can head downstairs and get warm before we play." she suggested.

[[No plans - no plot (unless one develops) - anyone is welcome to just come in and have fun - Jaxen throwing a giant ass snowball at me inspired this]]

The invites were sent out far and wide. An open invite to a snowball fight. Anyone could come and have a good time. Rachel was bundled up against the cold and was the first to arrive. There was no saying if anyone would show up or not, but she didn't mind either way. At the very least, she could build a snowman. Maybe she would practice with her power too.  She didn't know - she just wanted to 

And that is what she did while she waited to see if anyone else would join.  She began to hum a song from an old Disney movie about building a snowman. She started with a snowball and began to roll it on the ground to make a base for her snowman. The field itself was open.  The sun was shining and the sky clear.  There was only a slight breezed that rustled against Rachel's blue puffy coat.  A white hat covered protected her ears and her scarf blew gently in the wind.  Rachel tucked the ends into her collar with gloved hands to keep them nearby.

Rachel sighed as she finished the base and began to work on the second snowball for the midsection. Then she made the one for the head. the balls were placed on each other and Rachel opened her bag to get out the parts for the decorations.  A carrot nose and some buttons for the eyes and smile.  A couple of sticks were the arms and she placed a New Years top hat on the top.  Rachel took a step back and admired her work before beginning to make some snowballs. Maybe some folks would show up to have an actual snowball fight.

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.

What was forecast as a severe winter storm has become a historic disaster.

In the early hours of January 12, 2047, Moscow was struck by an unprecedented snowfall. Over the course of six hours, 15–20 meters of snow fell across the city and surrounding regions. Not gradually. Not predictably. It came down fast, heavy, and with destructive force.

By morning, entire apartment blocks were partially buried. Snow folded over rooftops, sealed windows, crushed balconies, and caused multiple structural collapses, particularly in older buildings. Streets vanished entirely. Courtyards and parks became deep white basins. Landmarks were reduced to barely visible shapes rising from the snow.

This was not a normal blizzard. Winds behaved erratically, carving the snow into towering walls and frozen waves. In some districts, accumulation was uneven and extreme, far beyond anything modern infrastructure was designed to withstand.

Timeline

• Day -2: Heavy snowstorm forecast. Emergency services placed on standby. Citizens advised to stay indoors.
  
• Day -1: Snowfall intensity exceeds all projections. Monitoring systems begin failing.
  
• Day 1: The majority of snowfall occurs. Visibility drops to near zero. Emergency response becomes severely limited.
  
• Days 2–3: Continued snowfall at reduced intensity. Temperatures plunge.
  
• Day 4: Snowfall stops. The damage remains.
  

• Infrastructure: Metro access sealed in several districts, widespread power and heating outages, roads fully impassable.
  
• Buildings: Older residential blocks collapse in multiple areas; newer high-rises remain standing but are partially engulfed.
  
• People: Thousands are trapped in homes with limited heat and supplies. Evacuations are slow, dangerous, and incomplete.