<big>Vietnam, 1969
</big>
Corporal Noah Crow's Eye peered out from behind the M-60 mount at the open door of the Huey and scanned the jungle scape for movement. Half of the ridges leading out from the A Shau Valley had been blasted into unrecognizable twigs of trees as the ten-day battle had worn on. Hamburger Hill, they were calling it. The eerie twilight turned those ridges to an ashen ghost of a forest. Yet there was still plenty of greenery to provide cover for enemy movement attempting to sneak in. Anything could hide in that dense foliage.

As a matter of fact, for the squad sitting behind Noah and the other forces with the three other Hueys, that's what they were counting on. “There,” Noah cried out to the sergeant strapped in behind him, pointing to a barely recognizable sliver to the other gunner. “You see the back trail? That's what they're using.” He'd already seen the trail in a dream, walking it in that other place he didn't really understand. His people had old memories of things like that place in the Spirit world but much of it had been long forgotten or shrouded in mystery. Of course Sarge would think he was full of shit if he told him that.

The NCO chuckled. “Hardly. You have a bird's eye all right, Crow.” He slung his M-16 around his back. He called over the radio to the other units then patted Noah on his bare cheek. “Keep your babyface eagle eyes on the lookout while we fast-rope in. There ain't shit for a landing.”

Noah nodded, trying not to roll his eyes. He was already 19 and had been out here for nearly a year. However his inability to grow facial hair had earned him a couple of nicknames. He had run into his handful of other Native Americans out here, and they all seemed very out of place among the scruffy faces of the other rough and dirtied foot soldiers who'd been rotting in the jungle. More than once he'd been looked on suspiciously, which was ridiculous. He didn't look that much like Charlie. Eyes were all wrong. He shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to believe he'd volunteered for this, and all on a dream. It still made no sense to him for him to be here. They told him he'd be a medic but then after training they threw him in as a door gunner. More meat for the grinder. It had been a long and bloody slog over some God-forsaken jungle with no end in sight.

But still, what would be, would be. He glanced down at the mark on his forearm. A simple snake biting his forearm. His father, now long dead, and his grandfather before them, and their forefathers, had called themselves the Remnant, the Atharim. Secret protectors of the tribe and their people from monsters and disaster. It all seemed like so much nonsense, like the old stories of the medicine men. Noah hadn't seen any such thing as a monster. Only disaster he'd seen was what the Feds had done to the tribes, specifically the Cherokee.

The rope was thrown over the side and the squad slid down it one by one the sixty feet to the jungle floor. Noah quickly pulled up the rope and took his spot behind the gun. He coiled the rope carefully so if they needed to bug out he could just push it back over the side.

Speaking of dreams, the one he'd suffered last night was downright terrible, and had left him wiped out. Nothing but certain doom and gloom. It was one reason why he was packing his 12-gauge shotgun, his 1911 sidearm and a Bowie knife. Probably nothing but nervousness since his chopper had been lucky mixed with wild bogeyman stories of crash survivors disappearing in the jungle. This place could even swallow the dead.

There. Deep in the trees, about fifty yards from the drop. Wide conical helmet and the flash of metal. They were crouched. “Two O'Clock!” he yelled out. He swung around the machine gun and lit up the stand of trees. Metal casings went flying and his ears burned. The forest floor came alive with movement. There were at least two hundred of them! Noah kept firing as a flash of light sprung from the floor and struck the Huey next to him. It careened into the trees and ground up leaves and trunk alike in a flaming ball of wreckage. He swallowed and tried not to think about the same thing happening.

No such luck. His chopper lurched as its motor was hit by the RPG, and Noah slammed forward, first in to the butt of the M-60, and then out the open door. He felt his back whip back as he was jerked by the line that secured him to the Huey floor. Head spinning and out of breath, dangling twenty feet from the forest floor, he looked up as the Huey started listing to the right. He had just enough time to grab the knife and slice the line.

Noah dropped into a stand of bushes, branches gouging at his flesh, and tumbled to the ground. He felt himself over. Nothing broken. Just very bruised and sore. His helicopter veered away, trailing smoke from its engine. He got to one knee and unslung the shotgun, attempting to get his bearings. An enemy screamed and rushed at him with a bayonet. Noah knocked it aside and slammed the butt stock into the man's jaw with a crunch, and pivoted and fired a slug into the man's chest.

He looked around. There were no sense of lines at all. Just echoes of gunfire and explosions and screaming, and smoke everywhere. He rushed forward and took cover behind a fallen log. Night was rapidly falling and an American by himself – even one grown up in the North Carolina Appalachia like Noah – was as good as dead in these Charlie infested boonies. But out in the open he was just as good as dead, also. So he'd take cover till he heard recognizable voices, or until the choppers came back.

None came as night fell and the temperature dropped. Hopes of rescue dwindled. He was pretty sure that if he followed the trail back East he would eventually make it back to the firebase at A Shau Valley. Noah left his hiding place and pushed forward, quietly. The jungle had long since grown still.

He heard a scream up ahead. It sounded – didn't sound like Charlie. Then there was a growl, and some more screams. Noah picked up his pace, careful to keep his shotgun ahead of him in case he ran across a booby trap.

In the clearing ahead there was a glow. Noah dropped to his elbows and crawled on his belly. An all too familiar scent of blood and flesh reached his nostrils. He peered in. There were dead men, three of them, splayed out across the clearing. One of them was Sarge. Something was hunched over him. Noah made out a silhouette of a thing vaguely humanoid with coal-black skin. It had flesh and sinew between its teeth – it was eating Sarge. It looked up and turned its glowing eyes at Noah, and snarled.

The creature from his dream.

Noah popped up from the prone position and fired his shotgun twice, missing both times. Blazes, the thing was fast! It feinted right, and swiped a clawed hand at his shoulder, scoring a slash along the back of his forearm. Noah ignored it and instead slammed the butt of his shotgun into the creature's face. He remembered from the dream that it was going to go for his throat. He had to keep those sharp teeth away. The thing reeled back but it didn't seem like the blow had fazed it. It swiped and knocked the shotgun out of his hands. Noah backed up and tripped over a root, falling backwards.

It jumped at him just as Noah, on his back, brought up his sidearm. He emptied the .45-caliber magazine into the creature at point- blank range and braced for the feel of jaws on his neck.


It never came. The creature shrieked and jumped off, disappearing into the brush.

Noah didn't know if he'd manage to injure the beast or just scare it off. He didn't care. He scrambled to his feet, trying to catch his breath, giving thanks to the Great Spirit for watching over him. He scrambled for the shotgun and pulled it up. One thing was for sure, though. Those stories of creatures weren't hooey.

In his pocket was a flashlight. He pulled it out, shining it into the night along the barrel of his shotgun. Noah looked around for the first time. He wasn't in a clearing. It was an old courtyard of some sort. Perfectly square, and the far side dropped off like a cliff. And it hadn't been a root he'd tripped over but an aged slab of stone. He stepped forward. A huge hulking shape gave way to...a stone awning. A temple or altar, perhaps. No, a pyramid. It dawned on him that he was actually at the top of a massive, buried structure. There were glyphs of some sort, in an unrecognizable language. He couldn't make any sense of it. But there were drawings and a snake. Or a wheel. Or...no, it was the Oroborus.

Now Noah understood. This was what he was supposed to find.


* * *

<big>Thirty-four years later
March 2003
Duke University
</big>

The snow was falling outside that evening, unusual for that late in the year. There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Noah called out from behind his desk. The door to his office opened, revealing Dr. Nathan Folsom. archaeologist was a recent face at Duke, and he had an office across campus from Noah's study. Noah had gotten to know him well over the past year, much to his chagrin. He didn't like the man much.

“Noah.” Dr. Folsom put out his hand. The middle-aged European let just a bit of skin show on his forearm which revealed the head of a snake. Noah took his arm and shook it but didn't stand. “I've seen your latest work pre-Columbian deity mythology. Fascinating stuff about why Pontiac believed he could make his warrior braves bulletproof.”

Noah nodded and narrowed his eyes. The man wasn't here for academics. “I appreciate your endorsement. What can I do for you?”

The man tsked. “Your family has done some very impressive things, in their little isolated pocket of the United States. Did you know that our records mention an ancestor of yours singlehandedly took out a nest of Dreyken which was attacking the Jamestown colony?” Noah had known as much. He'd seen the records himself, at a safe house not far from here. It seems Folsom had been digging up information on Noah for quite some time. Not in the waking world, of course. While walking the dream. There were other natives who could do it, as well. Wolves, also. And still more, hidden, who kept such a distance they thought Noah wasn't aware of their presence. But he hadn't found any others who understood how to read the lines of if, however.

Dr. Folsom walked over to a stand across the room and picked up a skull. Chupakabra. Noah had tracked it down in the Southwest years ago. “Somehow, the Remnant has survived in the shadows on this continent, and carried on their work in their little pockets just like your family. A remnant of the Remnant. For hundreds of years, we have been trying to re-unite you under the guidance of the Regus. And things have become more urgent.”

Noah frowned. “In what way?”

The man placed the skull back down on the stand. “Direction. This isn't just about rogue monsters and the like. This is about bringing you in under the fold. You hear things, I know. I'm sure you have heard Regus Wilhelm lost his own son to a Dreyken attack. He's become...insistent on things.”

Noah opened up a drawer and rummaged through it while keeping his eye on Folsom. “What does this have to do with me, exactly?”

The man opened his suit jacket. Noah saw a pearl-handled revolver for a moment, but the man instead pulled out a paper. “This should be right down your alley. It seems our efforts to...infiltrate the goings on of the Native groups of Atharim continue to be stymied. Additionally, someone has been...poking around. Threatening to expose certain historical actions allegedly taken by the organization. The manipulation of Jackson, for one.” He tsked again. It was an irritating habit. “Here is what we know about where the requests are coming from. We've traced it to coming from somewhere on this university and we think it's one of your local boys. Find it and quiet it.”

Noah's eyes narrowed. What was, and what will be, may be what is, today. His left hand found what he was looking for. “What do you mean by quiet it?”

The other man shrugged. “Figure it out. But the Remnant in this Godforsaken continent will be consolidated.”

Noah reached down with his right arm. “I don't think so.” He pushed back from the desk and brought his right hand up, revealing a taser pistol. Barbs flew and struck Folsom in the throat. Fifty thousand volts turned his muscles to jelly and he collapsed like a boneless sack of meat.

Noah didn't spare a second. He raced over and pulled the revolver from Folsom's holster. Then he stuck the man with the syringe in his left hand – a large dose of sodium thiopental.

“I'm going to tell you something,” Noah told the man. “Your kind are killers. Vicious killers. This isn't about saving people. This is about control to you.” He turned the man's revolver back on himself. Not that it was particularly necessary. The drug was fast-acting. “Who else knows about me?”

The man drooled a bit. He'd be compliant, but not lucid for long. “The safe house. Two others. And one in Alexandria. Your family record is there.” His eyes tried to focus on Noah. “I thought you were one of the good guys. Why you...you...”

Noah sighed. He came back to his desk and reached for another syringe. “Because the more you try to fight the future, the more blood will be shed. And it won't make any difference.” A raspy, mirthless laugh broke out from deep within him. “I've seen the future. And it doesn't belong to you.” He stuck the man again. The man's eyes glazed over. Within minutes his heart stopped. A shame Noah had to kill him. But that's what warriors did when they had a fight to win. Certain things had to come to pass if any of his people would survive the coming storm. And letting Folsom and Wilhelm and their ilk to penetrate further than they'd already managed to do so far would make things ten times worse. Noah reached behind his desk and pulled out the black body bag he'd stashed there earlier that day, whistling to himself.

That night, an explosion ripped through an upscale home in Durham. Three people were found dead in the blast the next morning, including a Dr. Nathan Folsom. A gas leak was blamed for the explosion. Two days later, a house went up in flames in Alexandria. If anyone was inside there wouldn't have even been dental records surviving. It was a suspected arson. The only problem was that no one could find who owned the property and no one stepped up to file an insurance claim. Neither of these incidents were considered particularly remarkable. Certainly no one connected them. And certainly no one connected either incident with Noah's announcement that he would take a sabbatical that year in preparation for retirement from the academic world. It was hardly a rare occasion for a tenured professor to drop his course load when he was nearing sixty.

He dropped into private research after that on his reservation in Cherokee, N.C., and his activities since then have been for the most part unnoticed. The Atharim have long forgotten about him as well as he has managed to wipe out all knowledge of his affiliation with them. But Noah has not forgotten about them. And he became instrumental to the development of the current Council of Native Americans. As the Sickness began to develop, Noah developed more and more of his time to studying the illness and coordinating efforts with other Native American tribes.

He never got rid of the tattoo, though.

"Falcon 2-1, this is Foxtrot actual. Request ETA on the drop, over."
LT's voice crackled over the squad's comms. It was good to be back in American armor, using American weapons. The suits were lighter weight than what the Custody offered, but the maneuverability difference was night and day. Still, this operation was off the books. There were no identifying marks on the suits.

It was early morning in northern Liberia. The sun was still a couple hours' off cresting the horizon, but the birds were starting to sing. In a few hours, sentries would be swapping shifts across the nation. Miles overhead, an XMC-130's cargo bay was opening up. The response came through over the radio. "Foxtrot Actual, Falcon 2-1. Package is free, ETA one minute on your strobe, over."


The team waited, and watched. They'd dropped an IR strobe in a field a hundred yards from their position. The minute wasn't even up yet when the drop pods slammed into the ground, retro thrusters firing in a flash heartbeats before they hit. Even so, a couple of the stabilizer fins were knocked loose from the impact. Even the most highly trained soldiers needed a supply chain, and the drop pods left a small footprint.

LT stood up and waved the team forwards. "Appreciate the gifts, Falcon 2-1. Foxtrot actual out."
They had swarm drones buzzing the surrounding area, and the chances of someone sneaking up on them were low - but that didn't mean they were going to wait around. When Koehler reached the first pod and pulled the latch, he was greeted by fresh batteries for their suits, and a healthy amount of ammo - preloaded in M6 magazines.

Once the team's supplies were topped off, Koehler seized the power and destroyed the evidence. He was getting good at that. A few lashes of fire and some air to whip it all away, and it was like the pods had never even hit the ground. Granted, there wasn't much point in the effort; it wasn't like they could pick up every 6.8 mm casing that hit the ground. The Custody's ammunition was all caseless, the Chinese used mostly 7.62, and African forces were a strange hodgepodge of last-gen weapons from across the world. Any ballistics tech with half a brain would figure out who was icing the Liberian army.

Team Foxtrot was made up of eight SUBGRU SEALs, and two of them were psychokinetic. LT looked at Koehler. "Andrew, I'm sending a waypoint to your visor. I need you, Weber, Jonesey and Frank to take out that supply station."
A moment later, a white diamond popped up on Koehler's HUD, to the north. Most of the other helmets used a closed circuit video camera system - made things like flashbangs useless against them. Koehler had to make due with a polarized lens and a holographic display. Cameras didn't pick up the power.

"Got it, boss. Any civilians we need to worry about?"
It was good to be able to talk on mission again. Last time Koehler was out, they were pretending to be Custody troops - and there weren't any Bostonians in Taskforce Vega.

"Shouldn't be, no. You good to go?"
If there were, Koehler knew what he had to do. With the number of people deployed across the country, and the fact that the operations were still off the books, someone really high up the food chain wanted this kept quiet. Someone Koehler didn't feel like fucking with.

Koehler nodded. "I'll see you at the rendezvous, sir."
With that, his squad split off from the team. They set out at what would pass for a dead run without the suits. Modern batteries could maintain a fifteen mile per hour sprint for hours on end without powering down, and they had spares in their packs. Even if they didn't, one of the first spells they'd developed at Camp Hoover gave squad psychokinetics the ability to recharge batteries in a pinch.

It took an hour to reach the supply depot, and by the time they got there the first red hints of sunlight were starting to brush the sky. The squad took cover on a ridge overlooking the whole setup. Koehler switched on thermals. "Looks like thirty seven contacts,"
he said over their local comms. The depot wasn't heavily defended. It consisted of a motor pool, a warehouse, and a barracks building with chain link fences all around. Looked like they had a lot of expensive hardware parked there nonetheless. Koehler found himself wondering whose bright idea it was to sell Bradley IFV's and Humvees to the people they were going to have to blow up later.

Jake Weber chimed in next. "Thirty seven. Some of them are unarmed; may be noncombatants. How do we want to take this?"


"We'll take it as planned. I'll thin the herd."
Koehler reached deep, and grabbed hold of the power. There wasn't much of a battle anymore, even if he found it difficult to hold for long without getting tired. He had to remove himself from the world around him to get control - something hard to do when bullets were flying. "On my mark,"
he said. Lashes of fire danced out, before taking root in the motor pool's fuel reserves. Moments later, a fireball engulfed the collection of vehicles and sent shards of hot metal flying all around. "Mark."


Somewhere in another world, Koehler knew he could hear the sharp hiss of suppressed M6's firing off rounds into the Liberian soldiers who were still standing. While the squad did their job, Koehler sought out and cut the lines to the depot's radio tower. No way they were calling for backup. The soldiers' spines were already broken, and they didn't put up much of a fight. Most died with exit wounds in their chests. A few tried to take cover in the barracks, but a quick slice of air took the walls down on top of them.

Before long, the only life signs Koehler could see were holed up in a cage, away from the fire. A secondary explosion from one of the Humvees' gas tanks cooking off toppled what remained of the motor pool's overhang. A piece of shrapnel slamming into the tree next to him shook Koehler's grip of the power free.

"Cease fire,"
Koehler said, and all the shooting stopped. "I want to see what the fuck's up with that cage."
LT didn't say anything about prisoners. Koehler figured he might as well see what he could find out. Afterwards, well, he had a little trick he'd been working on. Might as well try it.

It took another half an hour for the fire in the motor pool to burn down to a safe level. When it did, Koehler and Weber picked their way down the ridge and into what remained. Jonesey and Frank stayed up on the ridge to watch for any new contacts. "Shit, man,"
Weber said when they reached the twisted remains of the fence. "Must be crazy being able to do all this with your head."


"Should ask your sister what I can do with the other one, Weber,"
Koehler said. "Well, you should've if I did trannies. Who knows, might make an exception for her since she's your sister and all. Coulda sworn I heard you say she was in country."
He laughed a short laugh, not quite ignoring the destruction around them.

"Fuck you, Andy."
That exchange was far from the worst. Didn't change the fact that any member of the team was ready to give his life for the others at a moment's notice. "What's the plan with this? If these two see us - "


"Don't worry about that, Weber."
Koehler cut Weber off. "I've got a trick I've been wanting to try out. That private back in Camp Hoover was doing it."
Mind control. Well, in a simple sense. If it worked the way Koehler thought it would, he could ask the two in that cage anything he wanted and they'd forget all about it.

"Ramirez, right? That dude was fuckin' creepy. Can't tell you how many times he 'borrowed' cash off me."
The flames were still crackling when they rounded the corner to come in view of the cage. One of the men inside was slumped over, a chunk of shrapnel sticking out of his neck. He must have bled out while the squad waited for the fires to die down.

The other man was in good enough condition and his face lit up when they came in view. "Americans!" He shouted. The accent was thick and judging by the clothes, he was local. He shook the cage's bars.

"Look,"
Koehler began. "You speak English?"


"English..." The man shook his head, looking confused. "No."

Koehler sighed, checking the satellite uplink. Less than a quarter of a megabyte per second. The voice translator wouldn't work, and the only one on the team who spoke the language was with LT. He grabbed hold of the power, a little more sluggishly than he would have if he hadn't just destroyed half the complex. "Well, that was useless."
He sent lashes of spirit drilling into the man's mind, coupled with fire and earth. The way Ramirez did it, it should... Crap.
The guy's eyes crossed, and he slumped over. A moment later he was seizing up on the ground.

"I don't remember doing that when Ramirez was fucking with me, Andy."
Koehler could imagine the horrified look on Weber's face. "What the fuck did you do to him?"


There was a dead Liberian soldier lying on the ground, and his weapon looked loaded. Koehler released the power, and picked the decades-old AK-47 up. Only way not to tie anything back to them. "I fucked up, that's what."
He pointed the AK at the man's head and pulled the trigger. "Don't tell LT about this, Weber."



Edited by Andrew Koehler, Sep 29 2016, 12:48 AM.

SynJyn Quick Captain of the elite Vikings was re-reading reports from his Quarter Master and Master at Arms. He was consistently bombarded with request, that they damn well knew wouldn't be filled. "Bored Marines on the open seas"
he thought.

His orders to date were short and sweet: "Report to Manix Lir', Moscow area. My son has my full backing and support. Situation: Hostile."
The orders had come directly from Larson Lir' himself and tho short it was all he needed to know. The Vikings were a sea assault force but it wouldn't take much to transmute those skills to land base warfare. as he was silently thinking new training methods and even hiring an outside source, a knock came upon his door. "Enter"
he said in his rough voice.

A young sailor entered, a Seaman Apprentice by his stripes, He stood rigid and still. SynJyn was content to let him stand there forever, but had other things to do. "spit it out boy"
. The boy remained at attention and kept his composure, he got points in SynJyn's book for that. "Sir, a communique from Manix Lir', marked your eyes only. Skipper sent it directly down as soon as the download was complete."


Dismissing the sailor with a wave he inserted the modified SSD card into his micro pad. The face of Manix Lir soon popped up on his screen. "Hello, Old man, I pray your trip shall be uneventful and look forward to catching up while your crew gets some much needed R and R"
SJ nearly punched the pad. "What the hell!"
he murmured. Old man, R and R did the boy get hit on the head, again he pressed play. "I think ye shall find Moscow, interesting tho it feels like a cloak has been draped over the moon."
SJ stop it again and played back that last sentence, "cloak has been draped over the moon."


Pieces started to fall into place, Manix had just gave the Viking Pass phrase for caution, danger and need for stealth, tho it went deeper than that. It meant No open un-coded messaging and an upgraded off ship weapon's policy. The rest of the message held nothing important, Manix prattled on about a pub and stunning redhead and plans to make this a perfect R&amp;R stop. All a ruse. The entire 12 minute message to cover that 1 sentence.

SynJyn carried, on-board, new tech that he had been able to acquire. New communication implants, that went above some Country's own level of encryption, new scopes and and auto adjusting laser sight that was accurate at 10 yards as well as 100, plus a few more toys. The new implants he had not began the insertion process yet, wanting to talk it over with Manix first but that was in a world of five minutes ago. He would write the orders so all Viking's had the implants in and operational before they hit landfall.

SynJyn had no intentions of sending a message back and knew Manix was not expecting one. He made his way down to the hold and opened a crate bearing his personal seal. Inside he took out several devices that he began to clean, adjust and prepare. They was for Manix, they was for the future.

They was still 2 days out from Sydney, on escort of the "Wayfarer". She was due a 3 month refit. Drop off, restock/reload and a quick turn around for Moscow,"so much for shore leave"
, he thought. He drafted the needed orders for his LPO'S (Lead Petty Officer)and request for the Captain, then leaned back in his chair to wait for the grumbling's.


Edited by SynJyn, Sep 15 2016, 08:12 PM.

Name:

Carolyne Weber


Origin:

Montgomery, Alabama, USA.

Occupation:

Carolyne works as a freelance reporter. Travelling across the globe to various combat zones and natural disasters, she is regularly paid top dollar for her stories. She's done a lot of work for Vulpesnet, and has a passing acquaintanceship with Nicholas Trano - though they are not close friends. Carolyne has made a career of documenting human misery in all its forms. Beginning when she left college at the age of 20, she's spent her career travelling between war zones and disaster areas, humanizing those who are suffering and telling their stories.


Psychological description:

Carolyne figured out she wasn't like the other girls early on. They all wore dresses, and she was put in pants and T-shirts. They got to be princesses for Halloween, and she was dressed like a prince. It wasn't long before her parents took her to a psychiatrist, and she was diagnosed with gender dysphoria. At age ten, she was placed on puberty blocking hormones and by age sixteen she was able to consent to the surgery that finally made what was on the outside match watch she knew she was on the inside.

In the here and now, Carolyne is a determined career reporter. She chose to make a life out of reporting in the most dangerous disaster areas and war zones for a reason. She wants to tell the human story, and give a voice to the people who are really suffering. She's too young for a Pulitzer Prize, but she's more than confident she'll get one eventually. Her face is a regular sight in places where there's suffering in the world, and she takes pride in her ability to get the message out. In person, she's confident but kind. She knows she's beautiful, and isn't afraid to use that distraction to get what she wants.

Physical description:

Carolyne stands at a healthy 5'6", and is slim, but athletic. Blonde hair reaches to her middle back, and blue-gray eyes sometimes partially concealed by her bangs peer out - open, honest, and inquisitive. She has a pretty face, she knows it, and she isn't above using it to her advantage. Her career as a field reporter doesn't always provide the opportunity to bust out the full on makeup kit, but she does her best whenever the situation allows.

Powers:

Carolyne is a channeler, but only very recently have her powers manifested. She was getting background for a story at a military checkpoint in the Congo when a rebel militia attacked. There were only a dozen of them, but with the element of surprise they easily swept the defenders away. She tried to escape with her cameraman, but soon found herself staring down the barrel of a gun in the middle of the jungle.

Carolyne closed her eyes, thinking death was upon her. When she opened them, the militiaman was dead on the ground. She has since gained some semblance of control of the power, but she can only win the harsh battle for control when her eyes are closed.

Biography:

Carolyne always knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. When she was a child in the 2020's, her heroes weren't the soldiers fighting on the front lines in the Taiwan Strait War - although she did respect their sacrifice. No, she looked up to the men and women on the ground, recording the action and getting the word out across the globe. She was the star writer for her high school's newspaper, writing simmering exposes on everything from the class president squandering election funds on house parties, to the football team's latest win.

In college, however, she quickly found herself losing steam. As much as she enjoyed writing for the University of Alabama's newspaper, there were only so many times she could look at the words "ROLL TIDE" in the headline. It wasn't that her dream was dead, it was that she was wasting time. The classes were too slow paced, covering aspects of reporting that she'd already researched herself. She wanted to get out into the world, get her hands dirty, and report real news. So it was that in 2042, with just an associate's degree in hand, Carolyne left college.

At only twenty years old, she couldn't get hired by any of the major news networks. But instead of running back to the safety of the university's ivory walls, she spent what money she had left to buy herself the best camera she could afford, and a plane ticket. Her parents thought she was crazy, but she didn’t care. A tsunami had hit in the southeastern CCD, and while it was reported, nobody had actually gotten in to cover the devastation first hand. Taking the chance, she soon found herself delivering the first scoop of her career. When her face was broadcast across the web, accompanied by pictures she'd taken herself, she knew there was no turning back. The healthy payments she received for her trouble weren't too bad, either.

Personal Relationships:

Armin and Jean Weber - Carolyne’s parents. Were very supportive of her transition in her younger years. Less supportive of her decision to abandon college and cross the globe to be a reporter in some of the most dangerous areas known to man. She tries to keep in touch, and while that isn’t an impossibility in today’s increasingly connected world, can still be difficult at times.

Jake Weber - Carolyne’s older brother. Member of SUBGRU. Recently deployed to Liberia. Did not accept Carolyne’s transition as easily as the rest of the family. He wanted a little brother, not a sister.

Rynold Akkerman - Carolyne’s cameraman and sometimes lover. They’ve been travelling together for the past three and a half years, through more than two dozen countries. They started working together after she stopped over in South Africa to get background on private military companies operating out of the country.

<small><small><small>SHE’S CHANNELING SAIDIN IN CASE YOU DIDN’T FIGURE THAT OUT!
</small></small></small>

Cain wasn’t one to hang around too long in someone else’s house. Cruz was theoretically letting them stay there indefinitely, or at least until his dad got ‘everything’ worked out. Still, nothing made Cain feel more homeless or out of place than squatting in a room that some rich kid had his butler prepare for him. He’d always imagined that if he were in a situation like this, he’d be living it up, taking advantage of the free drinks, etc. However, that couldn’t have been further from the case. The redhead just felt restless, kind of like when he was on a street corner that was regularly patrolled and was just waiting to get kicked out. Maybe Cruz would keep to his word and he and Nox would be welcome for however long. In fact, it was probably the likeliest scenario. But maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d get bored and kick them out without even giving Cain time to gather his stuff. Maybe Cruz would get his kicks by calling the cops and having them arrest the homeless man who ‘broke into’ his house. Cain had seen plenty of normal-looking people get their jollies by torturing the folk that lived on the streets.

The redhead spent the whole night with the jitters. He didn’t think that Cruz would do any of those things, but he hated the fact that the other man could if he so desired. Well, he wasn’t exactly in a cage. Nox felt the need to stick around but Cain had no such moral compunction. He wasn’t even certain that he could help even if he wanted to. The redhead had no idea what the Atharim were capable of. So, the next morning he left. Cain shot Nox a text message on his fancy new wallet.

“Hey. I’m going out for a while. Let me know if anything’s going down or if you need me.”

With that, he strolled out of the house. Cain enjoyed being able to see the city from a new perspective. There were quite a few sights and sources of free entertainment for him to take advantage of that he hadn’t gotten to do before. He’d basically been a homeless tourist wandering around Moscow with no idea about where he was going or how he was going to get there. The redhead’s primary concern had been about finding food and shelter. Also, homeless people were rather forcefully discouraged from wander around shopping malls and tourist traps. He’d been able to shower and wash his clothes at Cruz’s and so he wasn’t looking so shabby. Altogether, for the first time in months Cain felt more like a tourist than a vagrant.

Now that he didn’t have to babysit Nox, Cain was able to more openly gawk at Ascendancy’s monument with all the other bystanders. Even now, a day after he’d seen it last, the thing still seemed to vibrate with the Power. The magician couldn’t imagine being so strong that he could create such an impressive work. It was unfair really that the most powerful man in existence with regards to political influence would also literally be the most powerful man in the world. For the first time Cain thought about Ascendancy’s claim that he was the ‘first’ and oldest among them. People had been trying to figure out the man’s secret to his youthful looks for decades. Maybe there was something to his claim of godhood. Regardless, as interesting as the topic was, and as interesting as the monument was, Cain had other things to see.

The redhead managed to fit in a few other high-traffic sites, and even stumbled upon a free tour of the city. Overall it was just a lot of fun to be a part of the crowd for once. When he’d been so obviously homeless, there was a kind of bubble that surrounded him. No one was willing to get close to him, or even to make eye contact with him. Every passerby would carefully give him at least a meter of space and meticulously keep their eyes averted, liked he’d snap and attack them if they so much as glanced at him. Sometimes he wanted to scream “boo” just to see if they’d jump. A man had dropped his wallet once in Prague and Cain had nearly gotten arrested trying to give it back. The guy had practically wet himself when he saw the redhead tried to talk to him. Now though, Cain was still a bit shabby but could easily pass as a solo traveler who was rough from travelling the roads rather than sleeping on them. He’d even been invited out for a pint by one of the other men on the tour. (He’d refused politely, of course, being completely skint and all).

So it was with high spirits that Cain meandered through the city. He was in no rush to get back to Cruz’s place, and unlike most tourists, he had no fear of getting off the beaten path. The redhead recognized that the neighborhoods were getting rougher as he went, but there was an interesting culture here as well. The street art was more inspired, less covered-up, and he managed to actually find a food stand that he could afford. Okay, so he might’ve pickpocketed a bit in the city center, but it was just a few bills and the prick was practically asking for it. The other man would probably earn it back double in a single hour of his posh job. So Cain was happily chomping on his last pastry (called something that he couldn’t even attempt to pronounce) when he stumbled upon a scene that made him pause.

There was a kid, probably in his late teens, backed up against the wall, and four guys surrounding him, obviously gang members of some sort. The kid was talking low and fast in a language that Cain didn’t understand, Russian maybe. Some natives of the old Russia still taught their children and grandchildren the language, especially in the lower classes where education was less prevalent. The redhead had seen this show dozens of times. Crime was pretty low in the CCD, but as long as there were cities there would be gangs, although their influence may be smaller. The kid had obviously done something to piss off the local big-wigs and was trying to fast talk his way out of it.



Cain’d always kept in head down in the past. He was a big enough guy that he wasn’t afraid to break up fights between kids, and other such misdemeanors. He was as gallant as he could be given the circumstances, but he didn’t take stupid risks. When the odds were four to one and the gangbangers had knives, well that was generally a good indication that he should look the other way, as much as he hated it. Now… well Cain was feeling pretty powerful, and it would be nice to put it to good use.

“Hey!”
he cried, striding purposefully towards the group. The four men stared at him for a moment, looking pretty shocked that anyone would be dumb enough to get in the middle of a gang matter.

“Alright then mates,”
Cain said with a smile, palms up. “Now isn’t there some way that we can resolve this peacefully?”


The guy closest to him scowled and waved a blade in his direction. “Yeah mate, you scram. You don’t want none of this.”

Cain just grinned wider and grabbed hold of his magic, conquering it and feeling himself grow stronger as it filled him. These punks had no idea what they were messing with.

“Come on, what did the kid do to you? It can’t possibly be worth all of this trouble.”


The thug stepped closer to him. “That ain’t none of your business. Now back off. Last warning.”

Cain had to admit that he’d been hoping for that. Wordlessly, he used a simple thread of Fire to summon a flame above him. The gang member jumped back, but he wasn’t quite satisfied. He’d been able to make a fireball for months, and he was much stronger and more experienced now than he was then, and the threads of Fire seemed to vibrate in his hold, like they wanted to do more too. So he fed the flames more power, weaving more Fire into it and adding a touch of Air here and there for fuel. Overall it was a rather impressive display, the magician thought. He held a fireball in each hand, and a wall of fire had sprung up behind him. To his observers, he probably looked like a demon straight out of hell.

“Let me make this perfectly clear. You scram, and leave this kid alone or else-”
Cain didn’t even get to finish his threat before the guys were taking off like the devil was on their heels (a rather appropriate metaphor). Obviously they hadn’t required any further demonstration. The redhead laughed at their retreating backs and then allowed his spell to unravel, releasing his grip on his magic altogether. The redhead turned back around to the kid, trying to decide which witty hero line he wanted to go with. Instead, Cain ended up yelping and clutching at his shin. The brat had kicked him! And hard, too.

“You fuggin’ idiot! What the hell did you do that for?” The boy spoke with perfect English.

Cain gaped at the teen, who was looking furious. “Uh… I figured you didn’t want them stabbing you?”
He hated that it came out as a question rather than a statement. The kid just looked even more mutinous.

“Oh you figured did you? Well did you bother figuring that I had everything worked out until you stuck your big nose into things and now I’m screwed.”

The kid started pacing back and forth, muttering to himself in Russian. Cain began to feel ashamed of himself. He wasn’t stupid. If he’d been thinking beyond the rush of his power trip, he’d have been able to see the issue himself. A gang was after the kid. That wouldn’t stop just because Cain had made a show of force. If anything, it would just make things worse. He’d humiliated the men, and the kid would be who they took it out on. There were dozens of ways that he could’ve handled that situation without metaphorically whipping it out of his pants and showing off how big he was.

“Hey, I’m sorry mate. You’re right, I just saw you getting ganged up on and reacted. Is there anything I can do to help?”


Cain hoped that he wasn’t about to go hunt down an entire gang or something.

“I think you’ve helped quite enough,” the kid sneered. Then, the guy looked Cain up and down and his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here anyway? Backpacker?”

The redhead chuckled but shook his head. “No. Hobo.”


The teenager considered that for a moment. “Yeah. You’re the one who showed up a few days ago in the tunnels. The guy who could throw fire around but kept his head down unless provoked. You sure you’re homeless still?” The guy nodded at the redhead’s clean clothes and shaven face.

“Ah, that’s a long story, but yeah.”
Nox seemed to be good to his word, finding Cain a place to stay for the past couple of nights. Still, he wouldn’t consider Cruz’s place to be ‘home’. “How’d you know all that anyway? You keep track of everyone Underground?”


“Yes,” he replied simply. Cain blinked, nonplussed, but the kid didn’t seem to be joking. “That’s what keeps me on the radars of guys like the ones you chased away. I usually play them off each other, give them some tidbits about the other gangs. Not enough to piss anyone off but enough to get them off my back. Or at least I did until you showed up.” There was a beat where the guy glared at him, before finally extending his hand. “I’m Dmitri.”

“Cain,”
the redhead responded. Dmitri’s grip was strong. His hands were rough and calloused – not as much as Cain’s own, but enough that it was surprising given the guy’s pretty face. Dmitri looked young but really he could be anywhere from mid-teens to early-twenties. Some guys just stayed baby faced longer than Cain had. The redhead doubted that Dmitri would tell him the truth either way, and he knew better than to ask.

“Cain…” Dmitri said, as if tasting the word. The kid chuckled and glanced at the scorch marks on the ground. “Appropriate. You sticking around town then for a while, Cain?”

The magician had to admire how ballsy Dmitri was. Four grown men saw his flames and ran for their lives. The kid saw the same thing but responded with wit and a kick to the shin. “Yeah,”
he responded. “No plans to leave anytime soon.”


A glint appeared in Dmitri’s eyes. “Okay, we can spin this. I’ll take you back to my spot, and you can stick around long enough to deter any retaliation. Meanwhile I’ll start spreading it around that you’re a client that got overprotective. That’s the kind of thing they understand. You didn’t actually hurt any of them so the Bratva will forget about it eventually.”

Cain didn’t mind hanging out Underground for a while. Theoretically he should want to go back to the posh house that he was occupying, but he didn’t. He could still stop by to shower and wash his clothes. But one thing caught his attention: “Client?”


Dmitri just stared at him, one eyebrow raised. Suddenly it made sense. Street kid, rather clean looking, kept tabs on everyone, and with a pretty face to boot. Cain felt himself blush. “Oh. Oh. Right. Uhh, is there any way we can do the plan that doesn’t involve people thinking I would buy the services of an underage prostitute?”


Dmitri gave him a guileless smile that still seemed to have a bite to it. “Well, let me know if time travel is one of your super powers. If so I can work that into the plan and we’ll just keep you from causing me problems in the first place.”

“Right, uh, no. No time travel. Sorry.”
Cain was still a bit flustered. He’d met plenty of prostitutes before, but no males, and most a lot less… well, clothed. The redhead was still off balance. He still noticed that Dmitri didn’t protest the ‘underage’ statement though.

“Great. We’ll just go with plan A then. Don’t worry. No part of it involves you actually fucking me.”

Cain hadn’t realized that it was possible to pack so much distain into a polite smile until Dmitri directed one towards him. The kid could teach politicians a thing or two. Dmitri started walking away, stopped, and then gestured impatiently. Right, he was meant to be sticking around for a bit. Wordlessly, Cain followed along, wondering what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

((Skint=broke in brit slang.))
Edited by Cain Belasis, Sep 7 2016, 04:00 PM.

SynJyn Quick (Dead)


Age: 46

Origin: USA Cherokee Nation’s, OK

Occupation: Current head of privet military operations for the Lir’ Family and Captainl to the elite Viking Marine Defense Force.
Psychological description: He is a very “by the books” Officer and believes the more you train for any situation, the less surprises you will face. He has always wanted to train “The Viking” further into land and airborne assault, but the need didn’t outweigh the cost and time. So he perfected his Sea assault protocols.

Physical description: He is of med/tall build, 6’ with a wiry muscular frame, despite his age. He keeps well groomed, stylish hair and and a neat Mustache. On ship he stays in his battle fatigues as per regulation. Off ship and off duty he tends to wear loose clothing made for comfort and agility. He is never without some type of weapon.

Powers &amp; supernatural powers: None, his crew however thinks he is the devil incarnate when it comes to hand to hand combat.

Current strength level: 0

Potential strength level: 0

Are you a reborn god?: No, A spun Hero of the horn (1st spinout)

Biography: Final showdown: SynJyn knew not what brought him to the blight, nor why he left her side. He was Aiel and a Warder, why was he here? Looking down at the pile of trollock’s and the 2 dread lords, he knew exhaustion. The 3rd wave came at him, he raised his spears, his power spent. Silently he begged the wheel to never curse him again with that “gift” again. One of his 2 remaining spears broke on the first trollock to arrive. No matter, weapons were not always needed. Something hit him in the back. Fire burned him, a missed Dread Lord, he tried to turn but the trollocks swarmed him now, knowing he was good as dead. On his knee’s his body consumed with fire, he felt his spirit lift. A voice echoed in his head. “Your life has been one of valor and teaching. You have shared your knowledge with those that continue to fight for the light.” “In time you will be called upon again, when the world is in need of your talents and honor.” “Rest now hero, your time will come again”.
Ash’a’man SynJyn Quick-kick, of the Reyn Sept of the Tardaad Aiel and Warder to the Amyrlin, died or so did his body.

Born on the Millennium to a poor Native American Family in Oklahoma, SynJyn’s family saw great things for him. The Medicine Man, as they still preferred to be called, had proclaimed he was a old spirit in a new body. SynJyn grew up with basic public education, but it was easy for him to see he was brighter than the rest. Even as a boy he held a stern gaze, that his mother would always to soften. In high school he got involved in JROTC and his life's course was set. At 17 he entered the Navy as an SO/HN (Special Operator and Corpsman). After Naval Boot Camp he went on to Chicago for his Corpsman training, then off to Coronado Island for BUD/s. The 6 months in BUD/s was hell, but he had no idea that the real training didn’t begin until AFTER BUD/s. Upon completion he was sent to Balboa Hospital for his advance Corpsman Training. It took a year to get his IDC (Independent Duty Corpsman) done and during that time he had Jump School in Ft Benning, GA, Air Assault School in Ft Campbell, KY and his weapons and integration into his SEAL unit. Finally it was done, and he experienced his proudest moment of his life. He stood in a ragged line, he thought “hell week” was bad, but he did it, he had earned his Trident. It was the same day he had learned his parents had died in a car crash. Joy and sadness fought for control, they was coming to see him when they died.

SynJyn spent the 20 years with Seal team 4, retiring only after having to decide on taking a desk job or instructor. He was a Combat Operator, and decided to look into the mercenary life. Fate introduced him to a Ship’s Captain having issues with pirates. Over several mugs of local ale, Larson Lir’ convinced SynJyn to take a job with the Family fishing/Merchant business. He never regretted that decision. He became fast friends with the Lir’s only child, the oldest having died of the pandemic. He took extra time to Train Manix Lir’ even as he trained what would become “The Viking’s “.

Over time the Lir family constructed “The Rage” a defense ship to float with the fleet and handle all piracy. Within a matter of 2 years it was known far and wide in the fishing/merchant/pirate circles, that it did not pay to attack a Lir’s family ship. Even if “The Rage” was not around, it would find you and most of the time take you as a prize. The Lir’ family fleets had tripled from ships taken as prizes over time. SynJyn was not the ship’s Captain, he was over the Vikings, but the Captain never got in his way, nor did SynJyn give him cause. SynJyn was a Sailor thru and thru.
He had received his new orders. Report to Manix and begin land base assault training. SynJyn smiled, a dream come true. He would need f some fresh perspectives on modern weaponry and combat as well as a good supply of training aids but if he knew Manix, he was already working on it. He assembled the Viking’s and told them of the new orders and what to expect once arriving. “Boys, hell is about to hit Moscow!”
with a big “HooRah”
they were dismissed, in 3 days they sailed for Moscow.
Edited by SynJyn, Oct 13 2016, 08:10 PM.

The hotel stood like a glittering titan on the edge of the Red Square, flanked by immaculate doormen who escorted her entrance into the grand foyer. Morven took in the pale marble tiles, the gild and gilt of a sculptured ceiling, and found it incongruous with the man she had imagined Sören to be.

The receptionist ran curious eyes from the curly mass of her hair to the scuffed leather of her boots, lips tugged down with displeasure. Fresh from travel, her bags dumped at her feet, Morven was hardly in the mood for judgement. She was expected, and the faint rise of the women's brows suggested her assumptions as to for what. Morven collected the keycard from the shiny desk with a roll of her eyes, and forestalled the porter who made to scoop up her bags. From the scandalous look on his face, he considered it the height of rudeness. She was too tired to care.

Sören was ensconced on the very top floor of the hotel, a laborious elevator ride with a crisply uniformed young man who insisted on operating the buttons and stared dubiously at the bag slung over her back. When she finally keyed open the door to Sören's suite, she soon realised the reason for the ostentatious choice. He stood by the magnificent floor to ceiling window, a monolith against the bright stream of sunshine. In the distance rose the Ascendancy's Arch, gleaming black in the afternoon light. Crowds milled like ants at its base.

She hadn't seen him in the flesh for years, but little had changed -- aside from the obvious. He'd not professed his injury over the phone, and she had not known what to expect beyond an assumption that it could not be dire. A rough patch covered one eye, stark against the diamond edge of his cheekbones. He was sparse with his emotions at the best of times, but severity held his features like a pall now. A heavy coat draped his wide shoulders. He looked ragged.

Morven dropped her bag inside the threshold, eyeing the heap of his own luggage in the room's corner, dusty and worn, wound with superstitious tokens and talismans she'd teased him about once. And only once. So he'd been travelling. No reason he couldn't have come to her in London then. A frown stung her expression as he turned his head minimally to regard her.

"I require that you see if there is anything you can do."
He made a weary gesture towards his face. Barely an inflection to his tone. He sounded tired.

"I've been travelling since the early hours, Sören. That--"
she made a flippant gesture to the monument scarring the skyline "--has played havoc with airport security. Not to mention how many tourists are flocking to see the damn thing."
She scooted unselfconsciously onto the plush bed, commandeering the room service menu. "I am exhausted. And you've ruined my summer. The very least you could do is buy me dinner first."


"Ruined."
The repeated word barely inflected into a question. In fact it seemed the roots of it thrust far deeper than her playful jab; she had been (mostly) joking about her summer, but the sunken expression on his already gaunt face echoed a far more meaningful loss. His lips tilted down, a gruff sound vibrating from his throat. He turned away from the window, sought one of the luxurious chairs and lowered himself into it.

He sat stiffly, and briefly she wondered when he'd last slept. Shadows hollowed the eye she could see, and his hair flicked haphazardly around the ties keeping the patch in place. The way he sank into the chair was not to seek the comfort of cushions, but a support to keep him upright. As much as the man irritated her - and he really did - she was not heartless. Her glare softened its edges. That, and he'd helped save Lyall; a debt that tied loyalty around her heart and tied it neatly with a bow. Morven sighed. He took it as permission, flipping off the patch with a scowl, awaiting her judgement.

The skin beneath was sore, the furious pink of healing flesh. But of his eye there was only a filmy cloud. Her own eyes widened, and curiosity got the better of her; she shuffled off the bed to get a closer look, gripping his bristled chin to an angle. Even up close she could see precious little of his iris, just a pale blue veneer where once had been a mild brown. Chemical burn? She shifted his chin to meet the gaze of his functioning eye. Her expression softened. "What happened?"


The stone of his expression did not shift, and neither did he answer. Morven frowned. Fine. "Can you see anything at all from it? Is there any pain?"


"Little. It burns to look at light. They cleaned it in New Delhi. Gave me antibiotics."


She waited impatiently for an explanation, knowing full well he would not offer one. For a moment, meeting wills with that deceptively mild stare, she considered withholding until he offered more than cryptic secrecy. For a man who purported to champion the freedom of knowledge, he kept much close to his chest. In the end it was only the stillness with which he regarded her that swayed her. He was not armed with the arrogant demand that had sparked her ire during the phone call. He was just waiting to see what she would do.

She swatted his hand from the arm of the chair, and perched herself there. Her fingers brushed the sides of his temples. "It's cold, I'm told.
" It was the closest to a warning she offered. The power bloomed beneath her fingertips, and began to thread through his skull.

Even with the air and sea port reopened, and the seizure of military and government hoarded supplies, they were short on everything but manpower and will. In the past two weeks, they had forced General Katlego to surrender unconditionally, and brought elements of his forces into the fold. Even among the Temne rebels, there were those who simply wanted an end to the conflict, to the decades of hatred.

It only took a matter of days to take back the north-west from the Guinean warlords. After a week of drills, the Legion's newly acquired vehicles, delivered off the Baadi Qasriga along with dozens more F3LIN suits, had established an effective picket to the south-east, heading off any potential further advance by Liberian forces, while F3LIN suited infantry hit the Guinean forces to the north-west.

The Legion's four Type 99 MBTs, crewed by Legionnaire vehicle commanders and rush-trained Sierra Leonean troops, were intimidating enough to keep the Liberians in check. Especially as they seemed to have some sort of internal conflict to deal with. What reports that reached the Legion were sketchy, but seemed to indicate some sort of coordinated resistance in Liberian-held Sierra Leone. Supply convoys and isolated patrols had a tendency of turning up dead.

The four BMPT Terminators led the the assault to the north-east. Designed as a close support platform, the tracked vehicles had little trouble maneuvering through the densely packed Sierra Leonean towns and jungle, and were heavily armoured enough that little in Warlord Shakespear's arsenal could threaten them. Backed up by F3LIN equipped Legionnaires, they tore through the guerrillas with ease, liberating towns and even recovering much of the lost Legion supplies from the ambushed convoy.

Newly formed militia forces, led by elements of the Freetown police and Sierra Leonean military elements, patrolled the interior of the nation, delivering much needed supplies and bringing a sense of security and unity back to the nation, mounted in Patria AMVs flying the national colours. Many of the APCs had survived the civil war.

In only two weeks, the capital had returned to some semblance of normality. No more columns of smoke over the city's skyline. No more echoes of gunfire and turning of blind eyes to what Wallace-Johnson's forces had been doing to their own people.

There was only one thing though that was immediately holding Jacques attention. Of all the progress they had made thus far, in so short a time, there was only one thing that he regretted. Namely, how short on anesthetics they still were.

The loss of his hand had been accepted as best he could; certainly some amount of shock had deadened the pain, and true acceptance of the loss of a limb was a hard thing to establish, to come to grips with. His past two weeks had been awkward; an adjusting period, in which many times he sought to do things that had once been common-place, but suddenly nigh impossible with only one hand. It had, however, led to an air of deliberation in everything he did. The calculated pauses to assess and plot his next move.

How to open a door while carrying something? Sipping tea with his off hand was nigh impossible while he walked. Luckily, he had been training all his life to be ambidextrous with a pistol, but loading magazines, cocking the action, remedying stoppages, all became dreadfully awkward with one hand.

He was rambling, if that was what such thoughts could be called. Chasing headlong down the rabbit hole to try and distract himself from the work being conducted on the other side of a thin grey blanket that blocked his view from the stump of his right arm. He was strapped down, as surgeons worked on the stump. The cauterization had saved his life in the short term, but had led to all sorts of complications.

They had to cut away the burned and scarred flesh, to deal with the cracked and broken bones in the stump of his wrist. He had staved off infection by some small miracle, but what healing had been established had to be undone and set on the right course if he were to ever be fitted with a prosthetic.

And there wasn't enough anesthetic to do more then freeze his arm. Mostly. The surgical team at work beyond that sheet included three people, Americans, that had answered his call to the world. He hadn't expected a world renowned surgeon to have shown up on their doorstep, but the man had given up everything he had back home to go where he was needed. Years of working on the richest people in America had left the man empty inside. Three days in Freetown had seen a miraculous change.

Suddenly, everything that man did had meaning; no more was he wasted on trivial procedures paid for by the rich and powerful. He was saving lives again, testing his skills against his Death himself once more. The classic power-trip of a successful surgeon.

A nurse, also American, leaned around the sheet and looked at him. He met the older woman's gaze with a level stare, doing his best to hide the pain and discomfort of the procedure he could hear, and almost feel, but could not see. "Almost done, sir."


-----

Liberian politicians had released a public declaration of aggression against Sierra Leone. Dozens of Liberian soldiers had been found dead, in what they claimed was a 'humanitarian aid' mission in the south-east of Sierra Leone. They of course denied reports of seizures of industrial equipment, facilities, and depots in the region. Denied reports that they were funding South African mercenaries to destabilize the region.

Africa's north-east was being torn asunder. Al Janyar was spreading almost unchecked. Dozens of once-disparate extremist groups were flocking to their banner, sparking conflicts ever further west and south. Nations weakened by decades of economic and social strife were offering little by way of organized resistance, and where such resistance may have been found, it was bogged down trying to keep tens of thousands of refugees fed and organized.

The first class of Legion recruits to graduate training since the Battle of Jeddah and the civil war in Sierra Leone received their white Kepis and were immediately deployed to work with the Algerian military. Joint training had been agreed upon as one of the terms set by the country to allow the Legion to relocate onto their soil. The first woman to join the Legion was among their numbers, and a dozen more were in the classes behind her.

In Freetown, transport ships and planes arrived daily from around the world, bringing an influx of skilled volunteers and much needed resources. Schools were reopened, if only to serve as day-care centers so their parents could assist in the rebuilding of the city and some return to normalcy. Shops were reopened, refugees that had choked the city's streets were returning to their towns and villages, no longer worried of Guinean rebels or being caught up in the violence of the civil war.

There were desperate short-falls though. Vaccines, especially for Ebola, were in short supply. The government stockpiles hadn't been refreshed in fifteen years, and much of the supply held in the few remaining hospitals simply couldn't meet the demand. Shakespear's forces had purposefully contaminated water supplies, destroyed crops and cattle, and aggressively encouraged the spread of Ebola into Sierra Leone.

A lack of proper education and awareness had led many to believe that the vaccines they had received as children, during the height of the Ebola scare, would last for the rest of their lives. Perhaps even carry on to their children. Cases of Ebola, cholera, dysentery, and malaria to name a few, were beginning to grow in the north-west.

The list of challenges that faced him and his people was daunting. He simply didn't have access to the resources needed to combat it all alone. Support from Algeria had allowed the Legion to stock-pile the humanitarian aid supplies that had begun flooding into Sierra Leone when the fighting had stopped, but Algeria was, economically at least, in a worse situation then Sierra Leone. The Legion was that nation's last desperate effort to stabilizing the nation. And, albeit slowly, it seemed to be working.

What nations that may have given aid to Sierra Leone had been, momentarily at least, alienated by both the civil war and the Legion's seizure of the nation. The African Union existed, but counted barely two dozen nations in its membership, and Liberia was one of them. And of course, Al Janyar was drawing much of the AU's attention.

-----

Only a few hours after his most recent surgery, Jacques sat in his quarters. The Legion had been relocated again, forced to move from the old Moroccan embassy after the fire, and relocated into the government district and adjacent military barracks. Jacques room was, at one time, that of the President of Sierra Leone. Not the actual President's house, but an office and bedroom in the government district.

He sat at the desk, and a dozen holographic screens hung in the air in front of him. Status reports and live feeds from troops in the field, updates on various projects around the city and the country, email chains with foreign powers. Much of the logistics and politics was being handled by Commandant Tuff and the Legion command staff in Algeria, but Jacques made a point of being as up to date on it all as possible.

Most of those were ignored, however. Struggling to write with his left hand, he penned his signature to the next in a series of letters to family and loved ones of the fallen. Each letter, typed...something that grated him deeply, for the impersonal feel of it compared to a properly written letter, but made necessary for his poor penmanship with his left hand...was personalized. Individual accounts of the Legionnaire in question.

Some were to the families of the police officers and first-responders that had given their lives during the liberation of Freetown. And some were to the families of those killed at Masiaka. Those that had any living family left for whom such letters could be addressed.

He set the pen aside, flexing his left hand briefly before taking up a cup of tea and moving his attention to the most recently updated screen. Another report on Liberian troop losses in Sierra Leone. Another request by a foreign power for Jacques to formally acknowledge Liberia's hold on the resource-rich region of Sierra Leone, so the production of rhodium could continue once more. More formal declarations that Jacques and the Legion liquidate its assets to reimburse its former investors.

He sighed quietly and reached to rub his eyes, before remembering that he hadn't the free hand to do the task. His stump was lowered to the desk once more, tea cup set aside. Too much work to be done.

.....would you join up or stay with the Light?

I struggle with deciding for Nikolai. In the end, I think he would go Forsaken because he would be appalled by the conditions the other Forsaken rule in and he would think he could do so much better as a ruler and set out on some war to conquer everything himself. No matter the cost.

And if serving the dark one was the trade off, so be it.