Katchina Makawee considered herself and her two older brothers privileged among her peers. Her father wasn't a gambler and he didn't drink. Those things alone put her family head and shoulders above most of the others on the Isabella Indian Reservation, especially in the harsh reality of 21st century postindustrial Michigan. On a winter's morning one could look across the flattened plain and see undisturbed snow like a pure, pressed blanket of white silk. No one was trying to get to work because no one had any work to get to.

Mount Pleasant was hardly any better off. The BIA took care of people on the reservation for the most part, well enough at least – kept them in food and water, gave them all the necessities for living, enough to skirt basic personal responsibilities in lieu of gambling and drinking – at least until the austerity cuts came and it didn't anymore. The casino did well enough afterward. Subsidized hopelessness, her father called it. Okimantu Makawee, ceremonial chief of the Saginaw Chippewa, preached personal responsibility tempered with compasison and education. He believed the Saginaw Chippewa were not done yet as a people. “There is an arrogance in ignorance, Katchina,” he told her. “And hopelessness is a sickness. But for every disease there is a cure.”

By the time Katchina reached high school and learned something of biology she would argue that last point. There were many diseases that had no known cure. But she understood what her father meant. He was a good man, gentle and confident. Slow to anger. Quick to encourage his children to show compassion. “There, but by the grace of God go I and you,” he would say when approached at the store or the gas station by a fallen away tribal member asking for money, who more often than not reeked of sour mash and cigarettes. He would never give away any money, but would always be sure to touch the person, and offer other aid as he could, a ride, the use of a mobile phone, or just a good word. "Whatever we give will be taken and multiplied," he would say. "Even if it's just a minute of time. And what people need most is hope. The feeling that they are still worth something."

Also, her father would take her out into the most remote parts of the reservation, too far away from civilization for her mother to tolerate. Far enough away where on a winter's day there would be only the sound of silence. Not even wind, or a creature stirring. “Do you hear that, Katchina?” he would say. “That is the sound of Gitche Manidoo, the great Spirit that is in everything. The great Spirit flows through mother Earth. It gives us life and the earth gives us substance. It connects all things together, from the sun and the stars down to the worms in the dirt. See, we are all connected. When one gets sick we all feel it, and when one recovers we all become brighter. We live and die as one.” This lesson stuck with her for some time.

When Katchina was 15 – and now calling herself Kat, since Katchina seemed a little pretentious to her – her school shut down, the local district having run out of funds. Kat's brothers had long since graduated and left for other studies, but her future was still uncertain. Her mother and father decided to complete the family's schooling at home. This actually turned out to be much more efficient, and at 16 Kat was accepted into dual undergraduate programs of education and biology at Michigan State University. When asked why she chose this undergraduate degree, she said with a straight face and matter-of-fact tone, “I intend to find a cure for hopelessness.”
That earned more than a few stares, and even the occasional guffaw. But why should Kat care whether anyone thought it was silly? These were her goals, not anyone else's. She didn't need permission.

Her studies progressed well, and she made friends at school, and even made waves on the basketball court. Interest from boys, not so much. If a young man wasn't respectful enough to at least introduce himself to her father before trying to take her out on a date, it just wasn't going to happen. And so she acquired a bit of a reputation for being prudish. It didn't bother her much. Being two years younger than the other girls, Kat wasn't really interested in getting pressured into dating or plied with alcohol or any of the heartbreaking drama. So it left her more time to advance her studies or be helpful to others.

Then she turned seventeen and everything fell apart.

* * *

It was Michigan State vs. University of Connecticut, and in the late second half Michigan State was up by 3. Kat was sitting on the bench awaiting the order to go back in. So far she'd scored 12 points this game, not a bad run.

“Kat, are you nervous?” said her friend and teammate, forward Michelle Harmond, who was sitting next to her.

Kat shook her head. Nervous, no. Uncomfortable, a little. She should have un-stitched the tag on her sports bra instead of cutting it off, the remainder of the tag was causing her back to itch right where she couldn't reach. It'd been annoying her the whole game. “Why should I be nervous?”


Michelle blinked. “Well, if we win, we're going to North Carolina and we're going to play Duke for a Final Four spot!”

“I know,”
she replied. She checked her laces to ensure they hadn't slipped. “Does that make you nervous?”


“Well, yeah,” Michelle replied. “We'll be like on national TV and people are going to see us. Like, what if we look stupid?”

“Can people see you now? It isn't really any different, right? And we've all done stupid things and we got over it when people saw us. Right?”


Michelle bit a fingernail in thought. “Huh. I never thought of it that way. Cool.”

Duke sunk a three-pointer. It was a tie game. The coach called a timeout and sent Kat and Michelle in, Kat to guard and Michelle to forward. “Get in there Spartans! Whip em Huskies good!”

Kat gave the thumb's up, and play resumed. Immediately she found herself between two maneuvering opponents and having to cover them both as they passed the ball around her. The back one took the shot – and it bounced off the backboard. Kat stretched out an arm over her opponent and tipped the rebound into her arms, and passed it down the court. The Huskies darted back down court to intercept.

Michelle pivoted and reached out to receive the pass – and an overzealous Husky fouled her hard, running head on into her, moving too fast to stop. She reeled and turned, catching herself on an ankle that went sideways. Kat heard something go snap as she watched her friend collapse.

She ran to her friend's side and reached for her hand, heart thumping. Michelle looked pale and her foot was swollen and purple. She was having trouble breathing from the shock. No, no no.
Just a glance she could piece together what was going on beneath the skin. The sudden pressure caused by the inward rolling had fractured her distal fibula and maybe torn a ligament too. It was six to twelve weeks in a cast, and she'd be struggling with swelling for years to come. Her college basketball career was over. Basketball had been her ticket to an education, and Michelle would have been the first to admit she hadn't the academics to get by without her athletic appeal. All because of some carelessness. The Huskie who had run into Michelle was sobbing, tears running down her face as she blurted out apologies. A sports medic reached Michelle's side and told Kat she needed to move. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could hope for.

At that moment Kat would give anything in the world to see her friend stand on her own, but there wasn't a thing she could hope to change. So she let go of Michelle's hand.

The sports medic felt Michelle's ankle. “Can you move it?” Surprisingly, Michelle found that she could.

“You're fine,” he said. “Let's get you up.”

What a relief. Maybe things weren't as hopeless as Kat had thought.

* * *

Durham, North Carolina. Everyone was talking about the 2041 Spartans and their UConn upset. If they got past Duke they were angling to take on Number 1 ranked Kentucky. There were two minutes left on the clock and Kat was having the game of her life. What a thrill to be alive and at the top of one's game! She was already at 26 points this game and counting. Her father had come with the team and was glowing with pride over on the sidelines.

The coach called a time-out. “Kat, if you can keep this up, you just keep on playing. You are on fire, girl. All we need to do is hold onto a narrow lead and not give up more than three points without getting two back.”

There was some back and forth. Duke scored twice unanswered. They were still up by one, though. With thirty seconds left, Kat stole the ball and took it down the court. She whipped her head back, tight brown braids trailing behind – she'd outraced the opponents, it was just her and the net. All she needed to do was take the shot and that coffin would be nailed.

And things started to look kind of weird. Suddenly the basket seemed far away, and her arms were like jelly. She couldn't focus. She stood with two feet planted on the court floor, the ball in two hands, wavering back and forth.

The shot clock ran out and the ball dropped from her numb hands. The Duke players ran back past her. There was cotton in her ears or something, why was there all this muffled cheering all a sudden? And then she was feeling the hardwood floor against her cheek.

Next thing she knew, she was being pulled to her feet by her father. He threw a jacket around her bare shoulders. “Did we win?”
she asked.

“Don't worry about that,” he said. He was already on his Wallet, making phone calls, having brought Kat back to the sidelines. She thought she picked out a whisper of something like “sickness” from the stands. The Sickness?
She reasoned that she must be ill, possibly with the Sickness that was afflicting so many youth without explanation and which seemed to have no treatment. She wasn't afraid, though. There wasn't anything that could be done by being frightened.

“...never see her again if I do that...” her father was saying over the phone. “All right. That sounds like the best option.” He led Kat out of the stadium by way of the locker rooms and to their car. “Lie down in the back, Katchina.” She obliged him.

“Where are we going?”
she asked.“Am I going to a hospital?”


Her father shook his head. “No, Katchina. I don't think a hospital can help. I'm taking you to a reservation." His thick forehead wrinkled and his jaw was clenched. He's afraid.
"There is a theory that the hospitals aren't doing us any good that's being seriously studied by a man around these parts. I won't let anything happen to you. Are you comfortable?”

Kat nodded. She had never seen her father frightened by anything before. And if he was frightened, should she be? She looked out the window at the passing trees. In short time she saw a sign that said “Cherokee, N.C. Home of the Oconaluftee” and saw a cluster of teepees. That was out of place. Teepees were used by the nomadic plains tribes and not agrarian cultures on the east coast. Kat thought everyone knew that.

The car pulled to a stop. Kat's father helped her get out. Her head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and her limbs were like jelly, not wanting to move where she wanted them to. They were next to a simple house with brown clapboard covering. A man came out to meet them, moving with the mild aid of a wooden staff. The skin of his face was parched with age but his eyes were sharp, and his bleach-white hair lay in a braid to his waist.

The man stopped and leaned on his staff, eyes regarding Kat. “So you have the Sickness, Katchina Makawee. Come inside. I am Noah Crow's Eye.”

Magic training center to open in South Dakota
<small>CNN Instant News Report</small>

GWENDOLYN PETERSEN, CNN ANCHOR: Good Evening, I'm Gwendolyn Petersen, it's 6 p.m. Eastern Time and this is CNN Instant News, America's Most Trusted newsmaking source that you can count on to move truth forward (trademark).

(camera closeup)
Are you ready to send your kids to magic school in South Dakota? CNN has just learned that a training center for these recently revealed so-called magical powers is set to open on the Cheyenne River Sioux Indian Reservation in central South Dakota. Yes, you heard that right. The Native Americans are opening up a magic school on their reservation. And apparently it's perfectly legal!

The Cheyenne River Sioux say that the center, tentatively called the Lakota Spiritual Development Institute, will be located in a remote region of the reservation far from any populated areas, and they say it will be used primarily to ensure treatment of people going through the sickness and ensure they don't become a danger to themselves -- or anyone else. But they admit that students will also develop magical powers there!

Council of Native Americans spokesman Jon Little Bird, no stranger to controversy, had this to say:

(Cut to clip)

JON LITTLE BIRD: "The indigenous peoples of this country have a duty, a responsibility and a right to treat our own children and help them learn how to use these powers in a safe and responsible manner in a way that honors and preserves the traditions of our peoples and our cultures."


(Cut back to newsroom)

GWENDOLYN: Now at this time details are very scarce so we can only speculate and make assumptions on what sort of impact this might have and what this will mean for you. So let's go to our panel. Joining us now from Washington we have former Vice President and Democratic Representative from Texas Anna Hernandez Luna; from Detroit Mr. Henry Corman, public coordinator for the Michigan Minutemen; and the mayor of Wasta, SD Mr. Peter Robertson.

Madam Vice President, since we know so little about the abilities of these powers, isn't it a little insane for our federal government to permit a school where people can learn how to blow things up with their mind and set things on fire? What do you say?

LUNA: Oh, absolutely Gwendolyn. We saw in Moscow with the University fire that we are literally playing with fire. And this just goes to show the disaster that will be is the legacy of the Dawson administration, he is literally playing with the lives of our nation with his racist and discriminatory politics. I mean seriously, let the Native Americans fend for themselves? But that's just the kind of thing we've come to expect from this administration.

GWENDOLYN: Mr. Corman, what say you? Native Americans fending for themselves and developing powers? Doesn't that seem like a threat? I wouldn't think the Minutemen would be happy one bit about this.

CORMAN: Well I wouldn't really phrase it that way, in fact I don't think President Dawson could take much credit for this if he wanted to, it seems like he hasn't done much here other than get out of the way, and if the former Vice President can stop hyperventilating this hysteria we can see this isn't the worst thing in the world here. They're taking some initiative and if the Indians --

GWENDOLYN -- Native Americans Mr. Corman.

CORMAN: --If they want this thing in their backyard they're welcome to it. And I tell you what, they want to build one in Michigan I won't argue as long as they're on our side, because it looks like the CCD has gotten the jump on us with this magic thing in a big way and if we don't do everything we can to make America great again they're going to roll over us.

LUNA: That's insanity. We don't know what these people are capable of --

CORMAN: Eh if one of them goes off the reservation and starts burning things down I reckon there's plenty of armed ranchers around able to put a 6.8 mm bullet on target.

LUNA: You're just like the gun lobby, wanting unregulated, unchecked power let loose on the American people --

GWENDOLYN: Ok you two...

CORMAN: --Well I guess if it's up to you they'll all go on a registration, like the CCD is doing and probably going to strip away their civil liberties. Thankfully not everyone is in the pocket of the CCD like you --

LUNA --People dead in the streets and you and Dawson will have blood on your hands!

CORMAN: --You and Bullock took money from the CCD, you traitors --

GWENDOLYN: Cut their mikes. (Pause - muted shouting) Mr. Robertson, mayor of Wasta, now that you will have this institute basically in your backyard since your town of 82 --

ROBERTSON: Eighty-one. Old man Daniels passed away last night, bless his weak heart valves.

GWENDOLYN: I'm sure he'll be missed. Since this town of eighty-one people sits right on the border of this reservation, how do you feel about Native Americans learning to use magic powers in your backyard?

ROBERTSON: You know, this whole magic thing seems really fishy. Like, I've never seen anyone with magic powers. Where's the evidence that this isn't some sort of conspiracy? Our government faked the moon landing I mean what's to say this whole thing isn't just being faked too? The Russians and the Muslims were getting along real well until recently and that seems kind of fishy that now they have a problem all of a sudden they are saying magic is real. I want to see one shred of evidence before I'll believe anyone who says some magical sky fairy dust is real.

GWENDOLYN: .... Thank you.

(Camera angle changes to close-up)

Is the next civil rights movement frontier the Trans-Powered? Up next, we have found a guest who claims that while he does not manifest magic powers, he identifies as a person with magical abilities and needs to be accommodated. You don't want to miss this story, coming up after the break, only here on CNN Instant News.

Copyright 2046, Warner Industries Group, a division of BFCG, Intl.

<small>Comments are: OPEN

<small>(Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the timestamp))

Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>


Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 13 2016, 12:50 AM.
</small>

Yeah. So doing time at Butyrka was fucking like getting punched in the dick. Especially when you fucking got punched in the dick. And with the summer months coming again things weren't looking like they were going to get any better.

First he got the galloping shits. Then that needle he scored was full of dope that wasn't even dope. His reaction to the cell mate who ripped him off, especially after what he paid for it, went over so poorly the guards had to put him in solitary after that. And he didn't even want to get started on that Pi'zda caseworker assigned to his defense. She wouldn't do a fucking thing about getting him out on good behavior. Said he needed rehab. Fuck that.

Yeah, it was lonely, but so what. Food was probably half rat turds and half jailhouse chef splooge, too. The worst part was being stone cold sober. He tried making toilet wine but kept forgetting to shit somewhere else. There was no energy in life. The power was all gone and he couldn't touch it. Or even see it. That was the real loneliness. Life was so damn dull and drab it made him want to stick himself on the end of a bedsheet rope. If he had a little more courage he'd do it.

Even watching Mudak decorate a room with his brains wouldn't have been worth this shit. And he didn't even get to see that, cause of that stupid fuck fighting back against the pigs. He'd wished he had the foresight to keester some Blue Candy. If he'd just be able to touch the power he could probably remember how to make it. The pattern was there. One, two, shit in the loo...Yeah...

Midday came and went. He sat on the thin foam mattress laid across his concrete slab bed and watched the sunlight move across the floor of his three meter wide cell.

A guard came by. "Inmate 345432. Get up, you're coming with me."

Yuri perked up. "That's what your mom said to me last night."
He stepped back in expectation of a swing from the dude's nightstick, but the guard just gave a halfhearted sneer. Someone's got the case of the Fridays. He stuck out his hands so he could be shackled in order to make the trip. He was saving a wicked fart to let out when they did his leg irons, but the guard never put them on. Fucker was slacking.

The guard took him down to the first floor where there were some offices and shit. He put Yuri in a concrete room with no windows but a camera in the corner and a second door. There was a concrete table and bench. No metal furniture and nothing that can be moved. He waited.

The other door opened, and that fucking Pizda came out. She even had her hair back in one of those nanny buns and black framed glasses that screamed bitch. "I fired you already,
" he sneered at her. Get me a lawyer that knows her twat from her asshole. I'll show you how to tell the difference."
At least that fart wasn't going to go to total waste.

The bitch gave no hint she was bothered. "Yes, I know. And you represented yourself. That's why you got four years for a possession charge. The judge decided you were not competent to represent yourself and that it would be a miscarriage of justice to allow it to continue." She looked down at her notes. "I'm going to file to get you another trial. It seems some of your...behavior at your first trial was believed to have tainted the jury. But you were going through withdrawal symptoms. If the judge won't retry the case I'll ask for a plea down to a lesser charge. I can probably get you down to a two year sentence."

Two years? "Why the fuck two years? For trying to run a fucking bakery? I didn't do nothing wrong."


The bitch wrote on her notepad. "I understand. It's complicated because CCD law enforcement officers were killed during the raid, and it pissed them off that they came up with no drugs, only sugar."

Yuri smacked his fist down on the concrete table. Ow. "That wasn't my fucking fault! Tell them that. I didn't do that, that Mudak did all of that! I don't know what his fucking problem was!"


She took a step back. He knew she was a fraidy fuck. "Look, the reality is you're the only person that the state has who is still alive to point to to show that justice is being served, since they already killed Vladimir in the raid. There are family members who wanted you strung up as well. They were out for blood. Look, I'll keep working on it. Is there anyone you want me to send a message to on the outside?"

Yuri stood up and made the fig with both hands. "Yeah. Tell Date a Russian Inmate this is what I think of their girls. Put a personal in the local rag for me instead. Partying SWM nonsmoker likes to spend time in contemplation and DTF. And don't fuck my case up or I'll fire you again."


Pizda was on her way out already but fuck her. The guard came in. "All right, I'm taking you home," he said." Don't get behind me."

"That's not what your sister told me last night."
That one earned him a stiff jab in the gut. Guess it wasn't quite Friday yet. As Yuri struggled to suck his breath back in he couldn't help but grin. You got your kicks out of what you could when you were doing time.


Edited by Yuri Obrechennyy, Aug 12 2016, 10:43 PM.

"My name is Mara. My name is Mara."
A voice tilted thick with foreign accent muttered to the darkness of her room. The light from the hallway leaked around the edges of the door, framing a ghostly rectangle. "My name is Mara."


Something stirred in the shadows, and Mara, or Daiyu as they told her, pat the narrow strip of mattress alongside her hip. A small bounce and she curled up on her side to make room. The creature was soft as fur and warm as a sun kissed rock. She draped an arm across it and let her head relax on her pillow.

Sleep took her into the land of dreams, carried there by her faithful pet.

----

A nurse woke her in the morning. She had to be shook awake, like always. For months her doctor thought her deep sleep was the result of some side effect, but changing drugs and brain scans found no such evidence. Daiyu simply slept hard.

"Your medication this morning miss Daiyu." She left a cup next to a plastic water bottle. Everything was plastic in this place. Nothing dangerous. Nothing she could harm herself with.

"My name is Mara."
She told the nurse as she deposited the tablet on her tongue.

"I'll see you later, Daiyu. Walks this morning. And your doctor appointment is after." The nurse left.

Daiyu-Mara slipped from bed, toes curling on the cold floor, to retrieve a sweatshirt and dress herself. She rubbed her eyes as she did.

After his distraction in Moscow Sage was feeling a lot out of the touch with reality. And it did not help with Brian standing over him. Grim should not be allowed in the den, much less his apartment. But that's where Sasha had come in.

Sasha was stunning and a smart hacker too. Her purple eyes matched the purple tips of her blond hair. She had delicate tattoos along her neck and arms. She wore them like jewelry. Her skin was pale and soft and she was always warm to the touch never cold - not even in the heart of the winter.

Sasha was one of few people who had a key to his apartment. Who Sage let into his life without asking his permission. Sasha wasn't his girlfriend, or companion, or anything of that sort. They'd had sex on many occasions but Sasha was not a friend with benefits either. It was hard to explain their relationship - mostly because Sage didn't understand the need to be anything but what they were.

But as he looked up at his mentor - former mentor he chided himself, he frowned. He didn't like that Sasha had let him in the building much less inside his home. Sage pulled his legs up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them tightly and rocked back and forth, "Why are you here?"


***

Brian looked down at his friend, the boy he'd helped through worse than this and he was the one who'd hurt him this time. It was purely accidental. He'd not asked enough questions when a mutual friend, when Simon asked him to occupy Sage for a few hours. He hadn't asked him why? He hadn't cared. If he'd only thought a little harder that someone might want to hurt Sage.

And now the boy sat rocking back and forth on the verge of a break down. Brian wondered when the last time he plugged in was. Sometimes it helped, others it made matters worse. But he kept asking Brian the same question and then he'd drift off into his head again. Making answering pointless.

He couldn't even get into the system to talk to Sage that way. He couldn't even get into the Den without Sasha's help. She knew he was a mess, she didn't even touch him, and her touch usually helped bring Sage back to reality.

But he could borrow Sasha's. When he asked she passed her wallet to him and he typed a message to Sage inside his head.

  3ff3rv3sc3nt: I didn't betray you. I didn't know r3x was going to try to hit your server. I swear I didn't know. He asked me to keep you busy for a few hours. I didn't ask questions. I thought he was a friend. I'm sorry.   

Name: Daiyu Sòng

Age: 18

Birthplace: China

Location: Moscow

Goddess: Melinoë

Talent: Dreamwalker, unsparked channeler



-----

Age 3:

Daiyu thrashed in bed. Her skeletal arms waving and voice screeching terror in the darkness. Her mom scooped her into loving arms, bouncing and talking to little Daiyu, trying to break her from the nightmare.

Age 4:

Daiyu lay in bed listening to the heavy sounds of her mom and dad breathing in their sleep. When she was certain of their comatose state, she pulled the flashlight out from under her pillow, slipped her legs out and quietly padded across the bedroom floor. When she reached the closet, she winced at the squeak of the rails moving in the tracks. Her parents didn't wake as she snuck into the closet, clothes tickling the top of her head above. She flicked on the flashlight and pointed it to the corner.

"It's okay," she whispered to the shadowy shape huddled by the shoe rack. "You can come out now and play."

Age 5:

Daiyu's lips twisted in boredom as she fingered at the face of her dolly in the car. Her mom was worried, but Daiyu promised that her shadowy friends were harmless. They were just shy. When they got to the doctor's office, she was suppose to color pictures. But instead, she drew one of her many friends. They were black as sheep, small like a cat, and hunched like a grandma. They were always skittering around the edge of the bed or lurking in the closet. More than once, Daiyu found one sitting on her parents chest as they slept. When it happened, Daiyu had screamed, begging them not to hurt her them. Her friends didn't. But after that, mom and dad made her go to this doctor once a week to talk about them.

Age 6:

Daiyu sat at the breakfast table. Her parents served rice, egg and salmon like always. Alongside her plate was a cup of juice and a little white tablet that dissolved on her tongue that made her sleepy.

-----

After she started to take the medication, her pets left her alone. Daiyu was lonely at night, and after the birth of her younger siblings, she moved to stay in her own cot in her own big girl room across from her parents.

Once the nightmares eased, her childhood transformed into a more normal routine - except for the tablet everyday at breakfast.

Puberty changed all that. By 13, the dreams returned. But Daiyu did not cry out in the night anymore. She eagerly looked forward to bedtime, and was renown by her family for being so fond of sleeping.

She had found a new playground in her dreams. One where she could be anything. Do anything. Go anywhere.

Then she found her friends again. They snuck into bed with her, and she would find one sitting on her chest, nuzzling and purring like a charcoal black cat. They showed her the way through the dream land. They found her black cyclones to play in. And Daiyu was happy.

By sixteen she published her first book. It was a horror tale that astonished her parents for its dreadful imagery and complex plot. A best seller, she was contracted to write two more within the year.

By seventeen, Mara Sòng, as was her penname, was a famous author in the horror genre.

Six months later, she was on her third book tour, signing in Moscow, when she had a psychotic episode. She was sleeping more than ever, but somehow chronically deprived. She had lost weight. She wouldn't eat. She forgot about signings. All she wanted to do was sleep.

And dream.

And play with nightmares.

At age 17 she tried to commit suicide.

"No!" She kicked and bit at the hands grasping at her. Restraints bit into her wrists, arms bloodied by the trails of razor blades.

"Daiyu, you need to stay calm!"

"My name is Mara. My name is Mara!" She roared, not understanding why they called her Daiyu.

Needles poked into her veins and she screamed, teeth gnashing and head banging. Her raven black hair whipping like shadowy pine needles. A sedative was given, and warmth chased her eyes heavy.

Just before she dozed off, she saw her pet friend, the nightmare, sitting in the corner of the ER. He seemed sad.

"My name is Mara." She said just before passing out.

The squad moved like wraiths in the woods of their new mountain home. Their only light was that of the stars, and the thin silver sliver of the moon. Pine trees hugged each other close, providing ample space for hostiles to hide. In this new world, where men could kill with just a thought and a glance, the only way to survive on the battlefield was to be invisible. Not that that had ever been a problem for SUBGRU.

It'd taken months and multiple surgeries to heal after that fog monster chose to throw Andrew through a window. Plate glass was hard, and humans were squishy. Half the bones in Andrew's legs were replaced with titanium rods, and if it weren't for the ultrasonic therapy he'd have lost all his muscle mass to boot. The crunch of the soil under his boots, and the weight of a weapon in his hands felt good. He was back, doing what he was made to do.

This was a training mission. Andrew wasn't the only psychokinetic that JSOC had picked up. They were popping up all across the military, and regardless of their previous rating or MOS they were all sent to the same place. Camp Hoover was a top secret military installation located in eastern Idaho's Salmon-Challis national forest. The base wasn't so deep into the mountains as to be inaccessible, but it was out-of-the-way enough that only a few hunters and hikers had come across it.

Many historians would point to the moment when a television personality wiped hundreds of Jihadis off the face of the Earth as the moment when war changed forever. Andrew knew different. The moment war changed was when he got locked in that box. The first act of that change was the assassination of several members of the Custody's Task Force Vega. With those stolen uniforms, six men kicked off a rebellion that killed millions and drained billions of dollars from the Custody's coffers. It's a shame that that al-Hasan asshole isn't still around,
Koehler thought, He could've done a lot more.


The war game was simple. Eight squads were dropped in various places around a ten mile squared grid. Each had one psychokinetic member, and the last squad with their PK alive would be the victors. Andrew had learned quickly that holding his power at the ready would only serve as a beacon to draw in other PK's. Unfortunately for the final opposing squad, their PK hadn't gotten the message.

"Contact, five o'clock. Three hundred meters."
Koehler whispered the message, and the squad redirected. Normally, this range would be ideal for engagement with small arms, but the trees and the simulated munitions didn't lend themselves well to combat at too far a distance.

So, they stalked. Koehler assumed the other squad were relying on their PK's enhanced senses to pick out movement before any enemies could get too close. Unfortunately for them, he was wearing his helmet. The most sensitive ears in the world are useless when they're listening through a speaker. The eyes of an eagle can still only see the resolution of the screen they're watching.

The other PK was careful, and quiet. If it weren't for his power, Koehler never would have spotted him. Things being as they were, Koehler raised his rifle and took a shot. The luminescent chalk round popped open on contact, giving Koehler's target a nice bright hit marker. Psychokinesis was useful, but it didn't stop bullets. The fucker thought he was invincible because he could blow shit up with his mind.

It only took a second for the message to come in from Hoover Actual. "Congratulations, Koehler. You're fit for full duty. Rest up, son. I'm putting you on a plane for Africa tomorrow."

Edited by Andrew Koehler, Aug 14 2016, 01:13 PM.

Continued from Paperwork

Jon stepped out from the Albuquerque Sunport and greeted the familiar sunny, tan New Mexico landscape. The warm air bore the pleasant reassuring smell of wet creosote that typically heralded the coming of an afternoon thunderstorm. Warm, but not too warm. April could be unpredictable but today was cooperative. This was a good thing because Jon had dressed to hold an audience upon touchdown in case his luggage had gotten misplaced. A turquoise and silver bolo accented the stiff white collar of the silk shirt, turquoise and silver threads accenting his almost black suit jacket and pants among vertical lines. Silver-tooled black boots and a black felt hat with stiff brim and a studded hatband. It was important to present himself as a native son who made good, well enough to overdress with confidence, but none of that outfit would have done for him in triple-digit heat.

Traditionally the Gathering of Nations, held the fourth weekend of April, met in Albuquerque proper, but the official representatives of the Council of Native Americans met separately on tribal land for a longer duration of time, choosing one of the nearby Pueblos for the conference. Isleta Pueblo just a few miles south of the airport graciously accepted the request to play host to what Jon could only term a pre-Gathering powwow. The taxicab ride was thankfully short, less than ten minutes. Albuquerque had become even more crowded than when Jon had attended school here. The south valley of Albuquerque had grown right up to the edge of the reservation, where suddenly development gave way to yellowed grass and mesquite brush. During the summer months the desert greenery would come to life, and closer to the Rio Grande there was always lush trees and farmland, but after a dry winter the landscape was in a dusty stasis.
The taxicab pulled up to the multistory conference center and casino. Jon checked his Wallet and saw he still had an hour before the scheduled time to start. He checked in at the concierge and had his luggage sent up to the room minus one small package which he kept on himself, a wrapped bundle the size of his palm. Jon tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

Other Council delegates were already present in the lobby. Jon made small talk with Ysadora Chino, daughter of the Mescalero Apache president. They’d sort of briefly dated in high school but nothing serious had ever developed, Jon suspected mostly because her father had disliked Jon’s foster parents. It was just as well, from the sound of it she had done nothing over the recent years but develop a deep sense of entitlement and self-importance.

There were four ballrooms on the main floor. Jon made his way to the last one, which had a sign that simply said “Reserved for private use.” Once inside, he saw a podium and several tables set upon a platform, wired with microphones, and facing several rows of chairs. There wouldn’t be room for all of the tribal representatives, but it was already known that some wouldn’t make it. Neither Noah Crow’s Eye nor Bear-Who-Runs-on-Ice would be present. As a matter of fact none of the other walkers of the Spirit World would be in attendance. That was acceptable; Jon could see to them and some of them already had some knowledge of the events to take place.

Jon took a seat at one of the tables upon the platform. He reached out for the power of the Great Spirit. As it filled him, he cast a net around the room to prevent anyone from listening in. He looped off the flow so that it would maintain itself. Jon wondered how long a weave tied off like that would sustain itself. He’d have to experiment sometime. A cursory probe with fingers of the essence of Spirit did not yield any bugs or recording devices. Satisfied, Jon sat back in his chair, but he did not release the power.

The room filled up within the next few moments, and when the appointed time came the chairman of the Council, Red Kickinghorn of the Pawnee, approached the podium gave it a sharp rap with his gavel. “Take your seats ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned. “I call before the Council our legal advocate Jon Little Bird of the Mescalero Apache tribe, who has called this emergency conference to make a report of recent events.”

Jon leaned towards the microphone at his table. “Honorable chairman, I request before I begin that we invoke article 6 of the Council Charter.”


Chairman Kickinghorn nodded to Jon. “Are there any objections to invoking article 6?” he called out. With no responses, he continued. “Therefore article 6, the pledge to internal secrecy, is invoked. Let anyone not known to be a delegate be expunged from the Chamber, the chamber doors sealed, and all recording devices strictly prohibited. Violation of the absolute secrecy of any proceedings while the chamber is sealed beyond what is later determined as permitted to share will be treated as a treasonous offense and will result in expulsion of the delegate and his tribe from the Council of Native Americans.”

That would have to do for now, though the old saying “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead” came to mind. Jon stood and made his way to the podium.

“Brothers and sisters,”
he began. “There have been longstanding traditions of story, dance and lore among our peoples. Chief among these is the concept of the medicine man as a spiritual guide, an honored sage who possesses the medicines of the Gods and is in tune with the Great Spirit, called Wakan Tanka by the Sioux, that flows through all things, dwells in all things and gives life to all things.

"We have, at least as a tradition, believed in the power of nature and the ability of our own spirits to tap into this force. These beliefs and stories came from somewhere, and even in recent memory tribes of the native peoples of this land believed that a medicine man could alter the physical world, a belief that had disastrous results during Pontiac’s Rebellion and at Tipeecanoe. The braves were not, in fact, bulletproof. But studies conducted by pre-Columbian scholars show these beliefs appear to come from a sort of collective consciousness of the time before memory that appears in our myths of gods who walked among men.

“These stories may very well not have been made up. In recent years, no few of our youth have come under the affliction of the sickness, seemingly at random. Some recovered with no complications, and some died without apparent cause. At the same time I have witnessed in Moscow and elsewhere, as numerous others have, of the emergence of people with supernatural abilities. Indeed, the ability to tap into this power is awakening in individuals around the world and the Sickness is a manifestation of that power coming to life.”


The chamber erupted in chatter. Jon banged the gavel. “I will take questions one at a time.”
He gestured to a raised hand in the front row.

The man stood. “Are you saying that magic is real, then? How is this to be believed?”

Jon nodded to him. “I am confirming that the reports from the US and CCD governments are true and accurate, though I would not term it to be ‘magic’ as magic implies the miraculous, without explanation. This power appears to follow certain metaphysical laws and its nature appears consistent with Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery or the Great Spirit. I can also confirm that there are efforts underway to better understand this in working with our sons and daughters that have manifested the symptoms. Once they are able to learn sufficient control they are no longer any danger to themselves or others.”
Unless one was mentally unstable, of course. Best not to bring that up.

Someone else did instead: “What about those who want to use this power for criminal actions?”

Jon shrugged. “Policies will have to be developed for certain,”
he said. “I’m not at liberty to speculate. It very well may be that people with these powers will be the most effective policemen. If we provide these individuals with resources to run Spiritual Development centers, they may be able to train themselves into Spirit Warriors for tribal protection.”


That earned another question, this time from Chairman Kickinghorn. “You mean to train them in use of force? Like an army? We would be prohibited from doing that by treaty and forced to rely on federal policing through the Bureau of Indian Affairs. That would devastate us, we would be at the mercy of the federal bureaucracy. If they did not just roll over us. What if the federal government forces registration -- ”

Jon raised a finger to stop the shotgun blast of questions-turned-fearmongering. “Not so fast. See, our peoples have long been at the mercy of forces who have not hesitated to use the government against us. And while it is good to cooperate with the US efforts on this issue, we should also insulate ourselves from their missteps. On the legal side this was anticipated.


“The Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act was recently signed into law as a result of a year of lobbying efforts. While this was written with the Sickness in mind, it accomplishes several things. It prevents registration of Native Americans, it allows us to freely treat our own members on our own reservations…and it allows us to operate our own treatment facilities on reservation land free from government interference which may be utilized by tribal and nontribal members at our discretion. And in the case of the Sickness, the way to treat it is to teach control. Training.”


That set off more murmurs, and rightly so. It was a bulletproof piece of legislation that gave the tribes tremendous power. Jon was so fortunate to have gotten it through before the Ascendancy’s announcement, else it may have tipped his hand what he was going to accomplish. But they now had legal authority – insulting to say that sovereign peoples needed authority, but nevertheless – to gather people who could use this power and train them free from interference. He grinned despite himself. It was okay to gloat every now and then when you did something clever. Spirit Warrior -- it had a good ring to it.

But finally, the question that Jon didn’t want to answer asked: “Why can we believe what you’re saying is true?”

Jon sighed. Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead, right?
How many people were in the room? Two hundred? “Because I am one of these people. I can wield the power of the Great Spirit.”


His heightened senses caught a sudden movement in the back of the room. Someone was reaching for a gun.

Sage woke to memories of girls he'd enjoyed, the dead blue-eyed girl was the one he'd woken up to and forced himself to sit up and shake off the sorrow that poured through his veins. Sage never dealt with death well. He'd seen enough of it in his own life, as well as in those he'd followed. It was sad really.

Sage picked up a slice of pizza from the night before from the box still on the table and sat and found Aurora's brother's breadcrumb program and followed it to his last few days. He was staying in some sleazy motel now that his warehouse blew up. There had been no cameras in the warehouse but they were outside. He watched as the van had pulled up a few blocks down and a few people entered from several locations and then the house came crashing down. It was a spectacle - almost magic. Almost. Though the fire it had cause - now that had been magic. Sage just didn't know who had done it.

Aurora's little brother, granted only by a few minutes was born an entirely day later, was often found with a green-eyed girl with a sword. He'd found her intriquing and was following her around now too, and back tracking many things. She was interesting and had many secrets. Secrets Sage wanted to know. He had to know.

Sage pulled up the feed outside of the motel and watched a few days of scans and found a strange man - a ragtag looking man using a key to walk into the room Nox kept for himself. Had he checked out? Sage hacked into the computer system and found it still under his name. Weird...

Sage had to know. He broke through rather meager security of the wi-fi network on the television and flipped the screen on. A rendering of an abstract face appeared on the screen and asked, "Who are you? and why are you in Nox's room?

It was only a few moments longer before Sage had a view of the man in the room and could hear what he was saying. The camera wasn't exactly well placed but it didn't really matter and the mic sucked but it was all he had at the moment. All of Nox's toys were defunct now and his laptop was crispy, everything he owned fit in one bag.

Such a pathetic life.

Edited by Sage, Aug 11 2016, 03:28 PM.

**sent directly to Jacques' personal communication device (wallet, whatever he uses) via a specially encrypted program Sage installed and without deep technical knowledge will be near impossible to uninstall**

What help do you need precisely? My skill set, Our skill set is limited to what we can reach electronically. I can offer one bit of information already, your cyber security nearly everywhere in the country is shit. Any ideas of how the collective can help you on your way to a better Africa?

-- Phaser

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Code: Digital Signature</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>

Code:

01010000011010000011010000110101001100110111001000100000
00101101001000000011000100110011001101000110010000110011
01110010001000000011000001100110001000000111010001101000
00110011001000000110001000110000011100100011100100100001