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.

What exactly are these ships you keep talking about?

Moscow is not near an ocean so I'm highly and utterly confused.

Roman Mordvinov

It took a little while before little mudak finally got sprung. Spetzel leaned on the right people. And his guys leaned a little harder. Moscow was in turmoil over his Royal Douchbag's little trick out at the square. People were scared shitless, running around with their pants around their ankles and dicks hanging out just hoping not to get fucked.

What was one little prick falling through the cracks in all that? This was on Roman for now. Pops was letting him take point on this. Bout goddamn time. He'd been on the back burner too long. Always having to step back and watch some asshole or other head up some mission while he sat at home holding his junk. Well someone did anyway. A few someones. He laughed to himself. He did have a thing for dark skin and those liquid brown eyes. Fyodor ran a nice place and always had the best girls for him.


So anyway, where was he? Oh yeah. Little proya. Yuri. Who seemed to be TAKING HIS TIME getting dressed in his new digs. Fucking primadonna. He went to the bedroom they had given him and pounded on the door. "Come on, fuck-face!! Or I'm gonna leave and you can stay at home and stare at the pope all by yourself!! Just make sure you washed that prison-shit smell off of you."


He went back to the chair and sat down. Wine and dine. That's what he had to do. Fucking proya seemed cool for all of it. Prolly didn't need much. But if he had the recipe for cooking up the blue, they were golden. Gotta tie him to us. That's all. Make him family.

He glanced over at the cabinet. Inside were some tasty treats for before they headed out on the town. They'd hit up a club or strip joint or whatever. Show they guy what it meant to Mordvinov. Who knew? Maybe even run into a Kolomov. He missed stomping with Bas. The fucker usually went off. He raised his glass of rum, ice clinking the sides, and poured out a few for his fallen brother, other hand a first pounding his chest in salute. Arkady was too much of a pussy to go out with, him and that cock-sucker Karl. Only the memory of Bas left Arkady a place with them....as a goon, pretty much.

Not the brightest tool in the parking lot.

He checked his black onyx watch again and waited. At least he had a drink, though.

Dr. Roswell Jenkins
PPC


Roswell studied the creature curiously. Its bonds were more than double what was needed. But he had always been careful. They all were. They had to be. Had to have been, he amended to himself.

Time was such an odd thing. But finally, they were on the cusp. The last 100 years had seen an explosion of knowledge and technology. He could look back on the records of experiments over the centuries- the inter-species breeding programs; exposure to various chemicals and gases; training and conditioning. Lamarckism as an idea had ruled for centuries and produced little in the way of progress.

Now, though, they had access to the code, to the chemical algorithms of life. Genome mapping capabilities had finally given them access to the source of life and they were on their way.

Already, the Dreyken in front of him had given them much, though, not of its own free will, of course. Their long-lived coding DNA had been prised apart and studied and the relevant genes tentatively identified. Already, their incorporation into mice and rabbits had revealed they were on the right track. Telomere degradation was a quarter of what was normal, effectively multiplying their lifespan by four.

Integration into primates had already begun. And while the indications were that they too would be affected in a similar way, something curious was going on. They had become aggressive. Brutal. Some even displayed tendencies toward the causing of pain, of enjoying the suffering. They had only inserted a small section of the Dreyken's DNA and yet there was a definite personality shift.

In and of itself, that was not necessarily a bad thing. Not yet anyway. But they needed control. A colleague had done something similar with rakshasas and the results were nothing short of astounding. Fully compliant creatures at their control. Pets...if they could be called that. Very useful indeed.

Could the same be done with Dreyken? That was the question. Its head was bound, parts of its skull removed and various electrodes inserted. The process had been painless, if uncomfortable. Not that he was averse to letting the thing suffer a bit. Dreyken were known for their cruelty, after all.

He looked at it after making some adjustments to the current. "You will tell me your name."
The command itself was meaningless. He didn't need to know names. This was a test of compliance. Dreyken lived together, their public personas manufactured. It was a curious thing. Unlike Rougarous or Chupacabras, Dreyken were social and even maintained their own culture, from what they had gathered. Breaking them was hard. It was a good measure of the effectiveness of his procedures.

The Dreyken's eyes glittered with hate and despite the perspiration that beaded its forehead, it appeared calm and in control. It bared a cold smile at him. If Roswell had not done this many times before, he would have been nervous. As it was, he ignored it.

"You will know pain,", it whispered. "I shall enjoy you for a long time. You will beg for death. You will plead for it. But it will not come."

He sighed and made the adjustments. Still more work to be done. His wallet chimed and he pulled it out. In moments, he had the video playing, Nicholas Trano's address. There, in the background sat Holden. From the angle it looked as if he had been preening, enjoying his position. It irritated Roswell. The man irritated him.

He twisted the hourglass embossed ring on his finger as he watched. The man was Di Inferi, supposedly dedicated to the same goals as him. A quest embarked upon long ago when they broke away from the benighted Atharim and their foolishness. Memento Mori. The reminder that all men die. Times did too. And purposes. But they didn't have to. Not if they succeeded.

But Holden....he was unpredictable. His own power was equally important. The man wanted to be president. That much was plain. But once there, what would he do? He knew far too much about them. If his goals and Di Inferi's shifted away from each other...Well, it was telling that the very idea bothered him.

Di Inferi had always ruled from behind. They shared that much with their elder siblings the Atharim. Better to be the power and influence behind the throne, with the leverage and strings, publicly beholden to no one. They had the freedom to be on all sides and none.

The greatest danger, though, was what Holden suffered from. Personal ambition. That would become the goal instead of their goals.

Indeed, when Evelyn Avalon took the stage the look on Holden's face said it all and Roswell smiled maliciously. It blanked in moments, but it was there. No. Holden did not need to be president. Trano would be a good choice, though. They had strings tied to him, people and companies that he was connected to.

The best tool was one who thought he was free. Not one who saw the strings and knew the players.