2027

For five whole days his mama had not spoken to him, and for five whole days he had been alone, crouched in the corner of the small room staring wide-eyed at her on the bed. Waiting for her to roll over. To remember he was <em>there. Her pale hair spilled out from the blanket he'd pulled over her to keep her warm, her face pressed against the wall, body curled up tight.

As she had been for days.

She hadn't moved, not even when he called out to her, pleading that he was sorry for hiding. Until he finally gave up, sobbing into his hands, sobbing sobbing sobbing until the tears dried his eyes red. Then he waited some more, legs drawn up to his chest and arms hugged around himself. By now he was starving. But his mama would not stir and the cupboards were empty. He could not even let himself sleep, afraid that if he did he would miss the moment when she roused.

But when his vigil was finally disturbed, it was not by her finally turning to forgive him.</em>

*

The memories have faded. He barely remembers a time before the orphanage, his home from five years of age. A state run facility in the heart of dark Moscow, it was no place for such a gentle soul as Raffe, and he quickly understood that he would need to learn to protect himself. He hid from the other boys at first, shy and afraid of their vicious hierarchy. He didn't want to fight or argue, and the way of life here was tough and raw. He didn't fit in.

Violence he avoided when he could. Discovered that a quick smile and a poke of humour helped smooth his path. Raffe didn't mind being made fun of; those were the sort of punches he could roll with, and be glad to spare himself the physical pain. The others found him strange and girlish, but if he was both those things, he was not weak. He woke one morning with his blonde curls all chopped off on his pillow. He didn't react to the prank. Then he just looked like one of the other boys. They began to leave him alone.

Raffe was ten when he learned his father had killed his mother, a discovery made when rumour of the man's acquittal became the talk of the orphanage. The revelation brought nightmares with it, of ice cold flesh and the stench of rotting meat. And hope. But his father never came to claim him.

Raffe hardened after that. Realised, perhaps for the first time, that he was truly alone in this world. It darkened the edge of his usual affability, so that when one of the older kids picked some fun - something Raffe usually brushed off with a laugh - something in him snapped instead. He felt it spring loose and all the hate spill out as he smashed the boy in the face. As he continued kicking him in the ribs long after he'd curled into a ball on the grass of the small yard. The violence disgusted him. So too did the thrill in the madness of it. The boy was three years older; taller, broader, meaner. And still he had won.

He vowed himself: never again.

His place in the group shifted subtly. A cautious edge of respect emerged, and a wariness that made Raffe feel deflated.

He didn't want to be feared.

He was a bright kid, but struggled with schooling as he grew into adolescence. With a sort of inevitability he ended up mixing with the wrong crowd, skipping classes to hang out, shoot the shit and smoke pot. The sense of something missing ached a hole in his gut, and he chased the feeling into oblivion. He was a misfit among his friends; the one who did not quite fit, despite his popularity. His pretty face earned him enmity among some of the boys, but his glib tongue smoothed most cracks. And when Raffe was around, so too were the girls.

It was probably that alone that paved his way to acceptance among his peers.

Once older, he was often the one the younger kids came to when hurt or sad or scared. He told them stories before lights out. Stoked camaraderie instead of competition. He had a gift for making people forget themselves, for encouraging others to feel comfortable in their own skins. The instinct to nurture was something intrinsic. Something deep. Something that gave him peace. It was nature.

From a small child Raffe loved the outdoors and green things, not that there was much of that in the blocky grey concrete grove that sheltered the orphanage and other bastions of no hope in the Guardian. But the first distinct moment of understanding he was somehow different coalesced in the attic of an apartment in Zamoskvoreche. He was fifteen. The cannabis plants were wilted, the edges of the leaves yellowing. The hum of the electric heaters drilled through his skull as he knelt by the boxes. The light burned his eyes. While the others argued about how to best remedy the situation, Raffe poked one of the leaves, and felt a shiver of recognition.

"Rootbound, huh?"


He fixed up the crop. Shrugged when they asked him how he knew what he was doing. He had a gift for it.

Finally, at eighteen, the state washed their hands of him. Walking out the door with a rucksack of his worldly possessions was the first time he ever met his dad. The resemblance was startling, really, else somewhere in the back of his mind he recognised the face. Raffe paused. Blinked.

"You're a bit late."


The man turned, shifted on uncomfortable feet. How long had he been loitering in the street, waiting? His hands were in the pockets of a rumpled suit. Raffe could smell the stale stink of old booze beneath the spray of cologne.

"I'm sorry about your mother, boy. I was drunk. We were both drunk. I panicked when she... I shouldn't have left. And I didn't even know you were there."


He'd been five years old. Where else would he have been? None of this was news though; he'd seen the newspaper clippings by now, knew the charge of manslaughter and all the sordid details. Knew too, though he didn't remember it, that he'd been locked up with the dead body for nearly a week before anyone thought to look for him.

Raffe didn't remember her, not hardly at all. Just the whisper of things. The cadence of her accent. The brush of her hand on his forehead. But he missed her with an ache that was bone deep.

The man who called himself his father said that his wife had been mad when she found out about the affair; that she'd drawn the line at taking the child into their home. He said he was sorry, handed Raffe a packet of money.

Raffe nodded, not sure how to process this information. And the two parted.

In the six years following, Raffe has struggled to orient himself. With no education his options are limited, and Moscow - jewel of the known world - is a dark and hungry city. These days he works in various bars and clubs to make ends meet. Knows all the local hotspots, knows its light and darkest sides like the back of his hand.

Desc:
A cap of burnished curls tops an angelic face sporting an errant grin. Bright blue eyes sit in a boyish face. Clean-shaven. A little over average tall (5'11''), broad at the shoulder and of lean build.

Raffe is quick to humour and has an affable if irreverent manner. His nature is personable and easy-going, but sometimes displays a jaded edge that can make him prone to brooding behaviour. He thinks nothing of helping others, and can be generous with his time and possessions. In particular he has a soft spot for the underdog and those without a place in conventional society. He enjoys a good-natured tease, and is a generous flirt. A temper lurks beneath the surface, but he is more likely to swallow back harsh words than spit them out.

Raffe has a keen eye for the beautiful; art that steals the soul, music one can get lost in. He enjoys sensory experience and is partial to a drink and a night out, but is tempered by the legacy of his parents. Still smokes recreationally on occasion, but avoids synthetic drugs.

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An update to zeta boards has allowed for us to have multiple selections chosen within a given profile field. So you can now have channeler and Dreamwalker chosen as an ability in your profile at the same time, for instance.

Please update your profiles. Rearranging the options may have disrupted your profile abilities and class choices. So please update if needed.

Thanks.

In the books is it possible to do an illusion to match your voice to someone else? Can Jaxen channel a weave to make his voice sound like someone else?

Today Methos wasn't Methos. Adam was in Moscow for a concert - several actually but Bradley and Chris had joined him. It'd been a while since he'd seen either of them, and he intended to treat his husband well because who knew when they'd been alone again. Kay had Chris engaged in games and books as the two men left for Manifesto decked out in their best.

But Adam didn't go as Methos, Methos was home in bed waiting for the right moment to make his grand display. No tonight was all Adam. His hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail at the base of his neck, the colored dyes hidden under a red velvet beret.

Bradley was dressed in a black and white tux but Adam still couldn't be normal, he wore a red velvet tux from Gucci. He may not act like Methos but he was the man more so now than when he first started out. Methos had evolved into him and he into Methos. They couldn't be parted anymore than you could take the green off of grass.

Adam's arm was draped across Bradley's waist as they entered without much of a problem into the exclusively rich club. Bradley's eyes were wide with the grandeur of the place. It was just another of the same old same old for Adam - he'd been here before see it all before.

They took a booth in a secluded corner and watched the Moscovianites do their thing. It was all very normal for Adam.

Name: Adam "Methos" Turner

Age: 46 (Feb 15, 2000)

Origin: Baton Rouge, LA, USA

Occupation: Rockstar - singer/songwriter/digital synthesiser

Personality:

Adam is tyically quiet and reserved, when he is alone and with his family you would never beleive he was Methos. Methos was everything Adam wasn't. He was outgoing, charismatic. He had confidence and stood out in a crowd. But Methos was a take it or leave kinda guy. You either hated him, or you loved him. Methos likes to party hard, but he was not one of those smash up your hotel types, nor did he ever dabble in anything stronger than pot despite what the rumors may have said. One rumor had him snorting coke on a daily basis with his husband - all of which were lies created by rivals trying to make Methos look bad. Methos was flamboyouant in his attire. You never knew what he'd wear or who'd he'd be. He thrives on surprising you with every turn.

Description:

Methos lives to dazzle and surprise you. His natural hair color is jet black, his eyes are the color of dark chocolate. But Methos' hair has not been straight black since he was 16 years old. It is typically dyed multiple colors, sprinkled with glitter and styled with gel. He wears guyliner and lipstick among other make products to enhance whatever look he's going for at the moment. His attire is never the same, Methos prides himself on only wearing an outfit once. Each outfit he wears he then auctions off and gives the proceeds to his favorite charity of the moment. Methos has many tattoos, most of which have very sentimental reasons but he never shares those reasons with anyone outside his most inner circle and family.
He is 5'10" and approximately 180lbs.

History:

Born to Bobby and Netti Turner of Baton Rouge, Adam was the third son, fifth child of eight children of course Netti and Bobby had children before theys got married. Only the last four youngins was theirs. Adam had 2 older half brothers and 2 half sister and 2 younger sisters and a baby brother. Adam would have been classified as one of them good ol' boys but he wasn't a foot ball player or any super athletic types nor was he super smart. He skated by in school and really only excelled in music.

He was rocking on the guitar at the age of 8 and that carried him into several other instruaments, but it wasn't until he bought himself a keyboard that could synthesize music that Adam's music started to really peak his interest.

At 15 created his own music video and dropped it on youtube and it became a hit sensation. This propelled Adam into stardom in highschool as well as across the internet. He was famous...

Adam followed the credo that David Bowie started. "I always had a repulsive need to be something more than human. I felt very puny as a human. I thought, 'Fuck that. I want to be a superhuman."

Two months after the first video Adam created his Methos persona and dropped another video on another account.

After the millionth hit in days he was picked up by 13th Planet record label and two months after that released his first album dedicated to David Bowie his inspiration entitled "Add Water and Stir". Three days later Bowie passed.

Methos put out new videos for each of his songs on his new album over the next two years. When he was 18 he went on tour for the first time.

Being on tour was the greatest thing in the world. He got to explore who he really was. Adam had always known he liked other boys, but he kept it to himself. Now that he was Methos he could be whoever, do whatever and see whoever he wanted and no one judeged him. And that is how he met Bradley Whitehurst. Bradley was a groupie and a roadie for a summer. They didn't hook up then, but they would years later after Bradley finished college and Methos ran into a bit of an accounting problem with his accountant. Bradley fixed the problem and they have been togethere ever since (started dating in 23)

By 22 he had released three more albums and had toured the world four times. Changing his look and sound for each album

From 24 to 26 Methos switched labels three times before settling on his own. Believing he could do better than anyone else. And he was right. His next album went double platinum in two weeks.

The next decade he toured "The Greatest Hits". Each city displayed one of several personas. You never knew who you were going to get.

In 37 Methos changed his look adding yet another persona to his rotation and released a smash album - free to anyone who wanted it. In each city the album toured Methos played in a local dance club unannounced.

Also in 37 Methos married his long time boyfriend Bradley Whitehurst, a forensic accountant he met on tour.

When Methos turned 40 he stayed home with his husband and son who they had adopted at the age of 3.

In 44 Methos took up the stage again releasing another album and is currently touring that album with "The Greatest Hits." Methos still drops into local clubs and plays unannounced in every city he tours in.


Records/Songs etc

Mutant Angel (video as Adam Turner)
Stop Forever (video as Methos)
Add Water and Stir (Jan 13, 2016) - tribute to David Bowie (rock heavy electronic synthesizer usage)
Mechanically Plundering Album (emo punk rock)
Sound Of Lost Minds Album (electronic jazz and blues)
Possessive Underground Album
Fertile Anomaly Album (double platinum) - Ballads (soft slow but still very Methos) - the touts it as an album you can make love to.
The Great Hits
Eternal Sensationalism Album (free) '37 (techno/electronica )
Relaxation Satisfaction Album (last one) (techno reggae blend)


Edited by Methos, Aug 28 2016, 11:53 AM.

It had only been 2 hours since he left, yet he was back. He felt a comfort here, so here he was. Looking around he did not see his redhead he liked so he found a quiet booth and mindlessly ordered a scotch.

Only a few weeks here and I got 2 on my payroll and no idea on if i can trust em,
his thoughts swirled further and deeper. I need me crew, but this only a few be trained to handle this kinda of shit and i can't risk em.


A wicked grin crossed his face and a purdy blond brought his bottle. She smiled at Manix, prolly more for the tip than anything, unless she misinterpreted the grin. Manix decided to pull a few Marines of the "Storm Cloud". The home could use protection and maybe one to keep him company.

He laughed out loud and he took a long swig from the bottle, his neighbors seem to disapprove: I need no protection but I wonder what these land lubbers would think of Grompus as a body guard. Grompus being near 7 1/2 feet tall, 450 lbs and ugly as sin and loyal to death. Manix had saved Grompus from his own twin when the twin went insane.

He was drunk and knew it. He also knew he could burn it out of his blood in a heartbeat. He was tired and anxious over Aria and Jax, Manix realized he wanted a good old fashion fistfight. He looked the room over, no one here to give em a good row, maybe if a couple of bouncers ganged up on em.

Manix had been to sea ports across the globe, even some on no maps and knew most fighting styles out there, of course there was option "b".........Laughing again he took another pull, this time a bouncer was watching em. Manix winked at the bouncer, out of pure onerousness then held up his hands as if saying he'd be good.

Enjoying the show and the booze, his thoughts drifted back to the "now": Will I find what I have searched for? Manannan Mac Lir, Celtic God of the Sea, he prayed, guide me ur servant to truth.
He slipped his hand into his special lil flask, one that he had twisted into something other than a water flask. the home waters felt good, peace found his heart

Aria wanted to go up and see Dane. She had questions. Like what the fuck happened? And why the fuck was he back? But she wasn't going to do that. The last thing she needed was to give the Regus and Borovsky a reason to leave her behind, so she sat in her chair and waited while everyone else was duly impressed and horrified at Ascendancy's latest display of power.

Aria could only roll her eyes. Nox was probably fanboying it up if he was above ground. He'd been hunting so much since he got back he was likely below the city streets doing whatever he did when she wasn't with him.

But neither of the two men were really part of her conscious thought. Aria's mind was skirting the edges of every person in the vicinity. Something was still wrong but Aria couldn't put her finger on it. And she really didn't have time as she felt the fury and bristling personality of Martin Borovsky near long before he showed his face around a corner and crooked his finger and walked away. He didn't even glare or sneer at her. He barely gave her any second thought. His disgust for Ascendancy was clearly written all over his feelings. Aria smiled to herself as she relished the feeling of the man who at the present hated her less than Ascendancy.

Deep in the bowels of the Atharim they gathered their sonic weapons and their tools of the trade. Aria was going as a guide and only took her swords and her guns. She wasn't going to take on Ascendancy in close range. A sniper rifle from a distance and a bullet to his head was the only way she was going to take down a god. Aria knew first hand what a god like the Ascendancy could do - and Nox wasn't even half the god Ascendancy was. She was not an idiot. She took whatever weapon that Martin handed her - she didn't intend to use it though.

Once everyone was geared and armed to the tooth they ascended to the street level and by the cover of night they walked the short distance to the hidden entrance. The things that lay hidden in the world until you uncover them. Aria would never have know of the entrance if she'd not been lead from the facilities below unhindered. But now she could not unknown the fact. The Ascendancy would need to block this entrance once this was done. The Atharim would know of it if any of them survived this night.

Aria intended to survive. It was just a matter of how much running she was going to have to do. She doubted the all powerful and might Ascendancy cared for her life. The Atharim would hunt her down for her betrayal. If she survived. And if Ascendancy died, the Regus and Martin would see her dead with in the hour. She didn't intend to die today.

Aria opened the steel door that lead into the bowels of the earth. "Are you ready to enter hell?"



Edited by Aria, Aug 25 2016, 04:34 PM.

Video posted in Jeddah's Fallen Channel on IAF's website by the_collective:

An image of Sapper Nkemdilim Aberash appears on screen in full military regalia with birth and death listed on screen. "Survived by his mother" scrolled by. Images of Sudanese girls that he'd saved from their former trade were displayed before and where they were today, the worls "saved from sex trade by Aberash" stamped on each before image before the transition into where they were today. Security footage of his platoon commander and senior leadership being taken into custody displayed with big red X's ousting them from their positions because of Aberash. Blurred images of court marshal papers showing the proof. Pictures of his funeral service displayed in the end, the girls he saved clearly standing in attendance crying as the flag of his home nation was placed on his coffin and given an appropriate military send off into the afterlife. His mother all in black crying. Final words saying "These women will always remember Sapper Nkemdilim Aberash."

*** thousands of embedded links were sent to media around the world, popular independent vloggers and bloggers with a simple title of - Honor the Fallen ***

It had been an interesting month. World events aside, of course, as he generally didn't care much about those sorts of things. So the big-boss-man of the CCD had declared himself a GOD. Fuck it, he was just another one of those magic users the Atharim hated so much. Standard racism bullshit, really. They were different, they were powerful, and they could do a lot of damage if one wanted to, but most seemed to have been keeping a pretty low profile for the past decade or so. Hell, he'd only ever met a handful of them, himself. Certainly more then most folks might have, but not terribly surprising considering he would occasionally moonlight to help the Atharim.

Something he hadn't been called on for, lately. But, if he hadn't missed his guess, there was probably a lot going on over there at their secret hidey-hole. He had no way of fully grasping what the Ascendancy's revalation meant for the Atharim on a global scale; they had connections to the Church, from what he understood. Which could make things very awkward for the Vatican.

But, that was exactly the sort of thing he didn't much care about. Outside of how he could make a buck and whether he could find a good fight, of course. Money was still flowing faster then he could spend it, but the fights? He hadn't had a good one in far too long. Pervaya Iiniya Securities had drawn steady business, the list of high-profile clients grew longer by the day, as did the list of employees the security company employed. And with Koloman's departure for Algeria, the competition for the top-shelf jobs had dropped off.

The Brewery was one of Moscow's best kept secrets in gun-fanatic circles. As its name hinted, it had once been a brewery, but all that remained of the old building was the two basement levels which housed a gun range, exclusive club, and various tool shops and services open only to members.

A fire back in the mid-'90s had destroyed much of the historic building at street level, but the foundation and basement levels had been painstakingly salvaged and restored. The location had changed hands repeatedly over the following thirty years, until finally becoming The Brewery back in the 20's.

What had once been corridors housing barrels and brewing equipment, had been re-purposed as weapons ranges or Close-Quarters-Battle lanes. Thick brick walls and ceilings, coated with thick layers of near-invisible polymers that prevented ricochets or damage to the old brick, absorbed most of the noise the club users could generate.

Naturally, Hood had his own range set up in the basement of one of the partially demolished Soviet-era tenement blocks near where he lived, but The Brewery had an excellent scotch bar and he didn't have to clean up after himself. And it helped that the company office was located in the modern office complex that sat on top of the old brewery foundation, only a couple kilometers from the heart of the CCD itself.

The smell of spent propellants, the ever-lingering scent of the old brewery, and of course the far cleaner aroma of the fine scotch in his glass. The muffled sound of weapons fire beyond the intervening wall between the club and the ranges, coupled with the sound of the handful of club members, seated usually in pairs or small groups, tending to pistols or discussing current events, new firearms, or whatever else floated their boats.

The place always felt empty, or near enough to it to suit his preferences. The Brewery could accommodate fifty shooters at any time, between the various firing ranges and courses, and while there were thousands of members on the books, many of whom didn't live in DI, it was a rare day to see more then a few score members present.

After his rather impromptu discussion with Mr Sigma himself, and their surprising discovery of mutual interests, Hood had been busy. Mr Marveet the Eldest was a rich, powerful man. And with such riches and power came an impressive home, an impressive security system, teams of professional bodyguards, and the usual arrogant certainty that money made one untouchable.

Low tech had proven the way of the game, as his drones couldn't get close to the Marveet mansion without their cameras being blinded by lasers mounted on motion-sensitive emitters. Curtains were photo-scrambling fabrics, the windows mirrored against imaging systems. He had no doubt that signals going in or out were tracked. Everything a house needed to protect it from rival businessmen, common burglars, or would-be kidnappers.

Luckily for Hood, he wasn't any of those things.

It had been a short few days filled with planning and Martin still hated that they hadn't tested this so-called weapon. It irked him to no end but he never mentioned it again. This was on the Regus' head if it went south - all on him.

Martin was sitting at his desk when a notice flickered across his screen. Unusual activity. It wasn't something he had expected until he opened it up and saw the who on the files accessed. Dorian! What the fuck was he doing accessing the god files?

But Martin didn't get a chance to call him. He had picked up his phone. He was dialing Dorian's number by memory but there was a commotion outside his office. He rolled his eyes and stood up and stepped outside into the hall and followed the few stragglers still rushing towards the common areas of the building. A large TV was on displaying a news cast.

In the middle was a melting building... the captions said something to the affect that Ascendancy was melting a building. Every Atharim in the building was staring at the display of power. Martin turned on his heal and headed towards the Regus' office. He didn't bother knocking. He blurted out. "Are you watching this?"