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.

Nox took the wallet Sage had bought for Cain and pulled the contact app from it and installed it on his wallet. He was letting a hacker behind his protection - he understood the implication. But he needed to talk to Sage. Sage had answers. He might have everything. Nox sent Sage a quick message on the app he had installed and hoped the hacker got it and understood. "Need to talk to you."

Nox gave Cain back the wallet and didn't follow anyone into the dinning room, instead he looked for Pavlo who was busy preparing their rooms. Nox found him and asked "Which one? I'm sure it's perfectly acceptable."


Pavlo lead Nox to a room. "Master Cruz is next door, and Master Cain across from you. Miss Rachel was staying across from Cruz." That begged a whole lot of questions which Nox left alone as he closed the room designated to him.

It wasn't a hotel, but it sure felt like one to Nox. Staying in someone else's home even for one night felt like he was just visiting. But this wasn't a house call. Dorian wanted Nox to stay until he was able to make it home. Nox couldn't imagine the things that Dorian was having to do. But to Nox it was clear that Cruz's father had chosen a path in defiance of the Atharim. Nox wondered if his own parents would have done the same, or would they have tried to kill him. Nox thought the latter was probably the case - Bryan Durante was not a soft man, he was born and breed to be Atharim. He was their tool - their product. His mother might have tried to stop him from hurting her babies, but Nox could see his father doing the deed anyway. Nox got lost in memories.

They permeated his mind with sorrow and loss. His world had shattered that day - the day his mother died. Everything he'd every dreamt of was gone in one horrible moment. The vision of his mother's death was seared into the back of his eyes. The blood gushing everywhere from wounds so deep he could see the bone beneath.

So mired in his thoughts Nox barely heard his wallet come to life. It flickered at first. Then the holoscreen switched on without any interaction at all. The visage of some 1980's pop culture reference flicked before him before it resolved into the 1's and 0's of a boy who had grown into a man. The avatar's mouth moved with each word, "You wanted to talk to me?"


Nox rubbed his eyes and sat up as he pulled the wallet closer. "You've grown up. Not the same dorky kid I remember."


The digital version of Sage laughed, "And you aren't so annoying."
But the laughter died quickly as Sage looked at Nox, his expression changed. "You look like shit."


Nox sighed as he rubbed his eyes again. "Lost in thought."


"Not good thoughts?"
Sage asked. "Are you thinking about Aurora?"
Sage's voice sounded almost angry to Nox.

Nox didn't let it bother him. "Among other things."


"Do you even miss her?"
Sage was clearly angry now.

Nox looked at the boy who'd taken Aurora's virginity from her. Nox wondered if he even knew what that had meant to his sister. But he didn't voice it. He wasn't angry with Sage - Aurora was a big girl she could protect her self. She was a fucking reborn god. What little good that had done her with Deigo De La Cruz. Nox only nodded and sighed fighting back the tears that were about to fall. "I miss her everyday."


Nox stood up and walked over to the window and drew the filmy curtains away and stared out. The view into Dorian's back yard was exquisite. The only thing missing was a bunch of half naked bodies sitting pool side then the image of billionaire playboy would be real. It was Moscow, but the backyard was anything but what he'd have expected of a Moscow villa - palm trees that probably cost thousands to maintain in this cold weather. "Can you show me the last time you saw her, Sage?"


Nox didn't even know a date, or time or anything else that could possibly help his sister's friend find the last image of his sister living. It was quiet in the room as Nox stared out into the backyard watching the wind blow across the top of the crystal blue water of the in ground pool.

"You don't want to know, not really, do you?"
Sage asked in the silence of the room and Nox nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the other man's voice. It felt like he was right there in the room with him instead of across many miles of land and water.

"Show me, Sage."
Nox turned around and the image of Sage's 1's and 0's faded into a security camera footage. It took Nox a few moments to see what was happening. To understand exactly what he'd asked for. There was a camera outside the house looking into the lake and over the drive way, but it was the small figures leaving the house that was the focal point of the scene - a man - he barely recognized in his tiny digital presence on his holoscreen carrying a limp body.

Nox drew his fingers across the screen and enlarged and zoomed into the area. He watched as a half life size Diego carried his sister's lifeless form to the edge of the forest before he vanished into the thick greenery. Nox replayed the short snippet of footage again. Nox fell to his knees and could feel the tears falling down his cheeks. He'd failed her.

The screen flickered and Nox collapsed back onto the floor against the wall. The visage of Sage came over the holoscreen again. "I can show you more."
His voice was tinged with it's own sadness and sense of loss.

Nox nodded. "Show me all of it. Everything you have."
The next words came out barely a whisper, "Watch with me, please."


(( Cain modded with permission ))


Edited by Nox, Sep 1 2016, 12:25 PM.

Gwendolyn was getting irritated enough to let it show. “Can we please get the sound right before we go live?”
she sent sweetly toward the sound technician along with a steely-eyed gaze that was anything but. The young man swallowed and hunched over the portable sound dampener system. Perhaps a little bitchy, but it wouldn't do to have footsteps and echoes come through from the other side. Nor would it do for any of her guest interviewees to sound like shit on a national stage on a day like this.

And even in this corner of the Capitol rotunda there were footsteps aplenty. CNN Instant News had claimed a section to set up a live sound stage. A few chairs were splayed out, sandwiched between statues of George Washington and Alexander Hamilton, with the signing of the Declaration of Independence as a backdrop, completely isolated with a white curtain, it made for the perfect cozy set on which to report today's Joint Session of Congress. With one of the curtains still pulled back, Gwen watched people hurry past her on their way to the House chamber.

There went by a tall gray suit with an unmistakable high and tight military cut, flanked by two men in black suits and wraparound Land Warriors. Col. Track Palin. Military hero, former President and current Vice President of the United States. It had been a shock to the nation when President Dawson's running mate died of a sudden heart attack one month after taking office, and an even greater shock when he'd appointed the former President and his longtime campaign to the position. No one was even sure that it was even Constitutional since Palin had already been elected to two terms in office. Dawson said he'd done it (much to the chargrin of his own Party) to ensure someone didn't become President without going through an election, and that come 2048 he'd pick a new VP as his running mate. No doubt the Democrats didn't bother to challenge the appointment because they controlled the House and figured they'd just challenge it if Dawson died, and throw the Presidency to the Speaker of the House. Right now that was Oliver Holden.

Gwen motioned to her assistant, a pretty if slightly pudgy girl with a black pantsuit to match her dark locks. “Stacy – be a sweetheart get the VP over here!”
The girl snapped a nod and ran off.

Her earpiece buzzed. “Gwen – live promo in fifteen seconds.”

Gwen gave a purposeful wink to her right eye. That triggered her Lens Warrior, which projected a transparent, scrolling screen she could track with her eye movement. It began to display her prompt. She sat down and turned to the cameraman, took one breath, let it out and smiled.

“Go.”

“We're back, live at the Capitol with our coverage of history in the Making. They're calling him Magic Nick.” Because we're telling you to call him that. “ Mr. Wizard himself, Secretary Nicholas Trano of the newly founded Department of Powers will be addressing a Joint Session of Congress, in just Moments. You can't tune out now! Stay with me, Gwendolyn Petersen, here on CNN Instant News, where we Make News Happen.”


“And we're out.”

Gwen clicked off her Lens Warrior. “So which nickname is polling better? I'm not sure which one I like best yet.”


The producer paused. “We don't know yet. Mr. Wizard is polling better on 60 and older, but Magic Nick is going over better with the younger ladies. We're probably going to have a copyright issue with either of them.” Not that it would be an issue for Gwendolyn Petersen. Within a day half the country would be using one of the nicknames and no one would remember where it came from.


Gwen's assistant came scampering back. “Palin says he'll give you an interview after the speech.”

Ugh. She had probably six or seven minutes of dead space to fill before the speech began. “Speaker Holden?”
Her assistant shook her head. Fuck it. “All right, get our panel of experts online. We'll do it live.”
As such experts as there were. She turned back to the camera.

“And we're back at the Capitol, and I'm Gwendolyn Petersen as always. Joining us today is Rodger Kimpbell from the Centers for Disease Control, and...”
Her lens warrior spat out new information. Crap, her other panelist didn’t show. Smile. “Rodger, how are you today?”


“I'm excellent, Gwen,”
he replied.

That's a stretch, buddy. “Now, Rodger, based on your experience with these abilities and the research done down in Atlanta, what can you tell me about what running the Department of Powers will entail.”


The man blinked. Clearly he was an amateur on the national stage. “Well, obviously first and foremost they'd be responsible for making sure people with the Sickness which is a reaction to these powers coming to existence in an individual, these people are helped. But essentially he'd be expected have umbrella oversight over all the agencies that are involved with these abilities. Currently the Defense Department is overseeing all of these activities --”


Gwen gave a calculated raise of her eyebrow to the camera. “So you're saying there are military applications here, like we're going to be seeing people being used as weapons?”


The man tugged at his shirt collar. “Now Gwen, I'm not saying that at all, just that the Defense Department--”


Gwen cut him off. “Let's play this video...”
a video, projected digitally into the news feed, began playing behind her. “Here we see Secretary Trano apparently putting out a fire. Isn't that nice. But can't this power be used in a more destructive way? How is this new department going to strike the appropriate balance between liberty and security?”


The man's mouth hung open for a second and he blinked. “Uh. Well, Gwen we're just going to have to see what Secretary Trano says and hope he addresses this.”


Gwen flashed her pearly whites at him. She hadn't gotten anywhere near any really salacious material out of him, but she'd abused him enough for one morning. “All right, well we appreciate it.”


“My pleasure, Gwen.”


She smiled again. Of course it is.
Behind her the screen changed to the now-packed House chamber. “Any moment now, Secretary Trano will begin his address. As we just showed, earlier this week Magic Nick made headlines for putting out a fire with his use of the powers and made a passionate speech where he derided the Adcendancy Nikolai Brandon's claim to be a god, of course the longtime owner of Vulpesnet has been vehemently anti-CCD. There have been other reports of violence both committed by and committed against magic users, and as you all know there was an incident involving the Native Americans in Albuquerque...Any moment now he will begin speaking and hopefully shed some light on what we as a nation are facing.”
She hoped so. This was rapidly turning into some very bad and boring TV.

The morning of the heist, Jaxen called Ori to have her meet him at his apartment. He had all of his gear prepared, although to look at him, the clothing wouldn't stand out as too unusual. He wore a button down shirt tucked into slacks and an open suit jacket. Very plain, very boring. Even the shoes were typical. The look he was going for was forgettable, professional but forgettable. His hair wasn't its usual wild self, but it was combed down and tame. The twinkle in his eye remained, though. He was drinking a cup of coffee when Oriena arrived.

[[Continued from Somnium]]

Thalia showered after she'd spoken with Calvin, and if it didn't improve her mood it at least left her feeling less groggy. She scribbled a note for Aylin -- Meeting a friend at Filevsky, back soon, T -- and then forced herself out the door before she changed her mind, heading for the metro-station. She played music the whole journey, sat looking down at her lap, avoiding eye-contact and conversation. Her apartment was near Filevsky -- at Bazhenov Square, to be precise -- so the journey didn't require that she pay attention. Instead she studied her nails, stripped of paint for the first time in forever. Like someone else's hands.

At the park, she wandered for a while before finally picking a spot by the curling river. She could hear the shouts and laughter of kids nearby, but couldn't see them. Trees lined the bank on the opposite edge of the wide river, bright with Spring growth. A few sunbathers dotted the distance, but there was no one close. For a while the isolation almost numbed her.

She stared at blankly across the water.

Her hair was still damp, pulled up and wound into a knot on her head. Loose tendrils frizzed about her sombre face, stirring like a dandelion in the wind. She had nothing of her own at Aylin's, so had borrowed clothes; cropped jeans and a loose, flowery blouse. A pair of sandals, too, though they pinched; they lay in the grass beside her, her bare toes digging into the grass. It was cool and dewy against the soles of her feet.

The sun was cold but bright, sparkling bright off the river. The comparison only amplified her sense of the light within. It was there all the time now, hovering. Almost beautiful, if she didn't fear it so. Bottling up the emotions, she rested her forehead on her knees, and waited. She'd messaged Calvin where she was; the wallet lay in the pile with her shoes.