<table><tr>
<td></td>
<td>"Baron" Declan Darius Ashlan Cooper Gregory
PPC
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</tr></table>



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Dusk. London.

Dying sunlight streamed through old window panes and diffused on the dusty air of Declan's office. Winter cast its white blanket on the grounds outside, and as reminder, cold air seeped beneath his wool sweater. He frowned at the crackling fire without getting up to stir the logs. Instead, he swiveled in his chair and yanked the curtains over the window. Immediately, the stream of icy air ceased. Perhaps finally the fire would do its duty.

With the book beneath his left hand, he scrolled through pictures of a jagged mountain wasteland with his right. Black slate rocks cut through weaves of snow and scrubby brush. His colleagues, a team sent to explore ruins and holy sites of the northern Indian Continent, sent him beautiful, but unremarkable pictures. Remarkable except that they were not where the team was sent to explore.

"This scene is familiar to me,"
Declan spoke to the voice on the other end of the connection. "And all the more so because you are 15 kilometers away from where you said you were going."
Declan's eyes flickered to a map of Noah's location. The entire area was filled with interesting finds denied to the British empire a century ago. The permits for their return was granted five years ago. Noah had been on his way to Hemkund, a remote site in the Himalayan mountains, 275 kilometers from the nearest town.

A howling wind almost drowned Noah's reply. "The British Museum hasn't returned to Roopkund in 70 years. Our instruments have a chance to explore--"


Declan cut him off after having studied a weather forecast for the region. "Noah, return to Hemkund where there is shelter and safety. You are in the wilderness. It is not safe. Two-hundred and fifty skeletons were discovered at Roopkund a 100 years ago, preserved so perfectly that DNA was extracted from hair and nail. Their party was killed in a freak hail storm in the 9th century AD. There is nothing else to find."


"But the lake-"
Noah replied. Declan felt his impatience grow.
"The lake is no more than 3 meters deep and 30 meters across. It's frozen for most of the year."


Noah waited until Declan was concluded, knowing the difficulties of convincing him to swerve from the path planned.

"Yes, sir. The lake is completely frozen right now. And yes, I can see the remains lying still beneath the clearest ice I've ever seen. But sir, there's something in the lake. More precisely. There's something under the lake."
Noah grew quiet, like he was afraid the wind would steal his whispers away.

Declan looked more closely at the pictures sent by Noah. "What do you mean, something, 'in' the lake? Like what?"


"I have an idea-- wait."
Noah's voice was drowned by a shriek of wind.

"What is it, Noah?"


The wind howled suddenly sharp, like the screams of a furious hell. Declan plugged his pained ear, jerking away from the speakers. Noah yelled. Then all fell quiet as snowfall.

Heart pounding, Declan scrambled for the volume control on his speakers, but they were normally set. "What in the world, Noah?"


But Noah didn't respond. Declan licked his lips, and with shaking hands, raised the screen with Noah's video feed. An arm draped across a rocky slope.

Declan stared at it in disbelief. Then, eyes stinging, he looked at the map of his friend's location.

"Skeleton Lake,"
he whispered. The pit in his stomach feared the worst.


Edited by Dane Gregory, Jan 9 2015, 11:17 PM.

Calvin's boss's son, Kristoff, dropped Calvin off at the AA Meeting that Dr. Pirozzi had mentioned to him at their meeting the night before. That had gone better than expected - at least he felt like he had a plan. Despite that, he felt nervous being here. Kristoff broke the silence. "Here we are. Do you want me to walk in with you?"


"No...I think I need to do this part on my own."
Calvin fumbled with the door handle, his shaking hands making opening the door difficult.

"Alright...call me when you're done, and I'll come get you. We're rooting for you, Cal."


Calvin nodded at him, and walked to the building. The trip to the hospital had taken some time and they were just about to begin when Calvin entered. There was one empty chair so Calvin sat down, slumping in the chair and trying to make himself as small as possible. He was already embarrassed about being almost late. He gripped the arms of the chair hard to prevent the shaking, but his hands still tremored with nervousness, despite his knuckles turning white.

"Alright we have some new faces here tonight, so lets go around and introduce ourselves and tell each other why we're here."
the facilitator said.

Calvin awaited his turn and said, "I'm Calvin and that's all I'm comfortable sharing right now."


The facilitator gave Calvin an encouraging smile and nodded. He wouldn't force him; Calvin had to make the leap on his own, but he would be there to help when he was ready. Calvin had to admit that he was scared. He was in a room full of strangers and his only thoughts were on whiskey.

They finished introductions, and Calvin had unfortunately forgotten most of their names; his mind was elsewhere. A courage he hadn't felt before came up though and he spoke. "Ummm...can I say something."
The facilitator smiled at him and nodded; Calvin was ready. "Ummm...I'm Calvin and I'm here because I'm depressed and have a drinking problem and I want to get better..."
Calvin's breath began to quicken. "But all I can think about is that I want a drink right now so bad....I'm sorry...I don't know what to do anymore."
Calvin was only partially aware of the tears that had begun to fall.

Name: Martin Borovský
Origin: Prague, Czech Republic, DII
Birth Date: August 27, 1998 (48 in 2046)

Description: 1.85m(6'1"), athletic build in a thin frame, takes alot of work to put on the muscle that is clearly defined, brown hair cut extremely close and brown eyes, well kept beard and mustache forming a near perfect circle around his mouth. Martin wears whatever is functional and timeless. He dresses to impress when in house, but he's typically dressed to blend in outside of headquarters. Martin's vanity keeps everything in just do order. The ouroboros on his left arm is a black dragon biting its own tail sourounding a stylized triangle.

Personality: Martin is ambitious, he rise high as a youth in training in the military, and then when things happened to change his career path, he rose to a pinical with in the Atharim very quickly, thanks to his talents. Martin is confident and loyal, almost to a fault. But if you can get past the exterior, he can be generous and encouraging. He has been known to take worthy men and women under his wing to guide and nurture to be the best they can be. He is also pretentious and melodramatic. Two things that tend to work for him, but can be his downfall if he's not careful. He is a control freak as well as stubborn. Martin rarely changes his point of view on anything. His greatest flaw is his vainity. Martin rises to every challenge and accomplishs everything he does or he'd die trying. There is no risk too great when it comes to accomplishing his goals. He is a solitary soul, bent of being the best.

Occupation: Atharim High Inquisitor in the Holy Order of Saint Torquemada

Weapon Proficiencies: Hand-to-hand, Sword, Handguns, Semi-automatics
Knowledge (not inclusive): Torture, Interrogation, Reconnaissance, Negotiations

Biography:

Martin's youth was like a fairy tale. He grew up in a loving home, his parents pushing him to be the best he could be. Insuring that he maintained their notablitly in his actions. A family with wealth was always making sure their name stood above the others. Their name meant that much to them.

He was the prince in the high tower, though the castle could be seen from his bedroom window, he did not reside in said castle of fairy tale, it only felt that way. He was guided through ritualistic sports in boarding school, but his displeasure at the school lead him to rebel, forcing his family to send him into miltary school. Here Martin thrived. Anything and everything Martin attempted he succeeded at.

From military school he joined the Czech Republic Land Forces. Martin had the nack of ferretting out information and was quickly assigned in low ranking facilities of the Reconnaissance and Electronic Warfare Department. There he learned many of the skills he utilizes today.

However an incident occurred when Martin was only 23, just barely starting his military career in full swing. His unit was out collecting information in some classified region of the world. No one knew they were there, well at least that's what they claimed in the end. Martin's team was attacked, they really had no information on what attacked them. All Martin knew was that it had been massive in size and it devestated the building he was in, quickly and almost quietly. He'd have said it was like a dragon, or an ogre, or something from myth and legend, but he knew that had to be his imagination.

At least that was what he thought at the time. He'd not come face to face with it. But he'd managed to be the sole survivor of the devestation, the men who found him, claimed the rpg he'd fired into whatever it was had brought the building down on top of it, rendering it dead. Martin never got to see the thing that attacked him and his unit. The building was quickly on fire and there was nothing left but ash by the time the fire finished consuming whatever it was.

But that had all be hearsay, Martin woke up in a dimily lit hospital room inside some place that smelled of must and dust and disuse, despite the sterililty of the room. Martin knew he had not been where he had fallen.

Martin found himself in Vatican City, more specifically under the Vatican. He had been treated and the men who had found him had brought him there to question. The interrogation lasted for weeks. They never treated him ill. But the questions barely stopped. What did you see? What do you know? How did you kill the creature? Do you know what it was? The questions drove on and on and repeated themselves when new men and women came to question him. Everyone trying a new tactic on him.

By the second week he laughed in their faces. He told them his answers weren't going to change. And then Martin rattled off better ways to yield information with peaceful intent and a few that weren't quite so nice. It must have impressed someone behind the screens and hidden cameras.

Another man had come in, it was the last man he would see in his interrogation cell, and the last man to whom he would answer questions for. The man introduced himself as Armande Nicodemus. He was senior something or other, he was behind the screen, watching the cameras. He told him of a man, the man whom Martin would speak to soon. The Regus. A title of some world renown as head of the Vatican Historical Society. But it was not the whole of it. He informed Martin of the their organization. He'd some light on the reasons for his interrogation. That he'd shown promise. And he was to be introduced immediately.

The entire concept of the Atharim had boggled Martin's mind the day he met Stephano Wijngaard. The Regus was a kind hearted Dutch man with little sensibilities in the ways of interrogation, or much of anything really Martin soon learned. He was leader, but he was not A leader.

Martin soon found himself with in the Vatican walls training to slay monsters. Swords, guns, any weapon imaginable to kill a creature. And the creatures they could come up seemed unfathomable - men made of mist, gods, and people who could manipulate a man's emotions. He'd heard rumors of some being harnessed - these furia. Creatures who could smell emotion. The only reason they survive in the mist of the Atharim is because they are harmless and completely useful. Martin disagreed with using the monsters, but the Furia had a place, a choice, here with them, or death. He'd seen few not choose to work with them.

The world turned on in this so-called wheel and the Atharim fought monsters. Martin rose in ranks and was soon close to the heart of the society when the hands of the office of Regus changed. It was just before that change that he was named High Inquisitor. Martin had only held the position a year before he would answer to the new Regus. The new man was strong, Martin liked him. He was scholar and warrior all wrapped up into one. Martin was young to hold such a key place among the Atharim. But he was good at his job, some even claimed the best. While Martin knew his own vanity, he still knew he could be better, he could always be better, stronger, more knowledgeable. There was always more!

Calvin sat in the chair waiting for Dr. Pirozzi to arrive. He had arrived before her - mostly because he had been working up the courage to actually show up. When he found that courage he left before he couldn't second guess it. Mr. Volachov had scared him. He said he couldn't fire him if he didn't get help, but anymore trouble and Calvin would be gone. Calvin knew if he didn't, he wouldn't get better. The alcohol and sex weren't helping anymore. The fights were only a temporary relief as well.

Without these things though, Calvin had been forced to face his issues, and was having a hard time with it as he sat waiting. Even with Jensen's help, he was having trouble focusing. The result was terrifying. He seemed to feel so many emotions at once - sadness, anger, fear, anxiety, and regret cycled through his mind so quickly that it felt like they were all there at the same time. He felt overwhelmed and confused. He couldn't latch on to one - he didn't know why, but it somehow felt important that he knew what he was feeling. On top of that, he could feel the depression scratching at the back of his thoughts and begging him to go get alcohol. Tears started to fall as he felt more overwhelmed and he buried his face in his hands as he cried.

Calvin tried to rein in the tears. He didn't want to go in like that. He was sure that when he hadn't made a good impression when he set up the appointment. He had been drunk when he did it. He felt more shame at that. Regardless, the appointment had been scheduled and he was here to be treated for depression and substance abuse. He just didn't know if it would help or if this Alex even wanted to help him. He still didn't think he deserved it.

The tears went away and Calvin wiped his eyes. They were probably still red, but he didn't care. He was trying to fight this demon inside of him that wouldn't leave him alone, so he sat and waited for Dr. Pirozzi.

The Regus steepled his fingers in contemplation, the whisper of Father Bosheven’s report still in his ears. He saw nothing of his office. Only the members of their Holy Order passed through his mind. His eyes narrowed. A cancer infected them. Infected his oversight. He’d been busy with the Vatican, making frequent trips. The Atharim spanned the world and needed his attention. But here in the heart of the beast, the home of the abomination that styled itself the Ascendancy, corruption was spreading. His teeth ground for a moment before he stopped them, willing himself to peace.

It was time to root it out. First Father Dimitri. The snap of the man’s neck had been satisfying. The price for hiding a sentient in their midst. Aria had her uses, for now. Clearly, she was losing her edge, with people asking after her as they had in the bookshop. Not just people. Another sentient. He stifled the bile that tried to rise in his stomach. All in good time. He didn’t expect her to succeed against Brandon. But her failure and death would give them valuable information. An economical and elegant solution.

The antique clock in his office ticked away the time. Beautifully ornate, it was six hundred years old, yet accurate to with three minutes a day. A marvel of engineering. As long as one was vigilant, the error could be accounted for, minimized. Humans were inherently fallen. From the first pair down to today, they consistently chose foolishly. They decided based on their weaknesses and desires. On familial bonds.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Father Stone. The Regus let him stew for a moment, before announcing ”Come!” It was beginning.

A Dark Operations helicopter darted across the stars. Cold, deadly mountains were the terrain far below, and above, distant starlight their only map for orientation. Its occupants were four military, not including the two pilots, and one apparent civilian....

They landed near a heavy gate, one which guarded the only passage in and out of the cityscape beyond. The blades whipped cold air onto the face of that 'civilian' as he disembarked. Immediately, he curled a black mask down his face. The eye-pieces were lit from within, and his clothing was laced with numerous state-of-the-art technologies. Yet he was all but hidden from sight, donned in full black gear as he was.

The gate was opened at their approach. Beyond a car waited on the other side to drive him into the heart of the city. But first, an officer stopped him on the way.

"Final communications check?"

"Affirmed," he replied.

"Locator check?"

"Affirmed," he replied.

He began to go, but the captain stopped him again. "Sir, are you sure you do not wish to take at least a pistol?"

The man, a shade blacker than the surrounding darkness, turned to gaze upon the officer. "I have all the weapons I need, captain. Besides, I will be closely watched."

He sprinted toward the waiting trucks and officially disappeared behind the confining walls of the closed city of Sarkovo.

Edited by Ascendancy, Jan 4 2015, 10:08 PM.

This post is for information in how to play in the WAR GAMES related to this thread: Evolution.

Three cities of unidentified location by the names of Sarkovo, Zatonovka, and Bos'yet will be host to CCD orchestrated War Games meant to study the effects of channelers in combatant situations.

The cities have each been a closed city since the rule of the USSR. They do not appear on maps or acknowledged by surrounding cities for fear of deep and severe repercussions. In some cases, they are described as mere villages by surrounding peoples, when in fact, a given city may be well over 100,000 strong in population.

The three in question for these war games have been closely monitored since the fall of the USSR. Internet or cellular use is not available in these regions. Only military have access to satellite phones or radio. All three cities are spread out across geographically isolated regions in the Siberian mountains. The primary language by citizens inside each city is English, as the take over of the CCD forced the use of the language into the education system and English-only radio or television are the only options for entertainment.

With the advent of the military-grade security around the perimeter, technologies have been installed across the cities to monitor the coming developments. Two weeks ago, twenty individuals (10 men and 10 women) were taken from Sickness containment camps and placed against their will inside these cities. At the same time, all law-enforcement has been evacuated beyond the perimeter walls. Any semblance of law and order derived from the larger government is ablated. The people are literally left to themselves.

You may chose to play an NPC that has been placed in the city of Sarkovo. You will have on you $50 CCD in cash, warm clothing appropriate for the climate, and nothing else. No identity, technologies, or means for help are given to you. You're likely dumped from a car in an isolated spot, such as an alley or parking lot, and left to fend for yourself. As a channeler, you are weak to moderately powered (nothing over a level 20: aka, a strong Aes Sedai or average Asha'man strength).

I will post the introductory War Games in the Rest of the World board and announce it here when they are open.

For questions, please post them here or contact me.

Michael was a strategist, but he wasn't Nikolai's only strategist. Nikolai leaned back in his seat, studying the faces of the members of the Collective today. By far Nikolai did not share the fullness of his plans with any given individual, but the Collective came close.

General Kondrat Borodin, Chief of Special Operations, gestured at the world map behind Nikolai, highlighting several key nations. He addressed the entire Collective before turning toward Nikolai, "The 'next evolution in warfare,"
he quoted Nikolai at their previous meeting, "In the mid twentieth century, the Soviet Union tested the effects of nuclear weapons on the general population. Only the highest ranking officials were aware of the existance of these so called 'closed cities.'"


The General's fingertips across the table called the map into motion and an area within the Steppe mountains was highlighted. The faces of Generals aware of this history flatly watched the map roam. Nikolai watched them process the information, all attentive, but familiar. All but the Commissioner-General of the Custody Police, he seemed the most curious.

"With the results from these tests, we learned valuable insight into the effects of nuclear warfare, but the end-game strategies had yet to be drafted. Nuclear war cooperatives led to the zero-sum fallacy. Where losing a war did not necessarily mean someone else won it."


Admiral Kennedy, Chief of Naval Operations drummed his fingers on the table and spared a look of boredom with Nikolai. He and Borodin were professional, but no love was lost between the two.
"What is this about, Ascendancy?"


Nikolai gestured at the map behind him. The satellite view of the mountains, pock-marked by enormous craters, the footprints of detonated explosives, hovered behind him.
"About the next evolution in warfare,"
he said, but recorrected himself. "Specifically, the next evolution in military exercise."


With that, he'd grasped the Collective's attention. General Borodin returned to his seat and Nikolai stood in his place, pacing before the map. "With the world filling with those men like Commander Vellas"
-he spoke carefully, 'men' distinct from their Ascendancy- "we must know how combat will play out. We need exercises to study the chaos to be spawned from such rapidly evolving conflicts."


The Commissioner spoke up, like a true detective, guessed where the Ascendancy was going. "The 'closed cities', the ZATO's, were publicized in 1989."


Nikolai lifted a finger, silencing the Commissioner, and with a look, warned against interrupting him again.

"Forty-four closed ZATO cities still exist, Commissioner."


Nikolai turned and the present map, familiar to only himself and General Borodin dissolved. In its place, red targets identified the location of three of these cities. Their names were buried beneath the monuments of the Soviet Union, and nothing but memories of century's worth of the dead recalled them. "Communication in and out are monitored, mail is redirected to ghost-town Post Boxes, and only with rare special clearances are individuals allowed to come and go."
He did not elaborate on what purpose these cities remained, but they provided a convenient 2 million people to experiment with.

"Three of these cities, chosen for their geographical isolation, have been recently fortified with military-grade borders. Two-hundred and twelve thousand people exist within these three cities, and twenty survivors each of the Sickness have been placed within the fortifications."


The Admiral lifted his chin, "War games. Conflict incited by superimposed tensions, controlled by the confines of the system, let loose to monitor their natural outcomes from which may be derived philosophies we can apply to nations."


Nikolai smiled a rare, cold smile. "Exactly."


The Police Commissioner, cowed from the earlier interruption, shook his head. "From what we've seen on our own streets, these cities will tear themselves apart as soon as our official law and order desists. Thousands will be at the mercy of chaos all for the sake of an exercise?"


Nikolai ignored him for the time being. He was going to need to have a private chat with the Commissioner-General of CDPS. Later. "Next week I am journeying to Altai Krai, the second Custody district of Siberia. One of the cities is going to have an external force to incorporate."


Kondrat Borodin cleared his throat, and Nikolai deferred to his most prominent General. "The Ascendancy's safety will be our top priority."


Nikolai agreed.

Jacinda smoothed the dress over her hips as she looked in mirror. It was a dark purple silk with gold accents at the hip and bosom. Not too low cut, though. Not that she was remotely modest. But she wanted to look like she belonged, not draw attention to herself. Her hair was done in a stylized braid that hung over one shoulder. The jade earrings complemented the dress.

The Villa she stayed in was small but a nice place for all that. She'd not stayed with Ricky after the quetz hunt. She wasn't upset with him. In a way, he'd saved her life. Under normal circumstances, after a hunt like that when the blood was hot and the fight had been good, she woulda had a nice vigorous bout of wrestling with him to celebrate. In the cave even.

But he was too busy worrying about the girl. Not that Jacinda didn't care, not really. Just that the hunt never stopped. The girl was out and if she was smart, she'd be able to make it on her own now. Instead, Ricky had decided to adopt her or whatever. Play house anyway. The kid was good-hearted. And a fool. He had no idea what he was getting into.

Not her concern, though. Not her life. So she'd kicked around the city for a few days. Ricky's intel was dry anyway. But in a dive bar she'd started hearing stories about the American, Oakland, and his taking on of the cartels. Not that local politics interested her. Rather, the things she heard about Oakland. The whispered rumors about abilities. Her ears had perked up at that. She did more digging and the rumors grew. Both of his background and of more recent activity.

It had been a long time since she'd hunted a god. Usually, the ones she'd gotten were pathetically sick and weak. Easy prey. Once, she'd taken out an entire family. There were twins who would call on the power. If ever there was clear justification for terminating a bloodline, that was it. She'd been good at it. Made it look like an accident. Still, a part of her hadn't been completely cool with the whole thing. But that had been a long time ago and she'd not had to do that since.

This Oakland though, if he was a god, he would be a new challenge. He was not sick or weak. Obviously. His power was something he consciously used. This would be a real hunt. So she had gotten closer, paid off people, learned what she could. There was some sort of public function the man was having in connection with the local government. Looked like they got their balls back now that they had a new player in their midst. Pathetic.

It hadn't been hard coming up with a cover to get in, nor some fake ids. She always had them with her. Today she would be Lucy Nolan, a reporter for an obscure American media outlet, a persona she'd used before. A search on the internet would even show articles that she'd "written" and published. Anticipation stirred in her as she made sure that she looked the part. She always felt this way when starting a new hunt.

Satisfied she'd fit in and be able to gather intel, she went to the car she'd ordered up and it delivered her to the Governor's mansion where the fete was being held. She held her purse in her hand with a few necessary items. She was relatively unarmed, aside from the small wooden knife at her thigh and the chopsticks in her hair the doubled as weapons. She breathed a sigh as she passed through the detectors without incident.

People milled about and she had second thoughts about her dress. She could've been nearly topless and wouldn't have stood out. As in the dresses of so many of the younger women- arm candy clearly- were as low cut as physically possible without falling off. One or two caught her eye and she smiled cat-like. She did like a nice form and she had to give it to them. They knew how to show off. But she wasn't here for that.

Her eyes scanned the room even as she took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. It did not appear that Oakland had arrived yet. She took a sip, enjoying the tickle of the bubbles in her nose.

In the bowls of the earth, the world was about to change. Eight men stood before him with an array of emotions from confused to expectant. The designated room had been cleared of everything. Nothing could pass the barrier between two worlds without examination and permission.

A little way off to the side, Marucs watched. Behind the recruits, a team of doctors waited, Dr. Weston foremost among them. The air was rife with wild tension. He could feel it in the bones of every soul in the room, if it was not fear, it was curiosity or hunger.

Cut in black, Michael was a tower of stark power. Even without the bubble of calm he felt at home. The energy in the room gave him life that did not pale in the face of these would-be Ascendants.

His message was plain but powerful. "Welcome, Ascendants. I am here to give you mastery over your power. You are the first, but you will not be the last. You have gained an extraordinary ability, but at a price."


A pale-faced man with hard eyes spoke up, his back stiff and gaze straight. A soldier. "Spare us the shit,"
he said in a French flavoured accent. "'With great power comes great responsibility.' 'You are maggots as you are.' I have heard it before. I did not survive to be put back in boot-camp."


Michael ignored the faces of the rest, focusing on the former soldier. "Your name?"
He asked in a neutral tone.

"Julian Monserre."


Michael stepped forward, some of the others fell back, some remained. He did not bother to take note of which. It was like looking into the faces of newborn children. Until they learned how to walk, he could not gauge them. Realising the power within changed a man for good or ill. It was then he would be most cautious.

"You remember what it was like. Good. Then demonstrate what comes next."
The man's confidence wavered as Michael held is eyes, but his pride would not allow him to back down. "Show me you are beyond it."


Several minutes passed in slience. Monserre grasped at the ascendant power five times before he caught it. Michael could here murmurs amongst the other seven as they felt the storm.

The 'storm' was little more than a sun-shower. It was barely a quarter of what he himself could summon.

While Monserre revelled in triumph, Michael remained cool. "A worthy feat. It is not easy to grasp such power. It takes some men days to do what you have."
Monserre's pride ballooned, but it was soon to be popped.

With deliberate calm, Michael stepped forward without haste and punched Monserre in the stomach. The wind lunged from his lungs and the power fled his feeble grasp, sending a spark of power through the man's body that threw him halfway across the room.

When Monserre struggled to his feet, his steps were unsteady and he looked like he was about to vomit.

Michael turned back to the other seven. "Julian was lucky he was not killed. It may be an old saying, but it applies to this more than anything you have done. We are playing with fire. At any moment, if you cannot control yourself or your power, it will devour you. It is an eternal struggle, and one mistake can prove fatal. Now, your names."


The replies were simple and boast-less, even if some still held a fire in their eyes.

The Korean man, Im Seung Jun. An smooth-shaved Iranian, Karim al'Shadis. Dominik Taichechski; his young Russian eyes burned bright with hunger. Samuel Leweski, another Russian younger still. Sanjay Ramanujan, a soft-spoken Indian. Anthony Petrovic, Bosnian IT expert and Allan Rykovi last, a British born Russian with a small smile.

He gazed at his recruits and measured their worth. Aside from the disappointment of Monserre, they were a mix of ordinary men who had lived ordinary lives, but they were his, and he would make them extraordinary.