The Kremlin was cold at this early hour but it was the middle of winter and could not be helped. As much as he wished to be home in bed Michael was sat at a sparsely decorated desk draped in layers of warm black cloth. The fine cut coat that was the outermost layer was fresh and crisp as befitted an officer of the Custody.

It was a perk along with the temporary office of his new found position. He even had his own receptionist. The old Russian man had a sharp eye for detail and formality among a list of credentials Michael would discover in due time.

Today however, was not time time. These were only the first steps in a long and dangerous journey. Valdir's demise was an unpleasant reminder of the pitfalls but it was not a lesson that passed unheeded.

At a quick tap on the door Michael raised his head from the datapad in his hand.

"Ahh, Sir,"
the slender, grey haired man poked his head through the door. "I happened to notice you have scheduled a meeting."
The surprise in his voice was well concealed but not hidden.

"Yes, it is almost time."


"I did observe that, sir."
A pause.

"Yes?"


"Well, as I am sure you know one of my tasks is managing your schedule. If I may offer a word of advice, such...abrupt meetings are often received poorly."


"Thank you for the advice, Leon."
Michael said. It was hard to dislike the man even if his words were of reproach. "Unfortunately, time does not stand still for me."


Leon nodded in grave understanding. One would think he had known Michael since birth. "Very well, sir. Is there anything you would like me to do?"


"No, that will be all. Send Dr. Weston in as soon as she arrives."



Edited by Michael Vellas, Nov 6 2014, 04:25 PM.

After the meeting with his Atharim daughter Giordano had taken time to figure out his next move. She was Atharim, and she was Sentient, he wondered how much like him she was, but she was to be put down, regardless of what the Atharim beleived now. He wouldn't tolerate another like him. It was his own arragoance he knew that, but he shouldn't have lived either, not as powerful as he was.

Giordano had gone home, he also brought Luka this time, though Luka was hesitant on the whole thing and had spent a good deal of their time hiding in the hotel he'd booked for them. Luka was Giordano's back up plan and someone to keep Alessandra in check if necessary. She'd become increasingly wary of him, for good reason, her job had a good deal to do with it.

At first he followed the girl around hiding in plain sight. She never noticed him in his warm fur coats and hats. It was easy to hide in Moscow's weather, Aria never indicated he was there, never gave him an ounce to worry over. He was not worried, not even when he had followed her to the same tattoo shop she'd been frequenting for some time now. The man inside was a friend, but he knew it was so very much more. The darkness in her had passed, but she was still evil, still a child of creation that needed to go. His arrogance insistent upon it.

When the girl left Giordano walked around the block a few times before he stepped inside. The little bell above the door chimed. He had a plan, and this man would be part of it even if he didn't want to be. In his pocket, Giordano held a drawing from a book he'd taken from one of those old books underneath Aria's apartment. The orobourous was simple and all black.

Giordano took off his hat and laid the paper on the counter. The man smiled at him and Giordano smiled back, no point in letting him know he had ill intentions, but first things first. "I'd like this on my left forearm. Can you help me?"

Nikolai was not in the best of moods when he returned to Moscow. He hated the clandestine nature of the past day. He understood the need for it. The Ascendancy was not an executioner and he certainly didn't jet around Europe acting as one. He'd contemplated the situation even as he ducked beneath the whirling blades of his helicopter. After everything he'd accomplished, he could not yet be who he was in the open. Perhaps that was the wrongness crimping the corners of his mind. The world deserved to know who he really was. He deserved to show them. It had been a long time since his patience had thinned so.

He'd returned to one of his private residences outside Moscow. This particular estate was once the home to the famous presidents of Russia - himself included - until his official address was exchanged for the towers of the Kremlin. Living souls that were not of his government were so much as permitted to breathe within a mile of the gates. Yet the privacy he often yearned for was not as comforting as he'd hoped.

He felt little better the next day despite the night of good sleep. Power danced on his fingertips while he prepared for the day. Every little gesture he carried out with it as he had not done in twenty years. Before inauguration into the presidency, he'd tied his own tie with not but the will of sheer thought alone and smiled smug into the mirror when it was perfectly set. He'd gone on to carry out far greater tasks since, but the symbolism in its simplicity remained.

The memory led him to believe that the trigger for his mood was Valdir himself. Not the man's death. That wasn't so much as regrettable. But the presence of the power itself wielded through another vessel. And Valdir had been a massive conduit.

Such, from midair on his way to the Kremlin, Nikolai sent the order to his staff to call for Marcus DuBois. it was time to deal with yet another notable tool at his disposal. Hopefully, the meeting would end better for Marcus than it had for Valdir.

In an unprecedented public appearance, the mysterious figure at the heart of the battle between the Government forces and Cartel mobsters Mr. Oakland has spoken about the recent terrorist attacks that have hit Mexico City that began with the bombing of the United States Embassy.

Despite the controversy surrounding Mr. Oakland’s past, he has been quite candid about his involvement in the ongoing battle, professing he was unconcerned about the appearance of the notorious ‘Mockingbird’ call-sign.

Mr. Oakland has expressed his sympathies to towards the victims and their families of these attacks but is confident in a swift resolution and dismissed fears that Mexico City was the target of the famous Custody serial killer, the self-proclaimed ‘Mockingbird’.

“After a thorough investigation into the Mockingbird cases, the police have found that these attacks are the work of copy-cats riding on the coattails of a notorious killer’
Mr. Oakland addressed the media outside the Estande manse. “These attacks have been clumsy and amateur in execution far more befitting Cartel thugs than a meticulous killer.”


When asked about the lack of suspects Mr. Oakland sent a grave message.

“Mexico City is in a state of chaos. A child could commit these crimes. Until peace is restored, these barbaric acts will continue.”


When asked about the fact that Cartel members were involved in one of the blasts, Mr. Oakland said it was not unusual.

“We must not think of the gang members as a cohesive group. There are many different factions with conflicting goals. They would not only tear Mexico apart, but kill each other in the process.”


Written by Anna Merces,

Reuters.

The massive shipwreck excavation in the Gulf Of Mexico has yielded numerous artifacts of dubious origin and age. The real oddity here is that the artifacts all come from a wide variety of cultures.

This leads us to believe that many of these items were stolen and therefore calls into question the legitimacy of salvage rights in this case. After all, how else could Greek, Hebrew, Egyptian, AND Sumerian artifacts be located on the same vessel? Especially considering that there are no known records of any ships carrying such a valuable cargo. Then recall how all four of these cultures existed at different times in history with minimal overlap and contact.

We can only surmise that the head of the Smith Foundation, John Smith, is aware of the inconsistent and questionable reports that are being handed to the press. Why else would the Smith Foundation donate so many priceless artifacts to the Vatican Historical Society? It isn't like he is Catholic. Let's not forget the enormous expense of such an undertaking. What is really going on here?

It appears to the press that Mr. Smith has ties to Texas (The Smith Foundation), Moscow (teaching at the MSU), and now the Vatican? So what is really going on?

Medina-Dula, the failed state of Guinea, Shakespear Fabron's compound

The original town of Medina-Dula, some thirty years ago, sat square against the border between Guinea and Sierra Leone. That town had been burned to the ground during the Ebola outbreak of the early 21st century. The Medina-Dula of 2045 had been rebuilt a kilometer back from the border on the other side of the hills and out of sight of the Sierra Leonean military checkpoint that guarded the highway crossing.

The town was owned in all senses of the word by one of dozens of warlords that claimed to control various bits and pieces of the country that had once been Guinea. Shakespear Fabron was one such warlord, and certainly far from the most powerful in the region, but he was young, and youth often came with a dangerous lack of caution.

Hardly into his seventeenth year of life, Shakespear sat with his feet propped up on an old shipping crate stenciled in faded Russian and still sporting a half dozen AK-74s. Weapons so damnably common in the region these six had never even been fired, but served well as a foot rest.

Three girls, triplets, hardly into their teens, sat at his side. Two were giggling in a drugged daze as they played with dolls, but the third lay behind the other two, sickly and breathing shallowly, the faint smell of infection and rot hanging about her; her sisters had weathered the storm, but she was likely going to die of female circumcision. All three wore ill-fitting clothes and their bare arms showed the scars of routine heroin use.

"So the soldiers have left?"
Shakespear sat forward on his chair, a stained and moldering old La-Z-Boy, and fixed his men with an eager expression, a moment of clarity that burned through the drug-fueled haze that usually tainted his expression.

"Fled to their homes, I think. The checkpoint is empty, and the gate ain't even locked boss."
A fourteen year old boy clearly labouring under the weight of the AK with grenade launcher he held in his arms, a rusted metal helmet sitting askew on his head.

Shakespear slapped his hands on his knees and stood, the sudden gesture causing both the girls beside his chair to flinch and shrink in on themselves for a moment before realizing that he wasn't even looking at them, and then both started clapping their hands eagerly; whatever made Shakespear happy made them happy, after all.

"Excellent! Get the trucks."
Shakespear grabbed a silver rod from where it was stabbed into the arm of his chair, wrenching it free to reveal that it was indeed a small spear, and shook it over his head. His name was less inspired by the long-dead British author and more just a stupid play on words. "We're goin' to war boys!"


-----

There were dozens of tiny villages in the north-east regions of Sierra Leone. Predominantly Temne, and so far withdrawn from the larger population centers that the conflict raging across the country was a distant thing. Women, children, and the elderly remained, the men and older boys having left already to join the fighting against their Mende oppressors.

The distant sound of trucks on the road was met with interested, and the villagers quickly started to gather in the streets, eager to see their husbands and brothers and sons returning home for a visit.

The vehicles drew closer, but they realized too late who they carried. The sounds of weapons fire and screams filled the jungle air. Shakespear's 'soldiers' killed indiscriminately. Women and children ran for their homes, to their fields or the tree line. Some escaped, many didn't.

Those that didn't escape or die were raped. Children were taken, homes burned, the elderly mutilated. The town was pillaged, and what couldn't be carried away was burned. Bodies wrapped in garbage bags were pulled from one of the trucks, the men carrying them wearing painters masks and rubber gloves. The bodies were dumped into the town well, rocks tied to them that they would sink into the deep waters and go unseen. Ebola was still a problem in Guinea, and would soon be one again in Sierra Leone.

All along the borders with what was once the country of Guinea, similar stories were beginning to become common place; the Sierra Leonian military had been charged with the duty of securing the country's borders, and had done so through stiffly manned checkpoints and roaming patrols. With the coup, those outposts sat empty, leaving the roads to Guinea wide open.

It was a Saturday afternoon and the typical Saturday night crowd hadn't arrived yet. There were a few patrons around Enrique's bar, called "Las Rompecabezas", and Enrique spent his time cleaning glasses and tables. Occasionally one of the patrons would ask for another drink and he'd comply, and then take some time to chat with those at the bar.

The big news around the city was the bombings and killings that had been happening around the city as well as Damien Oakland. There were rumors that he had "special powers" and it made Enrique wary to check the Atharim hit lists. The guy was doing good around here. The drug cartels were shaking in their boots. Enrique would do what he had always done - focus on the monsters.

He had a tip off about a rougarou nest outside of the city that he was going to check out, but it would be a good idea to go with back up. He had no idea how many he would run into. He had tried getting a hold of Eduardo, but had been unable to for quite some time. Enrique was beginning to worry.

The conversation in the bar shifted to football - real football, not that United States stuff - and who they thought was looking good this year. Enrique and the other patrons all pretty much agreed that Argentina had a great line up this year.

Enrique checked his stock and all was set up for the Saturday evening crowd. He hoped it would be a busy night. He was feeling in a social mood.

Age: 45
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 150 pounds
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Blonde
Build: Athletic

Jacinda was born Jacinda Nolan to Dorothy and Jack Nolan. They were normal parents though they did try to live off the grid mostly. America was in decline by this time, and it just seemed safer that way. While living in southern Colorado outside of South Fork, they were met by an Atharim hunter, Regan Cross. Regan was a pretty good hunter and spent most of his time in the south west, with rougarou and chupacabra being his primary prey. He also hunted wolfkin where he could.

He was an outdoors' man who, when not hunting Atharim prey, went after animals. He relished the hunt, the slow process of stalking and closing in on prey, and then, finally, trapping and killing it. He preferred trapping and the slow death by hand, feeling the life leave the body as it twitched and fought. Wolfkin were a particular challenge, given their abilities. But he relished that part, pitting himself against them. The contest and survival. Life and death.

And sometimes, occasionally, a girl hiking with her boyfriend would go missing. The boyfriend would be killed quickly and the girl would disappear for days and weeks. A body might sometimes be found in a snowdrift that melted early, or when something disturbed the land, revealing a shallow grave, always in much worse shape. They weren't as challenging prey as the men might be, but the payoff was so much more fun.

Regan cozied up to Jack and Dorothy, went with Jack and Jacinda on hunts, helped around the place, and seemed to be a good ally. Life off the grid took work and Jack seemed happy to have another man about.

Regan, though, had a thing for Jacinda. Already a loner with a touch of anti-social tendencies, he found himself drawn to her even though she was only 12. While out hunting with Jacinda and her father, he saw his opportunity and killed Jack, making it look like he had been killed by a rougarou. Not his usual style, but he had a goal- Jacinda.

Coming home with her, he stayed to help Dorothy around the place and pick up the pieces. He also spent more and more time with Jacinda. He wanted her but she couldn't know what he'd done. He began taking Jacinda hunting with him. They would sometimes split up while stalking. On one such hunt, he left her alone and went back to Dorothy's cabin. He raped and brutally murdered her.

In order to tie Jacinda to him completely, he mutilated the body in the way a feeding rougarou might. When he and Jacinda returned, they discovered the horror he'd planted. Jacinda, overwhelmed with loss and anger and hatred and grief, accepted his explanation of what had killed her mother. He revealed what he was- an Atharim hunter- and that they could track the creature together.

With a desire for revenge and feelings of rage and powerlessness, Jacinda went with him until they came to a lone man living in the woods. The man was not a rougarou, but Regan lied to her. Together they stalked, tortured, and killed the man. Jacinda relished the feeling of revenge and power she felt in that moment, mingled with the horror and fear and sorrow and loss.

That night, in an emotional rush and turmoil from the day's activities, Regan raped her, though she didn't see it that way. She was only 12 years old. Consent was not something she'd even heard of. Nor did she realize how he'd manipulated her. In her loss and rage and power and satisfaction, it felt like love to her.

It was the beginning of a strange sort of relationship. Regan viewed her as his daughter and wife. He treated her as his partner, though he manipulated her, limiting how much she interacted with people, what she saw and read- everything in her entire life. She depended on him as the only family she had. He was her god and world and her life. That was when she took his last name.

They hunted other creatures over the years. Despite any appearance of humanity they might have- especially in the case of wolfkin and (later when they started cropping up) channelers and their families, she had no compassion. The truth was, the gaping sucking hole in her heart was only filled when she was hunting and killing. It was the only power she felt she had.

She never knew of, nor would she understand, Regan's occasional hungers for more. She needed a reason for her hunts. She was a soldier in a war, protecting humanity from darkness and enslavement. And usually, she was so aroused by it all that she and Regan had frenzied sex afterwards.

Regan was killed after he'd been caught by a nest of rougarou. Jacinda was only 20, but in many ways, was still only a child. And with his death, she was completely and totally alone. It was a terrifying time for her, but eventually she found her way.

By then, Regan's reputation as an Atharim hunter was pretty well established and she had been known as his 'neice', a fierce hunter on her own. She continued the work and discovered her own skills.

She was able to ferret out the smallest details, to latch on to rumor and whispers and hints, and then piece the clues together to paint a complete picture of her prey and where they had gone. She stayed at a crime scene for hours, developing a sense of what the creatures had felt and seen. She got in their head. And she was very good.

Unlike some Atharim, she had no problem making sure the kin of those who died of 'the sickness' were also put down. They weren't her favorite kills. The creatures, chupecabras and rougs, wefuke and queztals, she had more fun with and took her time. If the Atharim wanted them alive for study, she was able to get them, though the takes weren't always clean.

As the years went by, her reputation grew throughout the country among the American Atharim.

She was the person who always got the job done.

JACINDA STORIES

2021- Part of Me- posts 3-9
2013- The Search- posts 10+

Character Name: Enrique Antonio Lopez Salguero

Age: 27

Origins: El Paso, Texas, Currently Mexico City

Occupation: Trick Gunslinger/Bartender

Psychological Description: Enrique is usually friendly. He tends to get to know people before he judges them. At the same time, he doesn’t push suspicions aside. He is a show off, particularly when it comes to marksmanship. He often does trick shots just because he can. He likes to flirt and overall is a social individual.

Physical Description: Enrique is 5’7”. He is built strongly. His hair is short and black and his eyes dark.

Biography:

Growing up, Enrique had a normal childhood. His father was into guns and taught Enrique how to shoot from a young age. Enrique enjoyed it quite a bit, and practiced often. He became very good at marksmanship and eventually joined a traveling performing group where he was a trick gunslinger – doing quick draws, spinning guns around before shooting – that kind of stuff.

He made a good living doing shows, but after a show in Mexico City, he decided to stay there. He used the money he made to open a bar and through that, he gets to meet a lot of people. Being a social person, he felt fulfilled with his job.

At twenty-one, Enrique had just closed the bar when he heard some scratching noises coming from the alley behind his establishment. He grabbed his Colts (4 total – two at his hips and two on shoulder holsters) and went to check it out. It sounded different than a dog. What he saw was hideous. It looked canine, but was hairless and its body seemed shriveled. Enrique didn’t like it whatever it was. It held within its teeth the remains of some animal and as Enrique entered the alley it turned to face him, giving a horrendous shriek. Enrique acted without thinking, pulling his two hip revolvers out with a flourish and firing at the creature as it began to run at him. He emptied the guns into the beast and it fell dead as Enrique reholstered his weapons.

Enrique’s ears picked up on more scratching behind him, and he pulled out the other two guns as he turned and saw another of the beasts coming for him. Just then a man came out of the shadows with a sword. The man attacked the beast and it fell.

This man, Eduardo, was impressed with Enrique’s ability to keep cool while under attack not to mention his marksmanship and quick draw skills. Eduardo introduced Enrique to the Atharim and Enrique joined up. Through his training, he learned that the creatures were called chupakabras and that other monsters existed in the world. He also learned of channelers and gods. Enrique focused on learning how to hunt monsters. Although he recognizes the dangers of channelers, he doesn’t necessarily feel they should all be killed – a thought which he hides from his brethren. He also trained in blades, but prefers his firearms. They feel more comfortable in his hands.

Even though Enrique has access to newer and more high tech weapons, he prefers to use his Colt Single Action Armies. The weight of them is familiar to him and as a result, he feels more comfortable with them. He also will use rifles. He has a sword, but doesn’t often have it with him. He carries several knives though. His bar is also his residence and he has converted his basement into an Atharim safe house for any that are in the area.

It was a strange feeling, to have a place to call home again. Despite 6 people living under the same roof and all the trouble that came with it, Tony found it was home.

In the days after their fruitless expedition, Tony told the boys to relax for a while so he could think. He doubted Elias was happy about it, but it would have to do. In truth, Tony was the one who needed it most.

That was how he found himself spread out on his couch, bones aching as they did when he strained himself too much these days. Hans had taken the others three men out to one of his favourite haunts. When Yuri asked why they did not invite Claire along, Hans grinned and said it was a 'boys night out'.

That was a relationship that Tony found amusing. Claire had proved herself more interesting as the days went by. Whatever she thought of their living arrangements, she dealt with it well. Not that they caused her much trouble. Apart from Hans' regular flirtation, they all treated her as part of the 'team'. She had a similar power. She was one of them.

Tony could have wished they were a bit less 'respectful'. She had taken up his bed at their insistence, leaving Tony on the couch. That did his aching no good, and she was young. Never mind he was at most a decade older, his body had aged twice as fast.

However, such things were trivial. He would not change it for the world. He had found his place, and was content. The only thing that concerned him now was Michael's lack of communication.

With a groan, he heaved himself upright. "Claire? Are you still here?"
he called. He might just get his bed back for one night at least. "Are you out again tonight?"