Only a few days after the Temne attack on the capital, and things there had grown deceptively quiet. Sierra Leone had never had a large military; a few thousand troops, mostly tasked to border security along their border with the failed state of Guinea. Nearly a third of that military had taken up residence in the capital, bolstered by local militias and Mende volunteers. General Wallace-Johnson had been known for his 'charismatic' impact on his troops even before the failed coup, although to most it was better seen as fear. But fear, as it turned out, was an effective motivator at times.

The situation in the city were quiet. Almost peaceful, if one could ignore the still fresh damage that had been caused by the fighting. The fires were extinguished, but the gutted ruins of apartments and businesses remained. The ruined hospitals and schools, government buildings. Military vehicles patrolling the streets, and curfews in place. It was not a peaceful quiet.

There was a steady flow of refugees into the city, but not nearly as overwhelming as may have been expected. Jacques' suspicions, and the reports of some of his men manning a make-shift refugee camp near the city, were quickly confirmed as a five vehicle convoy departed the Legion's headquarters in the now mostly empty embassy district.

Unusually, Jacques rode in the lead vehicle, leaving Natalie and Legionnaire Carpenter in the middle of the small convoy. The five Legion Premiere Landrovers had little trouble making their way through the trickle of refugees that had been let into the city by the military checkpoints that guarded the highway into the city.

Legionnaire Vanders was given shotgun in the lead vehicle, with Jacques and one other Legionnaire taking the back seats. They were stopped at each of the military check points, and even by one patrol in the city proper, and each time Jacques had dismounted, and spoke in private with the commanding officer. And each time he remounted with less physical cash tucked into a pouch on his load-bearing vest, and a rapidly worsening hope for the outlook of Sierra Leone.

Corruption was rampant in the organized chaos that currently existed. The government had come to a halt. Public services were already suffering due to lack of funding. The military knew full well that under the current situation, they were not being paid. And so bribes were a necessary evil. Many of the men who joined the Sierra Leone military had never done so out of a sense of civic duty. They had done it for easy jobs and a steady pay.

As they passed the layers of checkpoints that guarded Freetown along the highway, the orders that the military were operating under became readily apparent. Seacans or existing buildings had been pressed into service as prison cells, where 'suspicious' individuals were held for processing. Abandoned vehicles were pushed into the ditches on the sides of the highway, their drivers arrested or the vehicles having broken down or simply run out of fuel.

Belongings lay scattered in piles at the checkpoints, where Sierra Leonean soldiers, loyal to General Wallace-Johnson, had 'searched' for contraband or weapons. Of course, any valuables were taken also, especially if the owner couldn't pay a worth-while bribe. The further from the city they drew, the larger the crowds gathered at each checkpoint, until they finally passed the last, at Waterloo.

A commandeered civilian tractor sat idling at one side, and a barricade of wrecked cars and earth had been erected as crude chicanes to block the road. A dozen soldiers were bolstered by dozens more militiamen, little more then common thugs with guns or machetes, enforcing ques as people struggled to be next in line to try their luck at passing into the rumored safety of Freetown.

The Landrovers were put to a harsh test as the Legion convoy was forced to drive off-road after paying their passage at the military checkpoint, but after a half hour of bushwacking through muddy side roads or fields, they were able to return to the relatively flat surface that was the Masiaka-Yonibana Highway.

The highway ran through industrial parks that had popped up in only the past few years, and residential slums that had existed for decades. The facilities were mostly abandoned after the recent violence, and many had been looted. Some sported fire damage, and countless millions of dollars of damage had been caused. Many of the facilities would never be reopened, even if the country were to have returned to normal that very day.

The facility the Legion had pressed into service as a refugee camp was actually located some ten kilometers south west of the large town, hidden away in the dense jungle and accessed by surprisingly well maintained, paved, roads. Some five minutes later they were met by two Legionnaires on quads who rev'd their all-terrain vehicles out of the jungle off the heavy duty road and led the convoy into the facility.

The industrial facility was a state of the art processing plant. Mined oar was shipped in by truck, and a 'low pollution' processing technique turned out refined rhodium and other rare precious metals. A solid concrete fence surrounded the large facility, topped with rows of barbed wire and spaced surveillance cameras. Low towers dotted it's length and corners where security personnel could stand if the cameras failed or the added security was deemed necessary, and only one large automated gate allowed entrance to the facility.

Tall smoke stacks dominated the skyline of the facility, as well as the unknowably complex catwalks and open-framed structures that housed equipment and machinery. Nothing of the facility spoke of it being a good choice for a refugee camp, other then the perimeter wall of course. And the presence of the high-efficiency hydroelectric dam that provided a portion of the facility's operating power requirements. With none of the refinement processing running, it was enough to keep the lights, AC, and water running.

Hundreds of people had been taken in already, many residents of Masiaka or it's outlying communities. Most of the facility's workers had left, and few had bothered to return with their families, had they been lucky enough that they lived near the plant. The flag of the Red Cross flew from a flag pole that had likely once held the Chinese flag, as it had been one of their companies that owned the facility. That still owned it, technically.

The flag of Legion Premiere was sported from a far less prominent post below that of the Red Cross. Of course, calling the place a refugee camp was a stretch of the imagination. Sure, it had Red Cross staff to help aid those who had fled there for protection, but those staff were held there under protective custody more then being of their own free will. Luckily though, none of them were foolish enough to want to be outside the sturdy walls of the processing plant.

They passed the open gate, where a large earth mover sat just off from the gate to be used as an impromptu barricade should there have been cause. The facility had never been intended to house even the hundred or so workers that had been employed there. With the near two hundred refugees living within the walls, the place was crowded but strangely organized.

Crude shelters had been built out of lumber harvested from the surrounding jungle, established in neat, organized rows with space between. Fires were communal, and used for cooking and boiling water; the facility had running water and a kitchen facility, but it was not nearly large enough to handle the number of people that were housed there.

But despite all the hard work of the Red Cross staff rescued from Masiaka, the severe shortage of supplies was readily evident. People were hungry and tired, without enough shelter. Wounds were bound with boiled re-used bandages, and many showed signs of infection and fever was already evident in the tightly packed population.

The Legion convoy entered the facility and the pair of Legionnaires on the quads turned away and resumed their patrol of the surrounding jungle. They occasionally found groups of people still hiding in the jungle, trying to escape the violence that had plagued Masiaka since the coup attempt. And worked to track any Temne rebels in the area.

Some of the Legionnaires present were wounded themselves; black eyes and split lips, bruises. They had extracted the Red Cross workers, but had not done so unscathed, and a few of their number had been beaten by an angry mob of Temne sympathizers before they had managed to escape thanks to their regular training in crowd control techniques. More importantly, thanks to those drills and skills, the Legionnaires and their locally hired guards hadn't resulted to deadly force.

The vehicles were guided to one side of the gate, where there was enough clear space that they would be able to circle and be ready to drive out again when Jacques and Natalie's inspections were complete. That done, everyone finally dismounted.

Some of the Legionnaires were directed towards a few of the perimeter towers; their CEO and a VIP were on the ground, so the added security was deemed necessary. A few others would be tasked to unloading what few supplies they had managed to cart out to the waiting Red Cross staff and Legionnaires; ammo and a pair of Mk14 rifles and a shotgun.

For the Red Cross staff, there were some fresh medical supplies. Not nearly enough to meet their needs, but it was all they could spare for the camp until the airport was reopened and the Legion could start bringing in more supplies. Some food was also unloaded. There would soon be crews on the road driving the dangerous route from Morocco to Sierra Leone in a convoy of transport trucks guarded by Panhards. They would not arrive for ten days at the earliest.

Jacques returned the salute of the ranking officer of the camp, Lt Aaron Kamenashi, a seasoned Moroccan soldier that had joined the Legion only two years prior. "Sir. It is good to see friendly faces. We were visited by some Temne 'soldiers' this morning who were very interested in searching the camp for persons of interest. Cost my watch and wedding ring."
There was little doubt as to how that would have played out had Lt Kamenashi had let them in.

Jacques nodded in understanding and tugged back his sleeve, pulling free a watch he had won in a poker game some years ago the day the previous CEO had died in Nigeria, then took the Moroccan man's hand and slapped the watch in his palm, "My men need watches, Lieutenant. Timings are very important."
He smiled without hesitation; his men had done well, even as isolated as they were.

"Th...thank you, Sir."
He knew not to refuse Jacques' gift. It wasn't simply to replace the man's lost watch. It would likely end up being used as a bribe to help keep violence at bay in the future. He saluted to Jacques again then turned to Natalie next, "Ma'am, your people have set up office in this building over here. Houses the mess and clinic."

Bas pulled his vintage 2020 cherry red Camaro up to the club. He was pretty pleased with it. Had that big muscle car look that he loved, all beefy and heavy in the front, like a panther or leopard ready to pounce. That generation 5 look was unlike anything else. Lot'sa the other guys went for the new stuff with their more futuristic sleeker thin lines and lights and colors. But he liked the old look. Seemed classy to him. Hardcore too.

Once the engine shut off, the sounds of music were audible coming from the club. It wasn't too loud, though, which was good. They'd be able to talk to people. A few people hung around the door smoking and chatting and firtling. He pulled the collar of his jacket up and opened his door. "This is a pretty cool place. In the day time this it's more tame. It's not really a club. More of a lounge bar and junk. There's some dancing, but it's not all people come here for."
He grinned. "Lotsa cute girls out though. Girls night out, bachelorette parties, stuff like that. And where there are girls, there are douchey guys."
He laughed. "Hey, we're here aren't we?"


They exited the car and made their way to the entrance. The guy at the front looked at him and just nodded him in. He had a bit of a rep here, especially since he joined the Mordvinovs, which suited him just fine. Once inside, the music was louder and there were spheres of light breaking up the ambient darkness. Sounds of laughter and talking hummed, while smells of food and drink and hints of perfume and cologne touched the air. It felt like home. He nodded to one of the tables along the wall. Instead of there being chairs, there were plush couches. From there they'd be able to take in the room and see what they could see.

The server girl came over- a leggy thing that probably thought she looked like a model, though was far too thin for his taste. He liked his women to look like women, not barely slightly curvy boys. What'd they call it? Heroin chic? Pretty face though.- and he ordered a bottle of chilled vodka and a lemon rimmed glass with a platinum icer in it. It would keep the drink chilled without diluting the pure flavor. She turned to Nox for his order while he surveyed the club and also kept an eye out for the Weasel.

There were all kinds of gyms in Moscow - the frufru kind where all the guys and gals wore spandex to show off their bulging muscles and preach their yoga and Mediterranean diets, the ones that all the rich folks flocked to because of the high prices and private classes. Nox didn't really care but if he was going to get his body back in to whatever shape it had been pre-plane crash he had to do it his way, and there was no spandex or private classes in his way. It was about the fight.

His search for the girl was non-existent, he had no clue where she was, who she was or even how to go about finding her. That nagged at him too, like it wasn't his job to do that, that he'd relied on someone else to do the grunt work while he did whatever it was he did. The incoming paychecks were weird, he did nothing, had no idea what he was supposed to do, but yet they kept on coming in. He wasn't dead so maybe he hailed from some rich pansy family. He doubted it. He didn't feel like some rich pansy.

So it was to the gym Nox went. Gracie's Gym, it was a host of MMA fighters. The place looked like crap on the outside, but inside, it was what you expected to see. A corner for free weights, mirrors along one wall, posters of varying ages. Punching bags and the main attraction two rings. It was filled with men and a few scattered women. Nox appreciated the view. But the view was soon blocked by a large man with a smile. Nox grinned back.

"Looking for a good place to just retest my skills."
Nox glanced around. "Before you go asking. I don't know what I know or what I've trained in. I just know I have, I feel it."


The other man didn't ask but the question was written all over his face. So Nox obliged. "Plane crash - amnesia. Barely know my own name. Go figure. So I'd like to just see how it goes, see if this feeling is right."


He nodded towards the wall. "Rates on the wall. Changing in the back. I'm sure someone will gladly let you test your skills on them.

Nox nodded. Paid the bill, daily rate, he might piss someone off and he didn't want a commitment anyway.

Nox watched two guys spar in the ring. It felt familiar, but for now he'd just watch and gauge and maybe take winner, if there was a winner. You never could tell in a joint like this.


Edited by Nox, Sep 23 2014, 12:11 PM.

Breaking: Is Magic Real?


<small>
Jonathan Greene
Albany, New York
Reporter, The New York Times
www.nytimes.com

January 2, 2046
</small>

Nolan Trace's most recent talk on Vulpesnet left a lot of people scratching their heads, wondering when America's favorite political demagogue jumped off the deep end and started using cheap special effects in a desperate effort to grow his viewership. After all, he wasn't exactly hurting in that regard - so it begged the question of why he would destroy his career for a cheap stage trick.

In the last week, Trace has been taking a lot of hits to his credibility. Few are stopping to take his claims seriously, and most are focusing on why he decided to do something so outlandish on a live broadcast. More strangely, he has been avoiding the public eye since his announcement - calls for interviews and statements completely ignored.

So the story has begun to take shape: Nolan Trace has lost his mind, and disappeared into the woods. However, the media might need to change its tune. In a preliminary study released by the Harvard Laboratory of Molecular and Cellular Biology, several esteemed scientists
including Dr. Karl Jergensenn
have confirmed that there may indeed be something to Trace's claims.

The study tentatively concludes that, among other things, Nolan Trace is capable of causing some as-yet unknown form of plasma to materialize in midair. It is worth reminding the public that, although the initial conclusions may seem unprecedented, this is still a very early study. It will be months or years before any conclusive evidence can be presented.

Nevertheless, assuming Trano's claims are true, the question then becomes one of legislature: How will the governments of the world handle a populace that can kill each other as easily as looking?

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<tr><td>
The full release of the study can be downloaded from Harvard University's public database.


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<tr><td>Downloads: 19,330,175...6...7...
</td></tr>
</table>


<table><tr><td>Comments: Open
</td></tr></table>

Edited by Nick Trano, Sep 21 2014, 09:53 PM.

Nolan Trace is the new Harry Potter: claims to be a wizard.


<small>
Betty C. Chi
Frisco, TX
Reporter, All Generations' News
www.All-Gen.com

2045
</small>


Did the Vulpesnet warlord hit his head while he was abroad?  This reporter thinks so. 

Recently, the American journalist, Nolan Trace, was embedded in the Custody Press Corps and served in the shadow of the Ascendancy of the Central Custody of Dominion for almost two weeks.  I say almost - because frankly - he didn't stay for the full tour.  Something about a flesh wound?  Eh, I kid, Mister Trace, don't shine your wizard wand my way.

After a brief recovery in the United States following his brief entrapment on the ground in Jeddah in which he was extracted by CCD special forces, he returned to the spotlight with [flash]bang!



<table>
<tr><td>
+++ Rolling clip of Nolan pacing the camera, looking around him, and mushrooms of fire bloom to his left and right. +++


</td></tr>
<tr><td>Caption: "I'm totally sane, yeh see?"
</td></tr>
</table>




You'll recall that shortly after Operation Jeddah, Legion Premiere released harrowing videos of their soldiers' last stand against the rebels - the defense that allowed civilians and VIP's - like Mister Trace - a chance to fly to safer skies.  You'll notice Mister Trace offered no thanks for the efforts that saved his life.  Such minions are beneath him, likely.  The only thing on his mind - surprise surprise - was his sole-sided arch-rival, Nikolai Brandon.  This relationship also seems to be one sided.  We begin to wonder if Mister Trace harbors some undisclosed feelings for Brandon.  Those blue eyes call to you? 

So it seems the new hot trick involves wand waving.  Well, men on the lower tiers of power usually pay special attention to their wands.  So I guess nothing's new.

But really, Nolan.  Did you hit your head?  We're worried about you.




<small>Downloads to date: 10,398,201...2....3....4</small>


Comments: OPEN

Nicholas made a mental note to move the VulpesNet offices somewhere closer to the ground. The elevator ride to the hundredth floor of a skyscraper felt like an eternity when you were set to talk to a few hundred million people. You'd think it would get easier, with time, but that elevator ride up - or that walk from his office - it always felt the same. It wasn't a good feeling. And then afterwards, there was the wait to see if what you said or did even had the right effect. In a lot of ways, that one was worse.

It hadn't taken more than a few days' worth of Nicholas sitting on his ass watching the world heat up for the waiting to become unbearable. He had three doctors telling him to take it easy, and a half dozen bodyguards beside - prancing around in the real world after showing off your magic demon powers is a nice way to get shot. And clearly, judging by the sling his arm was in and the noticeable limp when he walked, bullets were about as effective towards wizards as silver is to werewolves. I wonder if I'm going to run into one of those soon, too.


He was leaning against the glass wall of the elevator, looking down on the city below. You could see how much it had changed in the past thirty years. Old Aberdeen hadn't had a building taller than ten stories. Now all along the old city limits, skyscrapers and stadiums and all the other hallmarks of a well-to-do metropolis had taken hold. The world had changed a lot since his childhood. In a few seconds that door behind him would open. He was about to do something crazy - something stupid. But if it worked, well, the Custody missed its golden opportunity.

The doors opened. People cheered. He smiled and waved.

---

It took about an hour before everything was set up. It had been almost a month before he'd broadcasted live - and the people at the office had been expecting him to stay in exile for at least another couple weeks. But a limp and a sling can work wonders in politics. Especially if you have a winning smile to go with them.

He was standing on the stage, next to the desk he'd sat behind for the last few years. The lighter fabric of his sling stood out against the dark blue of his suit. The camera man gave him a thumbs up. It was on.

"Afternoon, America. It's been a few weeks. I'm sure you're all wondering where I've been, what I've seen,"
a jerk of his right arm, "How I managed to get shot three times..."
He paused and glanced off to the side, before looking the camera directly in the eyes. "So I'm going to tell you everything. You might want to sit down, America, it's going to be a while."
With that, he turned and walked behind his desk, making damn sure not to exaggerate the limp.

Once seated, he continued. "Around December first, I got a message from the Custody's - press department requesting that I come over and follow Nikolai Brandon around for a while. "
Nicholas smiled. "I guess they really saw a connection during that interview. I turned it down, and a few days later some very persuasive people showed up at my house and convinced me to accept. It probably wasn't supposed to be a surprise when it turned out one of my staff members was a Custody agent. After all, it's a hallmark of a civilized country to spy on people who are willing to openly question the actions of dictators."
He went on for a while about his time in Russia - the squalor of Moscow and the Machiavellian political machinations of Nikolai Brandon. He figured it best to skip over the dead body that'd shown up in his suite.

"I only stayed in Russia for a couple weeks before they sent us all down to Saudi Arabia. At the time, Brandon must have thought Mohamed Al-Hasan wasn't much of a threat, because he decided to try assassinating him before the talks. Clearly, that didn't work, so I found myself in the very uncomfortable position of an infidel trapped in Mecca during a revolution.

The Custody tried to evacuate everyone before things heated up too much, but that fell apart right after the first few planes got off the ground. I remember sitting at a bar in the airport waiting to get out of there when the first car bombs hit. I can fault the Custody on a lot of things, but their soldiers fought hard out there. Still, they were being pushed back.

I had just barely convinced everyone in that bar to quiet down and move into the maintenance hallway when a group of rebels started charging in. I was pretty sure I was about to die. Then they did. A squad of Custody Knights came in behind them and lead us to safety. Safety turned out to be a concrete walled storage area."


Nicholas held his left hand in front of him. "Now here's where the official Custody story deviates from reality. I know most of you have already seen the recordings."
Fire leaped from his palm and rolled across the stage, inexplicably burning everything but him. "The Custody's been lying to you all, and I can tell you why."
He stood up and walked past the remains of his desk, fire still all around him but not touching him. Then with a cutting gesture of his hand, the flames slammed to the ground and went out. "Nikolai Brandon has been using his powers for years, in secret. And he's strong."
Nicholas smirked. "Yes, the Earth has its own evil wizard emperor. But Brandon can't keep this one secret. In just the past two months, I've seen magic popping up all over the world. One of them tried to kill me in Mecca."


Nicholas looked the camera in the eye. "So why am I painting a target on my back to tell you all this? That's what I'd ask me."
He assumed a conversational tone. "It's because this is the Sickness. I had the Sickness - and I was just barely lucky enough to survive it in the sick bay of a Destroyer.

In the Custody, people with the Sickness just die, or disappear. There are no recorded cases of Sickness survivors. So why would a man like Brandon go to all that trouble? It looks, to me at least, like he's building an army."


Nicholas shook his head. "That's the last thing this should be used for. This power - it's amazing. I've barely scratched its surface and I can already see its potential - free energy, limitless construction, industry on a scale we've never seen. We can use it to build something great. Brandon just wants to tear the free world down."








Edited by Nick Trano, Sep 20 2014, 12:00 PM.

Zab Air Base.


Branimir Havanko stifled a cough behind a stout glove. His hands were warm beneath the layers of woven fibercloth. The gloves, like the rest of his uniform, were built to endure cold mountain weather, even siphoning energy from his body heat to power the insulation. At the dead of winter, New Year's Eve no less to be exact, and to finish his inspections of the base exterior, he needed every bit of warmth as could be afforded. Luckily the Custody spared no expense.

He swept his gaze across the long, open field in front of him, and when he found nothing amiss, his gaze was pulled toward the peaks of mountains beyond. Luckily, the CCD was not shy about the standards issued to dressing their servicemen. Those mountains seemed distant, but the cold winds blew off the slopes all the same as if he were at their base. Snow snaked clouds of white across the runway, but otherwise, little moved.

The screech of the radio in his ear pulled him out of the moment.
"Havanko. Its Václav. What's your status?"

Branimir touched a gloved finger to the sidebar on his glasses, and the connection circled back around to base. He could speak freely now.
"Václav, its Havanko. Approaching Delta Tower. ETA five or six minutes."

One last drone tower remained before he could return to base. Best he get a move on or else he was likely to still be doing this when the sun set. Thought it was cold now?
"Hurry it up, Airman. Václav out."


Branimir rolled his eyes, "Yes sir. Havanko out."


The tower itself was positioned at the edge of a cliff and loomed like a spire dozens of meters overhead. Years in and Branimir still dreamed of the chance to be a UAV pilot. After failing his second trial test in a row, it seemed the closest he would get was to inspect the damn towers.

"Somebody's got to do it,"
he said to himself. He switched on his body sensors, powered up the check devices, and started climbing the ladder. Twenty rungs later, he was wrapping up the comm checks and ready to descend when something black on the horizon caught his eye.

He hooked his arm through the ladder and leaned out from the tower. The land warriors zoomed in, and sure enough, it was a plane. Black as night. Large. Like a commercial airliner. There were no symbols to be seen. A frown deepened his expression with concern. It was maybe a kilometer away and moving fast. He called back to base.

"Sergeant Václav, Havanko."

A screech, then his superior's voice responded. "Václav. Go."

"Sir. I have a visual on a bird. Potential bogey. Copy?"


There was silence for a few moments. More than what made Branimir comfortable. He started to climb down the tower.

"Copy. We see it."
Havanko couldn't tell if Václav was excited or worried. "Stay clear of the runway, Havanko. She's coming in to land."

"Sir, what is it?"


"That's above your clearance, Airman."
Václav responded.

Havanko sighed and hurried down the ladder. The bird was sweeping in for the land. Behind him, the runway was empty. But to his surprise, Václav wasn't done. "Its above mine too, but I'm told she's radio callsign Cronos."


Havanko felt his body stiffen sharp as an icicle. Trainees whispered stories of Cronos like urban legends.

Nobody believed the plane was real.

I'm getting settled in at Nuke School (3.73 GPA so far) and I'll be getting back into writing here soon. Keep pestering me by email and Facebook if I'm taking too long, guys.

The morning air of northern Slovakia was crisp and chill. The city of Zilina was a hive of Custody commerce. Little was left to remind the people of the rich Slavic heritage; it had evolved into the perfect vehicle of modern industry.

Michael was glad his business would take him elsewhere. There were too many officials lurking in the depths spinning the Custody's webs. Too many people were wont to recognize him these days, and now was not a time he wanted to be noticed. The fact that he had rushed to the former Slovakia on an early morning flight was suspicious enough as it was.

Armed with a small luggage case he stood behind and elderly couple waiting at the airport taxi rank. True to the Custody's smooth efficiency, it was not long before was seated - thankfully out of the cursed winter cold - in the back seat of robust driver's car.

"Where to, friend? Are you celebrating tonight with family?"


Michael showed the driver the location pinpointed on his Wallet. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself trying to pronounce the name and confuse both of them. "I plan on having a quiet New Year."


"That's quite a way, friend,"
the driver said with a troubled smile. "It will definitely be quiet there! I do not go so far, it would take at least three hours."


Michael stared at the man without expression. "I would not be here if it was not important. I will pay double the rate."


That seemed to placate him well enough, as money often did, but it did not help to ease Michael. Three hours travelling in a taxi was more than long enough for his taste. Luckily, he did not have trouble occupying his time. In fact, three hours was not enough, but the world did not run by his schedule and he would make do with what he had.

Michael opened a data-pad beside his wallet that was not connected to the Internet. The information was too sensitive to gamble with. He opened the Atharim database with a sense of dissatisfaction and frustration, scrolling through the list of names until he reached the desired information.

A picture of a man in his forties with unkempt greying beard posing for what appeared to be a licence photograph met his cool blue eyes.

If only the fool had kept his head down like the rest, he rued the thought, not for the first time. Tales of demons possessing men were all but obsolete in the modern era and the officials at least dismissed it as country superstition. Unfortunately, it drew the gaze of hidden beasts. Beasts that would rear their heads far too soon.

For it was too soon. He had not finalized a strategy to deal with this mess, but events had forced his hand and he could no longer ignore it.

The sun was fading by the time the village came into sight. When the driver alerted him to their imminent arrival, Michael looked up from his contemplation to study his destination.

He found his eyes beset by a dilapidated village akin to a twentieth century small farming community. Acres of ice-covered smooth hills were framed by a backdrop of white mountains spotted with dark dots of human presence. It took half and hour of winding through the narrow road to reach what he supposed was the village centre, a collection of outdated brick houses surrounding the main thoroughfare.

"Here will be fine,"
he eventually said as they approached the centre next to the local grocery store. It was closed, and the entire street was silent beside the hum of the taxi's motor.

The driver looked concerned. "Are you sure? Do you want me to wait for a bit?"


The day had cooled and the country air, unblemished by the pollution of industry, numbed his nose and ears but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end for a different reason.

As soon as he had felt it - the dark foreboding like a distant storm-cloud - he had to resist the urge to grasp the power. "No need. I know exactly where I am going,"

Edited by Michael Vellas, Sep 14 2014, 11:28 AM.

Moscow wasn't built for cars.

Asha didn't have the frivolous cash for the metro system, nor enough in her account to pay for accommodation if she also wanted to eat. Russia was expensive, and her options - she realised quickly - were limited. All her worldly belongings - Wallet excepted, that stashed in her pocket - were shoved under the foot-well. A pile of blankets lay folded on the passenger seat, faded bright colours and fabrics - worn, loved items. A cut of quartz hung on a thong from the rear-view mirror, rainbowing the winter light like sentimental kisses across the interior.

The car was home, or close enough.

She'd parked on the far outskirts, in a location that didn't buzz with too much peripheral activity so she'd feel safe when she slept. That morning snow an inch thick had blanketed her windscreen; she'd woken in a freezing white cocoon, reminded of the icy winters of her youth. Her breath puffed frigid little clouds in front of her nose, and despite thick socks and ugly boots her toes were chilled. She never had liked the cold.

The walk to the city was a good long trek, but the gentle entrance to civilisation at least gave her the opportunity to acclimatise slowly. She'd travelled cities a hundred times with her uncle, but alone the transition was always more traumatic, and Russia was utterly foreign her to her. She was charmed, in a way, by that strangeness - both austere and beautiful, old and modern. The colours delighted her. The fusion. Only the people marred the experience, though through no fault of their own. The humdrum of their emotion soaked into her. Like rain that slowly hardened to hail. She could ignore it, but it wasn't pleasant to endure.

Asha was here for a reason, but not one that carried urgency. She meandered like a tourist, pausing to take pictures with her Wallet of anything that caught her fancy. She'd sort through those later, probably back at the car this evening. Best be back before it got dark; some of those streets hadn't felt pleasant, and it didn't seem wise to walk them alone in the dark. Concerns for later, though. By mid-afternoon she was entrenched in the city. The day was bright, the sun cold and proud in a pale sky, and she was frozen. Her coat was thick, but she'd been spoiled with warmer climates. She could do with a rest, use the time to start drafting words to go with those photos.

This close to the centre there were no really quiet places, so she just picked the one that felt the least intrusive to her sensitivity. It smelled nice, drawing mild pangs of hunger, but mostly she just wanted to warm up. A smile greeted the young man behind the counter, her dark gaze briefly glancing up to take in the boards overhead. She tugged at the scarf wound round her throat. "Uhh... A coffee? Please?"
These days it wasn't popular to carry cash, but the habit was engrained. Asha upended her purse into her palm, fingers numbly plucking through the bits of shrapnel. She spread the treasure out on the counter, counting each piece.

And came up short.

"Ah."
She felt her cheeks heat at the realisation. There was a line forming behind her; she could feel the impatience prickling her skin without needing to look. The guy behind the till was radiating pity and discomfort at her situation, and it only made her feel worse. His gaze flittered away. He cleared his throat. Move on. She could feel it in him, the urge to save her further embarrassment. "Does that get me... anything?"