Continued from Ciudad de Pestilence.


The rest of the day, Dane watched the sun glow bright through windows and felt the air grow warm. Soon the light dipped behind the building and his view was cast in shadows. Finally, the light was gone altogether and yet he continued to sit in the same place, curled over a table, obsessively concentrating on slivers of paper sprawled out before him.

At some point in the day he'd rid himself of his fine clothes and worked in not but boxers and an undershirt. His hair was scruffy from countlessly scratching his hands across his scalp. By the time the sun dawned once more, stubble prickled his neck and jaw. The delicate muscles in his hands ached and his fingertips were stained with calligraphy ink.

Yet when he finally sat up to examine his work, he was satisfied. A thousand cards were stacked before him. Each one was adorned with perfect replications of a mockingbird posed on a branch. They were all done in black and white, but the hand-drawn miniature pieces of art were as beautiful as any he had painted before. Their song filled his mind as he stretched just as real birds chirped in the trees outside his window.

He showered and dressed in a daze of sleeplessness that could not be resolved his cards were strewn across Mexico City like money tossed from the mountaintops.

Name: Lucas Andreeff
Age: 26
Origin: Moscow, Russia, DI

Occupation: Tattoo Artist/Tattoo Parlor Co-Owner/Art History Student

Psychological description: Lucas has lived through hell and come out stronger for it. He knows what he's struggled with and has the pride of knowing that with help he defeated those demons. Now, he finds joy in his work, connecting with and helping his customers to find an image that represents what they are feeling. Although he is religious and goes to mass and confession regularly, he also views what he does as a sort of spiritual therapy for himself and others. He has found happiness if helping people.

Physical description: Lucas stands 1.8 meters tall (5'10") with a dark brown mess of hair that takes a bit to actually make look as messy as it does. His bright blue eyes speak volumes about his past and where he wants to go. He has a dragon tatto across his chest and coiled around his left shoulder. He's a strong lean build from his MMA training.

Powers & supernatural powers: Nada

Biography:

Lucas' life didn't start out the greatest. His mom died when he was young, there was very few things he could remember about her and there were just as few pictures to remember her by. His father was his role model, and some role model he turned out to be. He was gone most of the time, leaving Lucas alone even when he was too young to actually be by himself. When he was home, he was drunk and even less caring than when he was there.

Lucas' father had such a reputation in their neighborhood that it carried down to Lucas. He was an outcast at a young age. The loneliness brought upon darker demons. It started with a puff here and there. And by 15 he was hooked on the latest drug craze that happened to be running through the neighborhood. His dad was disgusted with is behavior when Lucas informed him he wasn't going back to school. His father kicked him out of the house.

Living on the streets was not even the lowest Lucas' could fall. In order to get his next fix Lucas sold himself to the locals and some not so locals. The women usually treated him alright. But the men who liked boys, they were the worst. But the money and the drugs kept Lucas going back for more.

His twenty-first birthday was the bottom. Lucas had scored big, really big, the day before. He was alone and the birthday blues hit. He did pretty much all his stash in a matter of a few hours. He stumbled around the streets of Moscow and ended up passed out in some alley.

A man of about 50 found Lucas lying in a pool of his own vomit. He picked up Lucas and helped him to his house. It had to have been a struggle Lucas was barely conscience.

Valentin Rusikov was the first man to actually care about Lucas except for the Church. But that was a completely different kind of love. Valentin showed Lucas he was worth something. Lucas was not his father but Valentin showed him he was worthy of being loved, and cared for. That he was someone!

It still took Valentin a while to convince Lucas that he needed help. No matter how far Lucas fell back into his old habits, Valentin was there to pull him out and give him the support he needed. He never told Lucas he was a loser, or that he was a failure. He helped him through the darkness.

Eventually Lucas believed him, and he got his act together. It wasn't easy. It took two years of struggle to get where he was now.

It's been three years since Lucas had his last fix and his last drink. And Valentin was there every step of the way. In the spring of 2043 Lucas fell into some money. His dad had past away, not that it really mattered, there was little love lost, but his father had money, how Lucas had no idea. But it was enough to start his own tattoo parlor, something that he was really good at. Valentine co-signed with him since Lucas had very little in the way of credit.

That fall Lucas started at Moscow State University with a major in Art History. He didn't need a degree to do what he loved, but it gave him something else to strive for. Keeping busy was a big key in staying sober. He also took up MMA at a local gym, the constant training that Jeet Kune Do requires, keeps Lucas very busy.

Now it's 2045, Lucas is two years into his degree and the shop is doing well. The customers keep coming back and there are always new ones. Doing all of it is a challenge but with Valentin's support Lucas makes it through every day sober.

Luciano had come to Moscow and after three years of anticipation, he felt like he was getting closer to his target. The trail was quite cold, but Luciano had a feeling his uncle was somewhere amongst the cities inhabitants. He had to be cautious. If Francesco Moretti saw him first, Luciano had no idea for sure what would happen.

He'd probably murder me too.
Luciano thought as he dropped down into the under city of Moscow.

The under city was a guess. It would be a good place for a refugee to hide. If this proved to be unsuccessful, Luciano would have his plate full. There had been no flags on his uncle's name in the databases - no doubt he was using an alias of some sort.

Luciano took in the sight. These people were the outcasts of society and protected one another. Getting information would be difficult and expensive if they had accepted him into their fold, but Luciano noticed the looks of the people. Something had happened here recently. They were cowed and kept their eyes down, some giving him momentary glances every few minutes. There had been a predator here.

Luciano walked down the tunnel, getting ready to pull the revolver out of his shoulder holster under his coat and taking a mental not of where his knives were hidden. He wouldn't attack these people unless they attacked him. He spotted a young man walking towards him, but to the side being careful not to look at Luciano - a little too careful.

As the man walked by, Luciano grabbed his wrist which was incidentally heading towards his pocket. It didn't matter that the man was trying to steal from him. He always kept his money in is interior coat pockets if he could. Luciano turned to face the pickpocket, opened his coat enough to show the firearm, and pulled five CCD dollars out of his interior coat pocket. He slapped the bill into the mans hand.

"Another one of those and I forget this little mishap if you answer some questions for me."
Luciano said quietly looking the man directly in the eyes.

The man's gaze drifted between the gun, the money, and Luciano's face. Luciano could see the fear in the man's eyes as he nodded, accepting the deal.

Luciano pulled out the picture of his uncle. "Have you seen this man?


((Note that this takes place after Gio has been taken out of the tunnels and into the hospital))

So I'm having issues writing lately. Sometimes I'm just not able to get into character. Other times, I'm just blocked. Nothing comes to mind or I'm just overly critical of my writing.

I thought we could share some strategies for dealing with this type of issue. I don't have any so...share away

Anyone have any strategies for dealing with writer's block or any other writing issues?

Hey everyone.

I was thinking the Atharim might put me up with a roommate in Moscow, since the cost of living is quite high in the city and there are several of us here.

Any thoughts on that? Anyone want to roommate?

Enzo stepped off the train with a large black duffel bag slung around his shoulders. The frigid Moscow air felt like a slap to the face after an autumn in Egypt. He was thankful the Atharim reminded him to bring a good coat, otherwise he would have been 'left out in the cold', so to say.

Speaking of Atharim, he slipped his hand into a pocket and brought out a phone-like device. It was basically a super computer in the palm of his hand that connected simultaneously to cell towers, satellite arrays, and the Moscow public internet all at the same time. He was suppose to be picked up by someone, yes, there they were coming toward him now. He could see their meet-up signals were nearly on top of one another.

The man that was formerly a blue dot on a screen approached. He was younger than Enzo, but it was difficult to say by how much. Clean cut, tall and fit-appearing, he did not seem to mind the cold. He outstretched his hand and spoke with a thick, Russian accent that made Enzo tense.

"You are Dolan?"
Enzo nodded, "and I am Savely. It was I that arranged your travel. I hope all went smoothly. Come, I'll take you to your home."
He gestured and Enzo followed. He was smaller by comparison to the larger Russian, but the set to his jaw was just as serious. If not more so.

"Travel was uneventful, Savely,"
his french tongue stumbled to say the name, and Savely glanced at him with a raised brow for it. "Thank you for all you did to arrange this,"
he replied without correcting the man. Moscow could never be his home. No where could. There was no point telling him, though.

The day after Aria's surprise visit was a busy one. By noon, Michael had sent Borodin his more detailed rank structure. It would be a long process, but a necessary one, as he had discovered. The General was quite adept and thorough with his paperwork and it was proving to be an enlightening, if dull experience.

Far from being done, Michael's day took him into the cold streets, wrapped up in a grey coat. Tomorrow, he would pick up his requisitioned vest from the barracks, so a thick singlet - or whatever they called them here in Russia - was the best he could do underneath.

He caught the Metro to Nikolskaya street and started his search in a run down book store tended by an almost as old and run down man. Fortunately he could speak English better than the other storekeepers he had experienced and greeted him with bright eyes contrast to his appearance. "Afternoon Sir! What brings you to Volaskov's Repository?"


Michael shared a brief smile with the man at the choice of name. "Curiosity."


The man laughed. "Ah, a regular scholar! Curiosity is the foundation on which knowledge is built. You will find the sections marked by genre. If you want for anything, just ask!"


Michael nodded at the former statement and gave his thanks at the latter, surveying the store. It was small in comparison to others in the area but well kept in neat rows of shelves precisely catalogued.

It was not hard to find the section on mythology. Most of it was Russian, but he found quite a few dusty leather-bound books of Greek origin.

Michael decided on a selection of three. The store only had two tables, each with two seats where the customer could browse the book but it was more than enough. Taking a seat, he started his search, as fruitless as it may turn out to be.


Edited by Michael Vellas, Jul 22 2014, 12:47 AM.

Prologue


My mother was a waitress. She worked a high-stakes card-room at one of the Grand Palace Hotels in Monte Carlo, Monaco. Despite the western notion of a blue-collar job, she was quite successful and found herself in the company of incredibly important people. Yet at the last minute, she made plans to holiday over the Christmas of 2002, and so she journeyed east to visit family. As the story goes, she met my father on the train. They shared a table in the dining car...


Biography


Childhood

Born in Oct. 2003, Enzo was raised by his single-mother in La Turbie, a small township located a few minutes inland from the French Riviera. Theirs was a quaint life and his was an otherwise happy childhood, but questions rose none the less regarding his parentage. From Enzo's bedroom window he could see the ancient pillars of the Trophée d'Auguste, the ruins of an ancient Roman monument standing guard at the top of the hill. Such imagery of history always inspired questions in young Enzo about where he came from.

Enzo was nine years old the last time he asked about his father. His mother was smoking a cigarette at the kitchen table at the time, and her gaze was settled on the distant mountain tops beyond the window.

For his question, such a look of anguish and fear crossed her face that Enzo's heart broke for her. She pleaded with him to broach the subject no more, and he reluctantly did as asked. He stifled his own questions and crossed the kitchen to circle his arms around her tiny shoulders. The embrace caused her chin to sink to her chest. Tears dripped from her cheeks and soaked the starched collar of her uniform shirt.. Her normally porcelain face seemed to crack with resurrected emotion.

She pat his arm and whispered warmly, "Mon petit chou". Enzo laid his cheek against the back of her neck and let her cry. He didn't know what to say, but he promised himself he’d cause her no further hurt. I'm sorry mom. I won't ask anymore.


Adolescence

2020, age 17.

To this day, Enzo can recall the moment he heard about the first global disaster. At the time, nobody knew that one event would be the first in a horrific string of carnage. Soon, earthquakes, eruptions, mudslides and other terrors ripped apart the status quo while the coastlines of every continent seemed intent to fall into the sea. He worried for his mother who every day took the bus to work. By then, she was an assistant manager at a hotel in Monte Carlo: a city perched on the sea. But those disasters were distant ground zeroes and far from their lives on the French Riviera. Nobody thought their small corner of the world would be a target. Yet times were tense and every little thing was kindling for panic.

Such as during his eighteenth birthday when he and his friends shared a cabin at Enzo’s favorite ski resort in the Alps. Their second day into the trip, an unseasonal avalanche collapsed the side of a mountain and Enzo was lucky to not be one of the visitors swept asunder. Their resort, and all the surrounding ones were closed and his group was banished toward home. Their lifestyles deteriorated quickly after.

The next few years saw unspeakable change while the economy was ripped to shreds. Wealth drained from Monaco as a result. His mother's employer cut budgets and the former waitress was let go along with thousands of other employees dependent on the yachting, hospitality and tourism industries. Young and without work himself, Enzo contemplated joining the Marine Nationale, but again he wilted beneath the pleading gaze of his mother.

"I cannot bear to see mon coeur sail away on the horizon." Her liquid green eyes glistened with tears.

He had to harden himself to her pleading love if he was to face reality. "With all the unemployed, there is little other work but government-work to be found."

His mother crossed to the window and lit a fresh cigarette. "I heard things at the hotel, mon chéri. I fear such government-work will not last for long." She closed the kitchen window as though worried about eavesdroppers hiding in the garden. When she turned back to finish her thought, her sultry voice was barely audible. "Italien á Turin and Monegasque politicians say we will all soon be Soviets." The snarl on her lip was skeptical, like an indecisive cat. Enzo heard the same rumors himself, but he was torn over loyalty to his heritage and the prospects for stability to return.

Enzo spent the next few years working odd jobs. Most were for cash but many increasingly became about bartering for the basics: eggs, flour, milk. Even in the darkest of times, his mother's bread was delicious. Without a father, Enzo was driven to provide for the household as her only son. Together they consolidated their earnings and supported one another. Despite being a natural French beauty, graceful and charming, and never lacking in suitors, his mother never married. To do her share, she sold her jewels, gifts from those generous suitors or guests of the hotel, for a tenth their valued price. It crushed Enzo every time she returned from the pawn-broker with another stack of Euros. He silently swore to replace them someday.

Within five years, the rumours came to pass, but they were not Soviets after all - not technically. They, like all of Europe, elected incorporation into the Central Custody of Dominion. At first he felt like an Iscariot, as though his proud heritage was purchased for the sake of baubles, but in time he came to trust the promises dealt by Nikolai Brandon. With the CCD returned infrastructure, development, and most importantly, tourism. That meant jobs and prosperity returned as well, and Enzo was secure enough in his own future to gladly start his own family.


Adulthood

2028, age 25.

Enzo married at the age of twenty-five. His bride was Mireille Ferré, a blonde haired, blue eyed flower of a woman. 'Ma étoile,' he called her.

They were married outdoors overlooking the afternoon sea and began their lives in une chambre, a one roomed apartment with the view of only a garden wall. Enzo was slightly ashamed that he could not provide a better home for Mireille, but she made due with their modest lifestyle and turned the space into a real home. He looked back on those days fondly.

Their first daughter was Soraphine, a clever, bubbly child as adorable and bouncy as her beautiful ringlet hair suggested. Six years later, their second child was born: a boy, Alberto. He had his father's dark hair and watery-blue eyes while Soraphine took after their mother and shared both her parents' sapphire-sharp gaze. Enzo had permanent work in a local granite company that he enjoyed despite the inherent dangers. The nature of the work was treacherous at times, taking him up steep cliff-faces or sending him into deep caverns. But he was strong and tough, with weathered, calloused hands and sure instincts for perilous situations.

2043, age 40.

Soraphine was fourteen years old. And... on a date.

Enzo sat on the front porch of their country-home with a glass of wine in one hand and his favorite flavor vapocig in the other. Alberto was inside with his mother. They were going head to head on the most recently acquired racing game: a circuit following the Grand Prix in Monaco, of course.

Alberto's squeals of glee made Enzo smile into the dark summer air as he pictured Mireille’s car swerving off the virtual road. She was a fan of the races, but to her shame, not as good a driver as their son. Alberto, meanwhile, was intent on becoming a professional Formula One driver someday, and Enzo happily indulged fantasies. All little boys aspired to become something adventurous and heroic at that age. Enzo himself dreamed of conquering le 24 Heures du Mans as a boy, the oldest sport car endurance race in the world. What a great distance he and Mireille had come in fifteen years of marriage. Their one roomed apartment in the city was now a comfortable home on the mountain slope. His children were the stars of his universe, and Mireille was his guiding light; his north star.

Despite pleasant thoughts for his family, it was the child not at home that spurred Enzo to check the time again. There were yet five minutes until Soraphine's curfew. She was out with a sixteen year old boy named Drake - a terribly outlandish name - who was pushing his luck cutting it so close. And sixteen is far too old for her.

He took another sip of wine when his phone beeped. Enzo snatched it up in case it was his daughter. His heart relaxed. It was his mom.

"How is my son?" she messaged.

Enzo sent a reply: "I am fine. It is Soraphine's date who will not be if they are not here in the next three minutes."

His mother returned scents of baked bread that mingled with those of the garden flowers and made Enzo's stomach grumble. He'd been too worked up to eat a good dinner ever since meeting the young man that picked up his daughter. This Drake fellow pricked his instincts in all the wrong ways, but Mireille and his mother overruled him. Sophie was old enough to date, they claimed, and Enzo had done no better at the same age. Which is exactly why I do not trust him. He sat forward as beams of headlights climbed the steep hill to their home.

Sophie emerged from a car far too expensive than any teenager should be able to afford. She met the young man in Monte Carlo and said that he came from wealth, but the effect did little to ease Enzo's wariness. His mother witnessed the behaviors of such people of power from her days in the Grand Palace Hotel and Enzo recalled the stories of their questionable lifestyles. This Drake boy was one of them, and the thought of him responsible for his daughter made his hair curl.

Enzo stood on the porch while they came up the path. The young man was short of stature but high on presence. He wore a red button-down shirt and a black leather coat. Both appeared to be designer made. To Enzo's great disapproval the young man was also wearing sunglasses. At night. While driving his daughter around the hills of the Riviera Française.

Sophie and Drake were speaking softly to one another, but his daughter gave a sudden start when she realized who waited for her on the porch.

"Daddy!" She gasped and jerked her arm free of Drake's. Enzo suppressed a satisfied smile. Drake did not seem to react.

"You were almost late," Enzo replied. Soraphine sniffed, both annoyed and embarrassed at the same time. She frantically waved that he leave as she turned to say goodnight. Enzo frowned and decided to gave them a moment alone. Not only did he not wish to witness their good nights, but he supposed there was nothing too terrible that could happen on his front lawn now that she was home. Alberto was cheering a win inside, and he could hear Mireille moving around.

He grabbed his wine glass and phone and closed the door behind him. He waited just inside.

Mireille looked over as he entered and shook her head in that way wives knew their husbands were being stubborn.
"Let her be, Enzo. First dates are important." Her smile was glitteringly beautiful. It conjured warm images of their first date together.

Enzo nodded. She kissed him on the cheek and whispered words of affection in his ear that soothed his pounding heart. He relaxed and she returned to Alberto's game. The roar of the game’s engines drowned any chance of hearing what was happening outside, but he remained near the door while fondly watching them go head to head. But as the minutes went by, an ill feeling crept up his chest.

"I am sorry my darling,” he called to Mireille, “but this has gone on long enough. It is time she was safe and sound inside."

He opened the door and found his daughter laid at his feet.

Shock rippled like lightning across his body. Enzo crumpled to his knees as though struck by it, yelling and clasping at his baby girl. Her face was smeared with blood: the eye-sockets empty. Her beautiful, beautiful face. Claw marks raced up and down her arms. Her whimsical sundress was ripped in bloody tatters. The stomach and chest beneath were exposed in the slashes. Her tender flesh had been gouged and scooped out.

Enzo screamed such an ache of sorrow, he could not move but to gather his baby to his arms and rock her as he had the day she was born. Mireille was behind him, screaming and grasping for Soraphine. Alberto hung back, white as a ghost and crying silently. After a moment, he ran to call the police.

He let his wife take their daughter's body while Enzo stumbled into the front garden to face whomever was out there. His shock and horror gave speed to his legs, and he ran toward the edge of the hillside to peer down the drive. Drake must have been the murderer, but he was gone. The expensive car was gone... The tire marks were still printed into the gravel. He hadn't heard the engine start... How could someone do this??

Bleary eyes went back to the shape of his wife and daughter in the doorway. He was helpless and Soraphine was dead... How to fix this? How to ...?

Then there was a third shape looming behind his wife. It was too large to be his son and too dark to be... His heart leaped into his throat.

"Mireille!!" He yelled a warning and ran toward her. He'd left her alone! Dumb fool!!

To his horror, a clawed hand grabbed her shoulder and dragged her inside, kicking and screaming. The front door was slammed shut before he reached it.

He leaped the stairs but inches from the door a wrecking ball hit him from the side. He was wrestled to the deck with a pained grunt and sickening snap of bone that swarmed his head dizzy. Hands clamped onto his throat and choked the breath out until he could not even scream for help. He was dragged away by Drake, a boy of half his size, who seemed to barely strain to move him.

....Bound at the hands and feet, Enzo's face and throat ached when he was tossed in his front living room. His wife's body now matched the body of his daughter and the big man that grabbed her was licking black, claw-like fingernails glistening with her blood.

Enzo howled in pain indescribable and begged for mercy on behalf of his son. Of the two men, Drake, his daughter's date, sunglasses and all, was knelt behind Alberto. For the moment, his son was on his knees but still alive and unharmed. Drake’'s clawed hand gripped his son’s shoulders to keep him still, the tips of the claws curled around his small collarbones as though testing the softness of the flesh beneath.

Enzo could not look away from the claws. They were more hideous than any animal's, wicked and strong. From their tips, Soraphine's blood stained Alberto's shirt. The second, larger man who was in similarly styled clothing and sunglasses as Drake, stood, mirroring the same positioning, behind Enzo. He intoned commands to his younger partner.

"We have planned too long for this moment for you to fail now. Do itttttt..."

Enzo's useless arm hung limp at his side but he scrambled at the man holding him anyway. Stabs, sharp as unpolished granite, dug into his collar. There was nothing he could do but watch Dreyken crush his son's throat in one hand and slam the child onto his back. Alberto was overpowered as much as Enzo, but he kicked anyway. Good boy! The monster hissed and slashed at his thighs. Red welts appeared and Alberto's grimace screamed pain, eyes thrown wide and leaking hot tears. Enzo struggled but a vice-like grip held him down. The man barely seemed to struggle to control him.

Now that Alberto was down, the older man's commands continued, "Remember to scoop the socket with the fifth finger this time, and do not puncture the globe again or that sweet, sweet fluid will drain away. A delicacyyyyy....." Enzo's mind raced to put together the meaning. It seemed as though the older man was teaching the younger! To do what?

Understanding sickened Enzo green. With all his might, he fought back, but to no avail. Alberto twisted back and forth, writhing like a snake, eyes scrunched shut. Drake curled close to his son's face and Enzo could not see what happened next, but soon his son stopped kicking.

Enzo was sobbing when the door was kicked in and men with guns barreled inside. The two murderers released both of them and moved with such incredible speed, Enzo thought they were dodging the bullets themselves, but the spray of gunfire was too much. They each dropped dead to the ground.

Enzo inched to the body of his son, but it was too late. Alberto's throat was crushed into a bloody pulp, and one eye dangled loose from the socket. The other was missing altogether. Enzo crumpled, grief-stricken and disbelieving, and laid his body across his son's chest: covering him and protecting him. The view of his mangled family filled his horizon.


Epilogue


That night, a pair of Dreyken, the name for a monster not a man, ambushed and killed my family. The men that killed these monsters are called Atharim. Although I survived, I am actually dead inside.

Two weeks after Mireille, Soraphine, and Alberto were laid to rest, I stood facing my mother on a train platform. I kissed her on the forehead and bid her farewell.

"Why are you leaving, mon petit chou?" She asked behind her black veil.

I felt my face harden. "I want revenge.” My voice was cold.

Mother cupped my face. "My son, the men who did this are dead," she said, but I shook my head.

"There are more of them out there, and I want to make sure what happened to my family never happens to anyone else's," I replied. Sorrowful understanding crossed her wearied face.

She looked away as though her gaze was drawn elsewhere. What she whispered shocked me speechless: "Your father would be proud of you."

I blinked. Neither of us had spoken of my father in thirty-one years. My heart raced, but my tongue would not form the words. I'd always wondered if my father was Italian given their meeting on a train as it passed through Italy. My own name, Vincenzo, was Italian. Was he Italian? Did she bring him up because I was going to Vatican City? Was he in Vatican City?

Mother did not elaborate.

The call to board broke the spell, and I checked my ticket one last time. There were no more moments to think on my family, nor my mother and father. I boarded the train and waved goodbye to my life along the beautiful Côte d'Azur.

The men I joined with are members of a great society dedicated to hunting the monsters that hide among humanity. They welcomed me with grace and pity, but they did not treat me pitifully. They trained me. They gave me knowledge, weapons and a purpose to get up in the morning.

After my formal initiation, I joined my brother hunters in pursuit of creatures of darkness. I protected those that could not protect themselves, and derived satisfaction in life only when I ended the life of another monster.

For 'a man is not finished when he is defeated. He is finished when he quits.'

<small>((Continued from You know how we do it))</small>


Marcus awoke at his usual hour. It was a Saturday morning and he had the whole day to himself. As he stretched he felt the delicious soreness in his chest and back from the previous day at the gym. His evening afterward with Elouera had been much more enjoyable than he'd expected. It had surprised him, to be relaxed in the company of an intelligent woman, to actually let himself step back for a moment and let things happen. In truth, he found himself far more taken with her than he expected.

But now, in the cold light of day, Malik didn't like it. Relationships were a weakness he could not afford. And yet...he was going to be here for at least the next three years as a Sigma, rotating out of one Consulate and into another- longer if his plans regarding his apprenticeship to Ascendancy came to fruition. He felt confident that that would work out though. What was happening was the his destiny. But throughout all of that time, he was going to have to build connections and relationships with people as a matter of course. He couldn't keep everyone at arms length or it would be noticed. They could not all be simple pawns like Pyotr was. Nor could they be superiors and officials for him simply to gain favor with.

Marcus smiled at the acceptance of the risk. For some reason, he felt glad that doing so fit in to his plans. It's not rationalization, he told himself. It really is necessary. But any relationships that did form would be on his terms. That was a requirement..

Elouera had teased him a bit about his simple suits. They were well made, to be sure. The clothing allowance the EoA had provided him- not to mention a surprising and sizable annual cash allowance to be used as he needed- ensured that all it was well made. In truth, he favored simplicity and stark solid colors- black, cream, browns, greys and dark purples.. There was something timeless about them. In the years to come, his images in pictures and video would always be dignified.

But still, it wouldn't hurt to get a few suits and other items that he could wear in a more casual setting. A trip to the Imperial Tailors and Clothiers at the GUM would be a good way to spend his Saturday.

He rose and got himself ready. He wore a dark grey wool suit with a black shirt and lavender tie, his Sigma pin brightly prominent on his lapel. Except for at the beginning, he didn't think about using the Force. He'd chosen to obey Ascendancy's request, just as he chose whether he'd obey the protocols at the Consulate. He believed in them. And they would further his aims. And he'd show Ascendancy that he could be trusted.

In a way, he felt curiously free, as if he was at the mercy of the fate. He usually was not one to submit. Sith philosophy demanded that submission was to be rare, that it was their will that shaped the world. And that was something he'd certainly done in his life. He was 23 years old and had reached the Kremlin. Goals and aspirations he'd set from the time he was 15 had repeatedly come to fruition until finally a few days ago, when he had revealed his power to Ascendancy himself, as a man unafraid and ready to learn. Submission had not done that. His own will had brought it about.

And yet he felt free all the same. He was curious as to what fate had in store for him, for the new challenges now that he'd decided to step back and allow things to happen to him.

He made his way out of his apartments and ate breakfast alone before finding an exit onto Red Square. Saint Basil's colorful onion shaped domes dominated, along with the imposing bulk of the CCD Historical Museum. At this early hour, the streets were filled with hundreds of people milling about- tourists, hawkers and vendors, business people, shoppers. police and political officials. The loud cacophony of voices and conveyances filled the air as Marcus walked across the square. Usually he only watched the people to gauge their mood or to think about trends and ways to manipulate them.

Today, though, things were different. He noticed individual faces and found himself wondering at what was going on behind them. A father holding his little son's hand, the child pointing excitedly behind him at a man selling balloons. He watched closely for the tell-tale sign of irritation on the father's face, the sharp looks, the fear in the child's face, the threat of pain at the earliest opportunity. He watched for it. Nothing. He found himself looking wistfully at the pair as they kept walking. Something stirred inside him. Anger. Rage. Jealousy.

Malik felt them slither and feed on each other and they grew. He embraced the storm, letting it pass through him. I will not hide from my emotions. I embrace them. The fire of them burns away weakness, making me stronger. The mantra beat in time with his heart and he saw nothing as he walked until he stood in front of the GUM building. The storm had subsided, leaving the cold empty peace of acceptance. I have been molded by my past to be what I am today. His breath was deep, the chill seeping into his lungs, and he relished it, feathery breath wreathing his face.

He walked inside the building towards the Imperial Tailors, heedless of the immense walls and windowed corridor of ceiling above him. The cold sterility of the architecture held no interest to him today, it's mathematical precision and symmetry not stirring the usual sense of awe. It was subtle beauty he sought today. Buying new clothes would satiate him he hoped.


Edited by Marcus DuBois, Jul 21 2014, 05:17 PM.

Continued from In the Heat of the...Tunnel?

Giovanni awoke, unaware of where he was until the smell of a hospital entered his nostrils. The scent itself bringing back memories of better times. The last time he had really been in a hospital was when he had acquired the Sickness, yet it was still before he had endured the emotional trauma of murder and being hunted.

Murder. He was unsure of the word. Had he really murdered his brother, or was it self-defense? What about when he killed the Atharim man at Michael's place? Giovanni thought on these things as the silence in the dark room lingered.

Silence. A sense that hadn't been around since the ordeal in the tunnels. Ordine and Caos had been his constant companions since he met the bloodsucker, but had not stirred since he awoke, leaveing Giovanni time to think without being interrupted. Giovanni checked the clock - it was 6:00 AM, and the sun had not yet risen.

Ordine caught up with him first, causing Caos to begin his muttering as well. "Help..."


Giovanni groaned and sat up, moving his arm carefully. His shoulder was stiff, but there was little pain. The shoulder had been wrapped in bandages and another shirt had been place on the chair next to his hospital bed - maybe some Red Cross donation or something. A glass of water sat next to the bed and suddenly Giovanni's thirst flared. He picked it up, drained it in seconds and slowly stood.

Surprisingly, the room remained level and Giovanni sighed before putting on the shirt and venturing into the hallway. A young nurse approached him, holding a chart and looking concerned.

"Sir, you've lost a lot of blood, you should lay back down,"
the young man's tenor voice said.

"Please, I just want to go to the chapel to pray. It's Christmas season,"
Giovanni said softly, feeling surprised that he actually meant the words.

"Help..."


Apparently the young nurse was new or actually felt moved by Giovanni's plea. He helped him walk down to the chapel. Giovanni refused the wheel chair, but the young man stayed with him, ready to assist Giovanni at a moments notice.

They arrived at the Chapel. The place was clean and well lit. Several candles stood in front of an icon of Mary - Giovanni assumed they were votive candles for the sick. A statue of Jesus on the cross sat at the front with an altar before it. Several pews adorned the room. All in all, the room was plain, but functional.

Giovanni sat in the second row and pulled a bible out of the pew in front of him. The nurse stayed outside the room, allowing Giovanni to have some privacy. He had never read the book, so he opened to the first page, and began to read silently.

"In the beginning, God..."


Giovanni closed the book and put it back in its place. God was one of the last words he wanted to see right now. Giovanni thought of all the bad things he had done in the last three years, beginning with the incident with his brother. Surely God wouldn't forgive that.

Giovanni put his face in his hands, feeling completely lost. Even as a vagabond, he had never felt this deep sense of isolation and confusion. Giovanni wondered what direction he would take, feeling uncertain of which one was truly the right one.

"Priest..."


Ordine's voice had caused him to jump, and Giovanni spotted the man who had sat down in the pew in front of him. He wore all black with the exception of the collar at his neck. A crucifix hung from his next. He was relatively young for a priest, his hair only showing a little gray, but the concern in his eyes was clear.

"I did not mean to scare you, son, but you look troubled,"
the priest's voice was soft and soothing.

Giovanni frowned and said, "I'm fine, Father, just a little tired, that's all."


The priest's brow furrowed, catching the lie, but the priest didn't call attention to it. "If you need anything, son, just ask. I'll leave you to pray for now, and will pray for you."


The priest stood to head back to his office and Giovanni thought on the man's words.

"Forgiveness..."


Ordine's words didn't catch Giovanni off guard. His own thoughts had been on forgiveness since he had woken up. The priest was a catalyst for Ordine's reaction. Giovanni turned to face the priest, his back facing Giovanni.

"Father,"
Giovanni said and the priest turned around, a hopeful peace in priest's eyes. "Does...God really forgive sins?"


The priest looked Giovanni in the eyes, pure compassion emanating from him. "We serve a merciful God, son. He always forgives those who ask. Would you like me to hear your confession?"


Giovanni turned his eyes from the priest's gaze, feeling as if his whole life were laid bare before the priest. The priest cared - truly cared -and Giovanni felt a strong urge to confess. He wasn't sure he could though.

Giovanni looked back up at the priest and shook his head in a silent no. The compassion in the priests eyes remained, but it was laced with sadness. The priest nodded to Giovanni, and although it was clear that he thought it be best for Giovanni to confess, he didn't push Giovanni. Perhaps he realized that Giovanni had to come on his own.

"I will continue to pray for you,"
the priest said as he turned back to kneel before the icon of Mary. The priest lit one of the candles, crossed himself, and began to pray silently.

Giovanni stood and began to walk out of the chapel. He hesitated a moment behind the praying priest, wanting to confess everything, yet not ready to. He kept moving and approached the nurse saying he was ready to go back to his room.

"Forgiveness...?"
Ordine's usual statement was a question laced with sadness.

The nurse escorted him back and informed Giovanni that the doctor wanted one last look before releasing him. They arrived at his room and Giovanni sat back down on his bed and waited. He suddenly just wanted to leave. Choices lay before him, and he had no idea which one he should make.


Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Jul 21 2014, 09:06 AM.