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The First Age @The1stAge
Topped 2700 posts today!! Can we hit 3,000 before the 1 year site anniversary??? I think we can!

I have contacted Jason at Dragonmount with the express idea of getting permission to make a post on the main OOC board of the RP side of their site. He has given me permission to make an advertisement post. I told him that I wanted it to be from the player perspective (not outside looking in).

I'll be writing something up and getting Asc to modify/work with it, but I'd like to have other opinions and thoughts from the lot of ya'll.

The main part of this write up with give information on the details of our game and whatever Asc thinks is pertinent, so no one really has to work on that.

Must read threads, with descriptions of the events might be useful. Whatever ya'll think could draw in members.

Aria/Ayden/Sierra


Edited by Ayden, May 28 2014, 10:13 AM.

Sora Ryuu

Age: 38
From: Komukai Underground City

Occupation: All Naga are trained from maturity in stealth and battle. Many would say they were trained by ninja. Few remember that ninja were created from the memory of a Naga.

Psychological description: Curiosity is Sora's hallmark. In her youth she was the snake in your shoe. She ate the eggs in the henhouse and she avoided every trap set to catch her in her wanderings. Today she has a more sober outlook. Though she has learned caution, signs of humor, mischief and a zest for life peek through even her more mundane activities.

Physical description: She is small in stature both as a snake and as a humanoid. She has tawny gold skin with dark umber patches and black eyes. In humanoid form she stands 4’5”, wears cloth wrapped about her in similar indistinct markings or a full ninja wardrobe complete with a face mask to hide the fact that she is not human.

Power: She shares the increased strength and speed of her race as well as snakelike senses and immunity to the One Power.

Bio: The sibilant sound of speech swept the streets of Komukai, one of many Naga cities. Sora walked through the thronged marketplace carrying supplies back home, her muted gold scales reflecting the sourceless light. Unlike traditional Naga her own age, Sora preferred to maintain a humanoid form. She though it better prepared her for when it was her turn Outside. She was a Gatherer and she took her sacred duty seriously. That was as far as her resemblance to other Gatherers went. While most Naga learned about the Outside in an attempt to maintain their invisible existence, Sora sought to integrate herself among the humans. She looked like a child to most and as such was largely ignored by the malignant forces in the world. Unlike most Naga, her size often afforded her a view of the kinder side of humans. She had partaken of countless gifts and helpful instructions from humans merely because they assumed her one of their own, too young to defend herself. It made her feel better about protecting the ancients knowing their race to be compassionate.

Sora entered her house just moments before her vision blurred, then sharpened. The Need was back. There was an ancient to be gathered. She quickly donned her ninja garb and a large shapeless overcoat. She stood waiting, knowing that in a few minutes, she would be transported to a place Outside. She was needed…


Edited by Sora Ryuu, Jun 23 2014, 03:07 PM.

The newest appointment to the prestigious Custody apprenticeship program was to be picked up at the Central Dominance International Airport, formerly known as Moscow International exactly forty-five minutes after touchdown. Everything was prearranged, of course, as part and parcel of the honor bestowed upon him.

The days of drivers standing with signs on congested airport trafficways were distant memories at CDI. High-resolution gps tracking easily coordinated point-to-point rendezvous. All the new apprentice needed was to work the software preloaded on the state of the art Wallet shipped to his home before he left to find his way. It would direct him to a black Mercedes towncar, four-door, spacious and sharp as a blade.

The driver, a contracted civilian, was completely unaware of the importance of either the traveler or the woman in the car waiting for him, assisted Marcus with his luggage. Both car and driver might appear no different than any of the other Mercedes, Jaguars or BMW's lining the curb, but Marcus was front and center, protected and given right of way by the pair of orange-fringed CCD flags posted on the hood.

Krasivolkya Constantine looked up with Marcus sat beside her. There was a stern freeze across the planes of her face that did not soften despite the recognition. She was a handsome woman, though she would cringe to be called as such. Her short, infinitely curly hair was tightly groomed. Her suit was colored Custody-gray but without the cut of military shapes. The pin on her lapel was that of the Ascendancy's double-crescent, modified silver, as only the Ascendancy had the right to wear the black and orange.

Krasivolkya stretched out a hand to shake Marcus' and immediately transferred to him a Wallet-document itinerary. The same itinerary that she swiped to the air in front of them. The first of many details to discuss was her own identification.

"My name is Krasivolkya Constatine, Chief Liaison in the Executive office of the Ascendancy, Custody of State. You are Marcus DuBois, on behalf of the EoA and the Ascendancy, I welcome and congratulate you. In the fifteen years since this program was founded, your predecessors have gone on to hold influential offices across all seven Dominances, operate billion-dollar corporations, and regularly utilize the apprentice Alma mater network to achieve mutual goals."


She swiped to the next screen. "This will be your itinerary for today. You will find schedules and a modified syllabus of expectations for the next six weeks in the rest of the files. Today, it is my honor to take you to the Kremlin where you will sit through security debriefing before being shown to living quarters."


The next swipe revealed a 3D hologram of the interior structures of the Kremlin. In the southwest corner sat the Grand Kremlin Palace "Visiting dignitaries, Patrons and their families often stay in the Palace. It occupies one-hundred fifty square kilometers in size, and is one of multiple structures not open to the public."


Throughout the duration of the drive, the beauty, symmetry and majesty of Moscow blurred by them. Soon they delved from the sleek highway of the ring road system and delved toward the heart of an empire. The red walls of the Kremlin loomed in the distance.

<small>((K.V. written with permission))</small>

Hood stepped away from the counter at Kofe Khauz, and sat down at a table next to a window, a simple newspaper in his hands and flipped up before his face. Of course, he wasn't reading the paper; it was all the usual drivel city papers wrote about. Lots of bold headlines about the situation in DV. The 'CCD special operations' team that had attacked that fucking Muslim holy man. Something about an African merc company saving a reporter; that barely registered. It was a two paragraph side note, a 'glimmer of good' in a dark situation, just weird enough to warrant paper space.

None of that mattered though. He didn't give two flying fucks about DV or the CCD at the end of the day. He lived comfortably in the CCD; the system was just corrupt enough that he could make it by without much effort on his part, but it's the politics were of little interest to him. Really, everything he did to protect himself was overkill, mostly just to keep himself sharp and occupied.

Hence why he sat at a shitty chain coffee shop open far later then a cafe needed to be (it was already 0100hrs), staring at a newspaper. Bloody archaic things for 2045, but he had some sentimentality about him; spies had been using newspapers to hide in plain sight for over a hundred years.

One thing that had changed about being a spy was the toys you got to play with. Gone were the days of sitting in a car scoping a place out, or having to get yourself a room across the road to watch through the windows. And found were the days of drones, and thermal imagery that could see through concrete walls, unique isotope tracking, and so much more. Of course he didn't have access to all the toys he used to, but the black market was a bustling thing even in Moscow (or especially in Moscow), and he had enough disposable income to have assembled a very satisfying toy collection.

As for the why he was sitting in a cafe drinking mediocre overly expensive sludge so late at night...Hood very much liked having a clean back yard. Folks causing trouble in his yard caused trouble for him. And, much like any alpha predator, he had a very large yard. Most organized crime was smart enough to not cause any real trouble. Most of what he dealt with was the small time stuff; street gangs and trouble causing punks.

Hood's Landwarriors displayed images from a half dozen hidden cameras; they were cheap, store-bought toys mounted with far from cheap cameras and transmitters, which had been seeded around one of many run-down Soviet-era apartment blocks that dotted the area. It had taken a full day to get those cameras into place; the cheap toys were far better then what he had grown up with in the '20s, but still nothing compared to what he had used in the military.

A far more expensive toy drone circled the building. He'd planted signal-rebroadcasters in the area so they could reach him inside the cafe. Being as it was night, the larger toy drone went unnoticed. Which was good, because he had no interest in letting some gangster punk putting a bullet through the very expensive thermal imager that was mounted to it. It gave him an interesting view of the building's interior.

He lowered the paper long enough to accept a slice of Prague cake from the very Goth-inspired woman working the counter. A barista, he believed they were called. Cute, but far too young for him to bother with.

Within the building, there were dozens of heat signatures. Most were in bed at so late an hour. Some willingly, but most hadn't that luxury. On the third floor of the long, ugly concrete apartment building, twenty five bodies, some disturbingly small, were in a prone stance, as if in beds. More likely, they were tied to a spike hammered into the concrete floor.

Six other heat signatures, adults and likely men, were the only other ones on the same floor as the twenty five. Some were in the same rooms, laying with their prisoners, or hovering over them and touching. The rest sat in a room near the stairwell (there were no elevators), in a circle. Probably around a table, talking or eating.

Occasionally, they had visitors; customers, paying on the cheap to help break in the new product. Other times, it was more of the gangster shits, delivering food, water, and drugs to keep the prisoners high. They took their turns with the prisoners too.

It was just one of the many things that happened in Moscow unnoticed by those around them. The other people in that building; they lived there went about their days, and ignored what was happening on the third floor. They went to work, they went out with friends, and they ignored the sounds. Because that was just the safest thing to do. Why stick your neck out for someone else?

And why stick your neck out for people that didn't exist? The twenty five were, he was fairly certain, all children of illegal immigrants. There were thousands of them in the city; tens of thousands if not more, really. He had no idea; no one did. They were the ultimate prey for the sex trade. Untraceable, uncounted, and missed only by those who could not seek the help of police.

Hood had no intentions of sticking his own neck out. He didn't seek to save those prisoners. Not for free. He simply couldn't risk it; he was sitting on an Atharim safehouse. He was, technically, an illegal immigrant himself, but with the connections and skill to craft a new identity and go unnoticed. He worked for a very successful private security company. He had plenty of reasons not to get involved. And reasons to make sure these shitheads left his lawn.

If they slipped up and brought in the police, it was the sort of thing that could lead to some very unwanted interest in the Zamoskvorechye district. So he had to make sure they moved. And in a way that didn't draw their interest to himself.

So he would watch them, learn their patterns, then bump a few of them off here and there. All over the city. And leave some hints that maybe they should get out of the sex-trade. Or at least out of Zamoskvorechye. They'd think it was a rival organization, and if he had the desired effect, they would move. And he could go back to spending his nights having a beer.

The building in question was large; seven stories, although those above the third had no electricity. It had no water. It's sister building across the parking lot was a pile of neatly dozed rubble with grass and trees growing out of it. It had been knocked down twenty years ago and nothing had ever followed.

Six men resided on the third floor with their twenty five abducted kids and teenagers, and they were armed to the teeth...not that it mattered, if they weren't holding their weapons. They had no expectations of trouble, and had been in place for a few weeks already without any problems.

It was their third group, not that they shipped finished product out in regular batches; more a matter of when a few were ready, and a few new ones would be brought in. Some of the teens had been there two weeks already. Some died; it was normal and expected, and they hadn't had any trouble disposing of the bodies yet.

Beyond the six men though, was a van parked a few blocks away. Four more had the unfortunate job of sitting in that van in twelve hour shifts. They were the back-up should the safehouse be bumped, although they spent most of their time bitching about the cold and sleeping when they could manage it. Beneath their van sat another cheap RC toy, a truck, to which Hood had attached a listening device. He had no interest in watching them, but it would help to know what they were talking about; they had direct comms with the men in the safehouse, giving him an idea of what they were talking about.

So far, it had mostly been about owed debts and which of the kids was the best fuck. Should the opportunity present itself, a few of these men would die very terrible deaths. It would help insinuate that maybe the rest of them should find new lines of work. Hood cut off a slice of his Prague cake and gave it a try.

A long moment to savour the taste, then he nodded approvingly and gave an appreciative gesture towards the barista; she had suggested it, after all.

Hood stepped away from the counter at Kofe Khauz, and sat down at a table next to a window, a simple newspaper in his hands and flipped up before his face. Of course, he wasn't reading the paper; it was all the usual drivel city papers wrote about. Lots of bold headlines about the situation in DV. The 'CCD special operations' team that had attacked that fucking Muslim holy man. Something about an African merc company saving a reporter; that barely registered. It was a two paragraph side note, a 'glimmer of good' in a dark situation, just weird enough to warrant paper space.

None of that mattered though. He didn't give two flying fucks about DV or the CCD at the end of the day. He lived comfortably in the CCD; the system was just corrupt enough that he could make it by without much effort on his part, but it's the politics were of little interest to him. Really, everything he did to protect himself was overkill, mostly just to keep himself sharp and occupied.

Hence why he sat at a shitty chain coffee shop open far later then a cafe needed to be (it was already 0100hrs), staring at a newspaper. Bloody archaic things for 2045, but he had some sentimentality about him; spies had been using newspapers to hide in plain sight for over a hundred years.

One thing that had changed about being a spy was the toys you got to play with. Gone were the days of sitting in a car scoping a place out, or having to get yourself a room across the road to watch through the windows. And found were the days of drones, and thermal imagery that could see through concrete walls, unique isotope tracking, and so much more. Of course he didn't have access to all the toys he used to, but the black market was a bustling thing even in Moscow (or especially in Moscow), and he had enough disposable income to have assembled a very satisfying toy collection.

As for the why he was sitting in a cafe drinking mediocre overly expensive sludge so late at night...Hood very much liked having a clean back yard. Folks causing trouble in his yard caused trouble for him. And, much like any alpha predator, he had a very large yard. Most organized crime was smart enough to not cause any real trouble. Most of what he dealt with was the small time stuff; street gangs and trouble causing punks.

Hood's Landwarriors displayed images from a half dozen hidden cameras; they were cheap, store-bought toys mounted with far from cheap cameras and transmitters, which had been seeded around one of many run-down Soviet-era apartment blocks that dotted the area. It had taken a full day to get those cameras into place; the cheap toys were far better then what he had grown up with in the '20s, but still nothing compared to what he had used in the military.

A far more expensive toy drone circled the building. He'd planted signal-rebroadcasters in the area so they could reach him inside the cafe. Being as it was night, the larger toy drone went unnoticed. Which was good, because he had no interest in letting some gangster punk putting a bullet through the very expensive thermal imager that was mounted to it. It gave him an interesting view of the building's interior.

He lowered the paper long enough to accept a slice of Prague cake from the very Goth-inspired woman working the counter. A barista, he believed they were called. Cute, but far too young for him to bother with.

Within the building, there were dozens of heat signatures. Most were in bed at so late an hour. Some willingly, but most hadn't that luxury. On the third floor of the long, ugly concrete apartment building, twenty five bodies, some disturbingly small, were in a prone stance, as if in beds. More likely, they were tied to a spike hammered into the concrete floor.

Six other heat signatures, adults and likely men, were the only other ones on the same floor as the twenty five. Some were in the same rooms, laying with their prisoners, or hovering over them and touching. The rest sat in a room near the stairwell (there were no elevators), in a circle. Probably around a table, talking or eating.

Occasionally, they had visitors; customers, paying on the cheap to help break in the new product. Other times, it was more of the gangster shits, delivering food, water, and drugs to keep the prisoners high. They took their turns with the prisoners too.

It was just one of the many things that happened in Moscow unnoticed by those around them. The other people in that building; they lived there went about their days, and ignored what was happening on the third floor. They went to work, they went out with friends, and they ignored the sounds. Because that was just the safest thing to do. Why stick your neck out for someone else?

And why stick your neck out for people that didn't exist? The twenty five were, he was fairly certain, all children of illegal immigrants. There were thousands of them in the city; tens of thousands if not more, really. He had no idea; no one did. They were the ultimate prey for the sex trade. Untraceable, uncounted, and missed only by those who could not seek the help of police.

Hood had no intentions of sticking his own neck out. He didn't seek to save those prisoners. Not for free. He simply couldn't risk it; he was sitting on an Atharim safehouse. He was, technically, an illegal immigrant himself, but with the connections and skill to craft a new identity and go unnoticed. He worked for a very successful private security company. He had plenty of reasons not to get involved. And reasons to make sure these shitheads left his lawn.

If they slipped up and brought in the police, it was the sort of thing that could lead to some very unwanted interest in the Zamoskvorechye district. So he had to make sure they moved. And in a way that didn't draw their interest to himself.

So he would watch them, learn their patterns, then bump a few of them off here and there. All over the city. And leave some hints that maybe they should get out of the sex-trade. Or at least out of Zamoskvorechye. They'd think it was a rival organization, and if he had the desired effect, they would move. And he could go back to spending his nights having a beer.

The building in question was large; seven stories, although those above the third had no electricity. It had no water. It's sister building across the parking lot was a pile of neatly dozed rubble with grass and trees growing out of it. It had been knocked down twenty years ago and nothing had ever followed.

Six men resided on the third floor with their twenty five abducted kids and teenagers, and they were armed to the teeth...not that it mattered, if they weren't holding their weapons. They had no expectations of trouble, and had been in place for a few weeks already without any problems.

It was their third group, not that they shipped finished product out in regular batches; more a matter of when a few were ready, and a few new ones would be brought in. Some of the teens had been there two weeks already. Some died; it was normal and expected, and they hadn't had any trouble disposing of the bodies yet.

Beyond the six men though, was a van parked a few blocks away. Four more had the unfortunate job of sitting in that van in twelve hour shifts. They were the back-up should the safehouse be bumped, although they spent most of their time bitching about the cold and sleeping when they could manage it. Beneath their van sat another cheap RC toy, a truck, to which Hood had attached a listening device. He had no interest in watching them, but it would help to know what they were talking about; they had direct comms with the men in the safehouse, giving him an idea of what they were talking about.

So far, it had mostly been about owed debts and which of the kids was the best fuck. Should the opportunity present itself, a few of these men would die very terrible deaths. It would help insinuate that maybe the rest of them should find new lines of work. Hood cut off a slice of his Prague cake and gave it a try.

A long moment to savour the taste, then he nodded approvingly and gave an appreciative gesture towards the barista; she had suggested it, after all.

Race: African American
Age: 23
Height: 5'10”
Weight: 175 pounds
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown

Build: Slender, muscular, runner's physique.

Marcus DuBois was born in 2022 in Chicago, IL, younger brother to Andre DuBois. His mother was a crack addict and his father had left before he was born. So Marcus had no memory of his father and the memory of his mother would always be vague. She was far to interested in supporting her habit to be any kind of mother to them. A stream of johns, addicts, pimps and dealers were in and out of their apartment constantly, and the boys learned, even at that young age, to stay out of sight and look out for each other. That place stopped being their home when Marcus was 3 and Andre 4. They found their mother passed out in the living room, drool dripping from her open mouth, teeth a ruin, pipe on the floor, and they couldn't wake her. After having been discovered by a police officer out on the street as they were trying to get help, Child Protective Services (CPS) took them. Their mother was ruled an unfit parent, the boys became wards of the state and were dumped in the foster care system.

Dumped was the right word. Chicago in the 2020's was collapsing in on itself. Jobs were scarce, crime was high, and the economy was in the toilet. The once minimally cared for projects became a sewer and finding good foster parents was difficult. The foster care system was staffed by skeleton crews, the state unable to afford more than the minimal amount of people. The Federal government tried to help, both with the program and also with paying those individuals willing to take in children, but the CPS was only rarely able to do home inspections and follow up.

The first home they were placed in belonged to a woman named Denice, a wiry older woman with stringy hair and a dirty home. From the start, there was always a potential for danger in their interactions with her. Any kind of situation with her could easily turn, almost instantly, into something terrifying. Their time there ended when Marcus was 4. Andre was away at school and Denice had made fried eggs for Marcus' breakfast. After Marcus finished, he innocently asked for another. She looked at him irritatedly but made another. When he finished, she asked if he wanted another. He had no idea why she asked him. Her voice seemed normal, but the look on her face was dangerous and said, Boy, you better say no. Marcus' didn't notice that look. So she made another one and he ate it. He was full. She asked again, pushing. Now he was afraid to say no. She made another one and made him eat that. And another. And another. By the end, he was crying, snot running down his nose, yoke crusted on his lips, as she yelled at him and stood over him, smelly breath in his face, making him eat it. Seven eggs went down. They did not stay down. He threw up and she hit him upside his head, knocking him to the ground. She shoved his face into the mess and then dragged him to the closet and locked him in there. Then she shoved a chair under the knob so he couldn't get out. It was dark and Marcus was scared and sick and cried. He threw up again. Then he pounded on the door and begged to get out, promised to be good. Denice turned up the TV to drown him out. Hours passed. But on this occasion, their case worker happened to come by on an unscheduled visit. She found Denice half asleep on the couch and Marcus in the closet, covered with vomited egg. Andre came home from school to find their things packed and CPS ready to take them away.

So it went for the next 10 years. They were in placed with families, just the two of them, as well as in group homes. One home was run by strict religious disciplinarians who believed “spare the rod, spoil the child.” Any infraction brought immediate and swift punishment as well as hours of reading the Bible and praying. When he was 6, after spilling the milk while making cereal, Marcus spent two days in a dog cage with a bowl of water and dog food. But he learned to be neat and not make messes. Another time he was being punished- they wouldn't let him eat anything- so Andre tried to secretly give him some of his food. When Mr. VanPatton caught him, he filled the sink with water and held his head down in it while screaming about obedience. Marcus couldn't do anything to stop it.And in some of their homes, their foster-siblings were the abusers, using the cover of night to vent their anger and proclivities. Sometimes it was bullying and cruelty. Other times it was sneaking into his bed for darker deeds.

Through it all, Marcus and Andre survived, helping each other, warning of moods and threats. But Marcus grew dark with anger at the world he was in, the chaos and system that allowed these things to happen. His only escape was a tattered collection of old sci-fi novels he had found. There, Marcus lost himself in those worlds. Fighting battles, winning against enemies, bringing order to the world, mattering to the universe. His favorites were Star Wars novels, continuing the stories on past episode 9 and the TV show. It was a universe Marcus longed to live in, to have the power to bring order to his life, to protect himself. But Marcus found himself increasingly echoing the sentiments of the antagonists like Darth Bane, Darth Sidious and Darth Plagueis as they explained their philosophy of order, power and domination. It was when he read the Code of the Sith that it crystallized for him.

Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me.

He didn't tell Andre, but the day he read that was one of the days his life changed. From that moment on, that was his credo. He didn't have the force. But he didn't need it. This was his path to freedom. And the power to control his universe. They continued to pass through foster care home after home and it became a mantra that followed him through it all.

Another discovery that set his path came when he was 14. By then, they had been placed with a man and woman who seemed decent enough. But they always did at first. Marcus didn't trust them. It irritated him that Andre did. He was so naïve. Had he learned nothing? Sure, so far things had been pretty calm, for once in their lives. But Marcus was on guard anyway. He didn't trust it.

But on one fateful day lying on his bed, Marcus, who had just began studying geometry, found Euclid. And Marcus fell in love. He had never seen anything so pure and true. Chaos and uncertainty fled before Euclid's mighty pen, leaving a world that was pristine and exquisitely beautiful. Marcus marveled at Euclid's use of 5 self-evident truths and just a few propositions as the foundation and tools to build this edifice that was the study of shapes. With those tools, Marcus saw things proved, beyond any shadow of doubt or need for context or extenuating circumstance. It was pure holy logic and it was Truth. And Marcus embraced it, embraced the method of thinking it created, the willingness to reduce things and ideas and thoughts into their components and then systematically assemble them into structures that stood on their own.

And for once, Andre was right. The home turned out to be good place. But for Marcus, it was now just a place for him to pass his time. His life was his study, his philosophy. He never warmed to them and even grew distant with Andre. Instead, Marcus focused on his goals. He wanted control. He wanted order. He wanted purity and logic to exist in the outside world, not just the Platonic ideal. He finished school at 16 and received a scholarship to a university. He double majored, Mathematics for his love, Political Science for his power. Mathematics took him to logic and from there he fell into a digital circuit design class. This time, he found that the pure beautiful logic that he cherished so much, that Boolean algebra, could be applied to the design of circuitry. Pure mathematics expressed in the chemical plays of silicon and gold. It remained a hobby while he pursued his studies.

Any Political Science program was going to focus on the CCD and its relationship with the US. And in particular, on The Ascendancy Nikolai Brandon. This was the 3rd thing that changed his life. In Brandon, Marcus saw Sith principles in action. Those familiar with the Star Wars universe had the view that the Sith were merely stock bad guys gleefully stroking their beards as planets were destroyed. But in the quiet of his room, Marcus had spent hours meditating on what being Sith meant, on why it spoke to his soul. Freed of his body, his mind lighted over truths and axioms as pure and self-evident as those in Euclid. And the truth was just as elegant and beautiful. The world needed order. The world must be directed by those with the will to do so. And those with that vision must be willing to whatever it takes so that order prevails. At times, that might include doing what others called evil. But the real struggle was between order and chaos. Morality- good and evil- did not exist in such a paradigm. A Sith must be willing to rise above the common morality and judge themselves unique enough to create their own code of ethics. They had to grant themselves the license to do whatever it was they had to do, because they were called on to do what others could not. Indulgently permitting everything and keeping people free from the consequences- whether as individuals in risky behaviors, poor planning and wasteful spending, or as nations with the same equal but exponentially larger actions- was not a noble act, however it was clothed in the dress of morality. Society festered precisely because of that.

The Sith way, however, was the true way of salvation. It was the only way for true order to exist. Sith were fearless in their pursuit of that order. They did not sidestep emotion, but instead embraced it, felt the full spectrum of from joy to hate, from pleasure to pain as they carried out their indomitable will, drawing strength from the perfect and unapologetic merger of all aspects of their inner self. They were a universe unto themselves, needing no one. Those who died or were stepped on along the way were regrettable but necessary sacrifices for the greater good of all.

Marcus devoured Brandon's biography, as well as his books and speeches and anything else he had written. For Brandon fully governed using Sith principles and had been doing so for decades. Here was a man who had resurrected a nation and was bringing order to the world. It was a large job and there was still much to do. But in Brandon, Marcus felt a kinship that he hadn't felt with anyone. Andre remained his brother and Marcus still felt a residual bond of affection from their shared experiences. But at the same time, Marcus had moved past Andre. The world Andre lived in was too small. But in Brandon, Marcus saw a future. He began seeking a way to bend his course so that one day their lives would intersect. And perhaps- it something he imagined only when he let himself get carried away with plans for the future- Brandon would even take him on as apprentice. It amused him to think of it in Sith terms, though Brandon would never know.

He dropped his double major track and focused solely on political science from that moment on. Nothing was going to stop him and his rise. He still dabbled in math and digital design on the side. It was a form of meditation, when he wasn't actually meditating. Exploring equations and tracing logical designs soothed his heart. He inhaled political theory and history, diplomacy and strategy. Everything and anything that would aid him, he gave his all. His goal was the prestigious Ascendant Leadership Sigma Program (ALSP) internship offered by the CCD. It would be in that program that he'd try to find his opportunity to meet Brandon.

But his studies didn't just include academic exercises. He knew that he'd need to interact with people, to guide and manipulate them. He had to be genteel and accessible. He learned the arts of charm and flattery, self-effacement and guilelessness. He wore an easy manner about himself, ingratiating himself with teachers and students, practicing his skills whenever possible. He delighted in setting off arguments and effecting reconciliations, inflaming passions and convincing groups, all deftly handled often without people realizing what had happened. He found the same techniques worked with women and soon found his way into their hearts and into their beds. It wasn't that he sought companionship or needed them. But it was expected of him. He couldn't play the game of charm and manipulation and then not follow through or people would talk. And of course there were the base carnal delights. He was a man after all. And Sith enjoyed the totality of the human experience. But they were only games and tools to him.

Marcus final change happened when he was 21 years old. It came upon him suddenly. He had been walking in a parking lot of a grocery store when he passed by a van and saw a woman look around and then slap her child in the face. She was talking quietly but firmly to him, trying to vent her anger at the child without being noticed. The scene was so familiar to him that he could almost guess what had happened. The child had knocked something over or in some other way embarrassed the mother and she now was taking it out on him. Suddenly, Marcus was 7 years old again, Mamma Lawson smacking him in the car, all the while looking around periodically so as to not be seen. Marcus had cried and said it was an accident, but she didn't care. She just kept on. Marcus saw this woman and his heart went hot with anger. All that rage he'd kept bottled up inside churned and churned until his head was clouded with it. Unable to contain himself any longer, he walked up to the woman, eyes afire and quietly, voice hissing with rage, said “You need to die.” He felt like he was connect to this woman. Her eyes glazed at his words, her body still. Then, she left her still sniffling child in the car and walked to the edge of the lot and right into oncoming traffic. The truck that hit her had no chance.

Marcus stared at the scene in horrified awe. The little boy started bawling and people had come out to see what had happened. Marcus looked around in terror, looked up and saw the lot security cameras and realized that the whole thing had been recorded. Carefully, so as to not draw the eyes of others, he moved slowly to the other end of the lot and then was able to flee. But for days afterward he skipped his classes, terrified of police coming in to arrest him. Every ring of the doorbell sent a spear of fear into his heart as he waited to hear his name called. He was so worried, he fell sick, shivering and shaking. He was sick for days. What if they had seen him? Stupid stupid stupid. He was so stupid. He had to be calm, he had to be self-controlled. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew he was the cause and that he had to hide that fact.

Once the sickness had ended and fears had passed though, he noticed a curious sense of light whenever he did his meditations or work on math or circuits. It was just out of reach, but it called to him, glowing and beckoning him. And then one day, he seized that light and the universe opened herself up to him. He was flooded with power and felt like a god. His mind returned to the idea of the Sith. Could it be? Was this power the force? Ridiculous....And yet, there it was. Cautiously, he opened himself up to the force, allowed it to fill him. It fought him. Darth Plagueis' words came to mind, “The force tries to resist the callings of ravenous spirits; therefore it must be broken and made a beast of burden. It must be made to answer each one's will. The force cannot be treated deferentially.” Marcus exerted his will on the force, bent it to his mind, dominating it- he was a Sith Lord, it his servant- and it sprung into action. Different threads of force flowed out from his hands. He examined them and found they had flavors, found he could manipulate them.

He felt thrilled and elated. It seemed the universe was his. He knew he had been different his entire life. His sufferings had been merely training, preparing him for the role he was to play. He was a Sith lord and would have the courage and fortitude to do what others could not. He was beyond laws and morality. He would bring order to the world. He couldn't help but laugh out loud. Then he had an amusing idea. He needed a Sith name. He cast his mind about for something suitably ominous and portentous of his intentions. He would rule. Malik meant “king” in Arabic. Darth Malik. He liked that, though he put the emphasis on the first syllable, Mal. so that it worked with the Sith appellation Darth. From that time forward, he knew his true self to be Darth Malik.

He would still stay on course, now more than ever. Getting close to Brandon was all part of his eventual goal. And he was smart enough to know that he had still much to learn from the man. Just because Marcus had the force didn't mean he didn't still need to apprentice himself and learn. It just meant that he might be able to use the force to get his attention.

Another thing occurred to him. The woman who died. He didn't feel guilty about her at all. She had deserved it. And though he had been overwhelmed with shock and fear at the time, now a worm of pleasure stirred in his heart whenever he thought of what happened. He had made it happen, had removed an element of chaos from his world. Yes, it probably hadn't been necessary. But he accepted his failure as necessary and decided to be more careful. He was the master of this world, though only he and the force knew it. But he could start acting now, like the king he would someday be. And kings bring justice, they execute judgment. Marcus could think of many people who deserved judgment.

So Marcus' life took on an added element. Every so often, Marcus would pay a visit to someone from his past. Being older and looking the successful and charming college student that he was, many acted as if they were proud of him, as if they had some hand in his becoming the man he now presented to them. And in a way they were right. The cold rage would seize him, but he found that the force refused to come to him in those times. It irritated him to no end to have to go through Jedi relaxation techniques before the force would appear. Then he was free to seize it and dominate it, to teach it he was in charge. Mamma Lawson clutched at her throat, his hand outstretched. He imagined how he looked and smiled. Darth Malik smiled. Mr. VanPatten felt his heart squeezed. DeyShawn ran and was grabbed by air and dragged back where a pillow of air pressed on his face. Darth Malik was making sure that those who did not deserve to live in his world didn't. The world was his now.

Malik spent every evening communing with the power of the force, meditating and applying the same cold logic and methodology he'd learned from Euclid to this new power. Carefully he studied the flavors of the force, tested them alone and in combination, wrote down what he'd done, and made predictions. Gradually he worked out a rudimentary short-hand based on Knot Theory to describe the flavors of the force and their combination. This allowed him to manipulate them on paper in much the same manner as his much beloved Boolean algebra. He learned a lot. And whenever he went out on one of this executions he used what he learned.

He moved past simply taking petty vengeance. He didn't begrudge himself the right. But the world was bigger than that. He began to note news reports and stories of individuals who had escaped justice. And he dispensed it. A child rapist found with their genitals ripped off and stuffed in their mouth. A gang leader who's ordered drive-bys had killed 3 kids in the park found with burns across throat and limbs. A crack-addict who'd jumped an old woman in the park and bludgeoned her for her money discovered with his head twisted 180 degrees. It was Darth Malik's right to visit justice on those people.

When Malik was 22 a new truth manifested itself to him. Andre was also a force user. Malik was surprised but also appreciative to learn this truth early. Especially because they were brothers. It wouldn't do to be surprised by an enemy. Malik immediately began teaching Andre some of the things he knew. Nothing that would threaten him too much, of course, but enough that Malik could learn how to observe and deal with another force user. They even got into sparing sessions. During those times, Marcus felt the bond with his brother revive, and the work became something more. And then, Marcus would write down what he had learned, codifying weaves and techniques and Malik would assert himself. All the while hating the fact that to use the force, he first had to get into a specific Jedi frame of mind. It cost him time and dull the keen edge he liked when channeling. He despised the Jedi philosophy of indulgence and weakness.

That came to an end when Malik was out on one of his walks in their old neighborhood and noticed a man standing in the park. He knew him. Oh yes, he knew him. Farian Knowles. They had been foster-siblings in the home of Mr. Paretti. Farian had a cruel eye and was always picking on the smaller Marcus. Andre tried to defend him and Farian would hurt him too. But that wasn't the worst of it. Marcus' mind shied away from his thoughts. No! Malik thought. You are a Sith Lord. You will not cower from it. You will experience that fire and be remade.

His mind's eye went back. He's 8 years old. It's late at night. Farian's getting in his bed, wants to talk. At first he's scared- Farian was mean earlier that day- but soon he's laughing at his jokes and tickling. He wants to play a game. Marcus' mind shied away, but he forced himself to remember. It 's just a game. But then there's another game. And another. Each game is less fun, more uncomfortable. He doesn't like it. And then the game stops being a game. The tearing and the pain. He hurts. And now he's afraid. He doesn't want Mrs. Paretti finding the blood streaks in his shorts.

Darth Malik saw it all and felt the rage boil in him, the pure burning hatred. And here was Farian in a park with children. Darth Malik would submit to the force no longer. He was a Sith Lord. The force was his to command, not the other way around. He would not hide his deed. He was a Dark Lord of the Sith and he judged this man worthy of death. His heart burned with fire and suddenly he saw the fire of the force. Darth Malik seized the force, choked it into subservience, and walked to Farian.

Later that day, Farian was found in his apartment, fingers crushed, eyes and rectum burned, and genitals in his mouth. Surrounding the body were images of child porn. No one remembered Darth Malik leaving the apartment. No one had heard anything coming from Farian's room. It baffled police, though some of them were glad that there was one less child predator on the street.

From that moment forward, Darth Malik no longer yielded to Jedi meditation. He was a Dark Lord of the Sith and did as he pleased. He continued his studies and work, his meditations and experiments. He felt pleased to see goals reached and set others. He was deeply satisfied to learn that he had been accepted in the coveted Ascendant Leadership Sigma Program. His essays on the social contract in the field of governance and its flawed assumptions had impressed the arbiters of the program. He was leaving for Moscow, ready to begin the next stage of his life.

<small>((continued in Honored Guest))</small>



Edited by Marcus DuBois, Aug 27 2014, 04:16 PM.

Age: 30
Origin: Bacelona, Spain, DVII
Occupation: Freelance Photographer - national geographic quality - specializes in real animal snapshots - best known for her wolf culture photos

Psychological description: Sierra prefers to be with the animals, but she's fully capable of having a human to human interaction. She is highly creative and can see things that most other people cannot in terms of her photography, she understands the animals and you can see it in her work. Family is very important to Sierra, but sometimes the wolves blur that line and are more important.

Physical description: Sierra has long brown hair, 175 cm tall, weight approximately 59kg. (5'9", 131lbs), her eyes have turned the classic golden color of her brethren, they were once naturally a light brown, she hides the color of her eyes with a dark brown colored contact lenses. Sierra tends to wear whatever is needed for the environment she's in. She prefers simple yet flattering clothes, even while in the middle of the woods with a group of wolves. She tends to wear neutral colors. She has one scar on her left leg from a time her brother bit her after his mental faculties left him.

Powers &amp; Supernatural Powers: Wolfkin (wolf name: Long Eye)

Biography:

Sierra was born the oldest twin of Angelica and Esteban Lupita in Barcelona Spain. Life before 2020 had been drastically different for the Luptia family. Sierra didn't remember it, not much. She vaguely remembered the bedroom she had, the pink butterflies floating around the ceiling on strings, the mural on the wall of flowers and their winged friends. Her brother's room was decked out in trains. All sorts of cute and humanized vehicles scattered across the floor.

But her memories where just that, they were almost dream like. Her room in the compound was a cement wall with doodles in charcoal. You could tell her earliest drawings from those of her teenage years. The thin lights of lanterns were scattered through out the compound. They had lived in the bunker since the world broke out in turmoil. What electricity they had was from the generator Esteban had pulled through the mountains. It didn't run off of a traditional fuel, it was something special her father had concocted. Sierra didn't understand, didn't really care.

Sierra and Aaron had heard the terror of the natural disasters since they could remember, the tell-tell tales of the worlds end was coming and the Lupita family was going to ride it out.

Thankfully Angelica was a teacher and the children were allowed an education. Sierra's favorite from nearly the moment her mother handed her an Art history book was photography. For her 13th birthday her mother and father sold enough trinkets at market to buy her a camera. It wasn't much but she loved it.

When she was 17 things started to get weird. Her and Aaron would be out in the woods playing hide n seek, and voices would appear in her head. Not voices so much as pictures that spoke to her. Aaron confided in her that he too was hearing the same thing.

Sierra started taking photos with the camera her mother had given her, and sold them at market. The few times they went, Sierra found people were buying her photos because of their nature. She didn't know it at the time, but they were being put into magazines for minor publications. It wasn't until she found a national geographic magazine sitting thrown away on the side of the market stall, that Sierra realized that she could do that. Take those pictures.

Sierra spent the next three years in the woods taking pictures of things, and earning enough money to buy a high class camera. And then the money started rolling in, she even got the nerve up to send a few to National Geographic, she didn't hear anything back, but she kept trying.

At the age of 20 something extraordinary happened. Sierra actually spoke to a wolf, it was left for dead by some hunters who had killed the mother. Sierra had waited until she was sure the pack wasn't going to come for it before she nursed it back to health. They spoke mind to mind. And in doing so she learned about what she was and what been happening to her. Wolves were apparently granted a good portion of hereditary knowledge, that and they communicated with each other telepathically. He was her constant companion, Drifting Snow. The imagery present in his name was beautiful, she understood the concept, she called him Snow.

It wasn't until a year later that Sierra started watching the wolves more closely, taking pictures of them in action. She became one of them. Her brother, fell into with them, but his direction went south fast. He became more wolf like the more he had contact with the wolves. He lost his humanity. His parents were worried about him, so they tried to catch him, but he bit Sierra in their attempt to catch him.

Their father had found a specialist in town when they were at market. The man was traveling from Moscow, looking for weird things. He was subtle in his questions he seemed liked a good man, but he caught and killed Aaron in cold blood. And he tried to kill Sierra and her friends. The wolves helped protect Sierra. Sierra believed her family didn't survive the attack. He was fearsome but the only thing Sierra remembered was the snake tattoo on his left arm.

Sierra moved on, but the day always bothered her. The pictures of the wolf pack she'd taken she sold to National Geographic for a tidy sum. It was her first 15 minutes of fame, she hoped for more.

A few years later, in 2045, Sierra went to Moscow looking for answers. With her long time companion along as a so-called pet, she found herself in a city for the first time in a very long time with a large snow white wolf at her side.

Aria walked in a near deadened state after leaving Dane's company. She passed streets, walked in circles for hours before heading back to her apartment. Life had taken a drastic turn from where it had been heading. It was not the same direction she had been going, wandering the streets didn't help, but at this juncture Aria didn't think anything would.

On her third pass of the retro style news shop Aria saw the headlines, she'd seen them before. "Missing boy found, Mockingbird's calling card found." Aria grabbed the latest copy and paid for it with credits from her wallet. Cash was not something she typically carried, mostly because she didn't have much spending money to begin with. Other articles on the mockingbird had floated around. He was responsible for a good many deaths, and the circumstances were nearly inexpiable. A small blip of fear passed over Aria's body, the fear was unwarranted, she could take care of herself against most foes. She thought of Dane, and hoped he was alright. But then again he wielded the power of the gods, he could do much more damage the she could alone. Regret floated across the surface and there was nothing left but loneliness.

Hours later Aria found herself in front of the Desolate Scroll, unsure how she actually got there. The sun was nearly up, her body ached in places she didn't know could ache. She climbed the stairs slowly and picked up the mat and found the hidden key wedge in between two of the lose boards. She'd have to get another one made to replace this on.

The door came open with a mild squeal. She'd have to get that fixed soon. It was getting annoying.

Aria started a hot shower. But the water was cold and never heated properly, someone must have used it all up in the wee hours of the morning, in their normal routine. The cold water made Aria shiver but she washed everything twice to make sure the blood was truly good and gone.

Aria barely made it to her own bed before she collapsed from pure exhaustion, her walk and the nights activities had drained her.

****

Aria woke with a headache, and the world was still at bay despite not holding the bubble around her. Her own emotions still fled whenever they were there. But at the very least the haze was gone, the couple upstairs were gone, or dead. Nothing emoted from upstairs. The shop keep downstairs was lively and energetic. Something Aria wished she was. It was midday by the time she'd opened her eyes. Aria sat down at the little table and started fiddling with the reporters wallet. Technology was not her thing, but she managed to hook her wallet up to it and get all the contents of the reporters wallet from it.

Aria tried to get in the right way, but there was nothing she could do to get past the password lock, she was hardly a hacker.

Aria looked at the messages on her wallet, the one from Father Stone was nearly half a day old. He was going to be angry. But Aria couldn't deal with him now. She could barely deal with herself. The monster inside, the person she was, the fear of the reporter echoed in her head. The pain and suffering of Takeo's man, everything brought Aria to her knees. The world piled in on her.

****

Aria stared at the time stamp on the message from Father Stone. He was going to be highly upset she hadn't shown up immediately. But even if she'd shown up exactly as the message reached her wallet, she was sure the anger would have been the same. He was always angry, and almost always angry because of her. That was at least a little comfort, she caused the man anger. Anger was quick to lead into other things.

Aria didn't care, the events of last night had taken everything from her. Aria knew she felt guilty about everything but being with Dane, but it drifted away from her like it was a cloud on the soft breeze. It wasn't supposed to end like that.

What was left of her humanity floated on the outside of herself, like it was stuck on the other side of a panel of glass. She could see it, but she couldn't feel it. Aria had stopped trying hours ago and dealt with the collapse of the world in on her. Feeling what everyone else felt was sadly unaffected by whatever her murderous acts had brought upon her soul. God was punishing her. But in reality, God had nothing to do with it, she punished herself.

Every waking thought and breathe since leaving Dane's company had been plagued with loss and grief and desperation. She wanted to be at his side. Not because she cared, but because without him, there was nothing but emptiness. Her own self was lost with out his touch. She had given herself too fully to him. And Aria had no way of knowing if she'd ever be herself again. Aria hadn't understood it at first, but the more time away from Dane, she could clear her head, the notions, the ability to comprehend her inadvertent actions. His touch still lingered on her body, but it had been that all consuming passion that made this mess inside her head. She had surrendered everything to him - she gave him her humanity.

She wanted to cry, she wanted to hate herself, but she just didn't care. What was done was done. The line between right and wrong had been crossed and she didn't care. She remembered the sweet fear that came from the reporter. She felt every ounce of pain as the knife carved though her body like the cadavers Father Dimitri had taught her on. Aria savored every ounce of the suffering the poor women had went through at her own hands. Aria had loved every second of it. Now even in the mist of memory it was strong. Aria wanted to weep but the tears would never come.

The world went on and Aria still sat on the floor of her apartment leaning against the bed, staring at the infernal time stamp of the message Father Stone had sent her. A gun balanced precariously on her knees with one hand. She'd thought of pulling the trigger a few times, but she never got there. The gun never left her knees, she hadn't even removed the safety. It sat, cold hard steel in her hand, waiting for nothing in particular.

Self pity and disgust kept Aria firmly planted on the floor contemplating her own death. She wished Dane had followed through, had not thrown the knife away. It would have been so much easier to die than to live with what she'd done. But no matter how hard Aria thought about it, pulling the trigger was not something she could do. She could drown on the bottom of her bath tub, but she'd never stay long enough to pass out. Aria had long since stopped cutting fine lines into her arms and legs. That had been before she had learned to stay in the safety of the bubble that the technique Father Dimitri had taught her for combat situations. Death was her ally, but she could not be her own hand of Death.

It took every ounce of mental fortitude for Aria to push herself up from the floor and make herself move. What was done was done. Self pity would do nothing, and it sure wouldn't let her be with Dane. She didn't care, she let every doubt and every emotion she had go. It was deafening the silence of her own mind. Each thought was clear, everything was so clear with her emotions sitting on the side lines.

It was time to deal with Father Stone, and whatever else the Atharim could throw at her. Life went on, so would Aria.

Aria took a shower for the second time that day. The blood on her hands made her feel unclean, but there was no amount of scrubbing that would wash away those stains. The water rained down on her and left red rivulets along her skin with its scalding heat. Nothing could cleanse her soul of what she'd done.

Buck up! Get at 'em! whatever saying you wanted wasn't going to make much of a difference in a person who didn't want to be motivated, but there was nothing else, emptiness wouldn't do, Aria had to feel something, do something, so she got dressed, one foot then the other, and so on until she was ready to walk out the door with her mavel of a sword strapped to her hip and a gun holstered at the small of her back. The long trench coat hiding it all, keeping her warm at the same time.

Aria tucked her gloves into her coat's pocket, there was little danger to her physical self when there was nothing inside her. The world pushed in, she could make out each individual pulse of emotions, but it no longer overwhelmed her. She knew her neighbors upstairs were fighting again. Her landlord, the shop keep downstairs was happy with whatever he was doing, that kind of proud moment when you know you did right or helped someone, when you made a difference. Aria pushed it all away and drown in the nothingness that was hers. None of it mattered. She only wanted one thing, and right now, she had other things to do. Life didn't get any better than this, the thought dripped with sarcasm.

****

It was a short walk to headquarters. The alley way entrance was guarded per usual, and there were only a few stares as she walked passed them and down into what the Atharim called home. They knew she was in trouble, pity flowed from them like a sickening sweet sugar treat they served at the fair. Aria wanted nothing to do with their pity, it only stirred what little anger she could muster. She'd done nothing wrong that they knew of. Father Stone's fury was because of something entirely different.

The door to Father Stone's office was closed, Aria knocked. The emotions the other side of the door were calm and content until Aria opened the door. His anger pulsed and raged through his body. His face turned red as he blustered with fury. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

Aria stared at him, there was nothing, his rage bounced off of her, if anything had been gained from last night she was happy with the new found power, the control she had made Aria smile.

Father Stone stalked away from his desk and slapped Aria across the face. Wipe that smile off your face, child!

Nothing, Aria stared back at him from her bent form, from the momentum of his strike had caused, through mussed hair, the pain radiated from her cheek, she could taste the blood in her mouth. The pain was wondrous. She continued to smile as she righted herself. "I was handling a problem."


She pulled out her wallet and showed Father Stone the recording she'd retrieved. He stared at her and the video. A vein in his head pulsed with his every heartbeat, his rage boiled even stronger. Aria did nothing but stare in return.

He didn't calm down, but his voice was more even "How could you let this happen?"

Aria smiled, Father Stone had assumed she'd made the kill. She could almost feel the fear through the rage. "It wasn't my kill. I found it. Something else killed it. I WAS cleaning it up."


"A likely story from you. Some clean up you called us yet again to clean up your mess.

"You can see I was interrupted. Next time I'll clean up and not worry about exposure. How's that sound?"


Father Stone's rage boiled over the top and he struck Aria again. Aria caught his hand as it left her cheek. She was small, but she knew what she was doing, she wrenched his arm behind him. She deliberately pushed fear and intimation through her hand into his body. Father Stone's eyes widened and he cowered before her. Aria spoke in a cold and quiet voice, the emptiness of her body and soul carried through, she didn't care. "Do not EVER touch me again."


Aria felt someone coming and let go of Father Stone. He cringed at her feet and Aria smiled. She wanted to kick him while he was down, but she stood her ground. Being petty would gain her nothing more, she already had the upper hand.


*edited: removed the bit about Katya in the paper, it would not be there as Dreams of Fire happens after Untethered*


Edited by Aria, Jun 8 2014, 03:15 PM.

So, how would regular folks (especially law enforcement and military) deal with Channelers in the modern age? We've access to a bewildering array of lethal and non-lethal options, and has been pointed out a time or twenty in the novels, an arrow to the back works just as well on a Channeler as on any person.

Channelers are, at the end of the day, human, with all the same weaknesses and susceptibilities. If caught unawares, they die just as easily as anyone else. So what works on a person can work just as well on a Channeler, given the right opportunity. So to rule out the easy stuff...

Swords and knives and daggers and bows and guns and bullets and poison and...etc...

But what sort of weapons exist in 2045 that would be especially effective at dealing with a Channeler that is, perhaps, aware of the danger? When they can throw up walls of Air or toss a fireball in their own defense?

Modern militaries and law enforcement agencies are developing and employing all sorts of non-lethal weapon systems.

LRADs (long range acoustic devices) use directed, high-pitch sound waves to disable people. The sounds can drive people to their knees or force the to retreat, and has proven effective at dispersing crowds. In 2045, who knows what it could do? There's scientific evidence that if you have a dream that contains sound, the muscles of your inner ear respond as if receiving actual noise, and that sound can effect emotions. Is it possible that by 2045 they've isolated certain sound waves that can stimulate emotions in people? Or at the least, have they isolates certain pitches that can disable a person? (ie: Southpark's 'Brown Noise')

- It is known in the novels that Channelers can create Wards against sound, usually intended to keep sound from within the Ward from getting out, but surely would work just as well the other way around, meaning a prepared Channeler could protect themselves against an LRAD system.

Microwave weapons, similar to LRADs, use microwaves to disorientate the target, making them physically ill. These styles of weapons have shown up in threads already, but were indicated to be 'outdated' models. What can the microwave weapons of 2045 do?

- Can Channeling stop microwaves? It can stop sound waves, sure, but microwaves are very different. However, they can also effect light, creating illusions or making themselves invisible (again, a Ward used in the novel series that hid the main characters from view). If they can stop or influence light waves, can they similarly effect other types of energy wave?

Dazzlers, basically just very painfully bright flashlights that blind and disorientate in a strobe effect. These are often mounted to firearms or are employed as flash-bang like weapons (in this case, flash rather then bang). Something to this effect is seen in the movie 'Kick-Ass' employed by Hit Girl when rescuing Kick Ass and her father).

- Again, there is evidence that Channelers can effect light, so would a Dazzler do much in this case?

Gas. Tear gas, nerve gas, blister agents, knock out gas, etc. Channelers need to breath just like everyone else. Gas is a difficult weapon to employ, as generally effects a wide area, but is most effective in buildings.

- Channelers can create gusts of wind. They can also create domes of hardened air, with convenient chimneys that can reach fairly high into the air. They could create such a dome around themselves after pushing the gas away, and be fine.

Tasers and darts. Both effective against humans in general. However, the act of darting a person with drugs is a dicey one; you cannot be sure how much of a dose is needed to drop a person, and it could prove just as deadly as a bullet in the right circumstances.

- Again, walls of Hardened air could render these sorts of weapons useless. If you can't hit your target, you can't drop them, after all.

Explosives. A rather extreme measure, but unexpected explosions should have no trouble taking out a Channeler. Things like missiles or tank shells are pretty bloody fast moving, and would be, at best, exceptionally difficult to stop.

- Exceptionally difficult to stop, unless you were aware it was coming or already had a wall of Air or some such similar defense up.

So what else can folks think of? What would they have in 2045 that could defeat a Channeler that's prepared? And what sort of defenses could regular folks have against a Channeler?