The King Abdulaziz airport was locked down tighter than a nun's virtue when Nicholas and Reed arrived. It was an obvious show of force. The self-proclaimed Mahdi's announcement had spread across international news like a firestorm - Nicholas himself had already made his opinion known. The fortifications were a dare. If Al-Hasan wanted the Custody out, he'd have to pay the price in blood. Perhaps Brandon should have simply avoided attacking a preacher on the pulpit.

On a night such as that, the Custody forces strengthening the airport's security detail did not take chances. Nicholas's press corps badge only moved him to the front of the line; it didn't spare him being felt up by a sweaty, overweight man who smelled vaguely of cottage cheese. He supposed it wouldn't be a true airport experience without that special feeling like all the showers in the world would never make you clean again.

The press corps followed Brandon wherever he went, if not on exactly the same schedule. Embedded within it as he was, and with Brandon's departure from Mecca, Nicholas had little choice but to follow. Or rather, little choice but to follow or return home and start doing useful things. It was getting harder to justify staying.

Perhaps it was an unconscious desire for one last hurrah before he gave up his freedom in service to something greater. It wouldn't be the first time. Of course, a road trip filled with underage drinking didn't exactly equate to running around inside the greatest threat to free society the world had ever seen. Not on a one-to-one scale, at least. The drinking was legal, now.

Speaking of that, Nicholas was just about to grab a drink at one of the airport's bars - thankfully, the Custody had done something good to Saudi Arabia - when the first explosion rocked the terminal. Then another. And another. He seized the power on instinct. The only proof he had that the thunder outside wasn't mother nature playing tricks was the lack of rain or wind. It took several minutes for the booming to subside. With his suddenly sensitive ears he could easily hear the screams of the hurt and the moans of the dying. And then the shooting started.

The high-pitched, rapid thumping of Custody rifles formed a wall of white noise that drowned out everything else. The defenders were trying to get some breathing room; likely to pull back deeper into the terminal. But it was quickly made clear that the suppressed, modern rifles were heavily outnumbered by older AKs. Their shooting quickly died to single shots, picking out and eliminating individual enemies as entire magazines of surplus ammunition were expended, likely fruitlessly, in their direction. The dull thumping of autocannons soon joined the Custody troops' rifles, but even that was too little, too late.

In the bar, panic reigned. Half the people were diving under tables and the others were part-sprinting part-stumbling out the door. What had been a quiet, relaxing atmosphere just minutes before quickly devolved into chaos once the explosions subsided. The noise of several dozen frantic phone calls almost disguised a particularly unsettling fact: the gunfire was coming from all sides.

Nicholas slammed back the last of his drink, though the power made it useless to quell a heart trying desperately to beat its way from his chest, and stood up. There was a trick he'd been meaning to try, and now seemed the perfect time to do it. With a particular coiling of air, he was able to amplify his voice - essentially like a magical megaphone.

"All of you need to shut up, right now."
The fact that every head in the room turned toward him instantly made him wonder if he'd done too much. He was surprised how calm his voice sounded. Nicholas just hoped nobody wondered why he could talk louder than most could scream. He had their attention.

"Hear that gunfire outside? The Custody is losing. They're going to pull back to someplace defensible, and try to hold out until help arrives."
Nicholas just hoped help actually would show up. If Al-Hasan could bring this kind of force to bear elsewhere, anything the soldiers in the airport did might just be delaying the inevitable. But that wasn't worth thinking about. "If we all sit here crying instead of figuring out where they're going to stand and getting there, then the next time our families see us we'll be hanging from some street lights on the morning news."
So, for once, the Custody was the good guys.

Everyone stood still for a moment, and then one man raised his hand. It was strange that in the most stressful of times, people fell back on grade school manners. Nicholas pointed, and the man spoke, confusion plain on his face and the accent of Scandinavia on his tongue. "Wh-what gunfire?"

At that, Nicholas almost smacked himself. Of course they couldn't hear it. The building was sound proofed, and the bar was closer to the center than the sides. He was only able to pick out what was happening because of the power. Luckily, that awkward moment ended quickly as shouting in Arabic filled the terminal. A moment later, glass skylights shattered as AK rounds were fired into the air. Fuck
, he thought. Where in the hell is Reed?
She could take care of herself. He'd probably find her with the soldiers.

"That gunfire. Any more questions?"
It was strange. The last time he'd been in a situation like this, he was embedded with the Marines. And he'd been terrified. This time, his heart still thudded in his chest louder than the autocannons outside - but he had the power to protect these people. He still hoped to avoid letting them know exactly what kind of power that was.

Edited by Nick Trano, May 15 2014, 09:08 PM.

Civil War breaks in Sierra Leone
<small>December 2045 | Jennifer Rankin</small>

Following a coup in the Sierra Leone capital of Freetown, including the destruction of the city's main hospital, the country has been declared in a state of civil war. Renowned philanthropist Eleanor Northbrook has reportedly donated in excess of a six figure sum to emergency aid work in the area.

"We're very saddened by these turn of events, and will do everything possible to help the innocent civilian population," she says. "The loss of a hospital at such a time is very concerning."

Ms Northbrook is a staunch advocate of the Red Cross, and the charity has been involved in various health and educational projects throughout the area.

In recent years the discovery of rhodium rich areas in the south has brought unexpected economic boom to the country, but some minority groups are dissatisfied with the distribution of wealth.

It has been nearly fifty years since the last civil war.

Ms Northbrook confirms that the Red Cross will be aiding an appeal. If you wish to donate, you can do so via the Red Cross website
.

Comments: OPEN

Short of Allah Himself sending down an angel to see it done, there was no way Hasan was going to see sleep this night. Across the city chants and cheers echoed against explosions and gunfire as the cleansing continued. Some elements of the CCD and its cronies wanted to hold onto power by a fingernail, a hair, a breath. The harder they tried to hold on, the more fiercely they resisted, the harder God's wrath came down on them.

Those who made the first step on the path of righteousness -- admitting they were infidels, throwing themselves upon the mercy of God -- those had a much greater chance of being spared the birth pangs. For that was indeed what was happening tonight, the Kingdom of God springing forth from its womb into daylight and taking its first breaths. And the new child of the world was glorious.

No birthing was bloodless, and the afterbirth was not nearly as pretty to behold. This birthing would cause serious wounds that would take time to heal. Battle continued to rage as pockets of resistance at the airport held out, and clashes sprang up between followers and CCD soldiers who were caught outside their perimeter. Hasan traveled to the Um Salama hospital near the airport to see to wounded as they were brought in, and perhaps help as needed. Medical teams were strained tonight, and there were some wounds that the Keramat could heal when medicine and science failed. God was never limited.

Reports trickled in to him as the night wore on. Baghdad, Karabala and Basra had fallen, as had most of the Arabian peninsula. The Emirates remained divided. The Port of Dubai and parts of the city center was still in CCD hands, though only barely. The air port had fallen and Al-Jazeera News had defected. The capital of the Dominance was teetering on edge and it was only a matter of hours, maybe, before it fell. Kuwait City remained firmly in control of the CCD. The tiny country would wake up in the morning to find itself besieged.

Hasan let these thoughts stir in the back of his mind as he focused on the unconscious man before him. He placed his hands upon the man's skull and let the Gift of Keramat flood through him as he drifted into the man's mind. The man had no visible wounds, but Hasan suspected he had taken a severe traumatic brain injury from a concussive blast. This was one of the areas where opening the man up on the operating table could still do more harm than good. While he delved into the man's mind, he could not only see but feel where the injury had happened. He focused, and fed the power into the wounded man.

His eyes snapped open. "Allah be praised!" the man exclaimed. He tried to stand.

Hasan held the man down with a gentle but firm hand. "Rest easy, child of God. You have done well and Allah has willed you be healed. Now you must recover your strength."
He signaled for two attendants to take away the man on his stretcher.

The man laid back and let himself be carried off. Hasan stood and released the Keramat. He was growing still stronger and more gifted, but he knew God's mightiness was still too much -- would always be too much -- for his limited body to handle without serious restraint.

Commotion down the corridor caught Hasan's attention. Two men were trying to carry in another stretcher, and a third man was arguing with them. "--him, I don't care! Get him out of here. Don't bring him before the Mahd--" The man cut off as Hasan approached.

He knelt. "Glorious Mahdi," he said.

"Praise and glorify Allah only,"
Hasan replied, but made no other effort to stop the man. He looked over the stretcher. A plainclothes man who looked like he'd lost a boxing match with a tiger lay unconscious in the stretcher. He was tall and his face was distinctly European in heritage. He didn't seem mortally wounded. "Why do you not want me to see this man?"


The one who'd protested stood. "Mahdi, I do not want to trouble you with such filth. This one is obviously a foreigner and an infidel. A shame on our land and an insult to God. We would do better to just throw him out with the refuse and not waste time treating him."

Hasan shook his head. "Allah is ever merciful. The infidel cannot come to believe and submit if we do not give him the opportunity."
He stretched out his hand and prepared to offer a prayer for receipt of the Keramat, but the foreigner stirred.

BREAKING NEWS

<small>Al-Jazeera LIVE</small>


Good morning from Dubai, this is Samir Abdukhaliq and you're watching Al-Jazeera LIVE.

For five years now I've had the privilege of anchoring Al-Jazeera LIVE. I've come into your homes and places of business as we share and discuss various news topics of interest to the Arab world within Dominance V. And, although I may have fallen short at times, I've always prided myself on integrity and impartiality, as has your entire Al-Jazeera news team.

This morning, as we wake up to find the major cities across Dominance V in a state of revolt ********

(muted crosstalk)

My apologies for misspeaking. This morning as we find major cities across the former Dominance V undergoing its "transitional process of purification" to announce the coming of Muhammad al-Hasan al-Mahdi's prophesied Kingdom of Allah, it is my duty to announced the owners of Al-Jazeera News are shutting down operations. They, and select members of the Al-Jazeera news team, will instead be coming to you live in all media as Kingdom of Allah News. Here you will be able to find all the news that's fit to print, broadcast and blog. I will not be joining this news team at this time and instead will be leaving for Moscow where I hope to see some of you watching.

Thank you for watching, and may God help us ***

<small>
</small>

Please stand by
Thanks for watching Kingdom of Allah News
God is Great


Copyright KOA News 2045, Dubai, D.V.

Comments are: OPEN

<small>((Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the time tag:

Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))

Your experience may vary depending on your physical location and content posted </small>

Hasan nodded to the attendant, who clicked a button that stopped the feed of Nikolai Brandon's latest ultimatum. So. Brandon decided of his own accord to come to Mecca and hold a summit, and because Hasan declined to personally attend he was canceling, thus rendering his entire trip moot. The irrational behavior of the man failed to surprise Hasan as it did the faithful who were gathered around the table with him. What else could one expect of a man who looked only to himself? Nikolai Brandon was a deeply flawed, weak and mortal person, and left to rely on himself would fail, and if the world relied on him it would fail as well.

This council – such as it was, an organic thing of politicians, businessmen and imams who sought out Hasan's guidance – would do so to remember this of Hasan. He was merely God's servant, the lowest of the low, not some king to curry favor with or please by satisfying demands. All he could do was help them live holier lives more closely aligned to God's will.

Allah guide me. Allah protect me. Allah show me the true path.


Bashir finally spoke, breaking the silence. “Mahdi,” he said, “What can you tell us about the Ascendancy's claim to have captured imposters?”

Hasan fixed his beloved friend with a stare that would freeze fire. “Do not call him the Ascendancy. Nikolai Brandon is ascendant of nothing. He is as descended as shaytan, who in his hubris thought he could replace the Almighty One, and tempts others to believe they can as well. Only with the blessing and will of Allah can you ascend to be with Him.”


Bashir drew back and shut his eyes. “I am sorry, Mahdi.”

Hasan's heart trembled as he felt the sting of his own rebuke. He should not feel pain for speaking truth to his friend and setting him straight, but he still did, and that was a shameful reminder that he still had his own failings. He needed to strip even those away until nothing remained but a will totally and completely submissive to the will of God.

He gave Bashir a small smile. It was good that Bashir was always ready to submit himself. “Be mindful that Allah is ever merciful and forgiving. As for your question, I have dwelt on this for some time. Two things to remember are that the truth of man is always imperfect. Truth only comes from God.


“We have no way to verify the truth of Nikolai Brandon's statements. There is nothing beyond his word that places his 'captured' as the same devils who attacked us. We also cannot trust our senses which tell us they were sent by Brandon's machine. Therefore we have two conflicting possibilities here that are equally likely in their unlikeliness. These devils were exactly as they appeared and were sent by the CCD to capture or kill me – or they were sent with intent to deceive us and provoke us against the CCD.”


Achmed Pashta, a sheikh of Basra, spoke up. “What if it was the CCD, thinking we would never believe it was the CCD because nobody could be that stupid --”

Hasan put up his hand, cutting Achmed off. The man wasn't wrong in his thinking, but he missed the point Hasan was trying to make. Not wrong, but limited in his thinking, then. “Did I not just say the truth of man is imperfect? We could spend from now to eternity debating the possibilities of who was behind what. What we do know is that there are demons among us that seek to separate us from God. They seek to lead us astray. And for the sake of security, for economy, for safety, we have allowed them access to our lives. Is it any wonder when the way we live causes us to be at the mercy of demons?”


There was silence for a moment. Then Bashir Kalid Abdullah spoke up. The reporter had become an influential member among the news media after he had come to believe in Hasan's holiness. “Are you directing us to secede?”

Hasan took a breath. “I am merely here to give you the advice you seek. God is allowing these things to happen because he is calling you to submit to him. You must make your lives and your world a holy place to prepare for his kingdom on Earth. You must purge your land of temporal influence over yourselves. Even at the cost of your lives. Divine revelation is clear on this. It is better to die this instant in service of God than to live a thousand years apart from him as the demons do.”


Bashir bit his lip. “Mahdi, this is all well and good, but I find it doubtful that your followers can withstand the war that will come. The CCD will have pretext to overthrow you by claiming that the Dominance lawfully belongs to them. We're not ready.”

Hasan stood and walked to the balcony. He swept back the curtain, and light spilled into the room. He threw open the doors and voices spilled in. Chanting voices. Voices lifting up their prayers. It filled the room, drowning out thought. The power of God filled him with ecstacy. Hasan let his soul drift on those prayers, as if they would carry him to heaven right then and there.

He laughed. “Bashir, bless you. You believe because you have seen. I tell you now to believe in what you have not yet seen. If we could do everything ourselves, what need would we have of Allah and His everlasting grace and mercy? The only way we can unite ourselves to the will of God is to trust in him. We cannot do it without his help and without trusting in him.”


One by one, they agreed. And set for themselves a plan of action.

***

At 6 p.m., Hasan stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the Kabbah and delivered his address:

“Faithful. I come to you today not as one to be followed or held up over men, but only in submission to God and to serve you.

"We are God's humble children, like sheep seeking to be led to the green pastures. Some years ago we despaired of a pasture and turned to the offer of a man to lead us to the grass. All this man asked was that we submit to him. It seemed so simple a thing to do. So we chose a man and we bought his promises.

"Why should we be surprised to find out these promises are false when we have turned away from God!


"We have only ourselves to blame. Why should we be surprised that promises of lasting goodness brought of things of this world are false? Why should we be surprised when we find only barren rocky soil instead of green pastures? Why should we be surprised when there are devils in our midst?


“No man can serve two masters. You cannot love God and the CCD. We must turn to God and God alone! If we submit to God and beg his forgiveness for our sins, the devil will flee. Let us reject the false promises of fair-weather friends, corrupt nations and the false idols of temporal rulers. Let us purge ourselves and cleanse ourselves of things that have pulled us away from God.”


It was time for God's kingdom to be realized here on earth. If he thought earlier that he was going to be carried away by the prayers of the faithful, this time Hasan really was disolved in their midst. His identity was stripped and he was no longer him but an empty vessel.

“The CCD forfeits any and all claim to Dominance V. They and their idolatry of their ruler have failed to bring their utopia. We declare the contract with them null and void.”


He raised the flag. It wasn't his flag but rather others who called it the flag of the Mahdi. White from the west, black from the east. White on black, black on white. There is no god but God and Muhammad is his prophet.



<small>
</small>

“This is the sign of the faithful. Mark yourselves with this. The faithful proclaim the world for Almighty God. All ports of entry are to be seized. Any police or military force that does not bear this emblem are to be resisted! All heads of household and faithful males ages eighteen to fifty are to report to their community leaders if you have not already received notice to report for duty.”


He raised his arms. “Let us finish God's plan for freedom. Let us build a kingdom of God and be truly free!”


There it was. He had taken the leap of faith.



***



There were very few employees at the Mecca airport, even among the security detail, who were loyal to the CCD to the point of death. So it wasn't difficult for a band of Mahdi sympathizers to gain complete access to even the most secure areas. By the time any of the CCD leaders knew something was up, the armories had already been looted.

The evening meal had already been served to the staff at the airport dining facilities by the time Muhammad al-Hasan al-Mahdi delivered his address. Additionally, the meal had been served at the CCD base of operations at the airport. Mahdi sympathizers were among workers who prepared both meals. The meat was prepared with a sedative that induced lethargy over the few hours after taking it. The faithful were instructed to abstain from meat that night.

There were likely about five thousand involved in taking the airport. Actually taking control of the airport was relatively easy. Car bombs stunned the CCD forces at the checkpoints outside the airport, and they were quickly overwhelmed. Untrustworthy security forces were dispatched from within. They took over the tarmac and control towers, and began to clear the terminals. They quickly broadcast the message to any inbound air traffic: Turn around. Attempt to land and we will shoot you down. The perimeter of the CCD camp at the airport remained intact but the soldiers there found themselves quickly surrounded. The faithful had made no attempt – so far – to overrun their camp, only to contain the CCD within their own perimeter, to turn their base into a prison.

Fighting within the terminals continued throughout the night.

Jensen is looking for a way to find someone with an inside track on police scanner type of activity. Does anyone have any ideas? Or want to get involved? I only have a general idea of where this is heading at this point.

The political situation in Sierra Leone in recent years had been complicated. With the discover of what could prove to be some of the world's largest deposits of rhodium in the world, rivaling the rich deposits in Russia and the dwindling mines in South Africa, the situation had only grown more complicated.

Desperate to secure a fresh source of the super rare metal outside of the CCD, the United States and China had both been applying greater pressure on the Sierra Leone government, encouraging trade agreements and mining rights that would favour themselves over any other potential bidder. And to ensure it's stranglehold on the market, the CCD had begun flexing it's own influence.

With the discovery of the deposits, there had been a massive economic boom which had seen the construction of modern mines and industrial complexes in the southern portions of the country, populated mostly by the Mende peoples, who also controlled the country's government.

Wealth and jobs flowed into southern Sierra Leone, while the north remained mostly untouched by the increased wealth and opportunity. To appease foreign investors, all major infrastructure improvements had been in the regions of the mines and plants, in the south, and many in the northern half of the country, mostly of the Temne tribes, felt increasingly abandoned and ignored, left to suffer.

Increasing rumors of political corruption and bribery had led to ever-increasing tensions between the north and south halves of the country, and in light of recent elections, seeing the Mende peoples again in a strong majority rule, could prove to be the last straw in a country with a long history of military coups, assassinations, and civil war.

-----

Légion Première held a large number of contracts throughout Sierra Leone. If seeking a private security company to keep your state-of-the-art processing plant safe, you turned to the best. Twenty Legionnaires were tasked to a security contract for the sprawling industrial complex, and they had supplemented their man-power with a fifty-person team hired from the local population.

There was daily training regimes for the auxiliaries, and the platoon level of Sierra Leonean were slow to take to the difficulty and expectations of the Legionnaires.

However, it benefited both the Legion and the locals immensely. Potential recruits for the Legion, as well as a means to increase the cash value of their contract, and of course a direct link to the local community and the rumor mill, while the locals gained jobs and life skills that could lead to future employment, and a sense of involvement and trust towards the heavily armed Legionnaires that routinely escorted convoys of precious goods around their country.

The situation in Sierra Leone had been growing grim in recent weeks; reports were scarce as the Mende government strove to keep things under wraps, but it seemed increasingly evident that there was increasing violence on racial boundaries. Temne youths attacking Mende tribes people.

Lieutenant Afolayan, deployment commander of the Legion task force assigned to the American industrial facility, oversaw the marksman training of ten of the Sierra Leonean citizens that they had hired to bolster their security team.

The ten were next up on the perimeter fence shift, not yet experienced enough to be trusted to convoy escort, but their presence alone was intimidating enough to keep locals from trying to sneak into the compound and causing trouble.

"Encore."
He watched as the ten men hunkered down between the heavy metal riot shields they used for training purposes, locking their shields together awkwardly with much clatter, cursing and complaining before a high pressure hose was turned on them, hitting the shields mostly at their center-most points and walking across their line. The idea of the training was for them to learn how to control their shields and support each other against a surging crowd, to make sure their shield wall didn't buckle or flex. Any opening was a risk to the entire crew.

The ten men were tired and wet, but with only an eight hour fence patrol ahead of them, the training would not be so taxing that they could not do their jobs. Which was good, because they were going to be bloody exhausted by the time Lt Afolayan was done with them for the day.

One of the men slipped in the mud at their feet, and the hose immediately shifted aim to the man's floundering shield. He buckled and fell, pulling down the man next to him. A third turned as if to grab them, and the high pressure jet of water found his feet, knocking him down. In moments the entire line was floundering and shattered, and Lt Afolayan signaled the Legionnaire manning the hose to let up. He was about to call for them to reset when the Legion signaler came running.

Afolayan signaled for one of his Caporal Chef's to take over for him, then moved towards his next task of the day. Four empty dump trucks bound for one of the rhodium depots waited between a Panhard and a black SUV, the only vehicles the Legion had to spare. Afolayan counted his blessings to have even a single Panhard, since other detachment commanders were working with simple pickup trucks and SUVs at best.

Ten of the more experienced auxiliaries waited with five Legionnaires, undergoing their final kit inspections as the civilian truck drivers climbed into their rigs, ready to make the five hour drive to the depot.

A few quick questions to his men to make sure they knew the route to and from the depot, and their actions on should they run into trouble, and the convoy set out.

-----

Two hours into their trip, things went to hell. Local radio stations began making unconfirmed reports of fighting in the capital. An attempted coup d'etat, the president gravely wounded and moved to the main hospital in the capital, Freetown. Temne-sympathizing military units attacking the hospital, which was destroyed in the ensuing battle with the Mende-loyal Presidential Guard. Radio stations started going silent or began declaring the current government illegal and that a Temne-backed interim government would be formed under General Katlego, a well known Temne tribesman and senior member of the Sierra Leonean military.

Others encouraged sympathizers of the Mende tribe to strike back at the traitorous Temne. A few independent reporters were already delivering stories of violence by vigilante groups of either major faction attacking civilians of the other faction.

The convoy passed through a small town on it's way to the depot, and the Legionnaires within stared out the windows of their vehicles grimly. What locals that owned vehicles were loading them up with belongings, likely intent to flee to the capital. They were mostly of Mende ethnicity, and were dangerously close to the mostly Temne northern half of the country.

They continued through, although Lieutenant Afolayan was painfully aware that there were quite a few people in the village without vehicles to see them to safety. But as they reached the north side of the village, his gunner let out a sudden curse and kicked the Lt in the shoulder to draw his attention to the screen mounted on the dash of the Panhard.

Three large military trucks were barreling towards the town loaded with fighting age males in civilian clothes, rocking AK's and RPGs and machetes. Temne tribesmen and soldiers, if he didn't miss his guess.

"Turn us around, now. Center of town, space those trucks ten meters apart, drop the ramps. Get the people in them."
He slapped together a quick report and sent it straight to both the CEO and the management team in charge of the facility they were tasked to guard. He was bringing guests for an extended stay.

The vehicles turned wide, the Panhard relying on it's heavy bumper to plow through the brush that grew on the edges of the jungle road, and minutes later they were coming to an abrupt halt in the village, the auxiliaries and Legionnaires dismounting and rushing to secure the area and ready the trucks.

"You three! On me, now."
Lt Afolayan picked out three village men who were struggling to help people gather food and belongings, and the three only hesitated a moment before moving over to the Legion officer. "Women, children, water, food, onto the trucks now. We are moving you to a secure location. Temne vigilantes will be here in ten minutes, so move fast."


There was, blessedly, no argument and the three men started calling to the villagers to get things organized. "Sapper Aberash. Take the auxilaries, set up a road block then firing positions. The rest of you, over see the loading. Move now."


The sapper snapped to and grabbed hold of the Sierra Leonean auxiliaries, putting them to work moving debris onto the road to hinder the approach of the trucks.

Ten minutes wasn't enough time to get everyone loaded. When the trucks rounded the bend and came into view of the Legionnaires and the small village, Lt Afolayan was standing calmly behind the low barricade, his men still working to see the women and children, and eventually the men, loaded onto the dump trucks.

The three military trucks barreled up to the barricade but stopped short at the last minute, and the men in the back were hooting and hollering in excitement as they dismounted. They came forward as a mob, confident and ready for violence thanks to their superior numbers. Lt Afolayan stood alone against sixty armed men ready to commit terrible violence.

"Who are you? Do wish to die here soldier boy?"
A man wearing the tunic of the Sierra Leonean military, hanging open over a bright pink shirt, and a baseball cap backwards, waved a pistol towards Afolayan threateningly while walking towards the man as if expecting the Legionnaire to simply give way.

The Lieutenant frowned irritably at the man's state of dress. "You and your men will get back into your trucks, and leave the area immediately. In one hour time, the area shall be capitulated to your forces. The civilians are under the care of Légion Première."
He stared boldly at the apparent leader of the gang, entirely unperturbed by the presence of sixty armed and violent men. The crowd behind him were continuing to load onto the trucks under the firm direction of the other Legionnaires, while the auxiliaries were nervously hoisting boxes of food and jugs of water up as well.

The pistol waving man stalked closer, till one foot was planted on the edge of the barricade; a collection of firewood, garbage cans, carts and even a junked car, and leveled the pistol to Afolayan's head, where it wavered drunkenly in the man's grip. "And what are you goin' to do if I say we aren't leaving?"


The Legionnaire officer smiled, a wide white-toothed grin, "My CEO has given me two options to remedy that situation. The first, I can offer a $10,000 CCD wire-transfer to your personal account. The second, my men and I fix bayonets."


As he spoke, the three Legionnaires handed the task over to the men the Lieutenant had first chosen and moved forward, their rifles held at the low ready. Then as one they brought the weapons up and drew their bayonets from their frogs, barring eighteen inches of sharp steel which they calmly mounted to their FAMAS assault riles.

The crowd of men seemed unsettled by how bold the Legionnaire's were. They were of a tribal warfare mindset; the force with the most men won. Always. The force with the fewer men fled or surrendered. Always. When it came to actually fighting, one side usually broke after only a few casualties. Fights were rarely to the death.

The leader's weapon wavered and he glanced at the five Legionnaires and their frightfully long bayonets and bold, confident stares. His gaze moved back to the officer he was threatening, and he slowly pulled his foot off the barricade, "$10,000? CCD yeah? Yeah...yeah that'll work."


"Tell your men to lower their weapons, then give me your account information."
He pulled out his Wallet, and keyed it active, and watched the leader of the Temne tribesmen calmly.

The man watched for a moment, glancing at the armed Legionnaires then to the officer, then waved for his men to lower their weapons. The chance for money was more interesting then murder and rape, for the moment at least; they could always just kill the Legionnaires and the villagers after being paid.

The officer stuffed his pistol back in his pocket, and pulled out a Wallet of his own while his men shuffled and bunched together to whisper and plot their evil intents.

Sapper Aberash sat in the Panhard, watching from the shadowed interior, then hit the horn before pressing a button on a small wireless transmitter he held. Two claymores detonated on the front of the low barricade, a dozen meters left and right of where the officer stood, aimed towards the general area of the rebels.

Hundreds of ball bearings and a wash of explosive pressure hit the gathered crowd of fighters. Dozens were killed, and dozens more died as the fifth Legionnaire stood up in the roof hatch of the Panhard, calmly racked the action on the mounted MK19 automatic grenade launcher, and walked a burst of frag grenades through the survivors.

Aberash's boots hit the earth before the last grenade had detonated, and the three Legionnaires fired a few shots into the group as well, before calmly walking forward to start spearing the wounded with their bayonets. Lt Afolayan simply turned back to the gathered civilians and resumed barking orders; not long later they were all loaded up and rolling back to the plant.

Similar incidents happened near every Légion Première position, much to the chagrin of the companies that actually owned the expensive industrial outposts. But the Légion employed very intelligent lawyers and public relations officers, and their explanations were quite simple and well worded. Good public image meant a lot. These companies were now known for their humanitarian desire to protect non-combatants in a civil war. Sure they'd take a hit in the profit margin, but so long as it was kept short and they were back up and running before the loss of profits made them nervous.

Natalie Northbrook-Grey

Granddaughter of DVII's Patron, Edward Northbrook, and daughter to well-known philanthropist Eleanor Northbrook-Grey. Natalie's upbringing was one of privilege and splendour, the benefits of a private education and the obscene luxury afforded by living in the heart of London. Her earliest memories of childhood blur with activity, of caressed hair and kissed foreheads; an endless string of goodbyes framed by the soft glow of nostalgia. Her parents were often absent, but she has clear memories of their familial togetherness back then. The bonds that tied them might stretch the vastness of the globe, but they were unbreakable.

A staunch champion and benefactor of the Red Cross, her mother travelled often, leaving her three little girls to the care of extravagant wealth and the secure legacy of the Northbrook name. Their eccentric father, billionaire Alistair Grey, never tried to fill the gaping hole her absence left; he was distant, preoccupied, and always working. Natalie loved him anyway. She remembers stretching out in the plush carpet of his office with a picture book, or huddled by his feet under the desk while he worked. Though stern and unsmiling, he never questioned her silent company, and her sisters were usually too afraid of his piercing stare and clipped words to dare follow. Occasionally, when he noticed she was there, he would speak. Often she would just listen to the rumble of his voice, whether he spoke to her or to others via the network. Sometimes she fell asleep there.

She was always her father's daughter.

As she grew older, Natalie's sense of independence flourished. Though hardly shy she at least gave the impression of being reserved; unlike her siblings, she was uninterested in the limelight afforded by their family's name and standing within the CCD. Her face began to slip from public Northbrook photographs, and sometimes articles forgot her name. Since she was both studious and sensible, it was never an issue, if perhaps something her mother did not favour. Natalie was was content to spend time alone, and had plenty of preoccupations to fill it. Eleanor Northbrook insisted on the highest calibre of education for her children; Natalie and her sisters had learned French almost alongside English, and later Russian. Music centred her foremost hobby, in particular the piano. She read voraciously, studied hard, and occasionally stole away from their private mansion to taste the life of anonymity.

At seventeen, the balance of her world shifted. It never returned back to kilter.

Her mother had left for a charity gala in memorial of the Tower Bridge disaster, a function she had unsuccessfully cajoled Natalie into attending. Her father's study, which she still sometimes visited, was locked. He was out also. It was not unusual in the expansive lay of rooms and floors for the comings and goings of her family to pass like ghosts. Shadows chased open doorways, and in the echoing vastness of the huge house Natalie retreated to the piano. Annotated sheet music spread in an arc on the wood floor, untouched from the last time she had been in here. The curtains were flung wide, which in the daylight streamed in a flood of light. Now drizzle flecked the windows, and the sky was striated with red and purple.

At the majestic height of La Campanella, the room's acoustics flattened and a wall-light flashed an incoming call connected to her Wallet. It was full dark, the piano's ivory keys aglow in slanted moonlight as her fingers drifted from their placement. The cadence of the last chord hung like a vibration in the air.

"Yes?"


"Where are you? Are you home?" Her mother's voice. The words were calm, but something tight clipped their edges. The tick of the metronome counted the silence before Natalie answered. "Yeah."
Then. "What's happened?"


"Your father--" There was a hint of question, a breath of uncertainty, but it righted itself. "Stay there, Natalie. Don't answer the door. I'll be home soon."

The call disconnected.

She padded on bare feet back through the house, and on whim she tried her father's door again to see if he were home. The lock clicked open at the loose grip of her hand, and she toed the door. It gaped to pitch black before a bloom of soft lighting responded to her presence. It felt cold. Not like the sanctuary of her youth. And he wasn't in here; the room was not so large she could not see that at a glance. The door had been locked.

Natalie felt the trespass of crossing the threshold, but ignored the thud of her heart. The desk was scattered with paper - paper. She cast her eye over a set of freshly printed financial documents, then fanned them aside to pluck something underneath. She'd barely begun reading when the paper in her hand wisped with smoke, then began to curl under the lick of an orange flame. She dropped it reflexively, as a whoomf from behind blazed heat against her back. She spun, knocked backwards into the desk. Smoke pooled thick, and quickly, coiling like barbs in her lungs. The office burned. Vaguely, she heard thuds slamming against the door, but they echoed watery. She felt strangely euphoric as her eyes seared and filled up with red and black, and nothing.

She woke up in hospital, hooked up to oxygen. Her chest scorched every breath of air in, and scratched it out painfully. One painful breath after the other. She had no burns. None. But the nurses' soothing voices exalting her fortune as they tinkered with her monitors swam blurrily beneath the slick of fever. One blink, her mother was there. Another, gone. Angry voices raged outside the door. Silence muffled her ears. Sunlight streamed in long golden beams, but when it brushed her skin she screamed. Tried to. The coughing spewed out her insides and the world started beeping.

When she was finally allowed home, it was to a new house.

----*----

Her father was arrested in the summer of 2040, though it was eighteen months before the case finally saw a court hearing. The media was rife with rumours. The word terrorist stamped headlines alongside blurry photographs of her father, his security detail fanned out in frozen fury, outstretched arms thrusting away cameras and urging her father to shield his face. In every single shot, he refused to hide. Pale eyes sought the lens and glared it down. His lips were a thin pressed him. They called him proud. They called him a traitor. They called him monster.

Someone set filters on the newsfeed into their new residence - her mother, perhaps, or her grandfather. She saw the other stories anyway. The ones about the blaze that had taken half their old house, and scoured every inch of evidence with it. Conspiracy theorists painted devilry from the ashes, darkening the honourable Northbrook name with the smoke of Grey. In the articles, Natalie's own expressionlessly calm features stared back from the court stands; that same haughty stare, diamond hard as her father's. The journalists saw a father's daughter. A few bayed for blood. But she was a minor in the eyes of the law, and Edward Northbrook fielded the disaster with his daughter at his side. Together they coaxed the angelic from Natalie's icy façade, sculpted the doting and naive daughter from the emotionless accomplice. She was a Northbrook, like her sisters. Not a Grey.

They did no such thing for Alistair.

He was charged with embezzlement, accused of facilitating funds to anti-CCD terrorist groups in America. No defence passed his tight-lipped mouth. No explanation. Afterwards her family lay fractured, and Natalie's loyalties spun. Father became a black word, which only curled it tighter into the fist of her heart. They imprisoned Alistair in DI, a world away from London; at the very soul of the empire he had betrayed. His memory was a blighted mark, and though she remembered the way her parents fingers had used to absently touch in the brief memories she had of them together, her mother now refused to speak his name.

Edward Northbrook's status rocked in the wake of Alistair's betrayal, and scandal nipped at the heels of the Northbrook-Greys. Eleanor gathered her family protectively close, rallying them to a united front, but the bonds which had once felt unshakable seemed suddenly loose to Natalie. How quickly one of them could be cast free, forgotten. Exiled. Though her grandfather held on to his power and, eventually, equilibrium of a sort returned, Natalie drifted away.

At nineteen she abandoned home, shunning the golden education her mother had laid out for a beautiful and secure future. Her grandfather frowned upon this new rebelliousness, but ultimately advised Eleanor to let her go. She would come back, he said, when this silliness had run its course. After all, she was still a Northbrook. Indeed, loyalty never has sent her too far from the family she cannot forgive - though in what way they have even betrayed her she can't begin to define. It feels like the cinch of razors in her chest when she thinks on it, so she doesn't.

She used her mother's connections to push as much distance as she could between herself and London, which ultimately sent her to aid work overseas. Her mother, humanitarian so she purported to be, was both furious and fearful, but there was precious little she could do about it. She was the most diligent and high profile of the Red Cross's supporters; she could hardly deny her daughter's pledge to working on the ground. If Natalie had intended it as calculated punishment for her mother's lack of emotion concerning her husband, it certainly cut to the bone.

----*----

Pale blonde hair, light green-blue eyes. Fair skin, average tall and of petite frame. She has the grace and poise afforded by her privileged upbringing, and her accent is enunciated and crisp, advertising clearly where she is from. The intensity of her pale stare is sometimes mistaken for haughtiness, though Natalie is not usually concerned by what others think. She's independent minded and cool of demeanour. Having grown up under media glare, she's learnt how to keep her emotions close. Little ruffles her - or appears to anyway.

She values honesty and can be pretty blunt herself, but upholds a tradition of manners. Passion cores her cold exterior; when her temper flares, it is white hot. Recompense is often calculated (and more likely to be on behalf of others). She's perceptive of those around her, if her interests in looking out for them are usually veiled in apathy.

Quick minded, a deep thinker, and a keen musician. Though partial to dry humour, she's not usually unkind. She has the smirk of a cynic, and many would believe it of her; she guards her privacy, and trusts grudgingly - though once given she can overlook almost any fault. Any but the sting of rejection, and the knife of betrayal.

Her presence ghosts in and out of the media, but she refuses to speak for herself - and has never spoken of her father. She is only really known as the wayward middle daughter of Eleanor Northbrook, haunted by the lingering accusations placed after the fire. It is speculated that her work overseas is exile, either self-inflicted out of guilt or imposed by her family. Despite the efforts of the Northbrooks at the time of trial, the whisper of her involvement - or at the least her knowledge of - Alistair Grey's transgressions has never truly died. She is the chink in the Northbrook's fastidious reputation.

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Collecting on a Wager
  
  
  
• The Hunt
  
  
  
• The gift &amp; the pledge
  
  
  
• Loose Ends
  
  
  
• War Games
  
  
  

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Coup D'etat (Azubuike NPC, Ekene NPC, Jay, Jacques, various NPCs)
  
  
  
• The Dust Settles (Jacques, Jay, Ekene NPC)
  
  
  
• Understandings (Jacques, Jay, Ekene NPC)
  
  
  
• The Road to Masiaka (Jacques, Jay, Azuibuike NPC, Jared, various other NPCs)
  
  
  
• Operation Rien N'Empêche (No interaction)
  
  
  
• The Search (Jay, Jared, Ekene &amp; other NPCs)
  
  
  
• Full Circle (Alone/Olabisi)
  
  
  
• The Long Road Forward (Jay, Jared, Jacques)
  
  
  
• A Quiet Arrival
  
  
  
• A Night to Forget (Aria, NPCs)
  
  
  
• Experiments (NPC Alistair Pavlo)
  
  
  
• Spilled Drinks (Jay, Jared, Soren, Nox, Dorian, Emily)
  
  
  
• Through the Storm (alone)
  
  
  
• A Day to Remember (Ascendancy, Evelyn)
  
  
  
• Caesura
  
  
  Edited by Natalie Grey, Feb 21 2018, 07:30 AM.
  
  

Philosophical look at the One Power time!

Given that time is a Wheel, and bound by other physical properties than what we equate with time today, and that balefire has effects on time, I ask you this...
... do you think it is possible - and if so, how? - that the One Power can be used for time travel?

Jay "Hollywood" Carpenter



Occupation:

Corporal, Fox company 3rd Marine Raiders Battalion
Legionnaire 1e Classe, Légion Première



Biography:

In high school, everyone called him Carp.  Everyone meaning all the teachers, guys and nerdy girls.  The hot girls were apparently too high and mighty for nicknames, but it served to keep things straight in his head.  

"Carp!"
and Jay eventually glanced up, if he wasn't doing something more fun that is.
As opposed to:
"Jay!"
 and he lept to his feet.  "Yes, hot girl?!"
 Fine, so out loud he was smoother than that, but the stream of consciousness was all the same.

High school was great.  By graduation, he was sure life had piqued.  An all-star athlete, captain of the baseball team, and prom king he was a god in their podunk Iowa farmtown.  Best yet, he knew it too.  But Jay liked to think he stayed humble.  He danced with one of the nerdy chicks at Prom.  Sure it was mostly about a dare, but a good dare was irresistible, as was nerdy chick's cleavage.  
"Would you like to dance,
[insert nerdy chick's name he clearly can't remember]?"  


[Insert nerdy chick melting into his arms]

The prom queen made him pay for it later.  But no complaints from Jay.  Technically it was her idea.  

So high school was the peak.  The summer following graduation was spent pouring over college acceptance letters.  He even spent a weekend over at Iowa City with a few of the gang intending to enroll for the fall.  But every time someone asked him about college, Jay felt like he was going to have diarrhea.  College. Sounded. Like. Hell.  Not even the lure of college girls, college bars, and college towns could reduce the sting.  

So he spent the summer working on the farm like always.  Six am.  Five am.  By harvest season, he was up at four am, although that was really nothing new.  He'd been working the fields since he was old enough to drive a tractor - bailed hay before that - and shucked corn before that.  Hell, people around there gave babies water-soaked cobs to chew on for teething.  The farm was in his blood; and had been since his great-grandparents bought the land right after WWII.  

Soon, the "What are you going to do with your life, Jay?"'s
stopped coming.  Mom and dad assumed he'd be down at the barn every morning, good and reliable, like always.  Come Thanksgiving, after harvest season, burning season, and turning the fields were done, Jay was at the dinner table, and talk of the following year's planting season started.  Dad and grandpa were debating round-up brands.  Mom and Aunt Sarah were talking Black Friday shopping over in Des Moines.  Uncle Cooper and Coach Swanson (the neighbor [neighbor being the closest house a mile west down their dirt road]) were talking about the dwindling football season, and prospects for the spring baseball line up.  Apparently they already forgot there was a state all-star shortstop sitting at the table.

It was over a plate of apple pie (extra whip cream) when he freaked out.  He sat there, fork half way to his mouth, and realized he was living the exact life he always dreaded.  From prom king and all star to tractors and pie.  Although the pie wasn't that bad of a fate.  (He made sure to finish that plate, and a piece of cherry while he was at it.)  

"Mom, I want to go to Des Moines with you and Aunt Sarah tomorrow,"
he spoke up between bites.  "And this is great pie,"
he mumbled with a smile to put her at ease.  It probably only served to heighten her suspicion, but sure enough, he was in the truck heading to town the next morning.