The night after killing the Ijiraq Aria felt lost. She hadn't killed it on her own, she had no idea how to explain it to Father Stone, and had not reported it to him. She prayed he did not find out. But she knew one day it would happen. How does one create enough fire to turn the mist to ash? Or how to freeze it solid enough to sever it's head? Those were the two questions she had and there were no answers in any of the books in Moscow.

There was one book still left listed in the Monster A-Z reference book - The Journal of Elenora Martello. But it was not in Moscow, there could be only one other place she could easily find it, Atharim Headquarters in Vatacin City. Home!

It was hard to believe she thought of that dreadful room as home, but it was something she longed for. It was far better than the bliss of tonight's journey through neighbor hell. Aria drowned herself in the depths of her bathtub wishing for the dark damp cement walls she had called home. But that was a far off dream. She was here in Moscow, and for some reason she didn't really want to go back to the way it was before. Freedom had grown on her.

But she needed that book. It was the last resort if there was any more Ijiraq hiding in Moscow, and with the number of power weilding folks that seemed to permeate this god forsaken city, the Ijiraq had plenty of food. She wasn't about to reveal that fact yet, but finding a way to kill it was top of her list. It was a unique challenge, and one she intended to be victor over.

So the next morning Aria packed a small bag, her guns and swords in another and hopped a train to Vatican City. Aria thought it might be time to learn to drive or to risk being confined on an airplane without anywhere to go. The latter did not merit more than a cursory thought. Flying was not an option.

-----

It was a long trip and Aria hesitated doing into the building she use to call home. But the library awaited. The moment she stepped in the feelings of home set in. The solitude and the closeness to god was felt all around. It was like that in the city too, but not as much with more people so close together. Priest and Nuns wandered the halls, giving Aria only a glance before hurrying on their way. If they recognized her, none showed it, and if they did they hurried to be far from her.

She walked the halls for what seemed like hours, just remembering the years that had gone on in these walls. It was good and sad all at the same time. Aria had passed the library several times before she opened the great door that lead into the stacks of books far beneath the city streets. It smelled just like she remembered, and it felt glorious to be in the comforts of home. She hadn't expected it to feel quite so warm and welcoming.

Others of the Atharim were wandering the aisles, some carrying books, others studying the shelves. Aria went straight to a table and put bags down in a chair. Then went for the card catalog. It was an archaic system, but it was what they had. No one really had the time to do the mundane task of re-cataloging it all, so it remained the same.

The card catalog was no help, the book was not listed. Aria sighed.

A man stood behind her, he was guarding his emotions and Aria turned to find Father Dimitri standing there with a wide grin on his face.

Aria glared at him. "You lie to me and expect me to be happy to see you?"

The smile faded and he shook his head, "You read things you should not."

Aria laughed, "Father Stone said I do not need a handler and handed me your little note and box. Thanks for that by the way." The sarcasm in Aria's voice was nearly a jab in the eye. She despised that box with a passion.

Father Dimitri frowned but was soon back to his regular self, calm, cool and collected, like every Priest should be. "What are you doing here?"

She thanked the Lord he wanted to get this over with as much as she did. "I'm looking for the Journal of Elenora Martello."

He raised an eyebrow but shown no other recognition of the book. "How did you hear about that book?"

"It's in a reference book I found in Moscow, that lists books by creature." It was a fact.

He nodded and smiled. "I suppose it's time you gained your rightful place."

Aria was confused as he continued on, "Follow me, I will take you there."

Father Dimitri turned and waded down the aisles of books to a vault that very few had access too. "This is the family tome's. Most of our hunters are chosen from their family's, hunters who have been hunters for generations. Your mother was one such hunter, and so are you. But until now, you were too fragile to be given access to these. I still doubt your resilience in things, but you have earned your right to the tomes."

He walked into the vault indicating she should stay out. He disappeared into the depths but returned with a stack of books. "Some have been lost over the generations to hunters who have never returned. Your mother's journal is in here, as is the book you seek. Good hunting my little song."

Aria grimaced but took the things from him. Everything about this man grated at her now. He lied to her. She was not his little song. "Can I use my old room?"

Father Dimitri nodded, "No one has taken up it's space you are free to use it while you stay."

Aria nodded, "I'll only be using it for a short time." Aria had no intention of staying more than she had to.

-----

Aria opened the door to the place that she had once called home, nothing had changed. The light was dim and flickered every so often. It smelled damp and danker than usual but only for lack of use. It brought back memories, and not all so good.

Aria set the journals on the table in her old room and picked up the journal. She flipped the cover and a piece of paper fell out. She picked it up and started to read the hand written note.

"Dear Aria,"

That made her pause and look to the bottom of the letter.

"With Love, Always with you. Autunna Luna, your mother."

She was shocked by the revelation. She read the letter from the beginning.

"Dear Aria,

This is a journal that has been in our family since it has been written. It is the journal from the end of the Age of Escape, the sixth age, the age that came before in the great wheel that shapes the pattern of time. It is our legacy and our future to keep these volumes for future generations. The Atharim, has come from great roots and we just keep this knowledge in the hopes that our grandchildren's grandchildren will be safe from those that would call themselves Gods.

This journal and the other journals in this collection are our families legacy. You, my child who follows in my footsteps must keep with the tradition, catalog your adventures, pass them all down to your child who follows. I fear that I will not be able to raise you, the Atharim hunts me. I fear that Dimitri will soon find us and I will not be able to impart these words to you.

You are born of legacy. I wish I could be there for you my child. It is with sad regret that I write this. I was coerced by the man I was to hunt and kill. Instead I fell in love with the foul creature. But not by choice, it was his power I know now that made me love him. But it is with deep regret that you are a child of a Sentient. I do hope that the genes are not passed down to you, so that you may continue with the legacy. I fear for you my child. Take care and be safe. Learn well and take up the helm for our family, or I will be the last in a very long line of hunters.

With Love, Always with you. Autunna Luna, your mother."

Aria sat down on the edge of her bed in though. Sentient... The word rang so many bells in her head. So many things gone wrong with her life. Fury rose in her mind. Father Dimitri had to have known, at least suspected what the possibilities were. She wasn't sure if she should run and hide or confront him with this revelation. But the fury didn't allow for the former, Aria got up and took the letter with her and stormed out of her room to Father Dimitri's office.

Related to Dreams of Fire

Drayson stood calmly in the crowded subway station, hands clasped calmly to his front. He towered over much of the crowd, and for both his size and appearance was afforded a small circle of space around himself, save at his back. He stood with his back to one of the fresco covered pillars of Moscow's largest metro station.

It had been a long shift, even by his standards. Growing trouble in DV had led to increased background and security checks throughout the CCD; while not expected, they were still keeping a sharp eye out for potential extremist attacks in other regions. Moscow especially.

He had spent the last twenty hours overseeing the newly formed police task force's counter terrorism training. There were other organizations in the CCD that already existed for the task, but he had learned long ago that one needed to be prepared for everything, and this task force was to be the test pilot for similar teams later.

His gaze swept across the crowd with apparent disinterest; just another tired businessman on his way home at the end of a long day. Of course, he paid attention to details few in the crowd noticed; what people carried in their hands, who shied away from the two metro security officers standing in casual conversation near a vending machine and not doing their jobs to Drayson's standards. He would pay their shift supervisor a visit tomorrow. They were there to assure the people of Moscow were safe, after all.

One hand lifted to rub at tired eyes, and when he opened them again he found a pair of young girls staring up at him. The elder could have been no more then five, and the two studied him with open curiousity. He smiled tiredly and cast a glance at the crowd under his brows, before deciding on the likely parent of the two children. He opened his mouth to speak, then just shook his head in quiet amusement as the children's mother saw him and carefully maneuvered her charges ahead of herself and out of his sight in the crowd. At least someone was paying attention to their duties.

He could just barely make out the distant rush of wind in the tunnel that would signal the approach of the train he waited for, when a series of events distracted him from any thought of home and sleep. And of the paperwork he needed to do before he could sleep.

First was the sudden movement of the two terminal guards. Both men jerked upright and grabbed at their shoulder clipped radios, turning the little speakers there towards their ears in an attempt to hear something more clearly. At the same time, the lights flickered, briefly, and those in the tunnels went to emergency lighting levels. The station went next, emergency lights flicking on instantly.

The crowd quieted, asides from a few startled yelps. The sound of the train came to a distant stop, and Drayson worked his way through the crowd easily to the two metro guards, who were speaking into their radios and apparently getting no response. He pulled his badge and held it open to the two men, the exhaustion of his long day forgotten. "Situation?"


The two men glanced at his badge dumbly for a moment before realizing what they were looking at. Both looked suddenly relieved. One of them leaned in closely, while his partner tried to hide obvious worry as he glanced at the crowded station. "Chief Inspector. Something has happened at the central control station."


Drayson glanced towards one far wall of the crowded station. Sturdy, unassuming doors marked one of many entrances to the control room that oversaw the running of Moscow's entire metro system. Most of the functions were delegated to sub-stations around the city, but the one here was the biggest, and oversaw everything that happened with every train and tunnel and platform in the city.

He pulled his Wallet, and quickly thumbed a few commands into it. The Moscow metro systems were no stranger to terrorism, and the central command station was an ideal target to try and bring the city's entire public transit system to a crashing halt. Trains could be derailed or crashed together if someone knowledgeable of the controls were so inclined.

The commands he had thumbed in where to the head of the newly formed task force. Most of the unit was administrative and investigative; they were to track persons of interest, had access to the city's wide range of security systems, and through him had the ability to wire-tap or search buildings without having to hack through kilometers of red tape first.

They also had the cream of the crop of the city's various Special Purpose Mobile Unit (OMON) teams, who had just received the order to mobilize.

"Keys, now. Get the rest of your men here, be ready to evacuate, and keep everyone calm."
He took a keyring from the two security guards; any electronic locks he could bypass easily enough. Physical ones were a barrier even his Wallet couldn't get him through.

With the keys in hand, Drayson made his way through the crowd, ignoring the pre-recorded message of technical delays. Some small part of his mind pictured a bed he would not be seeing any time that night. The responsibilities of his office came with a 24-hour work schedule.

A minute later, he was out of the crowded metro station and into the service tunnels that ran behind the artistically detailed walls of the station proper.

Only the emergency lights were on there as well, and the tunnel was long, wide, and empty, save for three carts used by the night shift cleaning staff.

Drayson un-holstered his pistol and held it low to his side as he walked down the hallway, staying close to the left-hand wall. he stopped briefly by a service map of the tunnels, and once he had his bearings made his way to the central command station.

He passed a break room and glanced in the open door, frowning slightly at the sight that met him. Three of the night shift cleaning staff, who had probably arrived hours early for their shift, and two metro security guards lay sprawled about the small room as if someone had thrown them around. Furniture was knocked around the room, and blood spattered the walls, ceiling and floor.

His Wallet in hand again, he stepped part-way into the room and watched the hallway towards the command center. "Chief Inspector Drayson. Security breached at central metro command. Five dead. DOLAs are a go. Secure central station and metro command."

He received a surprised and worried affirmative from the shift commander for the newly founded task force. It reflected badly on the man in Drayson's mind.

Wallet returned to his pocket, on silent of course, he proceeded deeper into the service tunnel. Like a series of dominos, his message to the task-force would filter down to regional police and emergency services. The key was to try and gain control of the situation before news services could reach and contaminate the scene. The less information those vultures could get the better everything would be for people that were in harms way, and the fewer resources they would have to commit to keeping a lid on things instead of assuring the safety of the public.

He did not like reporters.

His journey to the control center was littered with broken bundles of wires strung along the ceiling, and banks of fuses blown and shredded. It was strange though; explosives or an overload would surely have meant smoke and fire, but there was no sign of either, as if the system had been shut down then destroyed manually. As if they had been crushed inside their housings, on closer inspection. Jaws of life, or some other heavy hydraulic tool might have managed that, but how could a group have gotten such equipment down there unnoticed?

Two more dead security guards lay in the hallway outside the command room, the doors of which were closed. Like those in the break room, they seemed to have been smashed against the opposing walls repeatedly. Neither man had drawn their pistol. Security cameras were destroyed, even those mounted and hidden in the concrete walls, again as if they had been crushed or torn free of their reinforced mountings.

Drayson's mind raced to piece the situation together. Multiple assailants? No...how could they have covered the distance of the corridor to the two guards and subdue them without either man pulling his sidearm? Maybe it was someone they knew? But that made no sense either. The way they were killed spoke of one violent individual, not a coordinated and armed group.

The destroyed relays and master fuses explained why the system had shut down. If central control went offline, all the lines would come to an abrupt halt. Without central control's oversight, the various secondary stations only had control of their own lines, with little input on how their neighbors ran things.

So what else could it have been? He remembered a monster that had led to the deaths of two good friends of his, in an old abandoned London subway station. Something that could possess a man's body and turn him against his friends. Could that have been it? It had been unnaturally strong, and had worn familiar faces? A Wefuke?

He approached the door to the control station, finding the heavy magnetic-lock doors offline and ajar. He paused, listening at the crack for a moment, and a desperate man's voice pleading with someone. Promises were given, the man's desperation growing more and more evident as the pain in his voice grew more pronounced. Pain and desperation that turned to horror and suddenly ended with the sharp sound of bone breaking against a solid surface.

The second man's voice was all the curses and rantings of a mad-man. An ex employee, from what Drayson could gather, but it still made no sense. It sounded as if there were only one man left in the room. One man could not have done all the damage he had seen reaching the control room.

Metal squealed and tore abruptly, and Drayson grimaced at the ear-splitting sound. He glanced at his Wallet a moment and frowned irritably; ETA 20 minutes. That wouldn't do. The team needed to be faster. He glanced back down the hallway, expecting to see more attackers, or any hint of the heavy equipment that would have been needed to accomplish what he had seen, but no answers were provided there.

One assailant, crazed and by all signs not armed. Not with a firearm at least. The room beyond sounded large, the man's ranting screams at least a few meters distant of the door. Even if he had some sort of tool, the distance was enough that Drayson could dispatch the man before the distance was closed.

Assuming it was a man. He had glimpsed the other side of the veil once already, and was painfully aware that man was not alone on the Earth. So what the hell was he dealing with?

Shaking his head, Drayson cursed his own stupidity and stepped back from the door. One practiced move of his thumb released the safety on his weapon, and a moment later he was jerking the heavy door open with one powerful pull. It swung on well oiled hinges and slammed in it's hinge-breaks before hitting the wall.

Drayson entered the room with surprising speed for his size, weapon up and leveled at the only man that stood in the room. The man was pasty white and sweating, spattered in blood, his clothes rumpled and soiled. His hands were raised towards one of the control panels, which even as Drayson watched suddenly crumbled in on itself as if under a heavy weight.

An invisible heavy weight, apparently. The man seemed to push down on something, and the panel finally gave way, metal screeching again as it caved in. Drayson's brow furrowed at the sight, then his gaze snapped back to the perpetrator. The ex-employee spun on Drayson, arms flashing out towards him and a look of mad glee on his face.

Drayson fired once, then everything went dark.

-----

He came awake with a start. His eyes snapped open, but the view that met him was...off. He had been standing in the doorway, but now he could only see ceiling tiles and an emergency light. And a face hidden behind a featureless face-mask. One of the members of the newly formed task force, from what he could tell of the unit name emblazoned on it.

They were twenty minutes out, how did they get here so soon? His mind raced to understand what had happened, and he tried to raise his left arm to rub at tired eyes, only to find a brief flash of pain as his reward. His brow furrowed irritably and he slowly turned his head to look at his arm.

He was in the hallway, near two dozen meters from the door at least. It was hard to judge the distance from where he lay. He was laying on the floor, apparently. And his arm was broken. Or maybe just dislocated. The officer kneeling next to him patted his other shoulder and removed his helmet; a she, apparently, not a he.

"Lay still, Sir. Dislocated your shoulder, maybe a mild concussion. Situation is secure though, Sir."
She grinned down at him, although it was easy to tell she was uneasy despite her attempted casual airs, then moved away to make space for paramedics that came swooping in with a stretcher for him.

He could over-hear the investigators, and one confirmed that Drayson had shot and killed what appeared to be the perpetrator. He sighed quietly and turned his gaze back to the ceiling. This was going to make for a lot more paperwork. And reporters...damn reporters.


Edited by Drayson, Mar 30 2014, 10:57 AM.

Continued from: Something To Do

Provost Boipello and three other men that had made up part of Mr Danjou's personal entourage for his visit to the ancient holy city stood in one of the Bedouin camps that dotted the city's outskirts. Gone were their FELIN 2 armour and gear, replaced with the traditional tob (robes) of the desert tribesmen. Each man carried a rifle brazenly slung over their shoulders, and khanjar knives tucked into their sashes.

The four men did not stand out much; they were African born, and the Bedouin tribes were known to travel far and wide, with the Islamic faith being a dominate one in Africa as well. They moved as a group, working their way among the tents and past the corrals of horses and camels and goat pens, their gaze focused on a crude cross with a body boldly tied to the rough timber planks.

The four men recognized Cpl Ime's remains only for the tattered and stained uniform and armour; the radicals that had taken his body had deemed his equipment unworthy of looting, apparently. All the better, as the FELIN armour included a GPS tracker that had led the Provost and his men straight to them.

They stopped at the edge of the tents as they gave way to the wide open space in which Ime's remains had been left. Dozens of men still lingered there sharing inflated stories of the attack on the foreign reporter and her camera man, and of the killing of the 'infidel' that now decorated their camp.

Boipello glanced at his watch briefly, then nodded to one of the men with him. Sapper Aberash caught the signal and pulled a strange green plastic device from a pouch among his robes. He cupped it in one large hand, and pulled a small antenna from it's housing, extending it fully. A simple hard plastic dial next to the antenna was quickly checked, and he waited for the Provost's signal.

The four men shifted impatiently, and some of the men in the clear area around Ime's remains glanced their way suspiciously.

Boipello's watch beeped once, and Aberash's hand squeezed down on the clacker in his hand. Somewhere in the camp a tiny charge went off, barely audible even if one were standing close to it. Wood and rope of a horse pen gave way and part of the pen wall collapsed. And with it's collapse, so to did a flash-bang grenade.

He turned the dial and struck the clacker again. And again. And again. Other pens collapsed, other flash-bangs detonated. A store of camp fuel went up from an incendiary grenade. The night sky was lit by flashes of bright light and flame. Horses screamed in the night and trampled out of their corrals. Camels groaned and panicked, much like their distant cousins, the horses. And then women and children screamed in panic as tents were trampled and fires spread. The carefully stacked and separated stores of fuel detonated as sealed cans detonated, spraying burning petrol onto nearby tents.

The camp erupted into total chaos; people were running, the men in the clearing around Ime's remains were distracted from the four suspicious strangers, rushing off to try to contain the chaos. And the four Legionnaires strolled in and took down Ime's body unmolested. Sapper Aberash took the dead man's weight across his shoulders, and they walked out into the night to their waiting vehicle.

Firetrucks and ambulances raced towards the Bedouin camp, arriving far too soon to be responding to the actual initial incident. They'd been called ten minutes before the first detonation. The Legion was brutally efficient, but they were not inherently brutal. Of course, it sat well with them that the camp was mostly young men, the fiery-hearted youths who were eager for war.

This would be just one more spark in the dry tinder that was Dominance V. Little did any of them know that there was a far brighter match struck at King Saud bin Abdulaziz University that very night.

A few hours later, Provost Boipello and his men, with Cpl Ime's now bagged remains, raced down the road towards the port city of Jedah, where a chartered ship waited to bring them back to African soil and a waiting private jet to finish their journey to Casablanca.

Takeo set his ivory chopsticks on the matching rest beside his plate, collecting his thoughts for a moment as he chewed his well-seasoned duck. You never knew what you'd get in the Rose Pagoda - the kitchen seemed to be complete with a revolving door in the back - so he appreciated the attempt at recreating an old familiar dish. Salty, but familiar. He didn't open his mouth until every grain of rice was swallowed, and then only after carefully wiping his mouth and cleansing his pallet with a fresh swig of water.

"Whether or not he told me anything,"
Takeo said, hands folding calmly in his lap, "You know I can't share any of it with you."


Across the table, at a span of about 7.5 thousand kilometers, Hara Ushijima sat virtually planted behind her end of the table. Though the holo was not high-def, it was easy enough to make out the seal of the Patron of Dominence IV imprinted in imperial red on every white porcelain plate, mug and bowl projected before her. A cleanly shaven head and a stern face - untouched by makeup, surgery or enhancement - declared her a staunch Fundamentalist. She wore every one of her sixty three years with pride and nobility, though a healthy diet and impossibly clean lifestyle would lead most to believe her far younger - even in her garishly outdated and overelaborate blazer and gold-piped v-neck. He had never seen her in anything less austere - in fact, for her, this was downright spartan.

"Of course not,"
the woman answered in an only barely discernibly feminine baritone; she was obviously once married to- and divorced from the military before donning this dubious duty. The Patron waved off his comments as she might a passing fly around her bowl, which she now neglected with perfect Japanese decorum, and trudged on. "I wouldn't expect you to answer on-air regardless."
A certain set to her eyebrow let him know what a waste of a breath she thought this conversation to be. "I need whatever intel you can give me, however, Privelege. You owe me that."
She stared. "The Americans have you on camera walking hand in hand with their darling explorer. Surely you talked about more than the Ballet and how you would braid each other's hair each night. You must know you look like a fucking baka, Tokeo, bowing and scraping for that, that… that..."


Quite the mouth on the new Queen of DIV.

"That celebrity?"
Takeo offered - one of her favorite obscenities - along with a slim smile. ""He'll be gone by morning, along with all the other stars," remember?"
Takeo quoted, and felt a pang of satisfaction as the older woman's lips pursed in obvious recognition. He shrugged it off. "Listen, Ushijima-san, Trano's supporters can spin whatever story they want. D-IV will only stand firmer behind us with every biting remark the Americans make. So let them squawk."


"That's not the point!"


"No, the point is this,"
Takeo said, and this time he was not smiling, "The Ascendancy has His eye on the gaijin, and the others scratching at his door. If He wants to give them a glimpse behind the curtain, that is His concern, and none of yours. Yours is not to ask questions - nor is it mine - but to follow orders."


"That!"
Hara barked, and her projected self actually did laugh, if you could call it that. It was more of a dry-heave, abrupt and hardly audible. "Coming from you? The self-proclaimed Bastard of Tokyo. When did Tokeo learn to obey?"


How had this woman come so far in politics? If she was not the puppet, she played one well. "Tokyo is not Moscow,"


"No argument there,"
Hara uttered, waving away an apparition who had appeared on her end with a fresh teacup and saucer in hand. It floated away and vanished on the digital ether from whence it came. "We'll do it your way."
The Patron fished under the table and brought out a wallet, which she dropped with a comforting thud on the desk in front of her. As it sprang to life, several dimensional graphs and charts unfolded in the air between them. "If you can remember my last message, I have several concerns you can pass on to the Ascendancy on behalf of your Dominance, assuming that is not too much to ask of the Privelege …"


Takeo motioned for another sake - it was going to be a long night.


Edited by Takeo, Mar 26 2014, 01:15 AM.

Continued from Hunt the Hunter and Direct Action

Hasan walked among his followers as the cool, still night air meandered past him, bearing just a hint of salt water smell on the lazy eastward breeze. Silence fitted his thoughts like the funeral shrouds wrapped around his bodyguards who were in tow. Sorrow and joy sang in his heart for them; sorrow that the Adversary had taken them and joy because they were undoubtedly in Paradise with almighty Allah. Who would not want that eternal reward for those whom they loved in this life? Attempting to understand the mystery that was the way of submission was a fine line to walk, like the keen edge of the sword.

Hasan plodded on in silence. He had insisted they bring the dead by foot all the way to the Grand Mosque. Let the people see what the devil had done and let them see the martyrs. The exhaustion that sank into his soul was but a part of the penance he planned to serve -- not because he'd done anything wrong, of course, but because it was only right that God's instrument should bear the pain and suffering of His people. Had it been only hours -- or even that long? -- since that horrible attack by that devil? And what was to be done about it?

Politics and demons make strange bedfellows
. It was obvious the jinn had some goal of its own to accomplish. The idea that the CCD would send uniformed soldiers to attempt a capture or assassination was simply ludicrous. Either the Great Adversary sent a demon in control of a CCD unit, or a demon faked the unit's allegiance to make it look like the CCD was trying to take him. The rage at defilement simmered within him, kept at bay only by the knowledge that he would not be tricked into waging the holy struggle against the wrong person. It was not political war he was being called to wage but one of holiness, against Shaytan himself. Allah commanded it.

Hasan distanced himself from the caravan for a moment and forged ahead upon the highway. And that was when he saw it -- out of the corner of his eye.

Flicker.

Was it in the shape of a man? Hasan turned his head and saw nothing, only a run-down dwelling off the side of the highway. Some sheep nibbled at sparse blades of grass.

Flicker.

There. Hasan turned his head the other way. Again, there was nothing -- but this time he was certain he had seen a silhouette of some sort. It had been there. The caravan was some fifty or sixty meters distant. Some sort of unseen wave rippled through them, like an invisible breath stirring grains of sand, and was gone just as quickly.

Malak al-Maut.
Hasan dropped to his knees right in the middle of the highway. He would have hardly been surprised to have glimpsed the Angel of Death earlier, at the Mosque, calling the righteous and the damned alike. One never saw him face to face until Allah decreed it was his time. To the holy, he would appear as the most beautiful creature; to the unjust, he was a horrible, hideous thing to behold, a visage worthy of nightmares.

Was the angel coming for him? Now? It made no sense to Hasan for this to be the end of his journey -- but it was nonsensical to question the wisdom of the Almighty.

He prostrated himself. "Allah's unworthy servant greets you, Malak al-Maut,"
Hasan called out. Some old writings said the Angel's name was Azrael, but the Holy Quran did not mention this. But one did not try to run from the angel of death. Not unless a man had something to fear, at least. "Allah knows the hidden things in my heart. If my service here to him is at an end, take me home."


There was no voice in response, not even the whisper of wind. Instead, the response was whispered to his soul.

Hasan's forehead was still touching the road surface when the first of his followers caught up. "What is it, Mahdi?" called out one of his students.

Hasan lifted his head. "Allah has sent the Angel of Death to us to bid us tidings,"
he said. He left the obvious unsaid: I saw the angel and survived.
No one, no one saw the Angel of Death until it was his time to leave the world. "The final struggle is at hand. It is the will of Allah that this shall come to pass and that we prepare for the end."


Hasan stood and said no more for the remainder of the night. Talk of angels and demons he left to his followers.

Prepare for the end.
Malak al-Maut was going to be very busy in the weeks and months to come.

Age: 29 (Nov 15, 2016)
Origin: San Antonio, Texas, USA
Occupation: Assassin for Hire

Psychological description: Unlike her persona, Ayden is not a hot head, she is cool and calculated. She gets right to the point with little small talk between things. Ayden enjoys taking risks, the riskier the better the pay usually. She is highly observant. Her greatest downfall is family. While she doesn't have anyone to care for, she doesn't typically take a job that requires her to separate the mark from small children.

Physical description: Ayden is 5'6", 125lbs with an athletic build. Ayden has almost forgotten that she was born with blond hair and brown eyes. She tends to wear her hair in flaming red hair style, her hair almost looks like it's made of fire itself. She tends to wear a specialty contact lens, not for vision problems but to make her iris also look like fire. But Ayden can be seen wearing any number of wigs, colored contact lens that she feels fit the current occasion she is out of her living quarters whatever they may be.

Powers & supernatural powers: Channeler - (specifically a Phoenix - lore explained later)
Current Strength: 8
Potential Strength: 15
Channeler Experience: Adept
Reborn God: Itzpapalotl - Aztec
Biography:
Anne Lowe

Life was never simple for the Lowe family. Peter Lowe and his loving wife were the typical Army family. They moved where they were told to go as Peter was station in different places. It wasn't until they landed in San Antonio, Texas that things changed. Peter's wife, Mary gave birth to their first and only daughter, they named her Anne. In his second year stationed at Fort Sam Houston, he was shipped of to Afghanistan for the on going war on terror. Peter never returned. Mary was left to raise her daughter alone.

But Mary and Anne were not alone for long, soon Mary met another military man, he was a big wig at the base and he was permanently based in San Antonio. Mary had found the perfect husband and father after her loving Peter had never returned.

Anne was born and breed to be Texan. Even at a young age her step father, Evan O'Shea, taught her how to shoot a gun, ride a horse, wrangle all sorts of animals. It was O'Shea's dream to one day own a ranch.

Anne did well throughout school, excelled in math and science and had joined the ROTC as early as she could. She would follow in both her father's footsteps. Anne's ASVAB scores were excellent, and her time in boot camp lead her into sniper school. She was an excellent marksman, cool headed and very observant. And most importantly Anne preferred to work alone, or in small teams.

By the age of 19, Anne was well on her way to becoming an excellent and very sought after sniper. But as the fates would have it, she grew violently ill. Looking back now at the situation, it is obvious what had triggered the very first episode - a new gift had emerged.

Illusion, Fire and Healing

It had been a standard training exercise early on in her sniper training. Anne had been sent out on a mission. The details of which didn't really matter, she was alone and it was her sole responsibility to take out her mark. There were no spotters in training.

The mission was simple, but the places to conceal yourself not so much. Anne hastily put together her spot and that was the first time that the gift had present itself. Anne's cover was about to be blown. Her spot was almost uncovered but the strangest thing had happened, the world became more clear, sights more crisp, smell more vibrant,and they looked right through her - like she didn't exist. There was no twitch of the eye, or a hesitation, she was not there, though she could clearly see them. At first thought she didn't know what to think, perhaps her cover had been better than she'd thought, but Anne knew better.

Two weeks later Anne was violently ill. Her head pounded, she could not keep anything down and she missed several days of training because she couldn't stand up. The mark on her record was always something Anne had hated. She truly disliked failure, in herself and in others.

The second episode was just as bizarre. Anne was out in the wood scouting out her next practice target. This time it was a hidden location she had to find in the woods. It grew late and she knew she wouldn't make it and traveling at night was something she didn't want to do, at least not until she knew her surroundings better, and that wasn't going to likely happen in this time frame. Anne took to making a small camp fire as the night grew dark. A twig snapped and she jumped. The darkness became less dark, and in a moment there was a small fire burning in the pile she had just created but she had not lit the match or put flint to tinder yet.

And again, this time one week later, Anne grew sick. She tried to power through, but the vomiting and fever kept her in the infirmary for three days. A second mark on her record and Anne was nearly at the end of her training, she was disappointed in herself but everyone else seemed to understand.

The third and final bout of sickness was the trigger for Anne's clarity. She understood all the bizarre things that had happened had been her. Anne found herself on a final mission. This time with live ammo. Everything leading up to the moment of clarity happened so fast. A friend in her unit had gone off his course and wandered into her area. Accidents happen, Anne had not expected anything live to be present in her area, so when she heard the cracking of a twig, she immediately shot, with out thinking twice.

Anne looked up from the scope and saw her friend fall with a piercing scream. Moment's later Anne was at his side. He had been shot in the chest, it looked like she'd barely missed his heart, or he'd be dead, instead he was gasping for breath. Anne started to panic, fear started to set in. But the world grew vibrant and as Anne tried to stop the bleeding she saw the most bizarre thing happen. The wound started to heal of it's own accord.

Anne looked around and saw nothing, but the world in such fine detail. By the time she looked down her friend was no longer gasping for air. He was lying on the ground as pale as a sheet but he was no longer wounded. He looked up at her groggily. Anne couldn't help but smile but she was still greatly confused. Had she really done that? Had all those other strange things been her too. There was only one way to find out - test the theory.

And that's exactly what she did. It was difficult at first. Anne got discouraged until she realized it only happened when she was afraid. It wasn't the fear itself, but the anxiety failure caused her. Anne finished off her sniper training and was sent to be a lookout for a top notch sniper in the Army Rangers. During her free time Anne learned to control her anxiety of failure and in doing so, she learned to control her new gift. The task was difficult and Anne had learned a lot from her partner and about her gift, by the time she was given command of her own sniper team Anne could use her gift at will.

The First Shot

Anne's first mission in the Army Rangers was not very eventful in and of itself it was the night following it that made the impact. Anne remembered vividly the action of the shot itself, she replayed it over and over in her dreams since she first took that shot. It is one of the most haunting dreams she has to this day.

Atop a roof in some third world nation Anne sat waiting for her target. It felt like forever before the mark showed up. Anne grasped the essence of her gift, the extension of her senses was perfect for this line of work. Anne lined up, the wind was perfect, the sun was not in her face, it was the perfect first mission. Anne squeezed the trigger ever so slightly and the bullet flew down and through her target like a hot knife through butter. With her sharpened senses, Anne could almost feel the bullet piercing the precious flesh of the mark's body. It was a very profound moment for Anne, most people feel a tinge of regret, Anne did not she looked forward to the next one.

That night sleep came easily to Anne. Her dreams were restful and she stirred little. But the day's activities started to seep into them. First the harmless dreams were tinged with the vibrant color from the eyes of her gift. The worlds morphed and changed into horrific scenes. The buildings turned to massive trees. Her mark turned to a woman wearing nothing but a loin clothe stood over an altar. A man reached in and ripped her heart from her chest and Anne could feel the glory and power from the sacrifice. It was glorious. The scenes flipped and filtered and moved around. A woman gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Anne knew that the sacrifice had been for the child and she could feel the praise and power emanating from them. She was their god...

Anne woke with a start, her heart leaped through her chest and her hands ached as is if she were the one to pull the still beating heart from the woman in her dream. Sleep did not come for the rest of the night.

Soon the dream was nothing more than memory, until the next mission. And the cycle would repeat itself. The sacrifices more gruesome than the next. The blood flowed longer and Anne remembered the dreams more clearly with each passing one.

Chastity White

Two years passed in the same cycle until the crash that should have taken her life. It was a typical mission in some third world nation. Her unit was sent to kill someone. Anne rarely asked questions. The chopper they were in was shot down. It went down like a fiery comment into the middle of some nowhere jungle. Fear took over and Anne survived only because of her gift. What happened she didn't know, but she knew it was her gift that had saved her, she had saved herself, but she didn't have any idea how.

Whatever god forsaken country they were was resistant to the US and the people that found Anne in the crash were not so nice. She endured days of torture that felt like months. Until one day they sat her in front of a black and white television and she watched as they proclaimed Anne Lowe among others dead. It was her mother and step father stepping up to protest. How things had changed since she had joined the military, a once very militant family was now very much against it.

A strange man flipped the switch off and turned to Anne. "You come work for us, and this will all stop."

Anne looked at him suspiciously. And he continued, "You are dead to your government, we made sure of that." He dropped a plain manila folder on her lap, the contents facing up. "Kill this man, and you can be set free." He laughed, "But you will work for us."

Anne was definite, "Why should I work for you?"


He smiled at her with great pleasure as he spoke, "I'll kill your precious little family."

It wasn't so much a weak point but the glances of the mark had made Anne want to kill him. He was a horrid man, but it really didn't matter, what she did.

"Fine."
She said with disgust, but only because she wanted free of this hell hole, one problem at a time.

He nodded and a second folder fell in her lap. This one with password and all legal documentation she needed to live a different life as Chastity White. Chastity completed the missions this foreign government sent at her. Some were righteous kills, others not so much. But the pay was decent and her family was safe. And she still got to do what she loved despite the dreams that affected her each mark she took out.

Phoneix

The last mission she did as Chastity White ended with Chastity dying in another ball of fire. It was not her typical mission. It was meant to look like an accident. Hard to shoot someone in the head and make it look like an accident. Even suicide was out of the picture on this one. But the pay was great.

Chastity had done her research, the mark was a frequent call girl requester. She posed as his next girl, and got in with out much question, apparently he was mean and the girls didn't like him. So when Chastity had canceled his appointment posing as his wife, she took the role up with ease. Chastity brought her own special brand of wine which he gratefully took. The poison inside should have made it look like a heart attack. But before the poison could do it's job, the man had tried to tie Chastity up, he pulled a knife on her and there was little to do but defend herself. Chastity cut the man's throat with easy. But it was no longer an accident.

Quick on her feet Chastity lit several candles and carefully arranged the body on the bed. Then she tipped the candle over. Oops. Chastity embraced her gift and enraged the flame. Soon it engulfed the curtain, then the room and then the floor and ceiling. Everything succumbed to the power of the flame. When the flame reached the body, Chastity raised her arms and the flames grew hotter and higher. The power was immense. She left unscathed.

Rumor abound about the fire, supposedly a woman walked out of the fire unharmed, but no one could find her. No one knew she had been there. Some started calling the mystery girl the Phoenix. And fire was soon becoming the former Chastity White's best friend.

Her employers thought she was dead despite no body being found, Chastity was happy to be rid of them, and started her own career. Her name became Ayden Hayes. Both names carefully researched and both meaning fire in some form or another.

Ayden took the Phoenix nick name seriously and chose her look based upon the myths and legends of the fire bird. Her hair dyed in flaming colors, contacts made to look like flames. Ayden was not an arsonist, she didn't enjoy setting fires, but fire had become almost better than shooting some poor mark in the head.

Ayden took jobs where ever she could find them. The issue didn't matter, money was money. It was all about the money and Phoenix was good at her job, the world would pay good money.


Edited by Ayden, Jun 17 2014, 01:59 PM.

Occupation:
Spy/Assassin for Hire. The previous corporation Annika worked for sold out and in turn most lost work. Those paid off books were essentially out of work. Therefore she is Unemployed, but works part time as a seamstress for a mom & pop store in her apartment building.

Personality:
In many ways, Annika personifies much of what her former self symbolized. Force, constraint and necessity. The aspects of Fate and Destiny, however, have been lost to the wheel although she does find herself pulled in certain directions that then place her in pivotal situations. Sometimes.

The default of her personality is Constraint. To pause, wait, listen; Annika is an old hat to constraint and it has become a dear friend. She does not often show excessive amounts of emotion, and when she does there always seems to be a hint of what she holds back. Even as a child, she spent less time playing with other children, but instead watching or interacting in a more limited capacity. One thing that seemed a theme was that loud was not often right, but the weight of words came from limiting opinion. She conversed plenty but when it comes to important subjects her words were rare but worth listening to.

Annika always felt a level of necessity for things. It was necessary for her to complete school, to follow up on an unknown receipt, to actually make friends, or acquaintances even if it isn't easy. She isn't necessarily stubborn so much as feels that need weighs heavier than desire. Relations are important to the the emotional state of being human, so there fore making friends is a necessity to that end. On the other hand, food is only a requirement for functioning and fueling the body. Extravagance and material wants are not something she indulges in as she doesn't feel the need for them. In many ways, kindness is a necessity of every day life even if her moral compass and goals are a little skewed.

However, her goals are a little more of a gray area. When driving towards meeting a goal, Annika is a Force to be reckoned with. Skilled in a variety of hand to hand skills and some weaponry, it is unwise to stand in her way. Not to mention her ability to collect and store information, she has a little black book of names and secrets she has collected over her lifetime that could cause problems to those that cross her. Annika is not one to forget, or forgive.

What she is working towards, even Annika isn't entirely sure. She dislikes power, but dislikes those that abuse power more. What she finds confusing is that an abuse of Power for the good of others to be a load of crock, yet selfishness seems fairly parallel in the damage it creates for others. Ultimately Annika searches for something to believe in, and has very few moral virtues as to how to achieve it.

Annika's hobbies include knitting, poetry, languages and her cat, Cat.


Appearance:
Standing at 5 feet and 6 inches, her most defining feature is her little flat nose that turns up at a perfect point. Small thinned lips of a soft rose, average cheekbones, and a thin but fit body Annika makes a striking pose when dressed in fame and flare. But then most anyone would, and Annika isn't one to dress up for an occasion unless necessary. Currently her hair is a natural blonde, but it has taken a variety of colors over her history and will likely change again as she needs it to. Hair is a rather versatile tool.

Often her roles in the past have had her infiltrating in business garb, and so she has a collection of basic and designer suits in both pant and skirt with matching jacket. Her more staple pieces are the white pant suit with a black and white print blouse or the black suit with a skirt and a solid colored top. She wears her hair in a variety of ways, but usually sticks to a single style for each job. Even at work Annika rarely wears jewelry.

In a more casual setting, she still has a similar business casual look, but instead of dress pants she wears dark jeans. While she owns a few skirts she tends not to wear them unless for work. Her hair is usually loose or pulled back into a messy ponytail. Annika has a medium length jacket to keep out the cold, and a off white knitted scarf made by her mother. The scarf is a treasured possession.

Power:
The discovery of her power was quite shocking to Annika. But its use as a tool gave it untold limitations and value. She has grown to use her power as a shield, manipulating air, water and spirit with relative ease. Her skill is rudimentary at best without a teacher, but she has been able to skillfully use illusions on herself to alter her appearance when she needs it, keep her tea warm, and keep herself dry during downpours. She's still working on the keeping herself warm in the winter without adding to her electric bill but Fire isn't exactly her most reliable element. Air conditioning, however, is now free.

Eventually she will have some control and talent with Compulsion, but as a starting character she is not nearly skilled enough, nor is aware of it as an ability.


History

Born in Samara, Russia, Annika is a mix of heritages. A Grandmother from England, a Great Grandfather from Ireland, and a Mother from Greece, somehow she has found a way to use it all to blend in to her surroundings. Annika never really stood out from others where she lived, even her blonde hair wasn’t really out of place among the children of her neighborhood and schools. Growing up with only her father, after a rather nasty divorce when Annika was merely three, she has never met her half siblings from her mother and has never felt a desire to look for a mother-like role in her life.

Annika was very close to her father. He was a shoemaker that did very well in his youth and had made it into a thriving business until the day he died when Annika was 15, and just graduating high school. Young and mature for her age, she found herself having to deal with banks and loans and corrupt people who took advantage of her youth and "bought" the business from her. What 15 year old had a use for a business that only involved men’s shoes? It did not help that only months after his death that she was greeted with a strange sickness. Ill enough to miss her own graduation, Annika agreed to the large settlement (not nearly large enough given the net worth of the company), and instead spent a month in the hospital quarantined. Fever raged, and heightened, and then broke. She was fine, free of whatever plagued her, and she returned to her home only to find it robbed of much of what her father and her built together. What else would happen to a house abandoned for a month?

While she missed out on her graduating ceremony, Annika still was able to complete her junior years of schooling years ahead of her age group. For the next two years, studied at one of the more prestigious colleges on scholarship, completing a degree in Social Science, minoring in international Law. (It seemed practical at the time.) on the cusp of turning 19 did she start on her Master degree and completed it within the year. By 21 she had earned her Masters, and an additional Degree in Law. What was fascinating about Law was how it had been used against her. Returning to her Father’s company, she started to look for a bit of retribution. It had been her fathers company, and to have been hers. Though circumstances had found herself understanding that it had been avoidable, being only 15 at the time, now she could at least avenge a little what had been stolen from her due to unfortunate chains of events.

It was unfortunate that she had not foreseen the ramifications of using her own name entering into the corporate aspect of the company. Within a year she had been able to move up a little, but only to be closer watched. Once they noticed her recording more and more documents for private use, instead of using legal means (which would have brought to question the original deal 6 or so years ago), and it being Russia, they sent someone to her home to take care of their little problem.

Annika learned quickly that she wasn’t like others. During the scramble that lever her with a broken computer, lamp, ripped books and an incredibly large mess of books. Not to mention the body in the kitchen and a stove that was now parked outside her building, She felt something.. euphoric. It was obvious that she was no longer safe, but it came with a renewed purpose that she was getting to where she needed to be. There was power in her body, and it was something she needed to learn to control. Also, if she was going to get into these sorts of situations she would need to learn self defense.

Becoming a infiltrator, a spy, or perhaps even an assassin, happened a little more organically. Annika didn’t draw from a terrible childhood, for it really was filled with good memories. Her purpose was perhaps built from a series of events, or even a mentor to give her direction. But as the years progressed, Annika learned. She studied, and oddly put her Masters degree to a different use. She used it to study people, patterns, and to find loopholes. Eventually she contracted out to a small Corporation when she was 25 where she spent a lot of time traveling all over eastern Europe. Even some time in west. Annika was able to regain control of her father’s company, now a moderately successful shoe and clothing company, through legal means after a few unfortunate deaths up the corporate ladder. It was a clean income, free of blood money and gave her a bit more comfort that would otherwise be challenging to gain.

4 years of steady work filtered down into a few jobs here and there. The last job was in Moscow, where Annika has found herself in an apartment complex above a collection of stores. Tailoring, a Grocer, Chinese (in Moscow?! Who knew!) and a shooting gallery. The Shooter made for a good way to burn off steam while leaving the tenants feeling surprisingly safe. Mostly, Annika is a little upset that she lost her contact in Moscow, and really hasn’t decided what she wants to do next. However, there are whispers of work for some other organizations, and Annika is curious to check them out.

The sun was a distant, useless star hung low in a sky blanketed by the haze of pollution.

As soon as he stepped into the frigid winter air, Eli finished snapping the buckle at his throat. His sneer for the cold sun deepened as the breeze whisked powdery snow around his legs. His hair plumed around his face, and his jaw tensed. He tucked fingerless gloves deep in his pockets and tried to erase the memories of what his blackened eyes witnessed within the hospital that finally spat him back out on the streets. The creak of old wheelchairs moaned in his mind. The smell of vinegar and bleach burned his nostrils. Dark, damp; within the prison-like tunnels he'd left behind, Eli's contempt had been a black god of mercy in comparison.

Most of all, he wanted to forget the madman that occupied the last hour of his life. What tumbled within that greasy scalp was pure insanity. Chthonic tales spewed from his puckered old lips like venom. He spoke of underwater volcanoes spitting snakes the size of buses. He spoke of the earth shaking, and the coming of a man whose feet broke stone with every step.

Snow crunched under Elias' feet like abandoned bones. The route in and out of the visitor's ward clearly was not well-traveled enough to warrant regular snow shoveling; security was likewise surprised at his early morning request for entrance. As he came upon the final wall, he wrapped himself in power and smiled to himself while the cameras registered his face. Every absurdity had a grain of truth somewhere, and deep in the mind of one psychotic scientist locked in the Guardian until the end of his days, Elias found a grain of truth lost in a sea of delirium.

That modicum of authenticity was going to help him uncover the truth of his uncle's demise.

Iron bolts snapped open, and he was released once more into the world while the Guardian had never known he was the greatest danger that could have walked out of their asylum this day. He turned down the street headed for the metro station, already forming a plan in his mind.
Edited by Elias Donovan, Mar 18 2014, 05:42 PM.

Elias Donovan

Age: 20 years old, born in 2025, Kanab, Utah, USA.

Channeling: 9/19; New.


Biography


Elias was born into the respectable Donovan family as the second son of five children. The Donovans raised their children as devout Latter Day Saints amongst the other congregations of Kanab. Elias’s childhood was spent in pleasant obscurity and consisted mainly of church and a nurturing community.

Like all of the Donovan children, Eli was instilled with a great sense of family loyalty and charitable nature. However, while he loved his family his teenage years brought not only the trouble of puberty, but also of doubt and discord. Unlike his other siblings, he started to question the beliefs of his family and friends. He was met with caring concern and stern warning not to stray from the path of righteousness.

Elias’s natural obstinacy was greater than his fear of reprimand and he soon chafed under what he considered an increasingly questionable faith. He felt the weight of the reserved and isolated community of Kenab and in his high school years found himself shunned by his peers. Those who did not shun him merely irritated him with their condescending pity over his personal crises and considered him confused and confounded by the disillusions of the wider world.

Irritation soon turned to contempt and by sixteen he had almost completely removed himself from the wider Kenab society, no longer attending church or observing the precepts of his childhood faith. Much to the concern of his parents, his mood became sullen and introverted. He dressed in the dark colors of Gothic theme, let his hair grow long, and stretched lanky and pale as he aged. He considered himself chained to the barren wasteland of Kenab and resentment grew steadily to a point where his parents despaired of ever reclaiming their child’s soul. To further complicate matters, he began to experience strange bouts of ill-health which was viewed with suspicion and even fear among the older residents.

At the height of Elias’s rebellion, the family decided to take a vacation to the famed Salt Lake to give Eli (and themselves) some time away from the disapproving gaze of Kenab and inspire love for creation in their apathetic son. It was on this trip Elias first used his unique abilities.

When they arrived at the camp site, Elias sought peace through isolation and set out on his own to find a quiet cove where he could sit undisturbed by subtle prodding and gentle concern, and there he returned several days in a row. Finally, to coax some measure of excitement out of Eli, the family rented a boat and he happily agreed to the invitation of a ride, if only for a change of scenery.

The wind heaved their sailboat all afternoon, and for once, he enjoyed the sensation of the wind in his hair. Until an unexpected chop swung a loosened berth. It clipped his temple and he fell. Kenab had not afforded him any chance to learn how to swim and he floundered hopelessly in the water, struggling for consciousness and soon found himself on the edge of death. As his lungs strained for air, the surface of the salty water seemed forever out of reach. In that moment, the power opened itself to him. He grasped it with frantic eagerness and found himself propelled to the surface and floating toward shore.

From that day on Elias resolved to make his way out of Kenab with a new determination and a few months later was given his chance. His paternal uncle phoned Kenab with exciting news. A marine biologist, he was selected as a team member of an elite scientific body to investigate some unusual findings south of New Zealand.

Elias jumped at the chance and begged his uncle to take him. His parents were surprised at the fervor of his pleas and desire, approving of what seemed like a sincere wish to follow in the path of his uncle’s footsteps. The truth was somewhat different – Elias would have taken anything to escape the dismal prospects that he envisioned in Kenab, including biology.

So Elias traveled to Wellington, New Zealand and enrolled in Victoria University on the recommendation and mentorship of his uncle. He welcomed the change with renewed vigor, but he still remained somewhat of a recluse.

New Zealand did him well. Within the year, it seemed the vigor and life of the island scratched at the walls he'd built around his heart. All went well until his uncle and the collaborative team mysteriously disappeared. When Elias made inquiries into the disappearance, he was met with a suspicious wall of silence and guessed there was more to the story than a vessel lost at sea. Driven by the desire to find the uncle that had delivered him from his personal hell called Kenab, Elias’s search led him to the heart of the CCD: Moscow.




Age 16. Kenab Meetinghouse


Elias leaned back in the cheap plastic heaps they called chairs and muted the droning buzz of one of Elder Calvin’s sonorous lectures on the particulars of prayer. Ezekiel (Zeke) and Isaiah (Izzy) sat either side of him with such rapt expressions one would think they though meant to become the famous prophets themselves!

Sarah glanced at him with a disappointed frown which cut. Shifting, he adjusted the black studded collar of his jacket and turned away. He hated the pity in her eyes more than the contemptuous dismissal of the others. He did not need her damn pity any more than he needed Elder Calvin’s advice.

Why couldn’t they just leave him be? He did not ridicule their absurd ideas. Why did they pester him? If he was content at taking his chances with eternal oblivion, it was his own business.

“Mr. Donovan, can you tell me which passage shows our eternal Saviour outlining the proper format for a prayer?” Elder Calvin said as Elias knew he would. He always asked Elias, although what the point was, Elias could not say.

He quoted three different passages from the scriptures with barely a thought. However much Elias dismissed their religion, he knew the Bibles inside and out, probably more so than the old man did. He saw the words for what they truly were, not some imaginary pure dream. Words, that’s all they were, plain and simple. And those words made almost no sense. How would Jesus have reached America of all places? Unless he was a particularly good swimmer - not even the Romans could have traversed the open ocean – there weren’t many other options.

And changing the skin color of the Native Americans? That was just plain racism. Besides, why didn’t they remember this supposed chastisement?

Elias’s face must have betrayed his thoughts as the Elder frowned at him. “Anything you want to share with the rest of us, Mr. Donovan?”

“No, Sir.”
Elias replied through gritted teeth. Who would listen to him anyway?



Age 19. Salt Lake.

The sun scorched Salt Lake with its fierce and unrelenting gaze. Beads of perspiration evaporated from Elias’s head almost as soon as they rose to the surface of his skin. Flicking up the collar of his black jacket to shield his neck from sunburn, he stared out over the vast lake.

His younger siblings all gaped and shouted in excited astonishment and even his parents held the great mass of water with some awe. Elias shook his head. Of course, it was his first time actually seeing so large a lake, but he hadn’t buried his head in the sand either.

Still...They were as good a family as could be. Despite their disapproval, they truly wanted the best for him. It was why he was here; to escape the constant gaze of Kanab.

Elias frowned. The doctor had said his infirmities were simply stress. Sure, the incessant pressure irked him to no end, but he had grown almost immune to it. The erratic fevers were like a dust storm blown through his mind, stress did not do that to people. At least, not him. His entire life had been nothing but stress, why would it affect him now?

“Are you coming, dear?” his mother said in her voice as mild as an autumn night under the stars.

“Yes,”
he replied, straightening his jacket with one last vigorous tug and set off to where his father and brothers had begun setting a camp.



Age 20: Wellington, New Zealand

Wellington was surprisingly conceited for a city perched on the edge of the known world. A year after his arrival in New Zealand, Elias continued to draw strange glares everywhere he went. The long coat billowing around his ankles served him well in the sting of winter's weather, though. Kenab was one endless season in comparison, but the night air of the Utah desert prepared him for the southerly wind blowing off Antarctica. He wore boots to his knees. Even as the wedges of the heels dug into the sand, not a single grain wedged its way inside. Lounged in a chair, feet crossed at the ankle, he was a black smudge in the middle of a sandy shore, but he was comfortable. Sea water lapped in front of him. The sun shone cool and distant overhead. He held a book in one hand, and moved only to turn a page or swipe away long sheets of hair from blowing across his eyes.

Yelling and grunting from up shore broke his concentration. He was paying for those C’s in high school calculus, but he was catching up swiftly. Unfortunately, the ruckus was growing close enough to no longer ignore.

From behind the rim of his book, he spared a glimpse. It was a trio of wisecracking Expat jocks. He recognized the ring-leader, Joey, from Intro to Economics. He was a barreling buffalo of a man with blonde hair that fell across perfect eyes, the wide stripes of his branded-Canterbury shirt barely contained bulging traps, and as usual, he was carrying a beer bottle in one hand and a rugby ball in the other.

One of his minions, a jet-haired, half-Korean, half-Canadian math major named Will Cho, sprinted down the beach. He turned in perfect formation and caught the ball chucked by Joey like the guys were working on American football passes. If it was a rugby thing, Elias could not say. He went back to catching up on geometric derivatives and tuned them out.

Elias quickly realized they were playing some sort of game. Will Cho was quickly barreled down by the second of Joseph’s minions, an Irish kid named Willem. Will and Willem. If it weren’t for the black or red hair, Elias would never be able to remember which was which.

Will grunted as Willem pounded him downward, laughing. He wrenched the rugby ball from the smaller man, and pounded his face into the sand. Will coughed and sputtered, sand pouring from his mouth between bouts of laughter. The sneer on Elias’s face turned cold.

He could take it no longer. “I say, guys, do you mind taking it down shore a bit?”
But nobody heard him. He tried again, “I say, GUYS?”


Joseph heard his request, and came jogging over and squat alongside Eli's chair.

“Donovan, right?” He asked with an idiotic grin smeared on his face.

Eli gave a curt nod. Joseph conveniently ignored Eli’s request. Instead, he plucked the book from his hand, and laughed when he saw the contents. He snorted a laugh and chucked the book back in Eli’s lap. “Calc on a day like this?” He gestured at the view of the cold, clear sea, and waved the boys over. “Come on Donovan, up for a game? Two-on-two!”

Elias brushed the man’s grubby fingerprints off his book, marked his place and gently placed it aside. The Will’s continued to batter one another in the background. They’d nearly rolled into the lap of ocean water by then. The water must be freezing. Served them right if they did.

“I don’t think so Joseph. Thanks though.”
He was hardly an athlete. Joseph looked disappointed.

“Suit yourself.” He replied, and for a moment, Elias thought he might finally be left in peace, but something in the distance caught Joey's attention. He hopped to his feet and waved.

Elias twisted around in his chair to witness a pair of girls waving back. One of them was Marie Strong. Eli’s breath caught in his throat, and the familiar sort of panic he'd not known since Sarah crept up his spine. Marie was in two of his classes. Rumor had it she and Joseph had been on a few dates. Eli's glare was razor sharp.

Joseph met them half way, and Elias prayed he wasn’t about to – his heart sank. He was bringing Marie and her friend, Elias had never cared to attempt memorizing her name, over. Suddenly his chair was turning into some sort of gathering spot. Like a flagpole planted in the beach to mark their territory. His eyes were drawn further down the shoreline. He knew he should have walked another half-mile.

Marie dropped a picnic basket nearby. The other girl unfurled a blanket and crawled on top. Marie peeked her perfect heart-shaped face around the front of Elias’ chair.

“Elias, right?” She asked. Eli nodded, and she smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming today.” Eli shrugged.

“That makes two of us,”
he replied.

Joseph was already digging through the newly arrived cooler. He plucked another beer. The Will boys descended upon them, drawn by the clatter of glass bottles like moth to the flame. Fantastic.

Marie picked a spot on the blanket. She was wearing a yellow, long-sleeved top that made her cornflower eyes sparkle blue as the sea before them, long pants and sandals. Weren't her toes cold? Elias shifted in his seat. He wore black boots tied nearly to his knees.

Willem chucked the rugby ball at Elias. It slammed into his chest. He tried to cover the pained grunt with a chuckle, but snickering erupted around him none the less. Marie did look a little concerned, and the sting of her pity stoked old, bitter embers in his chest. At least she glared at Willem when he plopped down alongside her.

Thank God his phone rang.

He tucked the rugby ball under one arm like Joseph had done, grabbed the Wallet and jumped from his seat. If they didn't know how to be polite with their toys, they weren't going to get it back for a while.

“Hello?”
He asked, then paused to plug his other ear with a black painted finger. “This is him.”


He fell deadly silent during the ensuing conversation. Any remaining blood in his cheeks quickly drained.

Panic crept around the edges of his heart, but despite the finger jammed in one ear, he couldn’t quite make out the words over the idiots carrying on around him.

He flashed a volatile glare at the gang that mutinied his peaceful study spot. “SHUT UP A SECOND!”
His temper broke with a raging yell, and upon the surprised look on Marie’s face, immediately regretted it. But he couldn’t think about her now.

“I’ll be right there,”
he said, and clapped the Wallet closed. He threw the device in one of his voluminous pockets and threw his books in his shoulder bag.

The gang called out after him, but they were mere white noise against the raging thoughts flooding his head.

Half way up the hill he remembered the rugby ball, turned, and looked at the group huddled on their blanket staring after him like they thought he was deaf. He squeezed it between his palms as rage, pain and disbelief flowed through him. With a whirl of his coat, flash of long hair, and a grimace that glued his jaw together, he chucked the thing as hard as he could. He smiled one of his last smiles as he watched it soar in a high arc toward the sea below, borne by unnatural wings

He turned and sprinted away, never having had the chance to see how far it flew but for what the winds of his mind bore it.

Two days later, in the midst of grief and pain over losing his uncle at sea, he grew desperately ill.




Two months later:

Frowning, Elias reread the details on the visitor's badge dangling prominently from his neck. Today's date was clearly printed. There was a snapshot of his face in the corner opposite the Coastal Ecology Lab logo in the other. The photo shown him pale and bitter. His hair fell around his eyes. His teeth were snapped shut, and his eyes were dry as a dead creek. The time stamp of his arrival - four hours ago - deepened his frustration all the more cynical.

With a grimace, he let the badge fall back to his chest and slouched further down in the seat. The movement caught the eye of the executive assistant seated nearby. He was a thirty-something year old man with short cropped hair, an ill-fitting suit and tie, and fidgety hands unfathomably busy with something that Elias could only guess. Certainly, the man did a terrible job at keeping the Dean's schedule organized because every time Eli showed up for their appointment, the Dean was distracted by important business elsewhere.

What could be more important than a missing team of your own scientists?

Melancholy clouds veiled the seascape beyond the windows. The Ecology Lab was literally nestled into the side of a hill across the street from Island Bay which at the moment was a monochromatic blur of mist, fog and rain.

It was a ten minute ride from Victoria University centred in Wellington, a commute Elias was all too familiar with by now. His appointments with the Dean oscillated frequently between the two facilities. Under any other circumstance, Eli would have been thrilled to walk the halls teeming with studies spanning every known aspect of marine biology. There were laboratories on every floor. The roof sported two satellite antennae. Five ocean-faring research vessels were stationed here – four now – he reminded himself. With the thought, a furious glare washed away any remaining semblance of patience. The fifth vessel, the one carrying his uncle and the rest of the missing team, was lost somewhere between the South Island and Antarctica.

His fists clenched. "That's it,"
he said to himself. The arctic seawater outside was a hot spring in comparison to the ice in Elias' voice. He rose in one graceful gesture and aimed the fires of his frustration upon the door. The door, locked, was thrown back from the jam before Elias even reached it. He silenced the assistant's objection with a single look and let himself in.

Sure enough, the Dean was inside. He was horrified by the trespassing, but the door slammed behind Elias before the man could so much as voice a single protest. He took the surprise well enough.

Confirmation of the man's presence – and weeks of constant dismissal – churned a deep rage that he barely kept from erupting. The Dean's scowl was one of defeat. He was going to meet Elias whether he was ready or not.

"Mister Donovan, I presume?"

Elias took a chair, but only to grip the armrests tight in his fists. Otherwise he was on the verge of hurling it through the window. Perhaps that would get the Dean's attention. For a few more minutes, he was going to be civil.

"That's right, Professor Roy."
Months of pallor, panic and worry etched itself into Eli's demands. He felt powerless and hollow again such as he hadn't felt since leaving Kenab, and here, the whole time, this man locked answers behind a keyless portal; Elias had played the gentleman, just as he was raised, but his patience extended only so far. He was ready to burn the house down if he didn't get the answers he needed.

"What can I do for you, then?" The Dean folded his hands, but his voice was tightened by the young storm billowing before him. As well he should be. Elias was at his breaking point, and this man was the first target in the path.

"I think you know. My uncle was in international waters on a research expedition, so the police will not get involved. Victoria University lacks the money and manpower to conduct a proper search and defers to the New Zealand government which continually stonewalls all of my efforts while your office refuses to even acknowledge what happened."


His heart throbbed fury in his chest. His eyes tightened, refusing to accept the possibility that an entire research vessel of highly trained scientists and sailors simply vanished into thin air. "Where – are – they?"


The Dean drew a long breath, but his eyes were numb. They saw the same thing everyone saw when they looked upon Elias. They saw an outsider, a stranger, a foreigner that did not belong in their pristine, green world. Elias was more suited to the desolate sands of obscurity to be hidden away than walking among the lush streets of Wellington. They saw a boy in eyeliner, not a man to make them shudder with fear, but times were changing.

"The search was called off four weeks ago, Mister Donovan. My sympathies go with you, son, but there is nothing else we can do. Geothermal ventilation sites are extremely unstable and neither ours’ nor the CCD's satellites orbit that far south." The Dean pulled some paperwork and pushed it toward him. "Furthermore, without your uncle's work permit for a host, your school visa will expire, and you will have to return to the United States."

Elias' world went white hot. He saw nothing. He felt nothing. Was he even breathing?

“– Mister Donovan?"

The trance fractured with rest of Eli's composure.

He stood. The sound of his boots crossing the slate floor pounded in their ears. The gray light of the misty day beyond grew bright as midsummer sun. Tendrils crackled and burst from his mind. They layered themselves across the Dean, tying him to his chair as Eli leaned in close. He seethed demands. He was not powerless, after all.

"Why would the CCD get involved?"
There was a thunder in his voice, distant, but for now was fixated upon the Dean. The man had one last chance to be of even minuscule use.

Dean Roy struggled against invisible bonds, unable to escape. Beneath Elias’ interrogation, he wisely sputtered a string of hurried answers. "Your uncle was collaborating with a MSU team. Moscow State University. Moscow. The CCD."

Eli stood upright. His hands trembled, shaking the Dean’s desk in his fury.

He severed the tentacles that'd flung from his mind and turned on his heel. The room shuddered under his heavy footsteps and he hesitated, confounded by the spray of cracks suddenly erupting underfoot. Beneath him, his footprints left behind crags and splits in the slate floor. Cracks snaked across the floor, up the drywall, and arborized tiny veins across the ceiling. As he looked upon the window, it glistened with as fine of fractures as the delicate ropes of a spider web. It held for one soundless moment before a loud pop shattered it from the center.

Snaps loud as lightning splitting wood rent the enormous pane of glass into a thousand crackling pieces and Eli barely managed to stumble out of its path. When it was over, and with the groaning howl of wind that followed, he regained his feet, and standing in the centre of the shattered peace, his coat and hair lifted on the gusts swirling around the office. Pulverized glass sparkled underfoot, mixed with sand blowing on sinusoidal vents of air that stung his eyes.

A deathly silence spread through the room. The Dean crawled out from under his desk in time to witness Elias' departure.

The sun was bleeding pink and gold into the horizon by the time she arrived at the cemetery. Snow crunched underfoot, and chilled the air that left her lips. No mourners braved the frigid temperature; only shadows and headstones pierced the blanket of white, stretching in a panorama almost as far as she could see. The cold bit through her jacket, froze the pump of blood through her veins, blanched her already pale skin. The silence of the dead did not disturb her. Nor did she find sanctuary in the dusk.

For some reason, she hadn't anticipated the wreathes and flowers around the headstone, and it hooked something in her gut that urged her to abandon her guilt and turn around. She owed nothing to this family; the loyalty of her blood ran weak. But she stood at the foot of the grave anyway, running her gaze over the cursive letting half hidden by an arrangement of roses, their petals drooping beneath the weight of glittering ice. When she finally knelt she probably looked reverential, but she was not grieving. Her brows were drawn low, and her expression burned. Anger roiled, conflicted.

She refused to name it jealousy, but dark thoughts sprung regardless the name she gave them. If Oriena had died all those years ago, extinguished by the very power that today made her great, her grave would have been sparse, perhaps even lacking a headstone, let alone offerings of grief to beautify her resting place. Fuck, if she died tomorrow there were few who'd mourn the loss. Her mother would grieve, she supposed. It was a short list after that. The cat probably didn't count.

"Should I have brought flowers?"
Bitterness coated her tongue, but not all of it was spat out; she swallowed a good deal of the acid and let it burn her insides. Numbness crept through her shins, and the skin stretched over her cheek ached. Goading Luka hadn't provided as much absolution as she'd hoped. She deserved the mottle of bruises, deserved the pain, but he didn't understand why. It had negated her intentions when he'd comprehended the punch that had laid her out flat and remorse had flushed his expression. She'd only loaded guilt onto his grief. That shouldn't have mattered an iota to Oriena, but when it came to the brother she refused to name so, her head was a tangle of snarled emotion.

This was a problem of time. Of patience, not always at the forefront of Ori's virtues. After all, Sofiya was dead. Flowers would die, and quickly in the embrace of winter. Memories faded. Life rolled on, and did not care for the dead. Ori half wished she'd brought some vodka, to drown her promises in liquid fire. She might not regret it, but she did wonder if she could have done something. Offered a hand across the precipice.

It was not a benevolent thought, but it was a new one, recently ignited and burning very bright.