Whereas we believe lightning to be released as a result of the collision of clouds, they believe that the clouds collide so as to release lightning: for as they attribute all to deity, they are led to believe not that things have a meaning insofar as they occur, but rather that they occur because they must have a meaning.
-Lucius Annaeus Seneca
AD 58

Nikolai's attention shifted from one book to the next. Upon his desk was opened three volumes, the centermost winning the treasure of his contemplation for the time being.

Consideration of this Hasan, this man who saw fit to claim himself the title of an Islamic savior, had driven Nikolai into the pages of research such as he hadn't delved in forty years. The sacred tome of the Atharim given him for study that day beneath Vatican City he knew by heart, but its pages were filled with convolutions of prophecy undefined by Wilhelm Ravid himself. Surely there was something he had missed? Something yet to be translated?

A quiet hum of electrical light dimmed into screen-saver mode, but the transition tore at his concentration until Nikolai finally swung in his chair and powered down the entire unit. A blessed peace fell as a result, leaving him to the more traditional lamps that illuminated his personal living chambers, though bright they still were. Meters beneath the surface of the Kremlin was the sole place Nikolai fell most at peace. Despite his every intention to contain the chaos of the world, only here was he able to reach the core of his identity. Polished floors ran underfoot, stone hewn roughly five-hundred years ago held aloft ceilings which were painted with long-faded mosaics to conceal an otherwise ugly basement. Nobody questioned his choice, though he had his pick of the palatial monuments of Russia above. Here everything was geometric and solid, and in their consistency Nikolai found uncomplicated beauty. In his gaze around the room he used for an office, he caught a reflection of himself staring back from the smooth surface of a cold mirror on the opposite wall, and he wondered, yet again, how long his will alone could hold before the land staggered unbidden across the uncertain terrain that led to war.

His back straightened, and suddenly the man behind the desk sat taller than before and his gaze more penetrating, even as he stared back at the reflection of himself. Centered on the wall behind and above him, just as the long-dead Regus of the Atharim displayed the ancient shield of the Ravid family, was also positioned the heart of Nikolai's legacy. The great symbol of his empire, the double crescent of his office, colored black and orange on a sheen of sleek gray. It was a mathematical equation made into form, though few recognized the genius of cycloids but statisticians and philosophers. The symbolism was perfect when Nikolai began to contemplate the mark he would adopt for himself when the ASU was born. Similar shapes, crafted points and beautiful curves, he likewise assigned to each and every Dominance in the CCD and already had the flags of DVIII, DIX, and DX chosen. They would come in time, of this he was sure.

But his symbol was not alone. Gilded around the shape was a halo of epithets. Centermost was his own, Ascendancy, self-defined as one arisen above mankind, burdened with glorious duty to lead and sustain the children of the world with the heavy, loving hand of a father to billions. The others, smaller but no less significant, were other phrases. Archon. Amulet.

And Apollyon.

He continued to consider himself in the mirror. His gaze rose from his own powerful expression to that of the ominous title. Of all the gods, the Atharim knew the most about Apollyon, though Nikolai had deemed they actually knew very little. According to Garret, Wilhelm, and the rest of the conclave as they existed forty years ago, Apollyon would shake the world with change and usher in an age of everlasting peace. He was a herald, but victory could not be purchased without sacrifice. It was this river of red that Nikolai was willing to chart, but he would not allow himself to feel the sting of regret. It was the greater purpose he saw. The eyes of a deity could penetrate the decades far greater than a mere mortal.

In that moment, he seized his divine gifts into his grasp and willed into existence dense sheets to curl around the harsh lights fluorescing the room. As a consequence, they dimmed to a manageable, dim glow that would otherwise be far too dark to read what was printed on the pages before him. More than once he'd surprised Custody Agents with his ability to read in otherwise unbelievable darkness. The shadow cloaked him as surely as the black robes of his initiation, but it focused his attention as a beam of laser light itself. He would finally be able to concentrate.

With none but his own eyes to witness, he slid from the jacket of his suit and began to elevate the sleeves of the shirt above his elbows. The freedom gave him better range to hover over the books in which he was sure hid the answers he sought, but the scars on the flesh of one arm ran five deep trails, and he peeled the sleeve back to his wrists once more, unable to gaze upon that which marked his flesh with destiny. Subconscious anger tightened the power's spheres until nearly all light was bent from mortal eyes. Even in his greatness he strained to see, but at least the scars were invisible to him now, hidden by cloth and the shift of light. He glanced where he knew the mirror hung once more, but he was all but invisible to himself.

That was when the idea struck.

As he pushed from the chair, all light in the room returned full blast as the manifestation of his will dissolved what had capped them into darkness. He strode from the desk, anxious with the attempt churning in his imagination, until he was positioned fully before the mirror. It was a rare relic of the Romanov's. Sleek glass framed by heavily carved wood, gilded and jeweled. The gaudy decoration was unfitting in an otherwise ascetic space, but the symbolism reminded Nikolai of legacy, and how easily it was lost.

But as of now, he was uncaring of the mirror itself as more than mere inspiration. Mirrors and darkness, they were only manipulations of light, after all. They could be used as a way to hide as sure as a cloak could drape a man with anonymity -- a man hidden from the world.

The infinite force of the ages spun from his mind. He tried three of the five elements first, but his guess was incorrect, and the pillaring image of himself never wavered its reflection.

His jaw tightened and he tried again, seemingly staring at himself, but the shape of a god in a man's flesh was not what he viewed. The greatest of his accomplishments were done with the five elements together, but now he sought elegance, not raw power. And what was more refined than a wisp of flame and a gust of wind? It was the absence of air, after all, that smothered fire, contained and hid it from existence.

Fire and Air curled together before him like a shield.

The light folded, and suddenly, it curled around the reflection of himself until Nikolai's own eyes beheld only the threads of power while the image of himself disappeared from all view.

Elation soared glorious victory, and he gasped with well-earned astonishment. Except for the shield, he was invisible.

He smiled to himself, but the moment he moved to clasp his hands behind his back, the spell was broken, and the folding of light dispelled. He returned to full view.

The smile faded as he considered himself once more. "Interesting,"
he said. Soon after, he returned to his desk, recovered the lights with their shades, and continued his reading.

Who are we waiting on? If its me, uhh, well, I'll try and work on a post today.

I blame Hood.

In Michael's opinion, there was nothing worse than mornings and the cold.

Captain Zokoskev's call had forced both upon him. His face was stony as he passed through the halls of the military's Kremlin precinct. It had an official name, but he didn't care. He was more concerned that the damn place - the heart of the CCD - didn't know how to heat a room.

He shifted his dark, bulky coat as his footsteps echoed through the empty corridors. He frowned as he neared the Captain's office at the two guards at the door.

As he approached, they stopped him. The one on the left with greying hair and a serious expression cleared his throat. "...Officer...Vellas?" The frown was not uncommon. Most of the soldiers didn't like the fact he did not follow the usual protocol. Hardly his fault the CCD jumped at the chance to learn what the Australasian military was thinking. A poor decision, as it turned out. He knew what they wanted from him, but he did not oblige them. Luckily he was excellent at what he did, or else he was sure they would have tried to dispose of him.

"Yes,"
he answered in a cool voice. His arm still ached, and the gun at the man's side served as a cold reminder of the danger he faced.

The man was hardly pleased, but he gave way and opened the door. Michael nodded in thanks as he passed and entered Zokoskev's office.

"Vellas." Zokoskev's balding head bobbed in acknowledgement from the other side of his steel desk. Despite his paunch and unassuming presence, the man was extremely capable. "Shit is about to hit the fan."

Michael said nothing, taking a seat opposite the Captain.

Zokoskev's smile was sharp and shrewd. Many found it unsettling, but Michael found it a refreshing change from the dull eyed cronies clamouring for favour. "Good, I knew I chose you for a reason. As I said, the situation in DV is...well...fucking grim. The Top Hats want a force ready to go in if negotiations fail."


"So you chose me?"
his voice was flat.

"You don't get a choice, Vellas. They wanted the best. They don't fuck around when it comes to war - and this could be a messy one."

Michael gave a nod, not exactly relishing the prospect. "Very well. What do you want?"


The man's smile widened. "You and I will be the only one's from our Division going to DV. The rest will be sitting at home in the fucking cold - let them freeze for it!. As such, our superiors have generously provided us with someone to give us a brief briefing on what to expect."

He handed Michael a piece of paper with the orders.

"A physician?"
Michael's brow rose.

"Captain Weston is highly respected. She takes orders from the Ascendancy himself. You would do well to listen to what she has to say."

"What is it exactly we are going to be briefed on? Nothing has happened."
He knew well enough that didn't mean anything, but he was curious to see the man's reaction.

The Captain scowled. "That I don't know. We will find out soon enough."

Edited by Michael Vellas, Nov 29 2013, 10:57 PM.

Allah, in your wisdom, show me the way. Show me the true path.


Hasan looked up from his simple rug of braided sheep's wool and gazed out the window, affixing the black cube of the Kabbah in his vision. The Keramat flooded through him, and his hands meshed with the individual fibers of the rug, each one standing out and pricking him, filling his fingers with sensation as he communed with the gift of God's very presence within him. He could feel the reality of his physical position relative to the Kabbah, and it seemed he could just reach out a hand and bridge the two points together.

Individual threads sprung up, as if to create that bridge. Hasan pushed his will -- would God bless him with the knowledge he was seeking? The Keramat took the shape of a doorway that only needed to part in the center, just one slit to part the gap between where he was and where he was destined to be --

The threads collapsed, and a huge CLAP reverberated through the small room. Hasan jerked back as if whipped, releasing the Gift and hissing with pain.

The door to Hasan's chambers opened. Hasan turned to find Bashir entering. In recent years the man had taken to wearing a long if neatly groomed beard, and more gray than black filled it out as of late. Hasan's former teacher was indeed starting to show his age. Fascinating how the man still claimed Hasan looked almost as he did fifteen years ago.

The man knelt on the floor and averted his eyes. "Mahdi, I hope I have not disturbed you in prayer. I heard a noise."

Hasan stood from his place on the floor, offering Bashir a hand to bring him to his feet. "Be at ease, friend. Submit to God and God alone."
It still disturbed Hasan a bit that his former teacher behaved in such a way around him, constantly affirming his belief in Hasan's divinity. Of course, as Hasan was indeed God's messenger it would perhaps not be inappropriate for one to supplicate himself in such a manner. But God's final messenger was not himself God. Hasan made certain to remind himself of this every day in prayer. Anointed or not, his purpose was to be a tool with which God would use to accomplish his will on earth. "You did not disturb me. I hope you have news?"


Bashir stood with Hasan's assistance but still kept his eyes a shade downcast, not quite meeting Hasan's gaze. "The governance-director for Medina is promising to use force to reclaim his offices. He claims the Ascendancy's impending visit will cast off those who are resisting him."

The Ascendancy. Hasan wasn't sure what to make of the man. The person had swept through the Middle East twenty-five years ago and gained the allegiance of such a diverse range of peoples -- most notably people who claimed allegiance to God and God alone -- and now was set to come and lay the law down for the unruly children who dared question the CCD's true place in the world. The only true place for a leader was to be subservient to God -- no other form of governance was proper. Such arrogance the leader of half the world showed -- and arrogance that would be punished by God in time.

"Rest easy, my companion. Do not concern yourself with earthly governors. For it is written by God's messenger that God maketh none to share in His government."
And, as that was indeed the case, it seemed something would need to be done about Sharif Abdul Kassan. The man was rabid, frothing at the mouth over losing his seat of power, and had washed his hands in plenty of blood during the most recent infighting. He, like many others, was determined to cling to the corrupt ways of false leaders and corrupted prophets -- and he was going to attempt to use the weight of the CCD to legitimize his continued grasp on earthly power.

It saddened Hasan that his use as a tool of God's will had so far brought so much violence. It hadn't even been at his direction, so far. But one did not build a temple without fracturing a few stones. Orders for dealing with that man would go out within the hour.

"What else do you have to bring me? Anything of those touched by the hand of God?"


Bashir nodded. "There has been another brought to Mecca. This makes sixteen men and seven women so far who bear the symptoms of that strange affliction that touched you so long ago. Amira is making them comfortable as you have instructed."

Hasan turned back to view the Kabbah as Bashir delivered the news. Another had been brought. Simply thinking upon the sickness took Hasan back to a time when he lay prostate with nothing but his faith to hold onto, and his faith had won out in the end. He'd tried his gift of healing on the ones brought so far but it seemed there wasn't actually anything wrong with them. Which had heightened Hasan's suspicions that these were people touched by God as Hasan had been, and perhaps were enduring his Tribulations as Hasan had been forced to. That made them special indeed, in their own way. He would gather them and take them under his protection.

He continued to consider the Kabbah as he replied to Bashir. Perhaps there was some mystery, or revelation of God, that lay there. The One True God had made the place holy. The Muslim world revolved around it -- and for now it also revolved around Hasan. "Very good, Bashir. Anything of the Ascendancy?"


"The Ascendancy has extended you a personal invitation for you to meet with him."

At that, Hasan's face twisted into a grimace. The man was coming to Mecca for his summit. The arrogance of the man to think he would be welcome in the holiest of places -- to think this would be a good place for mediation -- just showed the man's ignorance. Mecca was not a place for people to work out their differences. It was a place to put all things aside before God. Anyone coming here who wasn't ready to be a servant of God was a blasphemer.

"I am not a politician,"
he said, turning to Bashir. "I am merely God's instrument. His tool to establish a world aligned in perfect submission to Him. This world has been out of alignment for too long."


He paused, and took Bashir's hand. "I will send you to meet with them in my place. Should it be needed, I will go myself if the need comes, but now is not the time. You are to deliver to them the messages we have discussed. Chief among them is that it is no longer acceptable for a man to rule his people unless he submits to the will, and the law, of God before all else."


Bashir knelt and kissed Hasan's hand. "As you wish, Mahdi."

Hasan shook his head with no little mirth and withdrew his hand. "It is not as I wish, but what God himself wishes. Do not forget that, old friend. I am merely his instrument."


As Bashir left, Hasan turned back toward the Kabbah and knelt upon his rug. The Keramat flooded him again and he touched his head to the floor.

There is no god but God, and Muhammad is his prophet. Allah, in your wisdom, show me the way. Show me the true path.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

<big>Religious leaders to meet Ascendancy this week</big>



<small>Karim Sadjadpour

SENIOR ASSOCIATE,
DOMINANCE V CENTRE

The Royal Islamic Strategic Studies Centre</small>



The Middle East is at a crossroads. It is crunch time for the CCD, where Dominance V has always teetered on the edge of a sword. Thirty years ago, nobody would have guessed the nations of bitterly antagonistic religious dogmas would agree to unification beneath one flag, leader, and name. The succession to the CCD did not come without negotiation, however. You might recall the intense and lengthy meetings featuring a younger, but no less emboldened, Nikolai Brandon, President of the Ascendant Soviet Union and heads of state that were loathed to enter the same room, let alone dissolve their borders. However, Brandon emerged victorious and the separation of church and state that held such firm boundaries elsewhere in the CCD was wholly ignored in the construction of the Fifth Dominance.

This autumn, for the first time since its inception, the dynamic in DV has shifted. The violence is primarily contained by the Arabian Peninsula. Surprising since the more historically violent areas constitute lands farther north where Jewish, Islamic, and Christian cultures collide.

Today, the Governance-Directors of Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Bagdad, Tehran, and Kuwait City sit content with their spheres of influence. Fighting over the sites of the Holy Lands stopped with the blurring uniformity of the CCD. Meanwhile, the most heated clamoring to ever emerge rattles Medina and Mecca - so loud that the Moscow Kremlin has answered. The Ascendancy intends to put a foot down like a stern parent annoyed with his children's behavior.

But one child in particular seems unlikely to listen to reason. The loudest of the tantrum-throwers comes from the followers of Muhammad Al-Hasan, who has been proclaimed as the the Islamic Mahdi: a figure from Islamic eschatology who is meant to rule in the years before a Day of Judgement and rid the world of evil.

However not all Islamic scholars agree on the existence of the Mahdi. Notably expert in Islamic Jurisprudence, Jave Ahmad Ghamidi, who attests the Mahdi is not mentioned in the Qurʾān, but only in the Sunni hadith, a report or tradition that follows along the tales of the Qurʾān but is itself not a religious text.

The figure of a Mahdi is far more prevalent in Shia Islam who say he is equivalent to the Twelfth Imam, the son of the eleventh Imam, Ḥasan ʿAskari, who died in 874 AD. The cryptic destiny of the assumed son of the eleventh Imam led to numerous rifts with prominent doctrinal adjustments. Some groups claimed that his son died at a very early age, others that he had survived until a certain age and then died, and still others solely denied his very reality, considering that Ḥasan ʿAskari never had a son. Only a small minority sustained the notion that the son of the eleventh imam was alive, that he was in “occultation”, [from: occult, or hidden as in an object blocked from view by another in the foreground] and that he was to recur as mahdi at the end of time.

However not all Shi'i believe in the idea of Occultation, such as the Zaidi and Nizari Ismaili. Among the groups that do, debate continues as to which individual is in Occultation.

These differences in belief compromise the underlying violence seen erupting across Dominance V. The Twelver Shia Islam, the largest branch of the Shia faith, have proclaimed the return of the Twelvth Imam, the Mahdi, as Muhammad Al-Hasan. His followers, the Mahdaviat, claim the world has become overrun with the wicked. This Messaianic figure will be the "restorer of religion and justice who will rule before the end of the world". He is intended to not only re-establish Islam to new veracity, creating “submission to God” the worldwide religion as the whole world is taken into his submission.

Unsurprisingly, the idea has not been well-received, particularly by Sunni unbelievers. The tales of a Islamic savior are older than a millennium, yet it is this ancient atmosphere that the Ascendancy intends to negotiate. Perhaps another miracle will astound the world as it did twenty-five years ago, and DV will truly see peace.

We wait on baited breath.



-The Royal Islamic Strategic Studies Centre is an independent research centre affiliated with the Royal Aal al-Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, an international Islamic non-governmental, independent institute headquartered in Amman, Dominance V, Central Custody of Dominion. 2045





COMMENTS: Open

Ninacska was born and raised in eastern Europe. Her parents were CCD loyalists. Not the pretty, peaceful kind demonstrating behind the barricades. The kind that did whatever needed to get the job done. A terrifyingly efficient couple.

Their one and only daughter raised herself as much as the boarding schools. By the time she was ten she could take a caning with a sinister smile on her face that read the future for the Latvian headmistress. The old crone did not meet a peaceful end.

Nina had steel running down her spine and a fire in her belly that constantly needed quenched. By the time she was old enough to be recruited to the army, she was the most fearsome little girl that ever lived. Her parents crossed the border into China two weeks before she graduated basic training. That was the last Nina heard of them.

She worked for CDPS ever since, advancing eventually to field ops. She's never been in love. She's never had a friend she cared for enough to stay in touch once she moved beyond whatever brought them together, including lovers. Especially lovers.

Samantha Reed is her company name: not even her direct report knows the truth. Julie is the alias she takes when working with anything American, but she has a dozen other identities that has seen her through China, Brazil, Argentina, Honduras, Cuba, South Africa, Egypt, and Australia.

Current mission is to accompany American Nicholas Trano to Moscow.

She currently leads a team of agents that consists of two americans: a Moscow expert driver and escape artist, a computer technician and hacker named Shawn, and a CDPS partner named John Abrams (body missing, declared dead; disavowed).

She is extremely close-lipped about her past. Telling Nicholas Trano about defecting to the CIA took an extreme situation, and she is unlikely to bring it up again.

Thought maybe Drayson might be interested in this thread. The events might have tripped on his radar. Or anyone else. I've told the story I wanted to tell and am ready to open it up to anyone else thats interested in joining.

stranger than fiction

Continued from: Not that kind of help.

Despite the warm blanket tucked around his body, one arm flushed ice cold. A steady beep clicked a quiet beat of his heart. Machines whirred on the wall behind his head, the lights stung bright, and the air was motionless and cold. He was in a hospital.

The last thing he remembered was being in the alley. The kid who had been blessed with a full healing sprang to his feet, then a dark shape swung at Jensen's face. He'd thrown up his arms, but there was nothing after. Until now. For taking a hit to the head, he felt fine, but he had a feeling the state was drug-induced.

A pair of voices whispered at the edge of the room. He couldn't quite make out the words, but their tone was rushed and angry: argumentative. Jessika's shrill voice was one of the pair. The other Jensen didn't recognize as either a doctor or nurse. What was going on?

The scratchy freedom around his thighs told him he was in a gown beneath old blankets, but although covered to the foot of the bed, a chill shuddered nerves up and down his body. He started to move, but realized the arm that flushed cold with saline pouring in his veins was also rimmed with a metal bracelet. One that connected to the arm of the bed. He was in ... handcuffs?

He swallowed, growing tense, but tried to remain calm or else the beeping of his heart rate might spike and give him away. It was a dirty thing to do, but knowing it would give him an advantage, he took hold of the power and an explosion of sensations filled his head.

The whispered conversation became clear:

"...I already told you! Yes, he was beside the kid, but the kid was the one that got up and attacked him! Before that, he was with me and..."

The man that Jensen could now tell was in a wool coat bearing a badge pinned to his lapel, interrupted her. "Please stick to answering my question only ma'am. And what time did you hear the first gunshot?"


They were talking about what happened in that alley. Jessika likely called the police when Jensen didn't come back. Or maybe one of the boys had. They would have come across a gruesome scene. Three shells of skin and bone and Jensen splayed out in the middle of it with no sign of the old woman in sight.

Jessika scoffed, "I don't know! I told you, I was dropped off by my cab and we stood there talking for a couple of minutes before anything happened. And we saw the first kid come running..."

The detective pulled out his notes. "The Chinese-Russian male? Aged 14-16 years. Mullet hair cut, t-shirt, and drooped pants?"

Jessika nodded emphatically. The twang in her voice heightened as she grew more frustrated, "yes. That one. He ran inside. Then Jensen went to check on the other boys."


Did the detective not believe her? How many times had Jessika already told their story?

The detective tucked his notes away. "Of the four others, three are dead. Now why would two young men accuse an older white male of assault with if he were going 'to check on them'? Especially when that older white male has a history of corruption, embezzlement, and pornography?"


Jensen's chest collapsed deeper than the old woman's victims. He sat up, blankets falling hard to his lap. "They said I did WHAT!"
His face was white as his sheets.

He tugged on the handcuff. The clank of metallic ringing echoed through the hospital room. Jessika's white jacket was gone, leaving her only in the pink shell of a shirt and bright blonde curls laid on her shoulders. The detective stride forward. On the other side of a window, a CCD police officer stood guard.

Jessika sneaked around the detective, but he grabbed her on the shoulder and turned her back. "I'm done with you ma'am. Wait outside."


Jessika would have none of it. She shook him off. "Don't you dare touch me! Or I'll have you sued for --"
he shoved her toward the door, Moscow accent dropping deep. "You are not in the United States any more. Do as you are ordered."
The guard peeked in and fixed Jess with a glare. She sniffed and stalked off. Jensen breathed a sigh of relief and pointed at his arm.

"Why am I handcuffed?"
He asked, eyes large as the moon.

The detective stood at his bedside. "Because you're a murder suspect Mr. James. Now, I have a few questions to ask you.
"

Jensen licked his lips. The CCD did not treat murderers gently. Nobody was going to believe an old woman had taken down four armed gang kids then flew off when Jensen scared her with a ball of light. That was probably why they were quick to blame him. Were they going to claim a little old woman with a chihuahua took them down? Or a monster with giant leathery wings and glowing yellow eyes flew through the streets?

He collapsed his head on his pillow. How in the world was he going to explain what had happened without ending up in a psyche ward?

We all know how Trano feels, but should Julie Reed (The double-agent PPC you might be familiar with if you've been following Trano's threads through Moscow), should she be transformed into a full PC?

Second question, if so, what would you suggest as her picture???