Early morning light had yet to crest the buildings of the complex to stream through his small window, yet Jensen crossed and threw open the meager curtain anyway. The sky was a soft pink glow, and he didn't need to look at his watch to know what time it was. He arrived home following the night shift at the exact same time every day.

A jacket and personal things he dumped on the couch on the way to the kitchen wall where he plucked a well-cleaned glass from a rickety cabinet and filled it with warm tap water. Only after reminding himself to pick up OJ on the way home from tomorrow's shift.

He stared longingly at the third wall which hid a Murphy's bed, but instead found himself seated at the table and firing up a laptop. Please God let there be a connection today. Internet in the Moscow ghetto was shoddy at best.

The homescreen rose into view. There, splashed across the monitor, was a Dallas news clog. A collection of headlines all filtered by the DFW region. He could barely breathe as his eyes scanned tile after tile. By the time he scrolled to yesterday's grid, his eyes glazed over the words displayed there.

It had been four years to the day Jensen disappeared, but he had to know. He had to know if there was any story. "Search for missing preacher abandoned", That one had hurt, but like ripping off a band aid, he was glad the day they called it off. It meant his family could close that chapter of their lives and move on without him. But like the other stories from the years past, the scars remained, and tasted of bitter remorse. "Megachurch preacher flees after sex scandal", "Local televangelist inducted into Hall of Shame", "Jensen James brilliantly beguiled his flock", "Deadbeat-dad dead? Or skips town?", "...Hypocrite...", "...Liar...".

Hair fallen across his eyes, he rubbed his forehead, numb, and gently closed the laptop. There were no stories. The anniversary came and went, forgotten. He wasn't sure if it was relief or regret flooding his face with heat at the moment, but he finished the water and looked dully at the liquor cabinet, but decided instead to merely take a shower and go to bed.

Staring down at the video of himself, Jensen's heart sank, filled with the heavy boulders of guilt. He could bear to look no longer and whipped the iScreen from his hands, but the burst of anger did nothing to ease his torment. It clanked against a dumpster and shattered to the alley cement, but what broke might as well have been his entire world.

He turned to face the extortionist which brought him here tonight. True to the man's promise, he was unrecognizable; a faceless adversary whose features were covered by a ski-mask. His clothing was nondescript. Jensen had no idea who this man was, nor how he came to have video of such... intimate moments in a couple's life.

Palms sweating, he reluctantly handed over the briefcase. It was funny. He'd expected ten million to feel heavier. Perhaps he'd simply forgotten the feel of cold cash. Not since childhood had he held tangible currency, let alone pack so much into one case. Immediately, the man snatched it away and quickly retreated as though worried the preacher before him might turn violent.

The sum of money was meant to buy his way out of public disgrace, and Jensen, shamed, turned up the collar of his trench coat, placed his hands in the pockets, and pivoted to leave by the way he came without lifting a single hand. There wasn't a violent bone in his body.

He made it five steps before he heard laughter.

A deep frown turned down his mouth, and he half-pivoted to glance behind. Only to witness the one who dragged him out here on threat of force huddle the briefcase under one arm, pull a second iScreen and upload the video anyway. The man made a mockery of a bow, and took off running.

In the darkness, the color drained from Jensen's face. God save me.

In that moment. Everything he'd worked for crumbled to dust. His pride, eroded. His congregation, betrayed. His family, gone. His soul, damned. With ten million dollars, he bought absolutely nothing.

"STOP!" His legs were moving before he even realized what was happening.

The man, paces ahead of him, sped up, but Jensen's athletic stride dug onward, oblivious to puddles and obstacles clogging the alleyway. He'd complied! He paid the bribe! And they ruined him anyway. Why else but simply to torture him. Did they not know he already tortured himself? "STOP" He yelled again, and arms flung outward as though reaching for something too far to grasp, his soul threw itself forward.

The man arched high from the ground as though tripped hard by forces unseen and was sent soaring. Then he crumpled not ten steps from the cross-street beyond. Nobody illuminated by lights of the city sidewalks even glanced their way.

Jensen caught up, panting, and knelt beside the man, heart pounding and mind praying the very thing he'd wished for with all his might hadn't come true.

He rolled the body, and cringed - knowing deep in his bones exactly what he’d done.

Sirens in the distance. Lights filled the rectangle of windows overhead. He wanted to throw up, but there was no time to think about how it happened. Only run.

He shoved a hand across the slick curve of his hair, then snatched the briefcase back into his possession. And like shadows of the demons he knew took root in his soul, Jensen fled from light to disappear in the darkness.

Four years later.

To this day, nobody recognized the forklift driver working the Moscow shipping yards ever stood behind a pulpit. The way the Moscovites said his name, Jensen, sounding a heavy Y consonant at the beginning, only distanced him further from his former life; a life assumed ended four years ago in bloody blackmail. His hair was longer now, though frequently slicked straight from his forehead with cheap pomade. His beard was scruffier. His clothes were far less flashy. The Jensen James never smoked. Or drank. Or filled his time with any of the things this fallen version of himself did. Jensen lived in an immaculate house in Dallas, not a one-room studio in outskirts Moscow. Jensen drove a Mercedes, not risked his life every day on the metro. Jensen had two sons and a beautiful wife, not a scandalous affair, and he certainly did not pay for his company.

Most troubling of all. Preacher James did not channel what was sure to be dark powers.



Physical description

5’10”, lean and pale from working night-shifts. Brown hair that curls to his ears when left untended and a patchy, thin beard. His countenance is frequently dour and drawn. He keeps to himself, rarely raises his voice, but battles the demons nipping at his heels every single day. Eventually, he assumes they will finally catch up and devour him alive. Well, if so, he would deserve it.



Abilities

Channeler. He has a latent Talent for Healing, which, once developed, has the potential to be legendary, assuming he embraces the act. As of now, he fears this power, and his guilt over taking another life (and every other mistake that led him here) eats away at his love for it.

His block consists of a physical movement which must accompany any outflow of Power. Such as hand gestures, moving his arms, or motion in general, such as how the power manifested that first time he channeled: running while throwing his arms as though literally hurling a wall of air forward. The block developed in response to his conscious search to reproduce what he’d done that first time. By giving into the lured temptation he loves and yet despises, he saved his own life from the Sickness.

His experience hovers between new and adept. Four times out of five he can produce the effect he desires, though it is usually minimal and awkward as a child’s first attempts at walking.

His strength as of now is moderate from consistent practice at his own pace. Having never been under forced learning, he has not experienced many of the starts and fits of growth as other male channelers. Slow and steady building, like a marathon runner, rather than a sprinter, his strength curve steadily increases. For now, it is holding at a solid 6-7, but he has the potential to expand to 15, clearly strong enough to be a force in this world. He is unaware of others of his kind.


Edited by Jensen James, Sep 17 2013, 10:20 AM.

Katya was pulling an all nighter. She didn't have to but she was doing wasn't exactly legal either. Despite her day job, Katya still tried to hack places she shouldn't all in the name of security she told her boss. Nathaniel was a good man. He trusted Katya. Though she didn't exactly know why. Then again she didn't know why he'd brought her on when she was only 14 either.

But beat going to jail, or worse working for the government in one of those hacker dungeon's she'd heard rumors about. The places where they lock the cyber criminals up to do their deeds for them and not get paid a cent. Their life sucked. At least Katya got do do what she wanted now. If she actually hacked into one of those no-no places it was all in the name of the job. But in reality it was for the pure challenge.

The WHO had notoriously high security measures, and Katya was trying her damnedest to get into that place. She didn't care about the secrets or anything. But where there was a firewall Katya wanted to try to gain access.

Her computer terminal blinked furiously at her as she typed. He little brother once told her it sounded like a machine gun, but that was on the old peice of junk she had when she was little. It was archaic then, now it was silent and actually not even there. The holographs of most modern wallets were based off of the very thing Katya was using. The holographic keyboard resonded to her finger movements. The computer itself could even respond to voice commands. But that was for the novices. Katya saw the 1's and 0's that the computer spoke. She couldn't translate it persay, but it was what she dreamed of. The computer's talked to her in her sleep. That's what Katya wanted to beleive. But it was just her subconscious processing her thoughts into what she wanted to see.

It was all in those 1's and 0's. There was a pattern, a way in. Katya knew it, but she couldn't find it. No security algorithm she knew or knew how to crack was what the WHO was using. She had to think outside the box. She had to 'think' like a computer.

Age: 19 - deceased

Origin: Moscow

Occupation: Internet Security Consultant aka Hacker

Psychological description: Katya is a typical introvert. She prefers to hang in front of a computer doing what she does best. Katya has a good head about her, but is naive in most things. But where her common sense lacks, her computer knowledge thrives.

Physical description: Katya has straight mid-back length blond hair and a pale green almond shaped eyes. She is about 5'5"

Powers & supernatural powers: Channeler

Current strength level: 0

Potential strength level: 9

Channeler experience level: New

Are you a reborn god? No

Biography:

Katya was born in Moscow her father was a welder and her mother a nurse at the local hospital. Both worked hard to give Katya what she needed to survive, which lead to them not being around much. Katya didn't thrive in school, she was always picked on. Early on Katya found comfort in front of her computer. She spent many hours poking through things, scouring the Internet for resources to teach her.

By the age of 10 Katya was writing computer programs that hacked into her parents works to increase their pay. It was merely a matter of finding the right back door and the right combination of key strokes to get past the security. Katya brute forced her way in then.

Her parents were both let go because they figured they had done it. Katya was sad, but there was little she could do about that. It's not like they even had the knowledge to do anything remotely like that.

At the age of 12 Katya was starting to push past more sophisticated encryption algorithms and learning her way through the encryption schemes of the basic wallet coding. It wasn't hard breaching wallets

At 14 Katya was caught trying to get into a banks firewall. It was then that Katya was taken in by an elite computer security consulting company and taught everything else she knows how to do now. Her job at the age of 19 is to attempt to hack into companies and alert them to their security holes. They call it a white hat hacker. But a hacker is a hacker.

But the job gave Katya the ability to continue her exploring of the computer world networks and learn more and hack more things than she would have otherwise been able to.

With the job Katya had she helped her parents survive now. It made her happy and Katya only want then to be happy.


Edited by Katya, May 27 2014, 12:15 PM.

A thread inspired by good old Seth Marx, who claims his character's theme song is Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.

Things had gotten interesting since she'd gotten to Moscow, Aria had barely any time to herself. Everything was mostly a blur.

Today was the first day she had a moment to think much less get out to see the city itself. Aria made what precautions she could before heading out into the streets of the city she called home now. She sighed at the loss of the gloves she'd had when it had all started. It would be a good day to find a new pair.

The weather for Russia was warm and long sleeves were out of the question. Aria disliked the idea of that much skin out for touching, clothes always blocked most people's emotions when brushing against her, she could only do what she could to avoid them, wearing anything more than the black short sleeve shirt was out of the question.

It would be a good time to see about finding some way to replace her sword. All she needed was a good blade. A black smith would be better but those were hard to find. But it was the challenge that made the search that much more fun.

Aria left the Atharim headquarters and headed for the Izmailovsky Market. It was the largest open air market, or so she had been told by another local Atharim. She should be able to find most of what she was looking for. Or at least hear about some place, she could only hope.

Aria was getting rather good at following the rail system and learning the schedule. But every once and a while she'd miss her stop. Today wasn't one of those days thankfully. She got off at the appropriate stop and was astounded by the flood of people already milling about the market. It wasn't early, but still, that was a lot of people.

The crowd wound up and down the isle of covered 'shops' and it was a mass of confusion. Aria took a deep breath and started walking into the crowd. It wasn't long before Aria found a leather worker who had gloves on display. Nothing extravagant, Aria could only hope to find something suitable - thin but yet a good grip and durable.

There were several types but none seemed to perfect. Aria pulled on a pair to feel their comfort. It was too bad she had left her guns and the remaining sword at headquarters. The feel was too thick for her liking, but with out a grip to test it was still very difficult to tell.

Aria pulled off the gloves and set them down where she had found them and moved around the table to try on another potential pair of gloves.

Happy anniversary of Tron popping out of his ma's party hole.

Michael sat on his bed, his legs crossed and arms limp, a familiar pose he adopted when he was troubled. It had saved his life, in more ways than one, the simple technique the Aboriginal's had taught him.

It was, of course, used by many throughout the world and he had known of it long before he had met the natives of Australia. However, they gave him the key to unlock it's true potential.

The fiery river of ice and molten Power flowed through him in torrents that threatened to scourge his very being. He wove all five powers in an endless cycle of repetition that he let dissipate before it formed. The exercise was not one he had been taught; it came naturally when he wished to sooth his tumultuous emotions.

The past few days had unhinged his self-control like nothing had before. It was as if a door inside his mind had been ripped from the wall and thrown into the wind, leaving him dangling on the edge of sanity.

It was very much like the struggle for the Power that welled up inside.

What was he becoming? A monster, like the ones who had killed Tony's niece? Was this 'Power' a drug that brought madness in exchange for power? Was it a disease?

Questions upon questions with no answers plagued Michael's restless soul.

He found himself spinning threads unconciously into patterns he had never seen nor did he know their use. He did not know, but it came to him as natural as the instinct to breathe. The patterns mesmerised him as they spun faster and faster in the air before him, so fast that his eyes could not keep track of the movements. Practice and familiarity guided him where his eyes could not and he felt the Power pulse in time with the beating of his heart, his emotions thrown into the raging river, lost forever.

Clarity followed in the wake of discarded trivialities. It was not a clarity that bore momentous discovery of some deep hidden answer to all of his problems, nor did it cure his confusion, but it did bring him peace for a time, and the ability to think without the pressures of reality.

He would be eternally grateful to Tony for his help, but he was glad that the man had begun to stand on his feet again. Soon, he could no longer rely on the limited knowledge the Russian man could give him. Soon, he would have to find what he searched for on his own.

First, the ones that hunted him. They knew who he was - what he was -, perhaps more than he knew himself. Yes. They would be the first he sought out, and they would tell him what he wanted to know if he had to melt all of the ice in Russia.

There was no anger in his thoughts, only grave resolution. He had to learn, and fast. If he did not, he had the feeling things could go very, very badly.

<big>Yuri Obrechennyy
</big>


Yuri's daddy always told him he wasn't going to live to see 25. 'Course, 25 had come and gone, so what did that fucker know? Working for the man, always coming home late – every night. Fucking drone. He was probably at work right now, punching numbers or whatever the hell he did. Still believing the man was going to ever work for him. And if he ever did come home, always mad at something Yuri had done. Like it was his fault he was a screw-up.

Yuri, why didn't you take out the trash like you told your momma you were going to?

Who gives two shits about that? It's boring. What's she going to do about it? She's too busy banging the neighbor when you're off at work, asshole. Bet you don't know that.

Yuri, you did what to the cat?

Its funnier without any hair on it. It's art. Fuck, don't you get it?

Yuri, are you high again?

Yeah, off your stash. Don't think I don't know what you do before you go to sleep. Nothing but a hypocrite, dad.

Yuri, you got kicked out of school again? After all we went through the last time to get you back in?

Nobody likes me there. So I had to beat the crap out of a couple of them. Not my fault.

Yuri, are you ever going to think about your future?

Yeah, fuck the future. And fuck you too, while you're at it.

Yeah, 20 and still taking up space in the crappy duplex on Arbat Street that was the best daddy could afford even after all those years of working. That was the kind of thing to cramp a dude's style, but why buy the roof over your head when you can get a bed for free? He lounged with one shoe off on the loveseat in the living room, flipping through the channels on the Net. Why weren't there any good tits on at this time of the evening? Telltale signs of his latest high ringed his cheeks and the bridge of his nose in flakes of gold. His buzz was wearing off, good thing there was another can of spray paint in his dresser drawer.

Yuri's parents were arguing in the kitchen. Whatever. He knew it was about him again, how he'd gotten “busted” throwing up a fresh tag. Damn pigs knew his artwork now, probably kept a file on it any time some new graffiti popped up. No one saw him do it. He was too quick for that. That was just who he was – what he was known for. No one could tag up an image of the Ascendancy like he could, nice goatee, spiky hair and a fat dick in his mouth.

Yuri's buzz cleared enough for him to catch a few of the words from the kitchen.

“--has to go back,” his father was saying.

His mom was sobbing. “We tried that before!”

That caught Yuri's attention. He looked up from his slouching position at the loveseat and turned his head toward the kitchen.

“He needs more help than we can give him. At least he'll be safe from himself and others at the Guardian.”

The Guardian? No, not that again. They'd pigeonhole him up in some room with nothing to do, dope him with drugs – bad drugs, one that didn't give him any rush, but just threw chains on his mind and willed his spirit away. The staff didn't give two shits about what went on there, either. There were some really fucked up people locked up in there, who did some pretty bad stuff.

Yuri leaped from the loveseat – he always was quite agile, able to land on his feet – and stormed into the kitchen to face down his parents. Yeah, he got right up in his dad's face, pushing the small graying man back against the kitchen counter.

“Don't you talk about me like I'm not here! You don't care about me at all, you fucker!”
he screamed.

Yuri staggered back. His cheek stung. His mind, clouded as it was by the paint he'd sniffed, took a moment to process the fact his father had struck him. That hadn't – ever – happened before.

“You are out of line, young man,” his father said, wide eyes locked on Yuri. “The consequences of your actions leave us no choice but to send you back to the Guardian.”

No. He rubbed his cheek. “You hit me, you asshole,”
he muttered. “I'm not going back and you can't make me!”


His mother stepped between the two men. “Yuri, Dimitri, calm down,” she said, voice quivering and tears in her eyes. “Son, it's because we love you and we won't watch you throw your life away!”

His father glanced at his wife. “You'll see it's for the best. Come on, we'll get your bags packed for you.”

Something gave way within Yuri's hazy mind. I will – not- go – back! He imagined a force field pushing anything and everything away from him in a rejection of his very existence.

There was a harsh clap in the kitchen, like the boom of a supersonic jet. The cabinets blew out, throwing splinters of wood and chips of ceramic crockery. His father was thrown against the refrigerator and smacked his head on the white vinyl, and his mother was struck in the gut by a flying cast-iron pan.

His father slumped to the ground, and blood trickled from a gash on his head. His mother doubled over and lay on the white tile, breath knocked from her lungs. Yuri stood at the center of it all, untouched.

Fuck, yeah. That was awesome.

Yuri turned to leave the kitchen, and caught his mother's tearful glance. He looked at his dad. The man was unconscious, but breathing steadily. “He'll live, ma,”
Yuri said. “I'll see you later.”


He left his mother there and went up the stairs to his bedroom. Grabbed his green cloth backpack and put some clothes in it. His cans of spray paint, and a couple of nudie mags too. Threw his leather jacket – a gift for his eighteenth birthday – across his shoulders. He went across the hallway to his parent's room. Grabbed his dad's stash from his top dresser drawer. Had probably about 50 grams of weed in there. Mom's jewelry box had some necklaces and bracelets that would be worth something, too.

Under the nightstand, yeah, there it was. His dad's other stash. A good amount of cash the man had managed to sock away from the eyes of his spend-free wife. That'd buy him some good drugs. And a nice piece as well, a chrome-plated Walther PPK with a couple of mags. Could be dangerous being out in the undercity. Nobody would fuck with him if he had that piece.

He shoved it all in his bag and jetted out the front door. Grabbed his skateboard on the way out. His mother was still lying on the tile floor in the kitchen.

<big>"We've lost Dayton."</big>



Editorial

<small>The Washington Post/Martin Lowe</small>



Electricity – produced from fossil, nuclear or renewable resources – is the backbone of a prosperous society. As electricity use increases, so does gross domestic product, a fundamental measure of economic health and prosperity. That is why America is building new power plants on a massive scale to ensure that there is sufficient electricity to encourage economic growth for the foreseeable future.

Critical reaction has already surfaced, saying the US nuclear industry has become completely profit driven &amp; subject to poor regulatory supervision, factors which led to complacency. With the coming online of the recent plants in Georgia and Dayton, nuclear energy now constitutes 30% of the US power supply, with quickly diminishing coal reserves providing another 20%, and CCD sourced natural gas at 50%. In the next ten years, however, completion of additional nuclear plants across the country are estimated to overtake dependence on CCD fueled energy -- decreasing the need of import to a mere 20%. That future is now in jeopardy.

For most of the last century, US electrical grids were a symbol of progress. The inexpensive, abundant power they brought changed the way the world worked–filling homes, streets, businesses, towns and cities with energy.

But today's antique electrical grids reflect a time when energy was cheap, their impact on the natural environment wasn't a priority, and consumers weren't even part of the equation.

Consider what we are facing today: with this latest disaster, Congressional committees are evaluating the future of nuclear energy in America. Between the unanticipated pace of the accident, complete destruction of all containment sources, and technologically advanced high-power density of modern reactors, thousands have died, more are seeking treatment for radiation poisoning, and the state has essentially been lost.

The nuclear power initiative implemented in the 2020's guaranteed safety, but no technology provides no test-runs. The nature of the accident itself still puzzles scientists. Analyst Kevin Bressen went on to explain the characteristics of a reactor meltdown:

"The fuel rods are long uranium rods clad in a [zirconium alloy casing]. They're held in a cylindrical-shaped array. And the LiquiGel molten salt coolant covers all of that. In power plants of the last century, the coolant was pure water which when descended below the level of the fuel, then the temperature starts going up and the cladding bursts, releasing a lot of fission products. And eventually the core just starts slumping and melting. However the nature of the LiquiGel is such that evaporation from boiling is impossible short of temperatures sustained in the sun's core. As the coolant systems remained operational, therefore, overheating of the fuel rods was not triggered by a loss of coolant activity. What then did? Then the pressure vessels failed and overheated fuel burned through the interior steel chambers. Once containment was compromised, we had a worst-case scenario on our hands."

What is the exchange rate between the CCD dollar and a human life? Even if such a horrific scale could be written, it is better to maintain the integrity of our land even if we submerse ourselves beneath the home of another banner. For what is freedom if we perish walking from sea to shining sea?


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