Jacques Danjou

Origin: Aubagne, Frace
Currently: Casablanca, Morocco

Occupation:
CEO of Légion Première

Psychological:
Jacques is commonly known as a charismatic and business savvy man. The CEO of a well known mercenary and private security company prevalent in Africa, he is seen by most of his clients in nice suits and well groomed, discussing contracts and the implications of various laws and legislation as they pertain to the employment of mercenaries. To others, he is seen as the life of the party; one to always have a good story or joke, no stranger to the dance floor, and quite the card shark, winning more then his fair share of poker games. To few outside Légion Première, he is seen as a soldier and commander, just as at home overseeing combat operations as a general of more conventional armed forces.

Physical:
Jacques is of average height and slender build, and is quick to smile (or smirk mischievously). He is often dressed in more subdued colours or earth-tones, with an unusual penchant for shades of gray.

Powers and Supernatural Powers:
None.

In the months before mainland Europe decided to join the CCD, the French Foreign Legion and it's benefactors played an expensive and dangerous gambit. Over the course of six months, an entire regiment of the Legion was misplaced, written off, retired, and honorably discharged. Soldiers and equipment were stationed in a French military dockyard in Casablanca, Morocco, and systematically forgotten. By the time France joined the CCD, the 1st Regiment of the Foreign Legion no longer existed on the books.

A week later, Légion Première registered itself as a private security firm specializing in larger-scale operations. Over the past 20 years, most of the original Legionnaires have retired or passed on, but the traditions of the Legion remain strong, making Légion Première an unusually professional mercenary group, with it's soldiers highly sought after by oil, energy, and mining companies all over Africa.

At first glance, Légion Première is a business. Without good profit margins, the company would have gone defunct years ago, unable to keep it's expensive equipment operational or to pay it's employees. However, at it's core, it's a professional military force with long and deep-routed traditions. 'The Legion dies; it does not surrender.' A mentality that has set it apart from similar private security companies, whose members are often drafted from various militaries and are usually hot-shots and glory hounds. Légion Première takes the contracts most other companies deem too dangerous, and it's fees are exorbitant by comparison to others. But, as they say, you get what you pay for.

-----

Lagos, Nigeria, 21 May, 2230hrs, 2041:

The room was deathly quiet. Five men studied each other in silence as they sat around a circular table. A small fortune sat at the table's center; a sea of poker chips, gold watches, car or boat keys. Four of the men were very successful business men; some of the richest men in Nigeria. One was the house dealer, a middle aged Nigerian man who had been working in the casino for most of his life. And one was the stranger to the group. The outsider, the foreigner, and worst still the one doing most of the winning.

The foreigner drummed his fingers on his cards which still lay face down on the table, and eyed the small fortune that sat at the center of the table. He glanced occasionally at his opponents, sporting the ghost of a sly grin, as if he already knew the outcome of the game before the other players.

He'd kept it up the whole night. Whether he lost a hand or won, he took it all with that same grin. One of the older business men cleared their throat impatiently, and the foreigner's grin widened. A quiet chuckle and he waved his hands apologetically, "Yes, sorry friends. It is Mr Dangote's watch. Very shiny, is it not? Limited edition Patek Philippe, right? Yes well. All in."
He casually pushed the large collection of chips and baubles on his side of the table into the center, then looked to his competition, one eyebrow raised and that sly grin back to that dangerous ghostly hint of confidence.

Two of the Nigerian business men folded with little hesitation but no shortage of complaint. The third folded after a few moments later. Mr Dangote was last, and the man shot the foreigner a long, calculating glare before barking a curse, "I call, Mr Danjou. And I swear that if you win again..."


Jacques' grin widened again; he was certain he was going to win, and did so love threats. But before Mr Dangote could finish, the door to the room slammed open, revealing two large black men in the service uniform of Légion Première stepped into the room. Both men had holstered pistols and sturdy black batons, an unusual sight inside the casino, and both sported red sashes on their left arms marking them as the Légion's provosts.

The Nigerian's lept to their feet in fright and anger, the dealer going so far as to thrust a hand beneath his table as if reaching for something. Both provosts had their batons in hand before the dealer could finish the move, and the man froze to the sound of the air-charged rods extended with an audible crack and a more concerning crackle of electricity.

Jacques stood and patted the dealer on the shoulder, "Calm down monsieur. They are here for me, am I right?"


The two men calmly retracted the batons and tucked them away, although one never took his eye off the gamblers and dealer. "Capitaine Danjou. Operation Cold Spirit has met with some difficulty. Your presence is required in Maiduguri, ASAP."


Jacques' frown vanished, as did the casual slouch. He adjusted his bowtie and turned to the Nigerian businessmen he had been gambling with for the past few hours. "Terribly sorry gentlemen, but you heard these armed gentlemen. Time for me to be away."
He turned to leave, then stopped and waggled a finger at the pair of provosts, indicating them to wait a moment.

He reached back, flipped his cards to reveal a winning hand, then carefully plucked Mr Dangote's watch from the pile, "If it is as bad as I think it is, Mr Dangote, you men can keep the rest. Would be like taking the shirt off a man's back, yes?"
Then he walked out, calmly setting the expensive watch on his wrist, the two provosts in tow, one giving the men a curt, serious nod before closing the door to the private room.

(to be continued)

Something sweet and innocent that was actually quite sinister and haunting. Passion mixed with despair. Sorrow and fury. Playful plucking that rises into complicated elegance and speeds past what the mind can track and so instead leaves it numb to everything.

Numb to everything but the music.

His wrists were light and loose. Shoulders fluid and elbows open. One does not play the majestic instrument that was a piano with only their fingers. They play with their entire body. They make love to the music; he commands and manipulates it. His torso sways to the rhythm. The rise and fall of a pedal forced all the notes to echo and overlap long after a key was struck; much as a crying throat beneath one's shoe. He stretches his arms wide, owning every harmonic, and sometimes, purposefully clashing them together in stretches of sound to rival the purity of demons' song. He manipulates every aspect of the performance, designing a melody that left his audience in oblivion.

Dane quickly glanced at the woman cozy on the bench next to him. Behind the frame, the black lacquer of a grand piano stretched before them both. The chair he'd occupied for forty-five delightful minutes remained empty nearby. Cigar long cold of its smoldering and half a glass of port likewise remained abandoned alongside. The piano lid was held at a sharp angle, casting the music toward the bowl of the room where warm wooden walls were stained with its timbre like an old sponge. But every stroke of the key resonated deeper than walls and chairs. It touched a chord in the soul, if such a thing existed, and wrapped his new pianist friend with a warm blanket of melodic trust in her partner.

She smiled invitingly in response to his and without missing a beat of their duet. The sheen of her black hair fell slick as a mop of wet blood down the pale flesh of her shoulders where her dress pooled at the small of her back. Every time she touched the pedal, a cord of muscle burst from the side of her calf in the sensual line of her stake of a stiletto.

When he first entered the gentlemen's bar at the Ritz Carlton, the room was yet unfilled for the evening but for a few solitary figures drowning their sorrows in expensive alcohol. It had been the backdrop of elegant instrumentation that drew him on in, and the slender shape of the exotic princess lost to the world in which she created that sealed the imagery in his mind.

A knowing smile eased him into the deep comforts of a chair, and soon, Dane had crossed one leg over the other and watched her with glowing captivation. Never once did he look elsewhere. Not when a round of crude patrons slammed their conversation at the edge of his periphery. Not when the bar back shattered a glass. Only her. This lovely orchid, unique and special. Soon, she began to play for him, sneaking quick glances above the resonating strings, and silently, she flirted, tilting her cheek one way or another, petting the keys with the pads of her fingers, or tucking one ankle behind another when she realized his eyes had fallen.

She didn't skirt away when he leaned in from behind her. The scent of her shampoo curled pleasantly in his nostrils, and wisps of hair tickled his cheek. For some minutes, he did not sit, but instead reached around the width of her back, and eased into higher treble octaves; easing into her trust that he would not ruin the song, but rather, enhance what she could not do alone. She played along, enjoying the enchantment of their silent game. When he finally slid on the bench, she made room, though the sides of their thighs barely pressed together, he knew she was unafraid of his proximity.

Perfect. That was the point. Whether playing a symphony or playing a game. A master manipulated the art of the unexpected. Sweet and sinister; elegant and savage. And his lovely new friend would not expect what was to come from so graceful an artist. Indeed, Dane was an artist. And she would be his art.

When he peeled her wrist from the keys, the music stopped and was replaced with the dull ache of petty conversations all around. He watched her eyes while he kissed the back of her hand. Her pupils dilated, and her breath came shallow. "Thank you for the duet,"
he said softly. A lovely, lovely thing she was.

He laid her hand in her lap and excused himself, leaving her with the ghostly promise of what had yet to come. She resumed playing as he walked away, not to look back. Not for many hours would he look back.

He abandoned her as he had the port and cigar, but dismissed the idea of collecting either on his way to the bar. A wave of the hand summoned the bartender. He leaned casually on the rail. "A fresh Cuban,"
and he glanced at one of the men in his immediate presence. "And one for my friend, as well."


He returned his cuffs to his wrists and slid into a chair alongside Nicholas. "A pleasure, Mister Trano,"
he greeted, British accent crisp and elegant as the man's salt and pepper hair, but mixed with sounds that also hinted at somewhere else.

Once his sleeves were fixed, he extended a hand in offer of a gentlemen's greeting. He wrapped his palm around Nicholas' and introduced himself with a wide smile. "Dane Gregory."




Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 9 2013, 09:31 PM.

The cold slab of marble slowly leeched warmth as his palm pressed against it. A shiver rose up his arm as a trickle of sweat beaded down to meet the sensation. Similar beads slithered down the curve of his back, and dripped from the fringes of his hair. His reflection was muddled to that of an eerie shape indistinct from the other forms behind him. Cabinets, hooks, doors, slats. All fogged, all dull, but he knew they were there. He knew they were there.

His only company was the soft trickle of a fountain. A thin sheet cascading down the convolutions in the adjacent wall. When he spit the chalky bolus of peppermint into the basin beneath him, it echoed only as far as the fountain allowed. In the distance, the spray of a shower drowned the rest of the rinsing, and his lids fell low...

The spa at the Ritz Carlton was designed to infect and overwhelm every sensation. Its success astounded. From the slice of a straight blade up his throat. To the cool envelope of a blackened pool. Dane disappeared, swallowed by the intrinsic trance of it all. It curled his blood from within. At first, a tickle, a tease. But soon, the sensations overwhelmed, and everywhere he looked, imagination filled what the acoustics in his head could not echo. The humidity choked. A knot twisted in his stomach. When distant shower fell quiet, and any drips following were drowned by the nearby fountain, his breath came swift, panting. Running.

Chasing.

There was a new shape in the mirror now. Another figure, muddled, foggy, standing behind him. He carefully placed his toothbrush back in the holder, wiped his palm on the towel around his waist, and turned. He smiled as a fat old man waddling to a sink. The barber's straight blade was suddenly in Dane's hand. His bare feet left wet prints on the floor as he moved. A trail of a hunter led to its next target.

He silently appeared next to the gentleman. "You need a shave."
A flick of the thumb and the razor popped open. He smiled and smiled. Smiled until it hurt. The fountain bubbled loud. The marble flooded hot....

But another distant sound pierced the peaceful trance. His smile wavered. He heard it again. And Dane realized it was the clearance of a throat and the sound of his name. "Mister Gregory,"
it said, and Dane's lids rose once more. Condensation had run rivulets of water down the mirror while he'd stood there. The streaks reflected the spa's butler posed behind him, presented in alternating stripes of clear and opaque forms. "It is time for your massage, sir."
He held a bathrobe open for Dane's use.

A gentle nod and Dane turned to slip his arms in the sleeves. Folds softer than the pillows of a woman's lips wrapped him in warmth. He knotted the belt and followed the butler from the club room. As he left, he passed the old Russian as the man crossed the locker room floor. Dane stretched an arm and pointed to the man's throat. "You should get a shave while here."
He smiled, just another guest being helpful. "The barber has steady hands."


You're welcome.

Dane never really understood the difference between the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches. For that matter, he could throw Protestants on the bonfire as well. From sacraments to sainthood, the lines billowed and blurred. Much like holy robes flowing on the wind.

Both had celibate monks and priests, and the dedicated women who served alongside. The latter of course, were as pure and pious as the white walls of the convent across the street. Located on the southwestern bank of the Moscow River, the New Maiden's Monastery was the little sister to the Ascension Monastery located behind Kremlin walls. Although Dane's car daily drove him along those famous red bricks during his stay in Moscow, he had yet to walk the cobblestone streets on foot. It was on his to-do list, however. The museums were said to be marvelous.

This street, however, was the object of the day's tourist trap. Originally a sixteenth century fortress, the high walls and corner towers were eventually adopted by the noblewomen who founded Novodevichy Monastery. Their fortitude explained how they held strong and untainted through Napoleon's marching, Stalin's insanity, German bombing, and pre-ASU rioting. But would they survive the Mockingbird? None could yet say.

As the bell-towers began their hourly chime, a cold wind suddenly blew off the river. Its tentacles plucked remaining any leaves still clinging to the twisted woods that lined the street. They tumbled around his legs, crunching underfoot with every step. Disturbed by the gust, Dane readjusted the slope of his hat above his eyes and made a note to purchase new gloves. Snug riding gloves were sufficient for the french countryside, but he was growing fond of Moscow. Perhaps he will stay through the winter after all. There was still the Nutcracker to see, after all.

As the gust died down, a hint of song rose in its place arcing over the convent walls like a fiery arrow. He ceased his stroll and listened a few moments.

The nuns were singing holiday carols in their ancient, onion-domed cathedral.

It gave him a marvelous idea. He merrily joined in on their song and returned to the car, singing to himself, "..all is calm, all is bright."

Dane stood in the lobby of the Galina Vishnevskaya Theater and Opera Center, studying the portrait of one Galina Vishnevskaya, the legendary soprano responsible for its foundation. She was a classic diva of the previous century with a large round face, drooping cheeks and beady eyes. In the portrait, her hair was piled into a high coif and a wide fur collar was nestled across her bust.

Chimes called the end to intermission, and Dane strode swiftly toward the entrance to his box. There was just enough time to stop at the bar on his way. As a lad, Dane enjoyed magic shows and he did not wish to miss a minute of this one. The air was thick with mysticism. Brows were pinched with awe. And revelry filled as many glasses as did champagne.

The real show, however, was not on stage.

Dane leaned eagerly against the railing until bent wrists sent his fingers tingling, but he was too enraptured to reposition. His view? The crowd below. Row after row of childlike curiosity illuminated by the bright stage lights that held them transfixed. The wonder of it was hardly matched by another spectacle.

Hardly, but not unrivaled.

It was with great misfortune that Dane had to withdraw early from the show. He had taken ill with a headache, for which he blamed overindulgence in champagne. A quiet room and Panadol awaited. Perhaps a massage as well. A cab was called. "The Ritz-Carlton,"
, he told the driver. As they sped away, his crisp accent cut through the noise of the radio, "do you know when the Bolshoi performs The Nutcracker?"
he asked. The driver thought for a moment, "Christmas Eve, I think."

Dane smiled, imagining it. "How lovely."


The headache served him well, however. As a few minutes before the curtain fell a noxious gas was pumped through the theater's antique ventilation ducts. First felt as a tickle in the back of the throat, then a cough here and there. Men loosened their collars and ladies rubbed irritated eyes. So close to the grand finale, none sought the refuge of washrooms and fresh air.

That night, the curtain fell to the silence. When the magician finally realized applause was not to be replaced with disappointed heckling, he timidly held a hand to his eyes and squinted beyond the lights. Three-hundred and fifty nine silent faces were slouched in their seats, never to clap again.

That night, investigators found a card, hand painted with the profile of a mockingbird, tucked into the frame of Galina Vishnevskaya's portrait. Othewise, they had no leads.


Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 10 2013, 07:13 AM.

Dane raised the collar of a warm tweed coat so that it blocked the wind. It climbed the university buildings like swarming spiders. It wrapped his scarf around his throat like a noose and inched cold fingers beneath his collar. Far from home, but then again, who cared? Light strung pine trees and glittering holiday decorations were uniquitious.

Such as the arcing walls of a great silver egg. It was nestled in a haystack of steel and glass. A planetarium of the great Natural Museum, a wonder of MSU. No wonder schoolchildren crawled all over the campus. Breaks from the monotony of classrooms and textbooks, a chance to learn true experience, and on a Saturday no less.

The dome reflected the shine of a sinking sun. Night fell so early in Moscow, this time of year. One would think it was nearly time for a nightcap, not afternoon tea.

There was a cafe across from the museum giftshop. Perhaps they had tea, and those little Russian teacakes. They were delicious, and the celophane crackled when he crushed it in his hand. Like fireworks.

Speaking of, they should be going off any moment.

He waited in a corner, teacup warming in his hands. Thankfully, there was time to get the blend steeping before the power went out. The collapsed building next door must have cut the powerlines. Unfortunately, the soundtrack of Christmas carols went with it.

As he had the dark cafe to himself, the dulcet tenor of his voice mimicked Tchaikovsky in its place. Sweet as a mockingbird. I should really see the ballet while in town. He thought to himself, and took a sip.

"Perfect."
He smiled and crossed his legs. Enjoying himself. "Yes, The Nutcracker, I think, will do nicely."


He snapped a lid on the cup and left his calling card on the counter. It was a square painted with the profile of a mockingbird.

Investigators would have themselves a lead, now. When he saw the moniker in the day's headlines, a thin smile curled Dane's lips.

'Mockingbird sings again.'

Yes, how truly terrifying.
Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 7 2013, 07:23 PM.

Dane Raphael Gregory


Background:

British father, French mother. Primary and secondary school was in a French-Catholic academy, although, by Custody Law, french was only a secondary language. He sang in the boys' chorus at a very early age. He was seemingly uninterested in cultivating relationships throughout his time in french DVII. Most of his boyhood schoolmates misinterpreted his timid inquisition and disassociation as one of a closeted homosexual who was too afraid to shame a family that once clung to styles of Earldom in the age before Custody annexation. This was far from the truth.

Appearance:

Dane is soft spoken, and otherwise free to smile. With thin dark hair and dull gray eyes. He has an angular, bony face and narrow build. His manner and appearance lends to seeming younger than a man of his late twenties. Despite a comparatively frail appearance, he has a cool presence that is unconcerned with judgement, criticism or intimidation, a deviation from the anxiety of his youth, and likely correlated to new found abilities. He dresses quite gentlemanly, otherwise, preferring tweed, cashmere and scarves in traditional patterns and masculine, lordly colors. His accent is posh, crisp and defined but tends to oscillate heavily toward a french country upbringing.

Powers:

A channeler, his first touch of the Power was dramatic and eye-opening. He was the victim of a robbery turned into attempted sexual assault, but the only thing touched was a cold nerve, and he has not known fear since.





Dane had a dulcet singing voice and often hummed the common tunes of childhood to himself. While canvasing the picturesque scene before him, one moment in particular came to mind. A Parisian park that was created around a small château from the 1770's. Strolling through which he hummed the fitting ballad, "Over the Rainbow." He hummed it to himself now.

The memory inspired a little experimentation with the words for a moment. His throat and mouth played with the sounds as they passed his lips. A young woman with pigtails pushing a carriage passed nearby about then, and overheard the quiet stranger on the bench. She smiled shyly as though she perhaps wondered if the gentleman lounging on this fine autumn's morning was someone she should recognize. Not yet, my dear. He smiled generously and tipped a nod of his hat, a tweed Yorkshire style, and ceased the song as she continued on. The lovely weather fit, but the selection was wrong. A conductor needed the perfect soundtrack as an artist needed the right brush; the chorus should live up to the view.

Indeed the view was spectacular. This little triangular patch of green was a nice respite to the cement, stone and industry of inner London closing in around them. He lounged, quite comfortable, legs crossed and content to watch the people who'd likewise come to this green mirage in a desert of gray stone. Before him, the murky waters of the river Thames lapped onward, continually washing away the exhaust and grime of oily engines toward the sea, but the foul river faded as indistinct backdrop to tourists prowling for pictures in front of it. Posing this way and that, likely aiming for the perfect angle to share the destination of their travels with friends and family back home. London's famous Tower Bridge made for a dramatic photograph, after all.

The woman with the carriage was nearly to the shadow of the bridge by then. The famous towers of this bridge above, to which this park was dedicated, loomed long in the morning sun. From the distance, Dane made out the sudden wailing of the infant, and the woman circled to gather the child in her arms. Comforting it.

A thin smile tweaked his lips. One loafer gently tapped the ground in beat with the song came to mind. "...Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird.."
Why a mockingbird would comfort a child, Dane did not know. Mimicking something one was not was actually quite terrifying to conceive. Evolution was a sinister bastard.

A gust of wind rustled the fringes of his fine hair, and with it, carried the sound of other children playing nearby. He turned his head, just as a bumbling toddler caught too much speed and tumbled to the grass. It began to scream. Someone, a nanny by the look of it, came running to its side.

Ahh yes. That was it. A gleeful grin, and he returned to the immaculate bridge ever-reaching for the twin riverbanks. A moment later, he seized every instinct within, and detonation, hotter than the jolting current of a wet finger in a socket, crushed stone and metal in a crescendo of fiery infernos. The land boomed with explosives that shook his very ribcage and seared his very bones. Spheres of flame roaring unconstrained, mushroomed from the towers. Enormous blocks of debris erupted and projectiles arced toward the water's hissing surface below, cascading like the volcanoes of the earth vomiting wretched molten interiors. Frightened shrieks chilled the air. Panic sent men and women alike to their faces.

Though swarming with the force of it, Dane eased to his feet. The woman and her carriage were lost to clouds of dust now wafting across the far end of the park. He brushed his sleeves clean, placed his hands in his pockets and walked away humming, thinking of the toddler that inspired it all. "London bridge is falling down.. falling down. Falling down."



Epilogue:


London, DVII: Explosion collapses interior of London's Tower Bridge, the iconic symbol of the ancient city. Twenty-four cars, two buses, and 79 pedestrians fell to the waters below. The total death count is unconfirmed at this time. Investigators have no leads.

Venice, DVII: A barge filled with highly flammable toxic chemicals split in two, and for twelve hours, fire burned across the oily surface of tainted Venetian waters. Seepage continue to plague interior city infrastructure. Ten dead, economic cost and clean up is unknown. Investigators have no leads.

Oświęcim, DVI: The one-hundred year anniversary of Liberation Day to memorialize the mass murders at Auschwitz concentration camp ended in tragedy when uncontrolled fires engulfed the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and grounds, roasting an estimated four-hundred fifty visitors and dignitaries within, including descendants of those to have survived the camp during WWII. More than three-thousand people were in attendance that weekend. Arson has been confirmed, but investigators have no leads.

Belgrade, DVI: Thousands of party-goers lining the city's club-district ran in panic as missile-like projectiles fell from the quiet night sky. A mass of panicked locals and tourists were shuffled like rats in a maze this way and that through the city center while the projectiles rained down. Sixty-one were confirmed dead and more than two-hundred were injured. Investigators have no leads.

As these attacks appear without apparent motive and strike at seeming random targets, the people of DVI and DVII now join their brethern in DV living in fear.


Fear.

Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 7 2013, 07:31 AM.

Alla had been floating on cloud nine in the past weeks. She’d finally met a lovely man, Anton, and ever since, her life has seemingly been on an upturn. Anton was as deep as he was mysterious. He didn’t talk much of his day job, only to say that he worked in the dirt, but came to her to play within the clouds. It was the little things he did for her; flowers spontaneously being delivered to work, a email telling her that she was on his mind. Every now and again after they parted after a date he would drop a butterscotch with a small tag with his initials on it in her coat pocket before he left, for her to discover later. It was both of their favorites and what had started them talking in the first place. Almost childlike giddiness infused her days. Her friends remarked on her changes both congratulating her but also cautioning her on not falling for the gentleman too fast lest she scare him off.

Anton alleviated her worries. She’s had more than her fair share of creepers hound her; both at work and socially; but he was different. A brunette colored tress curled around her finger as he focused on the wall in front of her. Her dress, which he bought for her just before arriving at the restaurant, was a red princess cut with matching heels. His approach back to their table drew her eyes to feast on his visage. Alabaster skin contrasted slightly against the dark grey colored suit. His dark eyes were the only rebellious thing he clung to; using black colored contacts to hide true colors. While it wasn’t something she would normally be attracted to, it did add a touch to his mystery. Her red lips parted as her mouth turned upwards when he took his seat. “I didn’t miss our waiter did I?
” His voice was a soothing tenor; deep enough to draw the image of a coarser man but his intonations seemed to wrap his words in satin. “I ordered water as well as your usual wine.
” His smile was subtle. Like it was a secret that he shared only with her. “Thank you. Now, tell me of your day.
”

He listened to her with his attention undivided as she talked of things ranging from her current work projects to the current gossip running about her office. It shocked her how he took an honest interest in everything she brought up. She paused in her recanting of her day long enough for the waiter to take their order and accept a small note from Anton before he took hold of her hand. It still shocked her when his cold digits entwined with hers. He apologized after feeling her diminutive hand tense, but she quickly waved it aside; she was just used to being the cold one!

She looked over as her waiter and another were rearranging tables as the band in the far corner began a new song. She felt him pull on her hand before her attention returned to him, only to see him pull her to her feet and move out into the open space and pull her close. He moved with a practiced grace and confidence that forced her to merely follow along his lead, almost like his touch and hungered desire that radiated in his eyes placed her in a bedazzled haze. Soon the music, the attention of the staff and guests watching them, all other distractions and worries that she held within melted away as she lost herself in the flow of his dance.

The meal and the rest of their time ended too quickly for her liking and once again he excused himself from accepting her invitation back to her apartment. It was polite, as always, but tonight it was different. “Maybe I’ll join you while you sleep tonight.
” He spoke as if it were a promise, but still she knew that he could only mean in her dreams this night.
The taxi ride home was dreadfully tiring. As usual, her outings with Anton left her with little energy, as if he made her wait on their dates with shallow breath. Slowly, the euphoric wave she was riding on was slowly returning her to reality.

It was now that her fears began to arise once again. For the past few days, she had this feeling she couldn’t shake. She paid and exited the cab and walked briskly towards her building. Unseen eyes began to look at her, the lights that lit up the sidewalk offered her little in the way of comfort. The hairs on her neck began to straighten; goosebumps raced down her flesh as she spun around, mace in hand only to spray empty air knowing without a doubt that whomever was after her was mere inches away from wrapping their hands around her throat. She finally remembered to breathe after a moment of watching and listening for her stalker but she only listened to the empty darkness that seemed to close in on her. She could hear her heart beating in her ears and soon the sounds of her rapid breathing and racing heart were all that filled her ears. Sweat dotted her brow as her fear began to consume her.

It took her moments that seemed like eons to start moving again. The clanking of her heels reminded her of reality and that there wasn’t anyone following her. She began to use the coping tools her therapist taught her to calm her fears; focus on her breathing, slow, deep, and calming and she allowed her legs to move swiftly, burning the adrenaline coursing through her body. Of course. The elevator, she found out as she entered the building, was all the way at the seventh floor which was naturally at the top of the building and her very own floor. She took the time at the stair well to take off the heels and glance behind her. She didn’t hear anything to alert her of anyone entering, but still she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed.

Grateful for the carpeted stairs, Alla wasted no time hustling up the flights of steps and soon found herself entering a hallway that was… off. There wasn’t anything apparently wrong as she inspected the decor of the hallways. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was missing, but it all just reeked of being wrong. As if she were on the wrong floor. Finally. She knew she’d feel safe once she was in her own home. Her keys rattled against one another, filling the hallway with their tinkling sounds.

The opening and slamming of her door gave her little in the way of relief. She placed her keys back into her purse and dropped it only to hear it hit the floor. She paused for a moment looking at the black spot that she heard the sound coming from. She never missed placing her purse there. Flicking the light switch didn’t help either. Switch must’ve finally given out. There was a floor lamp at the direct opposite of the door and she moved to it. The way should’ve been a clear path but she found herself bumping into the couch and stubbing her bare toes on the end table before reaching the lamp.

“What the hell…” She muttered to herself. Even the damn lamp didn’t feel right. As the light clicked on she inspected it but to no avail. She knew that it was the same lamp but it wasn’t hers. She began to feel herself losing control, panic soon started pushing all other rational thoughts. Alla retraced herself back to the door, searching her pockets for her phone. She felt before she held the crunching sound of wrapping in her pocket. Soon, and gratefully, a surge of ease moved through her as she began to unwrap the familiar golden candy, savoring the flavor of butter-scotch as well as the return of Anton and the safety she made him feel.

Her mind simply stopped thinking when she opened her eyes once more as a figure, pale skin, large black eyes and a permeable hunger emanating off him smiled with pointed teeth, with a near glee like feeling. Her scream resounded off the walls as she ran towards her bedroom after the man switched the lamp back off. Her heart raced frantically as she hurried to shut the door. Tears poured like the rain that began to pound on the windows. What the fuck?! The light shed by the lightning outside illuminated the room momentarily, but her body made her take in every detail. Including the man, not quite the same clung to the corner of the room, giving off the same sense of hunger, watched her as she realized just what was reality for her.

With each flash of lightning he drew closer to her. Her heart was nearly beating out of her chest, so hard that even through her labored breathing,she thought it could be seen through her breasts. Her hand moved towards the light switch. Her breath froze in her throat as cold but hard as iron fingers gripped her wrist and moved her hand to the switch that she was searching for.

As the light came on and shown her the terror that she feared a voice; a tenor that could’ve belonged to a coarser man but wrapped in satin, spoke the words she always wanted to hear from her husband.

“Welcome home.
”

Jessika Thrice platform calls for independent Republic of Texas



Dallas Chronicle
<small>-Turner McIntosh, 2045</small>



Gubernatorial candidate Jessika Thrice rescheduled last night's fundraiser for next Monday. Following her last speech given to a sold-out, high-profile fundraiser in Houston last weekend, the momentum she has gained from religious, minority, and the range of socioeconomic households has been unprecedented.

Thrice's economic views has won her support from Big Business, her grassroots cultural, moral, and religious standings appeal to the conservative Catholic and Christian base (1), and her most controversial platform - that of Texan secession from the Union - arguing self-government and self-regulation appeals to the low-income and urban voter. It appears that Jessika Thrice will be the next governor of Texas, and if she gets her way, the President of a free and independent Republic of Texas.

Click the link
below for a clip from her keynote address at Texas A&amp;M University. (2)


/PlayVideo




"Exactly two centuries ago, the Republic of Texas ceased to exist. A glorious and triumphant nine years did she last. The Texas Declaration of Independence symbolised the autonomy and fierce independence that differentiated the people from that of Mexico and the United States. Despite recognition from France, Britian, and the United States, battles continued and the Republic gathered a heavy debt. We traded our independence for money. We set aside claims to the vast stretches of Texan territory in exchange for forgiveness of these debts from the United States government, and in 1845 the United States swallowed the mighty Republic.

Two-hundred years later, what has our forefathers' compromise purchased? The United States now carries heavy debts owed to foreign superpowers. China verges on calling in their debts, and who can blame them with the empire that's grown around their borders? Texans understand what it means to strengthen defenses, buckle down, and hold the fort! But what happens when China calls in their debts? Where will the casualties fall?

While China's threats pummel Congress' ears, your federal lawmakers discuss another cop-out! All for money! Annexation to the CCD is not an option for Texans! Our great state's legislators in Washington are losing the battle. Although they call for Federal reforms to match Texas' successful template, the Federal government is unwilling to listen and President Dawson is no better.

See, Texans are no longer indebted to the country that swallowed the Republic two-hundred years ago. If the state were its own country, our economy is so vast and diverse, that we would have the sixth largest economy in the world! (3) We have the means to be a free and independent land once again!

Which is why when I am elected governor, I will draft a resolution that calls for secession of the state of Texas from the United States of America. We will be our own people once more! We will cry our own anthem at the top of our lungs! And we will again be the Republic for which we proudly stand!"


/Roar of applause/EndVideo


<small>Footnotes:

(1)Jessika Thrice, also known as Jessika Thrice James, dropped the use of her married surname after disassociation from her first marriage to Pastor Jensen James, who disappeared in 2041 following investigation of fraud. Formal charges against the James' household were never filed. Recent polling from the base of her religious-supporters shows sympathy with her situation, and do not hold her accountable for any moral misdeeds on the part of Mr. James.

(2)The Jessika Thrice Campaign funds for TAMU appearance were provided by the League of Independent Texans Movement

(3)Largest world economies by GDP: CCD, China, USA, Canada, Australia, Mexico, Republic of Texas</small>


Edited by Jensen James, Dec 6 2013, 07:36 AM.

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.