everyone hates me! *sniffle*

I am bouncing around the idea of stopping in Oriena's -this isnt a strip club but pretty much is- place and see what trouble we can get into. If anyone else is game?

I'll be gone for a couple of weeks. I'll still be able to write posts on occasion but I recommend ya'll communicate with me through PMs 'till it's fixed. Should still be able to get SOME stuff done but as I said, I'll be otherwise gone.

Continued from: Dealing with devils

With the aid of the way-point system on their Land Warriors, the trip back from the Rougarou hideout was much shorter then the time it took to get there. Which was good, because by the end of it, Hood was starting to feel the weight of the body he was carrying, not that he voiced any complaints. It was a good bit of exercise, after all.

They returned to the more familiar tunnels around the safe house, but still a few levels below the surface, until finding their way into a defunct service tunnel, where electrical and telephone cables, and water or gas pipes, ran to the various buildings that resided above. The way point marker led to an old metal service door, the hinges of which showed subtle hints of recent use and maintenance.

The door opened without much effort, and lead to a single large room that was probably a sub-basement of one of the now demolished apartment blocks that had dominated the neighborhood around the safe house.

In the room was a metal chair bolted to the floor, a table, and most importantly four flood-lights like one would see on a construction site, hooked up by a series of cables to a generator that sat beyond an open door into what was once the boiler room. With that door closed, the noise of the generator would be much less eminent. There were also four jerry cans full of fuel, and a case of bottled water and canned stews.

The Rougarou was dumped into the chair and four handcuffs were produced to bind it's legs and arms to the chair, but he didn't remove any of it's other bindings. He gave the wounds a brief inspection, and satisfied that the thing wasn't going to kick the bucket any time soon, he finally let himself relax, glancing at the two women.

"If I can get my hands on them, I will set up a series of signal boosters from here to the surface. Wallets probably won't get too clear a signal down here without them. I had a stereo system down here at 110 decibles, and couldn't hear a thing from the surface. With that door shut, it doesn't carry too far down here either."
He gave them a quick tour, as well of the two closest bolt-holes (easiest ways to reach the surface from there).

"I'll stay here with our new friend, you two can head to the safe house and get ahold of your boss. First aid kit in the armoury should have most of what you'll need to tend those hands of yours. You need a mirror and a shower."
He pointed from Aria to Rune, then pulled a folding chair from against the wall and slapped it down near the Rougarou, somewhere he could see the door and the creature. He didn't bother turning on the generator or the lights, apparently intent to just sit in the dark and wait. No point wasting fuel.


Edited by Hood, Aug 20 2013, 05:47 PM.

<small>From: Signals and shards</small>


Nikolai was not a man of whim. That he was not in his office practicing the forthcoming address to the media was a conscious choice. Depending on the reaction of the American media, his team would make a decision whether or not to make a public speech or simply issue a press release. In the meantime, Nikolai was not about to waste time practicing a talk he may not need to give. Not when there were more pressing issues at hand.

His daily briefings always included an update - if there was one - about progress in the Facility. Details were always skipped. He had no insight as to how many subjects the Facility currently housed. He had no idea as to how many were on staff. From a few sentences to a simple, no update, and short of a breakthrough finding, the leader of half the world devoted a rare amount of his faculties to the topic.

Yet here he toured the Facility for the first time since his initial walk-through two years ago. The front corridors were transformed from what he remembered. The former bunker was cold and sterile now, white and modern, in these common-use areas such as where he was now led. The Facility Director was a stout old man of great prestige, recruited from within the government, and already wielding a great deal of clearance as a bioweapons defense scientist. It was his formulations which coursed the Ascendancy's circulatory system for years now: vaccines and anti-toxin boosters among others. These agents of immunological protection were administered only to the highest level of government: men and women that if they were suddenly lost to bioterrorism, plague or epidemic, the government would fall into chaos. Nikolai hated the very idea of chaos in his regime.

Their progress was ongoing. A long, difficult process to say the least. Mapping genomic function was like charting every individual ray of light to streak across the galaxy from a trillion stars, and in the Facility, each subject was their own galaxy in this enormous, overlapping universe of mystery. Which was why a specialist named West -- or Weston -- was now recruited to their team. Nikolai nodded in approval of the news.

A number of the subjects had died. He could not recall how many, though Director Stephenson had said the number not two minutes beforehand amid an avalanche of other directive updates. Nikolai was not particularly listening. He had another reason for being here.

Their tour of the Facility took them down a level below the main floor. Formerly, these rooms once secured weapons. An arsenal of the Soviet era. Now this sub-basement, so far below ground it would have been fully protected from a direct nuclear strike at the surface, had been reworked for another purpose. Identified by six-inch thick steel doors spaced at even distances apart, magnetically sealed individual bunkers completely contained those waiting within.

At his left, the director continued to speak. To his right his primary body guard flanked. Behind, two more men in suits and synced LW's continually scanned for danger. Nikolai was as safe here as he was anywhere, but neither caution nor manipulation was not the reason he seized the furious power he commanded. The moment he did, his expression darkened, not an evil countenance, but one of menace, aura and confidence. In these moments, his title was so befitting, it could send a man to his knees in respect.

This time, the Ascendancy did nothing with the power he so often used but simply wrestled it to his will, forcing it to fluctuate across his very soul until it cowed to submission. With the enhancement it brought, he stretched forth his mind, and attempted to sense something, anything, as they passed door after door.

Continued from: Dealing with Devils

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime Michael and Jaxen exited the Undercity.

Jaxen - as Michael learned his name was as they retraced his steps to escape - was one eccentric bastard. He supposed he didn't blame the man for wanting to be gone from that hell hole, but he blinked when the bastard straightened his coat and demanded he hurried up. Unless he had stumbled into that nest of monsters while on an evening stroll - something Michael seriously considered, from what he had seen of Jaxen - he doubted the man had any idea of the way out.

Michael wasn't bothered, he was just glad Jaxen had not tried to kill him - at least, not after he had learned of his powers, and not mistaken him for a monster. In fact, the man's blasé attitude towards it all was rather endearing. Which was just as well for him, since he would soon find out he had a lot more in common with Michael than he probably wanted.

They paused as the exited the Undercity, and Michael did not waste time now that they were free. He took a quick look around - nobody was out at this early hour in the morning, nobody to overhear - and spoke.

"There is one more thing,"
Michael said. He wasn't exactly sure how to tell someone they had superpowers - he hoped the man didn't think he was Batman and start dressing in a cape - so he cut to the chase. "You saw what I did. You felt it. Well, you can do it to. The 'Sickness'? You know of it of course. Well you have it, but it isn't a disease. It's the start of something new.I can explain it later, but for now, there is one thing you need to know. If you don't get it under control, there's a good chance you will die. I can help you, but I will only offer this once."


<small><small>[fast forward and moding done with permission]</small></small>


Edited by Michael Vellas, Aug 17 2013, 12:38 PM.

Takeo's beer was getting warm. Imported from his homeland, the Kirin label had been peeled off in one expert show of boredom, revealing the familiar smiling chibi face of the company's founder, flashing the ubiquitous two-fingered peace sign of his generation. It was supposed to signify that the bottle had in fact been molded and filled in Japan, though Takeo knew of at least two counterfeits in Moscow alone. He took a long drink and set it down silently on the almost black petrified table. Drops of perspiration twinkled in the amber glow of ancient chandeliers hung low over the elevated deck and splashed cooly against the back of his hand.

The building had once been an opera house. Another import, this time from former Germany. Before that, however, it had been a mansion, a decadent palace all but ignored by the powers that be. Fallen into disrepair, the Germans had plucked it up for a steal before losing their heads in the Dominance stock race. Now the building was a vintage monstrosity of its former glory. Divided and parceled to a half dozen boutique sharks, Takeo sat in a loft built over the old stage, which currently held a quartet of nude performers. Two were singing a cover of a current chart-topper Takeo had never heard before. The other two were either dancing or having sex, he couldn't quite tell.

"We're in," Kasumi said, her voice little more than a groan. The girl - technically a woman at 22, though Takeo never thought of her as such - sat crouched over a pair of custom computer cubes and enough cords and wires to pacify all four of the performers downstairs.

Following the cables to a monitor showed little more than static signals and shards, but, as Takeo watched, the screen skipped a beat and the void was replaced with Nikolai Brandon himself, speaking into camera at what was soon revealed to be the American President. There could be few others who would earn such an instructor's backhand from Brandon.

The President did not take it well, as was no doubt the plan. Takeo raised his mostly empty bottle aloft and one of his kids - Haji, this time - skitted off down the stairs. Only the Privileged's people were allowed up that grand inclination.

"He's nervous." Jun was one of those people. His false blue eyes were transfixed on the screen. He had an awkward profile with those odd blue irises and that too-round nose, but a square jaw clenched in nominal compensation.

"Obviously," Kasumi hadn't looked up from her own miniature dual screens, green-lacquered nails flying over her instruments. Whatever she did, Takeo was glad to have her doing it for him. "Wouldn't you be nervous talking to Bra--"

"Not the gaijin!" Junichi barked, shooing her words with an absent wave of his hand. His eyes flashed to Takeo, and Takeo met them, curious, then watched the screen with him. "The Ascendancy..." Jun said, pointing at the hacked footage not four feet from his fingertip.

Takeo accepted a cold beer from his winded assistant and watched his old friend Nikolai. Jun was perceptive about people. It was one of the reasons he was on Takeo's payroll. But, Takeo did not think it was nerves that had the most powerful man in the world straight-backed and straight-faced.

He's excited.

Takeo eased back in the relaxed leather loveseat he occupied by himself. Nikolai had reason to be excited. The President had walked into this trap willingly; only he could walk himself out. It seemed so obvious, though. The man knew he couldn't keep his head around Nikolai. So why agree to this 'private' conversation? Nothing was private in this Age.

Or had he agreed? Takeo took a closer look at the American. He could be an actor. That could be CG or makeup or some other illusion.

"Get confirmation from the President's office," Takeo said to his staff. He looked across the table, specifically at Sergei. Kasumi nodded to herself, and Takeo added, "Legitimate confirmation." She grinned to herself, nodded again, and turned off one of her monitors. After the world leaders' little public tiff was over, she put on a collage of news screens. Takeo ignored them for the moment. He watched Sergei as he made a few calls. Kasumi would get him what he needed, but he wanted to see Sergei's process.

"The Whitehouse confirms there has been a breach," Sergei said, his crisp accent a mix of German and Russian that always made him sound harsh somehow. He spoke forcefully into the phone, rattling off his identification and demanding to speak with the Press Secretary in person. A moment later, a wallet sprang on and a miniaturized projection of the Secretary stood on the table next to Takeo's beer.

She wasn't speaking specifically to them, of course. She was fielding probably hundreds of calls. In fact, after a few minutes it was obvious she was only a recording. On a loop. The President has no comment at this time but is deeply upset by the behavior of the Ascendancy - funny how he remembered Nikolai's title this time. The President would address the press at 2000 PST. Others added it to calendars. Takeo took a drink and turned to watch the performers. There was time.

Ascendancy apologist says dictatorship is welcome.
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

Jon Little Bird's been busy over in Dominance I--or Russia, as it was previously known--fighting in their academic Colosseum. Academia within the CCD has never been known for any particular level of enlightenment. Still, it's hard not to giggle like a six year old girl when you're watching Little Bird give them a sound thrashing.

The academics of the CCD seem convinced that "capitalism" is a form of government. Of course, that doesn't resemble their dictatorship in the least--and even if it did, a government that's designed to profit off the people is a terrifying idea.

The highlight of the day came when the esteemed Professor Adamo Napoli stepped into the ring. After trying--and doing a pretty good job--to play the role of the intelligent, mature and dare I say fatherly scholarly type in the beginning, he tripped and fell flat on his face.

The man admitted, literally, that the CCD was a dictatorship. In the same line of thinking, he stated that the CCD being a dictatorship was a good thing. He even stated that the dictatorships of the past--remember, this includes Soviet Russia, Nazi Germany, Congo/Zaire/DPRC, Iran, Iraq and a dozen other failed states--were, and I quote, "purposeful forms of organization of a most highly developed capitalism" and the exact same as the CCD.

If you're anything like me, you probably want to ask, "Mr. Trace... how in the hell is that man one of the CCD's top scholars?!" To which I would respond with a simple "I have no idea."

I'll be keeping you up to date with regular updates on Jon Little Bird's exploits in Moscow. Expect to hear more about the success or failure of his lawsuit for the Minutemen tomorrow.

<em>Published by Vulpesnet, 2045. U.S.A</em>

Comments are: <strong>OPEN</strong>

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

Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>

continued from: Renovations

Aria felt like she was in school all over again. Here memorize this. She sighed and glanced at the paper and took the keys offered her. It wasn't uncommon to have to memorize things, but typically you had a little more time than rushing out the door. Aria tucked the keys in her jeans pocket and hoped that she'd remember the information on the paper.

It wasn't long before they were descending down into the tunnels below. Aria had paid very little attention to the getting out, it was only important to know how to get back in. Aria didn't hope to be tracking through these tunnels from this starting point again. While she had nothing against her two companions, she didn't want to be around two people with such open hostility towards one another. Sure they were behaving better now that things were getting underway, but who knew what would set one of them off again. The last thing Aria needed were two emotion filled roommates.


The three of them trudged through the muck of the tunnels following Rune and her coordinates. Aria was comfortable following. The air was stuffy and there were more smells that Aria didn't like not the least of which was bodily waste. The stench of things lingered far longer and Aria hated that everything always brought emotions her way. Aria focused on Rune, and on following her and the lamp she held. Aria didn't want on herself, as she preferred to have her night vision, but this place was probably far more dangerous with out a little bit of light.

Time passes slowly when you are keenly aware of your surroundings. Some say it passes faster, but Aria found the opposite true. She watched for things that would jump out at her. Nothing ever did, which was a good thing. In the distance you could hear the drip of water and the mummurs of someone in the shadows. But it was always at a distance.

They came to the place where the last Atharim hunter's signal had been found. It was not a place she ever wished to be. The sight, the smells and the lingering emotions were very powerful, things were not right here, that was certain. There was much to learn and Aria had a much harder time than she typically did in singling out one particular monster. There seemed to be more and they went in all sorts of directions. Aria leaned against the wall as she tried to regain some sense of balance. Too much at one time.

The candle and flame were all that Aria had time for. She leaned against the wall and waited for Rune to see what she had to say. Aria needed more time to make sense of things.

(OOC: Aria can't tell what's recent and what's not, old and new are mixing for her.)


Edited by Aria, Aug 12 2013, 12:30 PM.

The red light district was hardly the ideal place for a good girl to find work. Good girls didn't come to places like this.

Claire explored these streets in a perfume of imagery she was both drawn to and repulsed by. She paused in front of a window of a toy shop, peering in at what was displayed. The open streets of Brooklyn posed similar wares, though far less openly, and boasted business ventures only the locals knew where to find. But here, in Moscow's urban center, as gust of wind brushed her bangs and her eyes followed its path, she was keenly aware of no longer being in the US.

She decided she was not repulsed by her surroundings, but as she moved away from the shop window, she was not particularly interested in being a customer either. She needed a job.

It was mid-afternoon, and Claire took the chance that the business she sought was going to be open at this hour. Neither was it too early for the Seers to still be sleeping, but it was not so late in the day that business would pick up. If Moscow's enchanted seekers of fortune were anything like New York's, that is.

The pay by purchase phone in her skirt pocket did nothing to provide her with an address nor so much even the name of local psychic shops. The far more reliable method was to ask around, which Claire's outgoing, fearless personality enabled her success with relative ease, even in a city unfamiliar with speaking with strangers. Evidence of one such shop was in the plastic bag wrapped around one of her wrists, tangled up with an arm of bracelets, bangles and ties. From one end stuck out the tell-tale gathering of incense sticks. Their faint aroma followed in her wake. At least it muffled the scent of old urine and dry booze. Not that such bothered her. She was a New Yorker, after all.

She passed love shops, host and hostess clubs, hourly hotels, toy shops, and live-action theaters: the scroll above the door tickering the naughty name of something to do with Shakespeare held a strangely suggestive allure. Claire had never been keen on frequenting theaters or operas of the elite. If she went to Broadway, it was not to watch Phantom of the Opera. Yet she was intrigued by the idea of a sex-show turned play. Would it be like watching live-action porn or would it be more artistic than that? Did critics review the acting? It was an interesting idea. Perhaps if she wandered the district at night she would have been of a mind to find out, but the day-time seemed to dull her interest, and she decided to keep to her plan.
Edited by Claire, Aug 12 2013, 07:33 AM.