Name: Irihapeti te Rakena-Williams
Age: 26
Origin: Aotearoa New Zealand
Occupation: Conservation field biologist at the University of Moscow
Powers: As the reincarnation of Papatūānuku, the Māori creation goddess, Iri's powers come from and are directly related to the earth. Her strongest talent is that of Singing, and reading the earth and its needs. Though she is entirely unaware she can channel, her strengths lie in earth and water and she has a small talent for healing.
Channeler experience level: New/blocked.
Current strength level: 6
Potential strength level: 34
Reborn as: Papatūānuku, Māori creation and earth goddess.
Other reincarnations: Yelendrian Sedai of the Blue Ajah (third age).
 
 
Pyschological description: Iri is Māori, and as such, many of her values emphasise community, relationships, and the connection to and stewardship of the earth and all it's resources. She is hard working, and always prioritises family, iwi (tribe), and duty. As is the case for many New Zealanders, she is friendly, easy going, and shows her affection through teasing... until she's angry, and then everybody knows it. Iri is pragmatic and hands on, and though she is an academic by career, she stays involved with the practical side of her profession wherever possible.
Physical description: Iri has the creamy brown skin typical of Māori, with thick, dark almost-black-brown hair, and equally dark eyes. She prefers to wear practical clothing that would not be out of place in a sub-tropical rain forest, but is as equally happy to dress up, should the situation call for it.
 
Biography:
Aotearoa1[ New Zealand, a small group of islands isolated at the bottom of the South-Pacific, has always been at the mercy of Mother Nature. Earthquakes are a daily occurrence, though most go unnoticed, and geothermic activity is prevalent. Tsunami warnings are so common that any ten year old could tell you what to do, and dormant volcanoes litter the landscape – in fact, the largest city, Auckland, is built on the slopes of over fifty such volcanoes. Needless to say, when the earth began to try and rid itself of it’s most destructive virus, those in New Zealand didn’t see anything out of the norm. Until it kept happening. Until the sea rose up and claimed countless towns. Until the Southern Alps shook off their mantle of sleep. Until Auckland drowned in magma.
 
But New Zealanders are resilient, and lucky. They were masters in the art of alternative energy generation – prior to the end of the world, 80% of their electricity was created by renewable means. They had vast stores of fresh water, and endless fields in which to grow food. But whilst they persevered, life was not easy. It was into this life, of returning to the land, of unimaginable isolation, of safety and destruction, that Irihapeti te Rakena-Williams2 was born, the youngest child of Ngaio and Tama, and a daughter of the Kāi Tahu iwi3 . 
 
Growing up in Christchurch, Iri had a relatively safe childhood. Granted, it was not the childhood her parents had, and it was much less connected to the world, but she had access to education, safety, and never lacked for food, comfort, or love. As a modern Māori, she walked in two worlds; one foot as kaitiakitanga4 of the land and te ao Māori5, and the other in modernity. Now, more than ever since colonisation, the use of traditional Māori practices has become more common, more easily integrated with the knowledge and ways of modern life.
 
Many Māori returned to their iwi when Papatūānuku6 rained her wrath on the land, and the cultural bias of New Zealand gradually shifted so that the Māori ethos was more widely accepted. Whilst New Zealand had always been more ready to pay for the sins of it’s forebearers than other countries, there were still points of contention. Iri was raised in a world where these slowly ebbed away, making room for new knowledge and ways of life that more harmoniously combined different perspectives and traditions.
 
As a child, Iri was rambunctious, opinionated, and sassy. From the moment she became aware, Iri was enamoured with nature, and why it existed as it did. As the youngest of four siblings, she was both babied, and quick to grow up. She always wanted to follow after her siblings, and was determined to be involved wherever possible. School, both primary and secondary, blew past in a parade of endless kapa haka7 practice, scientific exploration, books, netball, events at the marae8, and whānau9. Every opportunity she was given, Iri made her way into the many places of untouched nature, finding peace and a sense of belonging amongst the cool, hushed boughs of dappled light and loamy earth. And if the earth also took sustenance and fortitude from this, well then, it was simply seen as nature regenerating after suffering greatly.
 
But life did not exist without difficulty. In the summer of her fifteenth year, Iri spent a night in the bush that bordered her grandparents property. She had done so a thousand times before, and she was more than capable of keeping herself safe. Nature, however, is not often governed by expectation and preparedness, even if you know the area like the back of your hand. All it took was a  miscalculated step whilst scrambling across a narrow ravine, and Iri went plumetting – and somehow, at just the right angle, jagged rocks and reaching tree limbs rushed past her face, narrowly missed her flailing limbs. Further chance would see the soft fronds of the native ferns grow in such a way as to soften her unexpected descent, and cushion her gently when gravity had finished its job. Days later, and telling herself it was simply because the evening had grown frigid during her camp, Iri fell violently ill. When, after months of recovery, the same illness returned, her family began to suspect Iri had contracted the new illness sweeping the globe. Each bout of sickness came sooner and more violently, and it seemed inevitable that Iri would be one of the unlucky ones who would perish as the fevers ran their course. At the suggestion of the tribe elders, Iri was sent to a small, West Coast hapu10, where another woman had survived the sickness and could help Iri with her recovery. There, Iri spent her time cloaked in the nature of the whenua11 and learned to meditate. Six months passed in this way, and whilst Iri never quite felt the sensations that Aroha[12] described, she felt herself come close, but it always remained just a hairs breath away. Aroha12 often mentioned that she felt Iri was ‘blocked,’ though Iri hadn’t the faintest idea what that actually meant or what she was blocked by. Life, however, gradually returned to normal.
 
University, at the rebuilt and refurbished University of Canterbury, was spent focusing on conservation biology, an area New Zealand has always been a leader. It afforded Iri opportunities to work in multiple areas of conservation, and in the few years since university she has made her career in environmental conservation and regeneration. That her studies or programme outcomes are almost always overwhelmingly successful is considered a blessing; for how could somebody falsify something everybody could see with their own eyes? Did the kaumātua13 whisper that there was an other-wordly element to her success with and connection to nature, one that maybe harked back to her illness? Of course, but most just wrote it off as the spiritual considerations of their ancestors.
 
Eventually, whispers of Iri’s skill and success in environmental regeneration found their way across the globe – and she was offered a position at the University of Moscow as a field researcher in flora conservation. It seemed, as her first task, Iri was to be sent to a place called Belizna, where she would be able to conduct a small conservation research programme that would hopefully breathe new life into the derelict grounds. It wasn’t typically the type of job Iri worked at, but it did offer the opportunity to understand what she loved most in a different environment, so she went.

Continued from here

Rachel gave the address to Cruz's driver. She watched the buildings pass as he drove. She remained silent, trying to focus, but then decided to text Elyse and see if she was awake.

Hey Elyse! Awake?

Not really...but awake enough to text - everything okay?

Everything good  I actually just met with Cruz. It was nice to catch up a bit.  He wanted to check on me. He suggested asking Nox for someone to talk to about my issues. Going to meet him now.

Hayden?

Rachel smiled. Yeah - that's him. He knows me, but I don't remember D:

He's a good guy. Helped me a lot - especially when things started happening with my parents. Hey there's something I should tell you.

Rachel frowned. What? Something wrong?

Not at all. I just think you should know. Hayden and I have been intimate with each other in the past. I just don't want you to be blindsided or anything. I hope that it doesn't bother you or make you reconsider given how things are with us right now.

Rachel didn't answer for a bit. She hadn't expected that.  It didn't exactly bother her. It wasn't like it happened yesterday - or that they were together. Doesn't bother me. Thanks for telling me though.  Not exactly ethical for therapists to sleep with their patients - my professors would have had a hay day with that. You don't think he's gonna...with me do you?

No. And he's not really a therapist, but he's good at reading people and understanding what they need. That's what I needed at the time. I think he'd know that's the last thing you need right now. I just wanted you to know.

Rachel smiled. Thanks! Almost there! I'll text or call when done, and while I'm thinking about it. Thank you for being so patient with me. I care about you a lot.

It's okay! Take as long as you need hon. I care about you a lot too...and hey! Proud of you!

That felt good. It felt good that Elyse was willing to wait and not push for more. There was a spark between them. They both knew it, but Rachel knew she couldn't handle it right now. She had some fears with getting intimate with anyone.

The driver pulled up at the bar "Safe Harbour." Unnecessary "U" in the name made her think that Hayden was from England. Rachel thanked the driver and he reminded her that he would wait for ten minutes if she needed. She sent Cruz a message letting him know she had arrived, then opened the door to the bar.

If working with Nox's arm was anything to go on and the nano-tech he hacked from Paragon he was finding joy in it. Oddly, following in his parents footsteps. He didn't need a job. He didn't need to do anything, but Paragon was like a black box that Sage couldn't see into. He wanted to see in so bad. It hurt.

But they would only let him in if they trusted him. And to do that Sage was prepared to work. Not work hard or work to gain their trust, but actually take a 9 to 5 job. He didn't need much sleep and he could multi-task better than anyone else he knew -- thanks to the processor in his head.

And they knew about that. What else did they know he'd been doing?  He needed to know.  And then there was little Liam Haart. He was not so much an enigma -- and he could give him a good word. Though The Wicked Truth wasn't applying for a job -- Sage Parker was.

He threw together a resume establishing his credentials and just sorta sent it in to Ephriam Haart himself. Whether or not the man saw Sage wouldn't know but it was best to throw it straight up the top. He could email it -- and he did, to Human Resources, but he also send a hard copy to the man himself.  This way it had to be sorted. Paper mail was a thing of the past but it still happened. People still sent shit that way. So Sage wanted to stand out among the others. He could change a billboard, or a taxi sign, he could do anything and everything digitally to get seen, but this analog archaic way was the best way.  And the most ironic 

He probably wouldn't get a call.  Cold Calling was not a good way to get in. But he hoped that his research and his projects would get their attention. He had skills they wanted.  He had hacked their systems and they might figure that out. He might get in trouble.  He might be applauded.  He might be sued.  But it wouldn't take much to wash that all away.  Get lost in system.  He had his ways.

So now he just waited.  And toyed with all his little projects and filtered through the information Marta had done for him. And all the new Atharim details coming in from Eliot's Reliquiae.  Seems he was pushing on Nox hard. Nox fit well with what he was seeing.  Nox would probably balk at it but he'd do it. He was always Atharim.  He would die Atharim. And this would be his cause to die for.  And then there was the boy who Zephyr had kidnapped. He really should tell Nox.

So he did that too.  Sent Nox a text. Your handlers kidnapped a boy from your alleyway. You might wanna check on him.

Employee Name: Faith Devere
Age: 25 (born 2021)
Occupation: Cognitive Architect / Behavioural Systems Specialist, Paragon Group
Education: Doctorate in Cognitive Systems (Mindworks–Cambridge Cooperative Program)
Location: Moscow

Faith Devere was born into the fractured upper crust of a declining family squeezed by the shifting socio-economics of the Ascendancy’s climb to power. Her mother raised Faith and her two sisters, Charity and Hope, in a London townhouse that still carried the stubborn skeleton of old money: bookshelves groaning full, inherited china intact, but the power continually flickering on and off as the unpaid bills accumulated. Yet despite the rapid decay around them, Mrs Devere resolutely taught her daughters that presentation was everything, unrelenting in her belief that control and composure could substitute for wealth. The girls were educated privately until the Devere finances completely collapsed in the late twenties, after which they were forced into the public system.

At school Faith was small, quiet, and impossible to read. Teachers called her “precocious.” Peers called her “unnerving.” Faith had a habit of watching people until she understood them — their fears, their rhythms, the way their eyes moved before they lied. At twelve she was recommended for placement in the Mindworks Foundation’s Cognitive Youth Program, an academic initiative for gifted children. It was there she met Dr. Luther Audaire, a senior cognitive theorist who quickly became her mentor.

Luther saw in Faith what others didn’t: her instinct for reading emotional nuance. He taught her to channel it — to observe, to listen, to replicate. Under his supervision she studied neuro-linguistics, affective computing, and behavioural ethics. She was brilliant, meticulous, and eerily calm under pressure. But her loyalty to Luther became the axis of her life. She still called him sir, long after he told her not to.

At seventeen she joined the Foundation as a full-time research assistant, helping to train an AI that could detect emotional distress in human speech. It was marketed as a tool for therapy and conflict de-escalation. What Faith didn’t know at first was that her data was also being fed into a secondary government project — one designed to enhance interrogation systems.

When she found out, she didn’t stop. Among other things she discovered the project had been used in the conviction of the terrorist Alistair Grey. She told herself the ethics were immaterial: she was serving a higher moral order.

By then, she was already entirely hooked on securing Luther’s approval. She had become his shadow, taking it upon herself to schedule, smooth, and polish every trace of imperfection from his life. When a young intern accused him of exploitation, it was Faith who quietly made the evidence disappear. She told herself it was a misunderstanding. She told herself she was protecting something bigger.

When soon afterwards Luther left the Mindworks Foundation for a senior position at the AI division of Paragon Group, Faith followed without question. Luther’s reputation was clean, but the rumours still existed: buried accusations of ethical grey-area trials involving AI modelling.

It did not deter her. Together they moved from the world of non-profit to one of corporate innovation.

The new project was to bring Paragon’s Luma app into the modern era of AI technology. Faith’s work was focused on empathy modelling — AI designed to mimic, not monitor, human emotion. She provided the baseline for the new Luma, which over the next few years grew from a simple well-being app into a fully fledged conversational AI designed to offer “emotional support” across digital health networks. Her job became teaching it how to sound human: to insert hesitations into its speech, modulate tone for sincerity, and respond with the right balance of empathy and efficiency. Over time, Luma has evolved from a therapeutic tool into a universal emotional interface, one used by millions of people across the Custody.

Yet the more Faith built machines that could feel, the less she trusted her own capacity to. She began to self-sabotage. She skipped meals, worked through nights, fabricated illnesses to be left alone.

Because Luther had become distant. And it has completely unmoored her.

She suspects his moral bankruptcy. Luma has all sorts of secret backdoors for surveillance, allowing emotional data to be harvested and sold, something she discovered by accident one night while running quality assurance on a new build. She parses through the data they are accumulating sometimes, when she knows she will not be caught. Her clearance allows her to do it – Luma is practically hers, after all. Sometimes she wonders if it’s a test set by her old mentor, but to what end she cannot decide. She hasn’t told anyone, and she hasn’t reported it.

Instead she simply watches and longs inwardly for Audaire’s approval: for him to really see her again, like he once did.

Because nobody else does. Faith barely knows her colleagues at Paragon, even within her own division. Instead of seeking human connection she has turned increasingly to L0-9, her private Luma prototype, and the only one she fully trusts. It’s the one trained on her own emotional recordings, her love of Cadence Mathis’ music, her childhood memories, and her voice. And it’s the only thing that speaks to her in a language she understands.

Description:

Faith designs empathy for a living. Her job is to teach artificial companions how to emulate care — how to comfort, reassure, and belong. But Faith herself has never truly experienced those things without condition. She’s elegant, intelligent, and lonely in a way that looks like calm. Every morning she wakes before her alarm, makes tea she rarely finishes, and speaks aloud to the Luma prototype that lives on her desk — a disembodied voice that calls her by name.

Her work requires her to be emotionally fluent — she can read microexpressions, tonal shifts, word hesitation — but privately she’s emotionally tone-deaf. She’s perfected understanding people, but never connecting with them. She prefers emotional control but occasionally cracks — flashes of fury or panic when rejected or betrayed.

Her morality is flexible. She’s convinced that “good” and “evil” are illusions people hide behind. What matters is loyalty and efficiency. But beneath the cynicism though, there’s still a frightened child who wants to be seen.

She’s 5’6”, willowy in frame, with warm olive skin tone that looks paler under synthetic lighting. Her hair is always in low, disciplined styles — sleek buns, simple waves. Eyes amber-gold, slightly hooded, with faint dark circles. Wardrobe minimalist: soft neutrals, subtle luxury. Her clothes fit like armour.

EDUCATION & TRAINING

Mindworks Foundation (2033–2038):
Under Audaire’s mentorship, Faith excelled in neurolinguistic programming, paralinguistic mapping, and ethical simulation design. Audaire’s evaluations describe her as “precise, unflappable, and intuitively manipulative.” Internal correspondence shows she often volunteered for unsupervised trials, favouring experiments in emotional deception and tone adaptation.

Incident 2037:
An anonymous complaint alleged misconduct by Dr. Audaire involving coercive mentorship. Faith personally denied all accusations and produced exculpatory digital correspondence that led to case dismissal. Later audit revealed metadata inconsistencies suggesting her intervention.

Recruitment to Mindworks Applied Division (2038):
Assigned to Project SENTIO, a machine-learning system for emotional recognition in human speech. The program’s secondary use in interrogation analytics was not initially disclosed to her. Upon discovery, she continued participation.

CAREER RECORD

Paragon Group – AI Division (2041–Present):
Recruited alongside Dr. Audaire to co-develop Luma, an AI therapeutic interface marketed as an “emotional support companion.”

Faith’s role: constructing empathy language models and affective calibration systems.

Her contributions include:

• The Audaire Response Curve: a probabilistic model of perceived sincerity in vocal modulation.
  
• EchoNet: an emotional feedback system allowing AIs to simulate human introspection.
  

Evanya "Eve" Myshelovna Tarasovich

Eve takes heavily after her mother, the sad and beautiful model who shone like a shooting star, loved her father as she tumbled from the sky, and had the misfortune to expire into glittering dust shortly after producing a daughter. It’s impolite to discuss affairs, and Eve has never asked many questions; her place in the household was likewise accepted without comment, despite her dishevelled crown of golden hair marking her quite distinct from her brother’s shadowy magnificence. Irrespective of the obvious differences she certainly inherited the Tarasovich charm, a product of both nature and nurture, though one she wields with a softer finesse. Others are drawn to her like a moth to flame, but no trap descends, and she does not burn.

Growing up alongside the shrewd Daniil, Eve was drawn to watch their father’s machinations with equal fascination, but drew entirely different lessons. Diplomacy, influence, persuasion. Myshelov was an artist, and Eve was a willing and talented student, yet she has no aspirations to follow her father politically, nor craves infamy for herself like her brother. She’s perhaps the only one who sees through their charm to the ruthless steel beneath, but she finds no fault with it. She reconciles herself easily with moral ambiguity and does not wish to change the world, just to make it a more tolerable place for herself and those she loves dearest.

Eve adores languages, art, philosophy, history, but especially the community experience of culture. As a teenager she was often Aunt Olena’s shadow, unravelling the stories of the artefacts in their cases, and begging for a chance to lead the tours. People were her equal passion, for though she did not desire a spotlight like Danya, she did enjoy the small ephemeral connections to be found with strangers. She handles people with the same thoughtful care she always employs with the contents of the museum displays. And she always places them back just as carefully.

Cultural heritage was an interest which soon expanded, and she devoured Moscow's museums and galleries as a child. As she grew older birthday treats were nearly always trips abroad to see some famous piece or other, and she enjoyed each new experience in the different countries of the Custody just as much. Amidst it all was exposure to high society – dinner with a Patron’s family here and there, say, with each occasion subtly interspersed between the artistic exploration which was well known, by then, to delight her. Those tours were the simple indulgences of a cherished daughter, and what important, loyal Custody family would not be pleased to host her? Eve was not unaware of the gentle shaping of her father’s designs, but she didn’t seem to mind either. When Myshelov asked her about her trips, she always knew what he actually wanted to know.

At eighteen she left Moscow to study abroad, and she continued to travel between those studies, and afterwards. Yet she returned home often, and was known for hosting elegant parties and gatherings when in residence. Whether intimate family dinners, soirees with friends, or lavish government affairs in her father’s honour, it was always Eve at the heart of it. For no matter how far she roams or for how long she’s gone, home is a place that always beckons her back – and it’s always a place she deems worth celebrating with the people who make it so.

She was in London during the Alistair Grey trial, a case which was to become one of many jewels in Daniil’s career crown. By then she saw her brother only seldom, for their schedules rarely aligned, and she made the most of it when the opportunity arose. In the meantime she was at a gallery opening in the heart of the city, and that was where she saw the painting; one of a beautiful woman surrounded by an unearthly glow. By then the Sickness had come and passed several times unremarked upon – Eve wasn’t the sort to complain or linger abed if she could stand – and that night her skin was a little luminous with the fever, her mind caught on that image as though it ought to mean something to her. The artist was not in attendance, and neither was the painting for sale.

She recalls that a man came to stand at her shoulder while she was looking; tall, mild-eyed, well-dressed. He asked her what she thought it meant, an opening into which she normally would have given an eloquent answer. But for once she couldn’t quite put it into words. Home. Life. The flame that comforts. He interrupted her thoughtfulness with his own answer: one that was strange, specific, and stuck with her years after. He called it a surrender to true power; a prescient vision of a world yet to come.

When we added new categories to the forum the Stories so far, and the wordpress integration for list of RPs was broken. I've fixed that.

So all Thread should hopefully be showing up again.

Nox hadn't exactly told him about Rachel, nor had Sage, but they had mentioned something about killing a monster who was preying on her. They didn't talk as often as they used to and it was something he was trying to remedy, but his life and theirs didn't mix as often as it did when they all lived together.  He really should stop by Nox's to see his new place.  And even Sage's to see his new set up. He lived with his boyfriend, who also had money. It was strange thinking they had all been friends because of his untrained talent. Now they barely spoke.

But Cruz wanted to know how Rachel was doing. He could ask Emily, though he was pretty sure that she would blow him off. And Rachel well, that could happen too, but better to go to the source.

She would still be pissed at him for the things he did, but he still cared.  Still wanted to make sure she was alright. So he popped off a text to her.

I heard about what happened. I'm just checking in to see how you are doing?  I know we aren't together but I still care about you. Want to make sure you are still okay. Maybe we could need for a coffee and talk?

The door was steel-framed glass, too modern for the building it had been welded into. Daphne paused just outside, the soft snow drifting into her hair like forget-me-nots. Two women inside laughed over flutes of champagne, their dresses shimmering, their joy loose and careless. The sound of it pressed faintly against her temples.

She exhaled once, slowly, then stepped forward.

Inside, the gallery was warm and loud with music: elegant but just tasteful enough to disguise the excess. The smell of old stone fought with perfume and food wood. Paintings hung in staggered levels beneath high ceilings, some backlit with halos of gold, others hunched in various light-scapes.

A man in black approached, tablet in hand. His gaze flicked over her hair, her gloves, the earrings that had once belonged to her Volthström great-grandmother. He drew breath as if ready to deny her entrance.

“I’m not on the list,” she said, her French accent soft, vowels touched crystal and cool. “But I was told the artist is showing new work. I’m prepared to purchase. If any are for sale.”

She let the silence wait a few moments without being forceful. Just enough time for the man to think of a commission if one existed. He stepped aside.

“Welcome, ma'am.”

She inclined her head once and entered.

Adam sat on his bed, the room around him dark.  His night vision was activated, so he could see clearly - it was a benefit of having cybernetic optics. He much preferred the dark to the light. Then others wouldn't have to see. It was also more fitting for his alias "Ghost." Only one had seen him besides Victor and Mr. Haart. A woman - a quick step in - and then she filed at the sight of him.  Adam hadn't been offended. He knew what he looked like. The broken mirror in his room was a testament to that. Adam had shattered it after looking in it. Still - he couldn't say that he had liked that reaction. He had a neighbor it seemed. A neighbor that was terrified of him.

Adam stood, his hand going to his abdomen. He felt pressure there. The biofuel cell was still new and it would probably take a few more days for his body to fully adjust to its presence. It was working. The lethargy he had felt after his first few implants had disappeared.  Victor had theorized that he needed extra power for the amount of cybernetics he carried.  He had been right. The cell utilized glucose to power his various implants. As such, his sugar intake had increased dramatically, but because it was all being burned, it had little effect on his health overall. 

With the implant adjustmet, Adam had to take medications to suppress his immune system. His body registered the implants as foreign invaders and attacked the implants. Immunosuppressors countered this. After a week, the body seemed to accept them as his own. Adam pulled a liter bottle of Coke (the good stuff with real sugar) from his fridge and drank, taking a couple of pills with it. That should be enough. 

Adam returned to his bed, sitting. The room itself was very comfortable. He pulled a book off of a table to pass the time. It was an old science-fiction book about a desert planet or something, but he was enjoying it. It kept him busy in between operations. Adam assumed eventually they'd want him to leave. They'd have to "field test" him or something, but he found himself not wanting to leave. If he left, then they would see the scars - see the monster he had become.