Massive thanks to @AidenFinnegan for showing me the wonders of Lensa - an AI-powered app that can generate what they call "magic avatars." 

I put my stock photos of Nik through it and 100 images popped back out. These are some of my favorites, although there are many more good ones. I thought I would share! It was about ~$5 cost. If you end up doing any, share them with us here! 

Also, Nikolai - oh my. 

  

  

  

If anyone has someone that you'd like to have healed, please send me a message or post here. The idea is that Jensen doesn't know is going on and  that the Ascendancy and Scion are going to very carefully select who gets healed based on their personal networks and connections to the custody. So if say for example there are a bunch of homeless that needs healing, Jensen would go only if it is filtered through the right channels and approved first. Jensen's side of the deal is that he can't reveal who he is. He is an extension of the ascendancy only - so that way the CCD gets all the credit for these good deeds.

iáomai, ee-ah'-om-ahee, Greek
Iaomai is used literally of deliverance from physical diseases and afflictions and so to make whole, restore to bodily health or heal.



“You are an interesting man, Mr. James,” spoke a deep voice roughened by a hard life. Jensen didn’t know what to expect when he was summoned to the meeting this afternoon. All he knew was the time and the name of the hall buried deep within the Kremlin’s many offices. He’d wandered the halls for weeks now that he was becoming a recognized face. There were few smiles and rare nods of heads but he was recognizing others in return. When he swiveled in the chair, the man that entered was similarly known to him, but not from happenstance passings. It was one of the men that ushered them from the United States. He’d kept close company with Scion Marveet, Jensen recalled them speaking frequently. He was dressed in a suit not unlike the one Jensen wore, but it was clearly a label where Jensen’s was off-the-rack delivered to the guest room he occupied. 

“I’m actually quite boring,” Jensen replied in acceptance of the bottle water being offered. He twisted off the cap eagerly. He’d not had much water that day, although he’d been drinking plenty.

“I would disagree,” the man responded, pushing forward a screen. It woke when Jensen dragged it nearer, and his throat tightened when he realized what it was displaying.

It was video of the auditorium where the  Patheos rally took place. The gathering had meant to be a show of unity between all the world religions in support of the revelation of channelers. A shooting ended the event, and Sigvard nearly died. The Gift was captured on camera and Jensen became swarmed like the crowds seeking to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe.

He pushed the screen away with a sigh. “There is a world of hurting people. I can’t save them all, but I can’t save anyone from in here.”

“The Ascendancy agrees,” he replied.

Jensen shook his head with incomprehension.

The man went on. “My name is Special Agent Commander Kaleb Devarona. You’ll be under my protection. Please follow me,” he said. Next, Jensen was led to a part of the Kremlin he’d never seen before. He’d never even seen the entrance to the elevator. When he emerged, it was in some sort of tactical operation facility. Although not exactly like the research facility he’d seen previously.

There were no doctors or laboratory equipment here. This was for people like the Special agent commander. Jensen was led to a room with locked panels surrounding every wall. The special agent showed Jensen one in particular.
“Put your hand on this scanner,” he showed him. Jensen complied curiously as the reader scanned his palm. The light turned green and the sound of magnetic locks released.

A three-piece white suit was revealed. At first glance, it was cut like a business suit but for the cloth seeming to be made of something more structured than silk. It was designed with white with shades of gray and silver accents. The Ascendancy’s emblem was displayed on the shoulder but for being completely silvered. It also included a hoodie and gloves.

Jensen picked up what he thought was a bag, but upon turning it over, found it to be a mask. It was soft and stretched easily. It was also just as white as the rest of the outfit, and there appeared to be a different texture over the place where the nose, mouth and eyes would fit.

Kaleb came to stand beside him. “You’ll be an agent for the Ascendancy, but we have to protect your identity. The Custodies are working on erasing the knowledge that Jensen James can perform miracles, but until then, this is for your safety as much as anyone’s.”

Jensen blinked. “Ascendancy is going to let me help people?” he asked.
“Yes. That was the plan all along, Jensen. We had to figure out a way to do this safely. The suit is a carbon fiber kevlar grade. It will stop a bullet. The mask has some tech in it that you’ll need to train with.”

Jensen tugged the mask over his head and as soon as it slid into place, the eyes illuminated.
“I can’t wear this while I heal people. Someone on their death bed will be terrified,” he said even as he peered upon the world through this new technological gaze.

“You’ve no idea what kind of facial recognition technology exists, Jensen,” Kaleb explained. “There is only one way to make sure you aren’t  identified. Remember, this is for more protection than just you.”

“What do you mean?” Jensen asked.

“You’re acting at the behest of the Ascendancy,” he pointed out the emblem on the suit’s lapel. “That will offer you protection, but as you said, you can’t heal the whole world. For every person you help, there will be ten who demand your head simply out of envy.”

Inside the mask, Jensen frowned. This was the dilemma that kept him stonewalled for so long already. How could he help someone without helping everyone.

“Then there are the patients themselves. The world might tear you apart trying to get your attention. Anyone that you help along the way may be a target. Are you ready for this?”

The weight of the task was overwhelming, but he knew he couldn’t wait to get started.
“I am so ready,” he said and immediately started to undress.




((Costume's inspiration came from the early renditions of Mr. Knight's design.))

Rune had grown less and less interested in her "exterminator" job and instead began to wander around Moscow collecting signs that her uncle was alive. That meant she had a big box of nothing in her collection. They were separated in the undercity, so she assumed that he had wandered out alone and simply didnt’ know how to contact her. Maybe he’d lost all of his tech. The Atharim safe houses were differnet now and he’d not built a lot of russian alliances among the atharim. Or like a little kid lost in the mall, she had to assume he was searching for her too, so she tried to leave clues that he might collect with hopes that he would find her. But it didnt work. Time passed and nothing.

The next stage of finding something that was lost was the pessimistic idea that maybe the lost thing didn't want to be found. Rune knew that if her uncle wanted to disappear, he could do it in a heartbeat. But why would he abandon her without saying goodbye? It was cruel to imagine. So she figured that wasn't what happened.

Which took her to one inevitable conclusion. Seth must have been taken prisoner, or have amnesia, or being blackmailed or something awful like that. Only Rune could save him. So she returned to the undercity to sniff out the power players that had the capacity to hold Seth (literally or figuratively) against his will. But it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. A haystack that hd recently been smoked out. Meanwhile, she kept eyes out for anyone who looked suspiciously like an empty shell of a man who didn’t know his own identity.

So Rune explored the homeless camps, but she blended in just fine. She wore her usual hunting gear, and was clad in all shades of dark colors. She had abandoned the hair dyes and makeup she favored from when they first arrived in Moscow. Her knives and gun was hidden away, nestled close to the planes and muscles of her body. No need to scare anyone, she thought, peering around a wall of barrels that served like a barricade.

"Whatcha doin?" a voice grumbled. A second later, a piece of trash was kicked at her. "Get away from our shit," another added. She turned and found four guys standing up to her. Apparently she'd been poking around someone's home and the owner was territorial.

"Sorry," she mumbled and tried to get away, but they had that look of wanting to teach a lesson. And then a few more heads joined the group. Annoyed, Rune tried apologizing again and was eager to move on. She didn't want to cause a scene, but neither did she want to get her ass beat up just for exploring.

They got to the back door before Raffe suggested that he change.  And he did, nothing he owned was not 'rich' looking, but Cruz opted to wear the least brand name things he could find.  He even donned a Methos t-shirt he'd bought when he went to see the concert with Nox.  That was a hell of a night.  He also some how had one of Nox's shirts he pulled over his arms, it wasn't particularly well made, and it was a bit too small for his shoulders, but he wasn't planning on buttoning it up.  Jeans and combat boots he borrowed from Sage long ago completed his outfit.  

And when he was ready they took the train.  How else does one get to the the underworld? Definitely not by a car that spoke to the money Cruz possessed.  Maybe he should dress more like Sage.  He wasn't asked to change so he didn't stand out.  Maybe it was the disheveled hair and the general attitude he projected.  Cruz knew that Sage didn't wear anything from the local 'x'mart stores.  But he didn't give off the money airs either -- he was a hacker.  He knew how to blend in.  Or not, as Sage zoned in and out of the conversational small talk that waxed and waned between the three friends.

They got off the train when Raffe said they were near, and they followed along.  Cruz felt a strange excitement building in his gut.  He'd never done anything like this.  Nox had started his decent down the darker paths -- nothing overly wrong he was still a good guy at heart.  But breaking and entering, sneaking out, there was a moral gray line for him and it wasn't near where most peoples were.  And Sage he did nothing to improve his ascent to becoming a CEO of Jivana.  He only pulled Cruz down further into the darkness.  And now Cruz found his own hold.  This coin wasn't much of anything, but it was a mystery and into the underworld.  His own find.  His own rebellion -- not one brought upon by his gift and the friends his father had thrust upon him.

This was his own folly to make or hinder.  He was his own m an and this was his story.

"So this guy?  Anything I should know about him before I'm shaking hands?"

[[OOC: Continued from Going Deeper]]

It was the next day before Jay was released from the Facility. He didn’t mind the poking and prodding, especially since it came with a shower and a clean kit. The doctors were pretty concerned with the scars from Placaso’s electrocutions, but once they figured out they had nothing to do with the undercity’s vermin, nobody cared. He debriefed the events of the mission factually. His weapons were confiscated for video-recorded verification, but Jay had little to turn over in that regard. The weapon he’d used the most was himself, and he was exhausted.

The car rolled to a stop and the driver raised his voice.
“Oy, mate we’re here,” he said loudly. With a start, Jay jerked awake, rubbing his eyes and practically climbed out of the car. He recognized the entrance to the skyscraper where he’d stayed before the mission began. The building was in downtown Moscow, a much more modern scene than the old world around the Kremlin. He didn’t so much as have a bag to carry so as soon as he was deposited onto the sidewalk, the car rolled away. The only thing on him was a wallet - still powered off as he hadn’t had the energy to bother checking messages yet.

He stood out as he crossed the hotel lobby. He wasn’t in uniform, which  would have been the more preferable reason to draw attention. Instead, he wore plain slacks, a plain button down shirt tucked haphazardly in at the waist, and a plain black belt. It was like a prisoner being released to the streets with nothing but donated clothes. Not that he cared. He’d walk the lobby buck naked if it wouldn’t get him arrested, but he didn’t have the energy to put up with the barrage of questions.

He was stopped before he was half way to the elevator. You’d think an American in a hotel wouldn’t be an anomaly, but the Russians probably assumed he was a terrorist or some bullshit. They didn’t believe he was one of the Ascendancy’s Rods of Dominion, nor that he was came from the Kremlin itself. He was about to resort to powering on the Wallet and proving his identity when he thought to name-drop the guy he was supposedly here to train.

One mention of Adrian Kane and he was not only allowed entrance to his own suite, but an apologetic tray of food and drink was delivered shortly after. Normally, he’d jump head first into the giant serving of Osso Bucco, but instead, he passed out on the bed and didn’t intend to wake up for at least a week.

The surface was too bright. And they were greeted with guns and military escort. No shower. No nap. Fuck! And the longer he had to carry the guilt. Not that it wouldn’t drag him down after he told Raffe, but at least then he’d know where he went from there. Nox was never very good with change — uncertainty drew him in circles.

While in the caravan back to the bowels of the Kremlin, Nox sent Raffe a text

Ascendancy insisting on debrief now. Just fucking want to go home. Talk soon.

The exams were rigorous and Nox nearly brought down the walls once because he was tired of their prodding. He was fucking fine — short of an annihilated temper, ravenous hunger and things he didn’t want to encourage. All things he’d been dealing with, but since letting the darkness win with Jay in the aftermath of their ordeal it was never ending.

Nox refused to give up his landwarriors. Stolen property or not they were his. Jay’s collected the same information and he’d readily let them take those, they had all his other gear as well, but his set was his — more like they had been Aurora’s and he would fight tooth and nail to keep it. It was his…

In the back of his mind he felt a bit of pride, but more so in the fact that his thoughts trailed towards “precious. my precious.” A fucking old school fantasy reference that made Aurora proud.

By the time they were done talking, and running their fucking tests Nox was dead on his feet. He felt the deaths of the dying hoard much like he had felt the searing of the Ijiraq’s pull of power upon his soul across his body. An endless torment of pain — probably all self imposed. But he didn’t tell the doctors any of that. Fuck them. He was exhausted and needed sleep and a shower and just to… He didn’t really know what, not really.

As he walked carefully out of the side door so as not to attracted any undo attention he sat down on a bench and texted Raffe one more time hopefully before he saw the end of the only home he had left. Kallisti would be opening soon. And Nox barely knew what day it was, much less what Raffe’s schedule looked like — how long had he been deprived of the reality of life as they knew it with a sun, and moon and stars?

Finally done. You working tonight?

Nox tucked his phone away and waited for the reply — if it came. Nox hopped a train to the Red Light District and dozed on the way. The loud speaker in Russian waking him each stop with a nearly finished fireball at the ready.

He felt like he crawled off the train and scurried home on his hands and knees. He knew differently, but the hoard lingered in his mind. The pull to the few remaining creatures was small in comparison to what he’d been dealing with. But where he expected silence was a gnawing hunger wanting to fight and fuck and be all the things it couldn’t be.

Nox’s rations were depleted and there was nothing in the club other than what he’d brought before — and at this point was nothing. His stomach growled but there was nothing to do but walk into the side door and keep going. Pretend all was right with the world. That his life was good.

He was exhausted as he stumbled up the back stairs to his room and dropped his things. He barely remembered to grab two towels on his way to the shower. Nox didn’t even check his messages until he felt the filth had washed off of him and he was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt standing in his room wondering where the fuck his life had gone wrong. Was it watching his mother die? Finding his father dead in a pool of his own vomit?

Or was it before that? His father’s misadventures in parenting? Repressed memories aside, what Nox had remembered weren’t proud moments. His father was never proud of him.

Or maybe it was the fight he and Aurora had? Or before that — not killing himself because he was a reborn god. He and Aurora could have made a pact then, could have ended each others lives — at least then they would have been together.

Now he was alone. And the one thing he’d found that made him happy he’d fucked up. He wasn’t mad at Jay. Nox hadn’t said no. Never resisted the advances and probably had encouraged it. It was nothing more than relief — they were friends. It meant something but not more than what he had with Raffe.

And until he could talk to Raffe, make his confession the deep well of guilt would only grow stronger. He just stood in his room staring across his bed at the Lotus in the window.

@"Raffe"

Pointing out something that Aiden pointed out to me. 

Jaxen, Sage and Aiden's thread to Ireland took about two years start to finish.
Then I realized that the hunt with Nox, Ascendancy, Marcus, Jay and the dominions has also been about 2 years start to finish.

Jay and the Dominions - my new band 

Good job, everyone. Fun threads and I'd do it all over again, but damn!  I'm glad we can move on. Hah!

After weeks of searching, Kiyohito was convinced that Haruto fled Japan. The family extended him the opportunity to find the one that was blamed for a very public blight against their family, but if Kiyohito didn’t track down his little brother in time, only his own blood would satiate the wrong.

He never imagined himself in Moscow. Yet as the car let him off at the entrance to a hotel in the downtown business district, he realized just how far from Tokyo he was. He’d never left Japan before.

The hotel had his data before he even stepped foot inside the lobby. The man who owned the building had ties to their organization, but the biometric scanners at the door weren’t lost to Kiyo’s gaze either.

Except for the odd guest in the hotel bar, Kiyohito was a guest that kept to himself. His meetings were always short, long enough to share sake and formalities. He was careful with his probing, finding that the family in which he belonged did not rule in Moscow. Finally, he arranged to meet with representatives from the Edenokōji clan whose foothold in Moscow was unrivaled. 

The bar was in a neighborhood he hadn’t seen before. It had something of a reputation, he’d been told, of trouble. Rumor said that a bloody fight once took place in the parking lot among strained Yakuza and Russian relations. Kiyohito was alone when he entered, and he certainly felt alone when more than one tight pair of eyes looked up. He tugged on the sleeves of his suit and showed himself to a table along the wall and ordered a bottle of Japanese beer if they had it.

Ichikawa Kiyohito was the first of two sons. Their father worked on a fishing boat that hauled in a daily catch from the sea. Their catch competed for attention in a huge market that catered to high-end chefs from Tokyo. Kiyohito cleaned fish from an early age in order to provide fleshy samples to the would-be buyers. His mother was a cook and ran a modest food cart outside the fish market that primarily catered to the workers more than anyone else. Eventually, Kiyohito would learn his father’s trade, and by the time he was ten, his fileting skills were remarked upon by everyone in the market. He dreamed of becoming a chef.

A commotion pulled Kiyohito’s attention away from the tuna occupying his focus these last few minutes. The fish market was at the height of its selling hour, and Kiyo had been busy carving slender samples of the fleshy fish to sample. His knife skills were not to be overlooked. For a boy of ten, he could dismember a fish almost to the standard of any chef. A crowd of black suits made its way closer, eventually settling in front of Kiyo’s little stand. His father’s best fish was packed on ice on display. He’d been dreaming about schools of fish emerging from the silt of the ocean floor. When he saw the men in suits, a strange sense of familiarity overtook him.

He bowed his head for the men and offered a perfectly carved piece upward. 
“Sample?” A moment later, the napkin was lifted from his hand and sounds of chewing followed. A man with a face of stone swallowed the meat raw.

“Did you do this?” a voice asked. Kiyo nodded. There were a few thoughtful murmurs and words spoken among themselves, and the men in suits purchased all their lot. 

Next day

The sky was still black when Kiyohito snugged his cheeks against the folds of his scarf. Plagued by nightmares lately, he’d slept poorly and stifled a yawn. The ocean breeze smelled of brine and vinegar this morning. The oddity of the combination reminded him of his mother’s sour soup, which in the chill air he was suddenly craving, but despite the twinge of familiarity, it still smelled off.

At his side, his eight-year-old little brother yawned and sank to sit on the dock planks.
“Get up,” Kiyohito told him. “You’ll soak your pants, be miserable all morning and have to sit in school with a soggy bottom,” he added. But despite the warnings, Ayo stubbornly rested his face on his knees like he was about to go back to sleep. Kiyohito let him sit there without further protest, remembering the difficulty of transitioning to these before-school hours. He quietly wished for some more sleep himself, but getting used to the routine now would only help Ayo get used to it sooner. Kiyo let his brother rest anyway. Their father’s boat should be only minutes out.

Every morning before school, Kiyohito met his father at the dock as the boat arrived. By 5 AM the market would be bustling with would-be buyers brokering fish for fancy chef clients in Tokyo. Kiyo had never seen the city for himself and was content to stay away from it. If he was going to apprentice to a sushi chef, it would be in their city. Tokyo was too much. About then, a thunder rumbled in the distance, and Kiyohito’s frown surveyed the dark, empty horizon. No lightning illuminated the sky, but thunder was unmistakable. At his feet, Ayo whined about pending rain, but Kiyohito was too distracted to correct his brother’s shameful attitude.

That was when he realized another sound changed, or rather, disappeared. The ocean’s rhythmic lapping against the dock had softened to nearly nothing. Kiyo walked to the edge and lowered his flashlight over the side to survey the water, but there was none. He frowned with growing worry. Then the thunder rumbled again and he hurried to the end of the dock, chasing after any hint of the ocean, but in his heart he knew he became increasingly afraid he would find none.

Instead, the sea floor was a soggy bed of sand and lost crabs. A word rumbled in his mind and seconds later, sirens sounded. He dropped the flashlight and sprinted toward his brother.

Two weeks later, Kiyohito picked through the mud and muck left behind by the tsunami to find his life in ruins, and he was not the only one. While the horrific disaster decimated the coastlines and left their part of Japan in darkness and despair, he came to realize the scale of destruction was bigger than his young mind could comprehend. Earthquakes followed for days. Fires, flooding and nuclear meltdowns threatened the whole land. He grieved alone at night for the family he lost, but it was hunger that drove him to a makeshift shelter for the children of the lost. Relief workers wrapped him in blankets and fed him soup not unlike that his mother once made.

Voices streamed day in and day out, but young Kiyohito closed within himself a filter that excluded the pain from reaching too deep within. It was only when there was a break in the noise – a touch of strength amid the pattering endlessness of despair – that he glanced up. He recognized the man immediately. He looked down as he had when he offered the sample of tuna belly at the market, but the face followed him. It was filled with sadness, he slowly came to realize, but not pity. Kiyohito and another boy were adopted that day, one who would come to be like the little brother he lost to the sea.

Twenty years later

The Tokyo restaurant was full. A crowd lingered in the hall as Kiyohito and his adopted younger brother emerged from the elevator. It took a moment before the first person saw the two men. Dressed in matching black suits, both had their hair styled conservatively, although Kiyo’s was longer around the ears than the man at his side, and both were in their mid to late twenties. Awareness slowly spread and the chatting softened ever so subtly, and a path opened to allow them passage. Kiyo nodded his head respectfully for those nearest him, but Haruto flashed a smile that was met by more than one attractive woman. Kiyo had warned his shatei about his behavior before, and he only half-heartedly prodded the other man onward.

“Do not get distracted, Haruto,” he said with a head shake, knowing the warning would fall on deaf ears. “Please be on your best behavior,” he yearned.

The hostess promptly showed the two men to a private room having expected their arrival. It was surrounded by beautifully decorated screens. Water flowed from fountains and lights glowed along the walls. The place was very upscale, and with a small pang of nostalgia, Kiyo couldn’t help but wonder about the caliber of the executive chef. They were not the first of their party to arrive, but they were probably the least important of those in attendance. The table was surrounded with four kyodai – big brothers that oversaw the tasks and jobs demanded by the family. It to the high-ranking lieutenant that sat at the head of the table that Kiyohito and Haruto paid their respects before taking their places around the floor’s perimeter. The men returned to their conversation. Sake was served to them, and Kiyo only sipped out of respect for the bosses. Haruto was more liberal.

An hour passed before a job was assigned the two kobun. It was not unlike any others they had been given before.

“Let’s hurry this up so we can go out tonight,” Haruto groaned as soon as they were alone in the elevator.
Kiyohito folded his arms. “I don’t like it,” he said.

“You are in a sour mood today, Kiyo,” Haruto replied with a humph.

“Maybe I slept terribly last night or maybe a good-for-nothing swindler has shamed this very family. How many—”

“How many times do we have to do this? Come on, Kiyo. Let’s snatch the boy so the gashira can make him piss his pants and send him back to Osaka when they’re satisfied we won’t be bothered again. That’s why we have this,” Haruto pat his jacket pocket and continued, “And you complaining about sleep is nothing new,” Haruto laughed.

Kiyo grabbed his hand. “And you complaining about my mood is nothing new either. Besides, don’t even breathe a word about that,” he said. Haruto seemed to finally accept his big brother’s sentiment and nodded. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d slept badly. In fact, the string of restless nights had been building for months now, and Kiyo knew it was beginning to affect his patience. Usually, he was much more entertained by Haruto’s humors.

But Haruto couldn’t stop without having the final word, “Even in Custody regulated Japan we do not worry about guns. Why be so concerned with this this little thing?” he said with a peek under his suit jacket. They were both carrying firearms, although Kiyohito was better with a knife, but the aerosolized pistol was something entirely different. For decades, strict gun laws kept firearms on short supply. After the Custody integration, the laws were largely unchanged even with the rise of the new Yakuza families supported by Custody Privileges and Patrons. Together, the Yakuza (and Custody) returned much needed stability to the Dominance. It was desperately needed after the disasters of their childhood. Yet the weapon Haruto mentioned was something between a tranquilizer and a gun. Just holding the thing gave Kiyo the shivers, which was why he was content to let Haruto take it.

Despite his distaste for the weapon, his little brother’s antics made him laugh, but the lightheartedness was short-lived. All traces of Kiyohito’s amusement were smoothed away when they exited the elevator. 

Twelve hours later

The flickering lights of first responders flashed red and blue across a decimated scene in a very public street. The building before them was a hollow shell now. Smoke still curled toward the night sky in a Tokyo neighborhood otherwise controlled by the family. A haze of halogen lights from signs and advertisements flooded the smoke-strewn sky. When a paramedic thrust an oxygen mask upon Kiyohito, he did not resist. His eyes still burned. It was the kind of aftermath shock that he hadn’t felt since he was ten years old, and the same lack of comprehension had shattered his reality. They had indeed found the swindler they sought, but it all happened so fast, Kiyo didn’t even know how to react. All he knew was how Haruto reacted when the confrontation clashed.

The paramedic released a pressure cuff from Kiyo’s arm, noting the lines of tattoos normally covered by his sleeves.
“Are you Yakuza?” he asked, voice a mix of reverence and fear for even bringing it up. There were more tattoos, a tradition that returned after the Custody’s laws released the Yakuza from the intense regulation earlier in the century.

Kiyo didn’t even look at him but the lack of answer was answer enough. There was no shame in his family allegiance, working legally in Custody eyes, but even in the modern world, Yakuza were still a shadow society with a sordid past. Until tonight, he’d never considered otherwise. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

The paramedic gave way to a police officer and Kiyo was promptly seen away in handcuffs.

By morning, Kiyo was bailed out of jail. Not even a kobun like himself would be allowed to sit behind bars when justice should be served by the family directly. He assumed the worst, and was willing to submit to it, as he was led inside headquarters. The Tokyo high rise was a splendid shard among their glowing city, and the powerful Yakuza family’s offices occupied the best floor. He was still smeared with smoke and his suit marred by ash when he laid eyes on their family’s highest leaders, and it took very little effort to make Kiyo submit to his knees and wait for judgment.

Instead, the oyabun himself came before him. The same gaze of steady strength, pitiless, but sad, looked down upon the boy he rescued all those years ago.

“My lieutenants think you should submit to seppuku, Kiyohito-chan. A building is bombed. There was an attack on a public street. Murdered citizens are strewn about. And your little brother is missing. Nothing like this has happened in Tokyo in a long time. Tell me what happened. What happened to Haruto.”

Kiyohito’s head remained bowed, though swimming with shock, he did not deny the claims. “It is as you say, oyabun. I take full responsibility.” Whispers erupted but they may as well have been the screams echoing inside his head that he could still hear. It all felt so familiar, yet he’d never contemplated something like this could happen. Haruto had seemed almost as surprised as himself.

A long silence followed, and finally Kiyo braved a glance upward. The oyabun’s face was etched in stone, and Kiyo began to worry that his adopted father suspected more than the admission that Kiyo had offered. It was like their patriarch could see through the false shroud of guilt that Kiyo attempted to claim for himself. Haruto had escaped, that was all that mattered, and his little brother’s secret was preserved, but neither did Kiyo want to kill himself over the matter. There was no body to claim as Haruto’s death, but they couldn’t expect much to survive the wreckage. Could they? Did they really expect him to atone with his life? 

“I give you a choice, Kiyohito. You return Haruto to me and I will accept his life as payment for this shame against us. If you do not, I will accept yours in his place.”

The declaration silenced any potential defiance among the lieutenants. Kiyo had been a favorite of the oyabun for a long time, but not even an adopted son could be forgiven so much.


About

Korii Kiyohito has had prophetic dreams since he was a child. He is almost 30, and while he is a favorite of their Yakuza family boss, he is still a child in the organization. He keeps the street businesses clean of thugs and criminals otherwise bothering their loyal community members. If a bar has a problem with regulars growing too disruptive, Kiyohito set things straight. He drops in on their business partners on a regular basis to ensure standards are being met. He is occasionally sent to deliver messages too sensitive for digital avenues.

His adopted brother is Korii Haruto. Three years his younger, Haruto was found the same day as Kiyohito from that relief-worker station following the tsunamis of the 2020’s. The man who adopted them was a Yakuza boss overseeing the organization’s relief efforts in the area. That man since rose through the ranks and some years ago took over as oyabun or patriarch of the Korii-kai family.


Past Life

Kiyohito was previously a dreamwalker and somewhat infamously stoic Shienaran warder named Vladamir. His personality is relatively the same across rebirths: serious, dedicated and honorable. He’s generally a good fighter when trained to be, but he craves peace. He is generally bound to a higher-cause and almost always duty-filled toward self-sacrifice.