Silence.

                Meera enjoyed silence… Most of the time. There were other sounds in existence that she enjoyed considerably more, but more often than not it was silence. There was a certain control in silence. A calm came with that silence, one that she could rarely replicate. True, she enjoyed pleasure and the exhilaration that came with losing one's self to said pleasure, but this silent serenity was at the other end of that spectrum, and she so cherished it. The two polarities kept her balanced, at least that’s what she liked to tell herself.

                A lie.

                She knew it was a lie, and one she shouldn’t even entertain. Meera Alam was the Eye of God. The Sacred Mirror. She who would burn through Humanity’s Ego and expose all of the lies that they clung to. It was an affront to her very nature to even tell a white lie, but there it was. She would repent for it, as she always did, and she would take even more pleasure in that repentance. Such a funny thought to associate with faith. Many of the world’s faiths did not equate God with pleasure, but if there were a Divine Being, did it not create everything in the physical universe? Including pleasure, pain, control, and all of the things in between? Human Nature was a state imposed upon her species, and she would not deny it, but there was a misconception about said state amongst her fellow humans…

                They lived with a veil over their eyes, a chosen state of ignorance, endlessly gluting themselves on the fables they told themselves to help them sleep at night. Emotion. That was the true root of the problem. Yes, the Divine had made emotion as well, but it soiled everything. Emotion had been the thing that had cursed her childhood, twisted her ‘family.’ A cancer. Love was a cancer… A funny thought, but how many loved things that brought them ruin? Father loved his cult. He died. Mother loved other men. She died. Yoseph loved protecting others. He died. Meera didn’t love. She simply was. The Buddhists had it right, attachments only tied one down. Without love, Meera was flourishing. Yes. It stung. But the freedom was worth it.

                Sitting in front of her vanity stand, seated in her automated wheelchair, Meera applied the eyeliner with care. Her hand shook as an abrupt noise shook the air.

                Meera padded at the crooked line with micellar water and a cotton pad. The offending mark was wiped away from her cheek like magic.

                Chuckling to herself, Meera gave herself a shake. Just the air conditioning kicking in, or something along those lines…

                It was a sad thing that the Atharim could not afford to foot all of her living expenses. The Divine knew that they professed such need of her and her work in the civilian world. She had brought many gifts to the cult, and they wept with gratitude every time she wheeled into the offices. And where did that get her? A two story flat in the CCD that she had to pay for… True they took care of her food and other inconsequential details, but the rent was a real killer in this neighborhood. Just how much of a salary did they think a Psychiatric Nurse, at the worst hospital in town, made? Not enough.

                It was a lucky thing she had no social life to speak of, well, not one most would consider conventional at least. She worked at the Guardian by day, and by night is when she made her art. That had been the dream for many artists, was it not? Getting paid to create what their souls craved to express? True, she took certain liberties when taking on a commission, but her patron was always left speechless at the results. It almost seemed a crime to charge others for what she had done so naturally, but when they offered to before one even asked for the check? Well, one could hardly refuse… She did need to eat, after all.

                The phantom sound reverberated through the air as she was finishing up another eyelid.

                Another mistake.

                One more wipe of the micellar water and her face was ready for another application.

                A canvas, half-finished, sat behind her, leaned against the wall. She would get to that one soon enough. True, she had enough materials to finish the piece, but those things were reserved for another project. With a sigh to herself, she made a mental note to acquire more… And soon. This particular patron had been kept waiting long enough, but that other project had enraptured almost every bit of her attention. So many avenues to explore there, many a night she lay sleepless, just toying out all the possibilities that this one project might yield. She was the patron in this instance, of course. That was nothing to be ashamed of. An artist needed their own side-projects to prevent themselves from descending into psychosis.

                The sound came a third time after she finished her face, thankfully. Although an unnecessary burden, she would have to investigate this further before leaving her humble house to start her unnecessary shift at the Guardian.

                Meera wheeled herself from her room and down the ramp that led to the main level of her home. It was a pristine abode, free of dirt and grime, everything in sterile shades of white, black, and maroon. A clean environment. She was the mistress here and everything was perfectly maintained as she saw fit. It was comfortable, quaint.

                She came onto the landing, proceeded into the living room, through a hallway, and finally into the kitchen. A large metal door was embedded into the wall to Meera’s left, one of the only things in this house that the Atharim had actually paid for. It was necessary for her work as a doctor… Well, her work as a nurse. She would have been a doctor, before her calling to the CCD, Meera was about to enroll with the University once more to pursue a Doctorate, but then the Atharim called.

                It was of no consequence. She had been finding that this country truly needed her help, a skilled touch only one such as she could grant. So many citizens of this land had found themselves unwell. It was their fault, always, but that’s why the Divine had placed her upon this Earth. To correct those illnesses.

                The sound struck out again, this time Meera knew it was a physical one… And it was behind the door.

                With the swipe of a keycard across the electronic panel built into the side of the door, Meera found herself gingerly wheeling down a ramp located on the other side. The door itself had led to a basement that she had dug out when purchasing this particular home. Such a bother. Back in Egypt, Meera owned two floors of a condo, plus the entirety of its basement. That particular locale also had an elevator for her ease, not like these barbaric ramps, but she hadn’t the money for all of that… Especially when this was only supposed to be a temporary assignment.

                The sound began to form into something solid as Meera made her way down.

                An annoyance, no matter what it was. Perhaps later she would have time to truly enjoy the cacophony of this particular source, but she hadn’t the time now. It was forming words now. Still, nothing to worry over. It would only take a few moments to put a band-aid over this particular problem.

                Later.

                Later on, after her shift, she would have time to really get her hands dirty.

The following is a recent excerpt from a local social justice blog, Mother Russia. The article is aptly named, 'Mother Russia and the Mental Health Monster.' Much of the text details the state of Psychiatric affairs and laws within the CCD, criticizing it at points; Meera Alam is mentioned in an off-handed way, half-praising the CCD, through pompous prose.

 “…Meera Alam, graduate at the top of her classes at Cairo University School of Medicine, has recently been accepted into the nursing staff of the state-run health facility, The Guardian. Nurse Meera has an outstanding track record from her time spent in the many psychiatric facilities across Egypt. Many local critics hope that her recent employment with the facility is the heraldic sign of a new, sympathetic, and holistic approach to care for the mentally ill located within the ill-reputed Guardian.”

Character Name – Meera Alam- The Eye of God

Forum Account Name – Meera Alam

Age – 33

Origin – Cairo, Egypt

Occupation – Inquisitor for the Atharim. By day, she is a Nurse working at ‘The Guardian.’ Her position at the Guardian acts as a cover for her civilian life and also serves Atharim interests.

Psych Description – Meera is a psychopath. She feels sexual ecstasy when torturing and killing those that do not see the ‘truth,’ as she puts it. No one sees the ‘truth’ in her eyes. Every human being is living a lie and they are constantly telling lies. Meera believes that she is the only person on this planet that can see through the thin veneer that the experience of human existence has thrown over everyone’s eyes. She is the Eye of God and it is her sole mission in life to burn away humanity’s Ego.

Meera is a master at deception, indeed, most would be surprised to see what lurks within her mind. She typically portrays the image of a loving, motherly woman, especially around her patients… at first. It is all great fun to Meera, using the lies to deceive the ignorant. She is the mirror, reflecting a lie back at everyone that meets her. They never know, never suspect just what exactly is in store for them once Meera has decided to sink her claws into their pulpy flesh. It is always a cat and mouse game to her, although she is the cat, and the cat always gets the mouse.

Phys Description – 5’7”, 130 lbs, dark brown skin, near-black eyes. Wavy black hair cascades down her back, layered and often worn in a neat, professional fashion. Legs are permanently crippled. Typically speaks in dulcet tones, but all emotion drains from her voice when she is performing her ‘craft.’ Typically dresses in simple, ¾ length dresses in shades of black, grey, and red. She desires to maintain a low profile, thus ensures that there is nothing extraordinary about her appearance. Simple makeup, minimal accessories, and tasteful handbags.

Powers and Supernatural Powers – A talent for light Compulsion, although she is working tirelessly to further that skill. Meera has found it easy to use that talent to erase memories, although she can only erase about 10 – 20 minutes of memory on any individual at one time.

Due to her extensive knowledge of human anatomy and the brain, from her work in the medical field, Meera is able to stimulate pain and pleasure centers of the brain.

Current Strength Level – 25

Potential Strength Level – 36

Channeler Experience Level – Adept, bordering on Expert

Block – Has to be experiencing intense levels of emotion. She most easily tunes into passion, anger, sexual urges, and conviction.

Are you reborn god – Smashana Kali- Smashana Kali, also called Vama Kali, Samhara Kali is the embodiment of the power of destruction. Smashana Kali is the most dangerous and powerful form of Goddess Kali. Smashana Kali is the chief goddess of Tantric texts. It is said that if Kali steps out with the left foot and holds the sword in her right hand, she is in the form of Smashana Kali. She is the Kali of the cremation ground and is worshiped by tantrics. As Samhara Kali she gives death and liberation. According to the Mahakala Samhita, Smashana Kali is two armed and black in complexion. She stands on a corpse and holds a freshly cut head and a plate to collect the dripping blood. She is worshiped by warriors, tantrics - the followers of Tantra.

Bio – 

Meera’s life truly started when she turned 14. It was as if she had been living in a fog and only then did it begin to clear. She had been born into a small family, having only one sibling, an older brother named Yuseph. Under Father’s guidance, he had learned his craft, hunting, earning much honor for the family. He was 5 years older than Meera and was their parent’s pride and joy... Then there was Meera who was always- always- measured against her older brother. For Father, Meera always fell short… Had always fallen short, from the beginning.

Father told the story of Yuseph’s birth whenever he had the chance. At any time and to anyone: family parties, their ‘religious’ meetings, even strangers on the street heard about the ‘miraculous day’ that he had been gifted a son. Meera didn’t care. Not really. There was no love. ‘Family’ was just a word. Even as a child, she knew that to be the truth, the bonds fake. He never spoke of her birth. Most were surprised when they met Meera because Father never talked about her at all. There was no pride in her. 

None of that meant she wasn’t curious, however, she had asked about her birth once when she was 7 or 8 years old. Father gave her the brush off, groaning that he had no time for her silly questions. Even Mother, the woman that gave birth to her, was quiet about it all. Early on in life, Meera recognized she was nothing more than a consequence of their mistakes; an unwanted burden, another mouth to feed, another ass to wipe. Unwanted. Ignored.

Her smiles, when she chose to give them, were laced with knowledge, black eyes deep and probing. Most of all, filled with acceptance. The truth did not scare her. Yes. Family was fake. Love was a lie. Affection was artificial. For everyone. All people were liars. They just hid this truth from themselves. But she knew.

Home life had left her calloused, all thanks to Father. It wasn’t as if she saw him that often, thankfully; he was always attending those religious gatherings, hunting with Yuseph, or doing odd jobs around Cairo. When he was home, he spent all his time with Mother and her brother. Meera was usually left to her own devices. 

On occasion, she acted out to get their attention. To see how far their disinterest went. First, she ran away- eventually, for days at a time. Not one person ever looked for her. They didn’t even seem to notice when she did turn up at home. Mother had left Meera’s dinner on the table for her… a meal now covered in mold and maggots. She was given the option of starving or eating it. Meera chose the former, her grumbling belly proof of the truth.

Stealing one of Father’s guns, Meera ran off again. This time, for a different reason. To prove to herself she was every bit a blessing as Yuseph. It had taken a day and a half, but Meera brought down a sacred Ibis. The bird was a large thing, with a long, arced beak. Ancient Egyptian mythology held the bird sacred to the god Thoth, the arbitrator of disputes between the gods. It made Meera laugh cynically at such stupidity.
Another curious thing happened, though. The bird's flapping around, squawks pouring from its throat....well, she had enjoyed that. Quite a bit. Unexpected, that was. Oh, she had pulled legs off of beetles or grasshoppers, had dropped them squirming into red ant nests to be eaten alive. Had even tried it with a lizard. But this, well, this was different. It had taken an hour to die. And Meera felt something wash over her in those final moments: Power; peace; pleasure.

She dragged the bird back to her parent’s house, ignored her parents and her brother as she walked in with the carcass in hand, as she had seen them do with prey many times before. For the first time in her life, Father looked at her. Really looked at her. She didn’t return the favor. Instead, Meera grabbed a knife and started to cut the dead thing apart at the kitchen table. Mother and Father made no motion to stop her, they only stared. Inside, she laughed.

It was Yuseph who came up to her, pulled the knife from her hands, and showed her the error of her ways. She was supposed to de-feather the corpse before cutting into it. He had expert hands and deft skill, dismembering the bloody thing in a quick efficient flurry. Meera was captivated. She memorized everything she saw and everything she heard, Yuseph naming the muscles and the bones as he sawed into the sinewy flesh. Father wore a dark expression. He grabbed his coat and left the house without a word. Mother returned to reading her trashy romance novels.

And so Yuseph started taking Meera out at night to hunt the creatures that only moved about once the Sun passed from the Earth, plunging the land into darkness. It had to be a secret, he had said; Father was never to know. Meera only nodded. Lies. Again. No surprise there. Lies were the foundation of the universe.

She didn’t want Father to know. He would put a stop to it all, she was sure of it. And she didn’t want that. It called to her. No, it had to be secret. They carried on for a year, Meera learning so many things from Yuseph. And then, one night, he took her out for a ‘special’ hunt, though he would say nothing as to what their prey was. 

Out into the quiet night they went, panthers on the prowl. They did not go into the wilderness as was custom, no; instead, the pair worked their way into the outer city, creeping through the warren of ghettos and slums. The streets were mostly empty, this time of night, and those that saw them purposely did not give them a second glance.

After an hour of slinking through the shadows, Yuseph brought them into an alley, signaling Meera to be silent. It was empty, no sound, no light, no life; only darkness.

Out of that abyss came a glorious howl. It was a man. A girl’s voice followed suit, yelling and screaming profanities. One of the fragile wooden doors set into the back of a building just a few yards from the pair burst into splinters as a man’s body flew through the air, smashing into the opposite wall. 

Meera’s eyes grew wide and the smallest gasp escaped her lips. Yuseph motioned for her silence and then back towards the door. He mounted the rifle onto his shoulder and took aim; Meera copied his actions despite her fascination at the scene unfolding. A young girl about Meera’s age, presumably the same one that had yelled the curse words, came stomping out of the ruined doorway. She was caked in dirt and clothed in tatters, lip split, eye bruised and swollen.

The man lay crumpled on the ground, head bleeding from the impact he had just suffered. The strange girl whipped her hands about in a fury and out of nowhere fire, lots and lots of fire, burst into existence around her still moving hands. 

Meera stared in rapture, never having seen anything like that in her life. She had not even known such a thing was possible. The rifle on her shoulder lowered slowly as the girl made countless fireballs shoot forth from the space around her, hitting the broken man and consuming him within a matter of seconds, a blood-curdling howl loud before it died away, his body now nothing more than ash among the sizzling fat. They were swept away swiftly with a light gust of wind. The girl turned her head, finally taking notice of Meera and her brother. With another sweep of her hands, more fire erupted around her.

Yuseph shot his rifle.

The bullet passed through the very center of her forehead, a spray of brain and blood painting the wall behind her, eyes glazing and rolling up into what remained of her skull, the fragile body crumpling to the ground with a loud thud. The quiet was deafening. Yuseph looked at Meera and explained that the other girl had been unclean; an abomination. She touched magic.

She shuddered at the words, eyes unbelieving. They had to leave quickly. One more thing. Before the pair had departed, Yuseph took a pistol from his clothing and laid it into the hands of the girl, the victim, explaining that they had to cover their tracks. The rest of the world did not know about them and it was vital that they never learn the truth. The hunters of the Atharim always operated from the shadows, always had to cover their tracks. 

That, she had understood perfectly.
Yuseph took her to a cafe. Her hands didn't shake as they held the tiny porcelain cup, hot against her fingers. She absorbed the pain, relished the heat. Sensation. So....gorgeous, even in pain. Especially in pain.

And Yuseph explained. He and Father were part of a group called the Atharim. 'The remnant'. Father had taught him. Now, he wanted to teach Meera. She listened raptly to everything he said, black eyes drinking it all in, but had no words with which to respond. The only thing she could do was nod. He smiled at her, as if trying to reassure her, telling that he had reacted much the same way that she did when he first saw Father kill one of the ‘witches.’ She did not bother to roll her eyes at his simplicity.

Instead, things she had noticed, remembered, replayed themselves in her mind. It was like watching her life in reverse. Suddenly, things made sense. Their religious meetings. The hunts. Father always droning on about tradition. Most of it was now clear. But not the core. Not the key. There was still something missing.

Still, the thought of hunting- not just animals. Monsters. Even people. - thrilled her. It flickered and mesmerized her, heart pounding, those flames, reminding her of the fires she'd light, their hypnotic dance, as she went outside herself. One flame. That's all it took. One single flame would become a roaring inferno. So small; so insignificant; so weak. To everyone else. And yet… 


She remembered the heat as she had watched the man die, smelt the burning and smoking of his clothes. Part of her wanted to enter that red and orange and amber vortex. It called her. It sang to her. She could close her eyes and feel the power before her. The tiny spark that could consume the world.

That was the same. Exactly. And she couldn't help the smile that crept on her face. The feeling of strength and power that was before her. Back home, in bed, she replayed it in her head. Meera had loved watching the kill, craved the kill. Animals were good and well, but this…this was different. The girl's blood had sprayed the wall, brain, and vitae making the most amazingly beautiful of patterns. And she could remember the pleasure she felt at that exact moment. A pleasure she went on to rediscover again on her own, in her memory, in her bed, toes curled, eyes fluttering, breaths shallow. It excited her.

And she was intoxicated. But she wanted more. Magic. Now that she had seen it, she craved it herself. She wondered what it would take to become one of these witches. To access it. That girl had real power. She had no need of blades or bullets. If that girl were smarter, she could have taken care of herself earlier, before the bruised and swollen eye. It almost looked like she was doing just that, were it not for Yuseph. 

Maybe. Probably not, though. Were Meera one of those girls, she would be cunning and hide in plain sight; she wouldn’t kill so sloppily, simply in a fit of rage. No. Meera would make sure every kill was clean and untraceable. The memory of that bloody spray pattern came to her. She would make it art. Her eyes lidded; she felt a hunger that sang to her soul. 


Over the course of the next few months, Yuseph took Meera along with him to hunt once or twice a week. It all started very slowly; she was only allowed to watch. After the first two weeks, however, Yuseph gifted Meera with a hunting rifle of her very own. They switched their targets to game birds so that she could acquaint herself with the gun. It only took two sessions of practice before he proclaimed her a natural, and someone Father should be proud of. Meera didn’t care about Father. Nor did she waste thoughts on Mother. As for Yuseph, well….she knew the truth. He could feign his care. Or maybe he even believed it. Except she knew. If it ever came down to it, he would sacrifice her to save himself. Any familial affection he felt was weak. Everyone had a line. 

She just saw the truth. That was all. She wasn’t afraid of it. But he was useful for now. And helpful. And she needed to learn. They went out hunting witches the following week and finally, Meera would have her first human kill.

Yuseph had prepared her. Still, the night before that fateful event, Meera wet the bed. It was an old habit that she had finally broken at the age of 11. Shame hung heavily over her head as she awoke before dawn, feeling the now cold wet spot. She disposed of the sheets, praying to any god that would listen to hide the deed. The last time Father had discovered the soiled sheets he had beaten her within an inch of her life. She did not wish to repeat the incident. Not now. Especially not today. Luckily for her, no one ever did find them. She burnt them behind the house while the rest of her family slumbered.

That day seemed to drag on, though, while anticipation kept building in her. Finally, though- finally- Mother and Father laid down to rest. Yuseph wasted no time in spiriting Meera out of the house. The pair were both armed with hunting rifles, pistols, and dangerously sharp knives. He had dressed Meera all in black, to match him and to camouflage them under the protective blanket of night. Neither said a word as they made their way back into the slums. It seemed witches prospered among the filth. 

When they were finally among the alleyways, Yuseph gave her the assignment. A young father, a merchant, had begun to show signs of witchcraft. He was quick to assure her the death was deserved, aside from the magic; the young father was known to beat his wife and their two little ones. She barely kept from rolling her eyes at his justification. Or that he thought she needed it. The man’s other ‘sins’- his word, not hers- mattered little.

Meera was positioned atop a two-story flat across from the man’s abode; Yuseph took the roof opposite her. He had assured Meera that if anything had gone wrong, or if she just couldn’t do it, he would be there to set things right. He didn’t need to worry, though.

Her heart pounded with anticipation and she realized she felt ready and open. A girl touched by her lover for the first time, soft fingertips trailing her skin, the smell and taste and tongue of promise. She flushed, taking her position atop the roof, breathing deeply, inhaling the cool night air, skin hot, now, setting up her rifle at the edge of the roof. She checked the scope and polished both ends to ensure precision. If things got messy, she vowed to finish the deed no matter what. Yuseph was irrelevant. This was hers and hers alone. 

Meera felt at the knife strapped to her leg. If the young father did not fall from her bullet, then she would silently drop from the roof onto a canopy, leap at the man, ending his life with the shiny point of her hunting knife, penetrating him, feeling the hot blood spurt onto her hands.

The thought sent waves of pleasure through her. Almost she dropped her rifle to do that very thing. But Yuseph was watching. Soon, though. She promised herself.

The man, as if on cue, stumbled from his dwelling and out into the alleyway. Cries could be heard coming from the doorway. Meera’s brow furrowed. It was now or nothing. She cocked the rifle and steadied her aim. Her heart pounded thunder in her head. He was clearly drunk, stumbling to and fro. She would not miss. The crosshairs aligned perfectly and upon instinct, Meera pulled the trigger, letting the bullet fly free. She held her breath and prayed that it would strike true...

...And in that moment pleasure flooded every nerve in her body, her eyes rolling back as the world become awash with the darkest of ecstasy. The bullet passed through his chest, causing him to stumble backward. The moment lasted a lifetime.

Finally, vision returned to her and she could see. The lifeless body crumbled in the dust-covered street showed her that she struck her mark. Her legs were shaking and she couldn’t stand, thighs quivering. It took a few minutes before she was able, though dizziness did hit her. She climbed down, her words with Yuseph- indeed, the rest of the night left her no memory. Only that single infinite moment. It had been the greatest of her life.

That night in her bed, she writhed in ecstasy, reliving the exact time when death came. Over and over again, she replayed it. Moans barely stifled, the spurt of blood the most beautiful of paint, the canvas of the body and wall....she was in heaven. 

That morning as she ate breakfast ravenously. The memory stayed with her. But curiously it felt stale, washed out. Her stomach still carried butterflies and pleasure still flushed her. But it was not enough.

The next few months progressed much as the last few weeks had. During the day, Yuseph took Meera out when he could to hunt game to help her improve her skill on the rifle. She excelled quickly, though the exercises now felt boring; Still, Yuseph insisted, so she continued. 

During their nights, they hunted the witches or monsters. More often than not, Yuseph took the kill, instructing Meera to watch, keep silent, and to learn. But the memory burned now, hollow and empty. She craved to feel the reality again. 

The few she took were good. She could not deny the sensual charge she felt as she fired into their bodies. But she wanted more. Everyone fell within one trigger pull of Meera’s finger. It was all too easy for her. Boredom welled up into her throat further and further, threatening to choke the life from her.

It was not enough. The hot blood sprayed but she felt none of it. 

More, though. She wanted more. She hungered to show them, all of them, what was real. A mirror, exposing the truth inside the lies, their loves and affections and loyalties. The undeniable, inescapable, stupidly blindingly obvious truth she had known from the start. It was a lie. All of it. And she craved to see them realize, to see the truth come upon them a little at a time, to see their realization come over them, shaving away their rejection and defiance in small slices, the slow flickering of light and hope. In her dreams, she would laugh then, relishing it, the screams, to feel the warm blood herself, then, to see the loss as reality finally awoke within them.

The eye of God. The mirror.

Not enough. Never enough. But it would happen. She would make it.

After nine more months of tutelage, Meera and Yuseph set out; she was tasked with searching for and killing another witch of the night. It was her first time to take the lead. Her nostrils flared with anticipation, butterflies fluttering, night air cool on her hot skin. Once again, her lover had come to her. She led the two of them through Cairo’s night market, listening and waiting for any small sign that someone in town was not who they appeared to be. 

Like the kills, it was all too easy for Meera to ask the right questions and pry the correct information until she finally got answers from a dealer in poor Egyptian wines. The daughter of a rather well-known merchant had recently taken ill after a series of accidents. The girl’s entire family, save for her father, had died mysteriously. The authorities had said that the mother and the two sisters had drowned, although all three were perfectly dry when found. Nor had there had been signs that they had taken a swim. Yet, the autopsy had shown water in their lungs. There was no question.

With a few well-placed bribes, Meera extracted the address and led Yuseph to the abode. They waited outside for the better part of an hour before she grew restless. He cautioned patience on her part. Her heart was thundering now, the anticipation growing. Why wait?

She wanted this. She wanted to be alone with them so badly. A father and a daughter? Ah, the things she would teach them, then, about love and family. About how fathers really felt about their daughters. And daughters their fathers.

It burned in her, the hunger, the single flame now an inferno. But Yuseph’s gaze hung over her, a handcuff keeping her from true freedom. It would end, though. Soon. She would have to prepare. And take care of Yuseph. And create a hidden place. Then people would see. 

She shook her head at Yuseph and burst into the two-room hovel. The father had been brewing something over the stove and started screaming at Meera. She wasted no time in planting a bullet between his eyes. The body fell back into the stove, shirt catching fire on the open flame, collapsing to the ground. The witch saw all of this from the second room, screaming at Meera, rushing at her, arms outstretched and fire dancing dangerously in little balls around her form. Meera’s knife flew through the air and slammed into her shoulder with a solid thunk.

But she had no time to react as she was propelled forward by an unseen wind, falling upon the girl in an instant. Yuseph stood in the doorway, shocked at the scene. He held his own pistol up, trying to get a clear shot at her, but Meera and the other girl rolled around, scratching and punching at each other in a messy heap upon the bare ground. Fireballs flew around the witch and came down upon Meera, trying to strike her upon her limbs, her face, her torso. This only served to enrage her; her hands coming up to the other girl, stabbing into her eyes, felt a pop, the warm thick liquid spurting around her thumbs. 

With an effort, Meera pulled her knife free and sunk it deep within the witch’s chest, felt the hot blood flowing down her hand. She convulsed, flames flying every which way and a strange wind swirled into a gale, knocking everything about the shanty in a haphazard fashion.

And Meera exploded in ecstasy beyond anything ever experienced. The world faded to black as every fiber of her convulsed, as if she had never truly lived until now. An eternity of pleasure flowed over her, out of her, and suddenly it was if she was hot. On fire, the flooding river now pouring into her, through her, widening her out, penetrating her deeper and deeper, piercing her to the core. And all she could do was surrender to her lover.

The room came to life as the colors exploded, her ears flooded with every sound imaginable, her skin tingling as her entire body orgasmed. If her first kill had been a drop, this was an ocean, burning through her, until she almost couldn’t hold it in. Eternal bliss threatened her and she desperately tried to claw her way free. Too much. It was too much. She let go.

Meera thrust the body from her with an incredible force and it sailed through the unseen wind, smacking against the wall with a thud, skull cracking like pottery.

And the fire inside consumed Meera until she unleashed it, the body wreathed with flame and once again Meera was standing in the fire, feeling its heat wash over her, buffeting winds striking her this way and that. And through it all, Meera laughed and laughed, tears coursing down her cheeks burned away, feeling the glory of power never imagined.

Yuseph looked on aghast as the body was reduced to cinders. Meera never took her eyes from the charred remains, smiling brightly as it was reduced to nothing more than dust now, the wind carrying the bits of ash away. And with it went the fire, draining out of her. She collapsing to the floor, breathing heavily, exhausted and weak. Before she passed out, she whispered, “Did I do good?”

Yuseph had no words.

Yuseph refused to take Meera out again. For anything. Deep down, he knew what had transpired that night. She knew it. He knew it. Meera was the thing that they had hunted, but she was also his sister. His only sister. So stupid. A snake lived in their house and he refused to see the truth. Or to act on it. Pathetic. Weak. Craven.

Chained to the lie. Except he wasn’t, she discovered.

The next day she had come down with a fever. As she lay in bed, the worm of hatred that had burned in her heart grew, fed by her dark musings and hunger. Hypocrites. All of them. Yuseph’s smiles at her, his attempts at casual conversation a falsehood that burned with each word. He was a liar. She knew it. She saw the conspiring with Father, the man that had hated her from the day of her birth, from her mother who looked at her with shame and disgust. 

The reason she would eventually pry from her mother, amid tears and screams. Finally.

Their story, the story of their wonderful happy family. 

Yuseph was young when Mother had met a man. Father had been out on the hunt. Her loving and romantic mother, so enamored of her stories and tv shows, love songs, and movies, discovered a man as insipidly boring as her. They hit it off immediately. Father was married to his work. Though Meera knew the truth. She bored him too. Mother’s mewling cries had tried to explain, had tried to make her understand, to get her sympathy. He was a man her father would never be. As if Meera cared about the infidelity. From that terribly sappy union, came Meera. But father knew the truth.

Mother sobbed at the memory- well it was one of the reasons she sobbed- remembering how she had admitted the entire thing to Father. And her strong and manly father beat Mother for her tears, for her unfaithfulness. 

It was enough to drive him into one of his rages. That was the first day he had struck Meera, though she was only an infant. She had wailed over the beating, Mother said, unable to understand what was happening; still, he hit her. 

But a grown man hurting a child is not a man and he knew it. Rage and shame consumed him, the scar on her back a reminder of his pathetic weakness. He would keep her. Because he was oh so very honorable. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Meera was his true daughter. A rift in Father and Mother’s marriage had opened that day, Meera was at the center of it, a tree growing and widening it.

But father hated her. Hated what she represented- failures that stared at him with deep black eyes. She was a blight upon their house, his pathetic need the only thing keeping her around. Too many emotions for his tiny mind to process.

It was no surprise that she was a witch. She smiled at the truth. Fate had made it so. Had blessed her to see and to reflect. 

And her brother, dear Yuseph, now had his own dilemma. She was still his sister. But she was also a witch… abomination. Meera saw the churning in his mind. Family was supposed to be everything. But what was he to do when one of them was unclean? Her very existence exposed it all so neatly, stripped off the façade of their happy little life.

Nightmares consumed Yuseph’s dreams every night thereafter. She saw the haunted looks, the bags under his eyes. The way she caught him studying her, only to avert his gaze. She couldn’t help the sweet smiles she gave him.

About a month after Meera’s 15th birthday, Yuseph decided he had to save her no matter what lay in her future; Father could never know. He spent two weeks planning it all out, she found out later. She did feel wrath at the discovery. That he dared to make this choice for her? He would hire a few ‘goons’ to kidnap her and spirit her away to a safe house where she would be handed off for a foster family to raise. Father would be told that she had been killed on the hunt. Everything would work out.

All tied up nice and neat and in a bow. 

And so it happened. The first part anyway. Focused on the hunt, holed up at the edge of the market, she didn’t notice until it was too late the hood going over her head, bundled into the back of a van. She fought as hard as she could, though, trying to get away from them, but her efforts were in vain. The van’s door snapped shut and they sped away.

They didn’t get far. 

She kept struggling, the simmering rage and hatred that normally lurked in her very depths, now a vortex of fury, a forest fire. These men thought to take her? Flashes of light peaked through tears in the cheap hood as her head moved this way and that.

And then she saw a different light, the one that had made her live. She opened herself wide, then, felt it flow into her.

Flames consumed each of the men in the vehicle; the nearest one filling her nostrils with the smell of burned meat. Air flowed and Meera ripped the door open, tumbled out the slowing van’s door. It coasted a few more feet before exploding in a frightening display of flames and death. The entire market watched in horror as it burned itself down. 

She wanted to linger, to smell the burning plastic and fabric. And above all the charred flesh. But too many people were around. Still, once out of view, Meera skipped happily, a tune on her tongue. She felt safe, confident in her abilities and what she was capable of. 

Little did she know, there was one more set of eyes that had watched.

One day, a few weeks later, Father took her on a hunting exercise. With Yuseph gone- disappeared, it seemed- he finally decided to pass on what he knew to her. 

Of course, she knew. She knew exactly what had become of Yuseph- playing one of the men. She certainly didn’t feel guilty. Or empty. Or alone. Or rather, none of that bothered her. In truth, she felt free. Nearly free, anyway.

But she pretended to miss him. For a while anyway. Father said that Yuseph had told him what a great hunter she was. She was his sole heir now. She didn't trust it, but what could he do to her? The light always beckoned her now. And he was weak. Pathetic. 

They had been out hunting for birds on the river, the pair laden with a variety of rifles. It had been a test of sorts; her knowledge of guns, on prey. Her stealth. Father had responded favorably to her answers, making notes in a small, leather-bound notebook. A doting happy father. An act they both knew was false. With each word, each compliment, her anger grew colder and blacker. 

They prowled among the reeds and the lotus, silent as lions. Meera took out every bird she aimed for. Underneath her triumphant smile, as they returned to the car, the fire grew.

After stowing everything away in the back of their beat-down van. Meera closed the back door, but before she could turn around, she felt a numbing pain. Rage contorted her father’s face as he beat her with a lead pipe. Over and over, and over and over, he beat Meera, slamming into her back and knees and legs, screaming. He knew the truth.

And it all happened so suddenly that she had never had a chance to call the power, to protect herself. She was an infant again.

Meera would never walk after that. Father didn’t even seem to care all that much about what he had just done. He just scooped her up off the ground, ignorant of her whimpers and cries, turning his lip up at the sight of blood and broken bone, dumped her in the back seat and then pulled away without a word.

Meera lay back in that van, stewing in her own misery, femur broken through the skin of her leg. Everything was hot and fuzzy. But rage built. Now, finally that she was still, it grew, a tiny flame burning hotter and hotter, as if vibrating in time with the pain, point-counterpoint.

Meera felt it behind her shoulder and a wicked smile crossed her lips as her body flooded. New pain nearly made her pass out. Ecstasy made her smile until her cheeks hurt. She saw his head, in the driver's seat. Saw him driving as if nothing was wrong. Her smile twisted. Ribbons of color danced before her eyes, weaving themselves into some intricate, delicate pattern. One of the ribbons, a silver one, made the final weft into the design and then the ribbons exploded into more light. 

His head exploded, chunks of skull and pulpy brain and blood covering the seat and dash and window and windshield.

The van flew off the side of the road, colliding with a great mass of trees. Meera lay in that same spot in the van, completely unscathed save for her injuries at his hand. The shattered shell that had been her father lay slumped against the steering wheel, head missing from the ruined neck. What used to be his head lay everywhere, a splattered spoiled melon under the hot summer sun. 

So wonderful. So sweet.

Meera was rescued about half a day later. She lay in the hospital for a month thereafter, recovering from her wounds and that strange fever that had suddenly gripped her once more. It was far worse than the first time. Crippling migraines, a fever coming and going at moment’s notice, dizziness that lead to inevitable nausea; the entire experience was utter hell. To accompany this strange, inexplicable plague, strange things happened around Meera’s room.

The tv came on at random times throughout the day, the lights flickered, the medical equipment Meera had been plugged into gave wild results. Other electrical problems. At one point, the entire wing in which Meera had been staying suffered a power outage for several hours. Not even the backup came on. Many patients died. Eventually, even the nurses that tended to Meera became sick, suffering strange spasms and seizures. Some of the nurses died in agony. The entire staff was baffled.

And then, about a month and a half after Meera had been admitted, her sickness cleared and the strange occurrences stopped completely. She was discharged the very next day, returning to their now broken home.

Despite being confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life, Meera felt invigorated; rejuvenated even! All of those strange things happening at the hospital were not due to some ghost or djinn, as some of the nurses had whispered; no, it had been Meera. And she had power. Real power. Oh, she knew she had it in her, but now she felt a mastery over the torrents of energy flowing through her.

The loss of her legs had been the price to pay, but it had been worth it. Meera hadn’t known at then; how could she? Those endless days and nights in that hospital bed had given her ample time to analyze and decipher what had happened. One night, in that sterile room, she tried to replicate the strange colored ribbons, and it worked; albeit sloppily. Every night she practiced. By the time she had been discharged, she had complete control over these strange new gifts... In so far as she was concerned. Coming home to that nest had only presented a new set of challenges to the young Meera, but nothing she could not dominate.

Mother died before Meera’s 16th birthday. It had not been peaceful. She made sure of it. For allowing all of this. Mother eventually told her the truth. And she did see the truth in the end.

Meera went through Father and Yuseph’s belongings, learning more about the Atharim. She had decided to join their ranks. She wasn't sure why. She just knew she wanted it. It was so delicious to consider. Her heart fluttered with anticipation. A witch in their ranks. Who knew how high she'd rise. An organization of hypocrites. All of them, needing to see. And she would be there, the snake in the bird's nest. 

And she wanted to play...
 
At the age of 18, Meera was well entrenched within the Atharim. She had almost been turned away due to her paraplegia, but for the first time in her life, her late Father had helped her. He had been a well-respected man in the organization, at least for his humble rank, and it was on that name that Meera shoved her way in. It took less than a week before she had taken down 3 witches and a small handful of ‘monsters.’ Meera took great pleasure in showing her ‘betters’ that their views of her were nothing but false. Indeed, after a year within the shadow organization, Meera found herself being groomed for the role of Inquisitor. Apparently, Father had been efficient and so everyone said of her. They constantly told her that she was her ‘Father’s Daughter’… Oh, if they only knew.

Although it was no requirement for the position, Meera had decided it would be useful to pursue a higher education to aid her great work in the Atharim and in the wider world. At 20, Meera enrolled at Cairo University School of Medicine, one of Africa’s oldest establishments, to pursue a Bachelor’s of Science in Nursing; she eventually went on to earn her Master’s degree in the same discipline. Between her time there and her prior interests, Meera focused her studies on the brain and mental health.

True, all humans lied to themselves and to the rest of the species, Meera did not need a piece of paper to let the World know that she was an expert on that, but perhaps there were other merits to truly understanding such a complex organism. Being able to get to the core of a person, knowing just exactly what trauma caused them to tick, knowing what buttons to push for the desired result, flaying a human’s soul with nothing more than a few well-placed words…

The idea had become exquisite.

That was not to mention that the position paired well with her future role, it curried favor with her betters, and helped to establish a reputation for herself… Not every Inquisitor was as learned as she would ultimately become. People would come to her, Atharim and Civilian alike. With that piece of paper from an accredited institution… Well, that would also give her credibility and a reputation amongst the rest of the world. It would’ve been idiotic not to pursue such a path.

Meera was thriving at University. She developed a well-spoken, empathetic persona while attending classes and navigating the social currents of the student body; a personality she would continue to utilize in her professional life, after schooling. People opened up readily to such a kindly spoken voice, they wanted to bare their very heart and souls to someone that they could compare to their mothers. The only kink she hit in that time, outside of grief within the Atharim, was the day she learned that her crippling could’ve been avoided. It had been plain as day right in her textbook.

At 14 or 15, one doesn’t really understand finances, their parent’s place in society, or just how fucked up the real world actually is. Meera was surprised; when she knew she really shouldn’t have been. In the end, her legs could have been saved but it was her parent’s poverty that had prevented that option. This revelation fell completely in line with her understanding of reality, yet it still burned. So many factors had worked against her, Fate had always been trying to tear her down… No… It was making her stronger… But how was taking one’s legs ever going to make them stronger?

Neither of her parents had had a real job, Father was paid an incredibly modest wage by the Atharim and Mother didn’t really do much but dote around the home or clean Father and Yuseph’s animal kills. It was barely a trickle of funds. They didn’t even have insurance. Oh, Meera knew their small hovel said a lot about the family’s finances, but she had never actually considered…

What remained of Father’s tiny estate footed the bill for Meera’s hospital stay after the attack, but that was it. Mother had refused to pay for anything that wasn’t necessary and the procedure that could have repaired select portions of Meera’s spinal cord, the one thing that would have restored the use of her legs… Mother had denied it all.

Instead, she opted to buy Meera a cheap, wobbly wheelchair.

Meera had the last laugh, but years later it didn’t do anything to quell the cold rage that now stormed within.
She used all of that as fuel to push herself, as much as it ate at her day in and day out.

Graduating as Valedictorian, in both her Bachelor’s and Master’s courses, Meera found it easy to establish herself in the civilian world. For a few years after University, she had worked for some of the finest practices in Egypt, although that was nothing to brag about. Her work within the Atharim flourished during that time as well. She saw herself elevated to the role of Inquisitor 13 months after graduating with her Master’s degree and the cult had an assignment for her.

Russia.

With the institution of the CCD, the Atharim were queerly gifted with success. Channelers had begun to congregate within the newly found dominion, and the Atharim wanted their best and brightest relocated to the heart of the beast. Meera, although fresh in the role, was immediately tapped to be dispatched within Moscow. The combination between Meera’s intellect and efficiency spelled doom for the Ascended and all of his little toys.

It would be like patricide for Meera.

Quick and wreathed in flames.

Oh she was hungover the next day. 

When she - ahem, they - woke the next day, Danika was slow to rouse. By the break of 10:30, she finally rolled out of bed, found the shower and tried to freeze herself awake with cold water. It went about as expected, and she quickly steamed up the bathroom mirror moments later. A towel wrapped snug in her armpits, she quickly realized the greatest flaw in her plan for the otherwise awkward morning of waking up with someone after doing the dirty all night the last night. 

She was out of coffee.

Hangovers were fairly easy to cure these days. A couple of pain killers, good dose of caffeine, Vitamin C, and a liter of intravenous saline was the magic elixir resurrecting all kinds of drunks the next day. In fact, there were salons for just such infusions. Such little shops were usually tucked alongside pedicure stations or a blow-out bar. She was definitely not so snobby as to be embarrassed walking into such a shop. In fact, there was one in the so-called Enlightenment district nearby. It wasn't a long walk from her place. 

A few swipes of a hairbrush through damp hair, smears of simple makeup on puffy cheeks, and a grumbling stomach that made her think she had to eat a bagel or she was going to die in the next ten minutes, and she went to find Marcus. Jeans, boots and a short jacket completed the thrown-together look, and she was utterly grateful for the comfort-clothes after the binding attire of the ball.

"There's a bagel cart three blocks over that I highly recommend." She smiled, invitation implied. 


@"Marcus DuBois"

Once the decision to move settled in his mind like rocks sinking in water, Tristan was eager to begin the journey. Alas, his impatience stretched his mind like a pacing dog. Other regional farmers bought the animals, but his horse he sold specifically to Svant, being incapable of delivering a beloved breed to the care of strangers as he was. Where he was going, the goods of his trade weren't needed, so off they were sold also. A few of Úlfar's antiques fetched higher prices with collectors than locals, thanks to the internet. By the time all not bolted down was stripped and sold, Tristan had enough funds in his back pocket to set a new life up in the CCD.

When the day came to leave the homestead behind for good, all the tension of the past few months crashed like stormy waves on rocky shores. He just stood in a cold rain as it drizzled down upon his shoulders not unlike the frozen remains of his trollish uncle's grave. A levity befell his eyes, bright and golden now. From where he stood he could see the distant Fjord, the inlet of the sea stretching its cold fingers into land. Birds darted tiny black dots farther than he ought to be able to detect. The scents of his youth curled his nose and clung to his beard in a way he hoped would never waft away. He'd already said goodbye to the cropping where he first saw the Huldufólk woman whom revealed the truth to him. He laid bare his plans like a sacrifice before a sacred alter. The house he built for her remained, and he prayed to the gods it would continue to do so on her behalf, but if she wanted to come visit in Norway, he would built her a cottage that she might visit. For some reason, he had the sense of someone smiling back, and in that sense, the goodbye was peaceful.

It wasn't to her that he presently spoke. It was to the basalt rock that encased his uncle (though he still thought of Úlfar as a grandfather). For some reason, the events that led to his uncle's demise seemed less of a betrayal than the abandonment of their ancient lands. Tristan felt it too, like a ballast tugging at the weight of his heart.
"Your accusations are not wrong, Uncle," Tristan told the stone's face even as he rubbed the mist from drenching his eyes. He was glad for the rain's obfuscation of emotional displays.
"I can't stay here, though. You know that I am like Rurik. I am my father's son and I will be driven mad if I stay. The east calls me like the bleating of a golden horn. I am sorry for your fate. I am sorry our line ends here, but I will not end, though I step away, my home will not be forgotten. I will bring my children back here, someday and their children after that."

Sometimes the planes and crags of the rock flickered like shadows of a face moved, but no such motion answered Tristan's explanation. His golden gaze fell to the soggy ground, drowning in the weight of his uncle's disappointment. Is that how Rurik, his father, felt before the end? Disappointment in what he was? Or defiance because of what he was?

Tristan's jaw tightened, "You will always remain, uncle. When generations have passed and all of Iceland forgotten, you will remain our guardian. Bear the duty honorably, uncle." Tristan lifte his chin, "Fare well."

When he left, he never glanced behind though he felt the stare of eyes on his back the whole way.

Jerry had spent hours upon hours scouring footage of the Vega house, sitting outside, reading files of known acquaintances, finding connections.  Where was the weakness, how could he exploit it.  What was the best place to go.

It seemed since coming to Moscow the boy god was friends with an missing girl.  Though recent reports suggested the girl was dead, a god killed her, and yet he wasn't sure it was that simple.  Too many coincidences, too many similarities.  

It was all a matter of finding the right information.  So today instead of sitting a stake out, Jerry made his way into a tattoo parlor.  A popular one from the recommendations he'd received around town.  The proprietor was dead - heart attack at a young age, but the catch here was the dead man was a former lover of the boy gods friend.  The dead one.  Coincidence?

The door jingled as he opened it and the man inside looked up from his current project, "I'll be with you when I'm done here."  Jerry didn't really care, he was here to look around.  He saw pictures on the wall and started browsing through them, there was one framed on the far wall which drew Jerry's attention, Lucas Andreff the metal plaque underneath said - the man who owned the shop - dead too young.  "Such a shame." he said to himself.

It was not often that dreams wracked his sleep, but the night of the ball was filled with torment. Something chased him through the city streets he could never quite glimpse. The walls closed in as he ducked through allies. The sky darkened and finally he was cornered. When he turned to face his assailant, it was while brimming with the power of the universe, power he unleashed with everything he had. Then it all burned and he woke from licking flames searing his skin.

He was slicked with sweat when he attempted to regain his bearings. The disconcerting moments that followed swirled a man like lost in a snowstorm. When recognition of his surroundings settled, it was not comforting. The gilded rooms were dark and hollow; palace of the tsars a cavernous, cold marble. He ripped the blankets from his lap and angrily stalked toward a shower.

Anger billowed like the power from his dream. At whom the anger was directed was as indecipherable as the assailant chasing him throughout it. Stalked in his own home, teased and mocked by the Atharim, humiliated before his aristocracy, and impotent to defend himself, he trembled with fury throughout the entire ordeal of the morning. The routine itself was a show; even the pristine way his hair was combed was but another masquerade. But the costume was donned as it was daily. Imagery was everything to him. Identity was nothing but what others assigned. The weakness and impotence displayed at the ball could be erased from the minds of those present if repainted and replaced. Persistence, he told himself, was key; and patience.

When he emerged from his rooms, a studious examination fell upon the first staffer he encountered in the Executive Offices of the Ascendancy. They quickly averted their gaze and hurried about their business. It only soured his already thin demeanor. Only his Deputy-Consul Chief of Staff, Viktor was brave enough to approach.

The rest of the morning was spent mitigating fallout from the ball. He wrote personal messages to each of the attendees, or at least drafted a template message for the staffers to customize to each guest before approving their distribution. Most of the contents were similar, inquiring about their wellbeing, ensuring his own and the strength of the Kremlin, promises to avenge the flagrant disrespect shown to them, vows to protect from further sleights, gratitude for support, commitment to the Custody’s missions foreign and domestic, so on and so forth. Finally, he asked to see Alexandrova sometime mid-morning. The look on her face the previous evening was not lost on Nikolai. Clearly, she required a conversation about topics she dared not confront without invitation: namely, Evelyn. Some of his simmering mood was lidded behind the mask of the man named Nikolai Brandon by the time she arrived. He would be careful as handling fine china because Alexandrova was valuable to him for many reasons. Offending her was not something he desired, the opposite actually. But at one point, he had to share an insight to a truth he’d never reveal completely to anyone. “I need Evelyn, you must see that.” She may assume he meant to manipulate the pretty, young American, but there was a stretch to his voice that he wasn’t sure he obscured perfectly. His gaze settled on something far-sighted when Alexandrova asked a pointed question that she eventually retracted. Nik didn’t know the answer himself and had little inclination to delve in search of it.

Evelyn would be departing Moscow in the coming days. Her entourage of American politicians had come to its end, and Nikolai grew increasingly sharper as the time for their parting drew near. He understood the need, but the box of reason was wrapped with barbed wire for ribbon in his mind. Logic, cold and calculated, became his central dogma. Others noticed it, the mask was more transparent than before, but remained. Only one brief moment when Evelyn squeezed his hand under the table of a state dinner did the façade fade and the man within revealed. He centered himself on her, and the epiphany that flashed through his mind was startling.

In that moment, he came to a decision.

Later, he inquired about the state of communications with the resurrected Atharim Regus. Another was named from Vatican City, but Nikolai barely bothered with the news. It was obvious the Atharim were choosing new tactics and the Catholic Church was careful to toe their association with an apparent terrorist organization. It was only for the love of his Catholic citizenship that he did not denounce the entire church the same time he did the Atharim. To reveal the truth of their demonic allegiance would throw the world’s largest religious organization into chaos, and that was a play Nikolai would save for only the direst of moments.

Instead, he guessed where the real power behind the Atharim slept, and such was a beast he wanted to rouse. Thus far, his messages to Armande were undeliverable or unanswered.

His mood was nearly reconsolidated when the cabaret was brought to his attention. In the shadows of a long evening alone in his office, he watched the video in its entirety. Every shred of footage as could be recovered from social media outbursts to reaction from the street, he consumed it all.

That was the first moment in his life he feared his control over the CCD was slipping.
“Kill them all,” he told Viktor coldly.
“Deserved, Ascendancy, but I advise against so harsh a reaction.” Viktor responded unflinchingly.
Nik fixed him with a stare that dared him to question the order a second time.

But Viktor was unwavering, and logic was slow to trickle through the cracks of blind fury. “Only the owner. Then strip the theater of everything not bolted down and turn it into a school for the impoverished. I want everyone on that stage tonight to lose everything. They won’t be able to get a job cleaning the toilets after the Custody is done with them.”

Viktor nodded. “And Scion Marveet’s son?”

Nikolai fixed the frozen image of Jaxen’s smirking, smug face in his view.
“Send him a message he won’t forget. Then bring Scion to me.”

Ryker did not prefer fast hits. He liked to learn and plan. Human beings were irrational bastards that required study. Unfortunately, these orders could only be written by one man, and he could be a sensitive bitch sometimes thinking the world revolved around him. The hit was to take place tonight, fine by him. He had nothing else to do except pay Yun Kao a visit. Ryker watched a few inciting clips on the way across town, viewing only out of sheer amusement for the mockery. The Kremlin's response was not surprising, though a twinge of curiosity made him wonder at who was being sent to entertain the actor himself.

The mark lived in a turn of the century home on the Golden edge of Moscow, so the forty-five minute drive provided adequate time to study. Boda was an elderly man of surprising athleticism for his age. Imprisoned on three separate occasions in various Russian prisons going back to the 1990’s, he certainly lived his fair share of darker experiences. The guy survived wars, Gulags and Putin. It was either a complete shame or utterly fitting he would be meeting his end like this. As it was, there was a bullet with Boda’s name on it.

Ryker did not expect much of a challenge.

Since coming to Moscow the world had tumbled and tumbled until it was no longer what it once was. Nox hadn't even set food on Russian soil before the world upended.  His father would be furious to know he was going to Russia - the CCD he'd hated the other side of the ocean for years.  It was breed in him from his father.  But Aurora and Nox had thought differently when they decided.  They decided together that they would come to the homeland of their ancestry - they would come to Moscow and be named Atharim full fledged by the grace of the Pope himself.  Or so the story had gone after they'd become gods.  The most hated things on earth for the Atharim and he was one.

Thinking about it all made Nox want to hurl.  So instead of thinking about it and dwelling he thought about the future.  The future which brought him no hope.  He'd be hunted the remainder of his life.  Nox knew that now.  They'd come at him once, they'd come again.  There was no time to waste, yet he felt empty inside.  Devoid of all things, all hope.  Sage and Aiden didn't help any with their blissful love.  Fuck them. 

He didn't need to have a future, Cruz and Dorian, even Aiden and Sage deserved that.  Ana and Christian most of all they just got pulled into the unlucky situation.  Though Ana... she was the mother of a god.  Nox sighed as he pressed up on his hands into a high plank before moving into downward dog.  Yoga was becoming more and more required to get through a day.  To focus on his body and his body alone, drown in the calm cool serenity of the power lingering at the edge. 

But not touching it.  It no longer brought peace of mind.  It brought pain and memories and things Nox didn't want to feel, but he did every time he touched the power god had granted him.  God... no... he had nothing to do with it, even if Aria believed, Nox didn't.  This was science - genetic. Why else kill parents.  The perfect storm came and that storm came with Apolyon - Ascendancy.  Another man who probably wanted him dead and for what?  Because he was Atharim.  

That was the theme in all this misery.  The Atharim - if you got down to it his mother died because of the Atharim.  If she'd never met his father.... Nox knew he'd never have been born,but she'd never have died either... except she would have, his father saved her.  It was a well told story.  

Nox pushed it out of his head as he stood into Warrior 1.  So many reasons to leave the Atharim behind - to go find a hiding place and live and die there.  But there were still monsters out there.  Monsters that could devour the world whole and even the Ascendancy in all his grand glory could never win if they all came calling at once.  He barely survived the Ijiraq.  

Nox shuddered at the memory of the ball and yawned in response to the weariness of his body.  But he pushed harder. He needed a direction.  A life outside of the Atharim.  Warrior 2.  Nox knew that.  But he also knew that he had no skills.  Not a single one besides survival and killing monsters - that wasn't real world in the least.  So for now Nox pushed his body and his skills with the power.  He'd defend this family with his life.  Which meant he had to grab the power, it was painful -  more so than ever before as he reached into the dark light and pulled it to heart.  It struggled as it burned his soul.  It fought against his control as he wove the light show Methos' stage hand had used at the misshapen concert.  It danced in fury, in chaos and Nox let it eat at his very being, but he didn't let go.  It stung and burned and he felt the Ijiraq feeding on him.  It was all in his head - he knew it.  

The music in Nox's ears ceased as a text came over his wallet.  Nox touched his left earbud and  it read the text. Hey Nox. This is Ivan. I need your help. I need to learn this power

Why did Ivan always come to him when he needed to learn?  He knew exactly what he was, where he went in life, his beliefs, he'd left him to fucking die on his own because he couldn't stomach his truth.  The voice in his head, the one that sounded like his sister told him, he had to help him, the power was dangerous if you experimented.  "Remember how many times I had to heal you."

Nox sighed and headed for his make shift room for clean clothes and a shower as he pulled out his wallet and typed Ivan a reply.  "I'm free now.  Where do you want to meet?"