I made a page that takes EVERY single in character thread and put it order of the very first post on the thread from oldest to newest.

The story as we posted it. There are a few places where that's not right but in most cases the order is correct.

This should help any new members any any of us looking for a chronology of things to see quickly.

I will eventually make on for each character. My goal is to pull all the posts and save them as a back up.

It should update every 15 mins to stay on top of all new posts

*removed link*

Continued from...HERE.

Halfway to her next destination Stuart, Bob and Phil reported lights on in the house. Well okay. Quandary: show up in tactical assassin evening wear or go with a Plan B? She settled on Plan B.

Big Brother landed for a gear swap on a cleared rooftop and Nika fished out an emergency disguise she’d put there a while back for surveillance. Boots, hippy tree pants, tacgloves, vest...all went into the drone’s storage pod. She jumped into some skinnyish-kid pants which fit fine over both the exo and dragonsilk both. They were super thin nowadays, the technology was great. A green cartoony video game dinosaur shirt was pulled over the Arovex.

She only found one shoe. “Seriously BB? Where’s my other shoe?” Papa John’s pizza drone didn’t answer. “We’ll discuss this if I make it home, mister.” The assassin removed her balaclava and replaced it with a very neon green wig topped with a black and white striped floppy watch cap thing. Tendrils of bright green splayed out above her shoulders like a spider plant. A jean jacket with built in sweatshirt hoodie completed her outfit. Except the shoes. A semi-annoyed sigh accompanied the quick search on her forearm tacpad.

This was an artsy area so there’d be donation drop bins. Sure enough… Nika found what she needed in the second charity bin she’d pilfered through. Kinda. Hightop kid shoes. They lit up when you walked, it was pretty cool. She liberated a satchel and some fingerless knit gloves with the foldover mitten option too. Smelled like french fries. Nika figured she looked about 12. Great. She recalled six microdrones and had them land in her hood.

Big Brother went to join the big drone traffic while the assassin walked like a joe along the dim street. The safe house was small, two stories. It’d have a back door and her little scouts had reported nothing lurking but still, she’d go in the front.

Nika pulled off her glove and keyed in like she lived there. Her entrance was quick and she clicked the door shut even as the drones rose to fan out along the ceiling. Gun in hand, she stayed where she was - yes in the kill zone - and called out. “Heeeeey, peeps…” Young, naive, cautious, worried. “Anyone home?”

Danika did not grow up poor. She attended private schools in Chicago suburbs. She went to prom and bought a fancy, sparkly dress at an upscale department store. Her mom let her borrow diamond earrings for the night. She didn't grow up poor, but she did not grow up makin' it rain dollah bills either. She had to save allowence for months to buy that sparkly dress. Threats of public school kept her grades at the top of her class. She worked for her stuff.

The mall - she couldn't bring herself to say GUM - was like walking into a fairy tale. The interior was carved stone. Archways stretched a mile ahead. Men and women far more glamorous than she criss-crossed marble floors. There was even a one-year-old bumbling toddler in a designer outfit that probably cost more than that sparkly dress.

There was another credit burning a hole in her pocket, though. She had no idea where to start, so she followed the crowds inward.

Dorian went into the office despite his desire to stay home with his family. But Dorian had to show up for work. Not only was IA looking into him but an Atharim was also there. Abt was a good officer - he kept many Atharim from being discharged from service in the police force around the world.

But Dorian knew this wasn't going to be the case this time. He'd opened a can of worms that was going to bite him in the ass eventually. That eventually was now.

Dorian wasn't sure what the Captain knew of his involvement in things lately, but Dorian was sure IA knew. They always knew.

There was a note sitting on Dorian's make shift desk that said, "See me. - Abt" There was a flashing light on his desk phone that said probably the same thing. Dorian wasn't even late, the man was in early.

It was best not to keep IA waiting...

The bike screamed down the straight, rider tucked in behind the windscreen. A board emerged from behind the fence, large cards read; +1.32 ST2. Blue eyes darted over before snapping ahead once more. Her HUD was glitching again so the board was a welcome backup. A pair of men behind the wall followed the rider and bike as it streaked by before hovering over the tablet in front of them. “She's two seconds off your time, Alex.”

A third man chuckled. “Still on Setting One too.”

The engineer went on. “Yeah, I just told her to switch though. If that works, you'll pick up some time in the corkscrew. Rizza will love that.”

The man smiled. “I'm not worried about Rizza.” He looked up at the track screens as different camera views followed the rider around the twisting circuit. The hollow tapping on a tablet stopped. He smirked. “Okay, I'm not overly worried about him.”

“That's more like it.” There was another silence before the engineer spoke again. “So...have you asked her yet?”

Alex grinned mischievously. “Actually no. I'm going to just send her out in free practice. If she doesn't freak out...” That immediately prompted a strange look from the engineer but the man plowed on. “...If she doesn't freak out, then I'll have her run the second practice and then see what happens in qualifying.” The engineer just stared. “Luca...” A hand smacked the guy's shoulder playfully. “Look at what she did in in the liter class. She's brilliant, composed and smooth. You said so yourself! Plus, look at what she helped me do last year. I had nothing to help me fight off Rizza and now I'm right on his heels.” He was serious. “Hargrave had to go, Luca. He is absolutely useless on a GP bike and you know it.” Dangerous too but that was left unsaid.

The engineer sighed. “I know, Alex, and yes James'll be happier on the Yamaha but...she's a rookie. A true rookie...”

“She's got the license, Luca, she's got two GT championships including last year and everyone in the world knows it's really three. If not for that fucking psycho fan..." Luca's eyes went wide. "No, stop it. The bloody media was unfair about it and everyone knows it. Can you blame her for not talking about it? Really? ...and she went back to GT and completely dominated. Again.
Fresh offa that.” He had a look about him, one that said he meant business. “Fresh off. GT is nuts. You wanna see her splattered all over a cobbled retaining wall?” More silence met him. “For crying out loud! If she can control those monster machines on the street, the street Luca, she can handle MotoGP.” The man's brows rose in emphasis. "She's been testing GP bikes for five years. Nika is the real deal. She's been ready."

“...I mean clearly, look at the data.” The two eyed each other.

The increasing crescendo of a closing engine turned both the men's heads toward the last turn leading to the straight. A bike appeared sliding along on slick-black rubber, rear tire leading until the line was reasonably straight, before the optical illusion of standing still at the end turned. The bike became a bullet once more, its rider having guided the machine to rights again while rewarding the maneuver with a full throttle.

Alex flipped a switch near the barrier and the light bar suspended over the finish line read a solid green. The bike screamed past, chased by the dual-tone popping of the Ducati’s exhaust and the unmistakably-sweet smell of burnt high octane race fuel. Yay fossil fuels. The echo bounced and vibrated through the empty stands with fervor. Both men remaining silent for Turn 1, watching the young woman trail-brake once more to slide the rear wheel out and point the bike into the next turn as soon as possible.

“Time?”

His reply was automatic. “She's only had a lap, Alex.” Luca glanced at the tablet. “Well. Picked up .12 already.”

A huge grin met that announcement. "She's jumped right to the middle of the satellite times." Alex laughed in an imitation of a long forgotten comic from last century and rubbed his hands together. “We're going to make so much money...” And in his best Yoda-voice, because Star Wars was forever.. “Proud Paolo will be, yes.”

Luca laughed too. He knew the jokes well. Alex Castori was not a man concerned with money but then neither was Paolo Bisciotti, the Sporting Director for the racer's factory Ducati team. Winning and having fun, that was Alex's goal and through five championships in MotoGP alone he had done just that. So they let him. Teaching his young protégé the same thing might be tough though. She was as serious a person as they'd ever met, almost (There could be some real stiff dicks in motorsports). However the older racer was convinced that he could crack her stoic shell...because the fans were going to eat her up.

Neither the men across barrier and fence, then track then barrier and another fence noticed anything beyond their tablets, flat screens and the rider. Twenty minutes passed before the pit board came out one last time, its large black display digitally carded with a large, 'P I T.' The bike screamed by, a blur of red, full on the throttle until it seemed too late to save at turn 1 without shooting across the sand runoff beyond. Once more the rider's knee stuck out as she sat up in the seat before the rear tire slid from side to side and ultimately settled to the left. The bike seemed to fold over in a precisely smooth action not unlike a gliding turn of a fighter jet. The figure in the distance skimmed a knee over red and white painted rumble strips lightly as the machine arced around the wide turn impossibly close to the pavement. It was unbelievable really that the bike could remain whole on such narrow strips of the slick tires. But it did. The bike exited the turn to stand upright once more and a roar of its historic and established L-twin driven engine echoed down along the stands even after the bike and rider could no longer be seen.

The men huddled over their work once more, occasionally glancing up at the screens above to the feed from the track drones. A short time later the bike could be heard again but it slowed and entered an apparent opening in the barricade not previously visible from the main grandstands. The rider appeared relaxed, shifted in her saddle and keyed the helmet's visor up before disappearing beyond the buildings across the way.

Nika coasted into the garages stopping just before running over a mechanic who did not move out of her way. From the way he did not appear worried and the fact that he held the bike by its front fairing once she'd stopped indicated this to be normal and a part of his job. Another man emerged from within the open garage the bike had stopped in front of and grabbed the tail of the bike just as the rider swung her right leg forward over the tank and handlebars and hopped off. A somewhat scuffed black glove was removed and tucked under her arm as the other glove was removed as well. Bare fingers actuated the strap release under her chin and the black leather-clad rider disappeared through a side door into the building.

She emerged shortly and while still wearing the black skin tight leather suit, her helmet and gloves were elsewhere. The young woman turned upon exiting, her black-stubbled head a prominent feature amid the area. All along the paddock people worked, all wearing the same red and black liveried pit shirts. They paid the rider no special mind as if she were a regular sight here.

Nika turned left and disappeared once more, this time into a garage bay. A man met her, his average size served only to call attention to how small she really was. They hovered over a laptop, yes a laptop, that the man held with the carelessness only an engineer could accomplish. She pointed to various points on the screen and offered feedback where he asked more pointed questions. Ultimately the conversation was short and ended with her straight faced nod and his triumphant smirk. He ambled off nearly dropping his laptop several times as he typed with one hand and held the thing with the other. The woman turned and waved to someone out of sight that offered a departing salutation. Everyone else around had converged on the bike she'd come in on. There were three more just like it parked on rear stands nearby.

She disappeared through the side door once more and emerged three minutes later in street clothes. The fit was comfortable and she cut a pleasing figure. Black and grey Merrells poked out under the legs of jeans a tad long but not offensively so and a sporty charcoal pullover marked over the chest and back with 'Ducati Corse’ rounded off her simple attire, the front zipped up to cover the black tee beneath. She had a hand in her pocket and waved minimally to another farewell once the door closed. A cold hand rubbed at her bare head walked down the lane toward the parking area where riders and crew parked their vehicles. She waved off an offer of a ride in an ancient golf cart bedazzled in ridiculous spinning rims with a shy smile. Retro was in.

There were quite a few very nice cars in the lot; two Ferraris one red the other a yellow convertible, numerous Porsches, Teslas, Hummers, a gaggle of Mercedes and several poor saps with a Land Rovers. She hated those things.

Two rows in saw her hit a button on her fob. She’d disabled the proximity sensors in favor of manual because she was a woman and skeevy people could be lurking. The security here was good but she wasn’t looking to get carjacked. In her old car. The lights on a ten-year old black sapphire metallic M3 Sedan flashed once. It was a sleeper. She climbed into the driver's seat, adorably perhaps, the bucket seat was not far from the steering wheel. She was short after all. The woman closed her door, locked it, and buckled her safety harness The car was in pristine condition and seemed as though it could have been delivered straight from the dealer that afternoon. But a decade ago. The flawless black leather interior even smelled new. She’d bought the car when she was 18 from a now-deceased mobster-she did not kill-as a 'Plan F' getaway car. Beneath the beautiful exterior the BMW was retrofitted with top of the line, cutting edge bulletproof plating and glass, custom suspension and a rocket-fast tuned motor. The passengers were safe from nearly everything save a direct hit from a tank. Or maybe a meteor.

Nika pressed the start button, the M-Class v12 engine roared to life and sounded like a fucking race car. She released the e brake, shifted into first gear and then pulled slowly forward and out. Smooth as liquid silk.

The car had almost nothing personal in it, no little baubles or even loose change. The exception was hanging from her rearview; a little blue cartoon alien called 'Stitch.' The windscreen’s HUD was minimized to the basics. She was on manual drive and integrated safety features wouldn’t key news alerts or anything remotely distracting like that due to safety regs. The climate controls sensed she was cold and brought the cabin temperature up. Her seat heater turned on too.

It had been a productive day testing for Alex on the track. She did like that bike of his and was in a good mood having managed not to ride it into any walls. Her index fingers tapped to some old American music coming in faintly through the speakers but she kept her hands light at 3 and 9 o’clock as nearly-black eyes flitted over her surroundings. Always searching.

A half hour through the flashing lights and cacophony that is evening traffic aboveground anywhere nowadays saw her turn the wheel and pull into the bay of her condo’s building. Security had long ago necessitated the advent of such procedures. Crime. Tsk. In her building, which had been inherited from her parents -her half Russian father specifically- it had a great security system. Recently upgraded to keep the tenants happy what with the explosion of trendy skyscrapers in the area.

You drove up to the bay, the bay door opened, into the bay you proceeded which happened to be 14’x22’x8' exactly, the bay door closed. Security measures scanned for intruders, the concierge said hello unless you opted out of personal contact, blah blah, the bay lifted you to your front door. You got out, got your crap out, locked your car...unlocked your door and you were home. Simplistic. Then, the lift stowed your car underground in the parking caddy. No nosey neighbors to deal with, no weather, no fucking media. It was great.

“Hello Nika.” Her AI offered a greeting as she entered, turning on the lights. “The door is secure.”

“Thank you, Gillian. Anyone come by to kill me today?” She emptied her pockets into a basin appeared to turn from within the wall; key, wallet. Her shoes were poked into a floor cubby that had also opened. Nom nom. Condo hungry. Mmm, shoes! Sometimes she even said it aloud.

“Not today, better luck next time.” The calming voice stated.

“Rats.” Nika stretched her shoulders and padded into the kitchen. The panels in the foyer closed.

“Hungry?”

“How ‘bout two chicken burgers, no bun and steamed mixed veggies?”

“Sure. We have that in stock. Regular settings?”

“Yup. Save that menu indefinitely under 'Boring Betty.' ” She finished washing her hands and blotted them dry on an old-fashioned hand towel. “A bottle of Waterlytes too, please.” The dark countertop parted briefly and the woman’s request rose from below like a missle from the silos of yesteryear. Nika grabbed it and drank as she walked.

Through the open living area, past a cozy library, reading nook, bathroom, guest room, other guest room, office, and workshop. She stopped and took a long pull from the bottle, eyeing the disemboweled engine floating on a mag stand. The motorbike’s carcass, looking rather empty, stood upright nearby. Mmm...maybe the pistons tonight?

“Have the oil rings arrived yet?” She’d sourced them from the US a month ago.

“They have not.”

“Too bad.” Nika continued on through the last room; her bedroom. She changed into shorts and a soft tee for bed, even though it was early.

“I have the news.” Gillian stated.

“Did anyone get nuked?”

“No.”

“Anything really weird happen?”

“Nothing significant, no.”

“Did Princess Charlotte have her baby?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t care.”

“Noted. You have 3,487 new messages.”

“Ugh. Anything flagged seven or higher?”

“MacGinty says your helmet is broken.”

“Yeah, I knew that. What adjective did he use to describe it?”

“He said it was fuh-ckt.”

Nika chortled. It was so funny making the AI curse.

“Dainese has offered you a sponsorship for the 2046-2048 seasons.”

“Ooh, really? I do like their stuff…forward that to Francesca.” Her agent, the spitfire Italian woman handled that kind of thing. Nika plopped on the couch.

“Yes, really. I do not detect a false address. Message sent. End of level seven or higher messages. Your dinner is ready.”

Nika ate at the bar, feet swinging above the polished floor. “When does the new Deadpool movie come out?”

“Deadpool: Classic Deadpool is slated for a July release.”

“Damn. How are my babies?”

“Dave is sick, he reports a malfunction in heat sensor 1. You have 1 in stock. Carl, Bob, Stuart, Kevin...” Nika let her go on for a minute, “...are all charged and report no anomalies.

“Excellent.” She recycled her dishes. “Add a mixed case of sensors and a tube of Molybdenum to the ASCazon order for delivery tomorrow.”

“Done.”

Nika washed her hands again then went back to the couch to relax. An hour into a book Gillian piped up.

“Would you like to hear a song?” It was the beginning of a coded sequence.

“What’s the song?”

“Get Back Up Again.”

“Anna Kendrick?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.”

The lights dimmed and things unseen shuttered and clicked. Gillian’s voice deepened from the sweet AI just moments before.

“You have a message from the Atherim...”

Nika put her book aside.

“Show me.”

January 2, 2046. El Borj, Morocco.

She’d been flown in from Barcelona first via a sleek Gulfstream XLT8950 not at all out of place in the Catalan’s posh playboy airport and then deployed midair aboard a Personal Evasive Warfare Pod. Which was a less dignified means for travel.

The P.E.W.P. deployment device was developed by the Americans as a top secret infiltration method for their SEAL teams back in 2025. After only two years of service the method was scrapped, due largely to an unintended consequence involving the vibrations created from subsonic deployment upon the human excretory system. SEALs called it the poop device.

The castaways were then reported decommissioned and destroyed but the designs were snatched up by none other than Sir Elon Musk. A decade further of development, redesigns, design merges and testing by SpaceX saw the initially cumbersome pod evolve into what was essentially; a human glider. No one was really sure how that happened. It turned out to be mostly useless though as one British test pilot described operating the suit akin to, “trying to crab about on all fours atop a ball of ice in the middle of the ocean.” Still the name stuck, even if the project was scrapped and Musk gifted the surplus in utter secrecy to his friend, the Pope.

PEWP was then pushed about and shuffled around until finding a home aboard jump craft, for training, although the jumpmasters used it solely to threaten the unruly. Having never seen the system successfully tested, it devolved into a mostly harmless game to gauge machismo. The idea was to see if you could use the suit to land, without deploying your parachute. This was always a failure simply because of the change in aerodynamics from not wearing the parachute model the suit was designed with initially. No one had bothered to read the instructions though to change the fin configurations to match.

Nika was fifteen the first time she deployed in one, or rather, was thrown from a Lockheed Martin MC-230J by a cantankerous Irish jump instructor. Ground control, not having registered a chute deployment, were well into grilling the priest about the accident when the deceased showed back up on the tarmac. The teenager strolled past the group stating she’d missed the landing zone and wanted to try again. Nika later admitted to Father O’Roark that she’d hit the landing zone but her knees had been shaking so badly it had taken her twenty minutes to calm down behind the jump shed. Mainly because during their heated argument on the plane, Nika had forgotten to put her parachute back on.

O’Roark credits shock to consenting to her jumping again and the third time (depending on who was counting), he asked if she was mad. The girl grinned at that and responded pointedly, she was in fact utterly terrified before cannonballing off the rear ramp. Jump four was the closest she came to an untimely demise but by the fifth jump (a month later) she had an ace up her sleeve.

Since stability seemed to be the main obstacle in deployment, Nika had the idea to wear the protective base layer she used under her racing leathers. Safety systems for riders had evolved through the years from mere surface protection and padding to airbags and finally to something the media had immediately dubbed, ‘the stiffie suit,’ and later, ‘tumbleweed.’

Riders just called them jammies and started an unofficial, if fierce, contest to see whose prints were the most ridiculous and outlandish. Cartoon bunnies, red hearts and naked cherub aside, the technical composition became a baselayer of transgenic engineered spider silk reinforced with a carbon nanotube exoskeleton. It was thin, pliable and light enough to wear under racing leathers yet designed to become rigid in the event of a crash via a small electrical charge. The onesie was so nondescript in appearance that Nika stole her first from Ducati after swapping it with a thin wetsuit. They were prohibitively expensive and at 15, she was not yet a millionaire.

Perhaps it was stubbornness, or maybe it was the respect in O’Roark’s eyes but Nika never told the priest how she was able to control the flight system. She’d never heard of anyone else using it successfully, nor could she imagine briefing people with a straight face.

...the proper deployment of your PEWP… No.

Almost a decade had passed, a couple of hacked market upgrades and some open source coding later had the assassin happy with her PEWP suit.

Currently she had developed programs to stabilize the freefall enough to pick off ground threats with her rifle d'sniper or simply scout the terrain from above without having to deploy microdrones. Those little buggers were expensive!

Scouting the area via freefall, the FLIR filters of her Heads Up Display pinpointed the Atharim hunter team’s positions at her target landing zone as well as the ambient temperature, altitude, rate of fall, etc. She’d synced a throatmic into the neck of her jammies and microwired the connections after a mishap with bluetooth connectivity last year nearly got her killed. It was via the throatmic she issued commands to her computers' systems. Can’t have that go down again. There was a touch interface on her arm too but her hands were otherwise occupied. And sure, there were ways to beat thermal imaging and things that didn’t show up but a cycle through movement sensors left her reasonably satisfied nothing nasty was lurking. If it was? Well, Geronimo!


Edited by Nika Raskov, Jan 29 2018, 04:06 AM.

Lost.

The charter to New Zealand was lost. No other ship captains would take Elias into cursed waters even if he could offer an endless bounty. None took an interest in his pleas. He was forced to seek alternate interests.

His meager contacts in the world of marine biology would not touch the subject of mythical sea monsters with a ten foot pole. Those kind of campaigns ruined careers, a wise investigator told him shortly before hanging up on him.

Tony and the crew were out of ideas. They patrolled the Moscow River for weeks and no more signs of the creature dwelling beneath the ice emerged. Elias himself walked the banks pouring his powers into the water like luring fish to bait, but his answer was silence and shivering cold.

He contemplated talking to Aria, such was his desperation. He had been told once before that monsters were real. Perhaps slaying an ancient aquatic creature would sway her people to taking him to the ocean, but given the Ascendancy's warning on the Atharim, it was best to not cross swords until safer allies could be identified.

Which was how he was led to the Antiquities and Museum of Natural History on the campus of MSU - grasping for last straws. The internet was rife with stories of monsters and discoveries of magical artifacts of late. One such far-fetched tale spun a fantastical web that most dismissed as pseudoscience and Fake News; but something about the portrait of the man involved caught Elias' eye. Something about the tale pricked his senses.

The world of antiquities he came to learn was a universe in and of itself. The shuffling of invaluable trinkets made and lost fortunes with as fierce and dangerous a trade as to rival drug routes over continents.

"Meet me in the Mythic Creatures exhibit. I won't be hard to miss,"
his message to the dealer detailed. This was his last chance. Hopefully the bait worked.

Age: 23

D.O.B: 6/26/2023

Origin: Forme, Italy

Current Location: Moscow

Height: 5’2

Weight: 105

Occupation: Assassin

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Loyalty:  Atharim


Psychological description

Nika remembers life before the murder of her parents; those memories and feelings of love and inclusion are hers alone.  She does not share them.  Nor does she seek them out for fear of having what she loves ripped from her life once more.  As Atharim operatives her parents taught lessons of right and wrong; good and evil.  At age seven she experienced what those then abstract concepts meant in the rudest of ways.  The destruction of her world reinforced within the girl an unparalleled work ethic...toward the eradication of the channeler menace.  Her parents had also taught the value of practice and study; for this was the key to their own successes.  

The Atharim took over her care and initially she lived within Vatican City, her schooling and training began with other children.  Nika recognized the value of the lessons taught in direct correlation to what she’d experienced.  She was a studious and model student, obsessing over each aspect of her training until it was mastered to her satisfaction.  However, Nika was found to be too intense.  She never played or seemed to have fun like the other children.  In her physical training she did not hold back regardless of the opponent or odds.  There was no balance.    

A neutral group of priests took over her tutelage and removed the girl from the Vatican.  They started her once more in the sport she’d once loved.  Using it as a method of focus and an outlet, this they believe, turned her away from the path of destruction.  Through the years she has excelled in both ventures; promoted through racing ranks as well as the Atharim early on.  She was the youngest full factory rider at the premier level of motorcycling as well as the youngest member on many hunting teams.  While the press calls her a darling-demon, whispers within the Atharim name her soulless.  Had the zealots taken notice?

The Atharim have tested her countless times for serious psychological defects after questionable, if debatable, moral decisions in the field. Nika has no qualms about killing women and children. The channelers who murdered her parents were going to kill her too, regardless of the fact she was a child. They set the bar that day, not her. Some members of the Order maintain she’s insane. Some praise her dedication. More attack teams refuse to work with her despite her skill, letting rumors steer them. Nika has become the one they call for the delicate tasks no one else will touch.

This is fine by her.
 

Physical description

A professional motorcycle racer by day, Nika is as physically fit as any rider at the top level.  At 5’2 and 105 pounds, she’s not busty or curvy but can cut an attractive figure when dressed appropriately.  Her dark hair is kept buzzed short.  Nearly-black eyes rarely soften in their intensity.  The young woman’s dimpled smile though, if you can earn it, is worth the wait.  In the public eye, she’s the humble rider; not generally showy or cocky but will defend her record with facts if pushed.  She lets her on-track actions speak for her.  Her bearing is confident despite scars from racing and her other vocation.

When on assignment, she uses guile and subterfuge as she’s easily overlooked when posing as a child, beggar or other destitute. A shaved head makes wearing a wig all too easy and she also conceals her identity from fellow Atharim.  As her talent was recognized at a young age she was groomed to be an Asset.  No file exists to tie her to the Atharim.  She is not marked by the Ouroboros; a fact lost perhaps with the death of her second handler.  Few still alive know her code name.  Fewer still know who she is. She is a ghost.

Biography

Summers were always for family, her father often said.  It was July of 2029...right after her birthday.

She was exiting the motorhome, bag in hand, when the screaming started.  It was her mother but Nika didn’t know it at the time.  Shrill and drawn out in the same tone; it sounded like a tea kettle.  The girl turned, flipping her long, wavy black hair over her shoulder and clomped up two steps to check the stove inside.  No one had made tea since Sunday morning at the race track though, so her young features scrunched together and a mischievous brow arched the exact same way her father’s did when he was perplexed. Her mother always had a wry comment about that when it happened.  The girl hurriedly kicked off her shoes; mom said nothing but God’s feet were allowed on her carpet then had gotten a good laugh out of her husband’s suggestive remark about now being a god.  Nika hadn’t understood what that conversation ended up really being about although.  Sometimes her parents spoke a different language, even if the words were all familiar.  Grownups!

There was a trophy on the bench.  It was golden and shaped like a great urn.  Of course it wasn’t REAL gold; she’d asked the man who’d presented it to her.  He’d laughed and said she could win one of those when she was older and racing for the great Italian teams.  Her shrugged acceptance and thoughtful expression had made the man laugh even more.  This was her first win in the upper division and her father was so proud.  He’d been a motorcycle racer too, before she was born, and a famous one at that.  His trophies lined their expansive basement along with checkered flags, banners and other racing memorabilia.  Marchello Raskov, Factory Ducati.  Sometimes he’d take her on rides through the mountains on the back of one of his bikes.  She loved that more than anything.  Well almost.  Nika also loved her mother’s passion: shooting.  Lea Raskov was the reigning Olympic gold medalist although the girl couldn’t ever get the events right.  Long rifle and pistol? She knew it wasn’t the air events…  While they had a range, also in the basement, mostly the girls shot outside.  Dinner was often what they had hunted that day.  Nika was not as interested in cooking the meals but was allowed to scamper down to the garage once their kills were dressed properly.  

The girl hugged her trophy before placing it back on the bench.  “I will win you many friends, as many as Papa has!”  A dimpled grin sealed the promise and with a skip she was off to the galley.

Nothing was on the stove.  The tea kettle was sitting on the counter, cold as can be.  This drew a frown.  What was whistling?  Wait, it stopped.  Or had it.  Was it outside?  She tried to remember if the noise had muted when she came inside.  The girl squinted and tilted her head.  It had started again.  Hmm.  

She slipped her shoes on, folding the heel in on one.  That drove her nuts!  The girl bent over and stuck a finger in the shoe to right that wrong only to be rewarded with a nail tear.  The shoe was fixed though and so the child continued down the steps, unaware she’d stepped on a shoelace and pulled it loose.  Really? Her nails were too short to tear. An examination proved otherwise and she nibbled at the offending digit while scooping up her mother’s heavy purse, which was why she’d come back to the motorhome in the first place.  

The family had just returned from an epic month-long holiday which had included the beach, her last race of the season and, a trip to The Vatican.  For two weeks.  They’d done so much there too.  There was a huge library and her mom took her to a range where she’d met a lot of priests…

So they were on their way to go eat dinner because there wasn’t any food in the house.  Her dad had backed the motorhome into its garage behind the house but her mom had forgotten her purse.  Anyway, her parents were waiting in the car...what was that noise?  If it was the car, it was what her father would say was an ‘expensive sound.’  The girl rounded the terrace, clomping on the terracotta drive.  Natural break gone, the noise came suddenly.

It was her mother.  Lea was screaming her husband’s name.  She was in the car which was pushed back off the drive, a trail of debris strewn forth like Porsche breadcrumbs.  The entire driver’s cockpit was...gone.  Scooped like a giant jagged hand had torn it free.

The girl jerked forward after staring incomprehensibly and kicked something just as something else moved in her periphery.  Dark eyes found her father sitting on the ground, looking stunned.  Marchello was reaching toward her, mouth moving soundlessly.

‘Papa?’ she was as confused as he appeared to be.  Nika looked down to see what she’d kicked.  It was a leg.  Her father’s leg.  The world morphed into shades of black, gray and white. Her brow furrowed.  She picked up the limb, gently, and ran through air that seemed to thicken at each successive step.  The knees of her jeans tore on rough stone as she slid next to her father but the girl did not feel it.  The leg.  She did not see the blood.  The leg was warm.  She was still grasping her mother’s purse.  Her mother always had a scarf…  Marchello was pointing again though his arm had dropped to his lap.  ‘Papa…’  She didn’t know what to do.  Nika clawed through the bag; her mother kept everything in there.  Everything to fix anything.  Her father was pointing still, mouth moving soundlessly.  She heard him in her mind, what he’d told her on a walk through the Vatican’s many halls.  

“There are bad men in the world...bad things.”  

It was as if she could feel the comfort of his arm on her shoulder now.

“Bad men?”  She’d looked up into his somber face questioningly.

“Yes, very bad.”  He smiled a smile she’d never seen before.  “But your mother and I, we fight these bad men; the monsters.”

“Monsters.”  She drew a breath in through her nose and frowned at the floor before turning a fierce gaze upward.  “Then I will fight them too.”

He smiled.  

Her father fell back against the drive.  Color returned to the girl’s world.  A shadow grew from her left; oblong at first, then widening into shoulders, a torso.  Footsteps penetrated her fog, dull like a Vibram-treaded boot.  

The girl turned her head slowly.  There was a man six feet away, far enough to avoid the expanding crimson pool.  His expression was haughty as arrogance poured off in waves.  He rolled his head over his shoulder, looking toward the car.  “Kid just brought her daddy his fecking leg, like he was gonna mend that?  Hilarious!”

Another figure was near the car.  Then the car was suddenly on fire.  Lea screamed from within.  The second man chuckled and stepped away from the heat.  

“Little Atharim turn into big Atharim.  Kill her.”

The shadow man turned his head back toward the girl.

In the purse her hand closed around the grip of her mother’s pistol, as if ordained.  The man stepped toward her, leaned forward and reached out with a clawed hand.  Time slowed impossibly again but in this moment, the girl felt unaffected.  Nika withdrew the weapon, clicked off the safety, doubled her grip...aimed and squeezed the trigger.  

She was in the woods behind their house.  It was cold and they were hunting rabbit.  Rabbit should only be hunted in the winter because of parasites, her mom taught her.  ‘Aim for the eye,’ she said, ‘it’s more humane.’  “I thought you said, aim small, miss small!”  Her mom laughed.  ‘Yes, I said that too.’

Still grinning, the man’s head haloed a fine mist of pink...as well as varying sized chunks of similar hue, stark white bits of bone...  Unfortunately her attacker had been leaning forward at the time of his death, weight shifted also forward, so he fell forward.  A grown man’s dead weight eclipsed the seven-year-old and pinned her to the ground.

The Fire-man advanced.

Her mother was screaming still.  Awful, raw screams of agonizing pain.  Later Nika would recognize her own name.  The sound would wake her in the night.

Leather-soled footfalls echoed in the courtyard.  Terror shook her.  She’d dropped the gun.  She was pinned.  The girl screamed animal-like and managed to wrench free her forearm.  A small hand patted through the tinny wetness beside her, her father’s blood.  

The footfalls echoed closer.  He was yelling something.

A small hand pushed at the cold .380.  It slid.  She clawed at it desperately…

An indescribable heat enveloped her, choking away the oxygen.  She couldn’t scream but wanted to.  Another long shadow grew, bobbing.  Menacing.  Her arm and hand were hot.  She had the gun.  Fired blindly.  The first round blew into the corpse’s hip.  The second passed harmlessly through the oncoming channeler’s pant leg.  The third, his thigh.  Nika heard him roar, barely glimpsed his stagger around her meat-blanket.  That was enough.  She willed her hand steady and emptied the magazine.  

Lea had stopped screaming.  The roar of intense fire filled the backdrop.

The man was making terrible noises.

Air came in greedy gulps.  The weight atop her leaked warm blood into her hair, down her face and neck.  Into her ear.  Her back was slick with it too.  A metallic, earthy odor.  The girl couldn’t move.  Nika sobbed around screams.  Inhuman wailing drowned out all else until, hoarse, she could scream no more.  Then there was only the black.

So Mikhail walked. So fucking bored. No fun anywhere. Pretty much pissed him off too. Guess he should move. His shtick was up here. Not that these assholes had more than two brains between all 37 of them. Somehow they had finally figured out he was behind all the crazy shit that happened around the neighborhood.

So suddenly everyone was walking wide of him and being all nice and god he just wanted to.poke someone in the eye to see an honest reaction. Ehh....but he didn't, not really. Didn't seem right to blind someone on a whim. Not unless it was funny, anyway- and they deserved it.

So....he's walkin down one fucking street or another and realizing that he has nothing to do. Fucking Ascendancy. Outing a bunch of people who weren't doin more than having a little fun. Guy deserved payback for that. He kinda wondered if he ever could get close to the guy. He smiled at the idea.

Prick would all be watchin for assassins from governments or higher ups. Not some rando who just thought it would be funny to smack the guy on the back of his head.

Actually, he laughed at the idea. Douche's hair all perfect and manicured and shellacked or whatever and then SMACK!!! HAHAHAHAHA! Cowlick all stickin up and he's lookin around wondering what the hell just happened and Mikhail is lookin all innocent and no power cuz he was so very quick and the asshole-supreme-holy-kiss-his-ass ruler of the world would have to find a stylist cuz he looked like a doofus.

God, he would about die laughing if he could pull that off. Talk about a dick who took everything far too seriously. Ruining it for all honest folks like himself.

Anyway, so he's walkin along, bored enough to set something on fire or see if he can get the Mordvinovs and Kolomovs fighting again when finally (thank you universe for some fun, finally) some asshole pricks are picking on some old lady.

He's no superman. There's no fun in being predictable. Or being at someone's beck and call. But these fuckwads beg for it. And he can be a hero too, when he wants too....well or when it would make it funnier.

He flips his lighter and siezes the power and his eyes flare and the street lights up. And suddenly its like he can feel them.

Melted clothes later and they are running. Well, trying to. Melted clothes really fucking hurt. Get into skin. But hey, his motto that he invented just right then and there is "don't wanna get melted? Don't try to rob old ladies." It's a good one, if he didn't say so himself. Everyone should live by it. He is wise, after all.

He laughed at himself. Dick! And on a whim (hey, he's being a hero, now, what do you expect?) helped her scoop up her groceries, stuff like apples and....what was that? Yuck. Sardines? Not even if he was starving.

Old people....

Well not old, now that he was closer. Not really. Maybe 10 or 15 years older. She just had that slow tired way of walking. Weary with life or whatever. And she looked tired. Rode hard or whatever.

Yeah, he didn't mind helping out. Even put a smile on just for her.
Edited by Mikhail, Jan 28 2018, 12:14 AM.

Jet Terrones Walks Away from Red Hot Blues

<small>Article by Gerrianne Taylor</small>

Few artists in the height of popularity can simply walk away. But true to form, Jet Terrones surprised everyone at Wednesday night’s US Choice Music Awards ceremony by announcing his departure from the industry. With an uncharacteristic humility, thanking everyone who helped “get him where he was,” he said that like “an athlete dying young” he was leaving Red Hot Blues at the pinnacle of success. His decision to leave the group he helped to form 10 years before, and to leave the music industry completely was to “pursue private endeavors.” When later asked in a press conference if he could elaborate he just smiled and responded, “Well, if I told you it wouldn’t be private now, would it?”

It was long thought that his oft chanted threat to quit the music industry if he ever felt he could no longer contribute in a meaningful way - that he would walk away and never look back - was just to draw attention and keep public interest and just an ongoing publicity stunt. It appears today, it was no empty threat.

The mystery surrounding this announcement has all the Swags gossiping. This reporter has heard several rumors, but is not ready to venture an opinion one way or another regarding their veracity.

When Jet’s twin sister, the much loved and respected midnight luna-evangelist Melany Torrones was asked to comment, she said she didn’t have much to do with her brother since he turned to “that evil music.” She cared about his eternal soul, and hoped that his stepping away was a sign that he was coming closer to the goddess.

When asked if there was any hope that he was making any moves to reconcile with his sister, Jet snorted and wiping his eyes, refused to comment.

Jet has been sighted several times in the last three months in the company of his cousin, Beto Trujillo, renowned Justice Department attorney and Fordham University alumni. Something is in the works, but right now, like usually with this master of evasion, nobody knows exactly what’s up.
Edited by Jet, Jan 26 2018, 11:04 PM.