Captain Akari Miyakawa, United States Navy (Ret.)

Age: 38
D.O.B: 12/19/2007
Origin: Various U.S. military bases around the globe
Current Location:  Moscow
Height: 6’0
Weight: 145
Occupation:  Private Sector Security Specialist.  Inquisitor, Atharim.
Reborn God: No
Power: None
Ability: None
Alignment: Neutral Good
Loyalty: Atharim

Psychological description

Akari would be a paladin if she weren’t so hellbent on hunting down warlords and terrorists.  Nothing raises her hackles more than injustice or a bully.  From a very young age she learned that sometimes the only way to fix something was to blow it up. 
   
Physical description

Tall, athletic, brilliant blue-green eyes.  She has the kind of effortless beauty that could have done well modeling or shooting up the big screens as an action star. 
 
Biography

Akari grew up on US military bases all around the world.  She was a smart kid and more in tune with how the world really was as she lived closer to it than most Americans.  Seeing and hearing things at home, on and off base opened her eyes and mind to create an intense need to make a difference somehow.  Of course being the adopted child of Marines, her way of doing so had a little less fluff and a bit more teeth.  Her dads were both jarheads which meant she caused quite the ruckus when she declared her intent to join the Navy.  

A gifted student-athlete, she was a four-time All-American for the U.S. Naval Academy women’s soccer team and graduated with distinction.  Akari then went on to complete BUD/S and having proven herself particularly adept at REDACTED, REDACTED and REDACTED found herself assigned to SEAL Team 3.     

A year in brought a promotion to the fairest SEAL Team of them all.  Chaos in the world saw no shortage of deployments and life among the shooters was cloud nine for Miyakawa.  She had a fulfilling career righting the wrongs in the world, kicking ass and taking names.  Sure there were some gray areas but it was pretty straightforward for the most part.  By 30 she had a couple of rows of medals, a respectable rank and a command of her own.  Operations had seen more and more time spent on the African continent; which was where she first encountered the gods themselves.  Well a god.

Involved in a nasty helicopter crash, Akari was the sole survivor of what had been a team of eight...plus two Navy pilots.  She was rescued by a local tribe, Healed of her injuries and later returned to base under her own power.  Her eyes had been opened to the extraordinary though and slowly her priorities shifted as the tribe had hinted at a world beyond her knowledge.  She had to know what was out there.  

Akari retired a full Captain six months after the crash and found her way back to the tribe.  There she learned what went bump in the night and who fought off the monsters.  Ultimately her search for answers brought her to Europe and it was there she was recruited by the Atharim.  Learning, fighting, teaching. 

The initial positive encounter with a channeler would shape her views even after accepting a promotion from Trainer to Inquisitor within the Atharim.  On the subject of the gods her standpoint would differ greatly from the accepted party line and would lead to a massive fallout with a certain pupil of hers.  That would be a story for later.  

Her specialized skill set saw her partner with a small but tight knit group of fellow SpecOps soldiers to form a global security firm called Warder International Incorporated.  A proper day-job.  Though small in numbers, Warder boasts a very respectable and successful reputation within the top-tier of the industry; top dollar for top talent because you get what you pay for.  Now the former Navy SEAL can be hired for any number of roles; consultant, trainer...bodyguard.

The light hit the water like smooth glass, the drifting current sluggish as a dream. Proximity to such tangible beauty in the city's heart was half the reason she'd bought the apartment at Bazhenov Square. Ancient trees clustered across seven-hundred acres, and grass chased the glorious curve of the Moskva river over five kilometres, her most cherished place in Moscow.  

A cacophony of detritus surrounded her. Haphazard piles of books weighted down the edges of the blanket, interspersed with pencils and curled sketch paper. Distractions came upon her easy. Bare feet sank into the grass beyond, toes pressed into dirt still faintly moist from last night's rain. Her brows drew low over the book across her thighs, hair alight in the breeze like some fey wild thing.

Beside her Aylin stared out over the water, face drawn. Shadows whispered beneath her eyes, the cap of her dark hair pulled back severe. One of Thalia's sketchbooks lay splayed on her lap, crammed with pencil drawings of wolves, a regular interloper to her obsessive scribblings since Calvin. 

"Where do you even find this stuff, Thal?" 

"You mean the books?" She tipped a shoulder, aware but unrepentant for the archaic comforts of vellum and dust. It had been strange to step back into her apartment after all this time in order to liberate this small sample, like entering into the cool halls of a mausoleum, but stranger still to discover nothing stirred in her chest. It seemed the fear washed out with the understanding of what she was; a wrinkle smoothed out, a new page turned.  

"I mean the..." Aylin sighed, abandoned the words.

"It's near the end."

Aylin dutifully flipped through, wolves running across the paper like something alive, until the marks became disjointed and jagged; great swathes of angry black. Compulsive need blooded out the image, snapping the lead in several pencils while the grip of mania burned enough to feel like a starburst in her chest, right until the last line faded. The figure's robes whispered ethereal, the ghostly tendrils of her hair floating about a face carved in pain. 

Thalia waited for the silence to thicken, skipping through the pages of her own book in distraction before she admitted, a little too blithely.  "Drawing that felt like it did with Yana."

Grey eyes belied the casual confession by bouncing up to meet her sister's pinched gaze almost immediately. This was a history they had never spoken of, not really, though it had saved Thalia's life. An anomalous blip in the path of ordinary, but at the time too ugly a thing to confront. She'd shied back every time it had happened since; faces etched by her frantic hand confronting her on the street, flesh and blood and impossibly living. Like the face of the woman who purged the Sickness from her blood, made eternal in the lines of ink on her back. 

Aylin's faint frown connected the dots. "But this isn't a person." 

Thalia's brows rose. Her head tilted, spilling hair all over the pages of her book. "Well yes, that's kind of the point." Her toes dug a little harder into the earth, like she could root herself there. A queasy feeling floated in her stomach, as if her insides were tangled by riverweed, though despite herself there was a glow of curiosity too, like she had found an unlocked door and was finally ready to explore what puzzles lay beyond. 

Aylin's eyes only closed, palms at her cheeks, massaging her temples. Her fingers raked hard over her head. Thalia was well acquainted with the snare of nightmare, though neither of them understood what had cracked Aylin so terribly, or so thoroughly. Days had passed since she'd last been able to force herself into work (and she wasn't the only one), the nights so full of terror the sheets soaked and twisted to ruin each morning.

Perhaps Thalia's continued oddness was a weight too heavy for her stoical sister. Perhaps the suggestion of more curious other in a world that had previously been all neat, straight lines was a burden too far. Though who else was Thalia supposed to share it with? She blinked down at the image in her lap; a small grizzled creature poised on the chest of a sleeping woman, arms splayed as though in death. Something tugged her attention before the thought sped along with the current, though she lifted the book anyway, propping it under her chin to display the morbid picture. Her gaze sparked mischief. 

"It's called a nightmare."

A weary laugh spilled despite the paleness of Aylin's face. "Don't be silly. Gosh, Thalia, that's horrible!" 

She grinned. "So apparently these days I'm magical, Lin. If you can believe that, why can't you believe in gangly little creatures that perch on your chest while you sleep?" She was mostly joking, but Aylin's face only blanched at the poor taste, and her gaze snapped back out to the river like she might find solace amongst its waves. Something protective curled in Thalia's chest, the book falling back to her lap. The impish creature stared right out of the page before she snapped it shut.

[[Precursor to Distinendae]]

There was lots of research yet to do but the Vega estate was something that he could do in his spare time.  The place was huge.  The neighbors were far apart.  So even when there was a disturbance there was little to know action taken.  Cops were rerouted on several occassions.  Or no one really could see the reports that were file.  Something was going on inside this house.  And Jerry had every intention of finding out.  

He spoke with the neighbors.  Knocking on the door to the one across the street.  They couldn't see anything, but maybe they knew what the Vegas were up to.  A man in a suit answered the door.  He didn't look like he owned the place - a servant.  What it must be like to have that sort of money. "I'm sorry to bother you.  I was hoping you could tell me if the Vega's across the street were home.  I can't seem to get anyone to answer the door."

The man looked at him and then across the street.  "Ever since they erected those walls there has been a lot of disturbing things coming from their yards. But you didn't hear me tell you that."

Jerry nodded.  "Of course not.  Do you know when they might be home?"

"She's always there with their man.  But the cop and the boys that are all there come and go.  I have no idea."

"Thanks."  Jerry said.  "I guess I'll try again later."

As Jerry walked back down the path he'd taken he thought she could only be Vega's wife.  In order to get inside he might need to figure her out.   But first he got back into his car he'd parked near by and waited to see if to their movements.  How long had the archangels waited?  He wondered.

Name: Gerald “Jerry”Schneider Jr.

Age: 25 (2046)

Occupation: Atharim inquisitor

Origin: Munich, Germany

Description: Short chestnut colored hair short on the sides and longer on the top. His eyes are the dark pools, almost black you can barely see the pupil. He sports a well manicured beard and rarely shaves it all off. Jerry is trendy but not rich. He likes to blend in so his clothes are in style, but not flashy. He has a simple red snake eating it’s own tail on his left forearm. Nothing flashy and can be hidden by the sleeves of a nice shirt. For being an Atharim his body is relatively scar free - except for the appendix he had removed at a very young age.[http://nextluxury.com/wp-content/uploads...-ideas.jpg] 

Personality: Jerry doesn’t like to be center stage. He’s very keen on remaining in the shadows. He’s very good at his job. He’s a black belt in Taewando and he’s an expert marksman. Jerry has a fondness for homemade poisons and serums, his kitchen is well stocked but not in the traditional food making preparations. He sucks at cooking, ironically.

Reborn God: Shu (Egyptian)

Experience: New/Hasn’t sparked yet

Current: When sparks 13

Potential: 30

Biography

Jerry was born Gerald Schneider but he refuses to answer to the archaic name and only answers to Jerry or Jer to spite his father’s name. It also keeps him and his father separated. Born into the world of the Atharim, Jerry’s ancestors for all recorded time - at least as far as the Schneider legacy goes have been Atharim. They have their own legends. Their great great … a billion times over grandfather was one of the first men on earth to defy the gods. Their lives were anything but ordinary. But as with all myths and legends the truth gets lost and only those words remain to be distorted into lies and falsehoods.

Jerry remembered the first time he saw an Oni, he was just a wee lad somewhere in the mountains of what used to be Russia. His father had him out with a shot gun and they were hunting the scaled bear that was threatening a local village. The thing was huge when they ran across it. Jerry’s gun did little damage to it. But his father knew better and he took the thing down with a carefully placed shot to the eye. It was a glorious day. His father wasn’t like most Atharim, he actually wanted to know how things ticked. So that was his first lesson in Oni anatomy and also what the uses of their blood, liver and heart were good for. Not to mention their skin made a good armored skin, if treated properly. But the thought of wearing something so gross turned Jerry’s stomach despite his father’s teachings - Jerry never used it.

Oni weren’t the only ones who had special properties. Dreyken were specifically sought after as were Dranakia if you could actually kill them. That foresight was a bitch!

But that was his childhood - learning how to fight - how to kill - how to use the beasties to hunt the beasties. That was how his father taught him and even in these modern days they used these tactics and it would be Jerry’s job to sire an offspring and pass that knowledge down. Despite his mighty sowing of seeds - which is what his father thought he was doing in Moscow - Jerry wasn’t sure that was ever going to happen. Kids got in the way of work. And work was important.

His father was still out in the breakneck woods of the world doing the hunting thing. While Jerry turned his sights to another direction. The poisons and the serums he was taught to make proven useful and despite his best efforts Jerry got himself noticed. 

Moscow was a great place to hunt monsters - the undercity below provided more than enough samples to keep Jerry’s experiments going. That’s what Martin Borovsky had called them. He hadn’t believed in them at first, but once the man had seen them in action he’d shown a keen interest in him. The attention was discreet, however and Martin pushed him into a direction he never thought he’d go. Hunting traitors inside the Atharim. 

It was the inquisitor’s job to ferret out those who would betray them. His poisons and serums made quick work of that. But in order to keep doing his job he had to keep hunting. So Jerry never took on more responsibility. He was merely just the go to boy for the truth. He could have done the leg work himself. And he did on occasion when he wanted more of a challenge. Because even though Jerry liked to stay hidden, he was still ambitious. He wanted to challenge himself. Find the best poison to kill a man with the least amount of materials. He wanted to better himself, not find fame and glory. That was what the gods did. They were men who were worshiped - and Jerry was never going to be one of those false gods - worshiped for a power that could destroy them. Even if that power was man made and given out of his own merit. Power was corruptible in all forms.

But the world was changing. The Ascendancy is his all mighty power declared gods real. Proclaiming himself the first and proving it with a grandiose display of power even as the Atharim Moscow Headquarters burnt to the ground. So much had happened. And then in all the chaos the perfect challenge presented itself. A monster and an Atharim. The biggest challenge. And yet, those that had gone after him two had died. Idiots at best from the reports presented. But Jerry wasn’t an idiot. He was an inquisitor of the Atharim, trained in a family legacy - what better way to test his own mettle. And Martin Borovksy while a great man had failed in their mission. His life taken from them and the Regus with him. Though there were reports of his survival after the attack on the Ascendancy, but with HQ gone, no news was bad news. 

There had only been a few days since the declaration of the new Regus. The morning was minimal without going to the Vatican, but the rumors were that things were changing even more so than the world outside. The Atharim were falling apart. 

There was nothing for Jerry to do, but to find the traitor and make him pay but not before giving up all that he knows and any who would see him out. Jerry stared at the screen of the man - the reborn god and traitor. This Nox Durante would die if not by his hand by someone else’s he was sure of that.

Sooooooooo... I used to draw quite a bit... Kinda fell out of doing it for a while, but I'm trying to hop back on the horse.

What better way than to illustrate scenes from our stories!?

The current Cabaret and Candy scene has been quite interesting, so I pulled a little inspiration from that.


Left to Right: @"Jaxen Marveet" (being a cheeky little devil), @"Aiden Finnegan" (giggling over Nox's beer), @"Sage" (pointing out what a great time Nox is having) and @"Nox" (rolling his eyes at these three idiots)

Might color it? Might not. We'll see how I feel later

OH! And I'll probably be drawing more scenes or characters. Any suggestions? I'm very rusty, so I'm sticking to an Anime style to make things easier on myself lol... Not to mention FA would make an amazing Anime :3

The house locked up, Tristan doused the lights. It still felt odd to not call for Siggi to come to bed. Just as it felt odd to crawl under blankets without her for company. Mourning was an odd conflict within, though. Sadness stretched out like shadows, but not despair. Her life was full. A happy dog. Playful to the end. Ornery to the end. But it was still too soon to think about finding a new pup. Too soon...

He dreamed of birds squawking on cliffs. Walking on summer-green grass. Of burning kettles overflowing in the kitchen. Random and odd things that made no sense when put together. Eventually, sleep deepened with the midnight. And the dream changed.

Running. Always running. A river streamed alongside. Disappearing over the edge of nothingness. A great cliff. The edge that rushed nearer and nearer. He lept with full speed, body bulging with blood and exertion, but it was the ground below that moved up to his feet.

He came to rest at the bottom of a waterfall. It’s gray misty wetness curled droplets in his beard and tickled his nose like he had a cold. He swiped at his face with a sleeve, pulled a hood up from damp shoulders. Water roared his ears. Stop running and you will be found.

So he stopped, turned in a circle, and blinked at what was waiting.

Tristan couldn’t believe his eyes. “Siggi?” Black and white fur and a thick, heavy tail. Its body was the size of a bear. Ears folded forward, only to flicker in irritation for Tristan’s question.

It lifted from the water side. Gulping down the water with great laps of its tongue. The water dripped down the thickness of its throat, but animal was unconcerned.

It looked at him and shook its head no, then went back to its drink.
A thought came to him, one of a smaller animal jumping and rolling at his feet. Another stepped near, great massive paws the size of the firsts’ head. I am no dog. A thought followed, but it wasn’t a defensive retort.

Tristan licked his lips. His heart pound in his chest, muscles tense as hewn logs. The animal licked its own lips contentedly and sat back on its haunches to look at him. Somehow, Tristan got the sense that the animal thought he was an idiot.

“You’re a wolf.” He spoke. The animal yawned, and Tristan blinked. The reaction was not what he expected.
“But there are no wolves in Iceland.” He said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The animal snorted and started to walk away.

The westfjords were draped with the heavy blanket of night as a young man pushed his way upslope. The snow made for a white carpet, but the path was already packed down by other feet previously trod. Lights glowed from the house ahead, nestled against the rocks of a steep cliff behind. Tristan adjusted the pack on his shoulders and willed the strength in his legs to hold a little while longer. It was a long walk from where the vehicle dropped him off in yonder village, and while horses could navigate the narrow paths, vehicles could not.

As he neared the tiny building, barking preceded the opening of its portal.  The silhouette of a man appeared within, and leaping from around his legs, a hulky dog bound outside, racing to Tristan and sniffing happily at his knees. The man himself followed, stomping down the path and grumbling to himself about the hour. He snagged Tristan’s pack with one massive paw of a hand, tossed it upon his own shoulders and mumbled a greeting.
“Boy, you’ll be the death of me.” Úlfar’s gruff voice growled. Tristan smiled at the dark and followed Úlfar to the house.

Warmth immediately pooled water underfoot as he entered. Tristan left boots and outerwear near the stove and sealed them both within. His things were dumped at the foot of a sofa. He turned in a circle to take it in.
Everything was just as he remembered it. His smile grew bigger. He’d thought about this day for a year, finally working up the nerve to abandon everything in Reykjavík and come home. The city squeezed his soul. In the westfjords, he was free.

“Here,” Úlfar thrust a mug into trembling hands. Tristan greedily guzzled the warm liquid. Socks padded quietly to the sofa. The rug underfoot was warmed by a nearby stove. Úlfar strolled lazily behind. Siggi, his beautifully furry black and white malamute, circled and ultimately laid herself at Tristan’s feet. She’d recognized Tristan scent before the door even opened.

“Thanks,” he swiped his sleeve along his mouth. Cheeks frozen by snow, his sleeve came away wet. Beards weren’t allowed by the strict rules of the boarding house. Tristan couldn’t wait to let his fill in like his grandfather’s epic growth.

Úlfar grunted as he sank into a rocker. The two silently measured one another meanwhile. The creak of the chair the only sound between them. Except maybe for the thudding of Siggi’s tail happily wagging against his leg. Tristan couldn’t help but smile. The old hound (Úlfar; not Siggi, she was barely grown) was as unimpressed as ever. Better yet, he looked exactly the same. It’d been near a year this time, but it was like the man barely aged. Or perhaps was frozen permanently in his late 60’s. Gray wove through his ashen hair much like the white in Siggi’s fur.

“What are you doing here, boy? Aren’t you suppos’t to be in school?”

A tightness gripped his chest as Tristan stammered his best answer. “Grandfather, I-“

“That bad, eh?” Úlfar interrupted, scraggly hair wagging in the motion. He rubbed at the curl of his beard, sharp eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits.
A moment later, he took to his feet. Still seated, Tristan felt diminutive beneath the looming hulk of his grandfather’s shadow. “You know your way around. Douse the lights before you sleep. See you in the morning. Come Siggi.” The dog looked up curiously, but when he made no motion to follow after his master, Úlfar disappeared to the bedroom unaccompanied. Tristan was left to sleep on the couch.

A long exhale escaped; one he hadn’t realized was bound so painfully in his chest until just then. The sudden relief loosened the bindings collared around his heart. He’d feared terribly for his grandfather’s angry response. The man had a foul temper, though thankfully had never turned it against Tristan. Mostly, anyway.

Exhausted from the long day’s travel, Tristan collapsed onto the sofa without so much as changing clothes. For the first time in months, the rest that followed was peaceful. His dreams of late had been wracked with tormented running. Something chasing him that he could never quite glimpse.

Dorian and Cruz had a long discussion just the two of them.  While Cruz had slipped away to the men's room Dorian shot Yun a message.  'Believe to be dispatched - unconfirmed'.

But it wasn't his job to confirm it.  He was just the mediator between Jens Abt and his demise.  The beasties were to take care of it.  Yun's response was almost instantaneous.  'Confirmation to follow.  Welcome back detective.'

That night Dorian chewed Nox out for letting Cruz go into the tunnels alone.  The boy hadn't been told and Dorian's wrath at letting his son find him, save him wasn't tempered by the former Atharim's attitude.  The funny thing was Nox said he'd leave if that was what Dorian wanted.  He was obviously failing his only job.  Which only made Dorian think, because Cruz was not just a kid anymore, he'd come into the tunnels, fully aware he might die.  His son saved him.  While he didn't congratulate the boy, he had reassured him that his presence was welcome in the house and his 'job' as it were was safely intact.  

The next morning came and went with the same drama as at home.  The captain made sure to debrief him.  Dorian didn't lie.  He told him he'd been taken against his will.  And he only escaped because of his adventure in the tunnels.  Which Dorian went into a long debriefing about that leaving out the bits about Abt and Cruz saving him.  That was for them to find out later.  Dorian still had to send Nox down into the tunnels to find the body.  Yun hadn't reported back yet either.

Dorian was officially on the books for looking into Vaia Plus's missing scientist.  Alistair Pavlo - which was the man Cruz had flambeed and he'd shot in the head.  Praying to fucking god it stayed dead.  A channeling monster - that was scary.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Dorian made it back to his own desk.  There were two notes.  One from the good doctor and the other from IA.

Dorian read the first.  'Detective Vega, the informal investigation for your association with the Atharim has come to a satisfactory conclusion.  Your position and responsibilities remain unchanged.'

That was from Yun's people.  IA was done with him and that was all that mattered.  He wasn't a cop on the take, or corrupted by the bad guys - at least not because of the Atharim.  Yun was a different story.  She had him hook line and sinker if she kept his family safe.  Dorian sighed to himself, he still needed to send Nox to Yun.  So many things to do now that he was playing so many sides.

But it was Alex's note that made him interested in the office politicking.  'Officer Lih and Costa had a run in with some cannibalistic 'monsters'.  Lih has questions maybe you can answer for him.  Pass along as much information as you can, you aren't going to be around forever.'

So Dr. Pirozzi wanted him to make a baby Atharim cop... It was an interesting thought, though Dorian was hardly the one to teach the lad anything about monsters.  But it was a start.  Dorian wondered if Ivan was interested - he'd also seen his fair share of monsters - though he didn't exactly get along well with their methods... Dorian wondered if Lih was going to be as judgmental.  

Dorian put on a smile as he headed for the new domovoi rookies.  "Officer Lih?" Dorian offered his hand to the pale man.  Dorian bet he had an interesting story to tell too. "Dorian Vega.  Dr. Pirozzi told me you had some questions about the case that got you this lovely demotion."  He grinned at the bomb-shelter like accommodations that was Domovoi.  It wasn't anything fancy, but they did have the best toys!

The team drove up to the Netherlands early Friday morning in a two vehicle caravan. The two RVs led for the most part, their drivers playing with each other a bit on the road between hyperloop exchanges to stay awake. That in and of itself was a bit crazy as both were also hauling big trailers stuffed with tools, gear and the bikes. Everyone else in Nika’s RV was asleep in their bunks despite the trip only taking two-ish hours mostly via the ‘loop, so the woman rode shotgun and poured over her track book.

The racer was silent for the journey while the mechanic driving, Tomas, had chatted incessantly. He did this with everyone until they told him to shut up but Nika listened out of one ear as she went over her notes and diagrams. She responded to a question about the gearing they'd run in the last race at Mugello as she turned a page and he stared briefly at her before continuing. 

'So I figure here, 'cause there's those two straights and you're light as a bird, that we'd try to go down six teeth initially...' Normally they worked in increments of two. He was running it by her kind of as a test. The mechanics were always trying to figure out how much exactly she knew about these things.

“Save time on setup in practice?”

The man's eyes all but bulged in his head. 'Exactly!' And he went on again about it.

Nika turned another page and studied the turn displayed.

Luckily it was a short trip the way the boys drove. Tomas wandered off with the other mechanics and techs to unload everything into the garage and Nika met up with the team’s sleepy-eyed Public Relations Manager, Annessa Caulier and Team Principal, Robert Harding. Both were veterans at Ducati. 

Alex called her wallet  as they were out walking the track.  'Hey, Nicky.'  For some reason everyone be it media, the team or other riders, were always assigning her different nicknames.  Nothing permanent had stuck yet.  What was wrong with, Nika?  As long as it wasn’t ‘Princess’ or something else ridiculous she’d just go with it.  ‘Listen, you walking the track?' “Yeah, we're looking at Turn 8 right now.” 'Good, good. Hey, I want you to go back and look at the bump on the middle line of T6.' Robert tapped the face of his watch, they were on a tight schedule apparently. “Yeah I saw that. It's been patched. The seams are good but I have a feeling it'll be slick.” She could almost hear his smile. 'That's my girl! Yeah, I'd stay off of that line if you can.' The young woman agreed. 'And let me know if you have anything for me after Free Practice, okay?' “I will, thank you.” 'Good. Kick ass.' Nika smirked. “I will.” Alex laughed. “Okay, I imagine Rob is trying to push you along so I'll go and I've got Luca here doing the same. He says hi.' His voice grew muffled for a second as Alex told the engineer she’d said the same. 'Okay Nick...talk to you soon.' “Alright.” 

When the trio returned to the pit garages, the paddock was abuzz with activity. Mechanics and techs scurried about like a kicked ant hill, team livery announcing their allegiances. Reporters and officials intermingled along with the occasional fan trying to look as though they belonged. Security was tight and special passes were required to get near anything interesting. To have one you either worked for a team, won a contest or paid a nice chunk for the privilege. 

There was a schedule for literally everything and Nika’s day did not accommodate free time. Upon her arrival she'd walked the track for a blessed quiet hour to study before a rider's meeting. Then it was off to the Michelin paddock to pick up her tires for the weekend and then back to the garage to deliver them to her mechanics who had been busy unpacking. While the boys mounted the tires Robert and the Head Engineer, Giancarlo Luca, hovered over a laptop to determine which tires to use first. They talked about the temperature of the actual track versus the actual temperature versus humidity and weather. The weather radar was checked at least five times during the conversation and a drone with a temperature attachment had been sent out to call in with the asphalt temp as well. When finally a consensus was reached the appropriate tires, in this case a soft front and medium rear, were pulled and installed on the bikes and the electric tire warmers were wrapped around the rubber. 

Nika in the meantime had been gearing up. She wore a full-body compression suit under her leathers, which helped beyond words in the removal of the same. The leathers themselves were skin tight and custom fitted, that in and of itself made getting in and out of the things a bitch. No one could do so without assistance which made for some interesting contact should anyone be allowed to watch the process.  There were never any witnesses.  She  wore a separate spine protector under the speed hump sewn on the suit's back in addition to a hard chest plate. The chest shield she could add and remove herself but sometimes the spine protector shifted before the suit was zipped up and the only way to place it properly was to have Annessa stick her arms inside the suit and coax it. The fanbois would have loved to get a ticket to that action. 

Nika Raskov was a rookie in MotoGP but in the seven races so far this season she had won six and finished third in the other. She currently enjoyed a comfortable lead over her teammate Alex Castori in Rider's Championship and third place hadn’t even broken 100 points yet.  The little Russian wasn't the first woman to race in the series but she had been the first to do well. This made her a sort of magnet for the women dragged to the races either as family or with family. Alex had seen this and was working at finagling sponsorship accordingly. While the other racer didn't think that it was wise to 'girl-ify' Ducati’s not-so-secret weapon, as he called her, the man did see the value in attempting to reach the microscopic female audience. Of course sometimes he neglected to mention this to his teammate.

Nika and Annessa emerged from the gear room where they'd fought with the leathers again for a good ten minutes, there was an absence of the typical male reactions when two attractive women surface after a time spent in a cramped room. While the team were professionals and not scum, they were still men, if a little geeky at times and they had only required one ‘correction’ by the women to make the entire lot shut their faces. Of course, being men, they didn't let the tech who'd been knocked on his ass by a girl forget it either. That was allowed.  Later on Nika had smoothed things over by getting him really drunk...and then filled his hotel room with blow-up dolls. 

Luca walked over and handed the rider her helmet and gloves then barked at her in his typical Italian way. 'Let's go Nicky, bike's not gonna set itself up.'  He didn't mean it at all and actuality adored the little rider. He called her 'precious' too but out of earshot.  Her retort was to salute grandly with a grin.  "Aye aye, Cap'n!"

The boys pulled off the blue tire warmers with excellent efficiency while the the woman pulled her helmet on and tugged on the tight leather gauntlet gloves. She could hear the other bikes in the paddock start even through the earplugs. The engineer nodded at the temperature reading Tomas gave him on the tires while Nika stretched over briefly touching her toes and then squatting before standing upright once more. Her own bike was rolled out of the garage and started. Tomas held the front cowl with as she threw a leg over the seat. She pulled her left foot up to click the shifter into first gear and released the clutch after looking around to see if she was clear. The racing machine eased out toward the track and slowed twice as the brakes were checked independently of each other. First her right foot pressed down for the rear brake, then two fingers squeezed the lever at her right hand. Satisfied, Nika entered pit lane and then nailed the throttle once she was clear. Eyes friendly and otherwise watched her go.

Free practice was an hour long session packed with chaos. Teams sent out their riders both to learn the track and to find the optimal setup for the bike at this particular track. A properly setup bike would, in the best-case scenario, have gearing customized to provide maximum speed down the straightaway while having the maximum power out of the corners. It was what all riders and teams sought and guarded carefully, it was a difficult endeavor to master and it changed every single time with every infinitesimal variable. The factors could be anything from wet versus dry, cold versus hot, tire compounds, humidity...literally anything. 

Luca, being the Head Engineer, called the shots on how exactly the team ran their session as they only had an hour to 'dial it in,' as he was fond of saying. Nika was to run for ten minutes unless a major problem presented itself before coming in for the first time. The crew tweaked gearing first and by plugging in the computer to the bike, they knew where to start. Lap telemetry and feedback from Nika herself aided in the rest and then things started to change. Everything was pre-prepared down to the last nut and bolt needed for fine tuning. Hell, even the gears were mounted on the rims complete with tire and the wheel was wrapped in the tire warmers so that a complete change was done inside two and a half minutes. 

Forty-five minutes into practice saw the team making serious headway into their setting. Nika was comfortable on the bike and was looking fast and good. She'd been running solo for most of the session and had just rocketed past the number seven bike on the second straightaway whose pace had been off. The woman took note of the braking markers in her fully tucked position before sitting upright and downshifted twice. The rear tire slid from side to side as the brakes were applied and ultimately the bike settled to the left. The woman placed the toe of her boot on the right hand peg and stuck out her knee. The bike seemed to fold over in a precisely smooth action as the high speed corner was negotiated. Nika's head and eyes were already focused on the next corner and she did not see what went on behind her. 

Teams watched the practice session live feed on monitors in the garage while their riders were out. Scrolling bars gave information on the various competitors and two commentators discussed a wide range of topics. Currently the screens were showing the Fast Motorsports/KTM bike as it negotiated the esses. ...'Cooper has been struggling with feeling in the front lately and if he can't sort that out, I don't see him running in the top group.' Another voice piped up. “Look at that, wide into the turn again. It's almost looking as if he can't get a feel for his tires...” The other voice broke in. 'Reports of an off in T13.' The screens switched to a view of a cloud of dust and two mangled bikes. A group of people adorned in official track attire huddled around a rider. 'Looks like...the number ninety-nine and seven bikes.'...“Hard to tell, really.”...'Yes, Trackside says Raskov and Hargrave.'... “Let's see if we've got footage of what happened.” 

Hargrave’s number seven bike had indeed been off-pace from Nika Raskov's machine however, not for long. As the ex-Ducati rider was passed, he twisted his throttle almost violently in an attempt to catch up. His line was different around the corner as he was attempting both to out-brake his opponent and pass her on the inside. He screamed along behind her on the straight and waited a full second and a half after she started braking to do so. This closed the gap certainly but gave him less distance to slow. Seeing this too late, he crammed on his brakes and locked up his rear wheel. He then panicked as his line around the turn intersected Raskov's. The rear brake was released mistakenly.

The cameras captured it perfectly. The number seven bike shifted to the side almost casually before twitching violently back to the right. It's rider was thrown forward over the bars and cleared the bike completely only to land feet-first on the asphalt and tumble like a rag doll. The riderless bike meanwhile had resumed its trajectory forward to ram the tail section of Nika's fully leaned over bike at more than 140mph. The red Ducati’'s tail section all but shattered and allowed the offending machine to continue forward again only to meet the back tire next. The pseudo-braking scissored the number seven bike left and onto the back of the unfortunate rider who had, milliseconds before, been pitched head-first at her oncoming windscreen and the triple tree of the clip-on handlebars. Raskov, still hovering in seeming slow motion since the initial impact as though on a six inch cushion of air, went limp after taking her bike's punch while the other bike and gravity finally seemed to engage. Nika's left arm and shoulder hit first and were visibly wrenched backward, then her lolling helmet bounced twice before the rest of her hit. The friction sucked the rider to the track to roll bonelessly as both bikes continued their arcing backward spins yet continued their momentum forward in a bizarre demonstration of physics. 

The inert form of Raskov flattened to pass somehow impossibly underneath the spinning bikes. She slid along behind them contrasting the cyclonic nature of the two-wheeled beasts as she seemed to casually fold at the waist, unfold and back again, arms wrapping and unwrapping around her own torso until the tarmac was cleared and she disappeared into the great cloud of gray dust kicked up by the battling race bikes. 

Gravel dust settled quickly and orange-clad crash team members followed by green-clad medical workers vaulted over the crash barriers to assist the downed riders. Debris littered the track and corner workers frantically waved red flags. Hargrave had simply slid for a hundred and fifty feet or so and was up walking toward the wall inspecting his highly scuffed leathers. He spared not so much as a glance toward the accident his mistake had caused.  Raskov did not appear to have been as lucky and remained motionless facedown in the gravel.

The sports channels as well as the track's closed-circuit televisions showed the workers in cluster around the woman. One shot focused dramatically on the dark broken visor in the middle of the track's corner, evidently torn from the points-leader's helmet at some point. Behind the scene a crash truck had arrived for the two demolished bikes and the ensuing debris. Hargrave had climbed over the wall by now and was being ushered by a green-vested medical official toward an awaiting cart. Meanwhile the cluster of medics around the downed rider were busy securing her to a stretcher. She looked small and vulnerable on the thing as it was loaded into the ambulance. The lead medic climbed in, talking on his radio. The remaining crew closed the doors and sent the vehicle on its way to the Mobile Clinic where the series doctor was standing by to assess the damage.

Jacinda had read the posts. Hunt here. Hunt there. Bored. Ten had been a mother hen. And yeah, Jaci loved it. So weird too. Ten was not her mom. Not even a bit.

The age difference was kinda big. In the opposite direction.

But she cared. Bout broke her heart. It had been so long. No one was like Ten. And Ten was was her sister. Almost (Shut up.) For some reason that bothered her a bit. 

Katy was coming here. Jaci never let herself be a girl. Mostly. Never girlie, anyway. But she already was smiling. For this.....how could she not? Katy was in her 60s. And she had be been there for Jaci. No one knew. No one. She had saved her.

Jaci bought two tickets. No biggie if it was unused. It'd be nice. But not necessary. Katy had been her freedom. Represented anyway. The beginnint. And Jaci wasn't gonna miss it.

She hoped Ten would go. But even if not...well, she would.