The Legion's return to CCD territory had been a winding trail that led to its heart, Moscow. It had taken weeks to make the arrangements. Meetings took time to assure that schedules lined up, and that contract and contextual groundwork was completed properly. Luckily, the Legion had experience in such areas from its former incarnation as Legion Premiere. The legal teams were in place, and eager to be gainfully employed once more.

The CCD had proven almost surprisingly cooperative to his intentions, and the Legion's PR department had been put to work arranging the announcement. Rather then travelling straight to Moscow, there were stops arranged along the way. First and foremost was three days at Aubagne, France. Or at least, the former nation of France. A point that was carefully danced around in all official Legion statements, and Jacques speech, during the trip.

The three day visit served two purposes; first and foremost, the official sign-over of Legion artifacts and relics held at in a museum located in the Foreign Legion's traditional headquarters. Banners, historic uniforms and captured arms, and a myriad other pieces of the Legion's long history would be transferred to their new headquarters in Algeria.

The second, and certainly more public reason, for the visit to Aubagne, and a selection of other more important cities across the CCD over a two week period. Civilian survivors of the Battle of Jeddah, those that the Legion had managed to evacuate, were given a chance to meet with a handful of Legionnaire veterans of the battle. Most of those veterans were those too wounded to participate in the final stand.

The meetings were closed to live coverage; while the events did afford the Legion some much needed public image in the CCD, Jacques' actual reason for them were far more private. It allowed the civilian survivors to thank their rescuers, and for the Legionnaires whom were too wounded to continue service in a combat role to find some meaning behind the loss of both their comrades-in-arms and for the wounds that seen them unable to continue to serve.

The Legion's arrival in Moscow had led to no shortage of red tape. The delivery of Jacques' staff car, a black 1941 Citroen Traction, lovingly maintained and bearer of a myriad modern upgrades such to the point the car's only original parts were the body itself. The CCD's laws on armoured vehicles for VIPs were easy enough to work through. As were their laws on firearms. Legionnaires tasked to his security detail had been required to demonstrate a detailed understanding on the CCD's laws, and of course there had to be insurance and background checks.

But among all its various modern age features, A/C and heat were not included. An intentional sacrifice of comfort over function, meant as a sort of reminder to keep the CEO grounded and focused. Late spring in Moscow was only 'unpleasantly chill' for most visitors, but Jacques and his escort were African. Luckily, Legion Premiere had always included a winter dress uniform, which was rarely seen in use. In fact, it had served as little other then one more piece of kit the Legionnaires needed to keep immaculate during their training.

There could be no denying the Legion was a military organization which had returned to rich traditions. Of course, these uniforms were as modernized as the staff car. While traditional in appearance, keeping to the almond-green fabric, blue sash, and white Kepi cap, they were made of modern materials. Slash-resistant cloth, concealed soft-weave body armour. Military grade Landwarriors were standard issue, as were hard-case Wallets.

The officer of his guard, Capitaine Espen Pedersen, along with the Sig Sauer P226 pistol all members of the security detail openly carried, wore a traditional Infantry Sabre. The groups disembarkation from their private jet in Moscow, while covered by local news agencies, while not bound to make any degree of breaking or wide-spread news, would surely feature as a side-bar story on their social media feeds.

There was no waiting officials, no pomp and ceremony. Jacques, dressed in an officers uniform much like Capitaine Pedersen, but lacking in the bars of an officer. In fact, Jacques uniform lacked any markings of rank or title, but still bore myriad patches and medals marking completed training and gained qualifications.

Jacques right hand had been replaced with a prosthetic, one of the reasons for the weeks that had passed before his final departure for the CCD. Surgeries, recovery time, and of course necessary physiotherapy to teach him how to function with the new hand. It was the best Africa could provide, donated by a non-profit organization active in northern and western Africa, but years behind what Jacques could easily have afforded had he wished it.

It was a new hand. Functional, and with it he could wield a pistol once more. He could write, with some difficulty, he could type, albeit slower then before, and perhaps luckily he had never been skilled with musical instruments. And he could salute his men once more, shake hands, drink his tea and hold the saucer properly, read a book and turn the page without putting it down. It was the little things in life, after all.

What had come as some surprise for Jacques, was the legal departments announcement that the CCD government had made the Igumnov House available for the Legion's use during its stay in Moscow. The former home of the French ambassador, the building was only 4kms from the Red Square, situated in the historic Yakimanka District.

The Legion motorcade, three Legion SUVs escorting the black Citroen Traction, all flying the Legion flag and colours, navigated the well rehearsed route from airport to destination, where they were met by a dozen Legion staff whom had arrived a week in advance to prepare the building for its use. Staff had been hired from local agencies, oddly favoring less experienced and, theoretically, qualified personnel for the Legion's relatively light requirements.

A Legion cook (the mother of a Legionnaire in Jacques guard retinue) would serve as master of the kitchen, with local staff to assist. Legion clerks and legal staff would work with local temp workers to form his legal, administrative, and PR departments on the ground for the duration of his stay. Three members of a very respectable private security company had even been hired on to further train and instruct his security detail on CCP procedures, legal requirements, and appropriate close-protection drills.

By mid day, Jacques sat in what would serve as his office, attached to what would surely have been a lavish bedroom suite if the original furniture was still in place. Most of the furnishings from the buildings' time as home of an ambassador were long gone. The building had been re-purposed for a time as a government office during a lengthy renovation project in one of the Kremlin's many administrative buildings, and had while considered a heritage site, it had seen little use since.

As such, much of the furnishings within had been either shipped in advance, or had been purchased second hand or even rented. They were functional, sturdy, and offered little by way of grandeur and expense. The Legion was frugal when it came to frivolous expenses, and Jacques had no practical need for expensive hardwood desks and upholstered throne-like chairs.

His tea, however, was perhaps a bit of an indulgence. He sat alone, for the moment, a copy of War and Peace in hand, in its original Russian (translated thanks to software run on his Landwarriors), and a selection of Russian classical music playing softly in the background. There was no chance of him actually completing the lengthy novel during his relatively brief, and likely quite busy, stint in Moscow, but it was a bit of a habit of his, to at least attempt to embrace some historic culture of a region he visited.

His meetings would likely begin the following day, but the Legion's temporary office was open to any whom wished to visit or were interested in signing on; although in truth, few or none were likely to partake. The Battle of Jeddah, while important to the Legion's history and to those whom had survived it, was but one of many skirmishes that had occurred that bloody night throughout DV, and the public at large tended to have short memories.

(( This takes place after things that have yet to happen Sage has gone to Moscow, after Fallout and Carl ))

The keys to the kingdom had been handed to Bryan. He'd never thought he'd ever open the door to the room that Sage Parker coveted so tightly. But here he was standing in the server room under the blue glow of the lighting system and the frigid air all around him. Bryan had to actually set up a station to utilize the server, but once that was done the virtual interfaces were phenomenal. It was like every process was up on the screen. Every background program that Sage ran as Phaser. Every piece of information and every link to every hole the collective had created for the borg or phaser or whatever alias he had used. It was all there for him to use. His protege had handed him his world.

The last thing Sage had done was leak information about the Ascendancy. Bryan didn't know why. Hell no one ever knew why Sage did what he did. This wasn't typical of his friend, but it had been his last thing to do before he had fallen ill. Before his computer brain started fighting back against the abuse of his parents. It made Bryan sad to think Sage gave this all up because he was afraid someone would try to kill him and would take everything Sage wanted. He was such a paranoid child since his parents did what they did to him. Everywhere he had saw a threat - he even saw a threat in their friendship from time to time.

When the CCD finally made an announcement about the information Sage had leaked. Sage was already falling down the rabbit hole, he couldn't dig any deeper. So Bryan decided he would do his friend a solid and find the truth he was always looking to find. But all the information was behind lock and key. Bryan would become the man he'd train. It was the collective everyone followed - behind Phaser. This was the only way.

Bryan would helm it from Sage's server and he would be the man. It wasn't hard to use the signature, it was right there waiting - calling. Bryan pulled up the most secure connection he could and he began. He would hit find the truth of the nuclear attack on the Kremlin - he didn't believe it and Sage wouldn't either. Bryan hit the Kremlin's firewalls as hard and fast as he could. He called upon the collective for help with Phaser at the helm they came to his aid.

Armande awoke, the cool of the rock pressing into his cheek. His whole body felt afire, the stench of burned hair and cloth and skin filling his nostrils. His vision was cloudy and the unstoppable cough that tore from his chest sent him into new heights of agony.

A sickly orange flickering cast dancing shadows on the walls of the tunnel. He swallowed painfully and tried to rise, pushing himself up with his hands. His knees digging into the rock floor screamed and his blistered hands protested with vehemence and he collapsed. He was so tired. His entire body was an avalanche of agony.

From within, another fire burned. Anger. Rage. They had burned his home. They had sent his people scattering. They had violated his sanctuary. That fire roared, hotter and hotter, a growl coming into his chest.

He would lay down no longer. Not one minute more. He assumed the Chong Rann and sealed the pain away. He stood, feeling the cool fresh air in his lungs even as he coughed. In those moments, stabs of pain still broke through, but he ignored them and stumbled down the tunnels.

The slope indicated that he was going down. To where, he did not know. Deeper and deeper he went, passing encampments, abandoned subway stations and lines, deeper into the bowels of the earth. It fit. Let everyone think he was dead. Let them relax their guard. Let them know peace. The calm before the storm.

The storm was coming.


Edited by Regus, Nov 12 2016, 02:00 PM.

Landing in JFK airport as Nikki was something different. In the restroom of the airport Ayden pulled a blonde wig on and removed the flame colored contacts and flushed them down the toilet. Ayden Hayes was dead... She would see to it. Connor might not like it, but they had to make this look real. And a body was the only way to do it.

Ayden and Connor Kent would die in New York. The pieces had already been set in motion. In two days time, their bodies would be found in a burning car. A high paid hacker modified dental records to the bodies - there would be no doubt that these two charred bodies where them. They would be dead.

It wasn't the first time Ayden had had to fake a death to clean up after herself. Entrenching yourself in one place for too long was bad - and this had been one of those things that was bad... the Atharim had found her. How she wasn't sure? Why was obvious but how... maybe she should look into that.

The last leg of their trip was uneventful.

They would stay in a hotel for a few weeks while they searched for whatever it was they wanted in life. The first step had been handled. But now they had to find that new life - one together, married ... she still couldn't believe that they had skipped everything else. There was no wedding planned. It was surreal.

Their room had a small kitchenette in it and Ayden wanted to make dinner instead of eating from the restaurant below or getting room service or take out. A home cooked meal - like the first time they'd met. The grocery store was her first stop. She wanted to go alone. She had told Connor that she wanted to be Nikki alone for once. Nikki wasn't pressed tight to her husband she was a strong independent woman like she was - she could go grocery shopping by herself.

She needed it.

The wandering of the grocery aisle was an interesting experience. It had been a while since she'd been back in the States and in what she remembered from her childhood. Everything was still the same yet slightly different around the world. It felt good to be home.... Right up until the moment she saw her mother picking up an orange in the produce section. Ayden froze. The thought that she might run into her mother was a decent thought in theory, but not that it was happening Ayden was ready to flee.

Her heart was racing. Her palms were sweating. This was not how she wanted this new life to be. What if she recognized her daughter who was supposed to be dead... No this was the wrong thing to do. Her family deserved to be happy to be unconnected to her in every form and fashion - she believed that with all her heart. The Atharim would kill them too... No she wouldn't stay.

Ayden left the cart in the middle of the aisle and left out the grocery door. They would leave San Antonio now... She couldn't do this... She didn't want to do this. Connor would have to understand. If he didn't .... she couldn't do this.

***

Ayden entered their hotel room in a flurry and rushed to the drawers she had unpacked. "We need to go. I can't do this."
Ayden started packing her things back into her bags. She couldn't stay here, not with her family so close - she wouldn't.

Valeriya, Eye of the Khlysty

Глаз Христы


Prophet: Scryer

Age: 26 (estimate; tracking the passage of time is accomplished with a water clock in the temple).

Appearance: Vale is short, about 5'2" and slender. She has a muscular frame suited to a hard and physical existence. Everything done in the Underground is done by hand. Their technology is consistent with turn of the 19th century as they have been completely sealed away from the outside world Above. She has thick black hair often decorated with stones or braids. Her skin is translucent and pale. Her eyes a silvery grayish-green. She has many thin scars cross-crossing her back. Unlike the other Khylsty, who wear monk's robes, she wears old gowns that once belonged to the Tsarina Alexandra along with other imperial treasures.

Psychological: Vale is a product of her blood. She is descended from Rasputin, also a Seer, as he is God incarnate. Each woman in the blood gains the Sight, and one after the other across the generations, become The Eye, leader of the Khylsty. Theirs is a hard life. When they were driven into hiding after the Revolution, they plunged far below the surface, constantly burrowing further like worms. Like a hellish Barrier, monsters roam above. The priests go out in packs to hunt them as food, and despite their ferocity, it takes two or three working together to kill even a single oni. But that oni can feed ten people for a month. It takes many hunts to keep the Khylsty from starvation, and it was a hard lesson to learn.

She was Awoken at the age of 21 when the previous Eye died in the hunt. Valeriya repented of her many sins, including the murder of her predecessor (her mother), cannibalism, and lewd thoughts. Mortification of the flesh followed with a thousand lashes in self-flagellation. Near death, she Awoke, and rose again. She was crowned The Eye in the temple room and has ruled ever since.

Her powers are linked to scrying. She must peer into objects while entranced to see her visions. This usually involves a crystal ball that once belonged to Rasputin himself. The crystals on her necklace are also useful. Sometimes she sees things in firelight or cauldron water. Her visions show her the Above, a world she can barely describe (try describing the sky to someone that's never seen it). She also sees the face of Rasputin reborn although she does not know if she views the present or the future.

Like other Eyes, she carves the things she sees upon the walls of their lairs. Including in the temple and throne room.

As she has never known carnal touch, she feels isolated from other Khylsty. She yearns for love and to go Above.

Due to inbreeding and cannibalism, she is slightly insane.

Biography:

The Eye sat upon her throne, arm dangling over the wooden slab, one leg kicked across the other. The black lace of her dress was torn in places, mended together hundreds of times so that it was more like a disorganized spider web rather than the intricate piece of art it originally was. Black leather cords bound the corset tight to her chest, pushing her bosom high, near to spilling out the top. She toyed with the cord as she watched the ritual performed before her. Leather was a commodity in their world. She slaughtered the beast whose skin was stretched tight across the tanning drums. Its fur lined her wrists, a soft, black sheen that she often pet fondly. A good kill, she thought of it often. The knife she used, a wicked stiletto, was strapped to her thigh, accessible by the slit ripping up one leg. She kicked her foot, tapping her heel against the throne, and realized she'd been tapping along with the drums. Music was another luxury to their world, to be indulged in during the ritual only. The gongs of metal, beaten with carved bones in metallic clashes pounded like heart beats, but it was the lifting of voices that she enjoyed most. Although the Eye would never admit to such a sin as joy. No more. Once, in her foolishness of sinful youth, she would have relished it, but she was Awakened now, purified of sin. Only in such repentance does The Eye see All.

A dozen people sat in a circle beneath her throne in the Great Chamber. This was their largest and grandest tomb, enhanced over the past one hundred and forty years by previous Eyes. She herself had contributed to a portion of the chamber with drawings of Above. The things she saw were etched into the stone walls forever, clawed into the foundations of the earth itself. Her pale, silvery gaze flicked to her contribution to the prophecies. Five years ago, when she became The Eye, at the age of twenty-one, she cragged her part of the tale of the coming Reincarnated. His tale was woven all around the room, beginning on the far left of the chamber. In that incarnation, his face and name were known by all with his long bushy hair, hawkish nose, slender cheeks and piercing blue eyes. In that first image, carved by the First Eye, his face was known by those who saw him in person. His name, Grigori Rasputin, the reincarnated, the God in man's flesh. The rebirth of God in Nazareth was not an isolated event, but rather occured repeatedly over the milennia. One hundred and ten years ago, Rasputin, as mortal God, was finally killed after surviving stabbing, poisoning, and mutilation. He would return to them, however. In a new body and new flesh. Once he arrived, he would need to be Awoken as they all did, but once repented of sins, he would be their savior. He would lead them Above, and rule all, or all would perish. The Eye waited for his return. He was coming. That was her contribution to the world. She knew his face as well as she knew Rasputin's. He had the same hawkish nose, same slender cheeks, same piercing blue eyes like twin flames that stabbed her soul.

Her fingers dropped the cording across her corset and instead lifted a necklace up to her eyes. It hung on a gold chain, a wooden phallus with two crystal testes attached at the base. Holding the crystal before her eyes, her own pale gaze narrowed as she peered into the many facets. Torchlight danced within the crystal, and buried deep in the rainbows scattered in reflection, she saw the twin blue eyes looking back at her. "I see you,"
she whispered to them. "The Eye sees all."
Her lips twisted with hunger and she dropped the phallus back to her chest. The necklace was not the real phallus of Rasputin, of course. That was incased within a glass jar, fixed with formaldehyde, and sitting on the alter in the main temple. Only the Eye and a few others were allowed to touch the jar, but all knelt before it when they Awoke.

As though her thoughts betrayed her, the men of the ritual stood from their half of the circle as the pool in the center began to boil and steam. They tore their white robes and her heart began to beat harder as she watched. Scents filled the room, tickling the inside of her nose as much as theirs, and the ecstasy brushed her mind of all thought. She let her head rest against the throne, mouth slack, eyes heavy. The six men yelled from within their dreamy trances. The six women answered, tearing their white robes as the men did. The Eye pushed herself to stand, her legs were weak, her head heavy. The fires flamed bright, the smoke pooled on the ceiling.

"Radenyi!"
She proclaimed and collapsed upon the throne. She was vaguely aware of the bodies entwining themselves before her. Someday, she would partake in Radenyi as well. Someday, when Rasputin returned, the reincarnated, the reborn. Just before she fell to blissful slumber, her gaze returned to his carving on the wall. He would take her Above. Yes, she would see for herself finally what the Eye saw.

She fell asleep as his face filled her dreams.

Achilles, son of Priam


Achilles looked at Tammuz with a challenging smirk. "It's you this time,"
he said to his friend, as he held his mug in his hand. The pretty silver haired bar maid stood next to him with the skin ready to refill. The girl next to Tammuz, out of place raven dark hair, had the same. Their eyes constantly flicked to the small pile of silver on the table. Whoever won would give a share to his girl.

The sounds of dicing and raucous laughter filled the tavern, though a few were betting on their own game. In the foreign accents of these northern lands, the one girl counted "One. Two. Three. GO!" Immediately, Achilles began.

"One.


Tammuz immediately threw out "Two."


"Three!"


On up the numbers they raced, as fast as possible. They were getting close to 21. Wait. Who was gonna be the one to avoid saying it? This was already their third game and his head was a bit foggy from the mead and whatever else these people had fortified it with. Him. It was him.

"20!"
Tammuz yelled.

"20!"
he repeated just as quickly.

Tammuz heard the number and immediately responded "21!!!"
instead of 19, like he should have. Laughter erupted from them both and Achilles thankfully put his mug down and then watched as the girl filled Tammuz's to the brim and then him down it all as fast as possible. When he was finished, he burped long and loud and the whole tavern exploded with laughter. They didn't often get visitors from the south, but Achilles and his friends had been liberal with their coin and the buying of drinks. Drinking was the great equalizer.

Enki had said it best. Men need alcohol. It's the first thing every civilization makes along with weapons and shelters to enjoy prostitutes. Course that was a joke. But that was Enki. Always with the jokes.

Anyway, Tammuz's eyes swam. If Achilles had had three, Tammuz was up by almost double that. He was having fun. Prometheus and Coyote should be returning soon. He eyed the blued eyed beauty next to Tammuz- curse the man for a face that was almost as pretty as a girl's- as she commiserated with him over his loss. Her loss. This had been the final round. Just because she liked him didn't also mean she wasn't working him. Women could do both.

Achilles smiled and sat up to scoop the winnings towards him. He split off a few for another round for everyone, and then a few for the girl next to him, to whom he winked. "You're my luck now. Don't run off on me.'
She laughed and tapped his nose. He sat back into the chair thinking as Tammuz settled his girl. She wouldn't be disappointed long. His head was warm despite the chill of these lands. He might stay, one of these days. Might but probably wouldn't. Home called to him. The war. The War that was his life. The tattoo of the Iasan's tooth- the Dragon's tooth- was visible on his forearm. A remembrance. His father had given it to him. His father.

He would be going home. He would see his mother. But it was time to bring the war to the Gods.

The door to the tavern opened, the cold gust of wind sweeping into the room, causing the flames to flicker. He looked up, hoping it was Coyote and Prometheus. That they had succeeded.

Gwendolyn grabbed her rolling Samsonite briefcase off the luggage carousel and pushed her way through the common folk still waiting to get their bags. She spared some polite smiles and a shrug of her semi-bare shoulders for a couple of doting fans who recognized her, then slipped away with a swish of her white and red polka dot sundress. Her white high heels making a click-clack sound on the polished linoleum floor as she made a beeline toward the shuttle service. What a pain to still have to fly commercial, when you had to put extra work into looking good among the masses. But CNN wasn't willing to spring for a private jet. One day soon, though. Just not with her money.

She hadn't spent much time in Atlanta between stories, which was good, since the weather was hotter than the devil's taint right about now. At least Washington had a cool-ish breeze coming off the Chesapeake. Probably bringing lots of mosquitos with it too. They were good for news. Always breeding one exotic killer virus or another. Compared to a good apocalyptic killer virus story in constant development, an interview with Secretary Trano was pretty mundane stuff when it came to keeping viewers glued to their devices.

Her Wallet said that she was fifteen minutes early for her private sedan. Of course. She slipped on her sunglasses and crossed her arms, thought about sitting down on the bench, and reconsidered. It didn't look all that clean. Taxis pulled in and out of designated parking lanes. Two people were smoking not far away. The faint smell reached her nostrils. Ugh.
It made her itch for one. She hadn't smoked since college, and she knew what it would do to her skin and teeth, not to mention her voice. Filthy, disgusting cigarettes. She still wanted one though, every time she smelled that sickly sweet tobacco.

Gwen's Wallet went off suddenly, buzzing, fervently demanding her attention. She pulled it up, and noticed something odd on her screen. A weirdly encrypted message from some unknown source. Something something phaser? Had she been hacked? Wait. No. Not her. CNN. And it wasn't a hack but a direct message. A video. She pushed play. A hospital feed. Someone wounded. Moscow. Holy fuck!


Gwen grabbed her briefcase and marched herself right out into the middle of the street. Not the parking lane. The fast lane. She threw up her arm at an approaching taxi. The man slammed on his brakes.

"What the fuck you think you're doing? Move your ass, lady!" the driver yelled.

Gwen marched to the passenger side and opened the door, throwing her luggage in the back seat. "I don't have time to argue. CNN Washington bureau. Step on it!"
she snapped at the man as she slid into her seat.

The guy put the car in park and stepped out, coming around to the other side. "I don't think so, you crazy lady. I ain't taking you nowhere. Get the fuck out of my car!" He reached in and put a hand around her wrist, yanking her out. The other hand had a wicked looking rod in it.

Gwen was pulled up and knocked off her balance. Muscle memory was a crazy thing, though. She took one step in, righting her self. then her free hand swung around, the edge of her palm chopping down like a knife. She connected with his temple. Another step forward. She pulled her other hand in, forcing him off his balance toward her, and kicked up with her left foot. The top edge of her foot slammed into his groin. Then one twist with her still-pinned hand, and he was on his back.

Gwen picked up the metal rod and thew it absentmindedly away. It struck a parked car and it began to blare its alarm. "Don't you lay a fucking hand on me,"
she said in a cold voice. She stuck a heel right in his chest and gave him her sweetest smile. "Okay?"


That's when she heard sirens. Gwen looked around. Apparently she had drawn a crowd. Not surprising. Getting attention was what she did best. But she needed to get to the damn newsroom before someone else got the scoop.

Damien reclined in his leather chair like a lion resting in the sun. He looked between Elias and Asha. "Well, that was certainly something,"
he said to nobody in particular.

It had been a strange turn of events. Manix dead for some unknown reason, the crew long gone. Apparently, they were bad omen's now. Damien had been described as many things in his life, but this was new. It had a nice ring to it, if only his enemies believed it. It wasn't practical if potential allies were scared away.

He fixed his eyes on Elias. "What do you want to do now?"
It was the boy's affair. Damien was along for the ride and perhaps find out more about those meddlesome fellows that tried to kidnap him. "I could requisition a ship in Mexico. They like me much better than the people of Moscow."


To Asha he smiled and winked. She seemed to take the events worse than Elias and himself. Or maybe he was imagining things. She might very well be as hard as that spider Spectra Lin. That possibility was equally thrilling to contemplate. "I think you would like Mexico, my dear Asha. It is quite nice now the fighting has stopped. Children play in the streets of Mexico City once more."



Edited by Damien, Oct 14 2016, 08:52 AM.

The East Wing of the Lir compound is connected to but still separate from the rest of the compound. The walls between the East Wing and the rest of the compound are reinforced for attacks, while the East wing itself is a simple stylish home. No security camera were installed onto this side of the residence to give visitors their privacy.

Manix decided upon this based off the idea, if he trusted in his home, then they deserved privacy.

Entering thru the main door the Marine guards directs visitors to the right, thru and over sized door leading into the East Wing.

Liberty for the first time since the crisis in Sierra Leone. Jared had arrived in Moscow with a Commander Danjou and a contingent of security. Jared had been granted a break he needed very much. For the first time in forever, he was in civilian dress and felt like a civilian.

He still stood with a military precision. Certain habits were hard to break. Jared took a deep breath and looked around the market. He stepped into a shop and began to examine the wares. He had no plans to buy anything, he just wanted to look.

Having seen Sierra Leone, he had to marvel at everything they had here. There was so much here where as the Sierra Leonans had so little. Most of these items were unnecessary to anyone. He hoped that someday, more people could live in this kind of prosperity.

He left the shop he was in and decided to walk farther. Strangely enough, he was so used to being busy that he didn't know what to do with his free time.


Edited by Jared Vanders, Oct 11 2016, 09:44 AM.