She'd been about to sign off to the night shift when an RTA sent the emergency room into a tailspin.

The girl was the worst casualty, spilling blood faster than they could pump it in. The power webbed through Morven in the same touch that found a line for the IV, her concentration split to the task; fumbling, twelve hours deep into a relentless shift. The team worked seamlessly around her. Barking orders and feedback from the machines. But the weaves were unravelling as fast as she could form them, the damage raging at a swifter pace than she could work. Monitors began a shrill warning; a drill on her focus. Somewhere distant she could hear her name pointed in question, the words muffled. Darkness misted in the edges of her vision like the night she had collapsed at Soren's feet.

You're going to lose her.

She drew deeper, could feel the sweetness begin to hurt as it surged and the flows strengthened. But even then she could still feel her slipping away, each touch of the power a drain, like the girl simply didn't have enough energy to support the work. No, no, no, no, no. There was sudden stillness around her, like the world had suddenly frozen. Morven chose not to acknowledge it. Her shoes slid in the blood underfoot as she tried to get a better grip; as if that would help anchor her; help the weave stabilise and penetrate. A colleague caught her elbow, pulled her hands gently away. Everything blurred when he glanced at the clock hanging overhead and called it.

"Time of death, four fifty-three am."


***

By now the red glow of sunrise was a memory, and Morven should have been home hours ago. Instead she'd only just snapped the gloves from her hands and clocked out, pausing momentarily at the door the nurses sneaked out to for a cigarette. Numbness cocooned her against the worst of it. The grief. The anger. She'd always had a temper; one liable to get her into trouble one day. But she'd swallowed it down to inform the family of their loss; absorbing those pale faces, the broken sobbing as worlds imploded, all the sharp edges embedding inwards. Knowing her failure was part of it.

She weathered it with the solemn professionalism she fought so hard to maintain during all her years training. Realised for the first time how tightly she had to hold on just to keep herself together.

Now, though, now she wanted to ram her fist into the fucking wall until the bloody pain eased out the knot in her chest. She choked the urge down instead, running her hand over the tight braid of curls at her crown; breathed in deep like Lyall suggested whenever the wolf bit chunks from her humanity. It didn't work, but it was better than grazed knuckles she'd have to explain later

A beep at her belt drew her gaze down wearily, then. By now her eyes burned raw with fatigue, but her brows still daggered low when she comprehended the message. The tight ball of kindling in her chest burst into abrupt flame.

Marcil was in theatre.

He must have been prepping for it even as the girl's life was bleeding out in Morven's hands. That little fucking shit! Her jaw set hard, and despite her exhaustion she began fumbling for her car keys, threading through the parked cars in blind haste until she found her own. She needed to get to the university hospital. Sage Parker was her patient and the bastard had no fucking right.

"Miss Kinnaird?"


She twisted from her car to find two suits approaching up the path. Government, clearly. Wonderful. Just wonderful. "Aye, that's me, and I've no time spare for words, not right now. Find me when I'm off duty."
Her palm rested on the door.

"Your shift ended at midnight, Miss Kinnaird, and we have already been to your apartment. We need to speak to you. It's a matter of some importance. This way, please."
The taller of the two, hair cropped short to his scalp, offered a tight smile. The fine lines about his eyes deepened, but his gaze was slate. A man running through the motions of pleasantry. Morven's lips pursed as he presented an ID holo formalised with the Ascendany's orange stamp. She could almost hear the low growl that'd be burrowing in her sister's throat had she been here. Her gaze moved to the shorter man, his face utterly impassive. Fuck.

"This needs to be quick. Understood?"


***

A nondescript office in the hospital complex housed their meeting. The smaller of the two men hovered by the door, hands braced in front of him. The other sat opposite her, caught amidst the glow of several screens pointed inwards, all shining with the hospital's logo revolving about as slowly as he chose to speak. He introduced himself and his colleague formally. Pointed out coffee steaming in a cafetiere, should she desire it (a nice way of saying she looked like shit; his flat lips almost quirked a smile). A jug of water too, if she preferred. Morven dampened the urge to bounce her leg under the table, the sheer leisurely pace with which he directed proceedings galling to every fibre of her desperate to be in theatre.

While he spoke he fiddled with the tech in front of him. Inserted a stick. Prodded a few keys. The glow against his pale skin faded, replaced with something darker, waiting. Finally he laced his hands in front of him and leaned in, the twin dark of his eyes meeting her own. He did not smile, not a hint; she counted the lines on his face while she waited for him to speak. Then, finally:

"Do you have any idea why we're here, Miss Kinnaird?"


Aye, she had an idea that the rumour of one too many miracles brought them to hound her doorstep. She'd known this would happen eventually, but keeping the secret had been secondary to making good use of it. Still, she cursed the ill timing. It made her feel more belligerent than she ought, even knowing that noncooperation on her part would only make things worse. Her lips pressed thin, but she didn't answer him. Silence reigned on the small hope she was wrong; she'd kick herself sharply if it turned out she spilled the secret freely when they were here for something else. Unlikely, but she hated regret.

He sighed. "It is required of all Custody citizens to register if they believe themselves in possession of Ascendant power. For the good of the Custody, and at the behest of Ascendancy himself. We believe you to be one such person, and yet you have not registered."


"Aye, I'm one of them. Aye, I haven't filled in the forms. Doesn't seem to me history's ever shown it to be a wise move. But I suppose you're not here to give me the choice."


He patiently swiped at the screen in front of him, ignoring the jibe. She could see the reflection of the registration form blinking in his eyes, that bloody orange text she'd stared at numerous times back in London -- when she'd first made the decision not to submit her life into the government's hands. Preliminaries began the interrogation. Her name. DOB. CID. When he asked her occupation her stony expression swiftly urged him to move on. Still he made her waste the breath saying it. Asshole.

"How long?"


"Since I was nineteen."


"And how did you first discover your ability?"


"That's not on the fucking form."
The words snapped out before she thought to control herself. The glare burning up in her eyes was as much frustration at her slip as irritation at her predicament. Sage's face flashed with every blink. The glint of skull. The glisten of brain. All those fucking wires weaving in an out; his parents' twisted love. How many times had she warned him? And he had promised to wait for her okay before he proceeded. Either he broke that promise or Marcil twisted him into it. He was a kid, and she knew how eager he was to jack back into the ether. The protectiveness swept over her again, and for one stupid moment she thought about re-purposing the fire in her veins. Just enough to get out of here. Deal with the consequences afterwards.

Her hand stayed, but perhaps only because she could feel how slippery the power had become; she'd wrung herself nearly dry trying to save the girl. A short sigh heaved out from her chest, a note of defeat. Trapped and cagey as an animal. She rubbed her face. Blinked out the tired burning. Tried to concentrate. Then leaned over to pour herself some of the coffee. Jerk awake her senses.

He watched her do it, stoical.

"My sister and I hiked a lot in the Cairngorms when we were younger. Tough terrain. Isolated wilderness, A real tough fucking show if you don't know what you're doing, and when you're really deep there's nowhere to go for help if you fuck up. One time my sister injured herself. A deep gash, flash o' bone in it. I bandaged her up and in the morning we hiked back out. Drove to the hospital in Inverness. But when the nurse peeked a look, the wound might have been healing a week already. No bone to see. Just an ugly scar now. That was the first time, I think. Not that I really ken the significance at the time."


She'd killed a man that night, but the guilt had never weighed on her. Even now, skirting around that little detail, her gaze was clear of it. He nodded, checked his screen.

"Summarise your abilities, please."


Her hands wrapped the cup. This time there was no hesitation. "I can ascertain injuries at a touch. Heal some of them, or aid it to happen more swiftly. Easier if I can see it, not impossible if I can't. Sometimes there's nae even a scar."
She paused, deliberating whether to add the new snippet tonight's tragedy made clear. In the end it all poured out. "Though it takes a certain amount of strength on the part of the patient, I think. I can give a boost of energy. Like adrenaline. Short lived. Sometimes that helps, with the minor things. I can ease pain too. And other, more mundane things. I assume you don't know the intricacies of it. How it's made up."
She shrugged. "It's easy to move things with it."


Less mundane things, too, but she wasn't stupid enough to talk of how the same power could shove a man backwards like he was a marionette; how easily bones snapped and cracked and twisted until that marionette barely resembled a man at all. How ropes of it could coil and tip that wretched twist of limbs into the rush of savage summer floods, never to surface again. She blinked, arms resting on the desk in front of her.

"Are you able to show us any of this?"
That, from the man at the door.

"Do I look like a fucking show pony, gentleman? Ask the next question."


***

Hours passed in that damn office, unpacking and unpicking her words; the bare bones of the registration form, and much more besides. They were interested in the healing, she realised; its strengths and limitations, so far as she understood it. She'd never paused to consider that it wasn't something everyone with the power was able to do, and even now did not really care. Impatience was sharpening her to a blade's edge, battling the sheer fatigue weighing heavy as a cement shroud. Sage might be dead by now. Or they might be sealing up the incision and wheeling him to recovery. And she hadn't been there for any of it. Despite vowing, and meaning it with her very marrow.

She rubbed her face again, asked him to repeat another question stuffed in her ears like cotton wool. Sometimes he paused after she'd finished explaining something, eyes wavering as he read text on the screen, but by now she'd stopped noticing -- or wondering what the fuck it was he clearly referenced. The coffee pot was empty, even the dregs stone cold. Her thoughts were a strange collision of jittery and sluggish as she checked her wrist watch for the third time that minute. He'd been quiet the whole time, perhaps reading through to make sure he had not missed anything. Finally he stood, jerking down the hem of his jacket. When the stick uncoupled from the screen, the holos flickered and brightened to their usual screens. "Thank you for your time, Miss Kinnaird. We will be in touch."


Morven stood too, slicking back her hair once more, blinking rapidly. He offered his hand as he passed her, but she ignored it. Moments later they were gone. She was not far behind.

She needed to get to the university; she needed to find Marcil.

So what if he had to go to some ball, get pimped out by Scion Marveet to impress all his Custody friends and swear some kind of oath of fealty to the Ascendancy. Because Jaxen was renown for keeping his promises. He rolled his eyes and unlocked the door to his own apartment and strolled inside like the king of his own castle again. Finally.

A shower later, he ordered food and drinks from concierge in the front lobby. For the first time in a long time, he lounged on his own furniture, towel wrapped loose about his waist, sipped some good vodka from real Baccarat crystal, and enjoyed the dark view of his castle in the sky. If only he had Emperor Maximilian's sword laid across his lap, things would have been perfect. Fuck Scion for selling it. The bastard said he'd given all his possessions to the CDPS, but he clearly lied. There was no mention of any such recovery of stolen goods. He'd sold them off to the highest bidder. Given there were no shortages of rich people in Moscow willing to cough up the money, the sword could be anywhere. Then there was that fucking Sword of Light of Nuada sitting somewhere on some island in the northern arctic ocean that he was unlikely to ever discover. At that moment, Jaxen would have been pleased to have either.

Oh well. He was patient. "So much better."
He dropped his head back, muscles relaxed, body at ease. His fingers ached to fire up the computer systems and stretch his legs in the virtual world, so to say. Voxel had been absent from the dark reality for far too long.

He had to learn who all was going to be at this ball. Just to figure out who to screw with first.

His lips pursed at that. Taking Lawrence, an american independent reporter, was exactly the kind of screwing with people he liked. But dammit, his fingers itched. Someone else on his arm inside the Kremlin was so tempting.

He pulled up her number and sent Oriena a message.

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Message to Oriena</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>


Princess,
Come to the magnificent ball with me. Saturday. The revelry will be thrilling.

Your prince.

Ivan parked in the old neighborhood and opened his door. Just being here made him feel some semblance of normalcy. He took some comfort in that. But he looked around, watched for parked cars, a van, something that might indicate they were being watched.

The worst part, the VERY WORST PART, the part that made him feel like there were chains around his legs now, was the realization that they fucking didn't need to watch him, now. He knew he couldn't be everywhere. And they had dirty cops working for them- whoever they were. Which meant that anyone he went to for help might be one of them. (Them....he was tired of calling them that.)

So short of packing his family up right then and there and moving them into hiding- where and how he had no fucking idea, nor how they would live- they could get to them at any time.

Which means they owned him, right now. They could give him freedom because they knew he couldn't do a goddamn thing about it.

He walked up the steps and opened the door. Not even locked. At least it hadn't been kicked in. He found ma and pop in the living room, the two youngest, Ana and Viktor, in their arms. He wondered if they would tell the older children, Sofiya and Pavel. They had families of their own, husbands, and children. All very little, of course.

All in the cross hairs. Because of him. Because of him, and a stupid mistake.

No. Because of that bitch. And his father's friend, a man so close he called him Uncle.

His mind refused to make the final accusation, refused to name the last reason. Couldn't. No....he couldn't.

But pop's eyes were filled with tears and fear when they met his, only briefly, before looking away. Shame. Ivan went to his ma and hugged her to him tightly, Ana and Viktor. Pop seemed to shy away, but Ivan wasn't going to blame. He put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"I am glad you are ok,"
he said with quietly. They didn't look hurt, not physically. But that vow hardened, steel to diamond, seeing the terror in their eyes. He would make her pay. All of them.

Ma looked tired. This had happened once before. he remembered her look in the video. Maybe she had always lived in fear of this. No wonder she hadn't wanted Ivan to join the force. It hadn't been verbal, exactly, not really. Just comments. Telling him about what others from the neighborhood were now doing for work. Stuff like that. In hindsight, she had been trying to protect her oldest, something she couldn't do for her husband. And her children.

They were all caught in it, he realized. Trapped. And always had been. And all this time he thought he had been free.

His voice was calm, but only because he couldn't let himself feel anything else. "Pop, can we talk? In private?"
He didn't want Ana or Viktor to hear. They were 10 and 11. Old enough to understand adult conversations.

Pop nodded, gave Viktor a hug. "Crisya, let me talk to Vanya."
Ma gave him a flat look and pop sighed. "Please. I have to explain it to him. He deserves to know."
Ivan didn't think that was what the flat look was for.

No. he knew. That there was something to explain at all. Pop knew it too.

They went into the kitchen. Pop poured a glass of Vodka, offered him one. Ivan didn't. He already was having a hard time concentrating. He just sat down at the table and waited. The question was unnecessary. And he wasn't sure how to ask without making accusations.

Pop seemed to wait, hoping he'd break the silence. Finally, he realized it wasn't gonna happen.

The beer was not terrible.

Then again, when Ryker put the bottle to his lips, any memory for comparison was long ago dulled. He was studying the logo of a griffin on the bottle label when a voice interrupted.

"Well? Did I tell you, or what?" The waitress, hand on her hip, was smiling expectantly. Long brown hair, wide-eyes, and a narrow waist. She wasn't ugly. Ryker lifted the bottle in mini salute. His leather jacket crinkled softly with the movement of his arm.

"You were right. It's not terrible,"
he replied.

She chuckled and journeyed to the next table.

Not terrible summed up the entire bar, come to think of it. The floor was old, but mopped. The tables wobbled on uneven legs, but were wiped down. The servers competent, but not dreadfully unattractive. It was the kind of place he could blend in when he wanted. It was filled with the kind of people that he needed to study.

He swung the stool slightly, bottle resting the cap of his knee. The jeans darkened slightly where the condensation dripped. He shifted the bottle aside, then, casually swiping the wetness away.

His best eye sharpened as he measured the entrances and exits, the manner and carriage of those in view. A kitchen smelled like cooks worked at a steady pace. When the door to the back swung open, he glanced two such cooks. He wasted no more thought on them.

Beer sipped, he watched.

Ilesha hadn't really found a reason to stay in Moscow. Sure there was Kallisti girls - but Ilesha wasn't sure she wanted to associate there. It wasn't that she was a prude, and it had other benefits, but it felt like she was going to be used. For what she didn't know. She had nothing to offer.

And then there was Thalia who seemed as confused as her about things.

There was no amount of things to do in Moscow and she wasn't hurting for money. She could work motorcycles here just as easily and Ilesha had picked out the potential jobs for the past week. But she got a phone call early one evening.

"Hello?" She answered the unknown number from home.

"Ilesha, hunny. You're father had a heart attack."

Ilesha gasped. It was not common problem these days but it did happen. "What happened?"

Her mother went on for about an hour telling Ilesha all about how they were lucky and how things had to change. Her mother hadn't even mentioned her coming home. But Ilesha offered. "I'll be home in a few days."

Her mother protested but Ilesha had hung up resolved to fly home and help her family. Her priority changed now that they needed her.

[[ Ilesha's going on ice, if anyone needs her she'll be home in NYC ]]


Edited by Ilesha, Feb 5 2018, 12:42 PM.

Origin: Kiev, Capital of Dominance II

Appearance: 6'2", muscular and broad shouldered. Dirty blonde hair that's thinning prematurely, gray eyes. Numerous scars from poorly healed wounds. One eye is murky but not completely blinded and scarred from fire flashed in his face. Otherwise, he would be called handsome.

Age: 32

God reborn: Rāvaṇa



Biography:

The gray and orange screen of a .ccd government website blinked patiently. The blazing office of Channeler Oversight logo dominated the background. Just looking at it curled the taste of disgust in the back of his throat.

The man pacing before the work station clasped his hands behind his back and calmly spoke a command to fill the first field. There was no one to hear him. None but the computer system.

"Ryker Petrović."

"Male."
He added.

As he spoke, the fields on the screen were filled. This was the magic registration form put out by the CCD. The website was likely to have been blocked by the American government, but this was no ordinary office. The log in was no ordinary password either. The man did not resist questioning long before giving up his clearance status. Ryker's was long ago revoked.

The next field was CID. This number identified him as a citizen of the Custody. Behind his back, his hands clasped ever more tightly. It was just a number, he told himself. Just a number.

He stripped an orange shirt from his back and dropped it to the floor. The back that was revealed rippled with muscle. Broad of shoulder with fists like iron, Ryker had little in the way of conflict with the others around him. Yet a mass of scars criss-crossed those muscles, scars of the many fights he sought. Most were old and decently healed. Others were barely visible but to his discerning gaze. One was new enough to pucker bright pink over one pec. Each one was a mistake that forced him to learn. The lessons were hard. But he learned. He learned.

He forced his eyes to fall across the CID printed in big block letters across the shirt's shoulders, marking him a foreign invader. The orange marked him a member of Block Five, but the number was not so easily cast off as doffing a shirt. A biosensor barcode was tattooed on his wrist with the same information. There was no removing it short of amputation.

Ryker sighed and read his CID aloud, "719A433"
. Promptly, threads of fire curled into the fibers of the cloth. The orange shirt was incinerated within seconds. Good riddance, he thought. Today was the last day to wear any such item. Never. Again.

The field populated with his number.

The next field asked for location. Ryker smirked and looked around him. The room was spartan. A metal desk and rackety wooden chair sat abandoned in the center. The frame of an old printed photo fell broken on the floor. The family within would mourn their deceased. Perhaps. The man was a bastard. Likely his family would not miss him.

Other than the computer system, the only thing to look at was a thick, glass window overlooking a dead yard. Ryker knew the place well. If he closed his eyes he could see the asphalt, smell smoke, and hear the crunch of boots in the gravel. Even here, they made them march. And the chanting. God. The fucking chanting.

The warden's office was stamped with the official seal of the United States Army. Their beloved military prison was about to burn. But not until he finished this form.

Location: "San Quentin Military Prison Complex, Marin County, California, USA."


Ryker outright laughed at the next field in question. Occupation.

Currently, as he was standing in the office of an executed warden with full control of the Prison's security system, he could claim warden. As a prisoner, he cleaned toilets. As a free man, he was a special operator. And before the military, he was a father and husband. So which of these glorious occupations to claim?

The laughing ceased. He left the field blank and moved to the series of questions that followed.

Summarize what you can do with magic. Easy.

"Fires. Bombs. Melting. Forming. Moving. Killing. Blocking. Crushing."
There was one more thing, but he omitted that detail.

Most of those powers were fairly recent developments. Even Ryker was unaware of the extent of this power within. He practiced ceaselessly in solitary confinement. The best place to focus on the oneness within was without the distractions of the fucking assholes around him that he was forced to endure. It started slow, of course. He still recalled the day another prisoner escaped nearby grounds. Although originating from a civilian complex, word of another man of the power that cast off the shackles of bondage and reclaimed his life spread like wildfire. Within these walls, Damien Oakland was a legend. Soon another would claim that title as well.

The overcrowding at San Quentin was atrocious. So much for the golden justice of the United States. Rooms built to hold 10 contained 100 men. Often the pestilence that spread in such close quarters meant those of like disease were confined together. Tuberculosis in one meant anyone with a bad cough were thrown in, destined to a fate worse than the run of the mill cold. Addicts were thrown together in another that fought over a single needle as a vial of bad drugs were tossed in by the guards just for their sheer amusement. But of all the places to find one self, the black block was the worst. Ryker shivered with disgust just to think about it. A single skin lesion would get a man confined to a destiny almost worse than death. Even a simple infection from a poorly healed wound taken on the Yard would land you nestled in the wings of the Black Death, as the inmates called it. If a man didn't have syphilis when he went in there, he had it a few hours later. The inmates made sure of that. In there, HIV was the least of their concerns. You would die of syphilis long before then.

This power seemed to protect against illness and infection, though. Once the fevers passed, of course. He had a fever after the first time, certainly. But he was a dead man if the guards learned of the sickness. He quickly picked a fight with another inmate, granting him one of the scars on his back, and made himself pass the worst of it in 48 hour solitary.

How long have you been able to touch magic?

"Twelve months."
He answered flatly. Twelve long months since that first fever. Twelve miserable months trying to master it after Oakland escaped. The darkness and solitude did their work. This power inside was his power now. He waited until that much was confirmed long before this day. This day he would be free. This day was his last inside.

Have you ever been targeted for your magic?
"No."


Prejudice?
"No."


Anything else we should know?
That question gave him pause.

"They call me a national security risk. An unlawful combatant. A prisoner of war in a war that does not yet exist. As soon as I leave this cursed desert, I will return to the fatherland, no thanks to Custody intervention. I expect a glorious homecoming."


He hit submit and the form dissolved into the ether of the internet.

The power erupted into his grasp in that moment. When Ryker emerged from the warden's office, he left a train of carnage behind him. That day, Oakland's legend burned with the rest of the inmates.

He left one alive. One skinny guard that quivered in fear at his feet. The noisy calls for mercy did not touch Ryker's heart. But what stayed his hand was a single memory of kindness this worm once showed him. The act was repaid in the moment Ryker passed him by. And there would be one to relay the tale, assuming he escaped the hellish inferno consuming the complex.

**

A month later.

**

Mexico City to Cape Town to DV to DI.

The air force escorted him to Moscow. When he emerged onto the tar mac, cutting an imposing figure in the uniform of Assault Team Vega, hair neatly cut, and wounds tended, his eyes narrowed warily when a black limousine pulled up. The orange and black flags of the Ascendancy waved on the breeze. The motorcade was a black train of death, and Ryker summoned the power into his grasp when the door opened just in case they were here to kill him.

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips when the Ascendancy presented himself. A glorious home coming indeed.

"My personal gratitude for your service to the Custody."
The man said even as the power filled him in turn. It dwarfed Ryker's own, but neither commented on it even as they both sized one another up.

Ryker bowed his head ever so slightly and joined the man in the limousine. When they emerged at the Kremlin grounds, Ryker was promoted to Commander, allotted expenses, and assigned to what was sure to be a bloody and glorious campaign. He was given everything he asked.

Except one thing, but Brandon was unlikely to yield that so easily.

A fan term for Wilders in WoT has generally been that these people are "sparkers" - in that they are born with the spark to channel. At some point in their lives, they will channel whether they want to or not. If they don't control their abilities, the one power will kill them eventually. Otherwise they develop a block. These are the characters we have been allowed to play in the FA so far in the game.

Learners, on the other hand, are people who have the inborn ability to learn to channel. However unless someone guides them through the process, they will never do so on their own. There are many more "learners" in the world of the WoT in the books than sparkers. So far, in the FA game, we have not been allowed to "discover" that someone can learn to channel.


UNTIL NOW!!!



The game is now officially open to PC's "learning" to channel if they are "learners". Of course, you will need to RP out in a fairly realistic manner that PC's discover someone can in fact learn if they aren't born with the spark.

Of course the discovery that someone is a learner is different for men and women.

Men
In order to test if a man can learn to channel, the channeler forms a simple weave such as a little flame dancing in mid-air between them. The applicant concentrates on the flame and if the candidate can learn, a resonance is felt by the tester.

Women
In the testing to see if you can channel, a woman channels a simple weave and waits. Within five minutes if a woman has the spark, the candidate will try to channel the flow, and the test is confirmed. It takes longer for those who only can learn. However, a woman who has the spark can be detected by another female channeler without being tested.

Factoids:
*generally, Sparkers are stronger in the OP than learners
*there are many more Learners than Sparkers.
*A learner can learn at any age, however sparkers manifest in teens (women) and 20's (men) on average. If they haven't sparked by a certain age, they won't do so.


Have fun!

They said she should paint. So she painted. They said she should draw. So she drew. They said she should write a letter.

She couldn't think of anyone to write.

She used to write her stories. She longed to do so again, but it was best to forget the nightmares that plucked at the fringes of her sanity. She missed her little pets. They said she shouldn't snuggle with them at night. They said her pets weren't real.

They felt real. They kept her warm at night.

Mara tapped a pencil on the paper. They wouldn't give her a keyboard to write. She had to use her own fingers. She didn't mind. The eraser end of the pencil was marred with bite marks. The other end was worn down to a nub. The graphite slid across the paper in a pleasant, swooshing sound. Daiyu wrote in her native language. She was too tired to work with English.

She yawned and began the letter.



Jet,

My name is Mara. You might remember my other name. Daiyu. We are cousins. How are your family? How is Melany? She was always very nice to me. I have not seen my family in a long time. I don't live in China any more. I live in Moscow now. I have been placed in the Guardian sanatorium, but all they do is give me pills and lock me in a room. Father and mother left me here after my novel was published. They want my money. I'm not insane. Can you help?

Sòng Daiyu (Mara)

Edited by Daiyu, Feb 1 2018, 09:23 PM.

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?”