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May, 2010... Fantasy became reality. Worlds overlay for the briefest moment. Outworlders became stranded on earth as more than half the human populace vanished. Our World, our universe, was transformed.

Fiction is now reality. Humans and those now bound to this world will either learn to coexist, or battle for supremecy.

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Found 11 results

  1. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    When Has Become Now

    March 1st 7pm New York, Unknown Earbuds were something she rarely wore. Her focus had to be so precise when she was working on her glass, somehow this evening the sounds of cellos playing heavy metal made her more intent. Hair was pulled up and piled high on her head, a small lock was tickling her cheek. Narrowed eyes were trying to ignore it, a whiff of breath from her lower lip trying in vain to get it from her skin. Spacers were set aside and she sat back, pulling her hair down to re-twist and pull it back again. The project was coming along, spending time at her work table was not something she had done a lot of in the last month. She’d been meaning to finish the stained glass repair from the café door window for a while now, tonight had given her the opportunity. The shop was slow, after Valentine’s day. Quiet, evening rush over. Perfect. Heels of her black ballet flats hitched up on the rung of her stool. Elbows on the workbench, her chin came to rest on her hands as she stared at it, deciding what to do next. Eyes flicked up at the light that signaled the front door had opened, going back to studying all the colored pieces laid out. Fingernail played with one of the aquamarine studs in her ear, sliding down to twirl the long pendant with her finger. Jesse’s head peeked in, *npc* “Detective Stanford stopped in.” She looked up, pulling out the earbuds. He wasn’t a stranger. Sometimes he checked in just to make sure things were okay and get free coffee, which she was fine with for any law enforcement types, sometimes he was following up on shoplifters and such. Nothing like that had been an issue of late. Just saying hi probably. “I’ll be out in a sec.” She slid off the stool, black worn button up cardigan sleeves pulled back down and wrapped around her a bit closer. It was chilly for some reason, and the deep aqua blue cami wasn’t doing much to help even though she’d layered it over a black one. Earbuds were popped out of her phone and she wound them up and dropped them on the work bench. Phone in her back pocket. He was rifling through one of the leather bound blank journals she sold as she stepped out. The older gentleman had been around for about five years or so, he knew her and the area fairly well. Was a cop somewhere else in the city before this position, but she didn’t know where. *npc* “Sorry to bug you so late, was gonna call but then remembered you don’t drive so thought I’d save you the trouble.” “Coffee?” she asked. He set the journal down, shaking his head. *npc* “Not this time, thanks.” “You pick that up every time you come here. I think it has your name on it.” He smiled, then nodded. *npc* “Sorry to bug you in the evening. We arrested a guy a few days ago, had some interesting things on him. Found one of these tags in the bunch.” He held up the journal and tapped the price tag with the store name on it before putting it down. *npc* “Think he might have been stealing from here, thought you might want to come down and take a look at the stuff.” Brow furled. Great. She hadn't been in the shop as religiously since the holidays. Not as many eyes to watch the place. Jesse was closing, and it was unlikely to pick up. She could do that. “Sure, as long as I get a ride home.” Cars had been elusive. What she wanted and what she could afford seemed to be two entirely different things. Ballet flats were slipped off and replaced with an older pair of black biker boots. They were more feminine and the older they got, the softer the leather became and they had begun to slouch. They were easier to wear over tighter jeans, and they were comfy. Leather jacket. Scarf… she was so fucking ready for winter to be over. Phone was pulled, a quick text to Ryan, just because. “Hey, I had a Detective Stanford come by to take me down to the local precinct. Happens once and a while when they find stolen items, he's our usual guy. Shouldn’t be long, he’ll bring me home so I don’t have to catch the subway… see you soon.” Phone back in her pocket, she checked in with Jesse and went out the front door. There was someone else in the passenger seat, a face she didn’t know. *npc* “Rorye, this is Detective Fields, apparently I’m getting old and I have to train my replacement,” he said as he opened the passenger rear door for her and then slid into the driver’s seat. She rubbed snow from her eyelashes as she got in and he closed the door. It was getting bad out. “Nice to meet you Fields,” she held her hand over the seat and he reached behind and shook it. “You’re not old Stanford, maybe they just have more money to hire more help.” He laughed. Settling back in, she fussed with the seat belt. She hated the fucking things, but she hated cars too. Stifling. She felt like she was in a cage, and she was getting one. Joy. From the limited driving she’d done, it was a little different when you were actually in control of the thing. *npc-Fields* “I’ll get the heat up.” Stanford was playing with a Cantigo as he drove, taking a long drink. They didn’t even make those anymore. Lucky bastard. Traffic was light, the snow was managing to keep everyone home. She recognized the shortcut, looking down for several moments as she discretely pulled out her phone. It just didn’t… turning the screen brightness down all the way, she hit the text with her thumb. *Another detective in the car. Fields. Doesn’t feel right. Will send location.* She looked up, trying to find the streets, not able to read the signs that were coated in ice. Shortcut had become somewhere she didn't recognize. No immediate traffic. She turned in the seat to look out the back window, forearm wiping the condensation that lingered in between the defroster lines. Stanford looked at her in the rear view. *npc-Stanford* “Rorye, just relax.” She sat, muscles tense. “Stop the car,” her voice left no room for argument. *npc-Fields* “Relax. You’ll be fine.” Seat belt unlocked and she slid to the center of the seat. “Stop the car,” it was the only chance she would give them. Everything spun through her head at once. All the training, all the work, all the advice... and the mantra every girl had drilled into their brain from birth screaming through her thoughts. Never let them take you to a second location. *npc-Stanford* “Rorye, it’s okay. They said they just want to talk.” She spun in the seat, kicking the window until it cracked. Fields turned in his seat, the muzzle of the gun very real. *npc-Fields* “I will not hesitate to shoot you in the fucking face. Sit. Down.” Standford looked panicked. *npc-Stanford* “This was not the deal.” She slid next to the rear driver’s side door, putting the seat belt on. His gun stayed trained on her. She knew exactly how to disarm him, but there were too many variables. The weather. The streets. The traffic. She would have to plan this. “Where are we going,” she asked quietly. Her eyes were on him, but her attention on the traffic. She'd absorbed the way he held it, where it was aimed. Slightly over her left ear. He had trigger discipline. She was faster than this man's ability to fire an aimed shot, but she couldn't bank on Stanford's reaction and she'd be the only one not in a seat belt if they crashed. They were going too fast, and she wouldn't risk getting hit with an airbag unrestrained. If she was unconscious it would be for nothing. Headlights on the passenger side and a lone intersection were coming up, readying to kick the back of Standford’s seat as hard as she could. She finally knew this intersection, she knew where to go once she was out. Stanford looked up at her for a moment as if he almost knew, and that was all it took for the world to spin out of control. He blew the stop sign on purpose, Fields and his gun turned away from her at the sound of the horn blare. The nauseating sensation of weightlessness that she knew would end in pain spun through the car as the other vehicle slammed into Fields' passenger front door. The sound of glass and metal erupted, reverberating through her bones. Then silence.
  2. Boone (Paddy) Fitzpatrick

    Why Bullshit, of Course

    March 1st, 2022 Some shithole in west Boston Cold ass morning Boone's hand passed over several empty bottles on the floor, knocking one over in the process. Bingo. Lifting it up before the precious nectar spilled to high heaven, he swallowed what was left. Day old beer was crap. You know what was worse? No fucking beer at all. Boston was a shithole, this part of Boston anyway. No good booze, and the stupid propane heater had gone off sometime in the night. His couch and blankets weren't doing much to keep him warm. God damn fetch boy again. Nobody wanted to set foot on the west side. The east side? Decent, coming back to life. The west? Stunk like troll shit. Could be worse, he could be in fucking Ohio. That was literally troll shit. His squat was pretty high up, had to hide his bike below though. Almost got bit once out in this direction by some fucking zombie that wandered into town. They were rare to see now this far into even basic civilization. Even then, getting almost bit when you were taking a morning piss was absolute fuckery. So, hideouts had to be a couple floors up. Even zombies bumped into crap, would wake him up, unless he was drunk as hell. That didn't happen enough lately. Everything else, mmm... just the usual when Pharos had banished him into the middle of nowhere to grab some crap that was worth half a dime bag in New York. Trinkets. Trinkets because he'd been a little too frisky with the boss' daughter. That was what, three times this year he was demoted? Maybe it was because he simply didn't give a crap. It was worth it at the time. Freezing his ass off in the middle of a partially abandoned building waiting for a contact to show up made him question his path in life. Aw hell, nah. Being away from New York after what had happened was a vacation. While people were running around like a bunch of headless chickens, he had the skill and the balls to actually go out into the wild and look. For what? Something... closure. Aura was always a stuffy bitch... but he owed it to Cass to not stop looking. Cass was family. The stupid pittance trinkets he'd been sent to snag he'd already gotten. Back to the almighty Pharos safe to protect the world from unsavory stupid crap. Leaving today would get him back in maybe a day. Of course, when running for stupid shit he could be a little bit more nosy about non-stupid crap. Boston seemed to be the hot spot for non-stupid shit at the moment. There was something moving. Gears turned, no big deal. The trade was like a clock, his brain able to see the world move in patterns like nobody else could. It was a gift, and it was why he was still alive... that and he could talk his ass out of anything. And get shot. He got shot a lot. Getting shot was bullshit. He got shot more often than he probably should. Had to do with his smart mouth most of the time. He simply didn't like dicks. He wanted in, he wanted the deal, he wanted out. Everyone always had to try and screw somebody, like it even fucking mattered. Then, when he told them 'your mom', they usually shot him. They didn't like it when he insulted their mom. Anyways... the gears had stopped, some even reversing direction. Enough to notice. Patterns had changed. He'd heard about the crazy shit in the trade west of New York. Per usual things ebbed and flowed and always found equilibrium again. This time? Crap was reversing direction. Now his contact... his contact had something different than the typical wanker magic toys. Something interesting that had been snagged in New York. Shit didn't come out of New York. It went into New York. Anything coming out of New York was hot, and expensive, and almost always stolen. And dangerous. That interested him.
  3. Rhome Del Santo

    Begin to Be

    St. Patrick's Cathedral Vaults and Catacombs 2-7-22 3am That tiny little thing on those whistles… the plastic… those leather half circles with the tiny piece of metal and a tambour of plastic that you could put on your tongue like a wafer and press to your palate. The high pitched whistle they could squeal was piercing, penetrating through your sinuses like a fire alarm, itching the center of your brain like whipping rain against a window of tissue paper until it popped. It was all he could think, hear, see, feel- that vicious searing sound crescendo through his every sense. Gasp was immediate, the uncontrolled reaction unusual as the world that had spiraled to a pinpoint of focus was broken by some shred of consciousness from somewhere. His hand was on fire, and the dirt floor room was vibrating, fist closing to stave the blood. He snapped the towel from around his neck and swathed it over the flames to extinguish them and muffle the blood that had almost just created something catastrophic. Breath seethed through his teeth at the first look of the split knuckles, then the ancient load bearing beam he’d been hitting. Wood was also spattered with his blood, quickly wiped off as well. His blood was like gasoline. Once he bled, his spark could ignite a firestorm. When his consciousness this time had fallen into seizure and errored, he’d no idea. Meditation was not new to him, physical training and focus were not new to him. Together, was most definitely not new; it was what gave him the intense control he had. This crack was getting bigger, and he was starting to lose longer moments of time. Under recent intense reflection, he had pinpointed it just to before the binding, before he walked into enemy territory of his own free will. His consciousness had bucked even the strongest of cuffs, and ever since then there had been a tiny leak in his brain. Enough to drip over years, testing his patience, his sanity… breaking open a crack that was swiftly destabilizing an already volatile mix of skills and magic. He could see his past so clearly before the Resonance. His hell after. Then numbness as he was a machine, and now. Now was this person he didn’t recognize. He was calculating, and angry. An angel on one shoulder, and a devil on the other. The angel he knew and still loathed, but this devil was seductive and unknown. Now as this person in the deep bowels of the cathedral where even the Vicar didn’t go, he was training again. Why? A deeply thought out plan. Physical training was at the forefront, his specialty was quiet and slick death. He needed to inflict more damage, be able to take more damage. The more damage he took, the crack would split further apart. The more he focused on it, the angrier he became, the angrier he became the more darkness flashed in his field of vision. Somewhere else, something else, and he couldn’t hit hard enough to make it either go away- or find the white rabbit. In the wane electric light of old brick, dirt floors and cement tombs, he just kept hitting, letting the fire flush up from his feet and over his form as his hands fell to his sides and chest heaved before it extinguished. Growl preceded the heels of his hands smacking together and palms thrust forward, the fierce blade of flame from his hands turning almost white as it scorched a brick wall, extinguishing as quickly as his temper tantrum had started. Knees hit the floor and he fell to sit, pushing himself back against the wall with the heels of his Tims. Elbows rested on his knees as he tried to knead the tension out of his skull. It felt like he was splitting apart, and all he wanted was another throat to cut. Or a world to burn.
  4. Eris London

    Be Careful Where You Wander

    February 15th Late Evening Eris' Compound Being summoned to a meeting in Glamis was positively something she hated. It was dangerous to fly into the North at this time of year, networks had not been completely restructured yet. There were a few places she could land in the event of mechanical failure, but not many that were equipped to help her with what she needed to get the plane back into the air. The meeting was as expected. Demands. Irritating assholes. Arrogance. People that didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. Wants and needs that couldn't necessarily be delivered with the resources she had. Some sort of idiotic threat, crawling through New York. She'd gotten a whiff of it over the last year or so, but it had been quiet lately. Why was Sheut concerned? Because if bad guys gobbled up the magic slingers, they might annoy the Sheut Nation. Humans and their magic. Idiots. Just find a magus to screw and get the fascination out of their system. She couldn't get out of Glamis fast enough. Flight had been quiet, weather somewhat amiable. As the lights of New York came back into view, she couldn't help but really want to be home. Away from those that had no understanding or relatively little fucking clue of what the rest of the world was going through. Their only want was to make sure that their position reigned supreme, and to be assholes; with the exception of her adopted brother. Even he had his moments when she wanted to smack him on the back in the head. If she could reach, that is. Damn moose. The tiny vampire reached forward, clicking several small levers as she adjusted the headset and spoke to her ground crew. "Flash", said quietly the plane turning gracefully in the air. The runway near the coast lit up once, its chasing lights on the ground unseen unless from above. All she needed was the position to land, her eyesight could do the rest. Touchdown would be slightly dicey, winter flights were always a risk. Her crew kept the runway pristine. Always. The elegant Cessna touched down in almost complete darkness, immense power vibrating through the beast as she reversed engines to slow it to a crawl and taxi. "Gold window shields worked great Mouse," words were quiet over the radio. No response, there never was. The techie was always listening though.Turning over the plane to her crew, the petite form stepped down from the cockpit. She fucking hated winter, the black Louboutin mad heel boots she had on effective against the elements, but didn't bring her any closer to Ahanu's height. Black slacks were pristine, black Mackage Kay coat fluttering its fur collar at the bitter wind as she peered out of the hood up at her right hand. The woman's face wasn't pleased. It was never pleased when she had to tell the Viceroy bad news. Toby wasn't with her, which meant something had gone to shit. Her adopted protege kept the dangerous kind at bay. Namely, other vampires. There wasn't a vampire in the city she wasn't aware of, if they crossed her city without making themselves known she stabbed them in the face. They had the choice to reveal themselves, or die. Mostly die. Being infected tended to make baby vampires arrogant and ballsy. They tended to make her stabby and murdery. Heat rolled from above the doors in the hangar, closing as the plane was pulled in. She'd stepped to the side in the first floor office, pouring herself a drink. *npc* Toby is babysitting two rogues. "Fucking kill them already," answer was disinterested. "I just spent way too long listening to bullshit, rogues can go in a ditch." Yes, she'd promised not to do that anymore. It was her discretion. There were more popping up lately than the Executioner had time to deal with. Scratch that. She didn't feel like constantly flying out to shitstorm L.A. to pick him up. They were rogue, they were toast. Ahanu shook her head, the formidable woman pulling her hood down on her coat. The tiny vampire did the same. This was not going to be a good night. Coat slid from her arms and Ahanu took it to hang up. Winter white wool turtleneck sweater was smoothed, hair immaculate, narrowed eyes watching the woman as she picked up her cognac and followed Ahanu to the mechanical room. Toby was babysitting two middle aged wannabe commandos. Malnourished, beat to hell. They'd put up a fight. *npc* They were sniffing around the south fence. The irritated Viceroy reached and pulled Ahanu's sidearm from her leg holster, firing three concussive shots in succession and handed it back to her. Knee, knee, not knee. The asshole hissed at her, a high pitched squeal twisted into the animalistic growl. She put her hand out and Ahanu placed it in her hand again. One in the forehead. She approached the second, gun still in her hand. Swallow of cognac preceded the narrowing of the viper's immaculately lined eyes. "I'm hungry and tired. Open your fucking mouth and talk or I'll chain your ass to the east fence at seven am and burn your skin off. Then we'll bring you in, and do it again the next morning. I don't have time for your bullshit." The story between stammers and obstinate blubbering was one she didn't want to hear. Glamis had given her insight, and now this clusterfuck was in her back yard. Handing the gun back to Ahanu, she finished her drink. "Put him in the hole, call ARMA. I want to meet with someone tomorrow. Whoever is in this shit neck deep, lie if you have to in order to get them here. I'm going to sleep." With that she made her way to the upstairs luxury loft of the hangar. This was snowballing into giant headache. Of course, very few in ARMA knew of her kind, and she was content to just let the magic chasing idiots beat the crap out of each other as long as it didn't rock the stability of her area. Now rogue vamps were jumping into the mix? They needed to be ripped to shreds. That shit didn't happen on her watch. She had to clue in the new guard that there were worse things out there that could rain down hell other than humans fucking around with magic. Namely, her. Whatever "threat" was making factions piss their pants, hadn't locked horns with her yet.
  5. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    Chasing Ghosts

    January 3, 2022 Evening The Book of Kells Occult Shop Lips pursed as she blew out the flame on the Nag Champa stick. The scent was her favorite, it always clung to skin like a sensual swath of warmth... bringing her back to center wherever she was. The smoke curled upward, then spun in a tight coil as she placed it into a gold burner. She lifted tea to her lips, eyes still on the smoke that left her bookshop of the arcane always in a lazy and intoxicating haze. Almost the end of a long day, the regulars in the teashop the next room over were deep into books and late day conversations. She, was on her favorite stool behind the main counter, eyes wandering over the Sky Disc on the wall she'd risked her ass... Alistair's as well, to go retrieve. Her addiction to collecting everything dangerous and powerful hadn't abated, but without her 'partner in crime' the task had been much less fun and a lot more dangerous. Magus had the ability to kick ass. She on the other hand, was just... fast. Enhanced her ass. Lately... she was regretting throwing her hat in with Arma. A lot. The entrepreneur dealt everything to anyone, if they couldn't use it safely that was their business. Arma had kept her straight. Gave her a code to honor. That code hadn't been seen in over a year. Long sigh preceded her rise from the stool, taking her empty tea mug with her as the pillar of Hell's Kitchen went to retrieve another cup. She needed to pay Arma a visit. Soon. Time to sever ties.
  6. Rhome Del Santo

    Let the Master Answer

    Just after Dark February 11, 2021 Alley near the old Western Union building Blood was hot. So was his breath. As it quivered in and out of his chest, in came the frigid air… out came the anger of a devil. A thousand devils. Cerberus. Hell, Satan himself; in every tradition, in every faith, every level of purgatory and hell tangled tightly into a frayed knot that was breaking free. He was a ghost whose presence would reverberate across the globe, the building pressure finally bubbling to a volcanic tirade, one small droplet of blood from his finger splashing on the broken asphalt. Thera. Santarini. Vesuvius, the tales from his childhood, his home and corner of the world. A man that had played as a boy in what was left of dormant volcanic caves a harbinger of what would inevitably come when the world broke apart and skinned the callus from a man that had been made into something unthinkable. A man that needed to cleanse the world of the evil that created him. He finally blinked, lifting a palm to look at the red peppering his fingers that everyone always assumed was so bright. It wasn’t. Hot, sticky… leaving yellowish smears as it ran from skin and dried. The assassin was always so clean, meticulous, humane. This was just, just brutal. Hand was shaking. He’d never stayed, never longer than to whisper a gentle last rite over those that had been marked and he’d taken without question. That was a lifetime ago, a life that required of him total conformity and discretion. Now, one last cough from his target curdled stringy blood from the man’s lips, then crackled wheezing as he watched him die. It had been ragged, vicious, unrefined and effectively violent. Water magus unprepared for a magus that didn't need his power to kill. The same bloody fingers curled tightly into a fist, a signet ring so fragile against his burgeoning heat on cue threatening to cave entirely molten as he pressed it against the side of the man’s throat… leaving the brand of the Order in a scalded bubble of flesh. A conundrum for the law that would find the murdered Order magus; the third in as many weeks. Credentials were always left scattered over the magus' chest. The Order signet branded into skin above a throat so deeply cut it was almost severed to the spine. Starting with the "army", the foot soldiers, to flush the generals out of their offices and onto the streets. Out of the Long Lines and into his fire. For a moment, his soul felt at peace until the vitriolic rush of native tongue hissed forth... È la fonte della mia energia e il mio legame con tutti coloro che così toccato Noise woke his senses from the rush of justice, the ghost in the gray hoodie moving suddenly with the agility of a gymnast to kick off a dumpster and catch the bottom of a fire escape- the vertical leap almost impossible, but made with the ease of a trained killer. Up the fire escape, to disappear onto the rooftops and into the urban tangle that was New York. This was only the beginning... ((Translation/Italian- the third line of the Oath of the Order of Light; "It is the source of my power, and my bond to all those so touched."))
  7. Clariee Donya

    Thrive in Spite

    July 28, 2019 ARMA HQ building - Old Federal Reserve New York City, NY “Make up your mind that no matter what comes your way, no matter how difficult, no matter how unfair, you will do more than simply survive. You will thrive in spite of it.” -Joel Osteen Clariee had been back in New York for a few days now, but she was playing it cool. Three years was a long time, but it was the absolute soonest she could return without suspicions running high. Funny how the shortest stint of time in New York during the uprising put her own good name in question for so long thereafter. Pizdets, all of it, total bullshit but that was bureaucracy for you. They sent her to the lion’s den just before supper because of one minor incident back home in Moscow. The lion’s den being New York, Supper being the ARMA uprising, and the minor incident… her putting a senior officer of the Order in a coma for stealing her grandfather’s key-chain. Semantics really. None of it was by her design, she was a victim of fate, and she’d been paying for it ever since. Playing the Order’s Shestiorka for the last three years, just to prove she wasn’t tainted from her time under Alistair Greene’s command. Clariee leaned back in her chair at one of New York’s best kept secrets: a dying café outside of Tribeca. Finally, a moment to herself. Being everyone’s prison bitch back in Moscow just to prove her loyalty to the Order only gave her reason to work thrice as hard at sharpening her metal. She hadn’t had a moment to herself in all that time. Clariee put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. A habit she acquired in the last year or so, something for her nerves and sanity. She gave a heedy drag and a gratifying exhale, and that was all it took for one of the barista’s to run over and tell her the café was non-smoking. Clariee pretended not to understand her English, but the bitch just pointed to the no smoking sign on the wall. Well shit. Clariee rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse. The barista waited for Clariee to put the cigarette out but Clariee wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. Clar needed it more. She stood up with her things and rudely huffed a cloud of smoke into the woman’s face. The annoyed coffee peddler’s eyes glowed an angry orange, but Clariee didn’t flinch. A little show of anger wasn’t going to get under her skin. She reached across the table for her cup and let herself out. At the door she turned to blow one more billowing mouthful of smoke indoors before letting it swing shut. Whatever. She was the only customer; no wonder they couldn’t keep business afloat. They were chasing out paying patrons. Dumbasses. Clariee continued to enjoy her fag as she walked down Broadway. She was only a few blocks away from the HQ building and felt safe knowing that whoever had kept eyes on her return to NY had given up watching her boring daily routine. The low-level First Light jockey had taken to playing crabs at a casino nearby around this time of the evening when Clariee usually returned to her hotel room and soaked in the tub for a good hour. Figuring out who was shadowing her was easy (if not insulting, what a worthless tool, she must have done grade A work convincing the Order she was anything but sympathetic to the insurgence). Getting the tracer on him not as simple, but once the task was complete she’d come to know his patterns as well as he knew hers. And now was her chance. She had an hour to get in and out and she wasn’t going to waste it. She had intel that needed passed to Greene, in person. All other methods of sliding info under the table had been exhausted. She might not have been their most reliable asset, but what was reliable about living in the enemy’s house, eating the enemy’s food and sleeping in the enemy's bed? Yea, she’d had to do that a few times too. She wasn’t proud, but neither was she ashamed. She understood the world for what it was, ever a realist and she knew that getting shit done wasn’t a pretty job. You couldn’t win a clean fight when you were up against people who only fought dirty. Luckily, she was from their side of the fence, and she was able and ready to be the bastard that the dreamers couldn’t bring themselves to be. The American Dream, to be the hero, the good guy, to live righteously in a world of unrighteousness. Clariee sucked the poison stick down to the filter and dropped the butt on the street without pausing. It was nice to be back.
  8. Clariee Donya

    3 Days & Dead

    Following Thrive in Spite | Backdating to July 31, 2019 “If your life was complete, you'd be dead.” ― Joshua Wisenbaker Well that was unexpected. Clariee toed the body with her boot and lit up a fag. She took a deep drag, held it in for a few counts, then released the smoke on a long.... drawn out exhale. "Good thing I already made up my mind." And that her decision coincided with this little coincidence. Her baby-sitter was dead in central park. And to her own surprise, she wasn't the one who killed him. Was that irony? Guess it depends on who actually had. She'd taken special pains to get a message to the great and powerful Oz Alistair, and she hoped he'd find an opportunity to meet her in the park. She had come to a decision about where she wanted to live (and the fact that she most certainly wanted to live, period.) With the noose tightening around her neck as her compatriots in the Order grew more suspicious, accusing their outliers of leaks, she didn't need a history lesson to tell her how this witch hunt would fair in her case. "At least now I can speak English," she sighed, regaling the dead with her arguments in favor of her final decision. There was no one else around to listen to her self-assurance. She kept listing reasons as to why this was for the best, but it was hard to believe. The mind told her this was right, but her heart ached for what was wrong.... Home. Russia. The motherland. Don't roll your eyes, to her it meant something. Even in this dystopian reality, even someone as coldhearted as she was could mourn. Deciding she'd spent enough time hanging around his corpse, she flicked her cigarette downhill toward the more cultivated running path/walking trail, and began the careful descent from the man-made hill behind which the newly-departed was resting in pieces. Less than 1600 yards away she came to the Bethesda Terrace and fountain and sat down at the waters edge. It was a warm day out. She turned her face up to the sunlight, her eyelids closing behind the darkly tinted glasses. She'd spend the next four hours here if she had to, waiting for someone to find her, either to her benefit or otherwise. There was a large body of water at her back that could fuel an all out battle if it came down to her life or another Orderly's. On the flipside, it was a nice place to relax until a rep from ARMA joined her with the latest from their leadership (if not their leadership himself.)
  9. Wesley Evans


    Frantic whispers dulled down to an even less audible whimper as the sound of shuffled feet and wood grew closer. The whispers came from three of the lowest ranked magi Wesley could find; the only ARMA members he could get away with convincing to do his bidding. Two weeks after the explosion that took his brother's life and the incident that left him with a punctured abdomen and several broken ribs, Wesley still felt as though he wasn't 100% despite the efforts of the medical team at HQ's disposal. Mended bones and flesh didn't take as long as it could have without mystical means, but he still felt pain as he walked. Against the wishes of the healers and higher ranked officials he checked himself out of the med-ward early and, with the aid of a wooden cane and a hampered gait, set off to investigate the bombing site on his own. Of course the others investigated the rubble long before his recovery and were understanding enough that they allowed Wes to review their findings afterwards, but it wasn't enough to dissuade him. He needed to find out for himself. So he searched. The first day he did so on his own; just a shovel and his bare hands. The next day he "liberated" one of the necromancy specialists from their station to try to sense out where his brother's corpse may lie, but to no avail. So he brought more, even going as far as to bring some of his brother's belongings to grant a better understanding of his soul... to aid in feeling him out... and still nothing. Today was no different. No one could find a body, yet no one could find proof of his death in the form of residual mana imprinted on the surroundings from the passing of his soul; like a ghast or a ghost. Something that could be considered concrete proof of his death in the absence of an actual body. Leaning on his cane Wesley pivoted back to look over the concerned comrades he'd convinced to follow him again. Days ago they all felt obligated to help in order to ease Wesley's suffering, but now their concern was for his mental state. He had to come to terms with his brother's death eventually, and the sooner the better. But if he wanted his investigation to continue, he had to convince them that he was okay, lest they interfere. "Okay. That's enough. Thanks for all your help but... I can finally accept that he's gone." They looked back at each other for a moment, curious as to whether they should heed his words before eventually walking back to the van that they all rode in to the site. Wesley followed. The ride was a slow and quiet one as no one wanted to cause an emotional outbreak from Wesley. Hours later in the library Wesley turned in the texts he borrowed on dowsing, zombification, necromancy, and séance before heading back home. Before exiting the building a notification on his phone notified him of an email, which he hurried to read. It was again higher ranked officials turning down his request for access to more classified texts on forbidden spells, the fourth time in 4 days. The only way he would acquire access to info of the sort he was looking for was if he could personally persuade a higher ranked official to look the other way or better yet, provide him the resources he was looking for by using their own clearance. So the next day he made his way back to the fallen casino sight alone, and left Alec a voice message requesting his presence. Speaking to him at the scene of the crime would no doubt have more of an effect than in a crowded, camera-watched ARMA HQ. The message was short and sweet as not to seem too emotionally charged. It read: "Important info concerning investigation. Waiting at casino bombing site." He hoped that he would come alone, but couldn't ask him to without tipping him off. And he couldn't call him, lest his friend hear the concern in his voice. So he awaited his response to the text, his stomach turning with each passing second.
  10. Rhome Del Santo

    Good Night, and Good Luck

    October 22, 2017 Evening ARMA Headquarters Cold. Bitter and unending cold. Gritty assignments, surrounded by constant death. Hiding. Moving. Changing. Living alone as always. Juxtaposed with the incredible light and joy of spending time with someone who only knew him as a lie. It wasn’t a lie… he wasn’t a lie. There had been a human within him once, not a mindless killer. The crack had started almost a year ago, the increasing demands driving a wedge in his sanity, only one person keeping his thoughts on the straight and narrow. He couldn’t lie to her anymore. The breach of trust was unforgivable. If he came clean and they killed him anyway, at least he had purged his soul before answering for his actions. She had to know, and he couldn’t keep the secret any longer. It would never be right, could it? Whatever he chose to do afterward, pending his survival, would be without chains or guilt. The building had been under his surveillance for a while, thick with contemplation how to make it right. Decision had been made. Hood was pulled closer around his features, pushing into the stairwell of the roof access, footsteps a death knell as he took them two at a time then jumped to the next landing. He didn’t rely only on his abilities as a magus, the man was nearly unbreakable. A lion on a leash. The leash had been broken. No pause, no falter in his step to cross the street, a beeline straight to the ARMA doors, blade athame pulled and sliced across his palm to release his blood to the air- blade returned to its sheath after wiped on his hoodie sleeve. He was primed to die, not before he got to speak with her... it would be a hell of a fight. Exhale pushed outward, a long seethe as the air around him became a furious flurry of quivering heat, the street’s cool temperature fogging as he wicked the moisture from it with the inferno building off his skin. Paint seared and bubbled from cars as he passed. Dry cracks splintered behind him as he walked toward the front doors, already feeling the wards pushing back at him, no doubt those inside could feel his pushing back. Air was becoming too thick to move in, a linebacker pushing against a football sled. He made it past the main door inside before the ambient protective power of dozens of unified mages disallowed another step… knees hitting the floor, hands pulling back his hood so any cameras could get a clear shot of his face, fingers intertwining behind his neck in an unarmed surrender. Inferno burned from his core, sweltering the immediate air around him in a defensive warning of hell. Normally pale gray eyes were white with heat, gaze straight ahead. [santo]I have killed twenty six of your people. I know who the next targets are. I need to speak to Cassandra Greene. I will ONLY speak to Cassandra Greene.[/santo] Lashes closed, unmoving as the furl of heat suddenly released, the silence before a storm. Waiting for death, or… for life.
  11. Eris London

    Secrets, Lies and Saving Lives

    January 24th, 2108 A bit after last call... the old 'diamond district' God she’d been gorgeous, and tasted even sweeter, a lick of alcohol still lingering in her blood from the wife of a potential client. He was such a douche canoe, perks with the flights? Fuck that. Sent them home, met the wife later for drinks. Lips quirked at what had happened next. Fun night. It was rare the vampire went out on her own to deal bigger business than flight prospects, but this was not something that Ahanu, or even Toby would be helpful for. Mouse, well… she was already on the job in her own special way. Numbers and such. The girl could get anything, including leads on phone numbers that were hard to get, able to also sound like a damsel in distress when she really wanted too… warping the signal just enough to make it seem real. Tonight, nothing was real, down to the soft peach curls that tickled the front of her collar bone. It had been too much of a temptation not to take on her dinner’s persona. She rarely did anyone else but Reid, but these were special circumstances where the lingering power prior to her infection had been an incredible boon instead of a curse. Doing deals with the devil held their own bit of danger, and not knowing exactly who she was or even what she looked like would always be to her advantage. Unless he fried her ass, then she would just have to kill him. Shame. She really wanted to avoid that, especially with what she was trying to accomplish. Phone snapped closed, the much curvier body than she was used to swaying just a bit underneath her black Italian suit at her lazy gate into the alleyway, Proenza peep toes baring the incredibly cute toes sans polish. Cheeks were freshly flushed, several feeds absolutely necessary for the danger she was putting herself into. There were needs greater than her comfort level though at stake- the explosions merely a week ago. It was her territory, it was her problem, and she was incredibly pissed. It was time to stop chasing ambulances and time to start preventing dipshits from thinking they were in charge. If that included killing motherfuckers that pulled this shit, so be it. She’d ripped their heads off herself, in a discrete… not revealing the existence of vampires or the Nation way of course. Motion was almost invisible, form launched to a first floor fire escape about twelve feet from the ground to sit quietly and wait for the call to be answered. There was no ladder up to where she was sitting except for the lever within her reach that would lower it to street level and allow someone to climb up. For later maybe. Location had been chosen carefully. Deserted, quiet, enough light to see with human eyes. The older ornate brick buildings were day businesses, at night, closed. The privacy was necessary for such a delicate ‘conversation’, granted it remained a conversation and not a knockdown, drag out fight. It could not be over the phone, she would not knock on Arma's front door, or tolerate his lackies at his side. She had left hers at home, and that was unprecedented. This was for his ears, and his ears only. He would either be receptive, or not. Compact opened as she checked the berry colored lipstick. She personally didn’t wear it often, but on this mug… good god. Smirk was light, closing it and tucking it back in her inner jacket pocket, it had been a fun night so far. Legs crossed at the knee, calves sliding together. She would ride this persona suit more often, it felt wonderful. Hands set on either side of her hips to grip the edge of the escape, well aware she was sitting on a ton of metal. It was for her advantage, not his. A tip in his favor to remind her not to break his neck if he pissed her off. With a call to Arma and a fake emergency complaint about an Order asshole assaulting an Arma operative, the names were few that would show up. If it wasn’t the right one, she was a ghost. If it was… let the games begin. He was known for being a feisty one, then again so was she. If she had to kidnap and hogtie the man to get him to listen, so be it.


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