Revelation IC

[SaintB]

Revelation Clock time 6pm

The Present
December 21, 2012 was called by many the Mayan Apocalypse, the date that the Long Count Calendar came to an end and it was purported to be the end of the 4th World in Mayan belief. The date passed largely unnoticed by humanity like any other day, there was no reckoning, no end to the world, no perceptible change in the reality everyone had come to know and the skeptics more or less collectible shrugged and moved on. No. Perceptible. Change.
Humanity may not have the ability to notice but its a brave new world. Just as the Maya predicted the first imperceptible death throws of the world have begun; Armageddon is upon them all and now in the shadows and fringes of the human world a war wages in secret that will determine the fate of their very souls.

Erie, PA

InterPol Indicates Violent Crime Rates Skyrocket World Wide

An older man sat in the booth next to the body that once belonged to a man named Daniel Milligan paging through a newspaper, the headline was clearly visible to the being occupying the body, at its size it would have been clearly visible from a hundred paces. He could see the man shake his head sadly and mumble to himself but the words were plain as day to his occupant, "The whole world's gone to shit." he said sadly.
Barakiel, the being that was wearing Daniel as a suit, frowned for a moment but then offered a comforting word, "It's not so bad really. These kinds of things happen, its just fallout from how desperate things are getting in some places. Before too long things will work themselves out, you'll see."
If Barakiel had anything to do with it there would be no more unnecessary violence for millennia to come and of course he also knew why crime had spiked so much, where darkness and chaos reign violence becomes commonplace and wars always have casualties, even hidden ones had body counts. The last few bites of the Grand Slam he had ordered went down his hosts throat to make its way down to his stomach, then he followed it with the remainder of his orange juice; he may be immortal but the body still needed fuel and rest to run properly. He didn't mind eating and drinking though since there were few things in the human world more pleasurable than food and he did not at all blame the fleshlings for devouring themselves into a fat stupor when they had to opportunity since he himself and ANGEL of the Celestial Choir, a being that was supposed to be above temptation, had to battle to avoid over indulging himself.
"I'm not so sure." the man replied back, "I can't recall these kind of crimes happening so often, and I lived through some lawless times."
Barakiel formed Daniel's mouth into what he hoped was not a patronizing smile and let some if his infectious positivity spill out into the room, "Tell you what, tell the waitress your coffee is on me, I'm sure that by the time you finish a cup or two everything will be just fine."
Pulling a couple of wadded bills from Daniel's pocket he placed them on the old man's table, he wasn't sure but he might have put nearly $10 down, not that he cared too much about the amount, the gesture was the important part, "Just make sure the waitress gets all the change, kay?" he said jovially and headed out, his own bill already paid.
"Well... um thanks stranger. What's your name?"
"That's not important." he answered back with a friendly tone, "Some people like to call me a guardian angel." the latter part followed by a conspiratorial wink before Barakiel left this Denny's behind, probably forever.

[Northwest Slobovia]

Washington, DC, 3:30am, December 22nd, 2012

Kartereos sat in front of his laptop in the bullpen, the warren of small offices and cubes Representative Collins' staffers worked in. He watched the output from a news digest and analysis program with interest, intermittently changing the filters it was using. Regardless of how Kartereos adjusted the parameters, the output was always the same: big spikes in terms associated with violence, hatred, and despair starting about dawn as it broke around the world yesterday. The words "tolerance" and "love" started to fade out of the world's headlines and tweets at the same time. Kartereos kept fiddling with the program, hoping to see other trends, but he found none, regardless of the language he monitored or the method the digester used.

Finally, Kartereos pushed back from his desk, leaned back his chair, and knitted his fingers behind his head, spreading his elbows wide. In some sense, they were Charles Alvarado's head, fingers, and elbows, Kartereos thought distractedly, but the prior occupant of the body Kartereos inhabited went to his final reward almost five years ago, and Kartereos though of it as his body now.

"So", he mumbled to himself, "it came a little earlier than I expected. I wonder who told the Mayans our little secret." Kartereos considered some possibilities, but finally concluded they just got lucky: their civilization wasn't that old, and their cosmology was otherwise confused. "Regardless", Kartereos said in a normal speaking voice, "it's time to get moving. And considering what being up for almost two days is doing to this body, the first move is to bed." Kartereos didn't worry about being overheard: Collins' offices, like the rest of the Capitol Complex, were deserted for the Christmas recess. Most of DC was shut down as well: the Adminstration's office buildings were empty, the lobbyists were gone, and even the Smithsonian museums had cleared out after the shooting spree at the National Zoo yesterday morning.

Kartereos decided not to crash on one of the office's cots or sofas, and he headed down to the staff parking garage instead. His wife would be glad to see him, and after a couple of days in an empty building, Kartereos felt he needed some mortal company again. After a little sleep, he'd be ready for action.

[Oblivion2]

Fort Nelson, British Columbia, Canada
December 22nd, 1am

The promised time had come and slipped past without the merest hint of a whimper. It would seem that the old tales had proven themselves wrong, and the immortals of this plane would not yet be drawn into a conflict of world shattering proportions, but rather a war of intrigues; of shadows and grim faced assassins.

This new reality suited Jacques Laurent just fine. While older than any mortal still drawing breath, Jacques was a sapling compared to some of his elder brethren, or even any of his potential progenitors. Born in 1776, practically on the Eve of the American revolution, Jacques had fought hard as a child to survive the streets of Colonial Quebec City, his father having walked out and his mother falling to the fever when he was just young.

This was not to last however, as he was quickly discovered by the Illuminati Council and their Nephilim. Soon it was revealed that Jacques too was part of this world of immortals, having been sired by a powerful Shadow-mancer; a demonic member of the Abyssal Hordes, capable of manipulating shadows into terrifying engines of destruction.

Despite not having powers even rivaling his father's, he quickly found he was well suited to his new life; possessing speed, strength and longevity surpassing mortal men in addition to a few abilities unique to himself.

So equipped, Jacques made a name for himself as an able advisor and defender of the colonies of British North America, as well as a particularily skilled field agent in the employ of the North American branch of the Illuminati. This trend would continue for several centuries with Jacques either serving as a soldier or political aide in the fledgling Dominion of Canada, that is until Kennedy.

John F. Kennedy during his tenure as president of the United States of America was also a seated member of the illuminati council of North America, a privilege granted to few mortals. Upon their first meeting the two men took an immediate dislike of each other that would lead them to clash on several subjects. Most prominent however was the Cuban Missile crisis, during which Kennedy ordered American aircraft into the skies, in preparation for Nuclear war with The Soviet Union. Immediately, the young president urged the Canadian Prime minister John Diefenbaker to place their own troops on alert, as well as potentially contribute to any US-led actions.

However, Jacques had intervened in the decision making process, preventing Canadian troops from being put on alert until after the climax of the crisis, putting a strain on the already chilly relationship between the two leaders. This intervention would eventually lead to Jacques estrangement from the Illuminati North American branch thanks to Kennedy's influence. Things were only made worse with his assassination a few years afterwards, the suspicion landing squarely upon the immortal French-Canadian.

And so here I am he thought bleakly to himself as he gazed out the window at a snow covered street, the white crystals swirling in the wind. Like most Nephilim attempting to lead normal lives Jacques, now going by Jack, usually only spent a decade in one place so as to fit in better. This decade he had chosen the frigid north of British Columbia as his home, using the isolation to try and study the coming End of Days. Officially, Illuminati policy was to try and draw the war out by playing both sides against the other. Jacques and perhaps other Nephilim felt there were other solutions: namely destroying both the Celestial Choir and Abyssal Hordes, or forcing some sort of lasting peace between the two.

But both of these options would require banding the fractious Nephilim together under a single banner, a task apparently even the mightiest immortals of old couldn't accomplish. Wish a sigh, he pushed himself up from his battered oak desk and stepped away from the clutter of old tomes and hastily scrawled notes, quietly padding his way out of the basement suite he was renting from a kind old couple, into a nearby bathroom.

The flick of a switch brought the light rushing in, and made Jack wince: Reading in the dark had made his eyes sensitive to the light. Shaking off his momentary blindness he leaned in towards the mirror, examining his naked torso with a careful eye. For a
Man who had fought in both world wars, he was remarkably well preserved, any wound inflicted upon him with mortal weapons would heal over without a scar in a short amount of time. Immortal weapons or abilities, were another story...

He looked down at the scar tissue on his wrists and was instantly reminded of his time spent in the German occupied Netherlands. He shook his head, clearing his mind of the visceral memories and instead concentrated on the features of his own face. His dark blonde hair hung down past his shoulders, sitting in a thick mane instead of its usual braid. His strong jaw line remained covered by a short, yet stout golden beard, and his face remained the same way it had for hundreds of years: as if someone had pressed the stop button on him.

He took a deep breath now and focused on meeting the gaze of the steel grey eyes he saw in the mirror, staring at them so hard that everything bean to go fuzzy. In that moment, he saw the inner works of the world. He saw the spot on the mirror that would cause the whole thing to explode in to tiny fragments if the right pressure were applied, he saw the weak hinge on a disposable razor ready to snap off. These were shatter points: physical, emotional, or metaphorical breaking points of an object, person, or place that would result in a rapid shift in that thing's make up.

But today he wasn't looking for chinks in any one thing's armour, this time he cast his piercing gaze upon his reflection in the mirror. He saw his own face reflected back upon himself
A thousand times, like out of a series of funhouse mirrors. He took a deep breathe and let the apparition fade. His vision had never lied before; something was coming, and whatever this something was, it would force him to make a stand and choose his side.

[Hardened Pyrokinetics]

Calgary, Alberta, Canada
22/12/2012
0000 Hours (GMT-7)

"So, that's the way you want this to go, friend?"

Two men stood on opposite ends of a darkened, forgotten alleyway in the neighbourhood of Haysboro. One wore rather baggy jeans of a dark blue, black running shoes, and dark grey hoodiee over a conspicuously red t-shirt. The man's skin was of an equally dark tone, making confirmation of his age - Whether stated or true - Impossible to the naked eye. His baggy, ill-fit clothing likewise hid his true size, and his posture kept secret his true height. What was clear were his intentions - And skills, as he lightly gripped a polished knife in his right hand. As was the lack of education, when the man opened his mouth. "I said, gimme your money before me and my boys take it from yeh."

The man to him this ruffian spoke merely shrugged his muscle-bound shoulders. He was quite the opposite of his friend at the other end. Standing straight at a short but respectable 5'3'' he wore an all-black tailored suit, and his skin tone was lighter than his opposite but also clearly worn by age and duty. He showed only contempt at the knife-wielding ruffian's bold threat. "Your 'boys' are of no concern to me, friend." That last word had a bite of sarcasm. "Or your showmanship with a knife. Now, I'll say it again, real slowly this time - L e t m e p a s s ."

"Nuh uh man." The thug replied, taking a couple threatening steps towards the other in a suit. "You clearly ain't from around here. Everybody knows that white boys gotta pay the toll to pass through the 'hood." He made a couple of threatening gestures with the knife. "Or they don't pass through at all."

The suited man sighed and rolled his eyes. "Then I'll just find another way home." He turned to leave the alley, only to find himself facing two more thugs brandishing knives of their own. He looked the two over - They couldn't be over the age of 23, fitting since the other was barely 30 years old himself. They were young, acting more on impulse and the mistakes and misdirection of their elders than out of any true evil. He could tell if they were - He had been trained to do so since he was boy. But there was nothing the man with the suit could do to talk his way out of this predicament. "Have it your way then." He stated tiredly.

Suddenly, faster than human comprehension would allow, the man in the suit struck at the boys in front of him. He punched them both in a pressure point below the right shoulder, forcing them to drop the knives and dulling their senses from pain. Next he grabbed both firmly by the collars of their shirts and lifted. Before they could shake the cobwebs out of their heads he slammed the two together, smashing head against head. Convinced they would stay down after that, the suited man threw both the sides, one landing headfirst in a pile of garbage and the other sliding down a wall before resting upside-down in the alleyway.

Just as the suited man turned to face the last one, he felt the characteristic slide of steel through flesh as the leader's knife made its way into his back. The attack forced the man to pause with a wet grunt of pain. The knife caught itself on a rib, and the leader let go and withdrew a couple steps to survey his handiwork. He wore a satisfied smirk on his face, having arrogantly assumed he had won.

That smirk quickly melted away as the man in the suit turned, his face now a dark glare. His nostrils flared, and the knife popped out of his back and clattered to the ground below, coated red with blood. "I rather liked this suit." He stated dangerously, before launching himself at his assailant. He struck blow after blow to every pressure point and other weak spot on the human body, too fast for the other man to react. Finally the man in the suit ended his barrage with a cartilage-shattering knee to the nose, and his opponent fell to the ground twitching and bleeding, one hand cupping his groin and the other dabbing uselessly at his face. His breathing through his nose was short, gasping, and frequently came up bloody and with the faintest of groans.

The man in the suit sniffed contemptuously. "You'll live." He informed the other without a hint of sympathy. "Next time, choose your targets more wisely, or you won't be so lucky." He stepped over the bleeding man and continued down the alleyway. A couple blocks down he felt the vibrations of his phone. Answering, the man didn't even notice when another appeared from the shadows behind him. He nary had time to hear the leveling of the gun before a 9mm bullet entered into the back of his cranium and exploded.

Logan Howlett withdrew his UZI, re-holstering it inside his black suit. He withdrew his own phone and disappeared back into the shadows of the valley from which he came. "Howlett here, target eliminated." He stated rather plainly. "Mhhmm... Alright, I'll head there in the morning." Hanging up, he let his hands drift to his pockets. "Vancouver... Be nice to see the ocean again..."

[Oblivion2]

Boston, MA
December 22nd, 11:00 PM

Travis Thompson, or atleast what used to be Travis Thompson, glided silently through the dark. The only indication that he was even there was the burning ember of a cigarette he held between his lips; Illuminating a handsome young face, and revealing a set of cold, dead eyes.

The being pulling the strings on this particular meat suit was named Apep, and here in the blackened streets of Boston he couldn't have been more in his own league. Apep was a creature of darkness; seductive and alluring, while also chaotic and cold, and his dark haired host reflected his nature very closely. Travis had always walked the fine line that many brilliant artists had; his work had been dark and at times manic, but certainly inspired.

It had taken many years for the Serpent of the Nile to wear the young man down into a nub of his former self, but finally after so much hard work the young artist had taken his life in a heroin induced frenzy. He had taken care that he had intruded minimally upon another Abyssal's sphere; for both suicides and opiates were the domains of two separate beings, neither of which Apep was particularly avid to deal with at the time.

But now here he was, a creature of darkness, with a young lean body to match. He often mused that it had likely come with being a snake. Mortal snakes could take days, or even weeks to digest a meal, requiring a patience almost unheard of in the animal kingdom. Apep happily possessed the same sort of traits when it came to hunting his two favorite types of prey: Troubled mortals, and Celestials.

Even amongst his own kind, Apep was something of a zealot. For a creature that grew stronger in the darkness, and weaker in the light, it stood to reason he was dynamically opposed to anything that kept him from being his very best. He was after all the snake beast whom tried to consume the Sun God Ra every day. If Jormungandr was the snake that circled the world, then Apep was the serpent who circled the sun, seeking to snuff out the very light of creation.

Tonight was a celebration of sorts. A prelude to armageddon.

In his mortal alias, Travis had been the toast of the Liberal Arts Program in UMass: he was witty, intelligent, charismatic, and mysterious. He was the sort of person women wanted, and men wanted to be like. And Apep revelled in it all. By being the epitome of 'Cool', he was actually the perpetrator of chaos and dissent amongst the impressionable minds of the university's youth: A position he had enjoyed several times before in politically and socially turbulent times in America (the cold war and Red Scares still brought shivers to his meat suit's spine).

So tonight, he would party, he would dance, he would fuck like a rockstar. All in the name of spreading a little chaos, maybe sowing the seeds of some mortal rebellion, but mostly to get the momentum going. Afterall, it wasn't everyday the ultimate war between order and chaos kicked off.

Several Hours Later

Things had gone well, perhaps too well. As was in his nature, Apep had made certain that several of his mortal thralls had brought copious amounts of opiates to the party. The purpose was two-fold; one to place the mortals in an easily suggestive state, and the other to draw out his prey.

Instead, it had allowed his prey to fight without holding back. He didn't know her name, and he didn't much care at the time, all he knew was that she was a powerful pyromancer, and she had successfully used the candle flames to keep his shadows at bay. They both panted heavily, covered in sweat and the blood of mortal and immortal alive. Every time he went to strike her, she would dart lithely aside, and harry him with her flames. He felt himself growing weak in the cackling light. In desperation he drew the 9mm from his waistband, and took aim.

The weapon kicked in his hands as the bullet rocketed through the barrel and towards his target. The woman stepped aside, smirking contemptuously. You're not my target, bitch. Apep thought to himself. The woman's smile faded as the high pitched trill of a fire alarm went off, and the automated sprinkler system kicked in, dousing her flames.

Around them, audio equipment sparked up and overloaded, lighting faded to the dull red of the emergency system. That was when she saw that the shadow at Travis' feet had become one, and then three, and then a dozen, and then a hundred twisting shapes. They writhed in the darkness, snapping silently at her, demanding her blood.

"No." She whispered.

"Yes." Were the last words he spoke to her as a thousand shadow snakes punched through her mortal flesh, and cast her soul back to where it came from.

The police would later report that faulty wiring at the party had contributed to a brief electrical fire, causing the automated sprinkler system to go off and flood the room with water, which in turn would electrocute the guests. What the police didn't mention however, was the exact placement of the bodies, and that to the properly trained eye it spelt the Abyssal Symbol for war.

Apep had made his move, and soon, others would come.

[Esternial]

Don't Fear the Reaper

The drums of war were all around.

Life was spent in tandem with ammunition, each shell casing dropping to the ground having the potential to announce the end of another life, snuffed out before its prime. Roaring flames of youth extinguished with ruthless force; there was no name for it but a massacre.

Mira could hear the clamor of gunfire and the screams of fear and anger. Her body was filled with adrenaline and pushed her primal response to flee from the danger, but it wouldn't move. She couldn't move. As she turned her head, her gaze caught onto a pair of eyes. It were her own, but she barely recognized them in the broken mirror. They were dull, almost devoid of life, with thick bags underneath them.

Then her eyes traveled down, and she noticed her own shallow breathing when reality suddenly dawned on her. Her chest was riddled with shrapnel, and her white shirt felt damp with blood. Her hands that rested on the ground barely had enough sensation to feel her warm blood spread across the floorboards. This wasn't a dream. She was about to leave this world.

Tears ran down her cheek as she felt all her regrets well up inside her, things she had wished to do in life that were now forever out of reach. As her eyelids became heavier, he ears could no longer hear the tumultuous chaos outside. Her perception of the outside world became narrower and narrower until all of it was pitch black darkness.

Mira David died the 6th of March, 2011.

"Mira...your name is...Mira?"

"Yes."

The man smiled bitterly as he laid eyes on the girl in front of him. She had a pale but fair complexion, with the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. One had a reddish gleam while the other was a vibrant green. If anything, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon.

"Such a shame..."

The woman nodded as she approached him. The man tried to move, but his body was weak and unable to obey.

"Such a big shame..."

He closed his eyes. The woman's movements made not a single sound. Around him he could only hear the soft humming of the apparatus that monitored his condition moments before it began to produce a high pitched beeping. His body felt numb, not even feeling the cold touch of the gel as two pads were applied on his chest. The voltage that coursed through his chest did nothing; his body had already given up the fight, but when he felt the cold touch of the woman's soft hand on his cheek, he felt at peace.

Mira smiled softly as the doctors disconnected the defibrillator from the pads. She stood in the middle of the room, yet none of them were aware of her presence. As they walked around, her body turned into wisps of smoke the moments they touched it, trailing off into oblivion until her entire body ultimately faded away.

"Desmond Franks, time of death: 11:34 PM, December 22nd 2012"

[SaintB]

Barakiel
Boston Massachusetts

Yesterday's news story about an electrical fire that killed several people in Boston wouldn't ordinarily garner much attention from Barakiel if it had not been for the fact that he had lost contact with a fellow Celestial named Namir at about the same time and since a trip from Erie to Boston was only between 7 and 9 hours long he decided to follow up on it and drive there with his vessel's car. He didn't make it in the timely fashion he had intended to though, outside of Utica New York there was road work and further down a traffic accident that forced him to turn around and find a place to stay for the night in town. He was also attacked there, an Abyssal he had never encountered before ambushed him outside his room. Likely young and brash and certainly one he had never met before it was easy for him to dispatch of his assailant.

He had finally made it to Boston the next day after more than 30 hours had passed since crime had happened and it's perpetrator was likely moved on but at least he could perform some research.

[SaintB]

Revelation Clock Time 6:00

[Oblivion2]

Apep
Boston, Massachusetts
December 23rd

Order was in the air, Apep could practically smell it despite the primitive olfactory glands in his meat suits body. His little act of open warfare was starting to attract attention, and according to his acolytes something of biblical proportions was headed his way. The very thought made him shiver.

Still, if this was indeed a very big fish, he would need to bait the trap rather exquisitely. He knew the Celestial righteousness would allow him to be put right where Apep wanted him, but it was better to be certain what the new player in town was capable of. He took a black cell phone from his host's pocket and dialed a number.

"3rd Precinct, Sergeant Massey." Came the Irish Drawl on the other end.

Apep spoke words of binding, the meaning of which had been long lost to the comprehension of mortals. "You know who I am?" Apep spoke into the phone, his voice now overlapping his host's.

"Yes." Said the officer on the other end, voice quavering.

"We have a guest in town... I will open up the trail. I want you to find him and push him to reveal himself. I need to see what he is capable of."

Apep smiled, he could almost hear the cop's spine straighten on the other end of the line. "It shall be done then."

Without another word the line went dead, and the Serpent of the Nile replaced the cellphone in his hand with a little red note book. He opened it to the second page and smiled grimly, tonight he would leave another sign for his pursuer.

Jacques Laurent,
Fort Nelson, British Columbia
December 23rd

"Happy Holidays!" The Huntley's said jovially as Jacques pushed himself out the front door. "Happy Holidays!" He said back with a smile and a brief wave. His stomach rumbled as he stepped foot onto the wooden deck on the older couple's porch, the sun reflecting off the snow and glaring into his eyes.

He slipped a rounded pair of sunglasses upon the bridge of his nose, as his boots crunched into hard packed snow. Much better.

He was out on a quick grocery run, amongst other things. In such a small town, it was common for -everything- to be closed for the holiday season. He slipped inside his truck, a little black F-150, and keyed the ignition. The motor seemed to have troubles turning over a few times, but after the fourth try she revved to life. Ought to plug the damn thing in... Jacques thought to himself.

With a resigned shrug, he slipped the vehicle into reverse and backed out of the driveway onto the street. He flipped the heat onto maximum as he rolled to the first stop sign of the journey, above it the street sign proclaimed in bold white letters: 51st Ave East.

A right turn brought him past Dan's Neighbourhood Pub, and onto the Alaska Highway, from there he'd make his way to the local IGA and pilfer the essentials: Eggs, Eggnog, and likely more eggs. From there it was off to the public library at town square for a little more research material. When he wasn't teaching History and Social Studies at the local high school, he was usually buried up to his head in as many of the old texts as he could get his hands on. Fort Nelson, as it happened, seemed to possess a very detailed section in their library on First Nations beliefs in their dawn Era; a near perfect source of information on fighting in the war that had truly begun in earnest only two short nights ago.

His hosts, the Huntleys, and the other Friendly Families throughout the country, had already reported an unusual rise in strange homicides and alleged gang activities. One particular case in Boston had already seen some extensive coverage by the media.

It's already begun. But how do we draw a line in the sand? Jacques sighed as he turned off towards town square and the library; it was a nearly hopeless venture. The Celestials and Abyssals had been locked in eternal combat since before time was time, at first battling in dimensions unknown, but finally settling down and duking it out upon the plane of mortals for millennia. And as far as either side seemed to be concerned, Humankind was little more than a convient source of meat suits for them. Even the Nephilim and their illumunati sponsors were mere children trying to play with the big kids on the block. There had to be a way to end the cycle, or atleast even the odds a little.

He parked his truck in front of the entrance to the library, almost slipping on a pool of ice on his way in. "Back again?" A female voice called out.

He turned to his left, where the sound had emanated from, his braid swinging over his shoulder as he did. This produced a faint giggle from a girl pushing a trolley of books: Megan McKellar. Megan was one of his former students, brown of hair and lithe of body, Megan was often the focal point of a lot of male interest. Jacques gestured to the books he had just left in the return bin.

"You know," he said with an accentless tone, "Just working on the research."

"Still trying to finish that book Mister L?" She asked with a coy smile.

Jack shook his head with a faint laugh: As far as anyone knew, he was writing a fictional novel on early interactions between European Settlers and the First Nations they had encountered. "Yeah, seems like it's never going to end." He offered amiably.

"Well," the girl began, setting a few books back on a nearby shelf, "I think the local First Nation's Band is due to donate a few historical pieces to the library. I can give you a call when they come in."

Jacques shot her his most disarming smile, white teeth flashing, "That'd be fantastic, merci beaucoup."

She grinned back at him as he flicked the braided hair back over his shoulder and onto his back. "Anyway," he began to explain, "I best get going, I'm behind on my marking." He turned away and made his way to the door, Megan laughing somewhere behind him, "You always were."

As he got back into the driver's seat of his truck he couldn't help but feel sorry for the girl. She had no idea what the world was really like. He envied that ignorance.

[Esternial]

December XXIII

Mira stood in the middle of a morgue, her eyes fixed on rows and rows of metal doors. Behind some hid the bodies of the dead, people long gone and devoid of the souls that once inhabited their bodies. Next to her stood one of the employees that worked there, inspecting a body and taking notes to produce a comprehensive autopsy report. Judging from his eyes it wasn't particularly interesting, and how could it be? This was one of the several victims of the unfortunate accident yesterday that claimed quite a few lives. Tragic, of course, but for the man who had to perform an autopsy on each one it was definitely not a walk in the park.

The man was clearly frustrated. He was old and grumpy, definitely not the most pleasant character to be around. He preferred his cold autopsy chamber above social events with his co-workers, but most of all he would like to spend his time at home, alone.

"Funny...isn't it?"

Mira's voice echoed through the quiet room, but the man didn't hear anything. He couldn't. As he turned around and walked away from the table, the cold artificial lighting in the autopsy room lit up his nametag. Alan McKenzie. Alan sat down at a metal desk with an old desktop computer sitting on top of it and put on his reading glasses as he began tapping away on the keyboard, filling out the report with utmost care and diligence, a quality he felt lacking in many youths nowadays. He had made an effort adjusting to modern times, but along the way he gave up and stuck with a piece of junk; well, at least it still functioned.

Clickclakclickclakclickclack.

The sound of keystrokes filled the room with an orchestrated clamour.

Clickclakclickclakclick...

...clack.

An icy silence filled the room before Alan's old body fell onto the ground. He lied there, groaning, clutching his chest in pain.

"To die in a place like this..."

Alan looked up. If he wasn't in this much pain, he would likely be more surprised.

"Password?" Mira inquired calmly.

The old man stretched out his one hand towards the girl as he continued to clutch his chest with the other. He was a trained medical examiner, so he knew what was happening. He needed help, but the only other person in the room wouldn't lift a finger.

"Just shout the password, Alan."

"Melissa! It's Mellissa. Now help me!" The old man croaked as his face contorted in pain. For awhile he struggled until Mira calmly placed her hand on the man's chest, atop his hand. The cold touch of her hands made the tension in the old man's hands vanish, a wave of peace surging throughout his body. His face seemed calmer now, more at peace. Another body had just arrived at the morgue.

Mira looked at the security camera that recorded everything that happened in the autopsy room. They'd probably conclude the man was having delusions as he lost his grip on life.

---

Moments later, Mira manifested in one of Boston's many alleyways. She was no longer a vague presence between the world of the living and the dead, but walked inside an actual physical body that could be seen and touched by all mortal, not just those close to death. Despite the fact that it was the winter season, Mira wore a cute white blouse and a blue skirt with a pair of thigh-high stockings. In order to pass off as a normal human, though, she wore a short black coat and some black gloves.

The young-looking reaper walked down the street until she happened upon a small bistro, which she promptly entered. It was a cosy place with a homely feel, and it almost made Mira feel human as she set foot inside the establishment. She quickly shuffled to a corner seat and started inspecting the menu.

Some time later, she got exactly what she ordered. Ice cream and hot chocolate. Cold and hot. Experiencing both extremes made her feel alive. Even though it was informally considered a taboo among reapers, Mira sometimes envied humans. At least with a vessel she could enjoy some humanity herself.

[Hardened Pyrokinetics]

The salty tang of seawater mixed with aviation fuel, hot rubber, and Chinese chicken filled Logan's nostrils as he exited the domestic terminal at Vancouver International Airport. He had switched out of his suit and instead wore a pair of faded black jeans, Vancouver Canucks-variant Chuck Taylor shoes, a 2010 Winter Olympics t-shirt, and a Team Canada hoodiee. He'd enjoyed those games, and was there for the Golden Goal. The only downside was the reaming out he got for two incidents at that time. The first was his rather gruesome murder of a human - A normal human - That had been cooperating with Abyssals. He barely even remembered the guy, only that he was from Georgia. At least THAT had been easily hidden as a simple "accident" despite all the calculations and testing done on the luge course beforehand.

The other, which was a tad bit harder to hide, was the accidental jamming of one of the Torch's arms. He had been pursuing the Abyssal that had corrupted the Georgian luger, and through various events accidentally broke part of the torch arm's mechanism. He killed the lady, though, so in his mind everything worked out.

He carefully walked away from the terminal building to the parking lot, going through in his head where his car would be parked. He picked his way through the field of steel, scanning the cars as he went along and wishing he were taller. Finally, he came upon his baby - An Ultramarine Blue Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG Black Series Coupé, sitting peacefully in a secluded corner of the lot. The car had been converted to AWD and sported smaller 6'' matte black rims. Logan caressed the car fondly before loading his luggage into the trunk. Giving it one final look-over for any blemishes, he got in and turned on the car. Immediately his ears were filled with a song marking the midpoint on a mixtape he had made, and he drove out of the parking lot to the headquarters of the Illuminati's Canadian operations.

---

A couple hours later, Logan pulled up in front of the Old Post Office portion of the Sinclair Centre, pointedly ignoring the looks directed at both him and his car. Strolling on in, he wove his way through crowds of people and smoothly entered a door labeled "STAFF ONLY". He made advanced down the hallway before stopping in front of a plain wall. He reached forward and pushed at a seemingly random bit of the wall, which bent inwards. With a click the hidden door swung open, allowing Logan to slip inside. A guard on the other side looked Logan over, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol, then waved the hunter through before closing the door.

Logan made his way past offices and scurrying underlings, cubicles and too-full filing cabinets. It didn't matter where you were or what you were doing, every office looked the exact same. He looked over a female employee as he made his way to his destination, nodding his approval, then finally came up to the office door of the big man himself. Straightening his back and clearing his throat, Logan knocked respectfully and said nothing as a secretary in a tight-fitting dress opened the door and let him in.

The head of Canadian operations was quite ancient even when Logan was a child, and carried about him the air of a successful but betrayed explorer. He was mostly a good man, behaving quite like the fabled gentlemen of generations past. Logan knew the man's legacy, and his reasons for choosing Vancouver as his base of operations. His tailored suit was designed to evoke the British naval uniforms of old, and his grey hair was always combed regally. He was always clean-shaven and fit, although Logan couldn't recall ever seeing his boss outside of the office. His back was turned, surveying a large digital map of Canada that covered the back wall of the office, filled with symbols and lines that Logan hadn't been told to understand. Quietly Logan made his way to the front of the man's desk and waited patiently, even after the secretary had retreated out of the office and closed the door.

Finally, Captain Vancouver turned and eyed Logan. He let out a very exasperated sigh. "We got the report from Calgary this morning." He started. "So don't even try and spin it as anything else." He sunk into the large leather chair and removed a sheet of paper from a stack of other reports, his eyes scanning the words as he spoke. "Damage control teams are currently trying to pin the blame on a group of Indi-" He coughed and cleared his throat. "Apologies, still haven't kicked that habit. A group of First Nations gangbangers your target had apparently encountered shortly before your - Ahem - Direct confrontation. They've successfully planted the evidence, but choosing which of the three to make the total fall guy is proving somewhat harder."

The Captain set down the report. "We've never questioned that your methods are effective. You have a 100% kill rate, better than any other assassin we've ever utilized, but your inability to do things quietly is starting to get on the nerves of some pretty powerful people within our organization. It seems that everywhere you go something happens that brings just a bit too much attention. Nodar Kumaritashvili you at least managed to look like a freak accident and the malfunctioning torch arm was funny and easily smoothed over. Your massacre of the Rizzuto's however, amongst many others, are being seen as unacceptably blatant." He chuckled. "There are even people in the upper echelons who still believe you were responsible for G20 and and 2011 riot."

"Stupid." Logan stated plainly, finally speaking up. "I wasn't even in the area when those went down."

Vancouver nodded. "I know that, and they know that too. That's just how badly they think of you, Logan." He leaned back in the chair. "That said, you have an opportunity to fix that, at least somewhat." He pulled out another piece of paper. "There's a Nephilim we've been monitoring for some time. He used to be a member of the organization but walked away some time ago." There was a definite hint of pain in the old man's voice. "He served the same function as you, although we did utilize him from time to time for other means. Anyway, we determined long ago that his man wasn't going to be any issue." He let out a mournful sigh. "Unfortunately, orders have come from people above me, and he has to go." He slid the document over the desk towards Logan. "His name is Jacques Laurant, and he's currently residing in a safehouse up in Fort Nelson, living with a family named Huntley and teaching history and social studies at the local high school. We've highlighted a few other people of note that may be living in the area." The good captain cast a sad glance at a picture on his desk. "Jacques was one of our best. He's deadly, and while out of practice he is still highly skilled in all the same techniques we've taught you, and certainly smart enough to fill in the gaps. I was content leaving him to his quiet life, but..." His voice drifted as he focused more on the photo. "All the information you need will be on that paper. Take the rest of today to rest and plan. I want him dead by noon tomorrow."

Logan carefully grabbed his mission orders, folded them up, and slid them neatly into his pants. Concentrating, he marked the orders with a simple keyword and deposited them into the great void in which he carried everything. Giving a polite nod to George Vancouver, still staring at the photo on his desk, Logan turned to leave. As he reached the door, he heard the Captain behind him. "Oh, one other thing, Logan. From me." He cleared his throat quickly. "Do make it quick and painless. Jacques was a good man - He deserves a dignified end."

"I will, George." Logan promised, leaving before the boss could say anything more that might compromise the mission.

[Oblivion2]

Jacques Laurent
Fort Nelson, BC
December 23rd

He finally returned from his trip up town after a few hours. He had been in a wistful mood and had allowed himself to drive aimlessly around the town and stare at the christmas decorations strung out amongst snow covered lawns and houses. He couldn't help but feel as if most people here in this town weren't celebrating christmas in the religious sense, but rather for the fact that it brought whole families together in the holiday spirit. It was all very fascinating, it was a shame the nephilim and the Illuminati claimed to be beyond all that.

There was another thought that troubled him of late; The Illuminati. It had been just over fifty years since he had left the organization; a lifetime really. And yet in all this time he couldn't believe that they had just let him go: He was an experienced field agent with with war time experience. 1812, the American Civil war, the Boer Conflicts, both World Wars, he even managed to enter the Canadian Army under an alias and served as an officer during the country's peacekeeping era's. And then there was the political experience he had obtained as an advisor to various figures in Canadian history.

Why would the High Council just leave a piece like him on the board like that? He recalled the shatterpoint that he had seen on himself. It wasn't big enough to mean that he was the shatterpoint, no, the event had not come that he could influence like that. And it was fairly recent too, meaning someone, somewhere had made a decision to do something with him. But in which direction would he tip? Towards death? Towards the High Council? Were there other options?

Jacques grappled with the problem until he began to climb up the steps through the Huntley's house, towards the shared kitchen unit. As he set the eggs and eggnog down on the island counter top, the light flicked on behind him and someone gave a startled shout. "Oh, Jackie, it's you." Came Karen Huntley's voice.

Jacques turned and gave her an apologetic smile, "My apologies Madam, I thought the two of you were out for your daily walk."

She laughed slightly and shook her head, causing her silvery hair to sway this way and that, "We were, but it's already getting so damned dark." She gestured outside to the fading sunlight as Jacques checked his watch: 3:27 PM it read. The sun always faded quickly this time of year, so close to the arctic circle. Not that Jacques noticed anyway, he had perfect vision in the dark, and he could do something he had dubbed shadow walking: Whenever he stepped into a shaded or darkened spot, he would vanish from the notice of mortal and immortal alike, unless of course they really knew how to look or had specialized gear. Still, it was a handy, if unconscious skill, he had likely walked right by Karen Huntley without her even noticing.

"Well," she began to explain, "Robert is going to shovel the driveway, why don't you and I get dinner started while he's out there?"

"Nothing would please me more Madam." He said with a genuine smile. Despite all of his worldly talents and skills, he still didn't know how to cook worth a damn.

[SaintB]

Ixtab
Kalakmul, Mexico

In the short months she had spent on Earth she had already amassed herself a following. It was amusing to Ixtab how quickly some humans were to drop their modern religions and jump into the fold of her cult after seeing a simple demonstration of her powers and a spiel about how Lucía Urbana the beautiful but young and niave girl was the riencarnation of the goddess Ixtab and suddenly she had dozens of humans (especially human men) willing to serve her every whim and more people trickled in by ones and twos almost daily now. Her honeyed words and the womanly charms of her vessel were enough to do all the rest and the cult devoted to Ixtab included hundreds of people now including dozens that lived full time now at one of the temples here in the Kalakmul ruins so able because of a few government officials whom were inducted into her little religion.

One of them, a greasy worm of a man, was there now before her and prostrate in front of the 'goddess' as he spoke, "The state officials are getting on our backs and wondering why we aren't doing anything about you my lady. My colleagues and I do not know if we can hold them at bay and they threaten to handle what they call 'the squatter problem' themselves if we don't take action."

The face of Lucia, so pretty and statuesque in it's proportions made a pouty expression and she spoke in a sad and disapointed tone, "Squatter problem? You allowed them to call me a squatter?"

[Hardened Pyrokinetics]

Fort Nelson, British Columbia, Canada
0500 Hours

The small floatplane splashed down gingerly in the sparkling, cold waters of Parker Lake in North-East BC. An unmarked De Havilland Canada DHC-2 Beaver slowed itself as it neared the frequently-used pier, coming to a stop close enough for its passenger to reach the pier without getting a single part of his anatomy wet - Although said passenger had no problem getting wet with the pilot.

Logan Howlett, dressed now in more utilitarian clothes with black steel-toed, rubber-soled leather boots, grey thick wool socks, dark brown cargo pants held up with a leather belt, gray tank top, black leather/Kevlar-padded gloves, black wool touque, black sunglasses, and a former Canadian Army parka stepped onto the pier. On his back he carried a green rifle bag, it's strap running from his right shoulder and across his chest to his left hip, that clearly carried a rifle of some sort - A not uncommon sight on people going on wilderness trips out here with the untamed wilderness, his cover on this mission. Twisting, he reached into the plane and retrieved a smaller duffel bag carrying more equipment - And disguised as being his clothing and personal items.

Blowing a kiss to the pilot, he made his way down the pier to a waiting sky-blue 1992 Ford Taurus GL and a man bundled up in layers of winter clothing. The man waited for Logan to step off the pier before making his way to the plane, barely even acknowledging Logan - The man the Illuminati had been using to watch Jacques, Logan surmised.

As the plane backed out into the lake to take off, Logan loaded his packs into the trunk of the car, hopped in, and drove his way into the township of 5,000. Remembering the layout of the town from the briefing materials he had been studying the day before and on the flight up, Logan made his way to a Super 8 motel on the Alaskan Highway across the street from the house he had been informed his target was residing within. Going through the rigmarole of renting a room, Logan wrangled for one on the top floor. After the receptionist had left, Howlett went to work.

He made his way up to the roof of the building, crunching through the snow as he searched for the right spot. Finding it, he dropped his packs and cleared out the snow. He checked his watch - The time was 6am, three hours to sunrise. It was time to get to work.

He opened up the rifle bag and extracted an unloaded, scopeless Lynx GM-6 .50 caliber sniper rifle. Holding it in one hand, he fully unzipped the rifle bag and laid it on the still-wet spot on the rooftop that he had chosen as a firing position. Unfolding the bipod, he laid the rifle down on the bag, and opened up the other bag. From it he extracted an angular, boxy 6x zoom scope with a power switch on the side. Looking down it, he flipped the switch and was greeted with a view of cold grey. He looked down at the roof, and was pleasantly greeted with the sight of bright white shapes vaguely resembling people - and a moving blob of even brighter white that seemed to be the size of two people. Quickly, with a grin, Logan turned off the scope and laid it beside the rifle for later. He reached back into the bag and withdrew a five-round magazine and an extra bullet, which he placed beside the scope.

Laying himself down beside and behind the rifle, Logan attached the scope to the attachment rail on top of the weapon. Taking the magazine, he loaded it in and loaded the first round into the chamber. Removing the magazine, Logan took the extra bullet and placed it into the magazine, returning its capacity to 5 as he slid it back into the back of the rifle. In total he now had six rounds - Although in truth, he only wished to use one.

In his studies of the target, Logan had learned of several key facts. The first was the known abilities of the former Illuminati assassin Jacques Laurant - Specifically, his ability to blend into the shadows. To counter this, Logan had obtained an experimental "Super FLIR" scope, capable of seeing through cold objects such as walls and ambient air to pick up only the body heat of people and animals. Although it could still be thrown off by other sources of heat such as fireplaces and vehicles and offered no detail to distinguish between different people, Logan doubted that would be a problem at this close of a range.

He had also learned of the deadly skills Jacques had been taught - Many of the same techniques Logan himself had taught, albeit more refined versions. Others Jacques had created during his long career. While Logan believed that a man such as Laurant deserved an honourable death in single combat, he did not wish to be the one to do it. While younger and with better, more modern training and Jacques' own performance rust on his side, Jacques' experience more than made up for Logan's advantages. As such, Logan prepared for a long-range engagement, although he still carried his UZI Pro, explosive ammunition, and an 8'' switchblade.

Logan turned on the scope and aimed at the house of Robert and Karen Huntley across the street. Inside he could see three white forms - Two slept side by side, their forms merging into one at the left and right arm respectively - Everything below the elbows were all one shape. In another bed lay a lone, unsuspecting figure - Asleep, unaware. Under normal circumstances Logan would have fired, his shot blowing through the walls of the house into the head of Jacques Laurant, causing his head along with the pillow on which it lay to burst open like a ripe watermelon.

But Logan stayed his hand. Jacques Laurant, a man Logan came to respect in his studies of his career, deserved more than to be killed in his sleep like an ailing pet. Would Logan have it any other way he would engage his predecessor in a gentleman's duel, or he would bear witness to Jacques falling upon his own sword - A good death, for a good man.

Logan pulled back from his weapon, retrieved a smuggled - And illegal for civilian ownership - Individual Meal Pack from the duffel bag, and began eating it cold up on the roof. He checked the time again - 0700 hours. The sun would rise in two hours, and with it would come Jacques Laurant. It would be the last sunrise Jacques would see.

[Oblivion2]

Jacques Laurent,
8:30 AM
Fort Nelson, BC

The rich scent of frying bacon was quick to pull Jacques out of a waking dream: he had left the TV on last night while watching a news report on some of the latest happenings in Boston. Someone was on a murder spree, and that particular spree happened to be cropping up a whole bunch of shatter points. Hell, even the name Boston was rife with prophecy and carnage.

Pulling the covers back, Jacques swept his legs off of the bed and set his feet upon the cold hard wood floor so he could make his way to the porcelain throne across the hall. Jacques promptly sighed with relief as he emptied his bladder before washing his hands and face.

"Jacques!" Came Karen's sing-song voice, "How do you want your eggs?"

Bless that woman, always asking the right questions. Jacques poked his head out of the downstairs washroom to shout up to her, "Over medium if you don't mind Karen!"

She laughed, a small tinkling noise, almost like sleigh bells. Next on the list of to dos was to get dressed for the morning: Thick wool socks, a pair of snug beaver pelt slippers, thermal leggings, blue jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a thick blue UBC hoodie. He decided for now to leave his hair in a mane, feeling that the long braid would be too impractical for a casual breakfast like this.

He stomped his way upstairs whilst loosing a long yawn. Sitting there in a UBC mug was a steaming cup of coffee. Damnation, that woman knows me far too well. He thought to himself as he grabbed it and opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch.

Despite being the spawn of an Abyssal (or perhaps because of it) Jacques had always enjoyed the majesty of a sunrise. He sipped his black coffee as that burning orb of gasses began to make its way up across the horizon, bathing the sky in reds, oranges, and yellows. It was at times like this he couldn't help but feel just a little fatalistic: How much longer could he enjoy such relative peace? Even if he did find the magic bullet to end the apocalypse, he would still have to return to the trenches to see it through. And that would require a much different Jacques Laurent.

Unbidden, his hand slipped inside the hoodie's pocket and retrieved an intricately carved meerscham pipe. He turned the thing over in his hands an examined the features on the pipe. It was a woman's face, as fine and smooth as porcelain. The man who had given it to him had told him it was a bust of Veritas, the Goddess of Truth. He lifted the pipe up, but quickly checked the motion. That indulgence was one that belonged to an older Jacques Laurent: A gentleman, a politician, and a brutal fighter. This Jacques was a man of infinite complexity and possessing of an air of aristocratic arrogance.

This Jacques Laurent had been suppressed for nearly forty years by the newer one: The one people called Jacky boy, or Mr. L, or just plain jack sometimes. While he was mysterious in a charming sort of way, he was a man whom people could trust, and more importantly; blend in.

This was a survival mechanism, the life he had chosen had called for it.

Returning the pipe to his hoodie's pocket he slipped back inside as Robert and Karen were claiming their spots at the table for breakfast. He sat to Robert's left, who himself sat at the head of the table, and he clasped the older man's hand as he began to say their meal prayer. This Jacques always found the act sort of funny; he didn't believe in god anymore.

Apep,
Boston, Massachusetts
Earlier that evening

Apep sat at the head of the board room table, idly licking the blood off his own hands. He cast his gaze down the table, at the dismembered executives sitting at each of the seats. The rest of the building would tell a similar tale; bloodied bodies every where.

The camera's would have only recorded a quick blur of movement, followed by the spreading of enormous blood spatters. Or sometimes a room would go incredibly dark, followed by a series of screams and wet, pulpy smacks.

Apep hadn't left a single soul alive. But this seemingly wanton destruction had a purpose: This building in downtown Boston was actually the largest set of office buildings in the country for a major information technologies corporation, which in fact was nothing more than a cash cow for Celestial activities on earth.

Lazily, Apep manipulated the shadows in the room into a primitive grasper and shifted the decimated torso of a CFO towards him. "You poor, poor thing." Apep said, patting the corpse's shoulder, "It would seem you've lost your head- oh, you don't mind if I borrow this?" He asked as he slipped a Blackberry out of the man's breast pocket. "No? You're such a doll."

He had the shadow tentacle tosses the corpse against the plexiglass window, where it landed with a smack before falling to the ground, leaving a smear of blood behind it. He dialed the proper extension number and before long he was greeted with a gruff male voice, "3rd Precinct."

"You're on." Apep said simply, "Find our guest."

"I am your dark will made manifest." The thrall said on the other end, just before the Serpent of the Nile hung up. It was all falling into place, now there was just one more target to hit before it was time to spring the trap.

[SaintB]

Barakiel
Boston, Massachusetts

It had taken more than a day to get to Boston but Barakiel hadn't wasted any time and within hours he had made his way into the morgue to get a look at the body. All he had to do was wait a short while until the building was mostly closed and then ply the biggest weakness in any buildings security to his advantage, that weakness of course being the cleaning crew. No matter how many eras of human history he had seen it was always the same and every important building had a crew of people who toiled in the night to make sure it was clean and presentable during the day, it also never varied in the fact that the people who did that cleaning were all but invisible to everyone else and nobody paid them any mind. Humanity liked things to be neat and tidy but did not like to do the work to keep things that way.

Barakiel had this kind of infiltration down to an art form at this point and slipped in quite easily with their help by giving them the attention and praise they craved for their labor, reinforcing it with some good vibes and a handful of special break time type cigarettes. They let him right in without even deliberating or hmming and hahing over his lack of security badge. It didn't take long to find the corpse that was once the vessel of Namir since the raw power that radiates off of spirits had all but permeated the flesh of the body, and the taint of the abyssal that had killed her was also there but less apparent. The poor woman had been what people called a #PYT in the latest vernacular, a young doe-eyed blonde girl barely into adulthood and if he was not mistaken was still alive when Namir was with her and would have felt all of the pain of her brutal death for the remainder of the time her brain was dying after Namir had been defeated. Barakiel paused his reflection there, she might have suffered in death but now her soul was with the aether and would eventually be recycled perhaps into a life that would end much less violently and he had work to do.

His examination didn't leave any solid clues to the identity of the killer but he gleaned some hints to the personality... the kill was symbolic and meant to draw attention, the way the body had been desecrated but the face left fully intact showed that the abyssal who did this was looking for attention from both humans and nonhumans alike. It was also apparent of course through the way the bodies of all the victims were arranged very carefully. Nothing specific about the killer’s abilities was learned either but Barakiel gleaned from the wounds that they had some kind of supernatural weapons at their disposal both from the multitude of wounds she had suffered and the appearance of them. The wounds were too perfect to be caused by any form of manufactured weapon, too precise, too exact, and far too clean for that.

Barakiel put the sheet that covered the corpse back in place and rolled it back into its new home in the refrigerated alcove to await an official autopsy by the human authorities. It was a strange coincidence that the coroner responsible for examining the body died here in this very building before he could publish his results on his preliminary examination of the dead woman but fortuitous for Barakiel. He made his way out of the building and back into the city. He knew that an entity this belligerent would rear its head again, all he had to do was wait.

[Hardened Pyrokinetics]

Logan finished off the last of the cold, super-compacted bread loaf he had fished out of his breakfast - A Canadian military Individual Meal Pack. He hadn't bothered with the actual breakfast portion, having neglected to bring along a camping stove or any other tools because ^STEALTH, he instead settled for just the "cold" items - The bread with a packet of peanut butter and raspberry jam, maple brown sugar oatmeal cereal, and sliced peaches. He had tossed the mint candy - He didn't like the taste of mint. The chewing gum he saved for later - He'd need it to stave off frostbite in his jaw while he waited for evac.

He checked the time - 8 in the morning. Jacques should be waking up soon. Quickly but quietly shoving his garbage back into the IMP bag and putting it off to the side, Logan went prone on his belly and slid up to the rifle. He brought his right hand up and gently cupped the trigger, his index finger hovering just above and his thumb ready on the safety. His left came up to rest on top of the butt, providing a gap between the cold metal and his exposed cheek in order to prevent freezing. He made sure the back end of the weapon was pressed up against his right shoulder, then he looked down the scope. After ensuring his view was clear, Logan took aim at the Huntley residence. He could see the Huntelys and Jacques, and through the scope observed their morning operations.

"Come on, wake the fuck up already." Logan grumbled when, at 8:20 and long after his hosts had awoken, Jacques still hadn't gotten out of bed. "This is why I usually don't deal with old people. If you fuckin' sleep until noon I swear on the Founders..." He continued muttering in the bitter cold until finally Jacques began to stir. Now Logan got serious.

He tracked the target as he got dressed - Noting that while the FLIR effect removed all detail he could still see the appreciable length between Jacques' legs, which caused Logan to give a brief nod and expression of both jealousy and admiration - Through the house and out the door for a morning smoke. Now was Logan's chance. He re-shifted his weight, took aim at Jacques' face, flicked off the FLIR so he could view through normal light...

But he didn't fire. His finger was twitching on the trigger, ready to pull it and end the life of the venerable old man in front of him. Logan's predecessor, the man who had developed half of the techniques Logan himself now used on a daily basis. This man had shaped world history, known figures from both history and modern mythology, witnessed and participated in events all around the world. He was a shepherd, one who had guided the world to where it was today. And he was at peace.

There were no two ways about it, as Logan scanned the face of his target. Jacques Laurant, the great assassin of the Illuminati, was at peace. All the hopes Logan himself had of one day finding his place in a complicated world, of being able to save humanity from the doom of the next Armageddon, of starting a family of his own to raise in absolute freedom and peace, came crashing down. How could he murder, in cold blood, the man in front of him? How could he rob him - And those he had befriended - Of the peace they now enjoyed? Why, now, did the Illuminati want him eliminated? A man who would be more useful alive than dead when the inevitable happened...

His thoughts made him lose track of time, and before he knew it Jacques and gone back inside. He took a moment to fight back the urge to let him go - Logan had never before failed a mission the Illuminati had given him, no matter who the target was Logan had always eliminated them, and Jacques would be no different. Tracking with the scope, he re-activated the FLIR and swore. Jacques had re-joined the Huntleys, and all three were jumbled together. Sat the table, he could easily pick out Mr. Huntley, but Jacques and Mrs. Huntley were one and the same to the heat scan.

Taking a gamble, Logan flicked off the safety and fired at what he believed was Jacques' head.

[Oblivion2]

Jacques Laurent

Jacques didn't hear the booming crack of the rifle from down the street. He didn't see the suppressed muzzle flash as the round exited the barrel. He simply continued to hold onto Mr. and Mrs. Huntley's hands, focusing on the sounds of their voices as they prayed.

That's when the window shattered. Neph senses, as Jacques had once dubbed them, were on par with immortal levels. Even so, he barely had enough time to duck forward against the table as Karen Huntley's skull disintegrated. Jacques opened his eyes to blood on the walls, and Robert Huntley's face contorted into an 'O' shape.

"Move!" The Immortal screamed at his host, who seemed to be in a daze. Jacques moved to grab him and toss him out of the way when the next round tore into the room... And came out of Robert's chest. Jacques had no choice but to abandon the man and leap through the open door into the living room. He cursed himself for his foolishness; it was only days after the Reckoning, of course the Illuminati were looking to cull any rogue elements in the deck. That was where the shatterpoint came from. The decision had been made, one way or another, so now it was time to get back in the game. And the only way to survive said game, was to become a different Laurent entirely: An Assassin, a Warrior, and a Gentleman.

This new Jacques (or older rather), was very analyitical. This would require planning.

Step One: Get to a safer location.

The Illuminati wouldn't have sent an Assassin without proper intel and gear. He could count on his foe having the ability to counter his shadow walking, and given how Karen's Skull exploded, he wagered that he was equipped with armor penetrating and high caliber weaponry. Upstairs was not an option, he needed to get under the foundation for a moment.

A normal shooter would dictate staying low, but this man would turn him into swiss cheese. He would need speed. Drawing breath into his lungs, he drew himself up to his full height and went into a dead sprint, before sliding baseball style down the stairs and into his suite, oblivious to any incoming fire.

Step Two: Arm up.

Every Friendly Family Jacques had ever made contact with stocked itself with weaponry in either obvious or hidden locations. Fortunately for him, this one was in a small crawlspace under his bed. The old him that slept in the thing would have taken the time to shove it aside, but this Jacques had not time for such things. Striding his way into his old bedroom he shoved the thing aside, slamming it against the wall. With probing fingers he managed to snake one around the latch and opened the crawlspace. Before he hopped down to procure the weapons however he took the time to light a single candle, setting it on the windowsill of his former room. Satisfied he crawled down into the darkness below, finding a hand carved wooden case. Lifting the box, Jacques smiled, for within were a set of old friends: A Winchester Model 1873, A Custom Colt 1911 with Nickel plating, pearl handgrip, ingraved golden filigree, and a compensater.

But both of these weapons paled in worth compared to the faint glimmer of the blade in the box. He took only a moment to observe the iron blade, while it was obviously a simple weapon made to do a simple job, it still possessed a certain elegance to Jacques eye. And while, it wasn't made out of the superior Steel Alloy's of the day, it had been forged especially for men like him, out of Iron from a falling star, forged in secret methods known only to Master Illuminati weapon-smiths.

Satisfied: he belted the now sheathed sword to his jeans, strapped the pistol holster onto his shoulders and lovingly slid the weapon into the worn leather. The rifle, he kept in hand as he began to crawl towards the northern corner of the crawl space.

Step Three: Create Distraction.

Now it was time for some smoke and mirrors. As he lay there crawling towards what would become his new exit, Jacques found exactly what he was looking for: The Two Inch Gas Main. Gripping it tight and with little more than a grunt, he tore the high pressure line in half and was quickly greeted by the acrid tang of sulfur which began to fill the space. He continued onwards until he found the corner of the crawlspace. He knew from experience now that he was in the northwestern most corner of the house.\

Getting up on his knees from his belly, Jacques placed his hands out 45 degrees above his head and pushed lightly. The material bent slightly, he had found the wooden skirting above the foundation. Jacques cocked his fist back and punched, splintering the wood and allowing the cold air to blast its way into the structure. He repeated the process as quickly as he could until he could pry the opening apart with his hands and hop out into the brisk winter morning.

His timing probably saved his life. He stiffened up quickly as he heard the gasses in the house ignite, and using whatever immortal strength his body possessed, flung himself from the front yard of the house, out onto 51st street, as the house exploded violently.

Step Four: Tactical Withdrawal:

As much as he would have liked to shoot it out with his assassin, currently the odds were not well stacked in Jacques favor. He would have to change how this man was going to engage him, preferably while he set up his escape. He took the cellphone out of his pocket and tossed it blatantly onto the road, they would probably try tracking him with it before long.

He did however need to make a phone call. Fortunately he knew this town was still backwards enough to still have a payphone or two. He began to run, using the burning wreck of a house behind him to shield his movements. He would need to get to the public library at town square, it was his best bet at this point, but that would mean he'd need to cross over the Alaska Highway; which was the direction his attacker had taken shots at him from. So, he started moving north west, leaping over fences and landing in three feet of snow only to continue moving. His plan brought him through yards and onto the residential roads of the town that crisscrossed back and forth.

Before long he had done the roundabout and found himself in front of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce branch, staring directly at town square. The only problem was he had to cross two streets and the highway to get over there, right out in the open. In the distance he could hear the sirens screaming towards the house, he could pull this off without causing too much trouble. Taking a deep breath and blowing the air out of his cheeks he took three steps backwards and then sprang into a sprint, taking a leap after his foot touched the asphalt on the business frontage road.

He soared over the first road, over the highway, and landed in a roll in the ditch of the second, from there taking his time to sprint over the road and into town square. Before long he was feeding coins into the payphone, gripping the cold receiver tightly as he dialed a number.

"Byron..." He said to the man who picked up, "I need a favor. Do you keep the plane fueled up?"

Boston

Harry Schmidt was no fool. As soon as he heard the whimsical knock on the door, he knew that there was trouble. All five of the acolytes had already checked into the safe house for the day and any sort of communication would come via encrypted channels; this was something else. He drew his side arm and motioned for the four others to take positions around the dingy living room that made up the safehouse's landing.

He pressed himself beside the door and said lowly, "Code-word?" Any celestial acolyte had to memorize the code words that granted access to certain safehouses on certain days, it ensured security when one suddenly arrived at one.

A young voice replied, "Swordfish." Definitely not the code word. Before he could say anything, the door was blown off its hinges and crashed noisily against an acolyte who was unlucky enough to be in the way. In it's place stood a young college student with unkempt black hair, grinning like the proverbial cat. "Boo!" He said, as everything went dark.

The next few seconds went by in a blur, or maybe the kid just did. Before he knew it, Harry was lying on his back, in a pool of his and someone else's blood. The kid sat on a table, licking the dripping blood off his hands. Weakly he raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.

There was a flicker of movement, and what Harry could only describe as a shadow intercepted the bullet, deflecting it to the side. The kid snorted, "Is that really the best you have Mortal? Pathetic." He slid contemptuously off the table, "How far your kind has fallen... So reliant on your guns and your technology. It's a shame really. In the old days, a few heroic acolytes may have actually been slightly challenging."

He leaned in real close to Harry's face, licking his lips. "You'll have to do..."

"Wh-who are you?" Harry managed to stammer. The kid grinned, "Call me Apep."

That was when the kid plunged the knife into his chest.

Apep

The trap was set, finally. He sent off the text message to his thrall running the surveillance op and appraised him of the situation. An anonymous tip to the 911 line ensure that the precinct quickly got the case and saw who came to view the carnage, from there Harry would do the rest.

He would have enjoyed killing that particular mortal, alas, this was not meant to be. Apep had left him barely alive, and had marked his chest with an Abyssal Sigil, undeniable proof that this was indeed another attack on Celestial interests. From there Harry would be carted off to a hospital, spill the whole thing out to whichever Celestial came to visit him, at which point said Celestial would be marked by Apep's men for the Serpent to deal with at the hospital.

Yes... It was all coming together.

[SaintB]

Barakiel
Boston, Massachusetts

The attacks on the second and third targets happened in such rapid succession that Barakiel didn't have time to investigate. Both scenes were still swarming with human authorities trying to gather clues that they would never find but fortunately there was a survivor of the third attack. The man was severely but not life threateningly wounded and was taken to a nearby hospital. Barakiel would need to see him, but he knew that it could also be a trap. The question was for whom would the trap spring? Barakiel knew more about the abyssal he hunted than it knew about him, and nobody has bested Barakiel in many millenia but a few had come close, and it wasn't like he was foolish enough to not come prepared. He didn't want to turn a place of healing into a place of killing but if an abyssal warrior awaited him there he would have little choice.

Before he would go to the hospital Barakiel needed a few supplies so he took a shopping trip. With a device called a 'credit card' he entered an establishment named K-Mart and searched for the things he would need. Shockingly to Barakiel silver seemed to be abundant in this society, so much so that it was cheap and easily obtained when ordinarily it was a precious and valuable material and for only five and ninety-nine tenths of American dollars he was able to procure a sufficient amount for his purposes. It was also not hard to find material that would make for an easy grip if not a bit light for the purpose he needed but it would do. With a few other bits and sundries he was ready to melt the silver down enough to work with and hammer it into a crude but effective weapon for use against his future opponent...