Sure. It was put there for that very reason, anyway. xD

Yay added you. I've made up my character profile for our private to xD

Rosie? Are you mad at me?

...You've avoided me both here and in our private. Please tell me if you're mad at me; I have a right to know why....

Please? Are you mad at me?











You can read the stuff below, if you like, but it has absolutely nothing to do with this conversation. It serves another purpose.






If one had walked into MIT's computer lab down near the Math Major Lounge, and peeked in, they might have seen nine students hard at work, eyebrows narrowed, fingers flying across keyboards, worried looks on their faces. An Irish looking girl with bright red hair in a ponytail with a T-shirt reading "Save the Rainforests", an autistic looking Slav boy wearing plaid, a pair of scrawny Japanese boys in polo shirts, a Muslim girl in hijab, a young man with an afro and a tie, a young woman with Sicilian features in a trenchcoat, an older man with long braided hair and a beard, and an Afghan girl wearing an outfit from Abercrombie and Fitch.

She was Zufash Isupzai, hunched over the computer, alternately typing at high speed and reaching for another potato chip, surrounded by the forced silence often found in a library, broken only by the occasional "can you fetch that from the printer for me, thanks". Her long, dark brown hair was pulled back with a pretty clip, and cascaded over her shoulders. The computer was displaying a Microsoft Word Document. If one had looked over the student's shoulder, they would have seen the body of a paper, reading something to the effect of the following:

The United States Government, beginning under the Reagan administration, began to provide large amount of financial aid to the mujaheddin in Afghanistan in 1978. This flow of money, estimated to be as much as twenty billion, continued through 1992 (Dixon). Some sources, particularly left-wing critics, claim that the Central Intelligence Agency funded not only the Afghans, but also the Afghan-Arabs, and in particular, Usama bin Ladin. They are also proponents of the claim that the CIA trained Bin Ladin and several of his operatives in covert sabotage tactics at CIA facilities. On the other hand, the Department of State denies that financial aid was ever given to the Afghan-Arabs, nor was any such training given to Bin Ladin's men (Department of State).

After fifteen more minutes frantically typing, Zufash saved the document twice, printed it, and practically sprinted down the hallways, all the way to Building E53, the Hermann building, to catch her Political Science professor. She burst out onto Killian Court, and then shoved another student off their bicycle, shouting "I'm taking this, Cindy; I'll drop it by your dorm tonight!" to the response "Whatever, Zufash," and pedaling as fast her short legs could go down Memorial Drive, soaked in the torrential rain, the sound of loud sirens screaming through the air, a firetruck almost totalling her on the wet, slick roads. Finally, she burst into the building, and dropped the ten page paper, panting, on Professor Gardham's desk, speckled with drops of water coming from her hair.

"I finished my paper," Zufash said, doubled over, taking deep breaths.

The Professor, a stout man of about sixty-five, his greying hair cut in a crew cut, slowly picked up the paper. "I see," he said, amused, then abruptly stood up. "Thank you, Zufash; I'll be in my office tonight until eight if you have any questions."

Professor Garham gathered his books and put them in a large bag with MIT's logo, pulled on his overcoat, and headed for the door, Zufash, who had caught her breath, following him into the hall. "Be careful," the Professor said. "With all that's going on, there is no such thing as paranoia." With that, he nodded, and closed the door behind them, walking confidently down the hallway.

Zufash rode the bike back to Cindy's dorm and left it locked to a pole in front, then walked down the street to Starbucks with an umbrella, where she treated herself to a strawberry creame frappuchino. She sipped the drink slowly, and watched the news tick by on the TV screen.

"Neither McCain nor Obama wish to concede at this point, as election results have yet to be released, due to massive recounts in Florida. Both contend that it is very likely they have won, as well as the possibility of the opposition's victory. Back to the desk, Frank."

"Good evening. Today, it is raining once again. The increase in kidnappings reported over the past few months have continued, with the latest report coming from the Boston Police Department."

Zufash sighed. She didn't want to think about the kidnappings. There were rumors flying around, of everything from God's wrath to Al Qaeda to extraterrestial beings and everything in between. Quite frankly, she didn't care what it was. She just wanted it to stop. She swallowed the last of her frappuchino, then tossed it in the can. Zufash walked slowly back to her apartment, the umbrella shielding her from more rain, although she was still soaked through anyways.

As she walked up the stairs, shaking herself off as she went in disgust, she noticed a young woman pacing back and forth in front of the apartment door. It must be Atousa, Zufash thought. Among the respondents to a "Roomate Wanted" ad Zufash had put out in the Boston Globe was a Harvard criminal justice major named Atousa Jumaani, of Iranian Parsee extraction.

The woman, dressed in a long black abaya, with a beige khmar wrapped around her head, was roughly the same height and build as Zufash. She smiled cautiously when Zufash stopped at the top of the stairs, dripping rainwater onto the carpet.

"You must be Zufash?"

"Hi," Zufash said, extending her hand. To her surprise, Atousa pulled her into a welcoming embrace, the traditional greeting. "So, come inside. I won't bite." Zufash fumbled in her purse for her key, before finding it and opening the door. The apartment was sparse, a television on a small table, a couch, an armchair, a kitchen table with four chairs, and a few paintings of horses and pianos framed on the ivory wallpaper.

"Out of all the interested potential roomates," Zufash said, motioning for Atousa to sit, "I got a member of Hell's Angels, a Communist party member, a Senator's daughter, an ex-convict, and you. I figured you and I would be most compatible. So, tell me about yourself. Impress me."

"My name is Atousa Jumaani. I am a criminal justice major, with a concentration in Criminology, and a minor in Latin. I attend Harvard University, and work as an intern in the FBI's Honor Intership Program. I like Salvador Dali, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, good French cooking, Desperate Housewives, and James Patterson." Atousa smiled, lighting up her countenance.

Zufash laughed. "We are SO going to get along."

"I hope so," Atousa said, when Zufash's cell phone rang.

"Sorry," she said, and picked up the phone, not recognizing the caller ID. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Um, is this Zufash?" An unfamiliar male voice said.

"Depends on who's asking."

"You might, um, remember me," he said, uncomfortably. "I'm, uh, I'm Zach Davis?"

Zufash resisted the tempation to scream and hurl the phone across the room. Instead she said, in as icy a tone as she could muster, "Yes, Zachary, I do happen to remember you. What do you want and how did you get this number?"

She smiled quickly, as Atousa gave her a puzzled look.

"Well, um, you know Paul?"

"Of course I know Paul!" Zufash said, just on the cusp of a full-fledged shout. "Do you think I'm stupid or something?!"

"No, of course not, but, um, well, Paul's kind of been missing for two days, and well..."

"Well what?"

"I was kind of wondering if he was, you know, with you."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Zufash said bitterly, rolling her eyes. "Not after he ran off with you."

"Oh," Zach said on the other line, sounding disappointed, even defeated. "Well, he's been missing, and he always comes home, like, exactly at--"

"Six-thirty," Zufash said. "I know."

"Yeah," Zach said lamely, "and he didn't come home the other day. I guess I'll call, you know, call the police. I think he was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" Zufash felt her heart slam to a stop.

"Yeah. You heard the news lately?"

"Do I look stupid to you."

"So, yeah. Um, bye." Zach hung up. Zufash stood in her apartment for a moment, just holding her phone, before it automatically disconnected on its own. Then she remembered where she was, and that Atousa was with her, and she forced a smile, but it didn't quite come out right; instead of lightening up her face and the mood, it looked like someone tried to make a robot smile, or a death row prisoner an hour before execution.

Paul Henderson was kidnapped. So what? It wasn't like Zufash cared, after all, this was the man who cheated on her in a gay relationship! Why should she feel sorry? In fact, she should be happy. At least, that was what Zufash said to herself. But in her heart, she knew that she did care. And though she would never admit it, not even to herself, she still loved her former boyfriend.

Kidnapped. Zufash shook her head. Then, she spoke again, her voice a little quiet. "Atousa, would you like some green tea?"










Tamara had just returned from her job with the Israeli government, consulting the senior officials who laid down the laws concerning prisons and interrogations. As she walked down her street, maybe five minutes away from her house, she heard several screams. She looked up and walked faster, her heart pounding. As Tamara neared her house, she saw hazy figures in a long black car speeding towards three small children--her heart skipped a beat.

Her children--Thomas, Samantha, and Omar. They would just be coming home from school now. She began to run, breaking into a cold sweat than ran salty down her arms and face. She called out to them "Get inside the house!" Then she heard the gunshots. Pop, pop, pop. Silenced, just like on TV. But not like on TV. The children weren't blown twenty feet. They fell where they stood, uncomprehending looks of bewilderment on their faces, wide eyes, red blossoming across their school shirts, dead before they hit the ground.

Tamara fell at her childrens' side, clutching their bloody bodies with the raw power of the grief that swept through her. Her tears contaminated what evidence there might have been. The men in the car were never seen again. The police contended that it was a random accident, caused by children running amok and drunk drivers. But Tamara knew better. Later that day, someone called to tell her that Sayed, her beloved Sayed, had been murdered by another inmate at the prison. But in her heart, Tamara knew the police had lied once again.

The last day she spent in Israel, she was dressed in black sackcloth. She sprinkled ashes on her head, and then took a large urn from her side. She held it up to the sky, in which the sun shone down mercilessly. "God, if this is what you want,then take it! Take from me this grief! Take me away from this place of death!" She scattered the ashes, slowly, above the desert dunes on which her children loved to play. When they were all gone, blown into the wind, Tamara sat on a large rock and wept for hours.





Natalie Schultz stood in the Oval Office. Well, that was weird. She wondered why Kimberly wanted to know about her murdered father.

"Agent Fieldings," she said, "I really, honestly, have no clue why I'm here. Perhaps you could shed some light on this situation?"

Subconsciously, she pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ears, and blinked, her glasses making her eyes appear larger. Why had she been sent here? That was the question. Even with top-secret security clearance, no one had bothered to simply tell her.

"Look, my only assignment at this moment is Treali Storm, and I see no reason to believe why she would be involved in this."

That's when another agent rushed in, bearing a piece of paper. It was a papyrus, handwritten, the writing elegant and refined, as though the author had taken much time creating the letter.

To whom it may concern, especially those arrogant Americans,

Carl Maynard was the epitome of American society, that is to say, of gluttony, arrogance, miserliness, prodigality, and other such immoral plagues which beseige your damnable nation. As such, therefore, it is only natural that he should be the first to die.

This is a warning, to those of you with any sense, those with ears to hear and eyes to see, they will heed the trumpet call of Gabriel and turn their eyes to the Way, and fall repentant before Allah. Those who do not are contemptible and unfit to live.

For we have been called as Messengers, to go unto this world and preach the good news, that those with hearts may listen and embrace the one true faith, and those whose hearts have been hardened may know, finally, their eternal destiny in hell.

America, you have forgotten your god! You have forsaken your people! You have forbidden men from being righteous! Open your eyes, and see. The blindfold will be removed.

Treali Storm
She Who Stands At The Gates

Natalie looked over Felding's shoulder as he read it. "Never mind," she chirped. "I guess Storm's involved, after all."

***

One of the most feared women in all of history, and the most hunted woman worldwide; Treali Storm's name and face were on par in terms of infamy with men like Usama ibn Ladin, Adolf Hitler, and Saddam Husayn. An unprecedented fifty million dollars were being offered for her apprehension by the American FBI alone.

Added the to the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List in 1968, Storm quickly earned the record as the person with the longest amount of time spent on the List. She was wanted for dozens of murders, many of them of high-profile political leaders, some American, and others of various nationalities and citizenship. Only a month before her addition to the List, Storm murdered United States Senator Jordan Normandeau, who was running for President, and Catholic Cardinal Srgjan Doshi, who was a potential candidate for the papacy.

Against what might have been the better judgment of a few more conservative producers, Hollywood marketed a film chronicling some of the more sordid details of Storm's life and crimes. Called The Bloody Tempest, it pulled in hundreds of million dollars at box offices across America. Within a year of Bloody Tempest’s release, a famous author published an extensive biography of the fugitive which sold over five million copies.

Later, Treali Storm was believed to have become a close associate of Usama ibn Ladin’s, and to have had a part in masterminding the attacks on the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania in 1998, and later the attacks on September 11, 2001. But despite international manhunts, and the release of a Red Notice from Interpol, there had been no trace of the notorious fugitive in decades.

The only hints the FBI had received, besides other unsolved high-profile murders, were a series of letters sent from unknown locations addressed at varying times to members of Storm’s extended family and the families of her victims. These letters, around sixteen in all, were collected and stored in her file in Quantico, Virginia.

All across America, in post offices, police stations, and other government buildings, copies of the wanted poster hung on walls, with the bold caption FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE heading them. Beneath a list of the criminal charges were a photograph, a description, and a caution advising “Considered Armed and Extremely Dangerous”.

In the picture, Treali Storm was facing the camera, her aristocratic nose centered perfectly. The eyes stared out wistfully at the viewer, seeming to gaze at something seen only by the mass murderer. Her lips formed a thin, hard line, and her silvery grey hair fell limply around the face, framing the high cheekbones. Her hairline came to a central spot in the prominent widow's peak, and the face had deep jowls and frown lines. But what struck a viewer the most would have been the eyes—grey, also, and with an enigmatic sort of depth. Slightly closed, sleepy-looking eyelids over somewhat almond-shaped eyes, from which protruded a set of dignified crow's feet.

The face was a famous one, instantly recognized by anyone worldwide. The sight of it struck fear into many bold hearts, and an undying love into one as yet unknown. But it was a face that had not been seen in such a long time; the rumors of Storm’s death were many and varied. Treali Storm was perhaps an icon of the twentieth century, her infamy extending, however, into the early twenty-first century. She dominated history books, and was a topic of great interest among the criminal underworld (where she was respected), law enforcement (where she was hated), and writers and artists (by whom she was subjected to intense scrutiny).

Among Al Qaeda and similar groups, Treali Storm had become something of an icon. Although only grudgingly respected, as she was a woman, Storm was secretly admired by many would-be fundamentalists. Among professional hit men, it was agreed that she had carried out the most successful kills with the most notoriety without having been arrested—yet. Of course, no one had ever asked the fugitive of her own opinion—and had they, it was doubtful they might have received an answer.



"Look," Tamara Azrael said, sighing. "I didn't commit the crime you think I did. It doesn't make me innocent." She looked to her left. "But who is really innocent, you know? We do what is wrong all the time; we say they killed the innocents; but who is really innocent?" Tamara then looked to her right. "They say children are innocent, because they are young and have yet to experience life, or truly do wrong."

Tamara folded her hands. "But it's not always true. For instance, by the age of seven, virtually every child has told a lie, around half have taken something that wasn't theirs, and a smaller number have begun using profane language." She coughed. "Did you know that I once saw a small boy, no older than nine, brutally beat an elderly man with a large stone? He was joined by three little girls, who called that man words that no one should ever repeat. Because they were Jews, and that man was a Palestinian."

"You know," Tamara continued. "We Jews are so often the victims of pogroms and massacres, and attempted genocides like that of Adolf Hitler, but too few recognize that perhaps we've brought that on ourselves. We've been an arrogant people in the past, because we were chosen by God. But we weren't chosen to rule over the world; instead, we were chosen to be a light to the world. Many Jews I have known were the most rascist people I had met."

Tamara sighed. "I didn't pull the trigger, Agent Bronstine. But I may as well have. I was the last person that little boy saw, and the last sight those eyes recorded was my hands on that gun, the barrel between his two eyes, my finger on that trigger." She looked down. "It was like all the hatred in the whole world. I was really angry then, angry at Sayed for leaving me, angry at my kids, angry at the Mossad, angry at the Palestinians, the Jews, my parents, those scientists; the kid right in front of me, he became all of them to me."

"In a way, I guess I was lucky I didn't pull the trigger. But maybe not." Tamara felt so distant from herself, as though she could see her body far below her, in the interrogation room, but she was not in it; rather, she was examining it from afar, analyzing her actions at a cold, hard, psychological level. "Did you ever see someone die, close enough to touch them? Was it someone you loved, more than your own life?"




SAMPLE CS

Full Name: Treali Storm
Name at birth (if different): Treali Ka'iimamao Ylanne Abdullah-Zhang
Aliases (if any): Thalia Storm, Tirahali Yasfah, Shaykhah Tirahali Yasfah Manisah Ibnah al-Muta'ali, Salima al-Rasul, Fatimah bint Batya
Title (military rank, Dr., clergy, etc.): None
Preferred name: Treali (if familiar), Sayyida Aas'fah (if not familiar)
Age/DOB: born 12 May 1952, age anywhere between 54 and 84, dependent on setting and year
Gender: Female
Orientation: Straight
Race/Ethnicity: 1/2 Caucasian/European, 1/4 Chinese, 1/4 Arab
Skin Tone: Olive
Height: 4'10"
Weight: 85 lbs.
Build (slim, linebacker, etc.): Slim and fragile
Eyes: Grey, sometimes shift color to pale blue or green
Hair: Silver/grey relatively straight hair neither thick nor thin, often falls limply down to waist, either loose, tied in simple ponytail down her back, or single loose braid
Clothes: Generally robes and dresses in a fusion of Arab/Middle Eastern styles with Japanese/Buddhist monk styles, long skirts that fall to ankles or floor. Typically in dark or light neutral colors, browns and natural shades, or creams and off-whites.
Appearance:Her olive toned face is accented by long silver hair falling limply down her back. Her aristocratic nose is centered between two penetrating grey eyes surrounded by crow’s feet, all jutting out of a face carved with wrinkles and furrows, marked with a distinctive widow's peak. Her lips are a thin, hard line, hidden beneath her high cheekbones. The features are delicate, the face fragile. She walks slowly, each step deliberate and soft, and with a limp, slightly favoring her left side.

Religion: Unique beliefs, believes in a God (note the singular) who is simultaneously personal and distant, does not follow an established or organized religion.
Political Affiliation: Some liberal beliefs, some conservative, is really not sure, never having been involved much in politics.
Education: Dropped out of high school by way of fleeing her country. Most of her later schooling was self-education, studying the classics and philosophers.
Languages spoken: Arabic, Latin, English (Yes she speaks fluent, conversational Latin)
Weapons: Contrary to popular belief, does not own or carry a weapon.
Citizenship: She is believed to have been a citizen of Mutalistan (fictitious Middle Eastern country), and Mutalistan stripped her citizenship in 1978; however, while no one is aware of this (including herself), being born in Washington D.C., she is a citizen of the United States.
Nationality: This is complicated...
Born: Believed to be Lu'Siin Bek, Mutalistan. Actually Washington D.C., America.
Now lives: Storm Isle (not named after her), little known territory of United States, formerly Taipugawaka I'nuikila
Lives with: Cousin's daughter Karmii Storm, previously with this cousin (Dr. Alai Storm) also and roughly twenty-five US Government and military personnel with top-secret clearances all of whom were unaware they shared a residence
Relationship Status: Single, not looking

Occupation: None?
Special Abilities/Skills: A master of Hsing-I martial art, beautiful Arabic calligraphy, decent writer
Hobbies: Making tea, Gardening, Meditation
Interests: Philosophy
Favorite Types of Music: Sufi Qawwali music, Raja, Gregorian chant, Tibetan Buddhist chanting
Favorite Types of Reading Material: Philosophy, Qur'an, Bible
Serious Problems: Slightly mentally imbalanced, used to have anger management problems (they're resolved now), obsessions
Personality: Treali is a deeply depressed individual who is sometimes suicidal. She has extremely high and strange ethical standards that she and others consistently fail to meet. She is often quiet, but when she speaks, she speaks for a long time and often in metaphorical, flowery language. Treali is deliberate in her speech and movements, polite to a fault, and unfailing calm and cooperative. She tends to be philosophical; she will never admit her true 'want' or desire in life. She is soft-spoken and non-confrontational, except sometimes verbally. Sometimes she seems Shakesperean or prophetic in speech. When she thinks no one is around, she often cries.
Background: This character is the protagonist in several of my novels) She is on the FBI Ten Most Wanted List for murder and terrorism. She came from a Middle Eastern country, where when she was young, was ruled by Christian whites over a predominantly Muslim Arab population, and her aunt who raised her was an Indian (from India) Christian. She has unique beliefs about God and truth, not conforming to any established or organized religion. The latest crime she is accused of happened two days ago at start of roleplay, assassinating a President of the United States.
Other: Not that much else to add. I guess.


(Except longer hair, older looking face, somewhat darker skin, and widow's peak.)


Widow's peak.


Minus the face paint and traditional clothes.

I tried to find some pictures; these were the closest.

SAMPLE ONE
Tamara Azrael felt Trys pull Sam's hand away from hers. She stood, a little unsteady, her eyes blinking as she registered his words in her frazzled mind.

"Missing?" A child is missing? Tamara frowned, but inside was elated. Now a chance the authorities will find the missing kid! She packed up her possessions in the office, taking care to back up all of her files on several untraceable databases as well as hiding her Hebrew notes inside her clothes. Copies were still hidden innocuously elsewhere in the office.

Her computer was backed up and she shut it off. Anyone trying to access her account would need both her fingerprint and a long series of numerical passwords, written nowhere. Tamara looked around one last time, taking one last artifact before opening the door to leave: an old family photograph of her with Sayed and their three children. She took the picture out the frame and tucked it in her shirt with the papers.

In her shoulder bag, she took another set of copies of her Hebrew notes, the original tapes (the recordings and videos of the other "experiments"), and a series of laboratory notes. Her dissertation, split up and over three hundred pages long, would serve well to disguise the other papers. Tamara hesitated, then took her Glock 22, made sure it was loaded and oiled. She might need it.

She shut off the lights, closed the blinds, and locked the door behind her for what would likely be the last time. Tamara shuddered. She had no intentions of ever returning to this hidden lab, not unless it was life and death, particularly for the children. She walked down the hallway, past the cages of children, living, breathing children. She saw the other scientists, gathered together, Trys, Elsee, Jordan, and Dakota. Prepared to do something awful no doubt.

Tamara closed her eyes. She wouldn't think the thought. It would not cross her mind. She paused for a moment, eyes closed in prayer. "Come let us go up the mountain of the Lord, that we may walk the paths of the Most High. And we shall beat our swords into ploughshares,
and our spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation--neither shall they learn war any more. And none shall be afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of Hosts has spoken."

Tamara glanced down the hall one more time, then with a rising wave of guilt, walked down the corridor and outside. She climbed into her car and turned the key. The engine came to life, and she backed out of the camouflaged parking lot, turning onto the main road. Tamara looked back at the hidden lab, an ominous building with disturbing architecture. Each corner was angled sharply inwards, and the walls slowly inclined towards the center, creating a feeling of being trapped. She looked away.

Tamara drove quickly down this small road, then turned onto the main road. The kid might have been missing for as much as a day now. He might have gotten far. She pulled down one road and saw a small row of clapboard houses with peeling paint. No sign of the missing kid. She pulled down the next road, and on the dirt path saw small impressions in the dust. Footprints! Tamara parked the car in a tall bush and climbed out, following in 49's footsteps.

They came for Sayed in the middle of the night. The feared Mossad, Israel's secret police. Tamara had lain with her husband, and they were together when the secret agents burst into their room, with their lethal looking weapons pointed at the couple. Tamara had huddled closer to Sayed, clutching him for protection.

"Mr. Yata," one of the intruders said in a slow drawl. "Come quietly and you won't be harmed."

Tamara cast a horrified look at Sayed. His handsome features, a moment ago filled with ecstasy and love, now darkened and grew sick with fear. "I haven't done anything," he said in a quiet voice, and to Tamara "They're just coming after me because I'm not Jewish."

"Shut up, Arab pig!" the agent growled, his eyes flashing with fury. He nodded at his accomplice, who grabbed Sayed by his hair. His eyes widened but he did not cry out as he was dragged from the bed, exposed. The cruel man laughed. Then, without warning, he slammed his machine gun into the side of Sayed's face. He dropped to his knees, his face contorted in pain. The man hit him again, in the face, breaking his nose. Tamara screamed.

One man snapped a pair of metal handcuffs onto Sayed's wrists, setting them as tight as they could go. Then the secret police pulled Sayed to his feet and shoved him roughly out the door into the hall.

"Stop!" Tamara cried. "Stop!" Tears streamed down her cheeks in waves. The children, awakened by the racket, peeped curious eyes through a crack in the door. One of them wept, crying "Abba, Ima!"

The leader's face darkened. "You traitor!" He pistol whipped her, sending her to her knees on the floor. "You've forsaken your people! Or have you forgotten who you are? Have you forgotten you are a Jew? And this scum, he is a Muslim pig! Don't ever speak to me again, whore!" He strode down the hall, his hips swaggering, stabbing brutally with each step he took.

Tamara crawled to the end of the hallway and saw the other members of the Mossad shoving Sayed, red now staining his cheeks and dripping onto his shirt, into a dark van. His beautiful eyes were now tired, dark, reflections of the raw despair that grasped at Tamara's heart.

"No!" she shouted, her voice hoarse. "Sayed!" But the van drove off, and Tamara was left behind, weeping on the threshold. Salty tears dribbled down her cheeks. "God," she whispered. "God..."

The neighbors had heard, apparently, because the kindly woman next door (who had shared Passover with Tamara the past year) turned her lights on and walked out onto her terrace. "Don't be crying now, hon," she said. "It's sure to be over soon. In fact, I doubt you'll ever hear from them again." She waited another moment, then disappeared back into her house.

At the time, Tamara had been known as Geilah Yehuda, the name her parents had given her. But now, she swore she would never use the name again. I am no longer joyful, she said, I am become Death, I am sorrows, all pain, my love taken from me. She took the name Miriam Heber, saying "Now I am bitter, and a stranger in my own land, among my own people."

Tamara walked quickly down the winding path, disappearing into a grove of trees. She saw only a rocky footpath ahead, and she stumbled down it. Unfortunately, she never noticed the tall man behind her. Jordan watched closely.

***

Two hours later, Tamara Azrael saw the young boy maybe a hundred yards (0.09 km) away. She tripped through a thicket of brambles and called out to him. "Kid! Come back!" But he scurried further away, perhaps in panic, at her words. His eyes widened, and he began to run.

Tamara ran after him. "Please! Stop!" Finally, she had him cornered. "Don't go," she whispered, cradling her gun in her hands. She heard footsteps behind her. Tamara turned and saw Jordan.

"Now shoot him," Jordan whispered. "Do it now."

Tamara hesitated, looking at the kid. Her gun was pointed at him. Her finger pressed on the trigger. The kid began to cry, saying "Mommy, mommy..."

"Do it!" Jordan hissed, his breath hot on her neck. She looked at the boy, and for a moment, his face transfigured into an exact replica of Sayed's. "Will you kill me? Will you abandon me? Make your choice...Are you going to be a good Jew or are you going to be my wife?" "No..." Tamara thought. Then the vision cleared, and he was once again the small boy, frightened, close to death.

Tamara closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. Like a miniature explosion, the bullet fired, missing the boy by a half-inch, burying itself into the tree trunk. Disgusted, Jordan took the gun from her, and before the boy could run, shot him twice in the face, leaving him unrecognizable. Tamara sank to her knees in the grass as tears poured down her cheeks. I am become death...

SAMPLE TWO

The President of the United States sits in the Oval Office, not aware he is about to die. A foreign ambassador has just left from a highly sensitive meeting; and now it is almost midnight. President Carl Maynard is tired; he massages his temples and sips from cold coffee. No breeze blows in the White House; the bulletproof windows are securely shut. The air smells as though it has been recirculated one too many times.

An aide walks into the Oval Office and delivers a message from the Al-Jazeera network, a message intended for President Maynard's eyes only. As the aide exits the room, the President gets up and stretches, yawning loudly. He reads the message, raises his eyebrows, and carefully tosses it into the paper shredder. After Maynard is sure it is destroyed, he walks through the halls and out onto the patio, where he settles into a large armchair with a copy of Dante's Inferno.

Two Secret Service agents discreetly guard him from nearby, quietly chatting about the day's work. Nothing is out of the ordinary--until a single bullet whizzes through the air and buries itself in its target, Maynard's head. As the President slumps forward, blood dripping down onto his suit, the agents rush forwards shooting...

That was how the staff of the White House suspected the President died, just yesterday, as an uncountable number of FBI agents, Secret Service agents, crime scene technicians, and unidentifiable government employees rushed through the halls of the White House, especially the Oval Office, carefully documented by the uniformed policeman at the door, noting people's names, ranks, affiliation, and the time they arrived and left.

The President's three children were with the First Lady, Abidah Khan Maynard, upstairs, waiting for more news. The lead agent to the case, Graylen Lee Fieldings, had decided not to permit the family to see the body--they might not have been able to recognize it, and it was a gruesome sight to behold. Agent Fieldings himself was inside the Oval Office, orchestrating the entire chaos. He was scheduled to hold a press conference later that day.

***

Treali Storm sat alone, in a dark room, massive, and shrouded by shadows. A few frail rays of sunlight drifted in through the carved windows nearly fifty feet up, but other than that, there was nothing. In front of her she held on to a thin piece of paper, a letter, the letter she had been waiting for.

They know now, and soon will come.
The reward is fifty million dollars.
--Sirius Melbourne

Attached to the letter by a small silver paperclip was a copy of a legal size paper, the top of which read in boldface "FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE". Below that was a photograph, of her face. At the bottom, the same amount was mentioned. Fifty million dollars.

***

The slim, straw-blonde woman looked furtively left and right, and then stepped inside the room and locked the door behind her. Natalie Schultz hid in the interrogation room, sometimes, down the street, away from the chaos and din of the Hoover Building. After last night's assassination, everyone was going crazy. Today, the noise at FBI Headquarters was deafening, enough to drive even the most reasonable, calm, and patient person right off the wall.

She sprawled comfortably across the floor, content in the soundproof room, and emptied from the six boxes the complete FBI file on Treali Storm. Natalie had been tracking the woman now for ten years, and today she might have stumbled across a major breakthrough. Just as she was concentrating though, her cell phone rang. "Schultz," said the voice of the Director of the FBI. "Get down to the White House. They need you there. Find Agent Fieldings."

Natalie groaned. WHY ME? she thought, then re-packed her possessions and lugged herself out of the Correctional Center.

SAMPLE THREE (This one includes Treali, the proposed character.)

Jalal ibn Mu'taal helped Treali Storm into the back of the black Tahoe, lifting her in. He then joined Rashid Saoui, who was driving, in the front of the vehicle. The others were splitting up, taking different cars. Treali sat in the plush leather seat, leaning back into it, her face full of pain. Jalal looked back at the fugitive; she had, with some effort, turned her head to the side, where she was gazing out wistfully at the citizens of Vanacus who passed by outside.

With their clean-shaven faces and stylish Western suits, Jalal and Rashid looked no more out of place than any native of Vanacus. Their impeccably British accents were icing on the cake, almost unnecessitating their completely fake documentation. As Rashid drove slowly through the streets, aiming for the airport in London so they could leave the godforsaken country, unbeknownst to the terrorists, a helicopter drifted some ten blocks away, the pilot notifying base of the suspicious looking vehicle, which had just left from an address being closely watched.

Jalal looked back for a moment; a single tear began to form in the corner of Treali's eye, sliding down her cheek, dropping onto the leather. But she spake not a word, and Jalal respected her silence with his own. After several moments, Rashid spoke in an urgent whisper.

"Jalal, look, do you see that man?" He motioned with his eyes towards a man darting furtively into a backstreet, his head inclined towards his shoulder.

"Yes," Jalal replied. "He is obviously with law enforcement; he's talking into his bloody shirt. We have to evade. Now."

Rashid hesitated for a moment, then slammed his foot down on the gas. An instant later, sirens blared on all sides, and what looked like an entire convoy of police vehicles converged on the Tahoe, which before had seemed mighty and powerful, and now seemed like a small toy. Treali Storm, in the back, did not seem to notice the commotion; in the ensuing chaos, her eyes lit up as they stared vacantly through the heavily tinted windows, she offered up something unseen in her hands, and whispered "Just a minute longer; hold me, don't let me go."

But neither Jalal nor Rashid paid any attention, as a roadblock suddenly shot into view. Rashid screamed, then the car slammed head on into the roadblock, sending the Tahoe to a dead stop. Police cars spun to a stop around them, men in uniform, body armor, and military fatigues all training their weapons on the trio.

"Come out of the vehicle with your hands up," a voice shouted. Jalal and Rashid were paralyzed. They could not risk surrender, nor could they attempt suicide. Treali Storm was their charge; it was her health and safety above all else.

Before they could make any decisions, a bobbie tossed a tear gas canister into the carved swath of the Tahoe, which quickly released the unpleasant gas, forcing Jalal and Rashid out of the car. They were instantly tackled to the ground, their arms forced behind them, and taken into custody.

Treali Storm did not move. Inside the damaged car, she was transfixed, Leaning against the side of the vehicle, she murmured, "Never let me go..."

Finally, coughing terribly on the gas, chemical-induced tears indistinguishable from genuine ones, she limped slowly out of the Tahoe, a sight to behold. The world's most wanted woman, walking slowly out of a totalled Tahoe, hands folded as if in prayer.





Pejmahn Azad-Behnam awoke in a hospital room, his wounds freshly bandaged. His sleepy eyes struggled for a moment to open, then Pejmahn looked groggily around the room. Where was he? In a blind panic, Pejmahn realized he had no idea where he was. He bolted upright in the bed, when it came flashing back.

Samantha! "Omigod," he whispered. "Is Samantha okay?"

The agent beside the bed perked up at the sound of Pejmahn's voice. "Yeah, she's doing great."

"Good," Pejmahn said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Hey, what are you doing?" The agent asked in alarm, standing up.

"I'm going to talk to this scum who tried to kill her," Pejmahn replied.

"What? That's crazy--the man almost killed you!"

"I know, Andrew, and that's why I have to go." Pejmahn stood unsteadily, then took a step forward and winced from the pain in his thigh. He was determined though, and made it to the door, favoring the side only slightly.

"Well, if you must know, they're holding him at the Correctional Center downtown. They're probably interrogating him now. I think they'd let you sit in on the interrogation."

* * *


Pejmahn Azad-Behnam sat on the other side of the one-way mirror in the interrogation room with a friend. The suspect, a man who had given his name as Gary Lanor, sat smiling at the table.

"You don't understand, sir," Lanor said, in a patronizing tone. "With all due respect, there are simply too many of us. President Jenkins is someone who cannot lead this nation into the future." He leaned over the table, his face almost too close to the interrogator's. "America has been conquered by evil," Lanor said, then he spat. "She's been taken over by the very forces she swore to defend herself from!"

"What would those be?" The interrogator, Agent Daniel Blake, asked.

Lanor waved his hand around in the air as he spoke, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, injustice, impiety, arrogance, corruption, all of it spews from the evils that grip our dear President Jenkins." His tone grew serious again. "You name it, sir, and America suffers from it."

"Mr. Lanor," the interrogator said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "you were arrested trying to murder the President's daughter."

"Murder?" Lanor asked innocently, a child-like smile beaming on his features. "Oh, now, sir, watch carefully your choice of words!" He turned around the room, as though he were addressing an audience, and looked right at the one-way mirror, his eyes meeting Pejmahn's. "See, how he so carefully crafts his words? And you wonder how men as inept as Jenkins made it past elections!"

Pejmahn pushed his chair back and stood. "That's enough," he said, "I'm going in."

"Suit yourself," his friend said, shrugging.

Pejmahn walked into the interrogation room and bent down, whispering into Agent Blake's ear. He nodded and left. Pejmahn sat down, eye level from Gary Lanor, who smiled horrifically.

"Why hello, there," Lanor greeted him. "It's Agent Cut Up. Or, should I say, Agent Die Saving The Princess?"

Pejmahn's eyes narrowed into slits. He very barely resisted the urge to grab Lanor by the throat and slam him against the wall.

"So is the wittle girl okey-a?"

"She's fine," Pejmahn answered, his voice quiet.

"Good, good," Lanor said, nodding his head. Then his lips spread in a malicious grin. "That way, we can take her out some other way. Really hurt Jenkins, if you know what I mean. Men, even the most manly of them," he said with a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes as if sharing an inside joke, "can be so, so attached to their families. It's so sweet, ya know?" Lanor's eyebrows knitted together then, and he clenched his fists. "I HATE SWEET." After a moment, his features twisted back into their normal positions and he laughed. "I's just playing with you, man."

Then his voice grew serious. "But that kind of family attachment, sir, that's something I can manipulate. It's an art. If something were to happen to his family, to his beloved daughter, why, Jenkins might awaken from his illusions. In fact, I'm sure of it! He couldn't go on thinking he was Mr. Incredible forever, now could he?" Lanor shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. Jenkins thinks the world revolves around him, that he IS the world." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The arrogance, the sheer arrogance. The most proud, sir, are always the furthest to fall. And the last circle of Hell is reserved for those who betray their benefactors. And what has Jenkins done to those?"

Lanor drew his hand sharply across his throat. "He's murdered them, suffocated them, put America in its worst debt seen yet, raised taxes to mind-boggling heights, and yet what does he do? He laughs. The worst type of man, sir. Reincarnation of Satan."

"That's enough," Pejmahn said in disgust. He stalked out of the room.

"Don't forget," Lanor called after him. "Samantha will only be the first to die. Then Jenkins will truly appreciate the path America must take."







He saw the petite woman, the one with mousy blonde hair, slip past, obviously trying to escape detection. After years of observing others, Jack knew how to spot someone who didn't want to be seen. He smiled, thanked the newcomer politely, and followed the woman upstairs.

She slipped furtively through a small door. Jack peeped in through the crack to see a dark, dingy room, with a dirty bed crammed into the small space. It reeked of body odor. He himself checked quickly to his left and right, and saw no one there. Jack walked inside.

The blonde was sprawled on the bed, sighing, just about to slip into sleep. Jack grabbed her, and before she could scream, wrapped his musuclar arm around her, suffocating the woman who was no doubt a prostitute. Her grey eyes grew large and somewhat moist. Jack felt an intense thudding, reveling in it for several moments before realizing that it was his own heartbeat. With a sickening smile, he pulled out his knife.

"You don't know how I've thirsted for this," he spoke, his voice low, husky, almost a whisper. "It's been a while, love, almost too long. But don't be afraid--the big, bad wolf won't get you. I'll make sure, personally." He frowned, caressing the tiny woman. "What's the matter?" Jack brought the blade to within an inch of her eye, causing her to squirm. "True love," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "can be found only in the most simple of moments, the most human, the most animal. When we are stripped to our bare existence."

The blade was sharp, perfectly whetted. "This is true love." He slit the woman's throat and held her petite body as she went limp in his arms. I'm home, love. Jack slowly removed her clothes, laying them on the broken chair, which nearly collapsed under their weight. His knife glistened for a moment in the light of his eyes, then he brought it down. The intricate designs on the woman's arms, chest, and legs somewhat resembled arabesques, or the designs in an Incan Mandala.

After he had spent his time in the room, Jack left, shutting the door quietly behind him. When the police would find the woman's corpse, she would be so beautiful. His own work of art. My magnum opum. Her own mother wouldn't recognize her.

Jack smiled at the ladies downstairs, and without another word, disappeared onto the streets.






"Well," Natalie began. "You can start by putting on a pair of these gloves, here," she said, handing a pair of disposable latex gloves to Johanna and Sofia. "Okay, y'all do that, then when that's done, you can take all those notes off the President's desk over there--don't read them, okay?--and read the title of each one and stick them in separate bags, like these." Natalie waved a large plastic bag, which read "Evidence".

"After you're done with that, the coroner'll probably be here, and you can help take out the body. With your gloves still on, of course. Oh and be careful. Like, don't spit on anything or step in or on anything different or suspicious or random looking. So, get to work." Natalie beamed at her daughter and Johanna and skipped off to consult with someone else in hushed tones.

Sofia Antonucci looked up at Johanna, shrugged, and pulled on the pair of gloves. "So, let's start with this thick folder," she said, picking up a large blue folder from the desk. It said "NUCLEAR IRAN" on the front. "Ideas?"






I wake to find myself in a dark wood
But without knowledge of how I went there
As the sun began to set, fear took me

And I see a figure walking toward me
And who stretches an arm and reaches me
And calls me by my given name, "Tira!"

Lovingly he embraces, kisses me
"Do not fear; for I will never leave thee
Nor should I deign ever to forsake thee here"

Then did I look upon his countenance
And see it shining in a radiance
That rivaled the sun in its pure brilliance

And he smiled at me, a lovely word,
and promised truly to lead me from there.
A voice in the desert, my salvation.

When suddenly, the sky did break in two,
and pours sheets of rain down on my sad face,
and take love that hard death from my cold life.

The man, my messenger from God above,
no longer embraced me kindly with love,
but stood far back and scoffed from afar,

calling to me, "What, and did you dream sweet?
Did you wend that I was thine, O wretched!
Now see, let go of foolish childlike dreams,

for you have now done what you have now done,
and the lifeblood of those whose lives you took
runs red throughout the world's salty oceans.

And one day, that high Judge in heaven high,
He alone shall call down judgment on you,
Whilst now earthly scorn of friends will suffice."

And my beloved, he who had saved me,
fades into sky of the impending storm
and I look on helplessly below.







If one had been watching, they might have seen a small plane land behind the main runways of the Pentagon. If they had looked closer, they might have seen a government logo on the plane, although a civilian one, and not the military. If our observer had hung around, they would have seen four armed men. If they stayed even longer, they would have seen the tiny woman between the men, a few pieces of her silver hair tossed limply in the wind. Had they had some type of binoculars, they might have caught a glimpse of her face, and they probably would have recognized it--the world's most wanted woman.

The four burly men, all toting automatic weapons, escorted Treali Storm off the plane. She wondered briefly where they were taking her. Did the American government want her dead? Probably. After all, they had placed a fifty million dollar bounty on her head. Treali walked slowly, deliberately, her hands cuffed behind her. One of them shoved her roughly through a doorway.

They walked silently down several twisting hallways, stopping at a guarded door. The man at the door stepped forward to greet the strange party. "General Jeffrey Davis," he said. Treali did not recognize him, but her escort did. "You won't be needing those anymore. Take them off," the general ordered, and one of her guards promptly removed the handcuffs. The others stiffened. "The President is waiting to begin the meeting."

"What?" the man said, his jaw dropping. "You're taking her face to face with the President of the United States?!"

The general nodded solemnly, and opened the door. Inside, a man was waiting at the table, polishing a sharp and lethal-looking knife. "Ms. Storm," Davis said. Treali looked sideways and up at the general's pockmarked face. "You might be wanting this." He handed her a wrapped package, which she slowly tore open. Inside was her scimitar in its sheath, which the Americans had taken when they had arrested her. She looked at him questioningly. "It's yours." The general nodded at her escorts, who mumbled among themselves, and then said, "Whatever your orders, General."

"Go, and speak nothing of this. It is a matter of national security." They nodded and rapidly strode out of the Pentagon, disappearing into the maze of hallways. Treali tied the sheath to her belt, then stepped slowly over the threshold to the austere meeting room. General Davis closed the door. She stood behind one of the posh chairs and lightly lay her hand on it. "Good day," she said, nodding to the other man in the room. Treali did not see the Marine, who stood behind her.





SOOOOO, anyways, now that I've posted all of that, to increase the thingymabob thingy such and such that, yeah, that, well, please tell me if you're mad at me? Please? (8719 words in tis post)

Errr...what was the point of all that...?

... OoO

I know the point xD

There wasn't a point. It was interesting though xD

xD

DON'T LET THIS DIE!

Er, I'm afraid if the only people posting right now in the thread are the interrogators and the suspect, then this virtually has died...

Well Trix and Rosie have been posting the exchange between Adrian and Johanna. Sammie, please return with Sam, and the appropriate roleplayer for Mark. Then there's me with the interrogators, and I'll post for Elias at the Hoover building.

Please, let us not let this poor roleplay die. I've worked SO hard on Tamara's backstory and am still working on Elias's.

By the way, you guys know if we actually complete the thread--

Children returned to parents, attempt to get back into normal lives, Tamara tried/sentenced?, the other scientists found/arrested/tried, children have a reunion? AND have over 80,000 words, we can get Disappearing Children in a book format. So come on, let's posties, and not let this die--it is such an awesome roleplay! I have it linked in my signature--if you let it die, I will be incredibly angry, drown in ashes, tear my clothes and hair, and wear sackcloth. So just don't, okay?

Ylanne out.

My lord. I wish I would've found this forum sooner. This is exactly the type of rp I would love to do. D: Too late now.
And from what I read it's wonderful. I've been looking for a deep realistic roleplay for a while, and this is definitely a good one. Too late I guess XD

Tears of Balthamos xD. Thanks for the interest. It's kinda died now though. But, here is another one I've just organised if you want to read through it. Though it says it's full, I'm sure, if your interested I can fit you in as I've said this to another person as well. Also, you could be a non gang member. It will all make sense (hopefully), if you read it. but just have a look xD. The OOC is here.