Æon Æternal (Closed)

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The Aeon Society - Formerly the Aeon Society for Gentlemen, not yet the Aeon Covenant - was founded to improve the lot of humanity, and to push back the boundaries of the unknown. Far from its origins as a Chicago gentleman's club, it's now best known for its scientific research and philanthropy. But, still, there's much we don't know. Too much, even. When things seem beyond the understanding of modern science, when a disaster gets too strange for the Neptune Foundation, or when weirdly advanced artifacts of the distant past show up on auction, they call your team.

Las Vegas, Nevada. 10:48 PM.

Madame Sophia's Psychic Studio is the cramped front parlor of a trade house in the outskirts of the city, far from the Vegas strip. It smells like incense, cigarette smoke, and old perfume, and the room is decorated with curtains and scarves pinned up on the walls. Low new-agey music plays from a boombox in the corner, and the neon yellow and purple light of the eye-in-a-hand-in-a-pyramid sign affixed to next to the door leaks in through the window. It would be incredibly unconvincing if, within minutes of the start of her consultation, she hadn't told you the hotel you're staying at, the time of your flight to Vegas, and what the meeting room in the Chicago headquarters of the Aeon Society looked like.

Madame Sophia is a black woman in her 50s, dressed in a long, colorful dress in paisley patterns, with her hair tied up in a bandanna. When it became clear that you weren't customers, she dropped her mystic act, leaning back and lighting up a Virginia Slim. She's had sort of an air of familiarity as she went through the standard battery of tests and questions for psychic powers. Everything seemed normal, until-

A distant 'foomp'.

Shattering glass.

The room fills with smoke.

"What the HELL!" Sophia cries out in alarm, before her house's front door is kicked off its hinges. What do you do?
Konstantin Ivanovich Azhikelyamov
Константи́н Иванович Ажикелямов

It would have been almost nine in the morning back home in Saint Petersburg, and Kostya's glad it means he isn't really tired, especially when the door burst open. He doesn't know what the smoke is, but he know the faster they get out, the better. He darts to Sophia--fighting off whoever's coming in isn't his strong suit--and asks, just loud enough to be heard, "Is there back door?" in his thick Russian accent. The easiest way to not get hurt was to not be there when bullets start flying.
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"Through the kitchen!" Sophia says, as she starts running for it herself. Kostya can feel someone shoulder by him in the smoke, and heavy footfalls. It's crowded in here, and chaotic, and whoever just came in sound like they're loaded for bear, their breath filtered through masks.
Grigori Voronov (ригорий Воронов)

Grigori was sitting on a far too small chair, consulting with a studied neutral expression, the checklist of questions to ask a possible psychic in hand. He's up in one instant when he hears the sound of the door getting kicked open. He gestures to the others to move along, guiding Sophia and the others towards the kitchen, placing huge hands on the backs of the slowest folks and gently pushing them towards the kitchen.
"Move, move!" He barked. He had noticed their gas masks; he and his companions didn't want to be anywhere near here in the near future. His hand searched idly in the dark for the remote control of the ventilation system. He had seen it earlier on the coffee table... ah-hah! There it is!

And so it was that the unwanted guests saw a Russian giant appear out of the smoke, eyes zeroed on them.
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For anyone who's outside, you see it unfold in seconds, with practiced precision. A van pulls up in front of the house. The side door slides open, and a man dressed head to toe in black, from filter mask to boots, leans out and fires a grenade through the window of the psychic studio. The room fills with smoke, and then three men pile out of the van, bursting into the house.
Konstantin Ivanovich Azhikelyamov
Константи́н Иванович Ажикелямов
Kostya didn't need Grigori to tell him to move as he kept pace with Sophia. He heard Grigori behind them, and the whirl of the central air, and didn't realize he and Sophia were trying to go out the same door at the same time until the strode right into the door jamb.

"Oof," Kostya said, and then scooted out after Sophia.

He hoped nobody saw that.
Zerya reacts quickly, too, surreptitiously drawing her pistol and sliding into position behind a dumpster to check who's currently occupying the van, assuming their plan would be somewhat derailed without a getaway crew.
Trent hastily backs away towards the back door, slipping through after everyone else is already through. He spies a sun chair and quickly erects it as a makeshift barrier in front of the door, tossing whatever else in front so that anyone who tries to go through there is going to be slowed down!
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One of the masked people squares up against Grigori and swings, but fifty years of experience as a spy isn't for nothing, and as the spy took up a defensive stance, the blows were deflected. Still, it's now three on one inside the house. Or, it would be, as one breaks through the door and tries to flank around the side yard of the house, as the other pulls a taser from his belt, sparks arcing between the metallic probes.

In the back yard, Kostya and Trent find themselves in... Well, a suburban backyard. Ringed by fences, a barbecue and some playground equipment. Another chair or two. Sophia looks between the two of you. "What the hell's going on? How'd you two just..." She takes a breath. "One's coming around the side of the house. Can you- what do we do?"

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