Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (Updated Daily: Feb 8)

[Bryon_Soulweaver]

*LOL*

A deal with the devil, huh? It gets better and better.

[talien]

If you know anything about Stephen Alzis, you know that it's almost literally a deal with the devil.

And sadly, he's trying to HELP.

[talien]

Jake had just finished putting the band's equipment back in their van when a Latino man with an unhealthy pallor followed him out of the club.

"Mr. Ironshirt?"

Jake turned to face him. "I prefer Blade. But yes."

"Yeah, I heard all about your television show, Mr. Ironshirt. I'd like to speak with you a moment, if you don't mind."

Jake took a deep breath. "It's late and I'm tired. You can catch me later at the next gig."

The man shook his head. "I wasn't asking you, Mr. Ironshirt." He fished a badge out of his suit pocket. "NYPD. Narcotics. I'm sure you can find the time."

Spider clambered out of the van, eyeing the man. "Go on, Jake. We'll be fine."

Jake sighed. "Okay." He turned back to the man. "Are you arresting me, officer..."

"Lieutenant Ramirez," he coughed. "No, I'm not arresting you, not yet. But it's urgent I speak with you." He pointed at a coffee shop that was still open at three in the morning. "Let's get some coffee."

They entered and sat down. The place was mostly deserted, with one waitress handling the few customers that had filtered out of Club Apocalypse. She came by and sullenly took their order.

"I've been tailing Mr. Alzis for some time. His Club Apocalypse is a front."

"For drugs?"

Ramirez leaned forward, the bright overhead lighting shadowing his sunken eyes. "Much worse than that, Mr. Ironshirt. Much worse. Mr. Alzis, and his compatriot Mr. Hubert, are part of a crime syndicate I call the Network. Like most syndicates, the Network has its fingers in drugs, prostitution, extortion...the usual. But the Network is different because it provides some very special services. One of them is favors. His Network specializes in the impossible. And I think you just received a favor from Mr. Alzis."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "Were you eavesdropping?"

Ramirez chuckled. "I wish. Club Apocalypse is impenetrable. But your band went downstairs on their first night. The Rising's just a bunch of kids. Mr. Alzis already has his own band, Charnel Dreams. I've been on the force long enough to look for the one thing that doesn't belong, and you are that one thing, Mr. Ironshirt."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Mr. Alzis isn't interested in The Rising at all. He invited the band to Club Apocalypse because he wanted to speak with you. And Mr. Alzis doesn't just speak with anybody. He spoke to you for a reason. That's why we're having coffee right now, Mr. Ironshirt, because I want to know what that reason is."

The coffee arrived. Jake sipped it while he gathered his thoughts.

"It was about my son."

Ramirez took out a notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages. "Alex?"

Jake nodded. "Alex."

Ramirez scanned his notes. "That's the boy you had with Christine Dee. Man, she was a looker in her day, huh? You two got involved when you were her bodyguard..."

Jake stopped drinking and placed his hands on the table, palm down. "You read a lot of tabloids, Officer Ramirez."

Ramirez shrugged. "I have a lot of time on my stake-outs. But I meant no disrespect. What the hell would a crime lord like Alzis want with your son?"

Jake shook his head. "I wish I knew. He wanted me to go see him. He even handed me a plane ticket..."

"A plane ticket?" Ramirez leaned forward. "Let me see it."

Jake fished the ticket out of his vest pocket and put it on the table.

Ramirez snatched it up. "This is good. I can trace this. If he bought it with dirty money, maybe I can figure out how the Network launders it--"

Jake yanked the ticket out of Ramirez's hand. "Not if it endangers my son."

A flash of aggravation crossed Ramirez's face, but he retained his composure. "No, of course not. I'm not married myself, but my brother is. Two kids, cute as pie. What did Alzis say about your son?"

"He told me to be a good father. Said he doesn't want Alex to grow up to be like him."

Ramirez nodded. "So weird Uncle Alzis shows up one day, gives you a plane ticket, and wants you on the first plane back to California." His eyes were wide and bloodshot. "I've never seen this kind of behavior before. Do you know what this is?"

"What?"

"Alzis is AFRAID of you. And Alzis is afraid of no man." He took a long sip of his coffee. "This is too big to pass up." Ramirez flipped through his notebook. "You lost custody of Alex a few years ago."

Jake nodded.

"So what are you going to do? Fly back and tell the lovely Ms. Dee's bodyguards to let you see him?"

Jake bit his lip. He didn't know either. "I think I have to speak with her."

"You do need to speak with her, I agree. But according to my research, part of the reason for the custody battle was your drinking problem..."

"I haven't touched a drink in two years," snarled Jake.

Ramirez kept speaking. "...and the fact that you couldn't hold down a job. What would you say, Mr. Ironshirt, if I told you I can offer you that job?"

Jake grappled with his emotions. Did he just hear him right?

Ramirez waved the waitress over. "We'll take the check."

"A job?"

"A job. A job that pays good money. A job that will help you gain visitation rights to Alex. And a job that will guarantee he's protected round the clock."

"I'd say sign me up," said Jake. "What are you offering?"

The waitress came over with the check and two mints, one blue, and one red.

"I spiked your coffee with a sedative to keep you calm, Mr. Ironshirt, so hear me out." Ramirez smoothed out his tie. "I work for an organization known as Majestic-12. We are a clandestine taskforce that deals with the elimination and obscuration of preternatural phenomena that pose a threat to our citizens and their country. Threats like the Network, who is into far worse things than anything you can imagine. I believe you'd be an asset to our organization, Mr. Ironshirt. If you're interested, take the red mint. If you're not, take the blue mint and we'll forget this ever happened."

Jake looked down at the two mints.

"You covering the check?" he asked.

Ramirez laughed. "Of course."

Jake took the red mint.

[Nebulous]

Ok, I see. You were wanting to work Project Pi into your ongoing Modern scenario in a concise, logical manner without obliterating your entire party. Well, well, that might be a little tricky, but you can pull it off. I can offer a few suggestions:

1) Easiest way, the PC's stop the mad scientist from opening the gate. That's as closest as you'll get to "winning" that scenario. Cthulhu won't wake up, and the heroes just have to blast their way back to the sub.

2) It's just a Star Spawn being cloned, not the Big Guy himself, so taking it down will be possible, although difficult.

Nice adventure, btw.

[talien]

I agree, a Star Spawn is a good alternate solution. I'm just concerned that it still takes nukes to stop the thing, which pretty much ends the scenario. It could be a good ender for the campaign though...hmmm.

Anyway, thanks for the compliment! Now back to our regularly scheduled programming..

[talien]

SAMSON, CA -- Bringing up the past made it inevitable.

Soon, Hank Gupta was trudging through the jungle again, sweating like a pig, the mosquitoes swarming around him. Paulito was up ahead, thrashing wildly with his machete, while the survey team trudged on behind. Hank topped the rise and gasped as he looked on the ceremonial center of El Cacao.

The plaza was clear of undergrowth and the stone temple at the far end looked almost restored. Something was wrong…it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Someone had already excavated there.

Then Hank felt a chill, and suddenly Paulito screamed and fell to the ground as bullets tore through him, a misty cloud of blood hanging in the air. The men rushed out from the temple, shouting in Spanish, the sun gleaming off of their rifles. Hank shoved Rachel to the ground and dove after her. Two more died, students this time.

He crawled for any kind of cover and looked up to see Bret Hauk take a hit in the shoulder. Bret fell, screaming madly.

As Hank reached the trees and looked back for Rachel, a realization hit him. He could hear the shouts, the screams of the dying, the frantic clamor of the birds, even the ragged gasps of his own breathing…but not the gunfire. He stared at one of the men, watching the muzzle flash from his rifle, and realized that it was utterly silent.

He wondered why, but then he was suddenly seated before the review board, the people who were reviewing the incident. They were going through their final statements and a sound reached Hank, like dripping water.

Drip.

He glanced up from his folded hands, looking for the leak.

Drip.

It was Dr. Nowlan—a stream of blood was leaking from his ear into his glass of water, the red blossoming through the still liquid.

Drip.

Hank gasped. They were all bleeding from their ears and looking down at his suit, saw that he was too.

Hank leaped to his feet, overturning the table before him.

A small, spindly figure rushed into the room dressed in surgical scrubs stained blood red. It had a huge head, almond shaped eyes, and tiny slits for nostrils and a mouth. It ran at Hank with a speed belying its size and jabbed a bright scalpel through Hank’s forehead—

Hank woke up screaming, struggling in the restraints on the bed that kept him from hurting himself.

When Hank realized where he was, he took a few deep breaths to relax. He would see Dr. van Dyson tomorrow. He would make everything better.

[talien]

“Now, tell me about 1994.”

The good doctor Petroff van Dyson turned on his video camera. Hank Gupta hated that thing. The little red dot glared at him like an angry eye. A television screen, facing away from Hank, was broadcasting his every facial feature.
Van Dyson’s office was decorated in southern California’s typical High Sierra look, reflecting the natural surroundings of the clinic. Spanish artwork and wall hangings accented the tasteful, though not indulgent, furnishings.

Very well. He would explain it again.

It was the summer of 1994, Belize. The University of Pennsylvania, in cooperation with the Programme for Belize, sponsored a field season in the northern part of the country. Hank, along with about sixty other people, went along. The expedition was directed by Dr. Paul Hughbanks, who wanted to complete a new survey of a large, empty stretch of northern Belize, as well as conduct several excavations.

The season was very unlucky, with equipment failures, transportation troubles, and logistical mishaps from the very beginning. After a particular nasty stomach bug swept through camp, the season finally started to look up when a survey team heard rumors of a large, unregistered site in the nearby jungle, a place called El Cacao. There was no record of it, and nobody had ever excavated there or even surveyed the place. Dr. Hughbanks leapt at the news, hoping that a major find might turn their season around.

The only voice of protest raised was Kyle Woodson. Kyle pointed out that the group had no permits to dig at El Cacxao and that drug smugglers were supposed to be lurking in the area. Hughbanks would not be dissuaded, however. He assembled a survey team, and set out on the long hike to El Cacao. The team got to the ruins, only to find that they weren’t deserted…

“No, it wasn’t deserted,” said van Dyson. “The police reports indicate you encountered a large band of cocaine smugglers that were camping among the grounds. Then what happened?”

Hank hesitated. “There was a…misunderstanding. Four students died. They chased us all the way back to the camp.”

“Who chased you?”

Hank lowered his head.

“Who, Hank?”

“The Grays,” he whispered.

“The Grays?” asked van Dyson. “Do you mean the aliens?”

Hank spoke slowly at first, and then it came out in a rush. “I keep having dreams. Dreams of bleeding from the ears. And there’s these…aliens, with scalpels. One of them leaps out of a pantry, wearing a funny pink outfit and surgical mask. It plunges a scalpel into my forehead…”

“But that’s not what the report says,” said the doctor. “Dr. Hughbanks lost his tenure, his job, and any chance of ever doing archaeology again. But no mention of Grays. There were sixty witnesses with you, Hank. You said so yourself. Don’t you think someone else would have mentioned aliens?”

“I…I don’t know…”

“We’ve been over this. It’s been nearly a decade since the incident and you’re not making much progress.” Van Dyson pulled out a pen from his front pocket. “We’re going to have to up your dosage…”

Hank shook his head. “No more drugs.”

Van Dyson peered at Hank over his glasses. “Now Hank.” He put one hand on Hank’s knee. It was all Hank could do to avoid jerking back from him. “Your father committed you to the Van Dyson Center. Nobody else would help you, remember?”

“Yeah.”

After his breakdown in the Army barracks, Hank’s father sent him to the Center, in Samson, California, for experimental therapy. It specialized in the study and treatment of schizophrenia. When the military booted him mid-tour, Hank had nowhere else to go. Van Dyson’s published notes “You Are I,” promised free treatment for subjects experiencing schizophrenia. And his father liked free.

So here he was, having private sessions with Dr. Van Dyson, the darling of daytime talk shows everywhere.

“The kinds of drugs I’m prescribing are very expensive. Your insurance won’t cover it.”

“I don’t have insurance,” said Hank meekly. “Not anymore.”

“Exactly my point.” Van Dyson flashed him a brief smile. “Look, it’s clear you experienced something very traumatic. I would normally diagnose you as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but your history seems to indicate you suffer from schizophrenia. Remember your uncle Ben?”

Hank struggled to nod. Van Dyson’s patronizing tone was getting on his nerves.

“I never said uncle Ben was schizophrenic.” It was short for Benali. His uncle used to claim the world was going to end around the time of the new millennium. He said that demonic forces were at work, trying to rule men’s souls.

“No, you didn’t.” Van Dyson allowed himself another brief, secret smile. “Your uncle Benjamin claimed he was getting messages from spirit guides. Have you ever read “The Demon Haunted World” by Carl Sagan?”

“No.”

Van Dyson resumed writing. “Sagan essentially states that one man’s demon is another man’s alien. Superstitions change with the times, Hank. Now I’m going to give switch your prescription to LY2140023. It targets the glutamate receptors of the brain rather than dopamine and has few side effects.”

Hank hesitated. “But Uncle Ben…”

“Failed to take his psychiatric medications,” snapped van Dyson. “He committed suicide by taking an overdose of pills at age 56.”

“But my father said he died from a heart attack.”

Van Dyson sighed. “You were five years old at the time. If I had kids, I might obfuscate too.” He tore off the sheet he was writing on. “Here’s your prescription, we can mix it right here at the Center. I’ll give it to Hector and he’ll be sure you fill it out.” The doctor paused. “There’s one thing I’ve been wondering, Hank.”

Hank had started to rise. He froze. “Yes?”

“Why did you travel to Belize? You’re not an archaeologist. Your major was in engineering, if I remember correctly.”

Hank straightened. “That’s correct.”

“So why did you go?”

Hank’s lips became a thin line. He didn’t so much as refuse to answer as hesitate for a very long time.

Van Dyson chuckled. “It was a woman, wasn’t it?”

Hank eyed the camera, but he nodded.

“Who was she?”

“Rachel. Rachel Hayward. We met at the University.”

Van Dyson stood up. “Ah, the course of love never does run true.” He looked down at his notes. “I don’t know her, but I know you, so I can guess how things went after you witnessed the murders. You couldn’t stand to be together because it reminded you of the incident.”

Hank nodded. He had joined the Army after that.

“I’m so sorry, Hank.” Van Dyson glanced at his watch. He rose to his feet.

Hector Simone, a graduate student at the University of California, opened the door and waited patiently for Hank. They had been through this routine before.

“We’ll talk about her more next session,” said Van Dyson. “In the mean time, I want you to practice the mental exercises we talked about.”

“Yes, doctor,” mumbled Hank.

As Hector closed the door behind him, he caught an odd exchange of glances between graduate student and doctor.

[talien]

The Van Dyson Center was a modern three-story facility in the low mountains northeast of Samson. It rested in isolation, on a large tract of tree-dotted land owned by the doctor. The Center was reached by a private road that wound through the occasional stands of trees and over shallow, usually dry, creek beds. The wilderness was a place of serenity, a place for healing, for rest.

The building was in the shape of a V, arms opening to face a small parking lot. Within the clinic’s three floors were facilities for sixteen patients, including areas for creation and visiting as well as therapy rooms, a nurse’s office, a kitchen, and various storage and maintenance rooms.

Hector shuffled Hank down the hallway from Van Dyson’s office. He hated the long walk. The rec room was at the end of the V. Hector would deposit him there while he got the new medication. Inside, patients, along with orderlies, milled about. They watched television, played checkers, stared out the window, or sometimes stared at nothing at all.

Hector left him, and a scruffy-looking young man sidled up to Hank.

“Hullo Hanky,” he sneered.

“Hi Damon,” said Hank. He disliked Damon Newcomb but had no reason to. Beyond the fact that the man called him Hanky, it was more a general vibe of hostility that Damon radiated. Damon was a failed academic and it was perhaps that fact that bound them together.

“Did you see it?”

Hank rubbed his forehead. He dreaded this part. All the patients knew he was in a session with Dr. van Dyson. And each had their own special question.

“No, Damon. I didn’t see his cane.”

Damon looked shocked and disappointed. It was a testament to his insanity that he was able to muster the emotion every single time Hank met with the doctor.

“You’re sure? You’re sure he didn’t conceal it? Like, maybe as an umbrella or something?”

“I’m not sure,” said Hank. “But it wasn’t laying around if that’s what you’re asking.”

Damon chuckled. “I like talking to you, Hanky. Your accent cheers me up.”

Hank rolled his eyes. His Indian accent wasn’t so thick that was he was incomprehensible. But then, Americans had problems with accents.

“I like yours too.”

Damon sniffed. “I don’t have an accent.”

An older man with unkempt hair interrupted them. “Stop bothering the poor boy!” he shouted at Damon. “Can’t you see he’s been through enough?”

Damon shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say, Uncle Mal.”

“I’m not your god damn uncle either!” Mal wagged a finger in Damon’s face. “Just because I’m older than you…”

One of the orderlies looked over. Mal lowered his finger. Damon just smiled at him.

Mal grabbed Hank firmly by the shoulder and steered him out of earshot. “You’ve got to get out of here, my dear boy.”

Hank rubbed his forehead. He liked Mal, but his constant paranoia was tiring. “I didn’t see any knives or forks in there either.”

Mal looked offended. “I’m not talking about Damon’s damn cane this time, Hank. I’m talking about…” he lowered his voice. “Cannibalism.”

“So you’re saying Dr. Van Dyson eats his patients?”

“Shhh!” hissed Mal.

“Like in Silence of the Lambs?”

Mal’s face twisted in aggravation. “I know how it sounds. But you know what?” He glared at Damon across the room. “I’m crazy enough to know I’m crazy. The Doc thinks he’s sane. That makes him worse.”

Hank nodded. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“They’re planning something, Hank. You mark my words.”

Hank forced a smile. Mal’s paranoia was getting worse. “I’ll try to keep an eye open.”

Mal’s face softened. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, it’s just that—“

Mal held up a hand. “That’s okay, that’s okay. You’re a good boy, Hank. You’re saner than the rest of us in here, including the Doc. You shouldn’t be here. You should be outside.”

“But…it’s so hard…”

“Oh, I know.” He patted Hank on the back. “I know it is. But life’s not like those comic books you’re so fond of. Life’s hard. Don’t worry; you’ve got skills to compensate. You’re the only one who doesn’t call me uncle in this joint, so that’s something.” He smiled.

Hector returned, interrupting the exchange. “Come with me, Hank.”

The other patients scattered like roaches at Hector’s approach.

They made their way out of the rec room towards Hank’s room.

Hector sighed. “Damon still nattering on about that cane, huh?”

Hank nodded. “Still.”

“We’re going to summon the Daemon Sultan!” shouted Damon at Hector, as if he had been insulted. “Just you wait!”

[talien]

As they entered Hank’s room, Hector closed the door. His demeanor changed.

“Now Hank, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Because there’s a video camera on us, I’m going to keep my back to it. But the camera can see you, so you have to remain calm. Okay?”

Hank swallowed hard. What the hell was going on?

“Sit down on the bed please.”

Hank stiffly reclined onto his bed.

Hector rattled the bottle of medication in his hands. “First, I want you to know that I believe you. I think something did happen in Belize that you’ve never quite recovered from.”

Hank nodded.

“Second, because of that experience, I am authorized to extend an offer to join a very elite organization.” Hector held up one hand to forestall any other questions. “Hear me out first.”

He handed Hank a plastic cup of water and two pills on a napkin.

“Majestic-12 is a clandestine taskforce that deals with the elimination and obscuration of preternatural phenomena that pose a threat to our citizens and their country. We believe you would be a valuable asset in maintaining the veil of secrecy necessary to keep society whole, and an important ally in the battle against unknown threats. Look down at your drink.”

There was a blue pill and a red pill on the napkin.

“If you find this prospect appealing, take the red pill and papers will be arranged so you’re transferred out of here. If not…then simply take the blue pill and you can resume treatment with Dr. Van Dyson tomorrow.”

Hank stared at Hector. Was this a hallucination? Had he finally snapped? Or was Hector really the agent of some shadowy organization, here to rescue him?

He thought of Mal’s words. Maybe he really didn’t belong here.

Hank took the red pill and washed it down with water.

“Good,” said Hector with a smile. “According to the camera you’re just taking LY2140023.” He reached over and folded the blue pill into the napkin and put it in his pocket.

“What if I took the blue pill?”

“The blue pill was the medication Van Dyson had prescribed for you.”

Hank was starting to feel a little woozy. He laid back on the pillow.

“But that’s not LY2140023?”

Hector shook his head. “It’s a high dose of chlorpromazine.”

Hank felt he should be alarmed, but he wasn’t. He felt as if he was floating. “You mean thorazine?”

Hector nodded. “The doctor’s drugging all his patients tonight for something…I’m not sure what. I would normally have slowly introduced you to the idea of joining Majestic-12, but circumstances have forced my hand.” He patted Hank on the shoulder, looking to the camera just like a doctor reassuring a patient. “Good luck, Hank. I don’t think we’ll see each other ever again.”

“Thank you, Hector,” Hank slurred. Then all was numb.

[talien]

NEW ORLEANS, LA -- Albert's was a five-star Cajun/French restaurant on the 11th floor of the Westin Canal Palace. Far below the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Mardi Gras parade blared and boomed, growing in volume as the evening commences.

Dr. Volk was running late. One of his shirttails was hanging over his belt, his tie was askew, and his face was flushed. He plopped down, panting, and lay his briefcase by his side.

"Mr. Fontaine, I presume." Volk shook his hand. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

Joe Fontaine adjusted his own tie. He wasn't fond of monkey suits, but X-investigations insisted he dress the part. Work in New Orleans would raise the profile of the company.

"That's quite all right," said Joe. "You mentioned something about anomalous seismic activity?"

Volk nodded. "Could you order for me? I'm in a bit of a rush and I want to get my papers together."

Joe blinked. So much for having the dinner comped. He waved a waiter over and ordered alligator in sauce piquant for himself and sautéed frog legs for Volk. Just to teach him a lesson. Judging from Volk, he probably wouldn't notice he was eating Kermit.

Volk spread out seismic data from his team's journey to Tonga. The table was fortunately large enough to accommodate Volk's research, as the place was fairly deserted and probably had been that way after Hurricane Katrina.

"As can be clearly seen, the seismic activity is of a distinctly regular nature. The pattern does not resemble that of a natural quake. Instead, it is very similar to the tremors associated with sub sea demolitions. Had I thought to enlarge the originals earlier, I might have been suspicious of the activity before going to Tonga."

Next he revealed a processed image containing a strange signal response from his own survey data in Tonga. "This signal here is of the normal non-anomalous Tongan Trench wall. This here is of the area near the origin of the tremors. Notice the giant scale of the anomaly. I suspect that the body of material generating this sensor response is highly ferrous. That is, I think there something very large and made of metal in this region. I would say it is on the order of a fifty- or seventy-five-story building, something along that scale."

"Dr. Volk, I'm not entirely sure I understand what this has to do with X-investigations..."

"My graduate assistant, Theresa Kent, was piloting a mini-sub off the trench at about three thousand feet. She was testing equipment when she fell ill. At least, I thought she fell ill. She recently explained to me that she had seen something horrible during that first dive at sea."

Joe leaned forward. This was getting interested. "What did she see?"

"She spoke about something huge. That it looked straight at her. The only coherent descriptions of what she saw was glowing behind its eyes."

Joe folded his hands. "That's it?"

Volk raised a hand. "Please, hear me out. During my original work at the Tongan site I came into contact with a boat, the Proud Ariane, under the registry of a Mr. Jean LeGoullon of LeGoullon Enterprises. The ship is a marine salvage-type vessel. It was anchored in the area throughout the time that we conducted our study. I feel certain that somehow this LeGoullon fellow and the boat are involved in this. I'm not sure exactly what they're doing there."

"What do you think they're doing?" asked Joe.

"I suspect they are constructing some sort of modular deep sea exploration environment, or perhaps undertaking a mining operation."

Joe sighed heavily. What a waste of time. Volk didn't notice.

"At any rate, they should not be blasting at such a depth in one of the subduction trenches of the Pacific Rim. I feel compelled to inform this LeGoullon fellow of the dangers, both to his own crew and to the local inhabitants of Tonga. I've a meeting with him in a few minutes, as a matter of fact."

"Look, Dr. Volk." Joe leaned forward as their dinner arrived. "X-investigations is an occult and paranormal investigation firm. I'll need to talk to Miss Kent. The rest..." he waved it off. "The rest is more suited for a Navy SEAL team or something."

"Of course, of course. " Volk picked at his frog legs, then checked his watch. "I'm sorry, I have to cut this short." He half-rose to shake Joe's hand. "I'm late for my appointment already with LeGoullon Enterprises. Miss Kent is staying at the New Orleans Hilton. You can follow up with her there. Now if you'll excuse me..."

Joe nodded. He was glad to see him go.

Joe waited a moment for Volk to leave, then walked over to the window. He was much more interested in Mardi Gras festivities than the ramblings of a boring professor.

The parade was passing just outside the main entrance to the hotel. A moment later, Dr. Volk appeared in front of the restaurant. He paused briefly to look both ways over the crowds and then descended down some stairs to his left into the street. At the same moment, a huge dragon float was passing by. The hair stood up on the back of Joe's neck. Something was wrong.

The head of the float bobbed stiffly this way and that, and occasionally a little puff of steam escaped its mouth. As it passed Dr. Volk, the head bobbed quickly towards him and then away again.

Dr. Volk was gone. Joe looked around for him.

He spotted a pair of legs protruding from the mouth of the dragon.

The illusion dispelled, Joe saw the float for what it really was: a great viperine creature, with a curiously distorted head, grotesquely great clawed appendages, and black rubbery wings of singularly monstrous dimensions.

Joe ran for the steps. He huffed down all eleven stories and ran through the Westin's lobby out into the street.

The float was visible in the distance. Joe started to run after it but paused as he saw the lights and torches dim near the float. A heavy shadow flapped up the side of a distant building and disappeared into the night sky.

Somebody screamed as a pair of legs flopped wetly to the ground.

And suddenly, Joe knew he was exactly the right person for the job.

[talien]

When Joe checked on Theresa Kent, she was nowhere to be found. She left with a man, not an unusual sight in New Orleans, and certainly not during Mardi Gras.

Joe got a call on his cell phone. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Joe? It's Rob."

Joe sighed inwardly. "Yeah?"

"So did the guy comp you?"

"Volk? He's a kook. Or he was one...then something ate him."

"Ate him? What kind of thing ate him?"

"A Mardis Gras float...look, it's complicated. We’re crossing some serious occult territory. I’ll explain when I get back…"

"No, we've got something else. This one's big."

"So is Volk. Did you not hear the part about something eating him?"

"We can argue about that later. We've got a serial killer on the prowl in New Orleans. One Elijah Jackson, a vagrant in Nashville, Tennessee, fled the St. Bartholomew's Shelter for the Homeless. The man who ran the shelter, Father Willard Franklin, was found disemboweled. It was ruled a suicide."

"Who disembowels themselves as a suicide?" asked Joe.

"Not unless they have a katana. The police are considering classifying it as homicide now that more info came to light."

"What kind of info?"

"People have been picked off in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Jackson was spotted there. Since you're in the neighborhood, I want you to find him. Get to him first. I've cast some stones on this one," that was Rob's way of saying he cast a spell, "and something's not right about Jackson. It's important you find him first."

"Okay, but what about Volk?"

"Volk can wait. I'll do some divinations and see if I can pick up on anything. Someone using magic that powerful is a real badass, not someone you want to tangle with."

Joe sighed, out loud this time, and clicked his cell phone shut. He was really beginning to hate New Orleans.

[talien]

Finding a serial killer wasn't too hard. It was clear Jackson was taking advantage of the mess that was Katrina-ravaged New Orleans, and that he had been busy. All told, Joe connected five different murders to him. They happened every week or so, like clockwork. With overtaxed resources and a displaced population, finding Jackson wasn't going to be easy.

Fortunately, luck was on Joe's side. Anyone sane in New Orleans kept a weapon with them. The ones who could afford it had sidearms. And someone finally fought back.

The victim was a young African-American woman. After the police interviewed her, Joe met her at her home.

"Ms. Dawson? May I speak with you?"

She was scared but put on a brave front. "I just spoke to the police--"

"Oh, I know." Joe put up one hand. "I'm not with the police. I'm a private investigator." He flashed his badge, hoping she wouldn't read the cornily named "X-investigations" on it. "I'm tracking down the man I think you shot."

Dawson let out a deep, shuddering sigh. "Fine. You can come in for a few minutes. But please be quiet, my grandma is sleeping upstairs and I don't want to worry her about what happened tonight."

Dawson served tea and they both sat down at a flimsy card table. Joe tried to project kindness. When he was built like a fireplug, it was difficult to seem anything but threatening. "So Ms. Dawson, can you explain to me what happened?"

"I was...there was a man. I already described him to the police."

Joe nodded. "Did he look like this?" He held up one photo they had of Jackson.

"Yes, that's him." She looked at the picture curiously. "The police had to use a sketch artist."

Joe flashed her a pained smile. "The agency I work for is often one step ahead of the police. I'm more interested in what you reported. You said you shot your assailant?"

"Y-yes," said Dawson. "I shot him."

"How many times?"

She looked confused.

"Ms. Dawson? How many bullets did you fire at the man who attacked you?"

"...all of them," she said after a moment.

"And he kept coming?"

"No, he seemed...surprised. Angry. But he turned and ran. There was blood pouring out everywhere but he didn't even stumble..."

Joe got up. He had to hand it to Rob, he had a nose for these things. "I see. Thank you for your time, Ms. Dawson. We'll catch him."

"It, you mean," said Dawson quietly.

Joe had to agree with her. "It," he repeated. "We'll catch it."

[talien]

Joe arrived at the nearby New Orleans police station. They were understaffed and overworked. It was late.

Joe flashed his badge. "I'd like to see detective Gallagher."

"Sure you would...” The cop's eyes focused on Joe's ID. "Hey, you're with X-investigations! I read that book." The cop winked at him. "That chick they've got on the calendar is hot..."

Joe grit his teeth and pulled a calendar out of his pocket. "Here, this is for you." Silvia's gratuitous calendar had greased more than few palms for Joe in his work. Even though she undermined everything he stood for. "Use it in good health."

The cop grabbed it and whistled. "Nice." He shouted over his shoulder. "Gallagher! Someone here to see you!"

Gallagher eventually came out, all rumpled tie, bags under his eyes, and a cup of coffee in his hand. "Yeah?"

"This here's Joe Fontaine from X-investigations," introduced the cop. "He's interested in the Jackson case." The cop immediately went back to looking at the calendar.

Gallagher snorted. "Buy yourself a cup of coffee," he said. "The case is solved."

"Solved?" asked Joe. "How?"

"Jackson got what was coming to him: a shotgun blast to the abdomen at point blank range."

Joe squinted. "Who shot him?"

Gallagher shrugged. "I'd be lying if I told you I care. The bastard's dead, and that's what counts. We have a lead on a local man, David Charles. But he fled the scene. We're still looking for him."

Joe could tell by the way Gallagher said the last sentence that the New Orleans police department wasn't making apprehending Charles a priority.

"You writing a book?" asked Gallagher.

"I don't write books, detective. I just investigate. My boss, Robert Johnson, he writes the books."

"Love that book, great stuff." He peered at Joe. "You think there's some sort of supernatural angle to all this?"

Joe hesitated. Oh, what the hell, the police weren't going to be much help anyway. "Have you ever heard of the demon Azazel?"

Gallagher shook his head.

"The first appearance of the name Azazel is in Leviticus 16:8. Basically, God orders Aaron to place lots upon two goats, reserving one for God and one for Azazel. The first goat set aside for God is sacrificed. Aaron takes the second goat, the one for Azazel, places his hands on it, and makes confession for all of the Israelites. Then he leads the goat out into the wilderness and leave it there. That's where we get the term scapegoat."

Gallagher laughed. "You learn something new every day! What does this have to do with the Jackson case?"

"In short, Azazel is an eater of sins. And X-investigations believes that there may be a possessed demon hopping from body to body..."

Gallagher stopped laughing. "You're serious?" He took a long slurp of his coffee, put it down on counter where the cop was still leering at Silvie's calendar, and jabbed a finger in Joe's chest. "Do you know how much crazy stuff I see down here? If you haven't noticed, Mister New York City, this is New Orleans. We don't need demonic possession as an excuse to kill each other down here. You keep that up and they'll start saying the loa did it!"

"I didn't mean to--"

"Yeah, yeah." Gallagher pointed for the door. "Get out of here before I change my mind."

Joe got the hint and left. That's when the men in the black van grabbed him.

[talien]

Two men in black suits held both his arms. Sitting across from Joe in the crowded van was a thirty-ish, dark-skinned African-American woman wearing trendy, expensive clothes, John Lennon-style shades, and long dreadlocks. She looked a bit like an executive from a record company. "Mister Joseph Fontaine," she said slowly and deliberately. "It seems we are working together."

"Working together? Who the hell are you?"

"If it makes you feel better, you can call me Ms. Green."

"What's this all about?"

"You and I seem to be working towards the same goal. We need to find whatever it is that's murdering people. And according to what you just told Detective Gallagher, we think you're on to something." She smiled. "Of course, I wouldn't have come out and explained the whole thing to the police."

"They threw me out."

"As well they should. You see, Mister Fontaine, we believe in dealing with these sorts of matters more...discreetly."

"We?"

Ms. Green nodded. "Majestic-12. We are a clandestine task-force that deals with the elimination and obscuration of preternatural phenomena that pose a threat to our citizens and their country." She leaned forward and put one hand on Joe's arm. "The existence of these phenomena cannot be allowed to come to the public's attention. The damage to society, both physical and psychological, would be catastrophic. So no more talking about Azazel to the mundanes, okay?"

She smiled a shark's smile. It made Joe uncomfortable. He nodded.

"So now what?"

A fire engine shrieked past the van. It was common to hear the sirens of fire and police, day and night, in New Orleans. "The people I work with are a lot like firemen. We put out fires before anyone can smell the smoke. Because of your particular expertise, we'd like you to join our organization. But don't say 'yes' unless you're sure. This is one club you don't get to quit."

"I should probably check with my employer..."

Ms. Green waved him off. "Already taken care of. You're on special assignment to us. Johnson is smart enough to know that this is a connection worth having. But this is not about Johnson. This is about you. If you want to consult for us, you'll have to play by our rules. Rule one is Deny Everything. Majestic-12 does not exist and neither do preternatural phenomena. Someday the time may be right--but that day ain't today."

Joe blinked. He would have to confirm all this. But the resources of a government organization at his disposal...he could do a lot more than catch possessed serial killers. "I'm in."

Ms. Green smiled her dazzling smile. "Good. Now put this on." She handed him a blindfold.

"Where are we going?"

"You're going to be brought up to Majestic-12 standards," she said ominously.

Joe tied the blindfold over his eyes. "What about the case?"

"There'll be time enough for that," she said. "For now, suffice it to say that there was a meteor shower that fell over West Virginia. Several small meteors were actually found by locals in the rural county of Tucumseh."

"So this thing isn't a demon?" asked Joe.

"Demon?" asked Ms. Green, mocking him. Joe could hear the other men in the van snort in derision. "That ain't the half of it."

[talien]

SANGRE DE CRISTO, NM -- The Academy was nestled comfortably into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains at the tail end of the Rockies in northern New Mexico. It had the bearing and appearance of an old-world military academy, with the scenery of the mountainous American Southwest.

With easy access to fifteen thousand-foot mountains, thick forests, narrow canyons and white-water rapids, the Academy had the rustic charm of a wilderness resort. But it also sported high-tech laboratories, state of the art lecture halls and luxurious dormitories with private rooms.

The first place recruits were assembled in the Academy’s central square, under an imposing monument.

“Welcome, ladies,” shouted the drill sergeant. “You’re about to embark on a wonderful journey into a little place I call home. You? You’re going to call it hell.

“Throughout the next five years, I am going to make you suffer as you have never suffered before. Oh sure, you’re all bad asses, I know, I know. You think it’s not going to be that tough. You think I’m not going to break you. Hell, I don’t have to break a sweat. You’ll do that on your own.

“In the next few years, we’re going to beat you, torture you, terrorize you, and then when you think you’re going to die, we’ll start all over. And if you’re not tough enough, we’re going to kill you. You think I’m kidding, @$$&*#$s? Look behind me.”

The drill sergeant pointed to a four-story needle of the flattest black.

“That spire has the real names of over two thousand cadets and black ops who died honorably in training or duty. The last time you were that person was when you stepped onto this campus. The next time you become that person is when that name is inscribed on the Spire.” He stared ominously. “Some of you will be up there soon. And those of you who aren’t will be envying the ones who are.”

When the drill sergeant left, Hank was excited, just taking in the place with its wooded, campus-like feel. He hardly noticed how the upperclassmen looked at him – the pitying looks he got as he received his uniform and was shown to his barracks. He talked and exchange stories with each other; everyone was easy and confident, all smiles and backslapping.

The centerpiece of the Academy was the campus, a cluster of dormitories and classroom buildings set along narrow cobblestone streets. The buildings were classical in style, made of red brick and trimmed with limestone slabs. The floors were all natural wood or tile, and the place had a musty, nostalgic smell. The only notable exception to the classical feel was the technology center, a stark, blue-black building crouching on the southern end of the campus, ominous and darkly exciting.

A large portion of the property, near the main campus area, had been set up like a move-studio back lot, where fake sections of inner city streets, tenement buildings, subway and sewer junctions, and much more have been built. The recruits called it “Satan’s Playroom.”

Finally, the Commander’s mansion was a majestic log house, posed dramatically on the shores of the Canadian River. Hank had heard that the Commander threw a party once a year, inviting faculty, drill sergeants, and the top ten recruits.

The first few days were a cakewalk, just looking around, scouting it out. Everything seemed about like what he expected.

On the morning of the fourth day, it all changed. That’s when they passed out the schedules.

[talien]

Welcome, grunts, to Academy training!” shouted the drill sergeant. “Training is divided into two equally important areas: education and drills. Each day is equally divided. One month you’ll do book learning in the morning, followed by a hearty lunch and drills in the afternoon. The next month it’s the other way around.

“Just in case you dumb jocks think this is going to be a cakewalk—and believe me, it isn’t—you’re going to actually have to crack a book. Several books. Your curriculum includes Basic Science, Parascience, Technology, Philosophy and Logic, Social Sciences, History, Languages, and Literature and the Arts. If you geeks think you’ve got this information down pat, you’re welcome to test out. In fact, we expect you to test out of at least two subjects, because we wouldn’t have recruited your dumb ass otherwise.

“Take a look at your schedules. Ah yes, I’m lookin’ at you, creampuff. I see the look on your face. The drills look hard? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

“There’s three kinds of drills in your first year. Stamina, Severe Exposure, and Mental Strain. You’re going to start out with ten-mile runs, then marathons, and finally a triathlon. Swimming, cross-country running, bicycling, and mountain climbing. The second part of stamina training involves standing still for extremely long periods of time.

“After a nice twenty-mile run, there’s nothing like a couple of days in the wilderness without food or water! We’re going to send you to Summer Camp. We’re gonna spring this one on you three times a year, and you won’t know when. There’s only an eighty five percent survival rate, tough guys, so gird your loins.

“Finally, there’s the mental stuff. That includes isolation tanks, torture…you’ll see what we mean. Don’t worry yourself, Romeo, I’ll be gentle.

“During this time you will receive ten excuses a year to place out of any drill for any reason, no questions asked. You just get marked as absent. I don’t need to tell you that nobody has remained at the Academy for a single day after an eleventh absence.”

“Now for the good news: After six months, when you’ve finally had all you can take, we’ll send you on furlough to some out-of-the-way island in the Bahamas. Everything is paid for; it’s a regular a week in paradise. Trust me, you’ll need it.”

[talien]

Jake woke up in his old apartment. Which was odd, since the last thing he remembered he was working for Majestic-12. There was no way he had dreamed it.

Back when he used to drink, Jake had hallucinations while he was lucid all the time. But that was all behind him. He was going to make good money and cash in that plane ticket to see his son. Jake was sure he could convince Christine to let him see Alex if he had a steady job.

The television was blaring those emergency broadcast messages. Color bars were on the screen. It’s what had woken him up.

Jake leaned forward and looked around. It was his old apartment in Chicago. What the hell?

It had to be a test.

The television flickered back to a news broadcast. “…a small nuclear explosion,” said a distraught report, her hair matted from what looked like blood. Smoking rubble was behind her. “I’m here in Washington, D.C. The death toll is believed to have reached over ten thousand citizens, including most of the House, the Senate, and the President.”

The screen flashed to footage of wreckage and bodies. The reporter broke down weeping at the end of the emergency broadcast as the screen went back to the emergency standby message.

A siren blared in the distance. Jake got up. He was dressed in nothing more but his boxers.

It wasn’t the sound of a normal siren. It was the type used for major emergencies like hurricanes. Or terrorist attacks.

Jake heard people talking excitedly outside his apartment door. Doors slammed all across the apartment complex. People were evacuating.

Jake looked out the window. A police car came to a screeching halt outside of the apartment. The cop put a megaphone to his lips.

“EVERYONE, PLEASE STAY WHERE YOU ARE.”

The panicked stampede outside of Jake’s door stopped. People whispered in urgent voices.

“GET BACK IN THE BUILDING.”

Jake went to the door and flung it open. His neighbors gave him haunted looks, slinking back into their rooms.

Jake walked down the steps. The cop was ushering people back up the steps.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re under attack, not sure by what,” he said. “Please get back into your residence and stay there. We can’t afford a riot.”

“I need to get out of here,” said Jake. The sirens blared more insistently around them.

“Sir,” the cop eyed Jake warily. Jake was a big man. “I’m going to have to ask you to return to your apartment.”

“I’m not staying here.” Jake took a step forward down the steps.

The cop reached for his taser. “Sir, I am not going to ask you again. Get back in your room.”

Jake closed the distance between them with a leap. He reached under the cop’s arm and deflected the taser away from him as if it were a knife. Jake wrested it away from the smaller man.

The cop fell backwards down the steps. He shouted into his walkie talkie. “This is Johnson, I need backup!”

Jake tasered him.

He took the cop’s pistol, then looked around. There was probably a shotgun in his car. That would be useful too.

Jake jogged out of the apartment complex. The skies were blood red. The sirens continued to wail. People kept looking up as they were ushered into shelters. Even the emergency personnel kept glancing upwards.

Jake was doing the same thing when a Humvee screeched to a halt in front of him.

“Get down on the floor and put your hands on your head!” It was a National Guardsman in combat fatigues. He looked like he couldn’t be more than twenty years old.

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on,” said Jake.

The guardsman lifted his automatic rifle. “Put the weapon down!”

Jake rushed past him, clearing the Humvee so that it was between him and the soldier.

The soldier muttered a curse and was about to pursue when more people streamed out of the building, bolstered by Jake’s actions.

Jake kept jogging. He had to get some more intel. The emergency crews were only following orders. But the National Guard was already out in full force. Something bad had gone down and he had missed it. Back when Jake was drinking, he would blackout for days. It felt like one of those days.

But no, he was sober. If he ever wanted to see Alex again, he would stay that way for good.

Jake was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize that people were running past him in the opposite direction.

They were so scared that it was a silent terror. People ran full out, sweat streaming from their brows, mouths open. Obese women and elderly men, all of them running in horror from something that was so terrible they could only respond by running for their lives.

Jake teetered on the edge of an abyss. A smoking crater abruptly appeared before him. Buildings sagged inward like melted toys over it. There was something in the center, a black obelisk of some sort.

Jake ran forward, heedless of the body parts around him. An explosion? But if it were a nuclear explosion he’d be dead already.

Jake skidded to a halt. There, sticking out of the center of the crater was the tail end of a man-sized missile. A counter clicked a march towards zero, marking every few seconds with a high-pitched beep.

“Jesus,” said Jake. He turned around and started running with the same fear and terror that had gripped the people he passed on the way in.

There was a flash. It was like a bolt of lightning illuminating the sky, a thousand times brighter than full daylight. And then all went white.

[talien]

Jim woke up slowly, blinking a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Nothing happened.

Jim wasn’t sure where he was or how he got there. The last thing he remembered was doing training exercises. But where was he now?

He uncrossed his arms and tried to sit up, banging his head on something directly above him. As he rubbed his bruised scalp, his fingers brushed against a rough wooden surface. Jim tried to feel around in the dark, but he was barely able to move his arms; his elbows scraped against the rough enclosure.

Jim struggled to not panic. He traced the outline of what was confining him. It felt unmistakably like a narrow wooden box—a coffin.

“Uh, excuse me?” he asked to anyone who would listen. “I appear to be trapped…”

Jim pounded on the lid and yelled, hoping that someone would hear him. But all he did was bruise his fists and use up precious oxygen.

“Oh for the love of…hello? HELLO?”

He tried to angle his body so he could kick at the lid, but it was no use—there was barely enough room for him to turn over, let alone swing his leg.

Jim considered his options. He was trained in dealing with oxygen depravation. A quick calculation in his head said he had two hours in the box before all of it was depleted. But he had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, breathing the air.

His heart was racing a mile a minute and he was sweating. That meant he was consuming more air. He had to calm down.

Jim rummaged through his pockets for something, anything, that would help. But there was nothing. He was in his fatigues in training. Had he died on the training field? He remembered what the drill sergeant said…Majestic-12 training was so bad that the cadets really DID die.

Desperate, he pounded on the lid and screamed at the top of his lungs. Then he decided to conserve energy by holding his breath, but that didn’t help either – it heightened his anxiety and caused him to hyperventilate.

As the carbon dioxide built up in his lungs and blood, Jim’s breathing became more labored. Then something whirred near his face. A cool breeze snapped him out of his stupor.

Air! Beautiful, glorious air!

For a moment he was so grateful he could have cried, just basking in the feeling of the wind on his face. But then it slowly dawned on him that coffins didn’t come with fans. They had buried him on purpose. This was a test.

Well Jim wouldn’t give those bastards the satisfaction. He’d show them that PISCES men were made of sterner stuff.

Then the fan shut off.

[Kain Gallant]

I just wanted to pop in and say that I'm really enjoying this story hour.

Well-written, interesting characters, and great update rate. Plus, I really like Delta Green conspiracy stuff.

[talien]

Thanks! The scenes you're currently reading are the "Outlook Simulations" from the Countdown book. As you might have guessed, Majestic-12 has incorporated this kind of mental torture into their training program. Wait til you see what happens to poor Joe...the MJ-12 friendly has it the worst.