Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
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Archive stood, Glock in one hand. There was no one else in the lobby. Just him and the German.
Good. It was time to take the gloves off.
The German loaded his pistol. And kept coming.
Archive pointed at the German’s pistol. “Throd! N'gha!” he chanted.
The pistol crumbled to dust in the German’s hands. It didn’t stop him. The German pulled out a submachinegun from his vest.
Archive pointed at the German again. “Wgah'n! 'Ai!” he chanted.
The response was instantaneous. The German immediately threw the submachinegun across the room.
The German kept coming. He pulled a knife out from his boot, his eyes filled with murderous rage. He altered his direction, finally. And he was walking straight towards Archive.
It wasn’t the knife that bothered him. It was that the hulking German was reaching into his vest with his other hand. If he had another pistol he would have drawn it.
Archive pointed at the German for a third time. He was just a few yards away. “'Bthnk! Ftaghu! Fhtagn!”
The German froze. It wouldn’t last long.
Archive caught a glimpse of what was in the German’s other hand. It was a grenade.
He screwed up his courage and closed the distance. The German had already pulled the pin on the grenade. He was holding the lever tightly, a dead man’s switch.
Archive slowly put his fist around the German’s. His flesh was unnaturally cold.
He slipped the grenade out from the German’s grip, retaining the pressure on the handle. Great, now he had a live grenade in his hand.
Archive looked around. He couldn’t throw it outside with the crowd. He couldn’t leave it inside. And he had only a few seconds before the spell wore off.
The bathroom! Archive sprinted to the men’s room.
He kicked open a stall and dropped the grenade into the toilet.
“What the hell buddy?” shouted a man in the stall next to him. He had just finished zipping up his pants and was opening the stall when Archive grabbed him by the collar.
“Out!” shouted Archive. He hurled the man ahead of him out into the lobby of the meeting center.
The bystander was thrown clear when the explosion went off, but Archive was still too close. The shock wave knocked him off his feet. He landed hard on his back.
Archive’s ears were still ringing when he caught a glimpse of the German looming over him, knife raised.
A spray of bullets tore through the German’s coat, jerking him like a marionette. He suddenly went lifeless, as if his batteries had been turned off. Then his body fell towards Archive …
And he was covered in blue powder.
Jim-Bean, dressed in his security guard uniform, twirled the two Glocks in his hands. “So that’s what it’s like to be Hammer!”
Colm dragged the young woman towards the back exits.
“Put the gun down, Colm!” shouted Hammer. “We don’t have to do this!”
“You don’t understand!” Colm shouted back. “Whitcher told me everything!” He had a book in his free hand, his arm looped around the woman’s neck. “The Nazis are collaborating with the Islamists! And they can control ghosts!”
Hammer started to respond but stopped. A janitor was whistling tunelessly as he pushed a broom along. His head was down and his path was about to intersect with Colm’s.
Hammer fired his pistol.
Colm and the hostage flinched, but the janitor didn’t react. That’s when Hammer caught sight of the earbuds in his ears.
Taking careful aim, Colm fired a single shot into the janitor’s forehead. The man crumpled.
“NO!” shouted Hammer. He drew a bead, but Colm clutched the hostage closer to him.
“Don’t shoot!” she shouted desperately.
Colm took an abrupt turn into the conference hall. Conference attendees who weren’t aware of the ruckus outside saw Colm and backed away, screaming.
Colm made his way up to the stage and the microphone.
“Damn it!” swore Hammer.
“Listen to me! Everyone!” Colm clutched the girl tighter around the throat. “They’re after me! I have proof! Hasam Al-Banna of the Black Brotherhood joined the Nazis in Saudi Arabia in the 1930s. He formed the school of Wahhabism! Don’t you see? Al-Hazzan is—“
There was an explosion from the front of the building.
Startled, Colm dropped his hostage and struggled to reload his pistol. Hammer took the shot.
Colm screamed, clutching his bloody hand. A second later, two hundred pounds of angry Hammer wrestled him to the ground.
“Karotechia,” wailed Colm. “The Karotechia is behind it all!”
Hammer stepped out into the sunlight in front of the Merriweather Center, Colm’s book in his hand.
It was called The Project. The report presented a global vision of a worldwide strategy for the Black Brotherhood. Local policies were drawn up in the different regions in accordance with its guidelines. It acted as a means of defining the points of departure of that policy, then set up the components and the most important procedures linked to each point of departure. Finally it suggested several missions, all of them linking the Neo-Nazi organization Karotechia to Al-Hazzan.
Archive limped out behind him.
“So who’s behind all this stuff?”
“Nazis,” said Hammer with a sigh. “I hate Nazis.”
A confused deliveryman waved a package. “I have a delivery for Curtis Grange?”
Jim-Bean snatched the package from the worker and, after shaking it, tossed it to Hammer.
Hammer peered down at the nine inch by twelve inch manila envelope. The destination and return addresses were identical—they contained Hammer’s full legal name and residential address.
The stamps were a commemorative White House and U.S. flag stamps issued in 1992 at twenty nine cents each.
Archive peered over Hammer’s shoulder. “Who’s sending you a package from ten years ago?”
“And how would he know you would be here at this time on this date?” asked Jim-Bean.
“I don’t know,” said Hammer. “But I should.” He looked out at the sunset. “This address is in my handwriting.”
This story hour is a combination of two scenarios: “Schrodinger’s Dilemma” by JonnyX and “No Man’s Land,” by Stan! from the Wizards of the Coast Web site. You can read more about Delta Green at Delta Green. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Joseph “Archive” Fontaine (Dedicated Hero/Acolyte) played by Joe Lalumia
This is one of the first scenarios that actually freaked out the character as well as the player. George, who loves investigations, was intrigued by the notion that Hammer sent a package to himself from the future. As they slowly verified that it did indeed come from the future, he became steadily more and more freaked out by the implications. There are other things in the package Hammer receives that indicate he might not be a nice person. This freaked out everybody.
I was really impressed by the players’ deductive abilities. They collectively figured out the decoded message without much help from me.
Although Hammer was the focus of the first part of the scenario, the latter half was really Archive’s. This is the first time the living dead are used in force, and it’s up to Archive to take on Whitcher’s undead German army. Given the opportunity to use every World War II cliché imaginable, I milked this scenario for all it was worth.
Defining Moment: Jim-Bean vs. tank. Tank wins.
Relevant Media
Critical Locations: For D20 Modern and a lifesaver, since Delta Green rarely provides maps.
Schrodinger's Dilemma: An entry in the Shogtun Scenario contest run on the Delta Green Mailing List, this is one of the best.
No Man's Land: by Stan! This is an event-based scenario that requires careful set-up and a bit of handwaving (magic not only animates the dead, it makes guns and tanks work too!). Fortunately, sufficient dread was built up in the previous scenario and the agents were too frantic to question much.
And the great day of wrath has come
And here's mud in your big red eye
The poker's in the fire
And the locusts take the sky
And the earth died screaming
- The Earth Died Screaming by Tom Waits
NEW YORK CITY, NY—Jim Bean peered over Hammer’s shoulder. “What’s in the envelope?”
Hammer emptied the contents on the hood of his car. There was a palm-sized scrap of pale tattooed leather, a ten dollar bill, and a folded sheet of paper.
Jim-Bean opened the paper and read it. “Huh. The Earth Died Screaming by Tom Waits.”
“What?” asked Hammer.
“It’s a song. These are the lyrics. It’s on an album called Bone Machine, released in 1992.”
“Never heard of it,” said Hammer.
“You have now,” said Jim-Bean with a smirk. “It’s signed XOX, Palimpset. There’s also a bloody thumbprint on it.”
“Weird.”
Archive held the leather up to the light. It was about four inches in diameter and roughly circular. There was a stylized star tattooed on one side in red metallic ink that glowed faintly
“That’s not all that’s weird,” said Archive. “This is an Elder Sign.”
“The what?” asked Jim-Bean.
“The Elder Sign is a powerful weapon against the servants of the Great Old Ones and the Outer Gods, and can be used to drive them off.”
Hammer was staring at the bill. “This has to be a hoax.” He held it up so Jim-Bean and Archive could view it.
The bill was slightly larger than normal. It is made of some sort of plasticy material that didn’t crease or easily tear. It was rainbow colored and had a holographic portrait of Hitler on the front. The back contained barcodes, embedded circuitry and a U.S. flag with 57 stars. Text on the bill was in both English and German. The bill was dated "Series 2034.”
Jim-Bean frowned. “I can check this easily enough. Let me have it.”
Hammer handed him the bill.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Archive. “If this has something to do with the Karotechia then it might be magically—“
Jim-Bean held the bizarre bill with between forefingers and thumbs and concentrated.
“OW!” He shouted, clutching his temple. “Damn it!”
“What?” asked Hammer.
“I don’t know. It’s like I got punched in the face.” Jim-Bean rubbed his nose and came up with blood.
Archive snatched the bill from Jim-Bean. “It’s got wards incorporated into it.”
Jim-Bean dabbed at his nose with a tissue. “Let me try the letter.”
“Are you sure?” asked Hammer, dubious.
“Yeah,” said Jim-Bean. He took hold of the letter…
Quote:
And saw Hammer, older, with grey stripes in his hair. He was fearful, frantic, almost manic. He had some sort of vial he kept dipping his pen in. Blood was dripping from his temple. At one point, Hammer wiped his brow and got blood on his thumb.
Somewhere in the distance, the faint notes of The Earth Died Screaming were audible.
He didn’t care. He kept scribbling madly. Jim-Bean couldn’t make out what was above Hammer, but he kept looking up. Was he outside? Indoors? He couldn’t tell. But whatever Hammer was afraid of was above him. Thunder boomed …
Jim-Bean frowned. “This is the real deal. You wrote it. From the future. And let’s just say you weren’t happy at the time you wrote it. But you were writing a heck of a lot more than those lyrics.”
Hammer’s brow furrowed. He was liking this less and less. “If I were going to send myself a note and I was worried that it might be intercepted, I would use an old trick.” He snapped his fingers. “Lemon juice! Now we just have to heat it.”
Jim-Bean helpfully lit the lighter underneath the letter.
“Don’t burn it!” warned Hammer.
“Relax. I got the dexterity of a surgeon,” said Jim-Bean, waving the lighter back and forth under the letter.
Sure enough, a series of letters and numbers appeared, beginning with KRYPTOS.
“It’s a code,” said Hammer. “We use it in the CIA.” He tapped the code into his cistron. “If you type this code in using the Vigenere cipher and the alphabetic key PALIMPSET, with unilateral substation, repetitive key …”
“The end of the world,” said Archive flatly. “You somehow sent this backwards in time to yourself.”
“Whitcher is the same name Colm used. That must be the Karotechia sorcerer he was meeting with.”
“A very important person, apparently,” said Archive.
“What about all those numbers?” asked Jim-Bean.
“GPS.” Hammer tapped the coordinates in. “The new World War II Museum at the intersection of Independence Avenue and 6th Street in Washington D.C. And UTC is Universal Coordinated Time in UNIX epoch format.” He tapped the code in.
“Oh man.”
“What?” asked Jim-Bean.
“If this is true … we’ve got three hours to save the world.”
Hammer took photos of everything and uploaded them to the Blacknet database. Caprice, back at their temporary headquarters in New York, fed them data on the drive down.
“You’re sure this isn’t a joke, right?” asked Caprice, on speakerphone over the cistron.
“It’s not a joke, Hot Pants,” said Hammer tersely, speeding through traffic. “What did you find?”
“The social security number you gave me is the most misused number of all time,” explained Caprice. “In 1938, wallet manufacturer the E. H. Ferree Company in Lockport, New York decided to promote its product by showing how a Social Security card would fit into its wallets. A sample card, used for display purposes, was inserted in each wallet. Company VP and Treasurer Douglas Patterson thought it would be a clever idea to use the actual SSN of his secretary, Mrs. Hilda Schrader Whitcher.”
“Great, Whitcher’s not even real,” said Jim-Bean in the driver’s seat.
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Caprice. “For someone who isn’t real we’ve got quite a bit of information on him.”
“Like?”
“First of all, the H stands for Howard. Howard had three residential addresses in the last eight years, including a current one; two are in nearby states, one is on the other side of the country. Whitcher has a supposedly unlisted phone number for the current address.”
Jim-Bean dialed the number, then hung up. “Answering machine.”
“He went to college and high school info from institutions on the west coast; an MBA degree with minors in math and law. No criminal history and a decent credit score,” said Caprice. “Whitcher’s unmarried, an only child, with no surviving parents or grandparents. He has some unusually uneventful medical records. Whitcher filed tax returns going back to his late teens.”
“Real enough to do his taxes,” said Archive.
“I was able to pull up his driver’s license. There’s a match with his current residential address and the physical description you gave me.”
“Pull it up,” said Hammer.
The picture loaded on their cistrons. Howard Scott Whitcher had a light complexion, clean shaven, with long blond hair.
“Now we know what he looks like. Thanks Hot Pants, we’ll check in when we get there.”
“Roger that,” said Caprice. He hung up.
“What do we have on this museum?” Hammer said over his shoulder to Archive.
“The new exhibit is intended to give visitors the merest taste of what it might have been like to serve on the Western Front in World War II.” Archive read from his cistron. “The exhibit has been especially popular because it features an actual British trench, dug out of the ground and preserved for this display. The soil is the very earth on which thousands of soldiers died. It is an exhibit designed to leave even the most jaded visitor shaken and keenly aware of the fragility and sanctity of life.”
“Don’t tell me: that’s going to give our Nazi necromancer a distinct advantage.”
“Definitely. It may be why you sent this back.” Archive held up the piece of leather with the Elder Sign on it. “You don’t send an Elder Sign like this unless you’re expecting trouble with the supernatural.”
Jim-Bean plucked the leather from Archive. “Let me see …”
Quote:
A woman screaming. Scalpel. Gloved hands. Flesh peeling back from her back. A flash of her face, contorted in pain. She’s Asian …
Jim-Bean tossed the leather back to Archive.
“Well?” asked Archive.
“You can keep it.” Jim-Bean tossed the leather back to Archive. “And keep it far away from me.”
“We’re here,” said Hammer.
They pulled in front of the museum just in time to see Whitcher in front of the World War II Museum. Almost as if he sensed Hammer’s gaze. He turned and ran into the museum.
The museum was meant to be an interactive, educational presentation of conditions and equipment in the trenches of Western Europe in WWI. “No Man’s Land,” as the exhibit was called, was a modern facility. There were no stairs in the exhibit; access was provided by wheelchair-friendly ramps leading to and from the gallery. The arrangement served to accentuate the feeling of going down into the trenches.
Hammer, Jim-Bean, and Archive entered the forum. The room was dimly lit and popular music from the war era played faintly from speakers hidden in the shadows of the ceiling. Most of the available light came from the five cases that displayed items once used by soldiers stationed in the trenches. Beside the main door stood a box for donations; next to that was a door leading to the museum gift shop. At the left was a ramp leading up to the gallery.
The display cases contained items such as shaving kits, gramophones, medals, and honorariums from various countries. A plaque below each item described what functions it served and how the museum came to own it.
As Whitcher fled up the left ramp, four soldiers entered from the gift shop on the right. People screamed. They were dead, each skeleton wearing a WWII helmet and the tattered remains of its German uniform clinging to its bones.
Jim-Bean gaped at the resurrected corpses. “What the hell?”
The front row of soldiers got to one knee while the back row took aim with their rifles.
“He must be in a rush,” said Archive. He held the leather Elder Sign over his head.
The eye at the center of the sign blinked, and the lid lifted up again a beam of flame arced forth. The four Nazi skeletons burst into blue dust.
Jim-Bean hustled people towards the exit.
“Look familiar?” asked Archive, pointing at the blue dust. “This dust is signs that the necromancy that the same necromancy is at work …”
But Hammer was already off and running into the gallery.
The Gallery was devoted to showcasing the weapons used by front line troops during WWII. It was larger than the adjacent forum, and it was difficult to see from end to end because the display cases have been arranged to create the effect of a trench-like hallway. The displays featured various weapons used by front line soldiers. Scratchy recordings of speeches made by politicians of the era drifted from the speakers occasionally. Interspersed among them were clearer recordings of elderly veterans describing their experiences from the war.
One wall of the room was actually a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a recreation of a WWII battlefield. Other museum visitors walked below, along a trench, before passing through a doorway. At the far end of the diorama was a sandbagged foxhole in which two figures in German uniforms manned a machine gun.
It took Hammer a second to realize why the other visitors hadn’t reacted the ruckus in the gift shop. It was because the sounds of realistic warfare echoed beyond the Plexiglas.
“Look Martha,” said an elderly man, pushed along by his more mobile wife. “They hired actors to man the machinegun!”
Hammer didn’t get a chance to shout a warning. He dove to the ground just as the machinegun on the far side of the diorama roared to life, raking the room with gunfire.
The remaining visitors were torn apart, ripped literally in half as the machinegun fire sliced them to ribbons.
“Jim-Bean, Archive, take care of the soldiers!” shouted Hammer, drawing his Glocks. “I’m going after Whitcher in the trench!”
The machinegun finally stopped chattering. One skeletal soldier lifted another ribbon of ammo in the dugout on the opposite side of the museum. The few people in the trenches wailed in horror, shocked by the sudden violence.
Archive held up the Elder Sign. Again the eye opened and a beam of red light sliced through the two skeletons at the machinegun, powdering them to blue dust.
Jim-Bean, seeing his chance, sprinted through the broken Plexiglas and attempted to leap over the trench …
Only to hit the trench’s edge. He scrambled for purchase, but the sides were sprayed with a sealant to prevent curious visitors from grabbing handfuls of dirt. Jim-Bean fell back into the trench with a thud.
The ground rumbled all around him. It was the mechanical sound of wheels and gears turning, of something huge and heavy turning reached Jim-Bean’s ears. Almost like …
The main part of the exhibit was a full-scale, original trench in a reconstructed battlefield. A ramp led down between walls of dirt, giving the impression that the visitor was descending into the ground as you walk along. The display tag at the bottom of the ramp explained that the exhibit was an actual WWII trench, carefully dug up and transported from the fields of France. Hammer understood how Whitcher had managed to create the skeletons: he had plenty of raw material.
The trench’s structure was well supported by sandbags and wooden slats, and great care had been taken to preserve and secure the sod walls with a durable coating. Stepladders were placed every dozen yards or so to allow visitors to peer over the ten-foot high dirt walls.
The ground around the top of the trench was bare of all grass and vegetation, but lengths of barbed wire spiraled across the field. The walls and ceiling were painted to show gray clouds overhead and forests and farmhouses in the distance. Hidden speakers played the sounds of men shouting in German, biplanes passing overhead, intermittent gunfire, and occasionally a mortar explosion.
The atmosphere in the trench was as realistic as the curators could make it, and the whole effect was more than a little bit disturbing.
Above the trench stood a tremendous metal vehicle about eight feet tall, ten feet wide, and fifteen feet long. It was covered with heavy iron plates held in place by bolts at least an inch in diameter. The display tag identified the metal behemoth as a Renault tank with a 37mm cannon. The tank rumbled forward a few feet before the turret whirred towards Jim-Bean.
Of course, thought Hammer. Of course Whitcher had animated a tank crew. He could do nothing but duck down as the tank blasted away at Jim-Bean above him.
Whitcher may have been a Nazi sorcerer but he was still human. The blast caused him to pause as well as dirt rained down all around them.
Hammer squeezed off two shots with his Glock. Whitcher ducked around a curve in the trench and chanted something Hammer couldn’t hear, his ears still ringing from the tank’s attack.
Hammer’s flesh started to feel very, very warm. It was like someone had suddenly pressed his face next to a hot flame and no matter where he turned, he couldn’t escape it.
Gritting his teeth, Hammer advanced on the chanting Whitcher.
Across the field from the broken window was a semicircle of sandbags from which a large machine gun barrel poked up, pointing his way. Plaques explained that the foxhole beyond contains a Maxim Machineengewehr 42 machine gun that was estimated to have killed more than four hundred soldiers.
Archive shoved one of the shelves off of him. The tank cannon had blown a hole in the trench and everything near it. Archive guessed that whatever magic the Nazi sorcerer had used to reanimate the dead had also armed the weapons.
Archive held up the Elder Sign. The two skeletons manning the machinegun powdered to dust. He turned and ran down the ramp into the trench on Hammer’s side. He had to stop the tank before it fired again.
In the trench, two dead soldiers strode forth, straight towards the spot where Jim-Bean was. Now it was just a pile of dirt.
Jim-Bean’s hand burst out of the debris. Spitting dirt, he crawled up the sloped side of the trench as the soldiers walked mechanically behind him. He was a bloody mess. The protomatter that suffused his body was working overtime to keep him alive. If he survived, Jim-Bean knew he’d be hungry enough to eat a cow later.
Limping, Jim-Bean dropped to the ground and belly crawled underneath the barbed wire. Seconds later the skeletal corpses followed suit.
Archive tore through the display cases and pulled out samples of Molotov cocktails. He fired the lock off the tank’s gas tank with his Glock even as it whirred to track Jim-Bean at the machinegun nest. He stuffed the material into the tank and anywhere else he could find an opening. After whispering an incantation, they burst into flame.
Jim-Bean attempted to grab the machinegun from its mount, but it was far too heavy. He settled for kicking the belt feeder to the machinegun until it warped.
Then he belly crawled back beneath the barbed wire as the skeletons reached the machinegun. They attempted to fire it, giving Jim-Bean enough time to crawl back into the trench. Frustrated, the skeletons followed after him.
Blisters burst out all over Hammer’s arms and face, but he kept coming. He fired his Glocks, but Whitcher held up one hand, still chanting. Bullets stopped in midair in front of Whitcher and melted to the ground.
Hammer fell to his knees. His hair burst into flames.
Above them, the tank trundled forward.
Whitcher’s chanting was suddenly chocked off. The relentless heat suffusing Hammer’s being immediately stopped. He looked up.
Jim-Bean had Whitcher in an arm lock.
“Shoot him!”
Hammer didn’t hesitate. He fired a single shot through Whitcher’s head. Blood and brains spattered Jim-Bean as he let go of the corpse.
“Out of the way!” shouted Archive from behind them.
Hammer caught sight of a book open on the ground near Whitcher’s feet. He grabbed it and rolled out of the way just as the flaming tank fell into the trench, crushing Whitcher’s body.
Archived flipped through the book. It had a skeletal winged serpent on the cover.
The full title of the work was Mein Triumph oder Drittes Buch, meaning "My Triumph or The Third Book". The author was listed as Adolf Hitler, and on the title page was written "Nach Diktat niedergeschrieben und redigiert von Dr. Olaf Bitterich" ("Dictated to and edited by Dr. Olaf Bitterich").
“It’s morbid, that’s for sure,” said Archive. “There’s not much actionable information in this book. Only Bitterich, in his two prefaces, mentions an SS-Karotechia, and no member of it other than Bitterich himself is named. In his first preface, the doctor rambles on about the privilege of taking the Führer's dictation after having fled the siege of Berlin on the advice of the great Siegfried. The second preface is a series of sycophantic hermeneutic exercises in which Bitterich connects phrases from the book with recent events, foreseen by Der Führer.”
The world of the living, according to Mein Triumph, was a thin veneer kept in place by the enemies of the Aryan race while they poisoned and destroyed the true pillars of the world. Death was never permanent, though for most people, the afterlife was hollow and writhing with maggots. The iron-jawed martyrs of national socialism and other incarnations of Germania's spirit stood ready to fight unblemished, but must be called forth by a ruthless triumph of will. Until then, they were sheltered by an essence at the center of existence.
These ideas were combined with lengthy passages echoing the theories of Madame Blavatsky and her Theosophical Society, but with a heavy emphasis on race and other ways in which “men are not born equal”. Much of the language and ideology recalled Edward Bulwer-Lytton, particularly his “Vril.” There were several rituals framed as ancient ways in which to focus the latent psychic force inherent in “pure” Aryans, though there were many visions of technological dominance as well.
“There are several chapters of Mein Triumph devoted to the concept of alternate timelines,” explained Archive. “One such timeline leads to a German invasion of the American mainland. It is implied in Mein Triumph that the unforeseen advent of nuclear weapons prevented the Jews from provoking that war.”
“A timeline we prevented,” said Jim-Bean. “Right?”
“I hope so,” said Archive. “But we won’t know for sure until …”
“January 19, 2038,” said Hammer. “Then it’s run, revel, or suicide.”
“There’s still one part I don’t get,” said Jim-Bean. “Who’s A Cell? And how were they compromised?”
“I don’t know,” said Hammer. “But I’m not sharing any of this with Majestic-12 and neither should you.”
“That’s easy.” Jim-Bean lit a cigarette. “I try to share as little as possible with them anyway.” He peered over at Archive. “You going to hang onto that thing?”
Archive held up the Elder Sign. “This? This saved all our lives.”
“Sure,” said Jim-Bean. “Just do me a favor. Don’t date any tattooed Asian chicks.”
This story hour is from the scenario “A Love in Need” by Brian M. Sammons in “Secrets.” You can read more about Delta Green at Delta Green. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Joseph “Archive” Fontaine (Dedicated Hero/Acolyte) played by Joe Lalumia
A Love in Need is a quirky scenario about the unlikely romance between an alien sorcerer and a giant fat woman who is protective of her dying son. I was ready to run the scenario straight as is, but couldn’t help altering the plot to fit it into the rest of the campaign’s overall mythology. Thus the alien sorcerer became a protomatter steward, the mother was altered by the Mi-go, and the child is actually a biogenetically engineered source of BIOSAN-6. In other words, he’s Patient Zero of a virus that could wipe out protomatter once and for all.
The agents are completely ignorant of the real story. They’re after Jason, the mysterious boyfriend who gave a potion to Lucy Ennis. But that’s just an excuse to lock the agents up in a motel. From there, it’s a slasher flick on steroids, combining the best of Joy Ride, Identity, and Vacancy. It was all over in the span of just two hours.
The content of the potion has a tie to a future scenario. And that scenario involves a certain animated object that has no business being animated. I had no idea the effect it would have on this scenario.
This is also the first time I used a rule I invented from one of my sourcebooks (Blood & Blades: The Profiler’s Guide to Slashers). It had the exact chilling effect I intended.
Finally, we get to see just how far Hammer is willing to go to protect the Conspiracy.
Defining Moment: There’s something moving in the dripping blue cardboard box. Something Jason calls his pet.
Relevant Media
Critical Locations: For D20 Modern and a lifesaver, since Delta Green rarely provides maps.
Joy Ride: One of the scariest movies about two punks being jerks over a CB. If you were a kid in the 80s who pretended he was someone else over a CB and pissed off truckers, you know what I mean. This is the source of the "jaw ripping" as well as the shotgun trap and truck attack.
Identity: The classic Ten Little Indians only at a roadside motel. A little contrived, but still very good. This is the source of the plot involving Taggeret and Jawolalski.
Vacancy: Now this is the scariest staying-in-a-motel type movie! The ambush in the hotel room is straight from this movie.
I can see inside you, the sickness is rising
Don't try to deny what you feel
(Will you give in to me?)
It seems that all that was good has died
And is decaying in me
- Down With the Sickness by Disturbed
MCKINLEY, NM—Hammer turned the windshield wipers on as the storm whipped itself into a frenzy.
“So we flew out here for what again?” asked Jim-Bean, cracking a window so he could blow cigarette smoke out the crack.
“Remember Jason? The guy who gave Lucy Ennis that ‘potion’ that reanimated her dad?”
Jim-Bean rubbed his forehead. “How can I forget.”
“Well Jason Jawolalski was sighted in McKinley. Our job is to pick him up.”
Archive, sitting in the back, chuckled. “So that’s why you brought me?”
Hammer nodded, struggling to see through the downpour. “You did a great job with those Nazi corpses, so I figure if this Jason guy gets creative with his potion you’ll come in handy.”
Jim-Bean flipped on the radio. It reported flood alerts and chimed six o’clock.
“As I recall, the Elder Sign was useless against Henry Ennis—“ began Jim-Bean.
“Elder Signs vary in magical strength,” Archive interjected, cutting him off. “The one I have now is much more powerful.”
“Sure,” said Jim-bean. “Whatever.”
Distracted by the conversation, Hammer glanced up in time to see a silhouette in the path of the car. He jerked the wheel hard and the car skidded.
A body hit the left side of the hood, bouncing up and over. The car kept sliding and a telephone pole flashed into view. Hammer slammed on the brakes.
The car rammed into it, triggering the air bags. Sparks and snaps crackled overhead as the power lines tore away and the pole fell across the hood of the Honda Civic.
Hammer, Jim-Bean, and Archive staggered out of the vehicle.
Jim-Bean tried his cistron. No signal. Archive ran over the man in the street.
The man was a pitiful travesty. He was shaking and shivering, his limbs twisted and withered, and his skin had open, weeping sores covering it that drained a noxious ichor. A steak knife was clutched ineffectively in one hand. The man wore only pajama bottoms. Archive fished through his pockets and pulled out his wallet. His license identified him as John Andrews.
“Don’t move, John, we’re going to get you out of here!” Archive shouted to Andrews in the rain.
Hammer struggled with the car, but wasn’t able to get it out of the ditch off the side of the road. The mud was churning from the downpour.
Jim-Bean stood in the middle of the road, surprised to see a pair of eyes staring back at him from Andrews’ car. It was a young boy, maybe ten years old.
“How bad is he?” asked Hammer.
“Bad,” said Archive. “We need to get him inside, fast.”
“His car won’t start either,” said Jim-Bean, pointing to the distant lights of a roadside motel. “The closest shelter is there.”
“Great,” said Hammer. “Archive, you take Andrews. Jim-Bean, you take the boy.”
“You take him,” said Jim-Bean quickly. “I’ll carry our gear.”
The Prairie View motel was a one-story, L-shaped structure. A rustic portico ran the length of the front, affording sheltered access to each of the twelve units and the office. A primer painted pickup truck sat outside the office, under a "$19.00 A NIGHT" sign that hung over the office screen door. Above that was a crooked "VACANCY" sign.
A bell above the screen door of the office jingled as Hammer entered.
The tiny wood-paneled room had several security video monitors on the walls behind the desk. The image of Hammer entering the office filled the screens.
Around the room, a few stock scenery pictures hung on the wall and a stuffed jack-a-lope, a rabbit with glued-on antlers, rested on the counter. At the rabbit's feet was a desk bell, with a sign: RING ME.
Hammer rang the bell.
There was some rustling, then a man with a nametag identifying him as Kraygen appeared from the back room. He was in his forties, five-foot nothing and a hundred thirty pounds in his sweaty t-shirt and jeans.
He caught a glimpse of Archive carrying the bloody Andrews in a fireman’s carry towards the motel. "Jesus, what happened?"
Hammer flashed his badge. “My name is Agent Hammer, CIFA. I need to get this man to a hospital immediately.”
Kraygen nodded and picked up the desk phone. He tried a line, clicked on the receiver, clicked again. Nothing.
“I’m not getting a line. It happens in the rain. Saint Jude’s has twenty-four hour emergency. Thirty miles east, but I don’t think you’ll make it in this storm. Need a room?”
“Two, actually.”
Kraygen threw him the keys.
A tall attractive redhead with green eyes ran out into the rain from her room, summoned by the commotion. She was dressed in slacks, a casual blouse, and minimal jewelry.
“Oh my God!” She caught sight of Andrews and Archive. “What happened?”
“This man is hurt. He needs medical assistance.”
“I’ll take him back to my room. I’m a doctor. Doctor Amanda Kliss.”
Jim-Bean nervously ushered the weird little boy after them.
“Crikes, this is rough,” whispered Jim-Bean, looking around.
The room, if it could be called that, had stained shag carpet. There were torn farm animal print curtains. Cigarette holes were burned into the paisley bedspread draped across the bed. Artificial plants hung in the corners of the room.
Archive rushed Andrews into the bathroom and placed him in the tub. The bathroom was no better. It had a broken tile floor, a rusty faucet and a water-stained commode.
Archived turned on the faucet. Brown water splashed out, gushing several roaches out with it. The bugs scurried around the sink and then slither down the drain.
“Anyone have a first aid kit?” shouted Kliss. “He’s in shock, he’s losing blood.”
“We just happen to have one,” said Jim-Bean. He tossed a rucksack onto the bed.
Archive tore it open and ran back into the bathroom. He snapped on a pair of plastic gloves. Then Archive peeled back Andrews’ shirt, causing blood to weep copiously into the tub.
“That doesn’t look good,” he said to Kliss. The look on her face confirmed his diagnosis.
Andrews clung to life. The boy sat nearby on the bed, just staring at him.
“All we can do is try to make him comfortable,” said Kliss.
Andrews’ eyes fluttered open. He looked into the next room, watching the boy.
Slowly, laboriously, in a glottal effort that sounded as though he were talking through a mouthful of mud, Andrews whispered, “horrible … it … must stop …”
Kraygen stood in the doorway. “What the hell happened?”
“He was out in the road,” snarled Hammer, angry with himself. “I didn’t see him …”
Andrews let out a deep shuddering sigh and closed his eyes. Archive put two fingers to Andrews’ neck.
“So kid. Did you see anything? Anything you want to share?”
The boy just stared at him with his dead eyes.
Kliss came over. “He’s just a boy. Can’t you see he’s in shock?”
“Oh I can see all right. And in my experience, the cute little kids are the most dangerous.”
Kliss blinked. “You can’t be serious. I think you’ve been reading too many horror novels, Agent …”
“Jim-Bean,” he said. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.”
Jim-Bean lifted the Realizer crystal around his neck with one hand and focused on the boy.
Quote:
The boy was on his back, awake. Something chitinous and fungal loomed over him. There were either multiple things or it had more than one pair of arms.
An odd tool, made of a black shiny material and covered in strange stains was held in fine manipulators with two opposing nippers, one set ending in a blunt, soft spur-like “thumb.”
“Be still David,” whispered a deep, barely feminine voice. “This will only take a minute.”
Jim-Bean’s first reaction was that the boy was being tortured as a long slice was made down the boy’s front. But then he realized it was some form of alien surgery. Where humans cut precisely and carefully with sterilized tools to prevent infection or fatal hemorrhage, the aliens ripped and rended with their bizarre instruments. Skin was ripped away without any forethought or design.
Then he realized who he was. He was inside Andrews’ head.
Andrews was being held upright, was next to David. He moaned, terrified. A pair of huge, meaty human hands held him fast.
Nippers yanked forth a raging, slimy thing out of the boy. It looked like a quivering organ that had a life of its own. The tool moved over the gaping wound of David’s ribcage and the bloody rent was healed without a scratch.
It was Andrews’ turn. A bloody slash tore open his abdomen. Jim-Bean/Andrews screamed. The twitching organ that had been torn out of the boy was placed inside him. And then it was sewed back up.
Immediately, Andrews broke out in blue pustules. Unlike the boy, he had no benefit of anesthetic. Even as the wound was sewed up, he arched his back in a guttural scream...
Jim-Bean fell back from the vision, gasping. “His name is … David.”
“How do you know that?” asked Kliss. “By just staring at him?”
Jim-Bean looked down at his arm. Little blue buboes broke out.
“Not again,” he whispered.
“What the …” asked Kliss. “Are you infected?”
Jim-Bean ran into the bathroom and pulled the knife out of his boot. Kliss caught sight of Jim-Bean slicing the knife across his forearm just before he kicked the door closed.
And all throughout, David tracked Jim-Bean with his dead gaze.
The motel room was illuminated by a police cruiser. The flashing lights were eerie in the rain. An athletic, middle-aged man in a sheriff’s uniform stepped out of the sedan. There was a second person in the back of the cruiser.
“You the manager?” he asked Kraygen.
“Yeah?” asked Kraygen nervously.
The stranger carefully held out his police I.D. “Office Tageret. I’m transporting a convict. The law grants you the right to decline us service – but the roads are flooded and I could use a room.”
A muffled cackle came from the back seat of the sedan.
“… it’s an emergency.”
Hammer walked over, flashing his own badge. “Agent Hammer, Counter-Intelligence Field Agency. Who’ve you got there?”
“Jawolalski, Jason Jawolalski.”
Tageret dragged Jawolalski out of the cruiser and over to the room that Kraygen unlocked for him.
Jawolalski’s long black hair was tied in a ponytail. He had brown eyes and a two day’s growth of beard.
“That’s our man,” said Hammer. Jim-Bean joined them from the other room, his arm drenched in blood. “CIFA put out the APB. We’ll take him off of your hands.”
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Tageret. He was perceptive enough to notice that they all had cuts and scrapes.
Jim-Bean nodded to the other room. “Car accident. We’ve got one dead body in the other room.”
Tageret shoved Jawolalski into the motel room. “You can kill Jawolalski too for all I care. This piece of garbage has enough convictions to put him away for awhile.”
“If you’re gonna cuff him to something, the toilet’s bolted down good,” said Kraygen.
Hammer shook his head. “Keep him in sight. Cuff him to the bed.”
The beds, like everything else in the motel, were bolted to the floor.
“Thanks so much for your assistance,” said Jawolalski, pissed.
Tageret dragged Jawolalski over to the bed.
Jawolalski growled in his face. “I got stripes,” he sang, “stripes around my shoulders…”
Ignoring him, Tageret cuffed Jawolalski to the bed frame.
“I got chains, chains around my feet … And them chains, them chains, they’re ‘bout to drag me down.”
Tageret smacked Jawolalski’s head against the side of the bed frame.
“Ow! Bastard!” shouted Jawolalski.
“We’ll take it from here,” said Hammer. “Did he have anything on him?”
“Yeah,” said Tageret. “A 9mm automatic pistol and a weird cardboard box.”
Jim-Bean arched an eyebrow. “What kind of box?”
Tageret shrugged. “Dripping something. I tried not to touch it. It’s in my trunk.”
Hammer leaned down to face Jawolalski. “What’s in the box, Jawolalski.”
Jawolalski flashed a gap-toothed grin. “What box?”
“We know about the potion you gave Lucinda Ennis,” said Hammer.
“Lucy?” Jawolalski cackled. “How’s her dad doing?”
“Dead. Both of them.”
“Oh wow,” Jawolalski feigned concern. “That’s too bad huh.”
“I’m not going to ask you again, Jawolalski. What’s in the box?”
Jawolalski smirked and said nothing.
“We’ve got a dead body in the other room,” said Hammer. “Along with a little boy. We’re not sure whom he belongs to.”
Tageret nodded. “I’ll check it out.” He left.
Lightning fast, Jim-Bean pulled a knife out of his boot and stabbed Jawolalski in the thigh.
“AAAAH!” screamed Jawolalski. “Jesus! What the hell? I got rights!”
“Ever hear of the Patriot Act?” asked Hammer. “Right now you seem like a terrorist with a biological weapon to me. You don’t have any rights.”
Jim-Bean yanked the knife out of Jawolalski’s thigh, triggering another screech from him. “DAMN IT! Fine! Fine! I’ll tell you. It’s insurance. I think I’m bleeding to death …”
Hammer roughly bandaged up the wound. “Insurance? Insurance for what?”
“I worked for a company. A company that makes some weird $#!t called Sapphire. If you met Lucy’s dad you know what it does. Turns out they’re crazier than even me. I needed out. So I took a little piece of insurance to make sure people take me seriously. ‘Course, with my history I couldn’t very well go to the police …”
“What company?” asked Hammer.
Jawolalski started singing the ABC song.
“Cut that out!” said Hammer. “What company?”
“Amalgamated Bio-Carb. It’s a pharmaceutical company.”
“What’s in the box?” asked Jim-Bean tersely.
“Rover. Here boy!” He started whistling. “Here boy!”
Tageret opened the door. “What’s going on in here?” He caught sight of Jawolalski’s blood on the floor.
Hammer got up abruptly. “Give me the keys to your car. We’re going to check out this box.”
Tageret threw the keys to Hammer.
“Watch him,” said Jim-Bean to Tageret as he passed. Then they both set out in the pounding rain.
The box in the trunk smelled like some type of chemical. The sides were stained from the inside by some kind of bluish fluid.
Jim-Bean moved to pick it up when the box moved. Something was wetly flopping inside the box.
Exchanging a glance with Jim-Bean, Hammer slowly reached out to pick up the box up. It shuddered.
Hammer opened the door to the additional room he had rented from Kraygen.
“Hey!” shouted Jim-Bean to Kraygen, who was standing in the doorway to Dr. Kliss’ room. “You got a fish tank or something?”
“Sure,” said Kraygen. He jogged back to the office and returned with an algae-covered, dried out husk of a fish tank with smelly gravel. “Ain’t had fish in this for years.”
“Thanks.” He took it from Kraygen.
“So what’s in the—“
Jim-Bean closed the door on him. He turned back to Hammer.
Hammer placed the box on the nightstand next to the bed. Jim-Bean placed the fish tank over the box.
“Ready?” asked Jim-Bean.
Hammer nodded. “Ready.”
Jim-Bean focused and stretched one hand towards the box.
It slowly, carefully tore open, seemingly of its own accord. In the darkness, a single eye glittered from the feeble light provided by the single bulb above them.
The thing shuddered. Something wet and pink slithered inside. With a sudden jerk, it twitched its way out of the box.
What lay inside the fish tank was an absolute abomination against nature. The head was that of a German Shepherd, its right eye blasted away by a bullet wound. There was a wound in the skull which had exposed the brain tissue. The jaw bone was out shot out of its right hinge. Even so, its jaw muscles jerked spasmodically. The flesh of the bloodless stump was stained faintly blue, as was the exposed brain tissue.
“What. The f$%k. Is that?” asked Jim-Bean.
The single of the dog’s head rolled madly. It twitched its way to the side of the tank, the wet tongue leaving saliva stains as it slapped against the tank.
“Sapphire in action,” said Hammer. “If this ABC company is manufacturing this stuff …”
The door burst open. It was Tageret. “What is going on in here?”
Jim-Bean stood up abruptly, positioning himself between the tank and the cop. “Nothing. I thought I told you to watch Jawolalski?”
“I was! He was talking about something about a dog’s head? Said you guys tortured him?”
“You left the prisoner alone?” growled Hammer. He stalked out the door past Tageret and into the holding room.
The room was dark and empty. The bed had been torn away from the floor. The rear window was open.
“Damn it!” shouted Hammer.
Tageret skidded behind them. “He can’t get far,” said Tageret. “Not in this.”
Jim-Bean came out. “Kraygen! Get over here!”
Kraygen came back from the other room. “What’s up?”
“You got any weapons?” asked Hammer.
Kraygen looked from Hammer to Tageret nervously. “I … uh …”
“We’re not going to arrest you, Kraygen. We’ve got an emergency; our prisoner escaped and we’re going to need every man available. If you’ve got weapons, we could use your help finding Jawolalski.”
Kraygen seemed relieved. “Sure. Follow me.”
He led them to the main office. “I got two old pistols that hang over the mantle here,” he said, reaching up behind an overhang. “You wouldn’t think they work but I keep ‘em in good condition.” Kraygen’s expression changed as he pulled one of the long pistols down. “That’s strange.”
“What?” asked Hammer.
“One of the pistol’s missing.”
“$#!T!” snarled Hammer. “How about ammo?”
“Oh I keep it in a drawer over …” Kraygen looked over the counter. “It’s all over the floor.”
“All right, our target is now armed,” announced Hammer. “But he’s wounded. He won’t get very far. Kraygen, any place you think Jawolalski could hide?”
Kraygen pondered. “Well there’s the repair shack out back …”
Hammer nodded. “Load that pistol, you’re coming with me. Jim-Bean, Tageret, you two go around the other side. We’ll check room by room and meet at the shack.”
Rain pounded the moonless landscape, hitting so hard that the up-spray was as fierce as the downpour. Occasional bursts of lightning took snapshots of twisted Joshua trees.
The lights of the motel become fainter. The sodden muck tried to swallow their feet. Hammer pulled himself from the quagmire, climbed a rise and hurried over it. Lightning flashed and he caught sight of the maintenance shed.
Jim-Bean and Tageret arrived on the other side. The door swung open and closed in the wind. The chain that normally locked the shed had been snapped in two.
With both Glocks out, Hammer peered around the opening into the darkness of the trailer. Another flash of lightning illuminated the outline of Jawolalski’s form, his back to them.
“Jawolalski!” shouted Hammer. “It’s over. Get up.”
Jawolalski didn’t move. Hammer nodded to Kraygen and he flicked on the light.
Jowalaski was tied to the pole, but his head hung down. Blood and gore streamed down the front of his chest, accompanied by a horrible gurgling sound.
As Hammer move closer, Jawolalski’s head jerked upwards in pain. His lower jaw was completely ripped off.
“HOLY $#!T!” screamed Kraygen.
Jawolalski’s tongue flopped helplessly, choking on his own blood. With another wheeze, he expired.
“W-what kind of an animal DOES that?” asked Kraygen.
“The kind that cuffs you to a pole first,” said Tageret. “It’s time to get out of here.”
“I’m not waiting for that thing to kill me!” shouted Kraygen, panic in his voice. He ran screaming into the night, back towards the motel.
Jim-Bean sighed. “Civilians.” He held his crystal and focused.
Quote:
And was rewarded with a flash of a giant hand, the same puffy paw he saw holding Andrews before.
Jawolalski screamed, but it was cut off as the hand shoved its way into his mouth.
Jawolalski managed a terrified moan before the hand ripped downwards. With incredible force, it tore Jaowlalski’s jaw off, snapping through, tendons, teeth, and flesh.
“What was all that screaming?” asked Kliss, stroking the boy’s hair in an effort to keep him calm.
“Jawolalski’s dead,” said Tageret, out of breath. “There’s a corpse in the bathtub. And I don’t know for sure but I think I saw a dog head flopping around in a fish tank.” He addressed Kliss. “Take your car and get out of here. You and the kid.”
Archived looked back and forth between them. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Where are we supposed to go?” asks Kliss.
“How much gas do you have?” asks Tageret.
“Half a tank.”
Tageret checked his watch. “It’s almost three. You can drive till dawn on that. Just keep moving.”
Making up her mind, Kliss nodded. She snatched up her keys and dragged David behind her.
“Wait!” Archive got up from the bed. “We don’t know if it’s safe.”
But it was too late. Kliss pushed the boy around to the passenger side. Then she yanked open the door to the driver’s side …
KA-BOOM! A huge explosion rocked the motel.
A mushrooming fireball billowed from the front of the motel. In the office, the window shattered from the shockwave. Kliss’ vehicle was a raging inferno. The fire popped and hissed in the pouring rain.
Archive ran over to Kliss. She was alive, but unconscious and badly burned.
Tageret ran over to the boy. “Where’s the kid?” He shouted, looking around where the boy’s body should have been. “I can’t find him!”
Hammer and Jim-Bean ran out from around the opposite sides of the motel.
“What the hell happened?” asked Hammer.
“Kliss’ car exploded,” said Archive. “They’re not going to let us leave.”
“I’m not givin’ em a choice,” said Tageret. “Everyone in my cruiser.”
Hammer shook his head. “We make our stand here. Running is suicide. Besides, they may have rigged your car too.”
“I’ll take my chances out there than with stay whatever ripped Jawolalski’s jaw off. If you wanna stay, stay.”
Tageret leaped inside his cruiser and turned the key in the ignition. Jim-Bean flinched.
CLICK.
Tageret flipped the key back. More clicks.
Tageret shook his head and then noticed something. The hood was raised just a few inches. Like someone worked on the engine then silently closed the hood.
His eyes jumped to the police radio ... gone ... just wires.
Tageret climbed out, his gun cocked and ready. He moved around the front of the car, scanning the area as he lifted the hood.
FWOOSH. A flash of pincers and pink wings. Cilia waving madly. Tageret disappeared with a yelp into the gray skies.
His scream returned a second later as his body smashed into the roof of his car.
“Alien dogs,” whispered Jim-Bean. “They’re back.”
“We’ve got to make a stand here,” said Hammer. “Archive, get Kliss to a room and see what you can do. We’re going to check out the office.”
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