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!
“Stop,” said Jim-Bean a few days later, fully recovered. “This is the place.” He had dyed his hair to match its old color, but it looked vaguely unnatural to anyone who stared at him long enough. The doctors were unsure if his white hair was a permanent condition.
Hammer waited in the car for Caprice, who was up on a telephone pole with a lineman’s set. Hammer still had some broken ribs but insisted they get moving.
Caprice came down, a little out of breath, and nodded to Hammer. “We’re good.”
Hammer drove them over to the Enolsis branch in St. Louis as per Jim-Bean’s instructions.
“How do you know this is the place?” asked Hammer, increasingly suspicious of Jim-Bean.
“It’s my job to know,” said Jim-Bean.
“Great,” said Jim-Bean. “When we get inside, see if you can find Valiant in their system.”
Hammer parked the car and they got out. Jim-Bean pushed open the door to the branch.
It looked the same as it did months ago when Jim-Bean visited it, only this time there were two women in the booth. Diane was there, and so was Sarah.
“Hello!” chirped Diane. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” said Jim-Bean. “I’m recruiting my friends into Enolsis and was wondering if you have more literature.”
“You’re a member?” she asked. “You look familiar.”
Jim-Bean coughed. “So what do you have …” He steered her away.
Hammer and Caprice stood near the front door, shuffling uncomfortably.
“Are you new to Enolsis?” asked Sarah.
“Yes,” said Hammer. “And I want to BELIEVE.” He said it with such startling emphasis that Caprice looked at him.
“Well, I’d be happy to help but I’m supposed to man the register. If you join Diane over there she can—“
“I’d really appreciate if you could show me around,” said Hammer with a smile. “I feel I’m so close to joining, but something is holding me back. I’d love to understand how your crystals work.”
“I don’t know …”
“I’ve just come into some money.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up. “Right this way.” She led Hammer over to a display cabinet full of crystals.
That was Caprice’s chance. He slipped behind the front desk.
The computer was password protected. Caprice hooked up his cistron through the serial port and the password decoder tore through it in seconds.
It had all the membership information for the branch, but no Valiant. But more importantly, it had an Internet connection to Enolsis HQ in Tulsa for ordering books and paraphernalia.
Caprice hacked his way upstream into the headquarters. “Working …” flashed the screen.
Catching sight of Caprice out of the corner of her eye, Sarah was about to turn around from the crystals when Hammer planted a kiss on her.
Sarah gasped and shoved Hammer away. “HEY!”
“I’m sorry,” muttered Hammer, looking embarrassed. “I was so overcome by emotion at the thought of joining Enolsis—“
It bought Caprice the time he needed.
Diane hustled over. “Everything all right?”
“This jerk just tried to kiss me!” shouted Sarah. “Get out before I call the police!”
They left in a hurry.
“So?” asked Jim-Bean once they were safely in the car and away from the branch.
“There was no sign of Valiant,” said Caprice. “But the St. Louis branch has forty-two more members than it has reported to Tulsa headquarters.”
“An accounting error?” asked Hammer.
Caprice shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not reporting members means not reporting membership dues. That’s about $4,200 in annual dues skimmed from the Enolsis coffers. Neither Daniels nor DiTorrio were on that list.”
“How’s Valiant pulling this off if he’s not a member?” asked Hammer. “He must be working under an alias.”
“Hold on.” Caprice put one finger to his ear. “Sarah’s calling all the members. Looks like the branch manager is calling a special emergency meeting for seven o’clock this evening to discuss the news that the city council wants to shut them down. He’s mapping out a strategy for resisting. They’re going to meet at a rented warehouse …”
Just then Jim-Bean’s phone began chirping it’s unique Invader Zim ring tone.
“Aren’t you going to pick that up?” asked Hammer.
Jim-Bean looked straight ahead. “I know who it is.”
With plenty of time to prepare for the meeting, Caprice planned ahead.
“At any time, we can shut the power to the place,” said Caprice. “I’ve got video surveillance hooked into our cistrons too, so if valiant shows up we can identify him.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” said Jim-Bean. “I’ll see him when I’m inside. I’m going in.”
The guards at the front door were patting people down.
“And you are?” asked the guard.
“Jim,” said Jim-Bean. “Jim Baxter.”
The guard looked at his clipboard. “Hmm, you one of our regulars?”
“I’m on your list.” He took his coat off and held up his Realizer crystal. “I’m new.”
“Oh here you are.” The guard looked up. “I’ll have to pat you down.”
“Is that really necessary?” said Jim-Bean quickly, hustling past him. “Look, I’m the kind you can trust, and I think if you want new members you really should treat your noobs better …”
The guard blinked. “Hey, wait …” but another person was on line behind Jim-Bean pushing their way through.
New Age music and the cloying scent of incense filled the air. A makeshift platform was at the back of the warehouse, flanked by rows of plastic folding chairs. Jim-Bean counted six rows of ten chairs each.
“Ladies and gentleman!” announced Diane. “I’m pleased to introduce your Enolsis deacon, Doug Walters!”
The crowd clapped wildly. A man stepped out onto the platform.
“It’s Valiant,” whispered Jim-Bean.
“You’re sure?” asked Hammer.
“It’s him. He’s had some work done, but it’s him.”
As Doug Walters, Valiant appeared about ten years younger, with shoulder-length black hair, a square jaw, strong cheekbones, and a small, almost elegant nose, but he retained his deceptively soulful blue eyes, large steroidal forehead, and bodybuilder’s physique. He was dressed in a loose, floor0length robe. He pulled a torn envelope out of his robe and, holding it aloft, began his speech.
“This morning, a city courier delivered this letter to us. It’s a challenge to our not-for-profit status and a conflict with zoning ordinances for our neighborhood. I quote: ‘Perhaps this will encourage your sick group to find another home.’”
The crowd was filled with gasps and condemnations.
“Don’t hold hate in your hearts, brothers and sisters. We can change their minds. The biblical prophets had the faith to move mountains, and they were but single individuals. But we are a family. We are legion. We have the faith to move the stars! Because we have the power to change ourselves, and that is the only power that matters.”
The crowd cheered. Jim-Bean looked around in wonder. They were all nuts as far as he was concerned.
“Brothers and sisters, help me. Help us. Meditate with me and focus on your Realizer. Channel your hopes and your strength into a mighty power. A living power that will move the stars!”
Everyone bowed their heads, concentrating on their Realizers. Valiant wheeled a larger crystal onto the platform—the group’s Spiritual Reservoir.
Jim-Bean felt a low resonance at the edge of his hearing. The Spiritual Reservoir began to glow.
“I’m moving,” he whispered into his headset. Then he pulled a small gas mask from his coat and snapped it on. With their heads bowed, no one saw him.
Jim-Bean pulled the pin on his canister of tear gas. Before he could throw it, people in the front collapsed, hyperventilating and convulsing.
Jim-Bean looked around in confusion. The lights and music went out.
“Good job boys,” said Jim-Bean, drawing his SIG.
“What?” asked Caprice. “We didn’t do anything!”
Glowing with psychic energy, Valiant floated into the air. “YOU!” he shouted pointing at Jim-Bean. “We have a heretic in our midst!”
Caprice and Hammer were parked across the street from the warehouse.
Caprice was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on when there was a knock on his side of the car. He caught a glimpse of a knuckle rapping on the window, but it disappeared so quickly he wasn’t sure if he saw it.
“Did you hear that?” he asked Hammer.
Hammer peered over Caprice. “What are you on about Hot Pants?”
“Knocking!” He rolled down the window to look. “Somebody just knocked!”
Jim-Bean’s voice crackled over the comm. “I’m moving,” he whispered.
“Stand by to cut the lights,” said Hammer.
Caprice had the control panel up on his cistron. “Standing by.”
The camera feed was displayed on Hammer’s cistron. “We just lost the cameras.”
“Good job boys,” said Jim-Bean.
“What?” shouted Caprice into the comm. “We didn’t do anything!”
Hammer didn’t respond immediately. He was looking past Caprice.
Hope’s head, and just her head, floated on a long tendril of a neck near the open window. “Knock, knock,” she hissed.
“Out of the car! Now!” shouted Hammer, drawing his pistols.
Hammer slammed the door open, smacking the rubbery head, but she slammed it shut again with her face. Caprice managed to get the door open.
The car turned sideways. Hammer fell on top of Caprice and they both slid out of the car onto the pavement.
Hope flipped the car off of them. It sailed through the air, turning end over end, smashing into a telephone pole. It spun and land upside down on another car. Car alarms went off all down the street from the terrific explosion of screeching metal and broken glass.
Hammer fired both Glocks at her. Ignoring the gunfire, Hope encircled the broken telephone pole with both arms.
Hammer ran to one side behind another car, Caprice in the other.
WHAM! The telephone pole smashed down in front of Hammer, crushing the car nearly in half and sending shrapnel flying. He rolled and moved to another car.
He caught a glimpse of Caprice jogging down the street. Hammer cursed himself. Caprice was no combat veteran, he was an engineer at heart. He couldn’t be expected to face down something like this …
Hope reached down and lifted something heavy out of the pavement. Then she hurled a whistling manhole cover towards him.
Hammer ducked. It sheared right through the car he was hiding behind, bisecting the telephone pole behind him. Electrical wires snapped and sparked as the pole landed just over his head.
He was saved only through a quirk of physics; the pole landed on the smashed car just above Hammer’s head, preventing him from being totally crushed. It still hurt, and Hammer struggled to his feet.
Hope took slow, unhurried strides towards him, her features expressionless. Hammer got a good look at her this time. She was, insanely, dressed in a bell hop’s uniform, cap rakishly tilted on her head.
A car horn interrupted her approach. Hammer caught a glimpse of Hope’s surprised expression as the car’s headlights blinded her. Then Caprice hit her with a Ford truck at over ninety miles an hour.
Hope exploded on impact. Her rubbery protomatter body gave from the sheer force, but parts of her were caught in the grill, stuck under the wheels, and spattered to the sides. Despite her malleability, the impact was strong enough to stop the truck in its tracks.
Caprice, blood trickling from his forehead, was unconscious in the driver’s seat, his head resting on an airbag.
Hammer staggered over. He knew how these things worked. He knew how Jim-Bean worked. And he knew that he didn’t have much time …
Hope was still alive. The eyes rolled in a blubbery face, struggling to focus on him. The lips twitched, curling towards him. Hammer emptied both Glocks into her face.
Finally, the pieces stopped twitching. Hammer started to make his way over to Caprice when the warehouse containing Jim-Bean and Valiant collapsed.
Before Valiant could say anything else, Jim-Bean fired the entire clip of his SIG at him.
The bullets hovered in front of Valiant’s head and chest. Jim-Bean thought to himself: wow, I’m a pretty good shot.
Then he was hurled with telekinetic force across the room, scattering chairs and congregants everywhere.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” snarled Valiant, hovering higher.
Jim-Bean concentrated, using his Realizer to help him focus in the confusion. He could feel energy pulsing out of him, towards the Spiritual Reservoir, just as it had with the damaged Realizer at Washington University. The Spiritual Reservoir crystal was the key.
He reloaded his SIG as he dodged and weaved, ducking behind the screaming congregants. Valiant, clearly unconcerned about the safety of the others now that he had the power he needed, began hurling chairs at Jim-Bean through thought alone. One person’s head burst as a chair smashed into it sideways, spraying a gout of blood over Jim-Bean’s back.
He fired, still running towards the crystal. The bullets ricocheted off. Whatever was protecting Valiant was protecting the crystal as well.
He made it to the crystal. Jim-Bean grabbed it with the intent of running off, but with his own crystal pulsing and the Spiritual Reservoir at his fingertips …
The power! Energy surged through him, and now two pulsing strands of psychic energy connected to both Jim-Bean and Valiant.
Valiant screamed in rage. “No!” He pointed at the stage beneath Jim-Bean and a jagged piece of it ripped up, whistling towards him.
It stopped in mid-air and dropped to the ground, just like Jim-Bean’s bullets. He had Valiant’s powers now, or more properly, he had the Spiritual Reservoir’s powers.
And in that moment it was clear where the energy was coming from. He could see the psychic strands of energy pulsing from the cultists in the room, but only from some of them, the ones who were on the floor. Their crystals were different from his, smaller, imperfect somehow. Jim-Bean guessed that’s what was happening, that Valiant had handed out damaged crystals to power his own.
Jim-Bean knew what he had to do. He grabbed hold of the Spiritual Reservoir and floated up to the ceiling, eye to eye with Valiant. Valiant extended his hand, but the telekinetic force was blocked by the barrier.
Jim-Bean shook his head.
“You may have the power, but you don’t know how to use it!” snarled Valiant.
“I don’t want it,” said Jim-Bean. “And I know how to stop it.”
Focusing his newfound telekinetic energy on the ceiling, he brought the entire building down around them.
“Jim-Bean?” shouted Hammer into his cistron. “Jimmy?”
Nothing but the blaring of the car horns and alarms greeted him.
“This is Agent Hammer calling for backup!” he pulled Caprice out of the car. He was unconscious but alive. “Two agents down, repeat, two agents …”
He trailed off as the rubble of the warehouse shifted. There was no way anyone could survive that.
Jim-Bean stretched to a standing position, rubble sliding off the fading telekinetic force field. He made his way out of the rubble towards Hammer, the Spiritual Reservoir in his hands.
Hammer limped over towards him, reloading his Glocks. “Look out!” he shouted.
Jim-Bean turned. Valiant rose like a phoenix out of the rubble, but unlike Jim-Bean’s slow stretch he burst from the wreckage with a roar.
Jim-Bean held up the Spiritual Reservoir. The soft glow sputtered. “It’s over, Valiant.”
“No,” snarled Valiant, stalking towards him. “No!” He put one hand out, fingers outstretched in a choking motion.
Nothing happened.
“They’re all dead,” said Jim-Bean. “The power’s fading.”
With the Reservoir in one hand, Jim-Bean pointed at the sparking cables that had been severed when the roof collapsed. With a flick of his finger, they snaked towards Valiant.
But they didn’t connect, incapable of approaching Valiant within a few inches.
Jim-Bean spun and hurled the Spiritual Reservoir down the street. It smashed into the pavement, shattering into several pieces from the impact.
Valiant watched the electrical cables with disdain. “Great idea.”
With a sneer, Valiant spread his outstretched fingertips and the sparking cables encircled Jim-Bean. He screamed as thousands of volts of electricity surged through him.
Jim-Bean collapsed in a smoldering heap. Smoke curled from his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth.
“It’s over Valiant!” shouted Hammer, both pistols trained on him.
“It’s far from over.” Valiant crouched and then launched himself at Hammer, moving at impossible speed. Hammer got a glimpse of metal in his upraised fist.
Hammer didn’t bother trying to track Valiant. He just sprayed the area in front of him with bullets.
Valiant dodged most of them, but the ones that struck home were fatal. He fell in a bloody pile of perforated flesh at Hammer’s feet.
Hammer leaned over Jim-Bean. “Jimmy?”
Jim-Bean, his flesh burned in places where the electricity had surged out of his body, groaned. He was alive, but gravely wounded. “I need to find a new religion,” he wheezed.
Jim-Bean didn’t know where he was. The drugs were powerful, but his protomatter physiology was incredibly resistant. His eyes were closed, but he could see.
And hear. He could make out were voices. Sprague and someone else. And a red button. It was near someone’s hand; he couldn’t tell whom.
Jim-Bean wasn’t actually seeing their conversation. He was sensing them, so he only received impressions, without many of the details granted to normal sight.
“I told you he was useful.”
Jim-Bean couldn’t tell who was speaking.
“RECOIL agents have to be paired with a stable agent.”
“He was.”
“But can they control him?“
“This is a gift, a tool, given to us by the Greys as a show of good faith.”
“Good faith? Is that what you call what happened in Groversville? I don’t need to remind you that the same THING they destroyed is directly related to the protomatter crawling around in his flesh!”
“There are others who have access. This Enolsis somehow got hold of it too—“
“Which is precisely why we need more RECOIL agents in the field. We can’t afford NOT to have them.”
“There’s always BIOSAN-5 …”
“Only if SCP-130 creates more. We have a very limited supply, and it hasn’t been cooperative so far.”
“My point is that we can always use BIOSAN-5 as a last resort. But there’s not enough to use as a weapon against these so-called Stewards. For now, we need to keep the pawn in play. And I’d say our pawn did a very good job today.”
The hand moved away from the button. Jim-Bean saw a fire symbol in red and yellow above it.
“Yes. He just bought himself a little more time …”
Before his mind faded back into unconsciousness, Jim-Bean dimly realized he was strapped down in a fireproof room.
This scenario, “See No Evil,” by Adam Gauntlet, is from the issue 16/17 of the Unspeakable Oath. 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
Only one of the players is really interested in investigative scenarios. In the usual confluence of events that end up shaping how the game actually plays out, Jeremy was late (again). As a result, this gave us plenty of time to play out the investigation without rushing it. Jim-Bean showed up at the end, when all the action happened, just in time to steal the spotlight as usual.
It was a pleasant surprise to have Agent Archive back, although he’s now technically not an agent but a freelancer. We find out what happened to him and get to see Archive use his magic like he’s never used it before. He kicked some serious ass in this scenario.
This scenario’s entire purpose was to connect a terrorist organization with a mythos organization. I then linked it to another, much more combat-intensive scenario that further developed the conspiracy. But I’ll leave that commentary for Chapter 33. Suffice it to say that although the investigation happens slowly, when it finally came time for the big finale it didn’t disappoint.
Defining Moment: Archive’s magic vs. Aryan brawn!
Relevant Media
Critical Locations: For D20 Modern and a lifesaver, since Delta Green rarely provides maps.
All the goose-step girlies with
their cursive faces and
We know it's all Braille beneath the skirt
I'm bulletproof bizzop and
Swing heil and
I don't really care what gentlemen prefer.
- Doll-Dagga Buzz-Buzz Ziggety-Zag by Marilyn Manson
NEW YORK CITY, NY—Joe Fontaine, formerly Agent Archive, sat glumly in his cell. He had been transported, roughly, from holding cell to holding cell on trumped up charges. The charges started with impersonating a government agent, even though Major Sprague knew full well that Archive had been on Majestic-12’s payroll under Agent Drake. But all that had changed when Sprague took over.
Sprague didn't like all that "mystic mumbo jumbo crap" and nobody embodied the supernatural, unquantifiable nature of the unknown than Archive. Sprague was dismantling Drake's legacy, piece by piece, person by person. In retrospect, it was jut a matter of time before Sprague got around to booting Archive.
Waiting hours to even understand the full range of the charges, Agent Green rattled off a long list of charges that would leave him rotting in a prison for the rest of his life. Never mind that Green was the agent who had recruited him into Majestic-12 in the first place. She did him a favor by merely lowering his charges to trespassing and paying a fine. And throwing him out of the state of Alabama.
But it wasn’t that simple. Archive had just gotten his boss at X-Investigations, to pay the bail when he was pulled over by the police. Agent Green hadn’t seen fit to notify the authorities.
Archive waited patiently for his phone call.
A large man with a mustache that blended in with his sideburns and his mullet, both arms covered with tattoos, stared at him from across the cell.
“Hey,” he said.
Archive swallowed. “Yeah?”
“They say you’re a Fed. That true?”
“Not anymore,” said Archive truthfully.
“Screwed up, huh?”
Archive frowned. “In a manner of speaking yeah.”
“Fontaine!” shouted the cop. “Time for your phone call.”
Archive didn’t waste any time. He sidled over to the jail cell door and followed the guard to the telephone.
“Make it quick,” said the cop.
Archive dialed Rob, the owner of X-Investigations. He waited patiently while the phone rang.
The answering machine picked up.
“Rob. Rob!” Archive shouted into the phone, his voice rising. “Pick up, it’s Joe.”
There was a click. “Joe?” said a groggy voice. “Joe Fontaine?”
“Yeah, Rob,” Archive said. “Listen, I need your help—“
“Do you know what time it is?” asked Rob. “You forget that this is my home phone?”
“I know, Rob, I’m sorry but—“
“What is it?” snarled Rob.
“I’m back in New York,” he said.
“That’s good. Why are you calling me at one in the morning?”
“I got arrested.”
There was a long sigh. “You what?”
“I got arrested—“
“But I paid your bail!”
“I know, but they didn’t have it on record and…“
Rob cut him off. “You know what? Forget it, forget it. You’re fired. Don’t call back.”
Click. And a dial tone.
The cop must have seen the expression on his face. “Tough luck, bud.”
He began steering Archive back to the cell. Archive resigned himself to a long conversation with his new cellmate.
Another cop peeked around the corner. “Hey, is that Fontaine?”
“Yeah?” said the guard.
The cop addressed Archive. “Somebody just posted your bail.”
The guard flashed Archive a smile. “Today’s your lucky day, huh?”
He led Archive to the front desk. Hammer was waiting for him, arms crossed, with a big grin on his face.
“Hammer!” shouted Archive, relieved. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“Good to see you too.” He clapped Archive on the back.
The cop at the front desk handed Archive back his wallet and a pocket knife and processed him out.
When they were out of the station, Archive coughed. “I don’t work for Majestic anymore …”
“Oh, I know,” said Hammer. “You work for me now.”
Archive grinned at him. “Oh yeah? Should I charge you my usual fee?”
Hammer indicated the police station with a nod of his head. “I just paid it.”
Sorry I wasn't being clear. Yes, Archive got the boot back at the end of Chapter 26: Cold War. I just realized I never really verbalized exactly why he was booted, but the short of it is that Archive represents "mystic mumbo jumbo crap" that Sprague detests. This is also why Sprague revoked Guppy's access to alien technology and why the agents were reassigned to more "mundane" missions involving aliens and technology. Magic doesn't fit into Majestic-12's equation; they're so dazzled by the Greys that they assume there's a dangerous technological source behind everything. The Jack Frost mission exemplifies this, when Jim-Bean is forbidden from ever using the word "zombie."
The last strategic move in Sprague's complete de-mystification of the team was ousting Archive. Since Archive's player took a break, this helped explain why he was missing for awhile.
As Jim-Bean ranted in our most recent session, "I miss Drake. He'd totally have us pimped out with laser pistols and magic shotguns!"
I'll edit the text to clarify what happened to Archive. Thanks for reading!
“With the rise in hate-based violence in America and the growing sophistication of anti-Semititic groups, CIFA has become increasingly interested in the connections between extremist political groups and those groups who carry out hate crimes,” explained Hammer on the drive over. “We’re conducting a small surveillance operation on four members of a group known as The Review, an organization mainly devoted to Holocaust denial. These four men have been selected to speak at a special presentation in New York City, to be held at the Merriweather Center on the corner of 8th and 41st just off Times Square. Majestic-12 believes that The Review, and possibly one or more of the four men under surveillance, may have links to other, more sinister organizations that plan and carry out unlawful activities.”
“Why do you need me?” asked Archive.
“Have you ever heard of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion?”
Archive nodded. “That supposed global Jewish conspiracy? Sure, it’s a forgery. The twenty four Protocols are posited as instructions to a new Elder, outlining how the group will control the world. But it’s long since been discredited—“
“The Review doesn’t think so,” said Hammer. “Your experience with the occult will be critical. Besides, we needed a fourth man for the op. We’ve got Jim-Bean and Caprice …”
“Guppy?”
Hammer shook his head. “Guppy’s … taking some mental health leave.”
Archive nodded. It sounded serious.
They drove on in silence until Archive burst out into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” asked Hammer.
“I just realized … I think this is my first official mission for CIFA, and now I’m not an official agent!” Archive shook his head in disbelief.
“Speaking of that …” Hammer’s expression turned serious. “No more cistron. Look in the glove box.”
Archive rifled through the glove box and came up with a cell phone.
“That cell phone’s untraceable. I’ve got one as well. That’s what we use to communicate. You can’t call me on the cistron, obviously. Got a weapon?”
Archive pulled a Glock out of his pocket.
Hammer’s brow furrowed. “How did you slip that past the police?”
“It wasn’t a gun when they had it,” said Archive with a smirk.
ahh rereading that post now i remember being curious if that last sentence or two ment the end of archive...apparently it did. Sprague's dislike of all the mysticy stuff and archive getting the axe has me feeling that Jim Bean could plausibly be not be too far behind.
Yeah, but Archive's not down for the count as we demonstrated just now. In fact, as you'll see, one of Hammer's goals is to get Archive SOME level of access back, if only because it's a pain in the butt to not have Archive on the same comm link. Trying to pretend they're not working with Archive is difficult.
On a reality side, I still need the team to work together so the players have an excuse to play together. You'll notice that I tend to use excuses for when certain players aren't playing for awhile. So for example, Guppy's been out on "mental health leave" when my brother wasn't playing for a few months. Similarly, although Jim-Bean might be an easy target to get rid of, Jeremy plays pretty consistently, so he's not just going to get the boot. Not yet, anyway.
That said, as you saw from the last story hour, Jim-Bean is something of a dog on a leash. He's part of PROJECT RECOIL and thanks to use of THE COCKTAIL (prescription drugs optimized for memory loss) he only occasionally remembers his interrogation sessions wherein Jim-Bean could be incinerated at any moment. The only thing keeping him alive is that the bad guys use protomatter too, and Jim-Bean is a part of the war of alien escalation.
Michael Drinkwater was born in Deepdeene, Massachusetts on January 15, 1949. He married his wife Dorothea on May 5, 1970. He earned his Bachelor’s degree in Boston University in 1971, and received his Masters and PhD by 1975 from Reading University in England. Drinkwater published his first book in 1978, Hitler and the Nazis. He was arrested for a DWI in 1982. He published his second book in 1986, The Jewish Problem in Germany 1935-45. He also authored numerous historical articles published in History Today, Times of Conflict, Military Historical Quarterly, among others.
Archive flipped through Drinkwater’s file. When Majestic-12 did their research, they could be very, very thorough.
Drinkwater arrived on schedule. He caught a taxi to the Marriott and checked into room 09034, ninth floor, Room 34.
Hammer had planted bugs in their rooms, so Archive was able to monitor everything the man did. He hung out in the hotel bar and listened to the bug.
Drinkwater made a phone call to Dorothea to assure her that the flight was fine, and another call to Colm, the organizer of the event. He had a drink in the hotel’s bar, not more than a few feet from where Archive sat nursing his own drink, and passed through to the dining room. After dinner, Drinkwater went back to his room, assembled his laptop computer, and worked there for two hours before shutting down. He ordered a movie from the hotel selection, watched it, and went to bed.
“Anything?” asked Hammer.
“Not much,” said Archive. “Drinkwater’s pretty boring.”
“Things will get more interesting,” said Hammer. “Just wait until the others get here.”
“What’s Drinkwater up to today?” asked Hammer over the cell.
“Books,” muttered Archive.
Archive was whispering. Hammer knew what that meant; Drinkwater was on the move, and so was Archive. Out of reach of the bugs in the hotel, Archive had to follow Drinkwater to keep him under surveillance.
“He’s bought enough books to fill a library. He visited three stores before lunch.”
“Makes sense, he was a professor of history before he got fired. Anything good?” asked Hammer.
“Mostly historical works about Europe in World War II, and murder mysteries, particularly Mickey Spillane.”
“Of course.”
“You?”
“Bhrunt just made a reservation at Il Palio for two.” Hammer flipped through Bhrunt’s file. “He makes Drinkwater look like a saint.”
Allen Bhrunt. Born in Fort Lauderdale, Florida on May 8, 1959. Got his BS at Florida State. He had been arrested for forgery in 1982 but was acquitted. He was arrested for assault in 1983 and was convinced for one month. He was arrested for possession of narcotics in 1985 and convicted for two months. He had over thirty parking citations and was currently under investigation for mail fraud. Bhrunt was the main publisher and editor of The Review’s newsletter as well as publisher of many of the group’s texts.
Bhrunt flicked open his cell phone and made a call.
“Your guy just called my guy,” said Archive over his cell.
“Yeah, I saw that,” said Hammer. “Looks like they’ve got dinner plans”
“You sound worried. They’re having dinner, so what?”
“Bhrunt’s been carrying a briefcase all day and he’s never put it down once.”
Hammer called in on his cistron. “Jim-Bean, Hot Pants, Bhrunt’s on the move. I’m following.” He swore as he realized Archive wasn’t on the comm. He’d have to call him later to bring him up to date.
Bhrunt was taking steps not to be followed. He hopped from subway to taxi, and then to another taxi, to an address in Queens. And he never let go of his briefcase.
Hammer followed him to a condemned school building, the P. MacGregor Hayes School. Bhrunt paid the taxi driver, looked around to confirm he wasn’t followed, and made his way into the school’s former chemistry lab. The room, unlike the rest of the school, was sealed: all of the windows had bars and boards covering them, and the one door was steel-reinforced.
Hammer parked his car further down the street, out of sight, and snuck up to the entryway. He ducked behind a nearby dumpster as four young men, one carrying a shotgun, sauntered in.
Hammer had run enough missions to know that he was witnessing a drug deal. He let the men pass by through the steel door.
They had chosen a well-guarded location. Hammer thought about calling in backup, but he didn’t want to remove the other agents, all whom had been carefully placed in surveillance positions. It was too risky.
Hammer tested one of the planks over the window. It was loose. Good, just enough to …
Glass tinkled all around him. Hammer swore and ducked back to his position by the dumpster.
Footsteps. He covered himself with debris and smeared some dirt on his face.
The drug dealer with the shotgun, accompanied by another dealer with a semi-automatic pistol, began kicking over cans, searching for the source of the disturbance. Shotgun shoved garbage out of the way and Pistol covered him.
His dual Glocks carefully concealed, Hammer stumbled out into the open. “Will you shtop makin’ all that racket?” he bellowed, staggering out from behind the dumpster. “Ahm tryin’ tah SHLEEP here!”
The drug dealer rolled his eyes, pistol aimed squarely at Hammer’s chest. “It’s just a bum!” he shouted, presumably to the leader inside the high school.
Shotgun squinted at Hammer. “I know all the bums ‘round here. And you ain’t one of ‘em …”
Before he could react, Hammer spun back behind the dumpster, Glocks out.
“Pigs!” shouted pistol.
A shotgun blast rocked the dumpster, slamming into Hammer. He whirled out from behind covered and fired two carefully placed shots.
Shotgun and Pistol both dropped. They were perfect shoulder shots. Bad enough to drop them, but not enough to kill them.
Hammer rolled both men over and zip-tied their wrists. If the drug dealers thought he was a cop, so much the better. It might just save his cover.
Once Hammer was inside, it was clear he needn’t have worried. The remaining two drug dealers and Bhrunt had fled through an escape tunnel—formerly a maintenance corridor—that led to a small concrete shed on the school’s playground.
“I had an … incident following Bhrunt,” said Hammer over the comm. “Anyone see him?” After another second he repeated the same query to Archive.
“He’s at the hotel,” reported Archive. “What happened?”
“A drug deal,” said Hammer. “Did he say anything to Drinkwater?”
“Not a peep.”
“Of course not,” said Hammer. “Bhrunt doesn’t want to embarrass his companions. Drinkwater may be a racist moron, but even racist morons have standards.”
“How’s our boy doing today?” asked Hammer, sounding bored. “Jim-Bean just reported that Hames got in.”
Archive couldn’t hear the other responses. “Not much,” he reported. “Drinkwater didn’t hit the bookstores today, just reading the paper and … hold up, he’s on the move.”
Archive followed Drinkwater to a public phone. He couldn’t hear the conversation.
Then Drinkwater headed for Greenwich Village. He met a personable young man at an apartment building there, and the two of them went out to a pub for a drink. They talked for several hours.
Archived reported back in. “I think …” Archive struggled with the words. “I think Drinkwater’s out on a date.”
“A date?” The amusement was evident in Hammer’s voice. “Take a picture of this so-called date. I’ll look him up in the database.”
Archive used the camera in the phone. It didn’t have nearly as high a resolution as cistron, but it did the job. He sent the picture to Hammer.
“Theo Prentice,” said Hammer a few minutes later. “A student of Drinkwater’s at Boston University.”
Drinkwater and the young man got up to leave.
“Should I follow them?” asked Archive.
“Don’t bother,” said Hammer. “Didn’t you read why Drinkwater lost his job at Boston University?”
“Uh, no,” said Archive. He must have missed that detail when scanning the report.
“Drinkwater was fired for sleeping with his students.”
Hammer sat across from Colm’s office, Harwick, Chadderton & Merlo. Hot Pants was right to call him in. The map of the area showed no blinking dot: The tracking bug Hammer had planted on Colm’s car wasn’t working.
Before he could plant another one, Colm walked out of his office. He was average height with a lean build. His hair had thinned out a great deal, but he took care to brush it over, concealing the spot as much as possible. Colm was thin-faced and clean shaven, with a morose, bloodhound expression.
Colm was born in Barlow, Missouri on December 29, 1945. He got his MBA at Missouri State in 1967. He was married to Wilhemina on April 8, 1972 and divorced ten years later. He was also The Review’s secretary and longest-serving member as one of its founders. Unlike the others, Colm lived locally, so he should have been easier to track. But here he was breaking his routine by leaving work early.
“Target is on the move, I’m following,” reported Hammer.
Colm drove towards JFK airport and stopped at a small strip mall. Several storefronts were vacant, and their windows covered by paper on the inside and with “For Rent” signs on the doors. There was also a locksmith, an ice-cream shop, and a convenience store in operation. Very few people walked the streets. It was deserted except for a cab driver in front of the convenience store, reading the paper.
Colm parked his car and went to one of the vacant storefronts. He knocked on the door.
The door opened, though the person inside stayed out of sight. Colm was ushered in.
Hammer pulled his car over on the opposite side of the street and furtively pointed his parabolic microphone at the window.
There was a brief exchange of pleasantries that did not include any names.
“Let’s see it,” said Colm.
“Behold the power of the Reich!” A sing song chant began that took several minutes.
At the end of the chant, a chill settled in. People outside noticed that the sky became overcast, with a sudden, strong breeze. Silence.
Then a third voice spoke in German. “Wer ruft mich an?”
Colm screamed something. There was a short struggle. A moment later Colm dashed out into the street, clutching a book under his arm.
Colm sprinted to his car. Diving into the front seat, he took off.
Hammer dropped the parabolic microphone. “Hot Pants!” he shouted into his headset. “Meet at my location, I want a full sweep of the area, there’s been an incident—“
Colm’s car flashed by. Then the taxi driver gunned his taxi into action in hot pursuit.
Hammer tore after them. Colm had a head start, so Hammer had to settle for tailing the taxi driver instead.
A tall, thick-bodied German with an outdoorsman’s ruddy complexion stepped out of the cab. This was no ordinary taxi driver.
The German kicked Colm’s door in. Colm had already arrived and left.
Hammer slid out of his car and up to the entryway. He drew one of his Glocks. Somewhere, a dog was incessantly yapping.
He caught sight of an elderly woman peering at him through the blinds.
Hammer put a finger to his lips. Frightened, she closed the blinds.
The German was tearing through Colm’s place. Hammer snuck into the hallway only to see the German in Colm’s office. Several letters stuck out of his coat pocket. He had a pistol in one hand, a degausser in the other, and was running it over some discs.
Hammer put the cold metal of the Glock to the back of the German’s head. “Stop right there.”
The German spun and knocked Hammer’s Glock out of his hand, stunning him with the force. Hammer fired with the other Glock but missed.
The German dove and rolled with the speed of an athlete, coming up behind a recliner with an FN Browning high-powered pistol. The bookshelf near Hammer’s head exploded.
Hammer drew his other Glock and fired a hailstorm of bullets at the German. The recliner was thoroughly perforated. Stuffing floated through the air.
The German made a run for it. He sprinted out the doorway towards his taxi.
Hammer slid into the entry way and raked the taxi ahead of the German before he could reach it. Wheels squealed and popped as bullets tore through them.
The German didn’t skip a beat. He ran into the middle of the street, waving a gun and shouting in German. A terrified woman stopped her car.
Hammer tried to get a bead on the German but he positioned the terrified woman’s car between them. He broke the window, unlocked the door, and threw the woman into the passenger’s seat.
Hammer ran over to the passenger’s side but the German pointed his pistol at his hostage.
The car peeled out, leaving Hammer in the street. Swearing, Hammer ran back into Colm’s apartment, yanked the computer out of the wall along with some discs, and took off before the cops arrived.
“What have we got?” asked Hammer, standing next to Archive in the crowd in front of the Merriweather Center.
“There was some blue dust in the vacant store,” said Archive. “I think it was …”
“What?”
“From a corpse,” said Archive.
“What does ‘Wer ruft mich an’ mean?”
Archive looked at Hammer curiously. “It means: Who calls me? The German said that?”
“No, the German was in the taxi. I heard it from within the room. I think it’s what set Colm off.”
“Someone speaking German?” asked Archive.
“A dead man speaking German,” added Hammer. He put one finger to his ear to turn on his comm. “Hot Pants? What you got?”
“There was a file labeled Sundries,” said Caprice. “It was encrypted using a fairly simple code that used a book, the Jeeves Omnibus. “
“And?”
“Oh you know, paranoid ranting. Talks a lot about Them and Others. Mentions he’s talking to somebody who supports his screwball theories. Then at some point he has suspicions that They are reading his file. From there it’s all flowers and light. The guy’s a nutjob.”
“But no hint as to where he might show up?”
“Nothing. Maybe if we had those letters …”
Hammer swore. “Then we go with the backup plan. Colm’s going to show up here.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Jim-Bean over the comm. He was dressed as one of the security guards holding the crowd back.
“It’s a public place,” said Hammer. “If Colm’s going to show up with evidence of his crazy theories, this is the place to do it.”
A roar went up from the crowd. Opposition activists and a band of protesters were gathering outside the conference building. Many of them were young, all of them rowdy, and what security was available was having some difficulty keeping them in line.
“They’re here,” reported Jim-Bean, somewhere in the crowd.
Hames, Drinkwater, and Bhrunt arrived in one car and were hustled along the slim corridor of people up the steps of the Center.
That’s when Hammer spotted the German. He was wearing a dark overcoat, with an odd bulge under his vest, seemingly oblivious to the raucous crowd around him. The German was intensely focused on someone on the other side of the crowd. Hammer spared a glance over his shoulder …
“It’s Colm!” shouted Archive. Colm had jumped the barrier, a book in one hand, waving incoherently at his other three companions.
Archive’s shout triggered something in the crowd. They burst through the security barrier, running towards the four Denial experts.
Colm reached into his pocket.
“Bomb!” shouted Archive, pointing at Colm.
“Gun!” shouted Hammer, pointing at the German.
Three cracks from Colm’s revolver caused the crowd to scatter.
Everyone ducked, falling to the ground. Except the German, who kept coming.
A woman was killed. Two men were injured. The mob’s charge was instantly broken.
Before Archive or Hammer could react, Colm grabbed a young woman by the hair and dragged her kicking and screaming into the conference center.
Chaos reigned outside. People were screaming and running. The police were desperately trying to break up the crowd and deal with the situation.
The German kept coming.
“Jim-Bean!” shouted Hammer. “Where the hell are you?”
There was no response. Jim-Bean was somewhere in the midst of the mob.
Hammer drew his Glocks. “Archive, take care of the German!” Then he ran into the meeting center in pursuit of Colm.
Archive drew his pistol. For once, he knew what to do.
Linear Mode
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