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Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 4439375" data-attributes="member: 3285"><p><strong>Closed Casket: Prologue</strong></p><p></p><p>YUMA FLATS, NM – Jim-Bean flicked the knob on the radio, bored out of his mind. The only reception he was able to get was AM. The tinny sound was painful to listen to. </p><p></p><p>“The hunt continues for the two missing tourists last seen in Yuma FlatszzzCRSSSSH—“ the radio cut off. </p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean fiddled with the radio. “Great, now we can’t even listen to the radio.” He fished out his cistron. “Why aren’t we using our cistrons again? I want to use the MP3 player.”</p><p></p><p>Hammer looked over at his companion from the driver’s side of the Honda Civic. “It’s an unauthorized mission. Remember the Paradise Theater? Richard Jacobs was raised at the Labib Home for Children. Drake thinks it’s tied to a conspiracy to raise cultists across America. And since Drake no longer works for Majestic-12…”</p><p></p><p>“That’s fabulous,” muttered Jim-Bean. </p><p></p><p>“We tracked down records at the Labib Home for Children to one Robert Monroe-Tyler, who was adopted by a family in Yuma Flats, New Mexico.”</p><p></p><p>A sign read: LAST STOP FOR 200 MILES. </p><p></p><p>“That explains the sign,” said Jim-Bean. “But not why Guppy and Archive aren’t with us.”</p><p></p><p>“Who do you think tracked Robert this far?” snapped Hammer. “As for Guppy, I haven’t seen him in awhile either.”</p><p></p><p>The gas gauge started blinking. </p><p></p><p>“I’d feel better if I had my G36.”</p><p></p><p>“No requisitions,” said Hammer. “If Sprague found out he’d yank us off the case. I’ve got to pull over to refill the tank.”</p><p></p><p>“That’s why we don’t have the van, huh?”</p><p></p><p>“Don’t knock the Honda Civic,” said Hammer. “We blend in better than an unmarked black van.”</p><p></p><p>“That van has its purpose. This Civic isn’t much protection. Or much of anything, really.”</p><p></p><p>“Trust me, the van would be out of place out here.” Hammer pulled the car over to an ancient gas station.</p><p></p><p>“How did we even find this information about Monroe-Tyler anyway?”</p><p></p><p>“Remember SINNER? Her jog around the Internet? Drake’s been feeding us leads through her.” </p><p></p><p>On the side of the road, at the bottom of a hill, the gas station had survived years of wind and dust. Around the main building, a tool shed, three gas pumps, a dilapidated well, a water tower, and gutted carcasses of cars from the 1950s accentuated the desolate feeling that prevailed. A few tumbleweeds rolled across the road.</p><p></p><p>An older man with yellowed teeth hobbled up to their vehicle. “Fill ‘er up?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes, please,” said Hammer.</p><p></p><p>“We don’t see too many travelers around here,” asked the old man. “Where you all headed?”</p><p></p><p>“We’re looking for I-40,” said Hammer. </p><p></p><p>The old gas station attendant checked the oil and water. “You’re at least six or seven hours away. This is the only southbound road that connects to I-40. From there you can take I-40 to California. But you’ll never make it before sundown…”</p><p></p><p>“Sundown? Why does it matter if we get to the road before sundown?” Jim-Bean asked suspiciously. </p><p></p><p>“You won’t get no cell phone reception out here if you get into trouble,” said the old man. </p><p></p><p>“Why not?” asked Jim-Bean. “Some kind of supernatural fog or something?”</p><p></p><p>The old man chuckled. “Nothin’ that fancy. Yuca Flats was a testing ground for atom bombs. I wouldn’t be caught dead out on the road at night.</p><p></p><p>Hammer pondered the response in silence. The only sound was the TING! TING! TING! of the antiquated gas pump.</p><p></p><p>“You sell other stuff too, right?” asked Jim-Bean.</p><p></p><p>The old codger nodded. “Some things. Whatcha need?”</p><p></p><p>“You got shotgun shells?”</p><p></p><p>An odd expression passed the old man’s face as he caught sight of the pistol holstered under Jim-Bean’s armpit. “Maybe. I don’t normally sell ‘em…”</p><p></p><p>“I’ll pay you good money,” said Jim-Bean.</p><p></p><p>“You boys ain’t with the Mob, are ya?”</p><p></p><p>It was Jim-Bean’s turn not to say anything.</p><p></p><p>“I’ll go get ‘em for ya.” He hobbled off.</p><p></p><p>“We don’t have a shotgun,” said Hammer out of the side of his mouth. “What the hell do you want shotgun shells for?”</p><p></p><p>“You never know,” said Jim-Bean. “I don’t like the feel of this place.”</p><p></p><p>“One of your psychic ‘feelings’?” asked Hammer suspiciously.</p><p></p><p>“Oh don’t start with that now. I explained it to you once already: I was found by the Psychic Research Association. PISCES recruited me from there.”</p><p></p><p>“I get all that ESP mumbo-jumbo,” said Hammer. “But you took a shotgun blast at point-blank range. Nobody survives that.” He peered at his fellow agent suspiciously. </p><p></p><p>“Oh, yeah, that…” Jim-Bean cleared his throat. “Look mate, let’s just put it this way: would you rather have a screaming Indian geek with you or a lucky chap who knows his way around a pistol?”</p><p></p><p>Hammer tapped Jim-Bean’s temple. “As long as that’s all I get.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="talien, post: 4439375, member: 3285"] [b]Closed Casket: Prologue[/b] YUMA FLATS, NM – Jim-Bean flicked the knob on the radio, bored out of his mind. The only reception he was able to get was AM. The tinny sound was painful to listen to. “The hunt continues for the two missing tourists last seen in Yuma FlatszzzCRSSSSH—“ the radio cut off. Jim-Bean fiddled with the radio. “Great, now we can’t even listen to the radio.” He fished out his cistron. “Why aren’t we using our cistrons again? I want to use the MP3 player.” Hammer looked over at his companion from the driver’s side of the Honda Civic. “It’s an unauthorized mission. Remember the Paradise Theater? Richard Jacobs was raised at the Labib Home for Children. Drake thinks it’s tied to a conspiracy to raise cultists across America. And since Drake no longer works for Majestic-12…” “That’s fabulous,” muttered Jim-Bean. “We tracked down records at the Labib Home for Children to one Robert Monroe-Tyler, who was adopted by a family in Yuma Flats, New Mexico.” A sign read: LAST STOP FOR 200 MILES. “That explains the sign,” said Jim-Bean. “But not why Guppy and Archive aren’t with us.” “Who do you think tracked Robert this far?” snapped Hammer. “As for Guppy, I haven’t seen him in awhile either.” The gas gauge started blinking. “I’d feel better if I had my G36.” “No requisitions,” said Hammer. “If Sprague found out he’d yank us off the case. I’ve got to pull over to refill the tank.” “That’s why we don’t have the van, huh?” “Don’t knock the Honda Civic,” said Hammer. “We blend in better than an unmarked black van.” “That van has its purpose. This Civic isn’t much protection. Or much of anything, really.” “Trust me, the van would be out of place out here.” Hammer pulled the car over to an ancient gas station. “How did we even find this information about Monroe-Tyler anyway?” “Remember SINNER? Her jog around the Internet? Drake’s been feeding us leads through her.” On the side of the road, at the bottom of a hill, the gas station had survived years of wind and dust. Around the main building, a tool shed, three gas pumps, a dilapidated well, a water tower, and gutted carcasses of cars from the 1950s accentuated the desolate feeling that prevailed. A few tumbleweeds rolled across the road. An older man with yellowed teeth hobbled up to their vehicle. “Fill ‘er up?” “Yes, please,” said Hammer. “We don’t see too many travelers around here,” asked the old man. “Where you all headed?” “We’re looking for I-40,” said Hammer. The old gas station attendant checked the oil and water. “You’re at least six or seven hours away. This is the only southbound road that connects to I-40. From there you can take I-40 to California. But you’ll never make it before sundown…” “Sundown? Why does it matter if we get to the road before sundown?” Jim-Bean asked suspiciously. “You won’t get no cell phone reception out here if you get into trouble,” said the old man. “Why not?” asked Jim-Bean. “Some kind of supernatural fog or something?” The old man chuckled. “Nothin’ that fancy. Yuca Flats was a testing ground for atom bombs. I wouldn’t be caught dead out on the road at night. Hammer pondered the response in silence. The only sound was the TING! TING! TING! of the antiquated gas pump. “You sell other stuff too, right?” asked Jim-Bean. The old codger nodded. “Some things. Whatcha need?” “You got shotgun shells?” An odd expression passed the old man’s face as he caught sight of the pistol holstered under Jim-Bean’s armpit. “Maybe. I don’t normally sell ‘em…” “I’ll pay you good money,” said Jim-Bean. “You boys ain’t with the Mob, are ya?” It was Jim-Bean’s turn not to say anything. “I’ll go get ‘em for ya.” He hobbled off. “We don’t have a shotgun,” said Hammer out of the side of his mouth. “What the hell do you want shotgun shells for?” “You never know,” said Jim-Bean. “I don’t like the feel of this place.” “One of your psychic ‘feelings’?” asked Hammer suspiciously. “Oh don’t start with that now. I explained it to you once already: I was found by the Psychic Research Association. PISCES recruited me from there.” “I get all that ESP mumbo-jumbo,” said Hammer. “But you took a shotgun blast at point-blank range. Nobody survives that.” He peered at his fellow agent suspiciously. “Oh, yeah, that…” Jim-Bean cleared his throat. “Look mate, let’s just put it this way: would you rather have a screaming Indian geek with you or a lucky chap who knows his way around a pistol?” Hammer tapped Jim-Bean’s temple. “As long as that’s all I get.” [/QUOTE]
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Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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