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Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 4607438" data-attributes="member: 3285"><p><strong>Convergence: Prologue</strong></p><p></p><p></p><p>GROVERSVILLE, TN— Groversville was a quaint town. Exterior advertising was restricted to rustic wooden signs bearing each store's name and line of business. </p><p></p><p>Hammer edged the Civic through the blocks, moving slowly. </p><p></p><p>"Is it just me," asked Guppy, "or is this place deserted?"</p><p></p><p>On any other mild Sunday afternoon in September, at least a few residents would be strolling along the cobblestone sidewalks and sitting on the porches and balconies that overlooked Skyline Road.</p><p></p><p>"It's not just you," said Jim-Bean.</p><p></p><p>"So I got a phone call yesterday," said Guppy, pointedly avoiding looking at Jim-Bean. "From Lisa Howell."</p><p></p><p>"Dr. Howell?" asked Jim-Bean, arching an eyebrow. "What about her?"</p><p></p><p>"We used to date."</p><p></p><p>"Oh yeah…she mentioned that."</p><p></p><p>"Mentioned that?" This time Guppy looked at him. "When?"</p><p></p><p>"On a mission," said Hammer. "Like the one we're on now. Let's stay on topic." </p><p></p><p>Agent Tucker, real name Bill Spivey, had killed far more people than the corpses in the Illinois suburbs. His rampage had started well before that, in a gas station just outside of Groversville. In the two weeks since the incident in Willis, Tucker had killed five people. </p><p></p><p>"Tucker's last residence indicated he was boarding at the Beck residence before he started his rampage," said Jim-Bean. He had been named mission leader, but Jim-Bean had a much more personal interest in what happened to Tucker.</p><p></p><p>The afternoon was fading into evening. The sidewalks, balconies, and porches were deserted. Even in those shops and houses where there were lights burning, there was no sign of life. The Civic was the only moving car on the long street.</p><p></p><p>Hammer braked for a stop sign at the first intersection. Highway 135 crossed St. Moritz Way, extending four blocks west. Looking in both directions, there was no one. The next block of highway was deserted, too. So was the block after that.</p><p></p><p>They passed the RR Diner at the corner of Vail Lane. The lights were on inside and most of the interior was visible through the big corner windows, but there was no one to be seen. There weren't even any waitresses inside.</p><p></p><p>"A diner, empty?" asked Hammer. "Something is definitely wrong."</p><p></p><p>The house Tucker stayed at was in the southwestern block, on the north side of the street. Hammer pulled the Civic up to the curb with a squeak of brakes. </p><p></p><p>It was a two-story, stone and timber chalet with three dormer windows along the street side of the attic. The many-angled, slate roof was a mottled gray-blue-black. The house was set back twenty feet from the cobblestone sidewalk, behind a waist-high evergreen hedge. A sign stood by one corner of the porch that read BECK.</p><p></p><p>The agents drew their pistols. They crossed the lawn to a stone walkway and followed that to the front porch, where, in response to the amber-purple sunset, shadows were rising and opening petals as if they were night-blooming flowers.</p><p></p><p>Hammer knocked on the door, but it swung open, unlocked.</p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean took an opposite position with Guppy trailing. They pushed open the door and covered the room with their weapons.</p><p></p><p>"Nothing," said Hammer, lowering his Glocks slightly. "Let's check out the kitchen."</p><p></p><p>The kitchen was a large, high-ceilinged room. Pots, pans, ladles, and other utensils hung from a gleaming, stainless steel utility rack above a central cooking island with four electric burners, a grill, and a work area. The countertops were ceramic tile, and the cabinets were dark oak. On the far side of the room were double sinks, double ovens, a microwave oven, and the refrigerator.</p><p></p><p>A woman was lying on the floor, on her back, dead. She stared at the ceiling with sightless eyes, her discolored tongue thrust stiffly between swollen lips.</p><p></p><p>Guppy scanned her face with his cistron. Her picture flashed on all their cistron screens. "Hilda Beck," he said.</p><p></p><p>The dead woman's face was swollen; it was a round, smooth, and somewhat shiny caricature of the countenance she wore in life. Her body was bloated, too, and in some places it strained against the seams of her gray and yellow housedress. Where flesh was visible—the neck, lower waist, hands, calves, ankles—it had a soft, overripe look. </p><p></p><p>Hammer leaned down to inspect the corpse. "Interesting."</p><p></p><p>Guppy looked away. "Only you would find that interesting."</p><p></p><p>"Guppy, why don't you get me my forensics kit out of the car?" asked Hammer.</p><p></p><p>"You don't have to tell me twice!" Guppy walked back out the front door.</p><p></p><p>"The bloating isn't a result of decomposition," said Hammer. "For one thing, the stomach should be grossly distended with gas, far more bloated than any other part of the body, but it is only moderately expanded. Besides, there is no odor of decay."</p><p></p><p>Hammer scanned the corpse with his cistron. "The dark, mottled skin does not appear to be the result of tissue deterioration." He flipped on the recording function of his cistron. "I can’t locate any certain, visible signs of ongoing decomposition: no lesions, no blistering, no weeping pustules."</p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean stared down at the corpse but didn't move any closer. "And this is different how?"</p><p></p><p>"Because they are composed of comparatively soft tissue, a corpse's eyes usually bear evidence of physical degeneration before most other parts of the body," said Hammer. "But Beck's eyes—wide open, staring—are perfect specimens."</p><p></p><p>The whites of her eyes were clear, neither yellowish nor discolored by burst blood vessels. The irises were clear as well; there were not even milky, postmortem cataracts to obscure the warm, blue color.</p><p></p><p>"It's like she's one big bruise," said Hammer. "I've seen damage like this in car accidents, but there's always worse trauma, like a broken nose, split lips, a broken jaw. She's bruised without any more serious injuries." Hammer looked around in irritation. "What's taking Guppy so long?"</p><p></p><p>Guppy came back in. "Hey guys? I tried to raise you on the cistron but I'm not getting a signal."</p><p></p><p>"What's the problem?" asked Jim-Bean.</p><p></p><p>"It's the car. The engine's missing."</p><p></p><p>Hammer stood up. "Someone sabotaged our car in the five minutes we were in here?"</p><p></p><p>Guppy shook his head. "No, not sabotaged. The engine is completely missing. Something ripped it right out."</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="talien, post: 4607438, member: 3285"] [b]Convergence: Prologue[/b] GROVERSVILLE, TN— Groversville was a quaint town. Exterior advertising was restricted to rustic wooden signs bearing each store's name and line of business. Hammer edged the Civic through the blocks, moving slowly. "Is it just me," asked Guppy, "or is this place deserted?" On any other mild Sunday afternoon in September, at least a few residents would be strolling along the cobblestone sidewalks and sitting on the porches and balconies that overlooked Skyline Road. "It's not just you," said Jim-Bean. "So I got a phone call yesterday," said Guppy, pointedly avoiding looking at Jim-Bean. "From Lisa Howell." "Dr. Howell?" asked Jim-Bean, arching an eyebrow. "What about her?" "We used to date." "Oh yeah…she mentioned that." "Mentioned that?" This time Guppy looked at him. "When?" "On a mission," said Hammer. "Like the one we're on now. Let's stay on topic." Agent Tucker, real name Bill Spivey, had killed far more people than the corpses in the Illinois suburbs. His rampage had started well before that, in a gas station just outside of Groversville. In the two weeks since the incident in Willis, Tucker had killed five people. "Tucker's last residence indicated he was boarding at the Beck residence before he started his rampage," said Jim-Bean. He had been named mission leader, but Jim-Bean had a much more personal interest in what happened to Tucker. The afternoon was fading into evening. The sidewalks, balconies, and porches were deserted. Even in those shops and houses where there were lights burning, there was no sign of life. The Civic was the only moving car on the long street. Hammer braked for a stop sign at the first intersection. Highway 135 crossed St. Moritz Way, extending four blocks west. Looking in both directions, there was no one. The next block of highway was deserted, too. So was the block after that. They passed the RR Diner at the corner of Vail Lane. The lights were on inside and most of the interior was visible through the big corner windows, but there was no one to be seen. There weren't even any waitresses inside. "A diner, empty?" asked Hammer. "Something is definitely wrong." The house Tucker stayed at was in the southwestern block, on the north side of the street. Hammer pulled the Civic up to the curb with a squeak of brakes. It was a two-story, stone and timber chalet with three dormer windows along the street side of the attic. The many-angled, slate roof was a mottled gray-blue-black. The house was set back twenty feet from the cobblestone sidewalk, behind a waist-high evergreen hedge. A sign stood by one corner of the porch that read BECK. The agents drew their pistols. They crossed the lawn to a stone walkway and followed that to the front porch, where, in response to the amber-purple sunset, shadows were rising and opening petals as if they were night-blooming flowers. Hammer knocked on the door, but it swung open, unlocked. Jim-Bean took an opposite position with Guppy trailing. They pushed open the door and covered the room with their weapons. "Nothing," said Hammer, lowering his Glocks slightly. "Let's check out the kitchen." The kitchen was a large, high-ceilinged room. Pots, pans, ladles, and other utensils hung from a gleaming, stainless steel utility rack above a central cooking island with four electric burners, a grill, and a work area. The countertops were ceramic tile, and the cabinets were dark oak. On the far side of the room were double sinks, double ovens, a microwave oven, and the refrigerator. A woman was lying on the floor, on her back, dead. She stared at the ceiling with sightless eyes, her discolored tongue thrust stiffly between swollen lips. Guppy scanned her face with his cistron. Her picture flashed on all their cistron screens. "Hilda Beck," he said. The dead woman's face was swollen; it was a round, smooth, and somewhat shiny caricature of the countenance she wore in life. Her body was bloated, too, and in some places it strained against the seams of her gray and yellow housedress. Where flesh was visible—the neck, lower waist, hands, calves, ankles—it had a soft, overripe look. Hammer leaned down to inspect the corpse. "Interesting." Guppy looked away. "Only you would find that interesting." "Guppy, why don't you get me my forensics kit out of the car?" asked Hammer. "You don't have to tell me twice!" Guppy walked back out the front door. "The bloating isn't a result of decomposition," said Hammer. "For one thing, the stomach should be grossly distended with gas, far more bloated than any other part of the body, but it is only moderately expanded. Besides, there is no odor of decay." Hammer scanned the corpse with his cistron. "The dark, mottled skin does not appear to be the result of tissue deterioration." He flipped on the recording function of his cistron. "I can’t locate any certain, visible signs of ongoing decomposition: no lesions, no blistering, no weeping pustules." Jim-Bean stared down at the corpse but didn't move any closer. "And this is different how?" "Because they are composed of comparatively soft tissue, a corpse's eyes usually bear evidence of physical degeneration before most other parts of the body," said Hammer. "But Beck's eyes—wide open, staring—are perfect specimens." The whites of her eyes were clear, neither yellowish nor discolored by burst blood vessels. The irises were clear as well; there were not even milky, postmortem cataracts to obscure the warm, blue color. "It's like she's one big bruise," said Hammer. "I've seen damage like this in car accidents, but there's always worse trauma, like a broken nose, split lips, a broken jaw. She's bruised without any more serious injuries." Hammer looked around in irritation. "What's taking Guppy so long?" Guppy came back in. "Hey guys? I tried to raise you on the cistron but I'm not getting a signal." "What's the problem?" asked Jim-Bean. "It's the car. The engine's missing." Hammer stood up. "Someone sabotaged our car in the five minutes we were in here?" Guppy shook his head. "No, not sabotaged. The engine is completely missing. Something ripped it right out." [/QUOTE]
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