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Story Hour
Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 4739722" data-attributes="member: 3285"><p><strong>Dreams: Part 3 – The Bringers of Sacred Light</strong></p><p></p><p>Guppy looked up at the street sign. He had called the phone number on Freddy's card and it led him to here, Paper Street. It wasn't really a street, more a dirt road. </p><p></p><p>A stockade sat on one side, facing a lone house on the other. The rest of the land was grass and weeds. It was a grand, old three-story, long abandoned. </p><p></p><p>Freddy was there, waiting for him. He was dressed in fatigues and splattered with paint. "Come to check on the troops?" He grinned. "Come on in, let me give you the tour." He led Guppy to the stockade.</p><p></p><p>The stockade looked just like the cavalry forts portrayed in movies about the Old West. It boasted four guardhouses and two small guard posts on either side of the gate. The entire compound was made of tarred pine logs. The two largest buildings had two floors, the upper levels serving as barracks. A kitchen and mess hall were located beneath the married couples’ barracks, with a storage area under the single persons’ barracks. </p><p></p><p>Freddy led Guppy to one of the barracks. Triple-decker bunks cluttered the barracks, as many as could fit into the space.</p><p></p><p>They entered the kitchen. Freddy grabbed beers from the refrigerator. "Want some?"</p><p></p><p>Guppy shook his head. </p><p></p><p>Freddy shrugged and popped one open with his teeth. He took a few swigs.</p><p></p><p>Guppy noticed rope and rappelling tools on the table. Freddy nodded towards the living room, hefting a case of beers. "Go on in, we're celebrating."</p><p></p><p>Guppy hesitantly entered the room. Several other guys sat in front of the television, chanting quietly, all dressed in fatigues and also splattered with paint.</p><p></p><p>Freddy came up behind Guppy. “You are not your job,” he chanted.</p><p></p><p>“You are not your job,” said the others together.</p><p></p><p>“You are not how much money you have in the bank.”</p><p></p><p>From upstairs, a buzzer sounded.</p><p></p><p>"New recruit," said Freddy. "Come on, let's see what he's got." Freddy led Guppy up to the sentry post.</p><p></p><p>A young man stood at the gate, staring ahead in subordinate military style. He wore black pants, black shirt, black shoes, held a paper bag, with an army surplus mattress rolled-up at his feet.</p><p></p><p>Freddy stepped up beside Guppy to look the kid over.</p><p></p><p>"You're too young,” he shouted down at the kid. “Sorry."</p><p></p><p>Freddy pushed Guppy back inside the sentry post and shut the door. "If the applicant is young, we tell him he's too young. Old, too old. Fat, too fat. If the applicant waits at the door for three days without food, shelter or encouragement, then he can enter and begin training."</p><p></p><p>"Doesn't that seem harsh?" asked Guppy.</p><p></p><p>"Harsh? We're fighting a war here!" Freddy shook his head. "There's no room for luxuries. Each applicant is asked to bring the following: two black shirts, two black pants, one pair of black boots, two pair of black socks, one black coat, and three hundred dollars."</p><p></p><p>"Why three hundred dollars?"</p><p></p><p>"Personal bury money," said Freddy. "Come on, let me show you a project we're working on."</p><p></p><p>A half-dozen of survivalists were preparing a square of the backyard inside the fort. They pulled weeds, cleared rocks; worked with shovels and rakes. They carted away wheelbarrows of rocks and carried in sacks of fertilizer.</p><p></p><p>Everywhere Guppy went, survivalists rendered fat and made soap. They pinched herbs, adding them to the mix. They added vodka. Off to the side, a couple survivalists stirred a vat of rice. </p><p></p><p>Freddy led Guppy to his office. On the wall was a big bulletin board with hundreds of driver's licenses; a sign above it read: "HUMAN SACRIFICES."</p><p></p><p>"Human sacrifices?" asked Guppy nervously.</p><p></p><p>"They only look human," said Freddy.</p><p></p><p>In the office, Freddy made a mark on a chart. Survivalists shuffled papers and news clippings. Walls were lined with files, each labeled with a street address, under individual signs: "Mischief," "Disinformation," "Human Sacrifices," "Arson."</p><p></p><p>"What is this?"</p><p></p><p>"This?" said Freddy with a sweep of his hand. "We are the Bringers of Sacred Light."</p><p></p><p>"I don't understand," said Guppy. "Why are you doing this?"</p><p></p><p>"Because you told us to." The other men laughed. He handed Guppy a folder. "These are your targets. We're ready to move on the Protomatter Stewards now. Take a look." </p><p></p><p>There were four files. Archibald Denton, Larry Tolkien, Malcom Trent, and John Grant. </p><p></p><p>Guppy flipped through the files and stopped on the last one. There was something about John Grant that evoked a feeling of terrible rage. Guppy didn't like the look of him. </p><p></p><p>"Grant," said Guppy. "I'll take care of John Grant myself."</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="talien, post: 4739722, member: 3285"] [b]Dreams: Part 3 – The Bringers of Sacred Light[/b] Guppy looked up at the street sign. He had called the phone number on Freddy's card and it led him to here, Paper Street. It wasn't really a street, more a dirt road. A stockade sat on one side, facing a lone house on the other. The rest of the land was grass and weeds. It was a grand, old three-story, long abandoned. Freddy was there, waiting for him. He was dressed in fatigues and splattered with paint. "Come to check on the troops?" He grinned. "Come on in, let me give you the tour." He led Guppy to the stockade. The stockade looked just like the cavalry forts portrayed in movies about the Old West. It boasted four guardhouses and two small guard posts on either side of the gate. The entire compound was made of tarred pine logs. The two largest buildings had two floors, the upper levels serving as barracks. A kitchen and mess hall were located beneath the married couples’ barracks, with a storage area under the single persons’ barracks. Freddy led Guppy to one of the barracks. Triple-decker bunks cluttered the barracks, as many as could fit into the space. They entered the kitchen. Freddy grabbed beers from the refrigerator. "Want some?" Guppy shook his head. Freddy shrugged and popped one open with his teeth. He took a few swigs. Guppy noticed rope and rappelling tools on the table. Freddy nodded towards the living room, hefting a case of beers. "Go on in, we're celebrating." Guppy hesitantly entered the room. Several other guys sat in front of the television, chanting quietly, all dressed in fatigues and also splattered with paint. Freddy came up behind Guppy. “You are not your job,” he chanted. “You are not your job,” said the others together. “You are not how much money you have in the bank.” From upstairs, a buzzer sounded. "New recruit," said Freddy. "Come on, let's see what he's got." Freddy led Guppy up to the sentry post. A young man stood at the gate, staring ahead in subordinate military style. He wore black pants, black shirt, black shoes, held a paper bag, with an army surplus mattress rolled-up at his feet. Freddy stepped up beside Guppy to look the kid over. "You're too young,” he shouted down at the kid. “Sorry." Freddy pushed Guppy back inside the sentry post and shut the door. "If the applicant is young, we tell him he's too young. Old, too old. Fat, too fat. If the applicant waits at the door for three days without food, shelter or encouragement, then he can enter and begin training." "Doesn't that seem harsh?" asked Guppy. "Harsh? We're fighting a war here!" Freddy shook his head. "There's no room for luxuries. Each applicant is asked to bring the following: two black shirts, two black pants, one pair of black boots, two pair of black socks, one black coat, and three hundred dollars." "Why three hundred dollars?" "Personal bury money," said Freddy. "Come on, let me show you a project we're working on." A half-dozen of survivalists were preparing a square of the backyard inside the fort. They pulled weeds, cleared rocks; worked with shovels and rakes. They carted away wheelbarrows of rocks and carried in sacks of fertilizer. Everywhere Guppy went, survivalists rendered fat and made soap. They pinched herbs, adding them to the mix. They added vodka. Off to the side, a couple survivalists stirred a vat of rice. Freddy led Guppy to his office. On the wall was a big bulletin board with hundreds of driver's licenses; a sign above it read: "HUMAN SACRIFICES." "Human sacrifices?" asked Guppy nervously. "They only look human," said Freddy. In the office, Freddy made a mark on a chart. Survivalists shuffled papers and news clippings. Walls were lined with files, each labeled with a street address, under individual signs: "Mischief," "Disinformation," "Human Sacrifices," "Arson." "What is this?" "This?" said Freddy with a sweep of his hand. "We are the Bringers of Sacred Light." "I don't understand," said Guppy. "Why are you doing this?" "Because you told us to." The other men laughed. He handed Guppy a folder. "These are your targets. We're ready to move on the Protomatter Stewards now. Take a look." There were four files. Archibald Denton, Larry Tolkien, Malcom Trent, and John Grant. Guppy flipped through the files and stopped on the last one. There was something about John Grant that evoked a feeling of terrible rage. Guppy didn't like the look of him. "Grant," said Guppy. "I'll take care of John Grant myself." [/QUOTE]
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