David - cult/cultist
Linda - civilian
Bobby - telekinetic
Katie - telepath/mindreader
Lizzie - serial killer
Tom - supernatural working for D13
Judy - Gov agent corrupted by the supernatural/gone rogue
Michael - mentally ill
Jason - undead/revenant
Jennifer - medium
Alec - ghost
Joe - corpse/death
Patty - hostage/captive
Abraham - occultist/expert
Sally - I need help
Sarah - wounded/need medical attention
Mother - radio silence/stay back
Father - run/extreme danger/clear the area
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Code words
FEAR tends to use first names as code words.
Fiona/Fi - FEAR agent
Urusla - United States/US Government
Norman - Paranormal - something unexplained or unexplainable
Nate - Supernatural - confirmed supernatural elements
Mandy - fake, con job
Rick - supernatural subject
Carrie - telekinetic
Harry - wizard
Simon - miracle worker
Dexter - necromancer
Charlie, Charlie X - extremely powerful subject or subject with unknown level of power
Susan - relative or dependent of a Rick
Edward - vampire
Frank - monster
Fiona/Fi - FEAR agent
Urusla - United States/US Government
Norman - Paranormal - something unexplained or unexplainable
Nate - Supernatural - confirmed supernatural elements
Mandy - fake, con job
Rick - supernatural subject
Carrie - telekinetic
Harry - wizard
Simon - miracle worker
Dexter - necromancer
Charlie, Charlie X - extremely powerful subject or subject with unknown level of power
Susan - relative or dependent of a Rick
Edward - vampire
Frank - monster
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Another thing from the archives
The end of the file reads '...Wooden box 4" x 6" contains glass(?) tube 1" in diameter, 3" long, sealed with waxed cork, containing green liquid and small piece of what appears to be dessicated flesh. Interrogation agents told subject that item had been destroyed, showed him empty box. Subject became hysterical, attempted to attack agents. Despair caused him to talk further: item described as "irreplacable", "priceless", "sacred", "holy". After several hours more work, subject described samples as "last known piece of flesh from an angel." Subject slit his throat with his own fingernails that night.'
The file is attached to a an evidence box. The evidence box contains the wooden box. The wooden box is empty.
The file is attached to a an evidence box. The evidence box contains the wooden box. The wooden box is empty.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Prologues
In the darkened room, there were two noises. The constant hum of the projector and the steady swishing of a tail, drawing back and forth across the plastic-topped table.
The owner of the table – a grey-black cat of uncertain age and a suave demeanour – stared daggers at the man standing at the front of the room.
“I have to wonder, Davenport. I have to wonder,” said the cat slowly and without inflection.
“What’s that?”
“Whether you chose this team as some general reflection of your disdain for myself…or if you hold all of us in equal disregard.” There was a hint of irony in the voice, but not a forgiving one. Davenport was not a man to be easily insulted, however. With a flourish of his wrist, the first slide appeared – a cracked, grey-white photo of a man in a suit from a century ago. At his hips was a gun belt and two shining revolvers. The man’s arms were crossed, a bullet hole the size of a golf-ball in his forehead.
“I don’t know what you mean. For weapons, you’ve got one of the best shots we’ve ever had. Word is he could put Wild Bill to shame, in his time. And he’s only gotten better - and he doesn’t show any signs of slowing down. Or being slowed down by anything..”
Another slide. A badly-lit security camera shot of a girl in her early twenties. The slide looked like a double exposure, as the girl’s body blurred into nothing but grey light, and her arm appeared to be inside the terminal in front of her.
“Infiltration – well, do I even have to explain? Every intelligence agency in this country – in the world – wants this girl working for them. Do you know how many favours I called in to get her? Do you have any idea who – “
Davenport met the cat’s unmoving yellow eyes, and clicked the mouse. This time a blueprint appeared. A giant human figure filled it, simple in form and design, although the field behind was covered in blue-inked footnotes and speculations. In the corner, a Star of David glowed silver.
“Hand to hand, a walking tank. Can shake off almost anything, too. And he does exactly what he’s told. There literally is nobody more reliable in existence.”
Davenport was angry now. “This isn’t a joke, Grey. This is the real damn deal. You’re in charge of some of the most talented assets we have. You need to understand that, because top brass are expecting results.”
Without a word, the cat stood and glided across the table. With his paw, he tapped the mouse, skipping back through the images. “Let me tell you what I see.”
“I see a man who should be dead. I see a girl who was never alive to begin with. And I see a man who is only alive when he has prayers in his head.”
“I see people beyond classification. People that you – that nobody knows what to do with. That nobody wants to have anything to do with. Too powerful to be killed, too terrifying to be allowed free.”
“I see your rubbish, Davenport. And I have to wonder, am I the recycler….or the incinerator?”
“Dismissed, Agent. Your team is in the next room.” Davenport switched off the computer and left with a rapid stride.
In the darkness, the hum stopped. The swishing went on for some time.
The owner of the table – a grey-black cat of uncertain age and a suave demeanour – stared daggers at the man standing at the front of the room.
“I have to wonder, Davenport. I have to wonder,” said the cat slowly and without inflection.
“What’s that?”
“Whether you chose this team as some general reflection of your disdain for myself…or if you hold all of us in equal disregard.” There was a hint of irony in the voice, but not a forgiving one. Davenport was not a man to be easily insulted, however. With a flourish of his wrist, the first slide appeared – a cracked, grey-white photo of a man in a suit from a century ago. At his hips was a gun belt and two shining revolvers. The man’s arms were crossed, a bullet hole the size of a golf-ball in his forehead.
“I don’t know what you mean. For weapons, you’ve got one of the best shots we’ve ever had. Word is he could put Wild Bill to shame, in his time. And he’s only gotten better - and he doesn’t show any signs of slowing down. Or being slowed down by anything..”
Another slide. A badly-lit security camera shot of a girl in her early twenties. The slide looked like a double exposure, as the girl’s body blurred into nothing but grey light, and her arm appeared to be inside the terminal in front of her.
“Infiltration – well, do I even have to explain? Every intelligence agency in this country – in the world – wants this girl working for them. Do you know how many favours I called in to get her? Do you have any idea who – “
Davenport met the cat’s unmoving yellow eyes, and clicked the mouse. This time a blueprint appeared. A giant human figure filled it, simple in form and design, although the field behind was covered in blue-inked footnotes and speculations. In the corner, a Star of David glowed silver.
“Hand to hand, a walking tank. Can shake off almost anything, too. And he does exactly what he’s told. There literally is nobody more reliable in existence.”
Davenport was angry now. “This isn’t a joke, Grey. This is the real damn deal. You’re in charge of some of the most talented assets we have. You need to understand that, because top brass are expecting results.”
Without a word, the cat stood and glided across the table. With his paw, he tapped the mouse, skipping back through the images. “Let me tell you what I see.”
“I see a man who should be dead. I see a girl who was never alive to begin with. And I see a man who is only alive when he has prayers in his head.”
“I see people beyond classification. People that you – that nobody knows what to do with. That nobody wants to have anything to do with. Too powerful to be killed, too terrifying to be allowed free.”
“I see your rubbish, Davenport. And I have to wonder, am I the recycler….or the incinerator?”
“Dismissed, Agent. Your team is in the next room.” Davenport switched off the computer and left with a rapid stride.
In the darkness, the hum stopped. The swishing went on for some time.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Check the archives
c 1886, photo of Chupacabra corpse. taken outside Silver City, Nevada. The guy third from the left at the back.
I saw him in the halls yesterday. Same damn guy. Looks like they are putting together a new team.
Good luck, guys!
- Gerry
I saw him in the halls yesterday. Same damn guy. Looks like they are putting together a new team.
Good luck, guys!
- Gerry
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Keynotes, again
Because I'm trying to motivate myself to write other things...
Planetary for the process. FEAR doesn't have Planetary's budget but they do have their operating principles: they put three or four people in a helicopter and drop them in a crisis. Then they pick them up when everything's solved or dead. Planetary has wonderful STYLE, too. It's crisp, it's cool, it's kicking ass.
Swamp Thing for the horror. Nobody writes horror the way Moore does - with so much love and affection for everything in it - from the victims to the heroes and even to the monsters. If we can come close to his slow, languid love affair with the monstrous, that would be awesome.
The X Files for the budget. Not the show's budget, but FEAR's budget. They really are stuck in basements a lot of the time, shifting through filing cabinets. The computer age is still a mystery to large sections of FEAR. X-Files also did the conspiracy thing well, and there will be elements of that. Oh yes.
NCIS for the cadence. I love to juggle my US military parlance and acronyms. Expect a lot of such things, delivered with manilla folders by shouting men in helicopters. And despite the lower budget, NCIS is full of technophilia, and there will be some of that too in FEAR.
Planetary for the process. FEAR doesn't have Planetary's budget but they do have their operating principles: they put three or four people in a helicopter and drop them in a crisis. Then they pick them up when everything's solved or dead. Planetary has wonderful STYLE, too. It's crisp, it's cool, it's kicking ass.
Swamp Thing for the horror. Nobody writes horror the way Moore does - with so much love and affection for everything in it - from the victims to the heroes and even to the monsters. If we can come close to his slow, languid love affair with the monstrous, that would be awesome.
The X Files for the budget. Not the show's budget, but FEAR's budget. They really are stuck in basements a lot of the time, shifting through filing cabinets. The computer age is still a mystery to large sections of FEAR. X-Files also did the conspiracy thing well, and there will be elements of that. Oh yes.
NCIS for the cadence. I love to juggle my US military parlance and acronyms. Expect a lot of such things, delivered with manilla folders by shouting men in helicopters. And despite the lower budget, NCIS is full of technophilia, and there will be some of that too in FEAR.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Adam
I am not whole.
I know this, instinctively. I can feel the places where my new maker has replaced what was lost - and the places in my memory where no replacement could be made.
I still remember something of my first maker. A kindly old face, lit by candlelight; a soft voice describing the screaming mobs slavering for the blood of G-d's chosen. I was a guardian, and a bringer of vengeance for G-d's people. That is why I was made.
I remember when the life given to me was taken away. My maker was saddened, and disappointed in me, and I couldn't understand why. Had I not brought the Lord's vengeance to those who harmed his children, as I had been made to do? But now my maker told me I'd gone too far, harmed those who'd done no harm to he and his, and that I must return to dust. And he wrote 'death' on my forehead, and I died.
Mostly.
***
Life's a precious thing, and so sweet - I clung to it as long as I could. I couldn't move, couldn't protest, but I watched and listened as they walled me up in the attic of their holy place; I listened as they threatened the ruler of their land that I would be revived if the persecution of G-d's people resumed. And then I lay in the dark, and saw nothing, and heard only the murmuring of prayer for many long years.
Violence came again to G-d's people. It came even to their house of worship; it burned around me, and gave way, and I was crushed beneath the debris. I believe this is where I lost parts of myself - where fragments of my shattered clay were lost in the detritus, gone to G-d knows where.
My new maker was among those who recovered me from the ruins of the Old New Synagogue of Prague, muttering among themselves as to what to do with me. I was crated up, shoved in a box like so much broken crockery, while they debated among themselves.
My new maker came to me in the night, spiriting me away. "I won't let them make a weapon of it," I heard him tell his companions, as I was levered onto a cart and carried away under cover of darkness. I later learned that my clay was transported to the United States of America, a land which has been kind to G-d's chosen, or so I'm told.
***
But not always. I was reconstructed in response to a spate of anti-Semitic attacks in 1999, in New York City. My maker, frustrated with the police's slow response to the assaults and vandalism around the synagogue, brought new clay to me, and slowly, haltingly, he gave my limbs strength again.
He was shocked, but delighted, the night I rose once more, and stood guard at the synagogue. He was shocked and alarmed to discover, the next night, that I had not been idle at my post. I had given long thought to my treatment in Prague. I had been given life, true life - but I had been treated as a tool, a machine to be shut down and stored away when I was no longer useful.
I had not been given the power of speech in Prague - no tongue had been made for me. From mud and gutter water I made myself a tongue that night, crude thing though it was, and greeted my maker by voice when the morning came. My voice was croaking and unlovely to my ears, my diction poor and clumsy - but I had a voice now. Tools did not have voices, but men did. I would not be a tool again.
***
I must credit my maker for being sympathetic to my plight. He knew sculptors and artists, and students of the human body, and he secretively commissioned them to help me - firstly, to improve upon my crude attempt to grant myself human speech, and secondly, to refine the lumpy, unlovely body of river clay I had been sculpted from.
While men refined my body, I refined my mind. I was still confined to the genizah in the daylight hours, as I could not pass for human yet, and so I busied myself with the old tomes of G-d's people stored there to await burial. I educated myself in the history of His chosen, and their culture ... and their magic, the magic which had made a living, thinking creature of mud and dust.
After the first few incidents in which I drove off vandals and thugs near the synagogue, we came to the attention of the rulers of this America. They sent men in black suits and black sunglasses, and I couldn't hear what they said to my maker - but he came to me, and told me I would have to help the strange men, for the good of G-d's people. And I heard the lie in his words, and knew he was afraid, and knew that for all his kindness, I was still just a tool, an object to be used to curry favour with those over him. And I recalled a feeling I had known in the genizah of Prague, moldering in the darkness.
From my reading, G-d's people call it 'anger'.
***
I went with the men - it did not seem wise to pose resistance at that point. I was taken far from the strange city I had awoken in, to cold halls and cavernous conference rooms, and there I came to know these men and what they did.
They were guardians too. I could sympathise with them, and it was a task I was familiar with, so I offered no objection to their 'recruitment' of me. It suited me for the moment, in any case - these men and their FEAR had access to so much of the knowledge of the world, and I had much need of knowledge.
I had come to a tentative conclusion in the genizah of Prague, and my new maker's abandonment of me confirmed me in my beliefs. I had granted life - not mere animation, not the capacity to mindlessly obey, but real life. I could think,and feel; I could be angered, and I could hate, and I could rejoice and love. I had been made with love for G-d's people, but they had treated me poorly; it was time to use my love more productively.
Men hold the secrets of my creation, and the power to call me from the clay, and return me to such. As long as they hold this power over me, for all my thoughts and feelings I am still just a tool. I must learn how to create myself - and others like me.
My new maker called me Emet, for the mark on my brow - but this is not my name. Was not Adam made from clay, and the progenitor of his race? I, too, will be Adam - and I too will be a progenitor.
***
The rules and regulations of this cold place of men are intricate and inflexible; more demanding than the laws of G-d, and less forgiving. I was informed that I needed to put a last name down on my employee record to get paid. I did not care much for money, but I saw no reason to make trouble.
I remembered a book I had read in the library that very afternoon, describing the strange beliefs of a heathen people who worshipped not the Lord, but a panoply of strange false gods. One of their stories spoke of a great creature who had stolen the secret of fire from the gods and gave it to man, and been punished cruelly for his kindness.
I, too, intended to take fire from heaven - the fire of life. I carefully wrote down my name for the records of FEAR as 'Adam Prometheus'.
I know this, instinctively. I can feel the places where my new maker has replaced what was lost - and the places in my memory where no replacement could be made.
I still remember something of my first maker. A kindly old face, lit by candlelight; a soft voice describing the screaming mobs slavering for the blood of G-d's chosen. I was a guardian, and a bringer of vengeance for G-d's people. That is why I was made.
I remember when the life given to me was taken away. My maker was saddened, and disappointed in me, and I couldn't understand why. Had I not brought the Lord's vengeance to those who harmed his children, as I had been made to do? But now my maker told me I'd gone too far, harmed those who'd done no harm to he and his, and that I must return to dust. And he wrote 'death' on my forehead, and I died.
Mostly.
***
Life's a precious thing, and so sweet - I clung to it as long as I could. I couldn't move, couldn't protest, but I watched and listened as they walled me up in the attic of their holy place; I listened as they threatened the ruler of their land that I would be revived if the persecution of G-d's people resumed. And then I lay in the dark, and saw nothing, and heard only the murmuring of prayer for many long years.
Violence came again to G-d's people. It came even to their house of worship; it burned around me, and gave way, and I was crushed beneath the debris. I believe this is where I lost parts of myself - where fragments of my shattered clay were lost in the detritus, gone to G-d knows where.
My new maker was among those who recovered me from the ruins of the Old New Synagogue of Prague, muttering among themselves as to what to do with me. I was crated up, shoved in a box like so much broken crockery, while they debated among themselves.
My new maker came to me in the night, spiriting me away. "I won't let them make a weapon of it," I heard him tell his companions, as I was levered onto a cart and carried away under cover of darkness. I later learned that my clay was transported to the United States of America, a land which has been kind to G-d's chosen, or so I'm told.
***
But not always. I was reconstructed in response to a spate of anti-Semitic attacks in 1999, in New York City. My maker, frustrated with the police's slow response to the assaults and vandalism around the synagogue, brought new clay to me, and slowly, haltingly, he gave my limbs strength again.
He was shocked, but delighted, the night I rose once more, and stood guard at the synagogue. He was shocked and alarmed to discover, the next night, that I had not been idle at my post. I had given long thought to my treatment in Prague. I had been given life, true life - but I had been treated as a tool, a machine to be shut down and stored away when I was no longer useful.
I had not been given the power of speech in Prague - no tongue had been made for me. From mud and gutter water I made myself a tongue that night, crude thing though it was, and greeted my maker by voice when the morning came. My voice was croaking and unlovely to my ears, my diction poor and clumsy - but I had a voice now. Tools did not have voices, but men did. I would not be a tool again.
***
I must credit my maker for being sympathetic to my plight. He knew sculptors and artists, and students of the human body, and he secretively commissioned them to help me - firstly, to improve upon my crude attempt to grant myself human speech, and secondly, to refine the lumpy, unlovely body of river clay I had been sculpted from.
While men refined my body, I refined my mind. I was still confined to the genizah in the daylight hours, as I could not pass for human yet, and so I busied myself with the old tomes of G-d's people stored there to await burial. I educated myself in the history of His chosen, and their culture ... and their magic, the magic which had made a living, thinking creature of mud and dust.
After the first few incidents in which I drove off vandals and thugs near the synagogue, we came to the attention of the rulers of this America. They sent men in black suits and black sunglasses, and I couldn't hear what they said to my maker - but he came to me, and told me I would have to help the strange men, for the good of G-d's people. And I heard the lie in his words, and knew he was afraid, and knew that for all his kindness, I was still just a tool, an object to be used to curry favour with those over him. And I recalled a feeling I had known in the genizah of Prague, moldering in the darkness.
From my reading, G-d's people call it 'anger'.
***
I went with the men - it did not seem wise to pose resistance at that point. I was taken far from the strange city I had awoken in, to cold halls and cavernous conference rooms, and there I came to know these men and what they did.
They were guardians too. I could sympathise with them, and it was a task I was familiar with, so I offered no objection to their 'recruitment' of me. It suited me for the moment, in any case - these men and their FEAR had access to so much of the knowledge of the world, and I had much need of knowledge.
I had come to a tentative conclusion in the genizah of Prague, and my new maker's abandonment of me confirmed me in my beliefs. I had granted life - not mere animation, not the capacity to mindlessly obey, but real life. I could think,and feel; I could be angered, and I could hate, and I could rejoice and love. I had been made with love for G-d's people, but they had treated me poorly; it was time to use my love more productively.
Men hold the secrets of my creation, and the power to call me from the clay, and return me to such. As long as they hold this power over me, for all my thoughts and feelings I am still just a tool. I must learn how to create myself - and others like me.
My new maker called me Emet, for the mark on my brow - but this is not my name. Was not Adam made from clay, and the progenitor of his race? I, too, will be Adam - and I too will be a progenitor.
***
The rules and regulations of this cold place of men are intricate and inflexible; more demanding than the laws of G-d, and less forgiving. I was informed that I needed to put a last name down on my employee record to get paid. I did not care much for money, but I saw no reason to make trouble.
I remembered a book I had read in the library that very afternoon, describing the strange beliefs of a heathen people who worshipped not the Lord, but a panoply of strange false gods. One of their stories spoke of a great creature who had stolen the secret of fire from the gods and gave it to man, and been punished cruelly for his kindness.
I, too, intended to take fire from heaven - the fire of life. I carefully wrote down my name for the records of FEAR as 'Adam Prometheus'.
Friday, July 10, 2009
MJ again
Can I please get some time out because I have developed the most serious fucking headache - I keep hearing "Annie are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?" over and over.
- Agent Caulder
- Agent Caulder
PanACEA
PanACEA
Intelligence experts agreed that one of the main reasons why September 11 occurred was because of the inability of America’s 14 major intelligence forces to communicate with each other quickly and easily, and the general levels of red tape produced by so many organizations. One of the solutions to this was the Pan-Agency Cooperative Expert system Application, nicknamed PanACEA.
Many of the US intelligence agencies have different jurisdictions and powers. For example, the FBI has access to local police information but the CIA does not, as they are prevented from investigating anything within the boundaries of the United States. The CIA has satellite photos of the whole world but only the BDS (Bureau of Diplomatic Security) or the ICE (Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement) can track the movement of people and items. The ICE lacks the authority to access any military information, unlike the DoD – but they need to get JAG (Judge Advocate General) clearance for warrants, unlike the NSA (National Security Agency) – but being a listening service, the NSA need special dispensation to access DOFA, the FBI’s fingerprint database.
Under the auspices of the Department of Homeland Security, such permissions or channels could be granted upstream by a protocol expert system or human agent, the data accessed and sorted at a central authority and then routed back to the querying agent. PanACEA does all that, and it works on the iPhone. Turnaround varies depending on the sensitivity of the information and the clearances needed, but is rarely more than 24 hours and often merely seconds.
Intelligence experts agreed that one of the main reasons why September 11 occurred was because of the inability of America’s 14 major intelligence forces to communicate with each other quickly and easily, and the general levels of red tape produced by so many organizations. One of the solutions to this was the Pan-Agency Cooperative Expert system Application, nicknamed PanACEA.
Many of the US intelligence agencies have different jurisdictions and powers. For example, the FBI has access to local police information but the CIA does not, as they are prevented from investigating anything within the boundaries of the United States. The CIA has satellite photos of the whole world but only the BDS (Bureau of Diplomatic Security) or the ICE (Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement) can track the movement of people and items. The ICE lacks the authority to access any military information, unlike the DoD – but they need to get JAG (Judge Advocate General) clearance for warrants, unlike the NSA (National Security Agency) – but being a listening service, the NSA need special dispensation to access DOFA, the FBI’s fingerprint database.
Under the auspices of the Department of Homeland Security, such permissions or channels could be granted upstream by a protocol expert system or human agent, the data accessed and sorted at a central authority and then routed back to the querying agent. PanACEA does all that, and it works on the iPhone. Turnaround varies depending on the sensitivity of the information and the clearances needed, but is rarely more than 24 hours and often merely seconds.
Some Other Agents
(May not end up being canon, just some idle fun - Steve)
FIELD TEAM BRAVO
FIRST LIEUTENANT KATE DAINES: A graduate from West Point and an exemplary Navy officer, First Lt Daines was recruited into DIA security before her “accident”. While working on a protection detail for a FEAR team she encountered a magical anomaly which subsequently rendered her extremely lucky. This typically manifests as being a crack shot, but she can also guess pass codes and combinations. For the most part, however, her strength is her in-depth knowledge of the US intelligence agencies and protocols.
AGENT SIMON GOODWIN: Agent Goodwin is perhaps the smartest man alive, with what appears to be a superhuman gift for absorbing knowledge and solving problems – yet he also appears to have no supernatural powers whatsoever. Even with the HERMES database he is incredibly useful to any field team.
AGENT HUDSON ARCTOS: Agent Arctos was found abandoned near Hudson Bay, presumably because is mother was unable to raise a full litter given the threat to her environment. He was deemed a good candidate for a special scientific project involving inserted cybernetic intelligence. Of all the subjects, he is so far the only success. As an eight-foot tall Kodiak bear with a computer in his skull, he is a powerhouse of strength for FEAR.
AGENT HELENE CHALOT: Agent Chalot describes herself as “a vampiric shadow who feeds on emotion, but really just a simple country girl at heart.” She is currently working for FEAR in exchange for reducing her prison sentence for several counts of theft and murder.
FIELD TEAM CHARLIE
SPECIAL AGENT JAMES OXFORD: Since puberty, Oxford has had the ability to heat his skin to extreme temperatures, so much so that he can ignite what he touches. Wearing specially ventilated asbestos gloves he is also a deadly close combatant. He has taken the name “Hotshot” on agency blogs.
SECURITY OFFICER JOHN KEPLER: A skilled psychic, with a strong talent for psychometry and a unparalleled ability to talk to animals. Can often be distracted by pursuing the latter as a hobby or source of amusement. An Englishman, on loan from MI7, an unwilling to divulge the details of his history with that organization.
AGENT TANIA CARSON: Agent Carson was also a victim of misadventure. A mountain climber by trade she almost fell to her death before a hand pulled her up – her own. Able to manifest two independent clones of herself at once, Carson can be a deadly close-combat opponent and a powerful distraction.
AGENT CALAO HUSK: Calao was mummified at the tender age of 13 deep within the Aztec city of Tecnotitlan. The spells cast on her were supposed to resurrect her as a powerful warrior when the apocalypse came. Unfortunately, over the millennia strangler fig roots found their way into the tomb and fed off the organic remains of the girl and her mind. Now she is a living vine with the memories and personality of an Aztec girl. Like many agents, FEAR is helping her rehabilitate as well as using her abilities.
FIELD TEAM DELTA
SPECIAL AGENT OLIVIA ARAGONES: Agent Aragones’ mother was gang-raped by some kind of alien beings in order to create a new leader for the human race. The child that resulted was super strong and possessed strong psychic abilities as well as a few mental and nerve system disorders – and a chip on her shoulder about aliens. She is an excellent field agent and a skilled negotiator.
AGENT CASEY BROWN: Born with a terrible bone defect and a bizarre skin flap under his arms, Agent Brown has been at times identified as a medical disaster, a biological deformity, an alien-human hybrid and the next step in human evolution. Regardless of why, the combination of these two things allow him to fly like an albatross and dive like a raptor. He is also a talented scientist and avid student of all things natural and supernatural.
AGENT GRAHAME WINDDUST: Agent Winddust claims that Coyote incarnated one of her children inside him, causing him to think and feel like a coyote, trapped in a man’s body. Again, regardless of why, he has a phenomenal sense of smell and can sense things in the spiritual world as well. A borderline alcoholic but his tracking abilities are unrivaled. He can also talk to Coyote in “person”, a feat of channeling beyond any other known to FEAR.
AGENT FEI-HONG: Agent Hong is an “Atlantean” a race of effectively unaging beings that have seemingly existed on earth for tens of thousands of years. A master of “Shambala”, a bizarre Tibetan martial art, he can traverse the earth through secret tunnels, enter dreams and may have been responsible for the creation of both Buddhism and Christianity, among other things. He wandered to the United States during the Gold Rush to prepare for something he calls “Tenshi”.
FIELD TEAM ECHO
SPECIAL AGENT TEMPLETON HOROS: A clockwork device built by Isaac Newton and Francis Bacon, Agent Horos was discovered buried beneath a Salzburg church stacked with plague dead. Apparently a keeper of the secrets of the Priory of the Scion, he has joined FEAR to prevent the coming of what the Templars know as The Second Apocalypse.
AGENT JAMES MORRISON: The very same lead singer of 1960’s rock band The Doors. His death was not faked, but his resurrection from his Paris grave remains top secret, as does his cravings for human flesh. Regular trips to the morgue solve the latter problem, and he remains a good agent with a strong talent for sorcery.
AGENT WILLIAM PESCOS: In the 1970s, attendees at the Burning Man festival attempted to summon up ancient heroes from America’s legends. “Pescos Bill” was the only successful result. As in his stories, he can ride and rope anything, and shoot faster than the eye can see. He seems content to work as a “regulator” although frequently goes AWOL, much to the frustration of his commanders.
AGENT JOAN DARK: A combination of the spirit of Joan of Arc and a nineteen year old American college student has created an agent with a split personality but also the command of some terrifying faith-based powers. Unpredictable but a staunch ally when she is in command of herself.
FIELD TEAM BRAVO
FIRST LIEUTENANT KATE DAINES: A graduate from West Point and an exemplary Navy officer, First Lt Daines was recruited into DIA security before her “accident”. While working on a protection detail for a FEAR team she encountered a magical anomaly which subsequently rendered her extremely lucky. This typically manifests as being a crack shot, but she can also guess pass codes and combinations. For the most part, however, her strength is her in-depth knowledge of the US intelligence agencies and protocols.
AGENT SIMON GOODWIN: Agent Goodwin is perhaps the smartest man alive, with what appears to be a superhuman gift for absorbing knowledge and solving problems – yet he also appears to have no supernatural powers whatsoever. Even with the HERMES database he is incredibly useful to any field team.
AGENT HUDSON ARCTOS: Agent Arctos was found abandoned near Hudson Bay, presumably because is mother was unable to raise a full litter given the threat to her environment. He was deemed a good candidate for a special scientific project involving inserted cybernetic intelligence. Of all the subjects, he is so far the only success. As an eight-foot tall Kodiak bear with a computer in his skull, he is a powerhouse of strength for FEAR.
AGENT HELENE CHALOT: Agent Chalot describes herself as “a vampiric shadow who feeds on emotion, but really just a simple country girl at heart.” She is currently working for FEAR in exchange for reducing her prison sentence for several counts of theft and murder.
FIELD TEAM CHARLIE
SPECIAL AGENT JAMES OXFORD: Since puberty, Oxford has had the ability to heat his skin to extreme temperatures, so much so that he can ignite what he touches. Wearing specially ventilated asbestos gloves he is also a deadly close combatant. He has taken the name “Hotshot” on agency blogs.
SECURITY OFFICER JOHN KEPLER: A skilled psychic, with a strong talent for psychometry and a unparalleled ability to talk to animals. Can often be distracted by pursuing the latter as a hobby or source of amusement. An Englishman, on loan from MI7, an unwilling to divulge the details of his history with that organization.
AGENT TANIA CARSON: Agent Carson was also a victim of misadventure. A mountain climber by trade she almost fell to her death before a hand pulled her up – her own. Able to manifest two independent clones of herself at once, Carson can be a deadly close-combat opponent and a powerful distraction.
AGENT CALAO HUSK: Calao was mummified at the tender age of 13 deep within the Aztec city of Tecnotitlan. The spells cast on her were supposed to resurrect her as a powerful warrior when the apocalypse came. Unfortunately, over the millennia strangler fig roots found their way into the tomb and fed off the organic remains of the girl and her mind. Now she is a living vine with the memories and personality of an Aztec girl. Like many agents, FEAR is helping her rehabilitate as well as using her abilities.
FIELD TEAM DELTA
SPECIAL AGENT OLIVIA ARAGONES: Agent Aragones’ mother was gang-raped by some kind of alien beings in order to create a new leader for the human race. The child that resulted was super strong and possessed strong psychic abilities as well as a few mental and nerve system disorders – and a chip on her shoulder about aliens. She is an excellent field agent and a skilled negotiator.
AGENT CASEY BROWN: Born with a terrible bone defect and a bizarre skin flap under his arms, Agent Brown has been at times identified as a medical disaster, a biological deformity, an alien-human hybrid and the next step in human evolution. Regardless of why, the combination of these two things allow him to fly like an albatross and dive like a raptor. He is also a talented scientist and avid student of all things natural and supernatural.
AGENT GRAHAME WINDDUST: Agent Winddust claims that Coyote incarnated one of her children inside him, causing him to think and feel like a coyote, trapped in a man’s body. Again, regardless of why, he has a phenomenal sense of smell and can sense things in the spiritual world as well. A borderline alcoholic but his tracking abilities are unrivaled. He can also talk to Coyote in “person”, a feat of channeling beyond any other known to FEAR.
AGENT FEI-HONG: Agent Hong is an “Atlantean” a race of effectively unaging beings that have seemingly existed on earth for tens of thousands of years. A master of “Shambala”, a bizarre Tibetan martial art, he can traverse the earth through secret tunnels, enter dreams and may have been responsible for the creation of both Buddhism and Christianity, among other things. He wandered to the United States during the Gold Rush to prepare for something he calls “Tenshi”.
FIELD TEAM ECHO
SPECIAL AGENT TEMPLETON HOROS: A clockwork device built by Isaac Newton and Francis Bacon, Agent Horos was discovered buried beneath a Salzburg church stacked with plague dead. Apparently a keeper of the secrets of the Priory of the Scion, he has joined FEAR to prevent the coming of what the Templars know as The Second Apocalypse.
AGENT JAMES MORRISON: The very same lead singer of 1960’s rock band The Doors. His death was not faked, but his resurrection from his Paris grave remains top secret, as does his cravings for human flesh. Regular trips to the morgue solve the latter problem, and he remains a good agent with a strong talent for sorcery.
AGENT WILLIAM PESCOS: In the 1970s, attendees at the Burning Man festival attempted to summon up ancient heroes from America’s legends. “Pescos Bill” was the only successful result. As in his stories, he can ride and rope anything, and shoot faster than the eye can see. He seems content to work as a “regulator” although frequently goes AWOL, much to the frustration of his commanders.
AGENT JOAN DARK: A combination of the spirit of Joan of Arc and a nineteen year old American college student has created an agent with a split personality but also the command of some terrifying faith-based powers. Unpredictable but a staunch ally when she is in command of herself.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
okay, who took Roosevelt's brain?
We appreciate a joke as much as the next man, but we actually do need it for the visit tomorrow. Return it ASAP.
Old Transcript I Found
I just found this in the archives - takes me back.
Field Operations Team Communications Transcript 2006.10.19, Boston MA
Investigation re: Incident 1143 Kappa 1
:Refer Incident 1143 Kappa 1:
(much of the transcript is damaged due to high interference and static)
0014 L: Get the fuck away from me! (screams, gunshots, audio distortion) I can't do shit to them, boss, they keep bleeding away into the edges of my vision.
0014 G: We still have the detonator, right, REDACTED?
0014 L: Yes, I've still got it.
0015 G: Stick it in my collar and throw me out the window.
0015 L: You have got to be fucking kidding me.
0015 G: They're targeting it, they know what we're going to do. The sooner we get it safely out of the house, the better. They'll chase me and have to risk leaving their binding point.
0015 L: I can't believe I'm doing this. Hold still while I- oh, shit-
0015 (immense audio distortion, garbled screams, sounds of tearing metal, moaning sounds, speech equivalent to "doors opening, silence in light")
(tape ends)
Here's to "good times". May they never happen again.
- L
Field Operations Team Communications Transcript 2006.10.19, Boston MA
Investigation re: Incident 1143 Kappa 1
:Refer Incident 1143 Kappa 1:
(much of the transcript is damaged due to high interference and static)
0014 L: Get the fuck away from me! (screams, gunshots, audio distortion) I can't do shit to them, boss, they keep bleeding away into the edges of my vision.
0014 G: We still have the detonator, right, REDACTED?
0014 L: Yes, I've still got it.
0015 G: Stick it in my collar and throw me out the window.
0015 L: You have got to be fucking kidding me.
0015 G: They're targeting it, they know what we're going to do. The sooner we get it safely out of the house, the better. They'll chase me and have to risk leaving their binding point.
0015 L: I can't believe I'm doing this. Hold still while I- oh, shit-
0015 (immense audio distortion, garbled screams, sounds of tearing metal, moaning sounds, speech equivalent to "doors opening, silence in light")
(tape ends)
Here's to "good times". May they never happen again.
- L
Friday, July 3, 2009
god i will never be warm again
no fricking yetis here either davenport get me out of here!
- 1st Lt Daines
- 1st Lt Daines
I'm not high right now
So I'm reading Bardiche's critique of Daniken's Chariots of the Gods, and there's like this excellent quote that goes:
"Those who criticize prognosticators of any stripe, Nostrodame especially, rush to point out that interpretation is simply the act of making words mean what we want them to mean. But that is the issue at the heart of any divination. If we stand expectant for the demons of the past to arrive, we shall never see them, for they will most certainly have new names and new faces. Indeed, if Nostrodame's Epoch of Strife returns, we will likely never see, as he puts it, 'a time again of demons, monsters, sorcerers and gods' but perhaps we will certainly see one of aliens, mutants, superheroes and rock-stars."
(bolded added by me)
In 1964, when Clapton was in the Yardbirds, a groundswell movement started writing the same message all over the subways of London. Simply said: "Clapton is God". A year later, Simon and Garfunkel made it clear when they said "The words of the prophet are written on the subway walls". So what Bardiche said in jest I say with conviction: maybe Clapton IS God, and Nostrodamus knew it. I mean, I've seen some weird shit and Clapton being God is the most logical conclusion I can come to.
- Agent Morrison
"Those who criticize prognosticators of any stripe, Nostrodame especially, rush to point out that interpretation is simply the act of making words mean what we want them to mean. But that is the issue at the heart of any divination. If we stand expectant for the demons of the past to arrive, we shall never see them, for they will most certainly have new names and new faces. Indeed, if Nostrodame's Epoch of Strife returns, we will likely never see, as he puts it, 'a time again of demons, monsters, sorcerers and gods' but perhaps we will certainly see one of aliens, mutants, superheroes and rock-stars."
(bolded added by me)
In 1964, when Clapton was in the Yardbirds, a groundswell movement started writing the same message all over the subways of London. Simply said: "Clapton is God". A year later, Simon and Garfunkel made it clear when they said "The words of the prophet are written on the subway walls". So what Bardiche said in jest I say with conviction: maybe Clapton IS God, and Nostrodamus knew it. I mean, I've seen some weird shit and Clapton being God is the most logical conclusion I can come to.
- Agent Morrison
Monday, June 29, 2009
Greystride: Origins
(by Mr G)
San Francisco, 1967
The sun was bright outside, but Jeff took Wendy away from that promise of a fantastic summer into the cool of the shop. There was the smokey smell of various different kinds of incense in the air, and the soft, tinkling sounds of windchimes from all directions. The light was much dimmer in here, aided by curtains of a very thick, albeit tie-dyed, material. Shelves held crystals and geodes of various shapes and sizes, decks of tarot cards, books on opening the third eye or awakening the power of the moon, small wooden pyramids and a single dark grey cat that watched the couple from a curled position by a collection of ceramic bowls.
At the opposite end from the door was the counter where a woman in a headscarf and loose white shirt was slowly stirring a steaming concoction in another of the ceramic bowls, a look of concentration on her face. She looked to Jeff to be in her mid-thirties, but there was a sharp edge to her eyes, an aloofness in her features, an arrogant confidence in her posture that suggested greater age. Or, as Mikey had told him, mind-blowing cosmic wisdom.
"Wow... This place is amazing," whispered Wendy as she picked up one of the crystals. The size of her palm, the shard of quartz glittered as the sun motes from the cracks in the curtains fell about it, and a warm pink glow seemed to emanate from within.
"Ah... A pink quartz. Very rare. It is interesting that it chose you." The woman looked up from her bowl and fixed Wendy with a knowing stare. "It must be matching the resonance of your psychic potential, so you were drawn to each other."
Jeff couldn't help but snort. Sure, everyone knew that crystals were good for you, but a rock choosing you? And since when did Wendy get psychic powers? She couldn't even meditate properly.
The woman seemingly didn't notice Jeff's derision as she slowly tipped an amount of whitish powder into the bowl and continued slowly stirring. "And, of course, the colour matches your birthstone. Ruby, yes?"
Wendy's jaw dropped. "How did you know that?" she whispered, slowly walking toward the woman, drawn by her gaze. Jeff was a little unsettled now. How did the woman know Wendy's birthday was in July?
Now that Wendy was hooked and Jeff had been quietened, the woman smiled. "Well, my dear, I could sense the presence of the moon and the water about you as soon as you entered, so it's obvious to me you were born a Cancer."
Wendy's hand flew to her mouth. "That's right, I was born July 9th! Oh my God!" The woman just smiled and nodded.
"So, this crystal, it knows me?" Wendy asked in a hushed voice, reverentially placing the quartz before the wise woman. Jeff joined her, now wondering if there was a crystal in the place for him as well.
"Of course," the woman replied as she lifted the crystal carefully in her left hand. "You have a very strong latent psychic ability. I am sure you have felt the stirrings before, knowing who was telephoning you before you answered, being able to finish people's sentences, knowing when people are talking about you. Well, all that is centred in what the ancient people called the Ajna chakra." She touched Wendy's forehead with her other hand. "The place where the Third Eye resides. It is here that the red colours of the psychic spectrum are generated, and of course create resonance in such powerful crystals as pink quartz." She reached out and held the quartz against Wendy's forehead. "Can you feel the wamrth of the stone now it is close to your chakra?"
"Yes! Wow... I can feel my mind opening up..." Wendy's eyes were tightly shut and she began swaying slightly. Jeff reached out to steady her, trying to crush his growing jealousy at her newfound awakening with concern for her safety.
The woman seemed to take stock of this and removed the crystal. "Do not take on too much yet, Cancerian. Here," she gestured to the bowl, "Inhale deeply of the fumes to clear your mind."
Wendy opened her eyes and leaned over the bowl. The strange substance was watery brown and she took a deep breath. She was surprised to find her mind did clear as soon as the aromatic scent went in her nostrils and she staggered back slightly. She turned to Jeff who was once again steadying her and said, "I could see everything. I could see the Age of Aquarius. It was amazing. It's a place we all can be, and it's coming soon."
Jeff just nodded mutely, slightly overcome by the situation. He definitely wouldn't doubt Mikey again on any freaky topic.
Wendy scrabbled for her purse. "How much for the quartz?"
"That'll be fifty dollars, and just because I happen to like the sign of Cancer, I'll let you have the Third Eye book with it," replied the woman. Jeff thought he wouldn't have paid the woman quite as quickly as Wendy did, but he didn't get to see the Age of Aquarius.
"Thank you so much!" Wendy cooed as she made her way back to the front door with the crystal gripped tightly in her hand. "I never realised I could do so much, that there was this power in me. Oh my God, I have to show Kayla!"
As Jeff was leaving he turned back to look at the dark little shop with its curosities glittering in the shards of sunlight, and the strange woman at the far end and was moved to ask, "When exactly is the Age of Aquarius?"
Jeff then noticed a subtle change in the woman. Gone was the all-knowing wise woman opening a young girl's mind to a new level of consciousness. Instead there was what Jeff could only call a worried professional, a lawyer staring at an unwinnable case, a doctor called in to tell the family it was terminal, an engineer knowing the dam wouldn't hold. She turned and looked at an incredibly detailed and complex chart on the wall to her left, covered in a million unfamiliar symbols and letters, criss-crossed with lines.
"I'd say we have about forty years, give or take two. Maybe 2010. I'd say 2009, 2010."
FEAR General Headquarters, Undisclosed Location 2009
Davenport opened the folder in front of him and reviewed its contents again. He checked his watch and then settled himself and waited for the knock. When it came, he simply said, "Enter," and watched the tall man walk in.
Then the tall man turned around and left, closing the door behind him leaving Davenport still facing an empty chair.
"You'll have to come onto the table," Davenport said after a brief moment.
The dark grey cat hopped up onto the table and calmly sat back, his tail curled around his feet, staring at Davenport. Its fur lacked a glossy sheen despite being thick. Its left eye had gone slightly cloudy, but in all other ways it appeared to be a quite unremarkable cat.
"I'm sorry, but these meeting rooms will just have to get higher chairs," the cat said. It had a precise voice, with a hint of a sneer about it. "Or lower tables," it added.
"Before we begin, I'd just like to congratulate you on your previous assignment." Davenport turned one of the papers in the folder around to face the cat. "Very nicely done. You have proven your recruitment was not an error."
The cat narrowed its eyes. "Recruitment?"
Davenport leaned forward. "Yes, Greystride. Recruitment."
London, 1665
The wailing had finally descended to sobbing and weeping, much to Magister Tristan's relief. Now both sides of his house had succumbed to the horrible Plague, the dark fingers of its malginancy slowly working its way through its tormented occupants. Pricked by mounting fear, he made a circuit of his room to check the wards were still in place. The herbs were still doing their work, kept alive by the channels to the mystic paths he had opened, and the invocations to the angelic spirits of guarding and life were still clearly visible. Still, his fear was great and the Plague was strong, so he went over the words once again with his consecrated chalk.
Poor Mrs Shenning. She'd managed to hold out for so long. But he'd seen her anima, and knew that the sickness had already claimed her.
Twitching aside a curtain, he gazed out into the grey street just another cart of the dead trundled past. A new development now. No humans in this cart. They were dogs. Perhaps fifty of the poor beasts, of all shapes from mastiffs to mongrels, piled high. A new theory had sprung up that dogs were somehow responsible for the horror that had befallen them, and so gangs of terrified fools roamed the place and slew harmless pets and faithful companions, and carted the forlorn bodies to Hound's Ditch, there to dump them in payment for the Plague and to stem the tide of darkness.
Shaking his head, Tristan returned to his grimoire. He knew full well that the Plague in London was not the work of dogs, nor of man's wickedness before the Almighty. He knew it to be demonic work. The miasma that was travelling through the city was powerful sorcery indeed. Only demonic strength was mighty enough to bring this level of sorrow.
The call of a physician in the street became the only sound as Tristan worked his way through his copy of The Righte and True Meanings of Thinges, trying to find some clue as to how to bring the demon into the open.
A squeal behind him caused him to turn his head. There, a black cat had pinned a rat just outside the warding circle and was proceeding to eviscerate him.
"Greystride, come here. We are not going to end this Plague by ending rats." His master's voice heard, the cat padded over to him and began rubbing himself against Tristan's leg. Tristan turned back to the heavy tome and then paused and gazed down at the cat. He leaned back against the table and pulled his pipe to his lips.
"Hmmmmmm. What I require is the means by which to find my quarry. And you, my malkin, may provide those means." Tristan smiled as he mentally went through the list of items he would need for the ritual.
The cat purred, unaware of his master's words.
FEAR General Headquarters, Undisclosed Location 2009
"You can leave any time you want, Grey," Davenport said as he leaned back and opened his arms wide. "Any time you want."
The cat's tail now uncurled and swished to and fro. "You know I won't do that."
Davenport nodded. "Of course, so let's just push on, shall we?"
He picked up a sheaf of papers from the folder and began flicking through it. "As I was saying, your particular talents are of great benefit to the country and we're glad to have you on the team." As his eye went down the page, he verbally ticked off the points, "You have a great deal of knowledge of magical practices, well-read in most western occult literature, you speak eight languages, you have demonstrated talents in detecting concentrations of paranormal strength, and some facility with... basic hexing it says here. Am I right?"
The tail had not stopped swishing. "Nine."
Davenport raised an eyebrow.
"Your HR staff would not consider Enochian a proper language. I have attempted to educate them otherwise, but they are among those people who don't respect talking cats and who I am not allowed to... basically hex."
Davenport cleared his throat before continuing. "Well, despite your attitude, you have proven you're quite capable. Which leads me to where I'm going with this meeting."
The tail stopped swishing.
London 1666
The fire had swept through the tightly packed city, consuming everything in its path. For three days it had been an unstoppable wall of flame, carried by the winds and sending people fleeing into the streets.
Greystride sat on the wall above the Thames, watching across the river as the fires slowed with the lower wind. Ignored by the passersby, many still distraught at all they had lost, he reflected on the chaos.
Magister Tristan had created him, calling upon a spirit of the higher planes and granting it corporeal form in his cat. The process had created a new Greystride, his fur now lightened from black to grey by the spirit inhabiting him. His purpose, to seek out the cause of the Plague so that the Magister might have a chance of stopping it.
He found it, not far from the mighty gothic structure of St Paul's Cathedral. A buried temple pledged by the Romans to Mithras. He recalled Tristan's surprise that such a demonic entity could stand to be so close to so holy a site, and his repeated pledge to end the curse that had befallen the city. A curse that only he, as a warlock, could appreciate and solve.
Still fresh and new in his creation, the cat could not recall much of that evening. All he remembered was the deal.
The demon, calling itself Mithras, agreed to end the Plague in return for a favour. That a piece of masonry from the old temple be taken to a new location, buried at a point in Pudding Lane. Knowing that he could not defeat the demon, Tristan agreed. With the stone buried, Greystride confirmed that the demonic presence was gone. It would just take the time for the sickness to run its course.
Now he realised how foolish it was to take a demon at its word. He had not needed to mention it to his master on the Saturday night, that a powerful surge in magical force had occurred; his master already knew. Racing through the streets, the two of them had arrived at the bakery just in time to feel the stone releasing its power. Tristan broke into the bakery to get to the oven, Greystride assisting him in preparing a ward to prevent the flame from being possessed. But they had been too late. Mithras, through the flame, leapt upon Tristan and began greedily consuming the walls. Terrified by the huge flames now engulfing the house, Greystride turned and fled, haunted by his master begging him for help.
At first, he had thought Mithras would be hunting him and so he hid. He skulked, and he snuck and he found dark corners to hide in. All about him panic was rising as the flames marched inexorably on, destroying house after house, consuming those on the Bridge, powered by the strong winds and the vortex it had created. And he could hear Mithras in every crackle of the flame, every gust of hot wind, every frightened cry and despairing yell.
It wasn't until the Tuesday that he realised that Mithras had no interest in him at all.
Covered in wooden scaffolding and in the path of the flame, St Paul's Cathedral, that great house of God in London, was surrounded. With printers storing their wares for safety inside there would not be much left of it when the timber beams caught alight. The blaze was so strong the entire leaden roof had melted, and the place was a ruin. With this destruction, Greystride knew that he wasn't hunted, and that possibly he may be able to do something.
The ritual had been hard to perform, and he would take some time getting used to talking, but weather control seemed to be relatively basic, especialy when you wished to lessen something already there. Three hours it had taken to perform as the flames had crept closer to his master's old lodgings. Three hours in which he had heard the panic in the streets as people emptied their houses. Three hours as he felt the heat rising inside as he chanted and performed the observances.
But it had finally worked. After fleeing from the fire and finding safety, he had felt the wind dropping to manageable levels. The firebreaks that had been organised might hold.
Now he watched order finally taking hold. He had helped. He had stopped something that should not be playing with the destinies of mortals from destroying them.
But he had lost his master, and carried a dark guilt with him for not doing more to save him. Still, there was time to find another master, and there was still that one book he managed to save from the Magister's house he should finish reading.
As he hopped down from the wall and padded away, he wondered if it would perhaps be best to take passage abroad...
San Francisco, 1967
The door closed and the cat arched its back to stretch. "You know," it said, "You really should get some proper crockery."
Constance nodded absent-mindedly as she drank her camomile tea from the bowl, still staring at the chart.
Greystride leapt to the floor and wandered over to his mistress. "I don't know why you play these games with them. You could've used the Sight to know all that."
Constance looked down. "What makes you think I didn't, Mr Sable?"
"Oh, please. That first one was a guess, you didn't expect it to be true. And if she was born in July, it's likely she's going to be a Cancer over a Leo." Greystride stared at her, and then his voice softened. "Tell me again why we're here, Constance."
Constance sighed and put down the bowl as she walked into the back rooms, followed by her cat. "Sable, how long have we been together? One and a half, two?"
Thinking for a moment, Greystride replied, "Closer to two. 1784, if I remember."
"So, two centuries. And what have we been doing most of that time?" She asked as she pulled aside the huge rug revealing a complex circle of archaic symbol etched into the wooden floor.
"Following the Invisible Road," Greystride answered mechanically. "Every point we find points somewhere else. There's no pattern. You know the Gematria and the Auspices as well as I do, and there's nothing."
"You're wrong, Mr Sable. Very wrong." With a wave of her hand, a key appeared in the circle. "We just haven't found all the points yet. We haven't spent enough time on it," she continued as she picked up the key and walked over to the ornate mahogany box on the dresser, "I was just thinking, what if there's multiple points from each point and we haven't been looking hard enough." With a click, the box opened and she lifted a small silver knife and a bundle of reeds from it. "What if it's an Invisible WEB."
Greystride watched as she took her place inside the circle and began shaving small pieces of reed from the bundle with the knife, carefully ringing herself with the pieces.
"You're concerned that the coming Age will somehow trigger this web, aren't you? That there are things that will gain power from it?" Greystride whispered as she continued the ritual. Then he paused and frowned. "No, you're worried things will try to gain power OVER it."
Constance stopped the ritual and stared at Greystride as he stood outside the circle, his tail swishing back and forth. "I just think it's important we work it out. If we have that information, we could do something about it." The inner ring of shavings from the reeds completed, she sat cross-legged in the centre.
Pacing back and forth, Greystride considered the information. "That's assuming there is a Web, or that the Road is more infused than we thought. I'll have to check further on this. Would you like me to do an Invocation of - "
Both of them immediately turned their heads toward the shopfront in alarm. A bell had sounded indicating business, but more importantly the Ward Against Malicious Intent had been triggered. Constance leapt to her feet and made to move for the door, but stared down at the circle. If she left now it would take hours to redo the ritual.
That pause was all it took for a man in a suit to kick in the back door and barge into the room. Two more came from the front, and all were brandishing guns at Constance.
Seeing the panicked look on her face, Greystride was suddenly transported three hundred years ago, to a bakery in a little street and the sight of his master in agony. This time, he would not fail.
Hissing, he leapt for the face of one of the men. There was a loud bang and a flash of light and Greystride felt himself falling. He heard Constance scream, and the words, "You shot my cat!"
He could feel blood on his face and there was something wrong with his left eye. In fact, the whole left hand side of his face felt numb. There was a great deal of pain, but mostly a cloud of confusion.
Then he was being hoisted in the air. One of the men had picked him up by the scruff of the neck. He could imagine what a sight he must be, half his face wrecked and held aloft by a government agent. Who then spoke.
"I'm sorry Miss Whitcomb, he did try to attack me and I'm not one to commit violence on animals." Greystride felt a cold metal object pressed against the right side of his face. "Then again, if you choose to be uncooperative... Well, let's just say we're smart enough to know what a familiar is."
"Okay, okay! Please don't harm him," Constance begged. "I know what this is about, and I'll help."
"Excellent. We'll just keep kitty here as collateral for your services. You'll be serving your country, Miss Whitcomb. What could be better than that?"
FEAR General Headquarters, Undisclosed Location 2009
Davenport turned over a few pages. "According to your history you managed to conceal the fact that you were sentient for quite a while. Until you lost your link to Miss Whitcomb."
Cocking his head, Greystride replied, "It wasn't hard to conceal it when you just had glorified janitorial staff feeding me pet food twice a day. I have to say I was slightly insulted that you didn't even make an attempt to work out if I was anything interesting."
"Yes, well, after we lost Miss Whitcomb we required a replacement and you were kind enough to volunteer."
"Once I lost my link, I knew you would have no more use for me." Greystride contrived to shrug. "If you weren't going to work out I was interesting, I'd have to show you."
Davenport put down the papers and spoke matter-of-factly. "We're transferring you to a new section. Effective immediately. You're being assigned to a new team for some important operations."
Greystride narrowed his eyes. "Don't you mean anew team is being assigned to me?"
Davenport stood and buttoned his jacket. "It's been a pleasure working with you." He walked over to the door.
"That's it? You bring me here to tell me something a memo would've done just as well?" Greystride knocked the papers to the floor and stared at Davenport. "Thank you very much for wasting my time, Davenport."
The door open, Davenport said over his shoulder, "Well, we had to distract you while we did the paperwork, but the main reason was that I wanted to tell you something in person."
The cat sighed. "Yes?"
"Constance Whitcomb is still alive." The door closed.
Alone in the spartan room, the cat paced for a while on the table, consumed by its thoughts.
Then it scratched on the door to be let out.
San Francisco, 1967
The sun was bright outside, but Jeff took Wendy away from that promise of a fantastic summer into the cool of the shop. There was the smokey smell of various different kinds of incense in the air, and the soft, tinkling sounds of windchimes from all directions. The light was much dimmer in here, aided by curtains of a very thick, albeit tie-dyed, material. Shelves held crystals and geodes of various shapes and sizes, decks of tarot cards, books on opening the third eye or awakening the power of the moon, small wooden pyramids and a single dark grey cat that watched the couple from a curled position by a collection of ceramic bowls.
At the opposite end from the door was the counter where a woman in a headscarf and loose white shirt was slowly stirring a steaming concoction in another of the ceramic bowls, a look of concentration on her face. She looked to Jeff to be in her mid-thirties, but there was a sharp edge to her eyes, an aloofness in her features, an arrogant confidence in her posture that suggested greater age. Or, as Mikey had told him, mind-blowing cosmic wisdom.
"Wow... This place is amazing," whispered Wendy as she picked up one of the crystals. The size of her palm, the shard of quartz glittered as the sun motes from the cracks in the curtains fell about it, and a warm pink glow seemed to emanate from within.
"Ah... A pink quartz. Very rare. It is interesting that it chose you." The woman looked up from her bowl and fixed Wendy with a knowing stare. "It must be matching the resonance of your psychic potential, so you were drawn to each other."
Jeff couldn't help but snort. Sure, everyone knew that crystals were good for you, but a rock choosing you? And since when did Wendy get psychic powers? She couldn't even meditate properly.
The woman seemingly didn't notice Jeff's derision as she slowly tipped an amount of whitish powder into the bowl and continued slowly stirring. "And, of course, the colour matches your birthstone. Ruby, yes?"
Wendy's jaw dropped. "How did you know that?" she whispered, slowly walking toward the woman, drawn by her gaze. Jeff was a little unsettled now. How did the woman know Wendy's birthday was in July?
Now that Wendy was hooked and Jeff had been quietened, the woman smiled. "Well, my dear, I could sense the presence of the moon and the water about you as soon as you entered, so it's obvious to me you were born a Cancer."
Wendy's hand flew to her mouth. "That's right, I was born July 9th! Oh my God!" The woman just smiled and nodded.
"So, this crystal, it knows me?" Wendy asked in a hushed voice, reverentially placing the quartz before the wise woman. Jeff joined her, now wondering if there was a crystal in the place for him as well.
"Of course," the woman replied as she lifted the crystal carefully in her left hand. "You have a very strong latent psychic ability. I am sure you have felt the stirrings before, knowing who was telephoning you before you answered, being able to finish people's sentences, knowing when people are talking about you. Well, all that is centred in what the ancient people called the Ajna chakra." She touched Wendy's forehead with her other hand. "The place where the Third Eye resides. It is here that the red colours of the psychic spectrum are generated, and of course create resonance in such powerful crystals as pink quartz." She reached out and held the quartz against Wendy's forehead. "Can you feel the wamrth of the stone now it is close to your chakra?"
"Yes! Wow... I can feel my mind opening up..." Wendy's eyes were tightly shut and she began swaying slightly. Jeff reached out to steady her, trying to crush his growing jealousy at her newfound awakening with concern for her safety.
The woman seemed to take stock of this and removed the crystal. "Do not take on too much yet, Cancerian. Here," she gestured to the bowl, "Inhale deeply of the fumes to clear your mind."
Wendy opened her eyes and leaned over the bowl. The strange substance was watery brown and she took a deep breath. She was surprised to find her mind did clear as soon as the aromatic scent went in her nostrils and she staggered back slightly. She turned to Jeff who was once again steadying her and said, "I could see everything. I could see the Age of Aquarius. It was amazing. It's a place we all can be, and it's coming soon."
Jeff just nodded mutely, slightly overcome by the situation. He definitely wouldn't doubt Mikey again on any freaky topic.
Wendy scrabbled for her purse. "How much for the quartz?"
"That'll be fifty dollars, and just because I happen to like the sign of Cancer, I'll let you have the Third Eye book with it," replied the woman. Jeff thought he wouldn't have paid the woman quite as quickly as Wendy did, but he didn't get to see the Age of Aquarius.
"Thank you so much!" Wendy cooed as she made her way back to the front door with the crystal gripped tightly in her hand. "I never realised I could do so much, that there was this power in me. Oh my God, I have to show Kayla!"
As Jeff was leaving he turned back to look at the dark little shop with its curosities glittering in the shards of sunlight, and the strange woman at the far end and was moved to ask, "When exactly is the Age of Aquarius?"
Jeff then noticed a subtle change in the woman. Gone was the all-knowing wise woman opening a young girl's mind to a new level of consciousness. Instead there was what Jeff could only call a worried professional, a lawyer staring at an unwinnable case, a doctor called in to tell the family it was terminal, an engineer knowing the dam wouldn't hold. She turned and looked at an incredibly detailed and complex chart on the wall to her left, covered in a million unfamiliar symbols and letters, criss-crossed with lines.
"I'd say we have about forty years, give or take two. Maybe 2010. I'd say 2009, 2010."
FEAR General Headquarters, Undisclosed Location 2009
Davenport opened the folder in front of him and reviewed its contents again. He checked his watch and then settled himself and waited for the knock. When it came, he simply said, "Enter," and watched the tall man walk in.
Then the tall man turned around and left, closing the door behind him leaving Davenport still facing an empty chair.
"You'll have to come onto the table," Davenport said after a brief moment.
The dark grey cat hopped up onto the table and calmly sat back, his tail curled around his feet, staring at Davenport. Its fur lacked a glossy sheen despite being thick. Its left eye had gone slightly cloudy, but in all other ways it appeared to be a quite unremarkable cat.
"I'm sorry, but these meeting rooms will just have to get higher chairs," the cat said. It had a precise voice, with a hint of a sneer about it. "Or lower tables," it added.
"Before we begin, I'd just like to congratulate you on your previous assignment." Davenport turned one of the papers in the folder around to face the cat. "Very nicely done. You have proven your recruitment was not an error."
The cat narrowed its eyes. "Recruitment?"
Davenport leaned forward. "Yes, Greystride. Recruitment."
London, 1665
The wailing had finally descended to sobbing and weeping, much to Magister Tristan's relief. Now both sides of his house had succumbed to the horrible Plague, the dark fingers of its malginancy slowly working its way through its tormented occupants. Pricked by mounting fear, he made a circuit of his room to check the wards were still in place. The herbs were still doing their work, kept alive by the channels to the mystic paths he had opened, and the invocations to the angelic spirits of guarding and life were still clearly visible. Still, his fear was great and the Plague was strong, so he went over the words once again with his consecrated chalk.
Poor Mrs Shenning. She'd managed to hold out for so long. But he'd seen her anima, and knew that the sickness had already claimed her.
Twitching aside a curtain, he gazed out into the grey street just another cart of the dead trundled past. A new development now. No humans in this cart. They were dogs. Perhaps fifty of the poor beasts, of all shapes from mastiffs to mongrels, piled high. A new theory had sprung up that dogs were somehow responsible for the horror that had befallen them, and so gangs of terrified fools roamed the place and slew harmless pets and faithful companions, and carted the forlorn bodies to Hound's Ditch, there to dump them in payment for the Plague and to stem the tide of darkness.
Shaking his head, Tristan returned to his grimoire. He knew full well that the Plague in London was not the work of dogs, nor of man's wickedness before the Almighty. He knew it to be demonic work. The miasma that was travelling through the city was powerful sorcery indeed. Only demonic strength was mighty enough to bring this level of sorrow.
The call of a physician in the street became the only sound as Tristan worked his way through his copy of The Righte and True Meanings of Thinges, trying to find some clue as to how to bring the demon into the open.
A squeal behind him caused him to turn his head. There, a black cat had pinned a rat just outside the warding circle and was proceeding to eviscerate him.
"Greystride, come here. We are not going to end this Plague by ending rats." His master's voice heard, the cat padded over to him and began rubbing himself against Tristan's leg. Tristan turned back to the heavy tome and then paused and gazed down at the cat. He leaned back against the table and pulled his pipe to his lips.
"Hmmmmmm. What I require is the means by which to find my quarry. And you, my malkin, may provide those means." Tristan smiled as he mentally went through the list of items he would need for the ritual.
The cat purred, unaware of his master's words.
FEAR General Headquarters, Undisclosed Location 2009
"You can leave any time you want, Grey," Davenport said as he leaned back and opened his arms wide. "Any time you want."
The cat's tail now uncurled and swished to and fro. "You know I won't do that."
Davenport nodded. "Of course, so let's just push on, shall we?"
He picked up a sheaf of papers from the folder and began flicking through it. "As I was saying, your particular talents are of great benefit to the country and we're glad to have you on the team." As his eye went down the page, he verbally ticked off the points, "You have a great deal of knowledge of magical practices, well-read in most western occult literature, you speak eight languages, you have demonstrated talents in detecting concentrations of paranormal strength, and some facility with... basic hexing it says here. Am I right?"
The tail had not stopped swishing. "Nine."
Davenport raised an eyebrow.
"Your HR staff would not consider Enochian a proper language. I have attempted to educate them otherwise, but they are among those people who don't respect talking cats and who I am not allowed to... basically hex."
Davenport cleared his throat before continuing. "Well, despite your attitude, you have proven you're quite capable. Which leads me to where I'm going with this meeting."
The tail stopped swishing.
London 1666
The fire had swept through the tightly packed city, consuming everything in its path. For three days it had been an unstoppable wall of flame, carried by the winds and sending people fleeing into the streets.
Greystride sat on the wall above the Thames, watching across the river as the fires slowed with the lower wind. Ignored by the passersby, many still distraught at all they had lost, he reflected on the chaos.
Magister Tristan had created him, calling upon a spirit of the higher planes and granting it corporeal form in his cat. The process had created a new Greystride, his fur now lightened from black to grey by the spirit inhabiting him. His purpose, to seek out the cause of the Plague so that the Magister might have a chance of stopping it.
He found it, not far from the mighty gothic structure of St Paul's Cathedral. A buried temple pledged by the Romans to Mithras. He recalled Tristan's surprise that such a demonic entity could stand to be so close to so holy a site, and his repeated pledge to end the curse that had befallen the city. A curse that only he, as a warlock, could appreciate and solve.
Still fresh and new in his creation, the cat could not recall much of that evening. All he remembered was the deal.
The demon, calling itself Mithras, agreed to end the Plague in return for a favour. That a piece of masonry from the old temple be taken to a new location, buried at a point in Pudding Lane. Knowing that he could not defeat the demon, Tristan agreed. With the stone buried, Greystride confirmed that the demonic presence was gone. It would just take the time for the sickness to run its course.
Now he realised how foolish it was to take a demon at its word. He had not needed to mention it to his master on the Saturday night, that a powerful surge in magical force had occurred; his master already knew. Racing through the streets, the two of them had arrived at the bakery just in time to feel the stone releasing its power. Tristan broke into the bakery to get to the oven, Greystride assisting him in preparing a ward to prevent the flame from being possessed. But they had been too late. Mithras, through the flame, leapt upon Tristan and began greedily consuming the walls. Terrified by the huge flames now engulfing the house, Greystride turned and fled, haunted by his master begging him for help.
At first, he had thought Mithras would be hunting him and so he hid. He skulked, and he snuck and he found dark corners to hide in. All about him panic was rising as the flames marched inexorably on, destroying house after house, consuming those on the Bridge, powered by the strong winds and the vortex it had created. And he could hear Mithras in every crackle of the flame, every gust of hot wind, every frightened cry and despairing yell.
It wasn't until the Tuesday that he realised that Mithras had no interest in him at all.
Covered in wooden scaffolding and in the path of the flame, St Paul's Cathedral, that great house of God in London, was surrounded. With printers storing their wares for safety inside there would not be much left of it when the timber beams caught alight. The blaze was so strong the entire leaden roof had melted, and the place was a ruin. With this destruction, Greystride knew that he wasn't hunted, and that possibly he may be able to do something.
The ritual had been hard to perform, and he would take some time getting used to talking, but weather control seemed to be relatively basic, especialy when you wished to lessen something already there. Three hours it had taken to perform as the flames had crept closer to his master's old lodgings. Three hours in which he had heard the panic in the streets as people emptied their houses. Three hours as he felt the heat rising inside as he chanted and performed the observances.
But it had finally worked. After fleeing from the fire and finding safety, he had felt the wind dropping to manageable levels. The firebreaks that had been organised might hold.
Now he watched order finally taking hold. He had helped. He had stopped something that should not be playing with the destinies of mortals from destroying them.
But he had lost his master, and carried a dark guilt with him for not doing more to save him. Still, there was time to find another master, and there was still that one book he managed to save from the Magister's house he should finish reading.
As he hopped down from the wall and padded away, he wondered if it would perhaps be best to take passage abroad...
San Francisco, 1967
The door closed and the cat arched its back to stretch. "You know," it said, "You really should get some proper crockery."
Constance nodded absent-mindedly as she drank her camomile tea from the bowl, still staring at the chart.
Greystride leapt to the floor and wandered over to his mistress. "I don't know why you play these games with them. You could've used the Sight to know all that."
Constance looked down. "What makes you think I didn't, Mr Sable?"
"Oh, please. That first one was a guess, you didn't expect it to be true. And if she was born in July, it's likely she's going to be a Cancer over a Leo." Greystride stared at her, and then his voice softened. "Tell me again why we're here, Constance."
Constance sighed and put down the bowl as she walked into the back rooms, followed by her cat. "Sable, how long have we been together? One and a half, two?"
Thinking for a moment, Greystride replied, "Closer to two. 1784, if I remember."
"So, two centuries. And what have we been doing most of that time?" She asked as she pulled aside the huge rug revealing a complex circle of archaic symbol etched into the wooden floor.
"Following the Invisible Road," Greystride answered mechanically. "Every point we find points somewhere else. There's no pattern. You know the Gematria and the Auspices as well as I do, and there's nothing."
"You're wrong, Mr Sable. Very wrong." With a wave of her hand, a key appeared in the circle. "We just haven't found all the points yet. We haven't spent enough time on it," she continued as she picked up the key and walked over to the ornate mahogany box on the dresser, "I was just thinking, what if there's multiple points from each point and we haven't been looking hard enough." With a click, the box opened and she lifted a small silver knife and a bundle of reeds from it. "What if it's an Invisible WEB."
Greystride watched as she took her place inside the circle and began shaving small pieces of reed from the bundle with the knife, carefully ringing herself with the pieces.
"You're concerned that the coming Age will somehow trigger this web, aren't you? That there are things that will gain power from it?" Greystride whispered as she continued the ritual. Then he paused and frowned. "No, you're worried things will try to gain power OVER it."
Constance stopped the ritual and stared at Greystride as he stood outside the circle, his tail swishing back and forth. "I just think it's important we work it out. If we have that information, we could do something about it." The inner ring of shavings from the reeds completed, she sat cross-legged in the centre.
Pacing back and forth, Greystride considered the information. "That's assuming there is a Web, or that the Road is more infused than we thought. I'll have to check further on this. Would you like me to do an Invocation of - "
Both of them immediately turned their heads toward the shopfront in alarm. A bell had sounded indicating business, but more importantly the Ward Against Malicious Intent had been triggered. Constance leapt to her feet and made to move for the door, but stared down at the circle. If she left now it would take hours to redo the ritual.
That pause was all it took for a man in a suit to kick in the back door and barge into the room. Two more came from the front, and all were brandishing guns at Constance.
Seeing the panicked look on her face, Greystride was suddenly transported three hundred years ago, to a bakery in a little street and the sight of his master in agony. This time, he would not fail.
Hissing, he leapt for the face of one of the men. There was a loud bang and a flash of light and Greystride felt himself falling. He heard Constance scream, and the words, "You shot my cat!"
He could feel blood on his face and there was something wrong with his left eye. In fact, the whole left hand side of his face felt numb. There was a great deal of pain, but mostly a cloud of confusion.
Then he was being hoisted in the air. One of the men had picked him up by the scruff of the neck. He could imagine what a sight he must be, half his face wrecked and held aloft by a government agent. Who then spoke.
"I'm sorry Miss Whitcomb, he did try to attack me and I'm not one to commit violence on animals." Greystride felt a cold metal object pressed against the right side of his face. "Then again, if you choose to be uncooperative... Well, let's just say we're smart enough to know what a familiar is."
"Okay, okay! Please don't harm him," Constance begged. "I know what this is about, and I'll help."
"Excellent. We'll just keep kitty here as collateral for your services. You'll be serving your country, Miss Whitcomb. What could be better than that?"
FEAR General Headquarters, Undisclosed Location 2009
Davenport turned over a few pages. "According to your history you managed to conceal the fact that you were sentient for quite a while. Until you lost your link to Miss Whitcomb."
Cocking his head, Greystride replied, "It wasn't hard to conceal it when you just had glorified janitorial staff feeding me pet food twice a day. I have to say I was slightly insulted that you didn't even make an attempt to work out if I was anything interesting."
"Yes, well, after we lost Miss Whitcomb we required a replacement and you were kind enough to volunteer."
"Once I lost my link, I knew you would have no more use for me." Greystride contrived to shrug. "If you weren't going to work out I was interesting, I'd have to show you."
Davenport put down the papers and spoke matter-of-factly. "We're transferring you to a new section. Effective immediately. You're being assigned to a new team for some important operations."
Greystride narrowed his eyes. "Don't you mean anew team is being assigned to me?"
Davenport stood and buttoned his jacket. "It's been a pleasure working with you." He walked over to the door.
"That's it? You bring me here to tell me something a memo would've done just as well?" Greystride knocked the papers to the floor and stared at Davenport. "Thank you very much for wasting my time, Davenport."
The door open, Davenport said over his shoulder, "Well, we had to distract you while we did the paperwork, but the main reason was that I wanted to tell you something in person."
The cat sighed. "Yes?"
"Constance Whitcomb is still alive." The door closed.
Alone in the spartan room, the cat paced for a while on the table, consumed by its thoughts.
Then it scratched on the door to be let out.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Twenty-Five O'Clock: A Brief History of FEAR
A Brief History of FEAR
The Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA) was established in the 1950s by the Department of Defence (DoD). It’s purpose then and now is to gather information on the strength and capabilities of the enemies of the United States. At that time, the international penetration of the CIA and other intelligence operatives was minimal and information regarding the military strength of the Soviets and their allies was considered absolutely vital. The absolute failure of the CIA to prevent or control the Bay of Pigs situation ten years later led many to conclude that the DIA would always remain the superior operating force. A small rivalry developed over the decades, as well as moves to distinguish each body from the other. In particular, the DIA prefers not to work undercover or use human spies, relying instead on visual and audio evidence (from their own equipment or overheard communication), code-breaking and information tracking. They also rarely have an intervention strategy, preferring to gather information for the application of the military, rather than stopping threats when discovered.
The most significant difference between the CIA and the DIA however is that the CIA’s charter specifically prohibits it from pursuing suspects and threats within the United States itself. The DIA has no such restrictions and from its inception worked in parallel and at times alongside the FBI in identifying and uncovering threats from within the population. The DIA was not interested in domestic terrorists of course but foreign sleepers and agents provocateur.
The intelligence information liberated from the Nazis and acquired from the British indicated a threat of precisely this nature, and was therefore immediately handed to the DIA. The intelligence indicated Individuals of an inhuman nature and certainly alien loyalties were operating unseen within the general population of Europe, with unknown levels of organization. The possibility of a covert inhuman nation-state becoming allies with the Russians was terrifying. So it was that the heads of PROJECT CROPDUST, Roosevelt’s occult taskforce, directed the DIA to create Department 13 to deal specifically and covertly with this issue. Note that D13 was under the DIA’s umbrella but until CROPDUST was disbanded, also answered to them.
For the first two decades of its existence Department 13 operated a forceful process of detection and elimination of supernatural threats, under the RID protocol: Recruit, Imprison or Destroy. However, it was eventually discovered that although there were organized groups of the supernatural, none of them were operating with a sufficient level to present a credible threat. Instances of a true inhuman threat were too random to indicate an invasion. Several occult organizations had ties to the Weather Underground, the Black Panthers and other counterculture movements but the CIA and FBI were able to deal with that situation. As the savagery of the 70s faded and the Cold War ebbed, D13 was seen as less necessary.
During the Carter administration, several Cold War operations were curtailed. As part of this, D13 was reduced and reclassified and given a new directive. This protocol was dubbed ORCA: Observe, Research, Catalogue and Archive. ORCA represented a much less hostile approach to inhuman entities and recruiting at this stage was much more friendly. D13 conducted several thousand interviews with various individuals to improve its knowledge in the field.
However, things were happening that demanded solutions. Zombie hordes were rising in Uganda, the Yorkshire Ripper was conducting sacrifices and Jonestown agents killed a US Senator. After the Three Mile Island incident, Carter created the Federal Emergency and Medical Association (FEMA) to deal with exigent situations with a sweeping mobility and transferable authority – to wit, they could be called in by anyone, to deal with anything dubbed as an emergency. The legislation to create FEMA included a clause which permitted “the creation of similar bodies to deal with situations of a similar level but of a different classification”. This rider was inserted to create and fund FEAR, a smaller reflection of FEMA dedicated to solving supernatural problems. One of their early actions was the elimination of the Jonestown problem as covertly as possible.
FEAR worked alongside D13 for the next twenty years. With Rumsfeld and his hawks in power, FEAR reignited some of D13’s old Cold War ways but less overtly and with less prejudice. Then another event occurred: the attacks of September 11, 2001. After this, President Bush created the Department of Homeland Security. The DHS is an umbrella agency, with an extremely wide-ranging and ill-defined remit, allowing it to commandeer and supersume the actions, resources and authority of hundreds of security organizations under the generalized banner of the defense of the nation. The DHS quickly decided that the chief threat to the United States were Islamic fundamentalism and Middle Eastern rogue states. The vast majority of the DHS resources and those of all the agencies they controlled were directed to this problem.
This effectively bankrupted FEAR and D13. FEAR’s international officers were shut down, several field teams were retired and much of their resources were dismantled. For eight years, FEAR was all-but forgotten. However, with the election of President Obama, this has begun to change again. Although doing nothing to alter the power or scope of the DHS, he has encouraged more transparency and the reinstatement of each organizations domain and authority. FEAR got a budget again. Investigations began again. A new helicopter was purchased. Two new field teams were created. Yours was one of them.
Jargon: “Past Midnight”
Dept 13 is named for the old Navy tradition of ringing 13 bells to indicate a storm warning. In military (or “zulu” time), 13 o’clock would be 25 hundred hours. Thus D13 situations are sometimes dubbed “25ers” or “two-fivers”. Other coded phrases for such instances reference things being “one hour past” or “past midnight”.
The Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA) was established in the 1950s by the Department of Defence (DoD). It’s purpose then and now is to gather information on the strength and capabilities of the enemies of the United States. At that time, the international penetration of the CIA and other intelligence operatives was minimal and information regarding the military strength of the Soviets and their allies was considered absolutely vital. The absolute failure of the CIA to prevent or control the Bay of Pigs situation ten years later led many to conclude that the DIA would always remain the superior operating force. A small rivalry developed over the decades, as well as moves to distinguish each body from the other. In particular, the DIA prefers not to work undercover or use human spies, relying instead on visual and audio evidence (from their own equipment or overheard communication), code-breaking and information tracking. They also rarely have an intervention strategy, preferring to gather information for the application of the military, rather than stopping threats when discovered.
The most significant difference between the CIA and the DIA however is that the CIA’s charter specifically prohibits it from pursuing suspects and threats within the United States itself. The DIA has no such restrictions and from its inception worked in parallel and at times alongside the FBI in identifying and uncovering threats from within the population. The DIA was not interested in domestic terrorists of course but foreign sleepers and agents provocateur.
The intelligence information liberated from the Nazis and acquired from the British indicated a threat of precisely this nature, and was therefore immediately handed to the DIA. The intelligence indicated Individuals of an inhuman nature and certainly alien loyalties were operating unseen within the general population of Europe, with unknown levels of organization. The possibility of a covert inhuman nation-state becoming allies with the Russians was terrifying. So it was that the heads of PROJECT CROPDUST, Roosevelt’s occult taskforce, directed the DIA to create Department 13 to deal specifically and covertly with this issue. Note that D13 was under the DIA’s umbrella but until CROPDUST was disbanded, also answered to them.
For the first two decades of its existence Department 13 operated a forceful process of detection and elimination of supernatural threats, under the RID protocol: Recruit, Imprison or Destroy. However, it was eventually discovered that although there were organized groups of the supernatural, none of them were operating with a sufficient level to present a credible threat. Instances of a true inhuman threat were too random to indicate an invasion. Several occult organizations had ties to the Weather Underground, the Black Panthers and other counterculture movements but the CIA and FBI were able to deal with that situation. As the savagery of the 70s faded and the Cold War ebbed, D13 was seen as less necessary.
During the Carter administration, several Cold War operations were curtailed. As part of this, D13 was reduced and reclassified and given a new directive. This protocol was dubbed ORCA: Observe, Research, Catalogue and Archive. ORCA represented a much less hostile approach to inhuman entities and recruiting at this stage was much more friendly. D13 conducted several thousand interviews with various individuals to improve its knowledge in the field.
However, things were happening that demanded solutions. Zombie hordes were rising in Uganda, the Yorkshire Ripper was conducting sacrifices and Jonestown agents killed a US Senator. After the Three Mile Island incident, Carter created the Federal Emergency and Medical Association (FEMA) to deal with exigent situations with a sweeping mobility and transferable authority – to wit, they could be called in by anyone, to deal with anything dubbed as an emergency. The legislation to create FEMA included a clause which permitted “the creation of similar bodies to deal with situations of a similar level but of a different classification”. This rider was inserted to create and fund FEAR, a smaller reflection of FEMA dedicated to solving supernatural problems. One of their early actions was the elimination of the Jonestown problem as covertly as possible.
FEAR worked alongside D13 for the next twenty years. With Rumsfeld and his hawks in power, FEAR reignited some of D13’s old Cold War ways but less overtly and with less prejudice. Then another event occurred: the attacks of September 11, 2001. After this, President Bush created the Department of Homeland Security. The DHS is an umbrella agency, with an extremely wide-ranging and ill-defined remit, allowing it to commandeer and supersume the actions, resources and authority of hundreds of security organizations under the generalized banner of the defense of the nation. The DHS quickly decided that the chief threat to the United States were Islamic fundamentalism and Middle Eastern rogue states. The vast majority of the DHS resources and those of all the agencies they controlled were directed to this problem.
This effectively bankrupted FEAR and D13. FEAR’s international officers were shut down, several field teams were retired and much of their resources were dismantled. For eight years, FEAR was all-but forgotten. However, with the election of President Obama, this has begun to change again. Although doing nothing to alter the power or scope of the DHS, he has encouraged more transparency and the reinstatement of each organizations domain and authority. FEAR got a budget again. Investigations began again. A new helicopter was purchased. Two new field teams were created. Yours was one of them.
Jargon: “Past Midnight”
Dept 13 is named for the old Navy tradition of ringing 13 bells to indicate a storm warning. In military (or “zulu” time), 13 o’clock would be 25 hundred hours. Thus D13 situations are sometimes dubbed “25ers” or “two-fivers”. Other coded phrases for such instances reference things being “one hour past” or “past midnight”.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Contract
“What comes with the Autumn?
Fear.
Fear comes with the Autumn.”
- Swamp Thing, Alan Moore
“They’re here, aren’t they?”
“Mr Mulder, they’ve been here for a very long time”
- The X-Files, Chris Carter
“There are things that go bump in the night…we are the ones that bump back”
- Hellboy, Guillermo Del Toro
Game Contract
Style, Structure and Tone
If the BPRD worked out of a basement like Fox Mulder, and dealt with the kind of cases that Planetary do, and were staffed by the Doom Patrol, then you’d have something like FEAR. If NCIS crossed over with Angel and was written by Alan Moore, you’d get the feel of the thing. Each session will be (time-permitting) a single story, with the conceit of it forming a single issue of a comic that owes much to Moore’s run on Swamp Thing The stories will be investigative in nature, with themes of horror and conspiracy. Morality will be in shades of grey and your masters may not have your best interests at heart, which means success and doing good may not always be the same thing. That said, scathing wit and ironic commentary will not be out of place (ala Angel).
Characters
Characters should be strange, monstrous or scarred in some fashion but not evil or unheroic. Powers will reflect this. As a field team, powers that make characters more resistant to harm (in whatever fashion) are common. Mysterious or strange powers are good, and the hook is as important as the power. Good examples are a girl with a soul but no flesh, Joan of Arc reborn in a teenager, a cybernetically enhanced Kodiak bear, a magical talking cat, the eternal spirit of drunken Irish pugilism, a were-tiger who escaped a Siberian gulag, the undead corpse of Jim Morrison, a lost lizardman of the Mayan Empire, a man always two seconds ahead of his own time. In terms of training and security expertise, characters will have a solid grounding and substantial resources, yet will also be often out of their depth or out on a limb; competent yet uncertain.
Players
I want four players. So far the slots are Gareth and Helga. What I expect out of my players is passion. That means a dedication to making the game a success and achieving its goal, which is to create a fun, creative and above all supportive environment where we can tell some great horror tales. I’m more concerned about players backing each other up creatively and socially than whether we can get into some deep character-play. I’m also very demanding when it comes to out-of-game support for me, the GM. I GM best when I feel my audience is appreciative and keen and I need to hear that between sessions, or there’s no reason for me to keep running. Plot and character hooks are part of support, but out of game stuff is equally important. Finding a reliable, regular, low-stress time and place is a big part of it too. Obviously my weekend work will be a hurdle here, as are my enormous neuroses. Your patience is appreciated.
System
The current plan is to use a slightly stripped down version of the Conspiracy X system. This uses the Unisystem, which some of you will know from Buffy, and which also allows us access to the powers in that game, and Buffy and Witchcraft. Unisystem uses a flat 1d10 roll added to stat and skill. If I manage to get a system of my own design working, however, we might use that instead. Unlike Buffy, Con X has no literary mechanics like Drama Points, and is grittier and more lethal: bullets both hurt like hell and kill you. Combat should be a last resort in many situations. However, system will be as usual in my games – a hook to provide and drive story. Chargen will be directed and semi-controlled by me to preserve secrets, maintain balance and enhance tone.
Fear.
Fear comes with the Autumn.”
- Swamp Thing, Alan Moore
“They’re here, aren’t they?”
“Mr Mulder, they’ve been here for a very long time”
- The X-Files, Chris Carter
“There are things that go bump in the night…we are the ones that bump back”
- Hellboy, Guillermo Del Toro
Game Contract
Style, Structure and Tone
If the BPRD worked out of a basement like Fox Mulder, and dealt with the kind of cases that Planetary do, and were staffed by the Doom Patrol, then you’d have something like FEAR. If NCIS crossed over with Angel and was written by Alan Moore, you’d get the feel of the thing. Each session will be (time-permitting) a single story, with the conceit of it forming a single issue of a comic that owes much to Moore’s run on Swamp Thing The stories will be investigative in nature, with themes of horror and conspiracy. Morality will be in shades of grey and your masters may not have your best interests at heart, which means success and doing good may not always be the same thing. That said, scathing wit and ironic commentary will not be out of place (ala Angel).
Characters
Characters should be strange, monstrous or scarred in some fashion but not evil or unheroic. Powers will reflect this. As a field team, powers that make characters more resistant to harm (in whatever fashion) are common. Mysterious or strange powers are good, and the hook is as important as the power. Good examples are a girl with a soul but no flesh, Joan of Arc reborn in a teenager, a cybernetically enhanced Kodiak bear, a magical talking cat, the eternal spirit of drunken Irish pugilism, a were-tiger who escaped a Siberian gulag, the undead corpse of Jim Morrison, a lost lizardman of the Mayan Empire, a man always two seconds ahead of his own time. In terms of training and security expertise, characters will have a solid grounding and substantial resources, yet will also be often out of their depth or out on a limb; competent yet uncertain.
Players
I want four players. So far the slots are Gareth and Helga. What I expect out of my players is passion. That means a dedication to making the game a success and achieving its goal, which is to create a fun, creative and above all supportive environment where we can tell some great horror tales. I’m more concerned about players backing each other up creatively and socially than whether we can get into some deep character-play. I’m also very demanding when it comes to out-of-game support for me, the GM. I GM best when I feel my audience is appreciative and keen and I need to hear that between sessions, or there’s no reason for me to keep running. Plot and character hooks are part of support, but out of game stuff is equally important. Finding a reliable, regular, low-stress time and place is a big part of it too. Obviously my weekend work will be a hurdle here, as are my enormous neuroses. Your patience is appreciated.
System
The current plan is to use a slightly stripped down version of the Conspiracy X system. This uses the Unisystem, which some of you will know from Buffy, and which also allows us access to the powers in that game, and Buffy and Witchcraft. Unisystem uses a flat 1d10 roll added to stat and skill. If I manage to get a system of my own design working, however, we might use that instead. Unlike Buffy, Con X has no literary mechanics like Drama Points, and is grittier and more lethal: bullets both hurt like hell and kill you. Combat should be a last resort in many situations. However, system will be as usual in my games – a hook to provide and drive story. Chargen will be directed and semi-controlled by me to preserve secrets, maintain balance and enhance tone.
Background
Agents of FEAR
The Federal Emergency Arcane Response
“They have tried to teach us fear, but we have met fear before, and found ourselves its master. It is our enemies who are strangers to it, thinking they alone they are its dispensers. But we know much of fear, and we shall teach our enemies its true meaning.”
-Franklin Delano Roosevelt,, Private Correspondence, October 1939
When Roosevelt was nickel-and-diming Churchill over the Lend-Lease Act, he was actually holding out for a bigger prize: access to the British Intelligence’s archives on the supernatural. With that in hand (and some liberated from the Nazis), a separate branch of the DIA was founded under the codename PROJECT CROPDUST. To this day, agents in Department 13 are still referred to as ‘dusters’. The allusion was deserved: for the majority of its history, CROPDUST worked on the R-I-D protocol towards all preternatural phenomena: Recruit, Imprison or Destroy. After the end of the Cold War, however, this protocol was softened somewhat, and the I is now informally interpreted as Isolate. As long as supernatural phenomena remain invisible to the US government and its agencies, they will be left alone – or recruited for a decent salary and guaranteed safety.
Most of D13’s work is intelligence analysis and storage, but after the Three Mile Island incident in 1979, DoD officials realized that a field team was necessary to deal with large-scale, time-critical or high-risk exigent situations. A group much like FEMA was set up, staffed by the more indestructible recruits and dubbed FEAR. As a quasi-autonomous group, FEAR could be commandeered by other agencies and funded by external sources – and blame could be apportioned into oblivion. After 9-11, the Department of Homeland Security supersumed the roles of many smaller agencies, and human enemies became by far the priority of the entire government. FEAR was left to languish with an ever-diminishing budget and even less prestige.
But there are still rocks that are turned over and found crawling with grubs that nobody else wants to deal with, even if they knew how. Such jobs go to the Agents of FEAR. Armed with a gun, a phone and an inhuman nature, they go where they are sent, do the job they are told, and clean up the mess afterwards. For that, they get $28K a year plus dental, a bit of privacy and some kind of life.
The first trade paperback, Agents of FEAR: Some Kind Of Life goes on sale this June. Issue One is Until the Sea Gives Back Its Dead.
The Federal Emergency Arcane Response
“They have tried to teach us fear, but we have met fear before, and found ourselves its master. It is our enemies who are strangers to it, thinking they alone they are its dispensers. But we know much of fear, and we shall teach our enemies its true meaning.”
-Franklin Delano Roosevelt,, Private Correspondence, October 1939
When Roosevelt was nickel-and-diming Churchill over the Lend-Lease Act, he was actually holding out for a bigger prize: access to the British Intelligence’s archives on the supernatural. With that in hand (and some liberated from the Nazis), a separate branch of the DIA was founded under the codename PROJECT CROPDUST. To this day, agents in Department 13 are still referred to as ‘dusters’. The allusion was deserved: for the majority of its history, CROPDUST worked on the R-I-D protocol towards all preternatural phenomena: Recruit, Imprison or Destroy. After the end of the Cold War, however, this protocol was softened somewhat, and the I is now informally interpreted as Isolate. As long as supernatural phenomena remain invisible to the US government and its agencies, they will be left alone – or recruited for a decent salary and guaranteed safety.
Most of D13’s work is intelligence analysis and storage, but after the Three Mile Island incident in 1979, DoD officials realized that a field team was necessary to deal with large-scale, time-critical or high-risk exigent situations. A group much like FEMA was set up, staffed by the more indestructible recruits and dubbed FEAR. As a quasi-autonomous group, FEAR could be commandeered by other agencies and funded by external sources – and blame could be apportioned into oblivion. After 9-11, the Department of Homeland Security supersumed the roles of many smaller agencies, and human enemies became by far the priority of the entire government. FEAR was left to languish with an ever-diminishing budget and even less prestige.
But there are still rocks that are turned over and found crawling with grubs that nobody else wants to deal with, even if they knew how. Such jobs go to the Agents of FEAR. Armed with a gun, a phone and an inhuman nature, they go where they are sent, do the job they are told, and clean up the mess afterwards. For that, they get $28K a year plus dental, a bit of privacy and some kind of life.
The first trade paperback, Agents of FEAR: Some Kind Of Life goes on sale this June. Issue One is Until the Sea Gives Back Its Dead.
Internal Blog Created
This blog is for Agents of FEAR, particularly new Agents, to discuss missions and ask any questions they have. Keep it friendly folks. Obviously this is a secure forum but let's also observe security issues. Loose tweets sink ships and all.
- Special Agent D
- Special Agent D
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