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.

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”.

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.

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.

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