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All for Naught [27 Jun 2008|11:57am] “What did you find, Magus?” The vampire kneeling before Seraphus was a meek one, looked as if he were barely strong enough to stand on his own two feet. But Magus was an old and powerful sorcerer, able to mystically keep his body intact even as disease ravaged it. Centuries ago, Magus lay bed-ridden, syphilis threatening to take his life before Seraphus saved him from death and delivered him to eternal damnation. Forever grateful, Magus spent his unlife serving his sire and the cause of the Order of Zeus. He had seen the prophecies, knew that of which the Elders spoke. He had seen many an offspring of the Slayer grow into manhood, and yet none of them were the descendant of Zeus. And having just consulted with the Oracles, using his centuries-refined mystical powers, Magus was convinced the Order would have to look elsewhere. “It does not look good, master,” Magus spoke in a shaky voice. “The boy does not exhibit any of the signs.” ( Loophole ) [Written by Jeff.] Remark

Down and Out [27 Jun 2008|10:51am] The more Frank Dickerson ran, the more he began to realize he wasn’t getting away. Turning the corner and heading into one of the many dark alleys of Las Vegas, Frank looked over his shoulder, seeing that not only was the police officer still on his tail, she was catching up. And the officer didn’t appear to be all that winded, either, which was amazing, considering this high-speed foot chase had been going on for nearly five minutes now. Frank was down and out, unemployed for two months now and in desperate need of money to feed his family. The chaos surrounding the public admission that demons existed was actually a boon for Frank, as he was able to on more than one occasion steal money and valuables from people as they panicked and rioted in the streets. But tonight, one of Las Vegas’ finest caught him. Frank, never having been a violent man or one prone to confrontation, decided to run, hoping to use the athleticism he had in his high school track days to outrun the officer. It was like Armageddon out here, so Frank honestly wondered why the officer was worrying about some petty criminal. ( They'll let anyone on the force ) [Submitted by Jeff.] Remark

The Way Things Are [27 Jun 2008|03:37am] Military trucks roll down the highways of American towns and cities. Conspiracy theorists hype up the 'Big Brother' angle, beyond all measure. Their impact, though, is slight. Restricted to their own focused audiences. Most people want some sort of order. Everything has been too chaotic. In Nevada, business owners complain that a Las Vegas without nightlife, is virtually no Las Vegas, at all. They will deal... They hope. Most of the hotels have their own, internal attractions; some having entire theme parks behind their closed doors. People start to think of films like 'Outbreak', 'Deep Impact' and 'Independence Day'. The Internet has already virtually collapsed, several times in the last few days. Any remaining VIPs not already summoned to nuclear bunkers prepared for World War Three, now get the call. The National Guard now pours across civilian areas. Traffic is halted. FEMA, if it even still exists, is going into overdrive. Special, 'less-lethal' means of riot control are deployed, such as microwave beams to cause the sensation of pain across one's skin, around areas of special security interest. With curfews in full effect, however, few, if any accidents, necessitate their use. Some people start to feel bored: Where are all the explosions? If this is really the New World Order, where are all the concentration camps? Legitimate questions and the conspiracy theorists play for time. Far from the shambles of the defunct Project Integrations, the measures now undertaken for security are professional and swift. Anything intent on causing trouble is, for the most part, quickly identified and neutralised, except in a few cases. Most commercial flights are cancelled, until the authorities can devise a properly regulated system of monitoring passengers. Ironically, many of the recommendations suggested in the wake of '9/11' are now being hastily implemented by force. Las Vegas is still a neon playground. Just a lot quieter and, with the exception of armed soldiers and law enforcement, mostly with empty streets. Searchlight, for the first time in a long time, actually has some police representation wandering its dusty roads. Results differ in other countries. For the stricter regimes, far nastier precautions are taken. All things considered, things are rather peaceful. So far. [Written by E.] Remark

"My Fellow Americans..." [27 Jun 2008|03:31am] ( When everything changes... ) [Written by E.] Remark

MIA [23 Jun 2008|03:23pm] "What the hell do you mean you can't find him?" Clarence Johns barked. "I mean we can't find him," Special Agent Craddock replied, sounding both sheepish and a little testy. "Ivers and I have been all over the airport three times. We're on our fourth pass right now. If he's here, we haven't seen him." Sitting in his office, which offered a fine view of the parking lot, Johns turned the fan on to create a paper-ruffling breeze, then opened his desk drawer and rummaged around, trapping the receiver between his chin and shoulder. "Did you try paging him?" "After the second pass." "I knew I should have gone along. Damned useless staff meeting..." The operative located a bottle of Tums hiding beneath a travel pack of Kleenex, put it next to the phone. His heartburn had been bad since yesteday, and this was likely to be at least a four-tablet phone call. As Josiah Markowitz had asked, Johns had watched Action 13's live segment about Project Intergration, and the glee he'd experienced at the thought of Homeland Security being exposed and humiliated was something he'd had to struggle to keep to himself. They were all on the same side, right? Yeah, bullshit. But now the other agent, his former colleague, was nowhere to be found, and Johns didn't like it. Markowitz was a professional, albeit a flaky one, and he wouldn't call to say eh basically needed asylum and then not show up. The CIA man flipped through a small notepad, then asked, "What about his hotel?" "He'd checked out already, probably before he was going to drop the bomb," Craddock replied, and there were airport noises behind him; foot traffic, announcements over the loudspeakers, distant conversations. Tablets rattled as Johns took the cap off of the Tums. "He's got no family," he said, obviously thinking aloud. "There was a cousin, I think, but they passed away about a year ago. And he wouldn't go straight to Queens, they'd look for him there." Two flat white tablets landed in a broad, brown palm, and crunching sounds could be heard as the operative chewed up the antacids and washed them down with bottled water. "OKay, let me think for a second." Johns put the phone down, looked over at the opposite wall of his office. Craddock would wait for him to come back, he knew. The poeple he worked with understood his methods by now. He and Markowitz had almost come up together in the agency, even though Johns was a decade younger. There was a commemorative photograph on the wall, the two of them at some ceremony with a bunch of other agents. Smiling, waiting in a queue to shake hands with the president. Another Tums down the hatch. This felt bad. "Okay." Johns picked up the phone again, rubbed his brow, then the top of his bald head. "Okay," he said again. "Where is Ivers right now?" "She's outside checking the cabstands again," Craddock answered, as if the conversation had never paused. Smart man, Craddock, always on point. "Its kind of crowded today, she suggested he might've tried to get a taxi if we missed him." "Okay, good, that's good." Johns rapped his knuckled on the desktop, then said, "All right, wait where you are until she comes back, then make another thorough check and another page. If you still don't find him, flash your badge and get a copy of the passenger list for Flight 264, on Southwest Airlines. I need to know if Markowitz got on that plane. If he didn't, its going to be my foot in somebody's bunghole." "Anything else, sir?" Johns looked over at the picture again, scowled and shook his head. "No, nothing else." Pause. "Craddock." "Yes, sir?" "Don't screw this up. Markowitz is one of ours." Remark

Whatever Means Necessary [22 Jun 2008|12:21pm] Agents Brown, Turner, and McDormand arrived by plane at McCarran International Airport, just three days after the termination of Josiah Markowitz near Gate 14. Their orders were to take control of the Henderson facility and solve the supernatural problem immediately, using whatever means necessary. Each of the Agents was assigned to a particular facet of the operation. Brown would facilitate the transport of illegal human captives -- such as Oliver Jerzyck -- to an underground bunker in the mountains near Carson City. The quicker they were removed, the less likely they would be discovered by the hysterical public. Turner would destroy all evidence of the project's existence at the Henderson facility, a feat in itself, and absolve the government of guilt by devising a convincing lie to feed to the press. McDormand was the wild card. He would work a spell meant to banish all creatures with demon-infected bloodlines to a hellverse, where they undoubtedly belonged. ***** Agent Brown: Transport the Captives Though he kept protective spellwork in place, Brown also employed a group of heavily-armed black ops soldiers. They 'escorted' the human sympathizers from their cells into an underground tunnel, which was built beneath the Henderson headquarters. The tube was wide enough for regular vehicles, and allowed the group to literally drive out of the facility, right beneath the unsuspecting feet of the picketers and media hounds outside. At the edge of town, they emerged onto the highway in white, windowless vans and began the journey to the bunker. Agent Turner: Destroy the Evidence It took hours to rid the offices of all paper files, medical samples, electronic disks, and assorted evidence pertaining to Project Integration. Simply burning the building wasn't an option, not with the media nosing about. To blow the place up would be a public admission that suspicious activity was going on in the facility. The government already took an enormous risk when they shot Markowitz in plain sight. Turner was also assigned with covering that up. The key was not denying that the government had taken a man out, but obscuring his identity. Turner made sure that the passenger manifests were altered to delete Markowitz's name and all footage from security cameras seized. She had Markowitz's bank statement changed to remove the airline charge. She permanently dispatched of the former Agent's body. The truth would eventually get out; Markowitz would miss an appointment, or a witness from the airport would speak up. Turner would handle that fall-out when the time came. As for the physical evidence of the Project, Turner removed it from the facility before burning it. Then she turned her attention to constructing a convincing lie. Agent McDormand (the Weakest Link): Banish the Demons It might've all worked. At least, the evidence might've gone down in history as circumstantial, the witnesses not credible. If McDormand hadn't made his fatal miscalculation. Agent McDormand had studied the intersection of physics and metaphysics for most of his career. He was regularly employed by the government to research supernatural matters. In fact, he was on the team that flew to Las Vegas after the winter solstice of 2010 to investigate the rumors that a portal to an alternate universe -- a 'hellverse' -- had opened over the Circus Circus resort. There were claims that the hole between worlds literally opened up and began to suck demons into the sky, back to where they came from (a report not far from the truth). That incident was the most exciting of his career. It was Agent McDormand's fervent belief that the portal could be reopened, and the 'sucking' phenomenon resumed, to rid the world of its demon problem once and for all. If he could orchestrate it, it would be a very public event. It would be an act of terrific heroism for the U.S. government, with him at the helm! McDormand knew that a mystical force named The Exile (ha! as if it were a sentient being!) had been involved in the incident. He assumed that The Exile was simply energy, used as a key to open the portal (the 'Dawn Summers' effect). If this was the case, it might be done again! This time, he would orchestrate the spell himself, and make it so the Exile's power would not be interrupted before it was fully unleashed... the power to banish all demons back to hell. Deep in the hills that bordered the tiny town of Searchlight, McDormand deposited his magical resources, bought by the U.S. government (and possibly the Canadians). Then a well-paid practitioner of the black arts took over, arranging the paraphernalia into an altar and beginning a ritualistic chant. Nearly twenty minutes went by. McDormand was sweating buckets. Something slithered past his ankle. He held absolutely still. Suddenly the warlock's head snapped up and his eyes went wide. Before McDormand could react, the hill exploded. It was nearly volcanic in its eruption of earth and rock. A boulder the size of a Volkswagen crushed the life from the warlock. McDormand landed on his head twenty yards away, unconscious as inches of dirt piled on his back. For miles upon miles, the gigantic beacon of white could be seen, shining like a searchlight into the heavens. Then a second beam separated from the first, and another, and another. The pillars of illumination burst through the earth and pointed in every direction. Some even pointed down deep into the ground, where eyes couldn't follow. At 9:21pm on June 22, 2012, the will of the Exile was finally realized. It was not a key; it didn't unlock dimensional doors. It revealed the gateways to all dimensions simultaneously... heavens, hells, even locations of mystical convergence like the Bermuda Triangle were unveiled. The gates glowed in brilliant displays of color and light. Some hovered in the sky like weather phenomena. Others swirled over the ocean, creating maelstroms, or turned ordinary backyards or parking lots into soupy mixtures of boiling earth. No demonic creatures poured from them, but the energy shift was massive. It only lasted a moment, but it blew entire power grids. It made people's hair stand on end. Many creatures leading double lives -- creatures who wore human guises to hide demon parts -- were accidentally outed, as they temporarily lost control of their physical features, like werewolves suddenly getting a clear glimpse of the full moon. In that instant, ghosts normally invisible to the human eye were finally seen. Angelic wings unfurled behind beings like Nathan Rhames. Agent McDormand stirred beneath the rubble and lifted his head. The tiny town of Searchlight sat on the horizon. For thousands of years, people had flocked to that patch of sandy earth, none of them certain why. It simply had a magnetism. Now, as its citizens wrapped themselves in bathrobes and rushed onto their porches, everything became clear. Remark

Termination of Employment [21 Jun 2008|11:28pm] [Provided to all employees of Project Integration] UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT OFFICE OF PERSONNEL 461 4th Street, Suite 2000, Washington D.C. 20001 June 20, 2012 Dahlia Helen Rimes 206 Morris Road, Apt. B Las Vegas, NV Dear Ms. Rimes, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you on behalf of the Department of Homeland Security for your commitment to public service. During your tenure with us, you have played an important role in ensuring the security of our nation's citizens. You have served our department well and laid a foundation upon which it can continue to prosper. As we continue our role in ensuring the nation's safety from domestic, foreign, and natural dangers, please be advised that your appointment in the Department of Homeland Security will not be continued. This letter serves as official notice of the termination of your appointment, effective at the close of business on June 20, 2012. You will be placed on paid administrative leave for the duration of the fiscal year, concluding on June 30, 2012. You must return all building keys, office keys, security badges, pass cards, cell phones, and any and all property issued to you as a United States government employee. This includes all paper-based or electronic documents contained on computer disks, hard drives, storage drives, and any other type of electronic media. Your telephone password should be provided to us to facilitate deletion of messages after your departure. To schedule an exit interview and to receive a medical debriefing, please contact Dennis James at 555-4611. Special Agent James will confirm the date, time, and location of your separation appointment. We appreciate the professionalism you exhibited during your tenure us, I extend best wishes to you in your future endeavors. Sincerely, Brian Barlow Director of Personnel [Letter format derived from www.dcwatch.com] Remark

The Big Bang [19 Jun 2008|09:08pm] If he could get out of Nevada, he might be all right. Markowitz made one phone call before his television debut, to Clarence Johns, a CIA operative who lived in Hartford, Connecticut. Johns was old school, and he and Markowitz had worked together in the past when the dark-suited agent had still been part of the spook squad. With the advent of the war on terrorism, an inter-departmental feud had broken out with DHS, who many of the older generation considered to be little more than a pack of publicity-hungry glory hounds with no respect for their elders. He'd briefed the other man very quickly about his intentions, and Johns made a tentative agreement to speak to his superiors about bringing his former colleague back into the fold under their protection. ( Leaving Las Vegas ) The third shot took him high in the back, punching out on the other side, and his shoes went skidding on the slick tiled floor before the fourth bullet slammed lower, through his rib cage. The agent felt the slug puncture his lung, and he went sprawling facedown just shy of his destination. Oh, they'd screwed the pooch now, hadn't they? Assassinated him in public, like he was JFK. He could feel the blood leaking out of his wounds, staining his white shirt. With an effort, he rolled onto his back. The other agent seemed gigantic from where he lay, the black hole at the end of his gun barrel filling up the world. He didn't feel the third shot at all. The male agent put his weapon away, surveying the crowd. This was going to take some work to explain away, but DHS could manage it. They were the good guys, right? Remark

Live, From Las Vegas! [18 Jun 2008|06:07pm] "How does my hair look? Do you think they used too much spray?" "You look fine, Curtis." "I hate live segments. The lighting always makes me look orange. Maybe I should try a new bronzer." The newscaster looked at his watch, adjusted the knot in his blue silk tie, then took one last look in the hand mirror he held. "All right, let's get this show on the road," he said, handing the object off to his assitant. "Is the old guy ready?" "The old guy is ready," Markowitz said dryly, lowering his tall, thin frame into the chair opposite the younger man. "The old guy can also hear you." There was a muted snicker from one of the camera crew, and the newsman, whose name was Curtis Horton, turned a dull brick-red underneath his store bought tan. The two men looked at one another for a few moments, and then the federal agent took his sunglasses off, folded them up and put them away. He'd thought this over carefully, sitting up late for a few nights in his hotel suite by himself. He'd watched the news coverage and the ensuing public reaction with a grimness that befitted attending a funeral - possibly his own. And as Project Intergration began to unravel, he started to resent the fact that the work, his work, was being made part of a circus. The denials from the higher-ups had been the final straw, the official brushing aside of any responsibility while they scrambled around looking for someone to hang for it. Markowitz had been a company man all his life, since he'd graduated from Boston University over four decades ago. His grandparents had been horrified at the time, appalled that a descendant of theirs could go to work for the government when their own parents had been thoroughly mistreated by the people in power in their native Russia. But he'd stood firm, and he'd stood firm because he'd been a believer in what he wanted to do. He'd even continued to believe during the Reagan administration, which had been the most trying time for him. He supposed he still believed, was still keeping the faith, it was simply that now it was his neck on the line, his and his fellow agents, even fresh-faced Rimes, who reminded him of his first ex-wife. No one was going to get out of this unscathed, with the exception of the people who had signed the orders to begin with. So one night, very late, he'd loadfed up a briefcase with confidential documents about the nature of the project and the people behind it. He was enior enough and possessed the necessary security clearances, so no one suspected anything when he'd asked to go over some files for a nonexistent fact-finding check. He'd handcuffed the briefcase to his wrist, then walked out of the building with the back of his neck crawling like J. Edgar Hoover was about to leap out from behind a corner in a taffeta evening gown. No one was going to string him up all by himself, not when there was plenty of blame to go around. Maybe there was still a little zealot left in him after all. Action 13 News, furious at being acooped by the Beacon, had jumped on the chance for an exclusive live interview with the angent, and he now sat composed and a little grave as he waited for the camera tech to stop futzing around with the equipment. In five minutes, everyone watching was going to know his name and his face. This was the end f hs career, he had already resigned himself to that. But he'd go down swinging, 'old guy' or not. "And in five, four, three, two, one..." "Good evening, Las Vegas," the newscaster said, flashing a practiced smile at the camera as he straightened his posture. "I'm Curtis Horton, and we are live tonight with Agent Josiah Markowitz of the Department of Homeland Security. As our loyal viewers already know, rumors about a secret government project and the existence of otherworldly entities have saturated local media outlets for the past few weeks. According to sources both at DHS and the White House, no such project exists, and supernatural beings only exist in the movies and the minds of disturbed individuals." There was a dramatic pause, and then the newsman continued, "However, according to this gentleman -" indicating Markowitz, who sat up straighter - "the truth is much different than the public has been led to believe." A second pause, just as dramatic, and the agent had to hand it to the kid, he knew how to give good interview. Then Horton turned to him, all attentive and inquiring. "What about it, Josiah? What can you tell us about the documents you brought along?" There was a slow pan of the camera, then a close-up on Markowitz's homely, earnest face. The agent took a deep breath. This was his fifteen minutes. He'd better make good use of them. Remark

Protesters in Washington, D.C. [09 Jun 2008|06:19pm] Remark

[07 Jun 2008|10:05am] Agent Dahlia Rimes removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. The headache behind them was a dull tapping that had gone on for hours, despite three supersized Ibuprofen tablets. At the moment, it was difficult to imagine her work situation getting much worse, but she knew never to speak such thoughts aloud. Project Integration wasn't an effort her brain was behind, but she had given it her heart because she was a patriot. Now it was in serious danger. The public knowledge of that van full of demons wasn't all that threatened the Project's security. Word came from Washington today that her superiors were considering replacing every Agent on the Project (except those Special Agents recently recruited). The axe hovered over the heads of people like Ballantine, Markowitz, Sparrow, Purvis, Jenkins ... even Rimes herself. Their oversight of the Project was being referred to as 'gross mismanagement'. On her part, Rimes couldn't see much proof to support that claim. It wasn't that she felt herself infallible; more that the Project's design was flawed, and that was something over which she had little control. What Dahlia could control was Interrogation and Intake. She watched her Agents with the eyes of a hawk, making certain no extraordinary means (read: torture) were used. To allow such was lawless... She wouldn't have it on her watch. Too bad her watch might soon be over. Washington had sent a special team of consultants. As Dahlia sat there in the break room, they were rummaging through her office files. Looking for someone to blame. Despite finding the murdered body of the transport van's original driver, they weren't satisfied. While that hand of the government acknowledged the Project's presence and devoured every detail of her work since January, the rest of the behemoth pretended ignorance. The press conferences were all slight variations on one theme: No knowledge of such a project. No knowledge of such species. No evidence to support the reporter's claim. The footage was being investigated as fraud. And the reporter, David Fuller, had been taken into federal custody for questioning until his lawyer made a big stink on television and demanded his release. Despite understanding government protocol, Dahlia felt betrayed. She knew in her heart that they would throw their Agents on the sword. She'd probably be first. Then what? Banished to some basement file room to finish out her years of public service as a paper pusher. There was talk... Talk that worried Dahlia more than her personal problems. A similar Project in Canada was buckling, not under the weight of demon footage, but of Agents who wanted to go public. One got so far as a rinky dink television station before he was apprehended and taken into custody. He would never see his family again. She understood how the government could make its problem children disappear. What next? "Agent Rimes!" Callihan burst into the break room, out of breath and sweating. "There's been another leak! Not about the Project, about demons!" And there it was, on a satellite feed of a major television network. A person in full vampire face, doing an autobiographical tell-all on Oprah for the bargain price of $1 million. Dahlia reached for her bottle of headache medicine. Remark

Goddamned Babysitter [23 May 2008|02:34pm] "Okay, let me get this straight." Grace was leaned forward, one elbow on the table, her other hand rubbing her forehead as though she could feel a headache coming on. "You need Blanchard's kid for your little ritual or whatever the hell it is, only she's gone mental and you think she might whack the little shit before you can get to him. So you need protection for him, namely ... me. Is that about how it goes?" She and Epimetheus were seated in the back booth of a twenty-four-hour diner just off the Strip, and she was seriously considering running him right the fuck into the Henderson facility just for annoying her. He had been useful in the past, but maybe he had outlived that. Maybe more than maybe. The vampire knuckled a spot above her left eye, wondered if she didn't need to cultivate a better class of people, then sat back a little. "You come up with this brainstorm all on yer own?" she asked dryly. "What exactly is it you want me to do? And what's in it for me? I'm not a Goddamned babysitter." ( This shit's gonna make headlines ) [NPC Epimetheus was written by Jeff.] Remark

Confrontation on a Serious Scale [08 May 2008|04:26pm] Demons and supernatural entities were not known for a tendency to cower in fear or cooperate with authority. When pushed, they snarled ferociously, bit, maimed or killed. But rarely did they run, and rarely could they be persuaded by intangibles like a 401k plan or the promise of legal assistance. Given the increasing turbulence in the supernatural underground in May of 2012, it only made sense that eventually, the government would force them into unity, but of an unproductive kind. Organized resistance. True, some had joined the ranks of badged authority and some had relocated to less officiated climes. But by and far, most stayed to guard their territory or rebel for the sake of violence, or even to make a simple point: They would not be controlled, at least without a fight. Word was put out about an informal meet-up to take place at 9pm in a third-rate, pirate-themed bar called Davey’s Locker. The owner was a sympathizer, rumored to have demonic blood on the paternal side of his family. He flew under the government radar, but that didn’t mean he supported what the Feds were doing. When asked if his establishment could be used as a staging ground for the rebels (or ‘illegals’, as the suits liked to call them), he was more than willing to oblige, as long as nobody broke his bar stools. [Thread: Open to All] Remark

A Novel Idea [21 Apr 2008|12:37pm] “You promised us the Chosen Child. Our patience is wearing thin.” On the short list of Epimetheus’ least favorite things to do, facing the Elders was number one without question. A relative youngling, Epimetheus hated how the Elders considered themselves better than other vampires simply because they’d been around longer. Managing to avoid being dusted for over 10 centuries wasn’t necessarily evidence of intelligence and grandeur. “I know,” Epimetheus uttered, trying to keep the venom to himself. “Things are progressing slower than anticipated. But the child will be delivered to you.” ( So what do you suggest? ) ( Voicemail for Grace ) [NPCs Epimetheus and Seraphus written by Jeff.] Remark

Listen to Reason [03 Apr 2008|10:18pm] The warm afternoon sun streamed through the living room windows as Julie curled up on the couch with one of the finds from her latest trip to the used bookstore. Her lunchtime shift downstairs was over and the rest of her roommates were out of the apartment for the day, so she had the place to herself to just relax and enjoy the rest of her day. She'd opened the window to let fresh air into the apartment which had been sealed up for months due to a particularly harsh winter for southern Nevada. The werewolf could smell the scents of the various desert plants wafting in on the breeze, the desert in its all too brief spring blooming phase. Romance novels were one of her guilty pleasures and Julie was looking forward to devouring most of the book over the course of the afternoon and evening. She took a sip from her drink and set it back on the coffee table before opening up her latest acquisition. The knock on the door would've come as a surprise. There weren't many solicitors in the small town, so excluding the possibility that a roommate had forgotten a key, there was either a neighbor or a stranger at the door. In this case, it was an Agent from the Department of Homeland Security. Dahlia Rimes kept a miniature lint roller in her unmarked sedan; nevertheless, she checked her blazer for lint a second time. It was clean. She remembered the first time she'd seen a government employee with pet hair on his suit, and the entire facade of professionalism had been broken. She was fastidious not by nature, but by necessity. Having an Ivy Leaguer's resume rather than a military one made credibility even more difficult to gain in the intelligence community, and she wasn't about to be undone by something as menial as a run in her stockings. A light breeze stirred. She clamped her arm more tightly against Julia Sanchez's file. The knock did indeed came as a surprise, and Julie looked up from her book toward the door with a quizzical expression before getting up to respond to it. Her initial thought was to ignore it and hope whoever it was went away, but it could be something important and so she walked to the door and opened it. Whatever she was expecting, the tall, serious looking woman in a dark business suit wasn't it. She definitely didn't have the appearance of a Jehovah's witness or a saleswoman, and there was no hint of perfume in her scent, only the faint odors of residual soap and shampoo that would be undetectable to the normal nose. Julie tried not to let her annoyance at being taken from her book show, and simply plastered her professional bartender smile on her face. "I'm sorry, but the bar is downstairs. This is a residence." "Yes, I know," the Agent answered without rancor. "My name is Dahlia Rimes. I've come to speak to you, Ms. Sanchez." With a graceful shuffle of her file, the brunette withdrew a business card from its holder and passed it Julie's way. It was white, embossed with the Department's seal and her rank and contact information. Dahlia carried on seamlessly. "I hoped I could take a few minutes' time to explain the Project to you personally. I trust you've heard about it... I want to make myself available for any questions you might have." Dahlia's brown eyes reached beyond the woman at the door, into the darkened apartment. No curious onlookers, then. That was better. "Yours is an interesting file," she added, returning attention to Julie's face. ( The Soft Sell ) [Thread: Open to Julie] Remark

Their Beds Are Empty [21 Mar 2008|06:00pm] There are two twin beds in room 248. They have matching quilts and bedside tables and stuffed animals kept from childhood. Everything is purple. There are pictures on the desks in plastic frames, next to laptops bought brand new for college. The tags on the door say 'Becca' and 'Kacie', and there's a dry-erase board filled with silliness: notes from friends, smiley faces, and a rough sketch of a penis that some drunk guy filled in on his way down the hall. In every way, it seems like a typical dorm room, remarkable only because the girls that live inside are sisters. In Dayton Complex, they are popular. They eat in the cafeteria. They go to programs for scrapbooking and spa nights and scary movie marathons. They are pretty, too. Becca's a book nerd, but Kacie likes the boys. She runs from room to room at night, wearing pajamas and no bra, and finds excuses to squeal at the top of her lungs. The RA gets a headache just thinking about her. They're majoring in science. Becca wants to be in Physics, and Kacie in Psychology. At first, nobody notices that they're also a little strange. They always seem to know what one another's thinking. There's an un-decipherable language they use together, which people explain away as just 'twin talk'. The night before Amy Johnson's body was found in the gardens, Becca cried for hours. She wouldn't explain how, but she seemed to guess that something was wrong. Kacie hides it better. Two nights ago, they didn't come home from History class. Only one person saw them crossing campus. All that Jennifer Starks remembers is that she saw them walking away from a man in a black sedan, 'kind-of official looking', and then they were gone. The RA reported them missing, and campus security ran their protocol, but there's something off about it all. Policemen came and took reports and ransacked the little, purple room, but then everything stopped. No press. No investigators. Nothing but a piece of yellow tape across the door. The students hold candlelight vigils. Their parents beg for answers. But nobody seems to know where Becca and Kacie went, and worse yet, no one important seems to care. Remark

Woman's Best Friend [05 Mar 2008|04:14pm] The wolf-thing sleeping on the floor was dreaming. Of what, no one could say, for its intellect was limited to following simple commands, and of attacking whatever came too close to it. Its mottled hide was patched with fur in places, covered with scales in others, its massive head mis-shapen and leaking drool onto the cold stone floor. In the firelight, its forepaws would twitch intermittently, as if in slumber it fought great enemies and won. On the opposite side of the room, Atia watched the beast sleep, studying the grotesque thing as lovingly as it she'd birthed it from her own womb. And in at least a metaphorical way, she had, since the creature had been with her for as many years as she had been in service to Leviathan. Servant, acolyte, herald, slave, all in one mutated form. Loyal, if only because it was far too stupid to think for itself. ( Not Exactly a Kal-Kan Dog ) When she was finished, she rose to her feet and pointed at the far wall, where a bright blue portal opened to crackle in midair. What had once been Marius loped in a shambling gait across the unforgiving floor, then disappeared through the tear in reality. Atia smiled thinly. All obstacles in her path would be cut down in fron of her life chaff in a wheat field. Starting now. Remark

2 Days [03 Mar 2008|01:28pm] ’I, Dahlia Rimes, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.’ Dahlia remembered taking the oath very clearly. She was proud, and her mother was proud. The badge didn’t feel authentic in her hands. Often over the first few months, she opened its case to look at it, and that wave of unreality came over her. She was a federal employee. There was nothing in her background that they hadn’t dug up and scrutinized, and she’d still been chosen. It was an honor. Looking on as a vampire took the same oath, Dahlia realized that the government’s definition of ‘honor’ wasn’t as sacred as she’d hoped it might be. On some level, the badge in her coat had been tarnished by Project Integration. She would never view her role the same. The stakes were higher now. This was a war against enemies more foreign than she could’ve ever imagined. Now, when she fought to protect her way of life, apocalypse was on the line. The badge should’ve felt more valuable, but it didn’t. “Two more days,” said Agent Purvis. He slurped coffee and watched the progression of another recruit through registration. The lines were longer today. Time was running out for the supernaturals of Nevada to make their choice. Agent Purvis was chomping at the bit. Dahlia detected a tinge of disappointment on his behalf. Every recruit was one less creature that would be terrorized on the street. A notch he wouldn’t get to carve in his professional bedpost. In two more days, everything would change. Dahlia slid her glasses up her nose. “Once the personnel manifests are updated, make sure they get to your supervisor in the tactical division. They’re dividing the recruits into small squads for the first few weeks of training and field experience. It should reduce resistance in the field.” She looked at her colleague’s profile. “Remember… they should employ persuasive techniques before physical coercion. Integrating any captures into our recruitment program will be easier for me if they haven’t been beaten to bloody pulp first.” Purvis nodded. She doubted his sincerity. If Project Integration hadn’t been enough to tarnish her badge, working alongside Thomas Purvis would’ve done it. Remark

Project Integration Debriefing [24 Feb 2008|10:32am] Friday, February 25, 2012 9pm Thunderbird Museum Nellis Air Force Base, Las Vegas, Nevada For the occasion of the Project Integration debriefing, the hanger had been transformed into an auditorium of sorts. Dozens of chairs stood in neat rows in the shadow of out-of-commission aircraft, symbols of antiquated American might. At the fore, a stage had been built with a blue curtain behind it. There was a podium with a microphone alongside an array of flags. The seal of the Department of Homeland Security was emblazoned on the front. It would've looked like a press conference, were it not for the absence of media. No cameras or recording devices of any kind were allowed, save for the memories of those attending. They were instructed to enter via the security gate on Tyndall Avenue, where a sentry was posted to verify identification against a list. Once inside the grounds, attendees were filed through a series of what looked like metal detectors, but were actually high-tech x-ray equipment, such as might be seen scanning luggage at an airport. Wherever the shape of a weapon (artifical of course) could be made out, the attendee was asked to step aside and place it in a locker of sorts. It could be retrieved afterward. The scent of government magic was heavy on the air. It smelled a lot like ozone. The spells made certain that any attempts at a physical altercation were met with paralyzing numbness. On stage, several Federal Agents were in place. Agents Dahlia Rimes and Jack Ballantine were near the podium. She spoke to her colleague with a hand placed over the microphone, never entirely trusting that the equipment hadn't been turned on yet. Other familiar faces could be distiguished in the crowd of suits-- Agents Daniel Sparrow, Thomas Purvis, and Wendell Jenkins among them. Slowly the supernatural crowd began to filter into the hanger. There were humans who had been blessed (or cursed, depending on perspective) with unusual abilities, and some humans who were simply hooked into the supernatural underground and considered good fighters or sources of information (i.e. potential hunters, informants or spies). There were hybrids, too... Beings with one human and one demon parent, or who had simply been infected over the course of their lives. There were also demons there, who the government had researched and decided might be good candidates for Project Integration, because they might be inclined to serve, once they'd heard of the benefits of joining and the consequences of not doing so. Agent Rimes had every intention of waiting for the crowd to thicken before she began. Anticipating that some would not report on time, she planned to give them about ten minutes' grace time before she had to start the address. [Thread: Open to All] Remark

A Call to Serve [13 Feb 2008|06:47pm] [Submitted by Stargazer, Paul, and Kate] Remark

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