Leidenschaft

The Elder Scrolls: Eye of the Hurricane

<Snipped quote by Leidenschaft>

Spoops' character wasn't even called Caleb. It was Calen.

@Hank

Whatever I don’t remember a lot about that character

Also if you guys keep bullying me I WILL defend myself by any means necessary

The Elder Scrolls: Eye of the Hurricane

<Snipped quote by Leidenschaft>

They're referring to your face-claim being the fan art of a D&D character from Critical Role, whose name is Caleb Widogast. Cheq urself

@Spoopy Scary

Sry I’m not a n3rd like u

The Elder Scrolls: Eye of the Hurricane

Gwilym

Name: Gwilym of House Ironarm
Race: Nordo-Brettic
Age: 25
Birthsign: The Lover
Family Origins: Born in Jehanna to Lord Marshal Braegen and Lady Marille, stripped of his titles and birthright after disgracing the House

Appearance

Gwilym cuts the image of a handsome noble’s firstborn son, of hearty stock used to swinging swords and hefting shields on the fields of battle. His broad shoulders droop more often than not though, and the muscle in his arms has shrunk a bit since his last fencing lesson. He still overtops 6 feet by a good 6 inches like his father, though, no matter how much he’d like to shrink himself out of sight sometimes. In public, he puts on the best show he can, thrusting his chest out and walking with a purposeful stride. Catch him in those lonely moments and that pretty face droops.

---

Personality: Gwilym strikes those who are around him as a polite and kind man at best, and at his worst, an insolent and mischievous imp. Depending on what mood he finds himself in upon waking could mean all the difference between the two. He’d like to think he cuts the image of a handsome and rakish gentleman, though only those who live outside his head could tell what he really comes off as. If you were to ask him, he’d tell you he’s a gentleman looking only for a good time. He plays up his best qualities that are among those he could choose from, those being his affinity for wine and women, the ability to flirt in all manner of ways that has led to his reputation as a rampant adulterer and home wrecker, as well as the traditionally good- the ability to maintain a stiff upper lip in public and possess at least an iota of good manners.

Dig beneath the surface, and it takes quite some time, and you’ll find under the smooth shell to be a turbulent place filled with regrets and doubts. What is a man without a few? For all the goblets toasted with, there are two bottles downed in seclusion. For all the women bedded, there was always the one person he loved that he could never have. For all the whoops and hollers he’s let loose in a party while in a daze, there a hundred-hundred stifled sobs. Gwilym was always different. Prone to pick up the quill rather than the sword, prone to being a sensitive, rather than a stoic. Perhaps the divide between him and his father hurt the man as much as he hurt Gwilym. Perhaps not, and that isn’t a question he’s meaning to ask any time soon.

In any town or village he steps into, he comes with a tide of merriment and mirth. A good singing voice and a fine taste in drink has made him many short-lived friends, as he’s usually gone with the rising sun. When the great stage of those times dies down and the show is over, he resigns himself to more lonesome activities in a grey solitude. In any one of the duels he’s lost for money, there’s a certain look in his eye beforehand. If you were to tap his head and see the thoughts drip out, there’d be a morbid hope in there that the latest duel might be his last ever.

He’s more prone to drown out the world by doing his best to drown himself in wine nowadays. But damn, does his laugh sound so merry, his voice so light, and his eyes so full of life and lust...

---

History:
Gwilym was born to Lady Marille and Lord Braegan of House Ironarm, loyal defenders of the throne and the realm of the Kingdom of Jehanna. For generations, the Ironarms raised their sons to be as tough and hearty as their old Nordic ties to the first old warlords that came to High Rock. The two sons of the generation to come after their fathers were expected to not break this tradition, and so from the time they could walk, Gwilym and Desmond were put to work learning how to ride a warhorse, joust, and swing a blade. Gwilym took to it quicker than Desmond, and Desmond took to it quicker than most.

As the siblings trained together, they grew close in their bond, often playing Knight when their lessons in the blade, horsemanship, literature, mathematics, and other such subjects important to the nobility were done for the day. Leading an insular life had made them close, one another being the only friends they were allowed to have for the longest time. They spent their every waking moments together.

On Gwilym’s thirteenth Name Day, he is presented with the girl he is to marry, a beautiful specimen of Breton nobility. Though Gwilym held no knowledge of the weight of marriage, his father and Seville’s shake on it like two men agreeing to breed the best of their racehorses. Such is life in the nobility, and Gwilym carries on. Desmond, however, finds more friends among Seville’s family. As siblings do when they age, they grew apart, and Gwilym was happy to see Desmond making more friends that weren’t his elder brother. No matter that it pained him to spend less time with the brother he so loved.

But Desmond was not the only one to have Seville’s family members grow fond of him. Gwilym’s eyes snagged on Seville’s elder brother. He found himself admiring the other boy from afar, not knowing why he had such a fixation on him, and there was something in the way their eyes met when they finally did that made Gwilym’s cheeks red and warm. The two families went their separate ways after the deal was finalized, and Gwilym found after sharing a sparse few words of parting with Seville’s older brother, whose name was Artur he’d learned, that the two of them wished very much to meet again.

After that day, Gwilym could never go a long time without thinking of Artur. He wondered when next they’d meet, and what they would do when they did. Perhaps Artur liked fencing too, or would it be poetry? Gwilym was never good at that, so maybe Artur could teach him some things about it. No matter what it was, Gwilym knew he’d have fun. In the meantime, Gwilym and Desmond drilled on the fields with the Table Knights and Sergeants, spent time scribbling the words of great and old writers on parchment, and practicing mathematics. Gwilym was never good at anything that wasn’t to do with martial prowess, and Desmond’s exceeding in such went unnoticed by their gruff father. Lord Braegen’s position as Lord Marshal was well-earned, and a man like that surely favored only one thing in his sons- a talent for fighting, and the one who possessed it.

Surely, that fact didn’t help Gwilym and Desmond’s growing apart.

As they grew older and earned more autonomy with age, Desmond would frequent the training halls and tutoring libraries less and less, trading those pastimes with that of drinking and whoring. Lord Braegen quickly found that Desmond’s behavior was becoming a blight upon House Ironarm in the eyes of not only their fellow Houses, but of the commoners. It would just not do to have an unwashed peasant stepping over his absolute better face-down in the gutter when sun went down. Gwilym’s father disowned Desmond in every way but formally, laughing bitterly at his wayward son’s acting out, and often in his face in those seldom moments you could see him haunting the halls like a ghoul, moaning as he nursed another hangover.

Even so, Gwilym and Desmond attended the fencing tournaments held yearly in Jehanna as per tradition of keeping up their reputation with the lesser Houses and the public. Gwilym and Desmond were always at odds, the two seeming evenly matched until they faced each other. On those occasions, Gwilym would arise the victor, perhaps taking too much joy in the crowd’s cheering of his name. Had he been more mature, he may have been a better winner. And a better brother. But for the first time, he had his father’s blessings, and something that at least resembled love. Approval, at the very least.

It was around this time that Gwilym and Artur would inevitably meet during the tournaments, celebrating their wins and forgetting their losses both in each other’s arms when the sun went down. It was during the first time they’d seen each other since Gwilym’s engagement to Seville that the two of them learned much about each other. They had more things in common than they’d thought, and Gwilym had thought a lot on it. On one fateful night, Gwilym and Artur walk the streets in a drunken stupor, holding each other a bit too familiarly when Desmond spots them. In a rage, his brother challenges Artur to a duel, and in his drunken bravado Artur accepts. The two fight, but it does not end at first blood as Desmond gains the upper hand, knocking Artur unconscious and going for yet another blow with his sword. Gwilym, not wanting Artur dead by his brother’s hand, leaps to action. He lays low his own brother, spitting him with his dagger before he’s knocked to sleep as well by Desmond’s strong, heavy hands. It is the last thing he remembers of that night before he awakens again with the rising sun.

He is in bed, not in the streets. His father mourns Desmond’s life, his youngest son laid low by none other than Artur. Gwilym knows the truth. Gwilym keeps his mouth shut. He can not take the guilt, the weight of his own brother’s life on his shoulders. Artur is to stand trial for his crime. Instead of outing Gwilym as the murderer, he accepts his fate and pleads his guilt. He is hanged the next morning, and Gwilym packs his essentials that night. He leaves no note, says no goodbyes, only slips past the guards and stows away on the first ship out from Jehanna, going to any port.

Gwilym wanders further and further southward. He finds a place in Elsweyr, enjoying the comforts of the Khajiit that call that place their home. Wine, moon sugar, the occasional Imperial or Breton traveler that would share a bed with him. There would come a time when the septims he ran away with would be all spent, and so he asked for loans. It wasn’t long until he found himself in debt to the Renrijra Krin, among many other bad people. He took his cue that he’d overstayed his welcome in Elsweyr, and crossed the border into Valenwood first chance he got...

Biggest Regret: Perhaps being born the way he was. If women and wine were the cure, he’d have been well three times over by now, he reckons.

Never being able to tell Artur he was sorry for everything. Sorry that he’d saved his life only for it to be taken away in the end.

Or perhaps sullying his brother’s name, driving him away when he needed love the most. Hells, it’s hard to keep count anymore.

Gwilym‘s Goal: Gwilym doesn’t have many goals. Bed a woman? Live long enough to bed another, and have some wine in the meantime? Find someone who could beat him in a duel, and beat him bad?

---

Skills:
Expert: One-Handed
Adept: Sneak, Alteration, Illusion
Novice: Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Acrobatics

Spells:

Clairvoyance
Calm
Muffle
Oakflesh
Stoneflesh
Candlelight

Equipment: His long steel, a rapier of elven Moonstone with intricate basket-work
His short steel, a dagger of the same material a little longer than his forearm, finger-rings above the pommel for a choice in grip

His clothes consist of a brown longcoat worn over a green cloth shirt, tucked into black trousers. He keeps his trousers tightly bloused into his Colovian leather boots. All of his clothes may be of expensive tailoring, but the age and wear shows when inspected closely.

Misc. Possessions: He keeps the ring Artur gave him suspended on a chain around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt.

Three days’ rations
A few maps of the local area and country
Flint and steel
Boot polish
Sewing kit
Beard oil and comb
Trimming scissors
A mirror
Hairbrush
Whetstones of different roughness
Bedroll - all kept in a traveling pack

The Elder Scrolls: Eye of the Hurricane

@Leidenschaft I see that Caleb goodness! Love the character xD.

@PapaOso

I’m almost insulted you’d liken any of my work to that bastard Spoops.

The Elder Scrolls: Eye of the Hurricane

Not as fancy as some, but I'm here anyway...

Gwilym

Name: Gwilym of House Ironarm
Race: Nordo-Brettic
Age: 25
Birthsign: The Lover
Family Origins: Born in Jehanna to Lord Marshal Braegen and Lady Marille, stripped of his titles and birthright after disgracing the House

Appearance

Gwilym cuts the image of a handsome noble’s firstborn son, of hearty stock used to swinging swords and hefting shields on the fields of battle. His broad shoulders droop more often than not though, and the muscle in his arms has shrunk a bit since his last fencing lesson. He still overtops 6 feet by a good 6 inches like his father, though, no matter how much he’d like to shrink himself out of sight sometimes. In public, he puts on the best show he can, thrusting his chest out and walking with a purposeful stride. Catch him in those lonely moments and that pretty face droops.

---

Personality: Gwilym strikes those who are around him as a polite and kind man at best, and at his worst, an insolent and mischievous imp. Depending on what mood he finds himself in upon waking could mean all the difference between the two. He’d like to think he cuts the image of a handsome and rakish gentleman, though only those who live outside his head could tell what he really comes off as. If you were to ask him, he’d tell you he’s a gentleman looking only for a good time. He plays up his best qualities that are among those he could choose from, those being his affinity for wine and women, the ability to flirt in all manner of ways that has led to his reputation as a rampant adulterer and home wrecker, as well as the traditionally good- the ability to maintain a stiff upper lip in public and possess at least an iota of good manners.

Dig beneath the surface, and it takes quite some time, and you’ll find under the smooth shell to be a turbulent place filled with regrets and doubts. What is a man without a few? For all the goblets toasted with, there are two bottles downed in seclusion. For all the women bedded, there was always the one person he loved that he could never have. For all the whoops and hollers he’s let loose in a party while in a daze, there a hundred-hundred stifled sobs. Gwilym was always different. Prone to pick up the quill rather than the sword, prone to being a sensitive, rather than a stoic. Perhaps the divide between him and his father hurt the man as much as he hurt Gwilym. Perhaps not, and that isn’t a question he’s meaning to ask any time soon.

In any town or village he steps into, he comes with a tide of merriment and mirth. A good singing voice and a fine taste in drink has made him many short-lived friends, as he’s usually gone with the rising sun. When the great stage of those times dies down and the show is over, he resigns himself to more lonesome activities in a grey solitude. In any one of the duels he’s lost for money, there’s a certain look in his eye beforehand. If you were to tap his head and see the thoughts drip out, there’d be a morbid hope in there that the latest duel might be his last ever.

He’s more prone to drown out the world by doing his best to drown himself in wine nowadays. But damn, does his laugh sound so merry, his voice so light, and his eyes so full of life and lust...

---

History:
Gwilym was born to Lady Marille and Lord Braegan of House Ironarm, loyal defenders of the throne and the realm of the Kingdom of Jehanna. For generations, the Ironarms raised their sons to be as tough and hearty as their old Nordic ties to the first old warlords that came to High Rock. The two sons of the generation to come after their fathers were expected to not break this tradition, and so from the time they could walk, Gwilym and Desmond were put to work learning how to ride a warhorse, joust, and swing a blade. Gwilym took to it quicker than Desmond, and Desmond took to it quicker than most.

As the siblings trained together, they grew close in their bond, often playing Knight when their lessons in the blade, horsemanship, literature, mathematics, and other such subjects important to the nobility were done for the day. Leading an insular life had made them close, one another being the only friends they were allowed to have for the longest time. They spent their every waking moments together.

On Gwilym’s thirteenth Name Day, he is presented with the girl he is to marry, a beautiful specimen of Breton nobility. Though Gwilym held no knowledge of the weight of marriage, his father and Seville’s shake on it like two men agreeing to breed the best of their racehorses. Such is life in the nobility, and Gwilym carries on. Desmond, however, finds more friends among Seville’s family. As siblings do when they age, they grew apart, and Gwilym was happy to see Desmond making more friends that weren’t his elder brother. No matter that it pained him to spend less time with the brother he so loved.

But Desmond was not the only one to have Seville’s family members grow fond of him. Gwilym’s eyes snagged on Seville’s elder brother. He found himself admiring the other boy from afar, not knowing why he had such a fixation on him, and there was something in the way their eyes met when they finally did that made Gwilym’s cheeks red and warm. The two families went their separate ways after the deal was finalized, and Gwilym found after sharing a sparse few words of parting with Seville’s older brother, whose name was Artur he’d learned, that the two of them wished very much to meet again.

After that day, Gwilym could never go a long time without thinking of Artur. He wondered when next they’d meet, and what they would do when they did. Perhaps Artur liked fencing too, or would it be poetry? Gwilym was never good at that, so maybe Artur could teach him some things about it. No matter what it was, Gwilym knew he’d have fun. In the meantime, Gwilym and Desmond drilled on the fields with the Table Knights and Sergeants, spent time scribbling the words of great and old writers on parchment, and practicing mathematics. Gwilym was never good at anything that wasn’t to do with martial prowess, and Desmond’s exceeding in such went unnoticed by their gruff father. Lord Braegen’s position as Lord Marshal was well-earned, and a man like that surely favored only one thing in his sons- a talent for fighting, and the one who possessed it.

Surely, that fact didn’t help Gwilym and Desmond’s growing apart.

As they grew older and earned more autonomy with age, Desmond would frequent the training halls and tutoring libraries less and less, trading those pastimes with that of drinking and whoring. Lord Braegen quickly found that Desmond’s behavior was becoming a blight upon House Ironarm in the eyes of not only their fellow Houses, but of the commoners. It would just not do to have an unwashed peasant stepping over his absolute better face-down in the gutter when sun went down. Gwilym’s father disowned Desmond in every way but formally, laughing bitterly at his wayward son’s acting out, and often in his face in those seldom moments you could see him haunting the halls like a ghoul, moaning as he nursed another hangover.

Even so, Gwilym and Desmond attended the fencing tournaments held yearly in Jehanna as per tradition of keeping up their reputation with the lesser Houses and the public. Gwilym and Desmond were always at odds, the two seeming evenly matched until they faced each other. On those occasions, Gwilym would arise the victor, perhaps taking too much joy in the crowd’s cheering of his name. Had he been more mature, he may have been a better winner. And a better brother. But for the first time, he had his father’s blessings, and something that at least resembled love. Approval, at the very least.

It was around this time that Gwilym and Artur would inevitably meet during the tournaments, celebrating their wins and forgetting their losses both in each other’s arms when the sun went down. It was during the first time they’d seen each other since Gwilym’s engagement to Seville that the two of them learned much about each other. They had more things in common than they’d thought, and Gwilym had thought a lot on it. On one fateful night, Gwilym and Artur walk the streets in a drunken stupor, holding each other a bit too familiarly when Desmond spots them. In a rage, his brother challenges Artur to a duel, and in his drunken bravado Artur accepts. The two fight, but it does not end at first blood as Desmond gains the upper hand, knocking Artur unconscious and going for yet another blow with his sword. Gwilym, not wanting Artur dead by his brother’s hand, leaps to action. He lays low his own brother, spitting him with his dagger before he’s knocked to sleep as well by Desmond’s strong, heavy hands. It is the last thing he remembers of that night before he awakens again with the rising sun.

He is in bed, not in the streets. His father mourns Desmond’s life, his youngest son laid low by none other than Artur. Gwilym knows the truth. Gwilym keeps his mouth shut. He can not take the guilt, the weight of his own brother’s life on his shoulders. Artur is to stand trial for his crime. Instead of outing Gwilym as the murderer, he accepts his fate and pleads his guilt. He is hanged the next morning, and Gwilym packs his essentials that night. He leaves no note, says no goodbyes, only slips past the guards and stows away on the first ship out from Jehanna, going to any port.

Gwilym wanders further and further southward. He finds a place in Elsweyr, enjoying the comforts of the Khajiit that call that place their home. Wine, moon sugar, the occasional Imperial or Breton traveler that would share a bed with him. There would come a time when the septims he ran away with would be all spent, and so he asked for loans. It wasn’t long until he found himself in debt to the Renrijra Krin, among many other bad people. He took his cue that he’d overstayed his welcome in Elsweyr, and crossed the border into Valenwood first chance he got...

Biggest Regret: Perhaps being born the way he was. If women and wine were the cure, he’d have been well three times over by now, he reckons.

Never being able to tell Artur he was sorry for everything. Sorry that he’d saved his life only for it to be taken away in the end.

Or perhaps sullying his brother’s name, driving him away when he needed love the most. Hells, it’s hard to keep count anymore.

Gwilym‘s Goal: Gwilym doesn’t have many goals. Bed a woman? Live long enough to bed another, and have some wine in the meantime? Find someone who could beat him in a duel, and beat him bad?

---

Skills:
Expert: One-Handed
Adept: Sneak, Alteration, Illusion
Novice: Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Acrobatics

Spells:

Clairvoyance
Calm
Muffle
Oakflesh
Stoneflesh
Candlelight

Equipment: His long steel, a rapier of elven Moonstone with intricate basket-work
His short steel, a dagger of the same material a little longer than his forearm, finger-rings above the pommel for a choice in grip

His clothes consist of a brown longcoat worn over a green cloth shirt, tucked into black trousers. He keeps his trousers tightly bloused into his Colovian leather boots. All of his clothes may be of expensive tailoring, but the age and wear shows when inspected closely.

Misc. Possessions: He keeps the ring Artur gave him suspended on a chain around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt.

Three days’ rations
A few maps of the local area and country
Flint and steel
Boot polish
Sewing kit
Beard oil and comb
Trimming scissors
A mirror
Hairbrush
Whetstones of different roughness
Bedroll - all kept in a traveling pack

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>JENNINGS RANDOLPH HIGHWAY
>TOWARDS WHITE TREE
>JUST OUTSIDE BLACKRIVER COUNTY
>15AUG2019
>0300...///

The sun still hadn’t come up, not that the mountains would’ve let Donnelley see it. They’d been driving a couple hours now, a silent convoy on empty mountain highways. As Donnelley looked past the darkened windows into the blackness of the passing hills, the words Foster had said echoed in him. No air support, no QRF. They were all alone with a madman in these hills, and with what Laine said she’d seen, Donnelley didn’t much take to the idea that he’d be sharing a vehicle with Dulane. At least it was dark enough that no one could cast a shadow. Donnelley chanced a look at Dulane, the man still sitting cuffed next to him with a bag over his head. Donnelley wouldn’t be surprised if he had that same content smile on his face.

And he wanted to knock it off of him. He was sure Foster wouldn’t like that, so Donnelley went back to staring out the window, hand gripping his Badger’s pistol grip.

“ETA one hour.” Foster turned his head and said, the steering wheel having not turned for a long damn while.

Donnelley nodded and spoke into his comms headset, “Hounddog 1-1 to all, ETA one hour.”

“Hounddog 2-1 copies.” Came the rasp of Poker’s voice through the earpiece.

They continued driving in the shadows of the mountains, the road stretching on in a strip of darkness past the headlights. “Stars are nice out here.” Foster said to no one in particular, probably trying to keep himself awake. “Better in Nevada.”

“Never liked them.” Overman spoke the first words since the briefing and Donnelley didn’t know whether or not he liked that it made the wizard seem human.

Having a man made of stone against the things with salivating mouths just beyond the darkness was reassuring in a way. He’d seen what it did to men made of any other thing. Donnelley pulled his eyes away from Overman and back to the road.

“He’s satisfied.” Donnelley heard Dulane’s voice from under the hood, “Excited.”

Donnelley looked at Foster in the rearview, and Foster’s eyes couldn’t have been more troubled as he looked at Dulane in the backseat. Foster looked how Donnelley felt. Overman said nothing though, not even a nervous shuffle or cough out of him. There’s that man of stone, Donnelley thought. Overman replied, his voice betraying his curiosity, “The Sleeper?”

“Mhmm.” Dulane nodded, “I made a promise.”

“Yeah, we heard.” Donnelley grumbled, shifting his body to face more in Dulane’s direction and noting where he had his pistol holstered.

“He been watchin’ y’all since you came here.” Donnelley could hear the smile in Dulane’s voice. Giddy, almost childish, “Been watchin’ you, Joey Boy. Since you was a soldier in Afghanistan and blew up his mountains. Good thing he’s got other ones.”

Dulane chuckled, “We’re in ‘em.”

“You shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your brains into your lap.” Donnelley growled. His mother had called him Joey Boy. An easy nickname that anyone could’ve made up, but it still set a chill in the man’s bones to hear.

“Oh, he’d like that.” Dulane said, as if that was a pretty good suggestion Donnelley had made.

“Who is this Sleeper?” Overman asked, tone still just curious, like they were all having tea and Donnelley wasn’t getting ready to kill the man.

“Oh, he’s time. He sees it, everythin’, that which has been. Could have been.” Dulane whistled, “Will be. Death wakes the sleeper, but he’s patient. He’s watchin’ us now, could see the color of your shirt. Watchin’ and waitin’ on all of us.”

“Since Joey Boy and Steve were in Afghanistan. Since the first time Overman Came and Saw.” Dulane chuckled, “And he been watching little ol’ Ava for a long, long time.”

Donnelley frowned something dark and scooted an inch or two away from Dulane, shaking his head and looking back out the window. “He's goin’ to be so happy I kept my promise.” Dulane said, “I always have.”

Donnelley sighed, talking into his earpiece, “Hounddog 1-1 to all, everybody doin’ alright?” He said, “Stretch your legs, take a piss, switch vehicles with me?”

“I think I’m car sick.” Ava’s voice mumbled over the comms, she sounded tired but managed to insert a note of humor into her words. “Probably don’t want to ride with me right now.”

Laine watched out the window as the morning chased them through the mountains. The momentary glimpse into darkness she witnessed made her skin crawl, the slithering shadows and the unnatural grin on Dulane's face. Every human instinct told her to get away from him, to hide but her professional duty pushed her to speak over the comm after Ava.

"I can switch with you, Hounddog 1-1. I would like..." Laine felt the muscles of her neck and shoulders tighten but she continued, "I should probably spend some time with Whitetail before we arrive. If you need a break."

“Roger,” Donnelley said, casting a glance Dulane’s way, where he sat patiently with that bag over his head. He didn't like not being able to see his face, expecting it to be squirming in whatever madness he’d seen in those mines, “We can do a switch when we get into Blackriver.”

"Sounds good," Laine said, lacking enthusiasm. She sat back, clenching her hands together but remained silent.

Queen drove the UMBRA team, checking the rear view mirror he could see Ava's pale face, "If you're feeling sick you can ride up front after Dr Laine switches trucks. Might make you feel better."

“That might help, thanks.” Ava smiled as best she could, resting her head against the cool glass of her window. She rubbed her sleeve over the clammy sweat that had broken out on her forehead. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t get car sick easily.”

He grinned briefly then nodded at the countryside slowly revealing itself as the sun rose. His expression changed to a flicker of a compassionate frown that furrowed his brow. "Nerves probably, Blackriver ain't been hospitable. Closer we get, the more nervous you'll probably feel. It's nothing to be embarrassed about, not after what you've experienced there."

He drove on, following the lead SUV then glanced at Ava through the mirror, "But this time you got THUNDER with you, you'll be alright, Angel."

“Thanks Queen.” She said, a smile tugging back at the corner of her lips before she shut her eyes and pressed her head against the cool window again. She rested there for a few moments before opening her eyes again to look over to Dave sitting with her in the back. She smiled at him and held up her hand slightly to give him a wave.

Dave eyed the rearview mirror until he caught Queen's gaze, and gave the man a small nod. He still didn't like him, had little interest in being his friend, but he did appreciate the THUNDER agent being kind to Ava. He adjusted the hang of his weapon and returned Ava's smile, reaching over to quietly take her hand.

In the back of the MRAP, Ghost monitored the radio traffic in silence. He'd taken one of the seats closest to the rear personnel door, positioning himself to be first on the ground if things got hairy and they had to drop dismounts, and since they'd set off he had fallen into his usual joint-ops routine, fixing a blank Oakley stare on the SWAT officers and ignoring attempts at conversation unless they were pertinent to the mission. Let the others build rapport; Ghost was there for the Game, and a bunch of non-rate SWAT "operators" would only get in the way.

It didn’t stop them from trying though. A young man who looked like he’d seen a lot eyed Ghost. He could smell the DD214s on most of them since the prison. Some talked about the guy with a scar on his face, but most were fixated on Ghost. They’d seen a lot like him in Iraq and Afghanistan, and those that hadn’t were apt to spread stories about Delta Operators and Snake Eaters up in the mountains.

The young man, whose patch read Willard, nodded at Ghost’s Oakleys, and tugged up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of the 3rd Ranger Battalion’s insignia. “Afghanistan?”

Ghost eyed the youngster for a few moments, failing to hide a sigh of irritation. He looked at the tattoo, considered, then nodded.

"Afghanistan," he growled. "Bosnia, before that. North Africa. Iraq."

The countries weren't in any particular order, and not all of them were with Delta. He'd made a decent living before Blackwater had lost their contracts and reputation.

The youngster nodded, reaching an easy understanding and appreciation.

Poker was sat next to Ghost and nudged him in his side-plate, a small smirk on his face, “Keep it up, they’ll ask for autographs.”

Ghost grunted, unable to resist a feeling of satisfaction at the impression he'd made. He didn't like amateurs, but he did like hero worship. He leaned forward a little.

"I worked with Rangers a few times. Not bad. They get the job done." It was true; he wouldn't choose a dozen Rangers over THUNDER, but they'd been professional enough. Their TACP had impressed him the most, though. The only Airman he'd met who could hang.

Down the road the convoy went, the only light around them for miles on I-79 was the moon and their headlights. The last time Donnelley felt as uneasy among mountains was 2008 in Afghanistan, but whatever lurked in the shadowy pines here was more sinister than any masked Taliban farmer with a rusty Mosin. All along the road, his eyes scanned the nothingness for anything, and nothingness was all they found. After a long while of silence Foster spoke up, “We’re about to pass the border.”

“Hounddog 1-1 to all, we have arrived at Objective A. Halt vehicles.” Donnelley’s voice came over the comms.

The convoy slowed to a halt at the side of the road and the MRAPs made their slow and clunky turnarounds after THUNDER dismounted. After the lights of the MRAPs faded in the distance the Program Agents were cleared to shed their disguises. Anybody who knew their faces wouldn’t be fooled by patches and windbreakers. Donnelley was in full battle rattle, woodland tiger stripe and multicam backwards cap, his mask around his neck waiting to be pulled up to obscure his identity. They reviewed the maps and made sure everyone knew the plans before they mounted up and continued their drive towards White Tree.

Cresting a hill, they saw the veins of light of the tiny mining town, the sky still dark, but the horizon gaining a light blue tint from the waking sun. The hills were still filled with shadows nonetheless. “Hounddog 1-1 to all, we’re about to hit Objective B, Whitetail’s old working mine is past it a ways.” Donnelley’s voice over the comms again, “Heads on a swivel, ladies and gentlemen, eyes on your sectors. Remember ROE.”

Passing the first buildings of the town with their wheels crunching on the pock-marked, potholed, cracked roads of White Tree was like entering another world. One of still air and streets washed out in the sad light of street lamps, the neon light of open signs on the rundown storefronts and Annie’s Diner buzzing in the silence of the empty night. Donnelley felt a buzzing in his skin the deeper into Blackriver they went, and the screaming nerves only got worse when they made it into town. His hands gripped his Badger as he scanned windows and alleyways, rooftops and sidewalks, eyes narrowed to knife’s edges.

He calmly spoke into his mic, “Hounddog 1-1 to Hounddog 2-1.”

“Hounddog 2-1, go ahead, Hounddog 1-1.”

“How’s your bladder about now?” Donnelley asked.

“Fuck you.” Poker spat, but the smirk was in his voice, “Anybody see movement?”

“Negative, 2-1.” Donnelley frowned. He didn’t like how uneventful this all was. Didn’t trust it. “Watch your sectors. It’s quiet.”

“Almost too quiet.” Maui’s smiling, deep voice over the frequency.

Ava shivered and shuddered in her seat. Her skin was an unhealthy pale shade that glistened with a cold sweat. She had fallen quiet shortly after they entered Blackriver, her arms wrapped around herself and huddled as much as she could in her seat; either seeking to warm up or ease the pain of the aches that were starting to settle in.

She heard the radio chatter in her ear, but didn’t have the energy or will to answer to any of it. She was having a hard time following what they were even saying, her head felt stuffed with cotton.

Laine turned in her seat once they came to a halt, checking on the pair back there. She was struck by Ava's appearance and leaned over, reaching for her. "Hey, you look like you're getting sick, like you have a flu."

She glanced at Dave, "Check her forehead, see if she's feverish."

Her concern for Ava's distress now pushed the thoughts of Dulane back, maybe it was a convenient distraction but the young woman needed help.

"Hounddog 1-1, this is Hounddog 1-2," she said, feeling awkward with the call signs, "1-5 might need some help."

She frowned at not being sure what to say over the comms then looked around, the view that would have been a sleepy small town if not for the malice she felt or imagined. Laine's scalp prickled at the shadows in the alleys between the rundown buildings, the darkened windows. Something watched, something ancient and evil. Laine shivered, reaching for the pendant that rested under her FBI polo shirt. Before she would have scolded herself for being superstitious and jumpy but not now, not after the Hound and whatever showed itself in Dulane's shadow.

Dave was already on it, placing his hands on her forehead and neck, his brow creased with concern. He didn't feel a fever, but her state bothered him considerably. If it was up to him they'd already be getting her off the mountain.

"Maybe you need to lay down in the car, sugar," he said, his voice pitched low. "Ain't no need to put yourself through Hell."

Ava blinked her eyes open when his hand touched her forehead, blinking at him with glazed and confused eyes. “Huh?” She asked, leaning into his hand. “I think I need to lay down.” She muttered, unbuckling her seat belt and shifting across the seat to lean against Dave.

Dave put his arm around her, holding her close. He kissed the side of her head, but returned his eyes to the trees outside the vehicle, his grip tight on his weapon.

“What’s wrong?” Donnelley’s voice came over the frequency, voice tinged with concern, “Do we need to abort?”

Laine glanced back at Ava now curled on the seat, "I don't know, she just seems sick. Like she got hit with the flu but I don't think she's got a fever."

Queen glanced at the rearview mirror and caught the intimate gesture from Dave. He smirked slightly, then snorted with a shake of his head. He focused on driving then asked, "I need to make a detour to a doctor?"

“Fuck.” Donnelley hissed, looking at Foster through his mirror. The other man’s eyes were on him too, and they shared a moment of understanding. Donnelley wasn’t going to endanger one of his team needlessly.

“We need to keep going.” Overman said, not looking at them.

Donnelley frowned at the back of his head and looked over at Dulane. They couldn’t just drop him off and come back for him later. “Hounddog 1-1 to all, we’re stopping once we get out of the town.”

“Donnelley.” He heard Foster speak up from the front seat and he immediately saw what Foster was looking at. Blocking off the road was a SWAT truck, Blackriver Sheriff Dept emblazoned on the sign. Red road flares lit the roadblock up and Donnelley counted ten of them.

They were dressed and outfitted like they’d stepped out from the 90s. Vintage M16s and MP5s, soft armor vests, but they had enough guns to level the playing field. They had home turf advantage as well. Donnelley growled as the words echoed again, no air support, no QRF. Foster eased the Yukon to a halt in front of the block. One of the officers lifted a radio to his lips and his voice came from a loudspeaker, “Blackriver Sheriff Department. Any law enforcement operation goin’ on here comes through us.” He said, “We can give you an escort through Blackriver.”

Donnelley gripped his Badger’s grip, Foster tightened his fists around the steering wheel. Overman and Dulane were quiet. “What’s the plan, 1-1?” Poker’s voice over the comms.

The loudspeaker came again, “If you do not answer in a timely fashion, you must turn back. Either way, you’re gettin’ an escort.”

“What’s our play, Foster.” Donnelley spoke, eyes steady on the roadblock in front of them. “I don’t see them givin’ us any other option.”

Foster rolled down his window and showed his hand, waving at the deputies. The one holding the mic waved at another, sending him over to cross the line and greet them. No bullets yet, Donnelley thought, that was good. “How’re y’all, where you headed?”

“I’m Special Agent in Charge Shaun Forrester, FBI. We’re transporting a subject to a scene related to an ongoing investigation.” Foster said, showing his FBI badge.

“We ain’t heard nothin’.” The deputy snorted, “We’ll let y’all pass through Blackriver or turn back. We ain’t got any official notification ‘bout none of this, so you either follow us back to 79 and get your asses back to the city or turn back where y’all came from.”

“Foster…” Donnelley growled from the back, “What’re we doin’, man?”

Donnelley didn’t wait for Foster to respond, whispering into his mic, “1-1 to all, y’all keep yourselves ready.”

Dave listened to the radio chatter and tightened his grip on his rifle, gritting his teeth. "Stay low, sugar," he said quietly.

In the passenger seat of the Yukon, Ghost rolled his neck and shook out his shoulders, then did a brass-check on his rifle. A hint of a smile crept across his face, then vanished behind the skull-embroidered neck gaiter that he pulled up over his nose.

"2-2 copies," he said, his voice a low growl as he readied himself for action.

Foster sighed, offering the backwoods deputy a smile, “Look, it’s gotta be a misunderstanding, if you want to put a call in to the Clarksburg office-“

“We ain’t doin’ that shit,” The deputy stood back and leveled his rifle at Foster’s face, “Get out of the goddamn vehicle and on the ground!”

“You just need to put in a call-“

“On the fuckin’ ground!” The Deputy shouted again, jabbing the barrel of his M-16 at Foster, “Get out and put your hands behind your head!”

Laine watched the scene deteriorating before them, the roadblock and now the occupants of the lead vehicle having guns pulled on them. She felt a chill. They could not get their hands on Dulane.

"What do we do?" She asked Queen who now had one hand on his Uzi.

"Nothin' yet," he said then got on the comms, "Hounddog 2-1, we got a situation. Locals big dicking it with the lead vehicle, dunno if you can see what's going on. Looks like they're trying to force people out of the truck. Guns are out. Over."

“We see it, 2-4. Waiting on go ahead.” Poker’s voice rose a tad at the last bit, hopefully rousing Donnelley from whatever stupor that asshole was in.

Back in the lead vehicle, Donnelley eyed the Deputy next to their Yukon and the line of cops in front of them. They were stopped at a bottleneck in the road, right in front of a four-way stop. An alley was at their right, but it could hardly fit the big Yukon’s. “Got any tricks, Hounddog 3?”

“I’d prefer not to show the card up our sleeve until it matters.” Overman grumbled.

“Oh, sorry, this probably just counts as a minor inconvenience.” Donnelley narrowed his eyes at Overman, “Asshole.”

Overman sighed, glancing at Donnelley, “I’m doing this for the mission.”

“Doing what?” Donnelley hissed, until he watched Overman lean towards Foster’s window and start to speak something that drained the sound out of the world around them. Foster held his hands over his ears in confusion and Donnelley heard a pulsing ring overtake his hearing.

The Deputy lowered his M-16, moving as if someone had their hands around his wrists, unholstering his service pistol and jabbing it under his chin with his own shaking hands, “What the f-f-f-“

The Deputy’s eyes bulged through his sockets as the weapon discharged into his skull, dropping lifelessly to the ground like a marionette. A hail of gunfire shattered the tense moment, the windshield catching the small arms fire from the roadblock, cracking and bulging with the impacts.

“Fuck!” Foster yelled and tried to curl into himself, as if his arms would protect him if the mangled armor of the windshield wouldn’t, bullets punching the bulletproof glass and making it bulge inward.

Poker decided that was as much of a go ahead as any to engage, stomping his foot into the gas of the Yukon and jumping position to the front of the convoy. He turned and made the side of the Yukon a shield for Foster and Donnelley’s vehicle, “2-1, dismount, we got you covered!” Poker called out, “2-4, move up, get Whitetail a seat!”

The sudden suicide was more shocking than the gunfire that followed, Laine watched the exchange from the second Yukon and turned to Queen.

"We need Dulane, we can't let them take him," she said, ducking down instinctively as shots rang out.

Queen put the truck in drive and said over the comms, "Hounddoggies, we need us a Whitetail. Gimme some cover."

Donnelley was the first out, a fistful of Dulane’s prison jumpsuit as he hauled him out of his seat. They both kept low as Donnelley yanked the cargo door of the Yukon open and shoved Dulane inside, “Get through that fuckin’ alleyway and find your way out of town towards the objective! We’ll catch up!”

Donnelley slammed the cargo door closed and bounded for Poker’s vehicle, Foster and Overman already taking cover behind.

"Yeah buddy," Queen muttered and as soon as the door slammed shut he shoved the truck in reverse, pulling back until he was lined up with the narrow alley to make a sharp right turn then drove forward.

"Make sure your arms are inside and mirrors pulled tight," he said, the big side mirrors a hair's breadth from scraping the walls.

"Hey, Davey boy, make sure our guest is secure and comfy," Queen said, glancing at the rear view mirror and then saw Ava slumped on the seat. "Dr Laine, might check on her."

Laine pulled off her seat belt and turned back, looking for any blood but Ava was untouched, just ill and weak. The truck weaved as it burst from the alleyway and Laine almost fell into Queen but forced herself back in her seat and drew her service weapon and sat tense as he drove down the street away from the gunfire.

Ava stirred slightly from her half asleep stupor as she was flung against the side of the Yukon from the force of Queen’s driving. “What’s happening?” She asked in dazed confusion.

Laine looked over her shoulder, "Stay down, we have the attention of the Blackriver deputies. Maybe get on the floor if you can."

She glanced up at the hooded figure on the cargo space and decided against mentioning Dulane.

Dave snatched Dulane as he was pushed into the vehicle, maneuvering him into the cargo space. His heart was pounding, but curiously he found that aside from worrying about Ava, he was more excited than afraid. As the vehicle peeled off he checked his rifle and settled in, ready for order.

---

As hell broke loose on the convoy, Ghost broke into a wide grin beneath his mask. Then it vanished, his eyes going cold as the monster came to the fore.

"THUNDER dismount," he snapped. "Frag, suppress, then smoke, Yukon is mobile cover."

Then he was out and the Game began. A frag slipped into his hand before he'd even forced the door closed with his hip, and he pulled the pin, flipped the spoon, and after a two-count flung it past the windshield and into the foe. There was a hard bang, a shockwave he felt in his chest, and he popped over the hood and hammered a suppressive burst, watching the rounds strike home.

As he pulled back into the cover of the Yukon he let his rifle hang and primed a smoke grenade, then stepped back to toss it low, where it skipped across the ground and came to a rest between the vehicle and the enemy position. It popped, then hissed, and thick green smoke filled the air.

Surrounded by familiar faces as the rest of his team shoved off to find safety, Donnelley felt a weight off his shoulders. Like responsibility had left to be replaced with a single purpose- close with and kill the enemy. He trusted Queen to get his people out of there, and he trusted the men around him to do what they’d done best for years together. When the frag slipped Ghost’s hands and made a plume of dust and shrapnel, the police barricade scattered, some crawling bloodied.

Tex and Foster rose to take advantage of the panicked deputies breaking cover, but a lucky shot pitched Foster onto his back. Tex paid it no mind, Maui was the one assigned medic duty for THUNDER, and he could hear Foster cursing. Tex’s disciplined burst cut a deadly path towards the deputies and he watched one catch his lead, tripping and stumbling onto his hands and knees before dropping entirely.

Tex pounded on the passenger side window with a gloved fist, “Poker, move us up!”

The other man gave him a thumbs-up and rolled towards the blockade at an easy pace. Pops and whizzes of passing incoming fire, the concrete near them chipping and shattering with the incoming rounds. Tex kept behind the Yukon, Foster back on his feet with Maui.

“Frag out.” Tex’s voice rose in the comms as he chucked a grenade towards the general direction of the blockade. He heard the detonation, but it’s effects were unknown. Hopefully they at least kept some heads down. “We’re goin’ to need to get off the streets, into one of these shops.”

“If I can get rooftop access, I can give you overwatch.” Maui spoke up.

"Go," Ghost snapped. "Take Foster, get to high-ground. Tex, covering fire."

He put action to his words and fired a quick burst through the plate glass of the nearest storefront. He was reluctant to use another grenade on a pack of amateurs. Instead he sighted on a target towards the edge of the blockade, where the smoke was doing less to conceal them. The cop was in the open, standing still, his antique M16 raised in a 90s chicken-wing stance.

A gentle caress of the heavily customized trigger saw the man drop, the heavy .300BLK round crashing through the bridge of his nose and filling his helmet with his brains. Ghost felt a brief moment of satisfaction before putting a pair of covering bursts through the smokescreen.

"This isn't a fight," he grumbled.

As much as Tex appreciated a good old fashioned gunfight, he was glad it was disappointing Ghost. It meant that it would be over quick, if they were lucky. He leaned out from the Yukon, offering just the slightest sliver of himself from behind cover and let loose a controlled triplet at the first unlucky cop he saw, a blob of movement through the haze of smoke. The shape ducked down, but Tex had to flinch back behind cover when rounds sent splinters of glass off the Yukon in his face. “Fuck!”

The heavy incoming fire cut a swathe across the street as Foster and Maui sprinted for the storefront to their right, the pops and whizzes adding urgency to their pace. Maui stumbled and rolled as Foster went crashing through the plate glass window. The big Hawaiian operator got back to his feet and followed Foster through, his voice coming over the comms, “I’m fucking hit, bro!” He said, more angry than panicked, “I can still move, we’re looking for a ladder, keep moving up.”

"God dammit, will you idiots stop getting shot!" Ghost roared into the comms, firing another burst around the Yukon. The bolt snapped back, and he exchanged the empty magazine for a full one without conscious thought. "These are barely more than rednecks with deer rifles, and we've got shit to do after this!"

---

Queen turned down the street that ran parallel to the road they were just on and he could hear the exchange over the comms. He glanced at Dave in the rearview mirror, his first thought was to go around behind those cops and flank but then his gaze fell to Ava's huddled form.

"Fuck," he muttered, his responsibility was to get UMBRA out of danger and he would have to leave his own team to their fate. He stomped on the gas to keep from changing his mind, rushing towards the outskirts of town.

Laine gripped the oh shit bar as the Yukon made the sharp turn, she too could hear the voices over the comms and held her gun in her lap. If they ran into Blackriver deputies, she might have to use it.

"You know where you're going?" She asked Queen as he raced down the road.

"Taking y'all away from the action," Queen said, not looking away from the road. "I think we can find a spot outside town, just gotta make it through. THUNDER has their boys occupied. We should be fine."

Laine kept her grip on her gun, watching the still sleeping town rush by as they hauled ass away from the blockade.

Queen glanced again at Dave, it would fall to them if anyone tried to stop them, maybe the FBI doc might pull the trigger but then again she might have some fucking moral quandary. Dave, despite Queen's personal feelings, had proven himself in the intense training at Langley and Tex had attested to the Ozark boy's toughness. Queen trusted Tex so in extension trusted Dave to be able to do his job.

"How you holding up, Dave?" He asked without his usual mocking tone.

"I'm ready." Dave's drawl was easy, relaxed, his nerves masked for Ava and Laine's sake. Inside his heart was pounding, and his hands were sweaty inside his Mechanix gloves, but he schooled his features into a cool, composed expression.

He looked down at Ava, bundled onto the floorboard, and leaned down to stroke her hair for a moment. "Gonna be alright, sugar. Queen can drive an' I can shoot, an' Laine is smarter than me an' him."

---

“Alright, I’m in position,” Maui’s voice came over the comms. Already, he had taken up his vantage point and Tex could hear the cracks of Maui’s rifle raining down pinpoint death. “Scratch one. They’re falling back to their armored truck.”

“Poker, keep us movin’.” Tex said, keeping his head low on their steady advance as he seated his new mag. “We’ll keep advancing until they fall back. They’ll be heading in Queen’s direction, we’ll limp our trucks to rendezvous.”

Ghost peeked around the Yukon. They were losing their smoke, the wind beginning to disperse the dense green cloud. Several of the cops were down, others were clustered near one of their vehicles, seeking what cover they could.

He was loathe to use another grenade; frags were a precious commodity. Still, a chance like this was too good to pass up, and he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least it would help wrap things up before any more of his loyal morons got themselves shot by the rabble.

The big operator did another corner-peek, then stuck the barrel of his shortened rifle around the truck and fired four blind shots. The purpose wasn't to kill, but to distract, and hopefully keep that group in cover.

He quickly palmed a grenade and yanked the pin, then flipped the spoon.

One...Two…

Ghost leaned, aimed, and tossed the grenade in a heartbeat, flipping the weapon over the enemy's cover with an almost nonchalant underhand throw.

“Holy sh-“ Tex heard the scream and the loud boom of the frag grenade. Scratch another one, he thought. He peeked around the corner and saw them scattering like roaches, sighting up on one and squeezing off a burst. The deputy stumbled, his rifle clattering and skidding away from him as he landed on the ground.

“Fuck! I’m hit, I’m hit!” The deputy bleated. A shot rang out and the Deputy went limp and lifeless.

“One down.” Maui’s voice over the comms. “They’re booking it, we gonna chase them?”

Ghost popped a couple of ineffectual rounds at the two remaining deputies as they fled.

"Probably should," he grumbled. "See if you can put them down from your angle. Poker, we want to go after them if he can't?"

“Yeah, I’ll take you closer.” Poker said.

Tex watched the remaining two deputies run for their lives, now regretting accosting a convoy full of top secret killers. As he sighted up on the pair, he thought to himself, how had they known they were coming? He squeezed off a few rounds to no effect, cursing under his breath as the deputies turned down an alleyway and disappeared. “Everybody get to the truck, we don’t have time for this. 2-4 is waiting for us to get to Objective C.”

Following his own words, Tex yanked the passenger door open and climbed in, Poker nodded at him, “I saw you miss.”

“Fuck yourself.” Tex shook his head.

“Help me deal with this mess of a windshield, man.” Poker nodded at the screen of cracks and bulges, almost completely unable to be seen through.

Poker and Tex went to work punching out the windshield of the Yukon, the sheet of strong glass sliding off the hood and scuffing on the streets. The rest of the team made their way back to the Yukon and they fled the scene hastily. Almost miraculously, the wheels of the Yukon had gone unscathed by the fire of the untrained deputies. Maui and the others sat in the back, the big Hawaiian patching up his own wound, a bullet wound that had been shallow. If it was any worse, they wouldn’t have heard the end of it. “1-1 to 2-4, we’re en route to your position.”

It didn’t take long for them to find the other Yukon. The sleek black SUV like a sore thumb in the ragged streets. Poker pulled up alongside the idling vehicle on the side of the road some ways outside of town. Tex tried rolling down his window but found that it had been broken off its track a few inches down, showing only his eyes. He nodded at Queen in the driver’s seat of the other Yukon, “Oralé, mi hermano.”

Queen breathed out a sigh and grinned as the beat up Yukon rolled up. He put down the window, leaning in his elbow as Tex peaked out.

"¡Acere, qué bolá!" He said, flashing a smile, "Just waiting on y'all having all the fun."

He eyed the bullet marked truck then raised his brows. Queen moved back suddenly, Laine pushing herself into his space, "Donnelley, are you alright? Is anyone hurt?"

Queen leaned back but did not look too upset with the FBI agent across his lap and made a lascivious expression that flashed quickly across his face before he caught himself.

“Maui’s hit, but he’s alright. How’s Ava?” Donnelley asked, “Didn’t encounter much resistance out here?”

Laine shook her head, "Nothing, no one bothered us and Ava's not feeling well, she's weak and looks like a flu, maybe. Dave's taking care of her."

The flu. Laine hardly believed that but what other explanation for her sudden onset of fatigue and nausea and instinctively she glanced back at the cargo space where Dulane sat silent in the hood.

“We need to get to Objective C, Queen. We’ll take the lead.” Donnelley rolled his window back up, their Yukon resuming the trek out to the hills past White Tree towards Dulane’s former working mine. “Hope this shit don’t make it into the news.”

Laine buckled her seatbelt and glanced over at the backseat, unable to see Ava except for her red curls.

Queen waited for the shot up truck to take the lead, pulling behind them and following at a couple car lengths to leave enough room to maneuver but close enough not to get strung out and allow another vehicle to get between them.

His Uzi sat on the cup holders and the adrenaline melted away, unspent as their flight had been fairly easy. He felt the itch, the desire for the cocaine in his pocket becoming stronger but the occupants of the truck were a deterrent. Instead, Queen took a cigarette from the green box tucked into one of the tactical pockets and lit up.

Those in the lead vehicle drove in silence, Poker had his mask up to shield himself from the wind and Donnelley followed suit. There was something that plagued his mind the more he thought about it, “How the fuck did they know we were comin’?” He thought aloud, “How the fuck did they know our route?”

Foster narrowed his eyes and looked around, eyes settling on Donnelley. He was likely mulling over the same thing. The Operation was insulated, UMBRA and THUNDER were the only ones who knew. Overman was silent for a long while, stuffed in the cargo space to his chagrin, “You’ve got a mole.”

“No shit, genius. We’ve known that since Carlisle.” Donnelley retorted, “Who’d know though?”

---

No one had an answer. He couldn’t picture anyone putting a mission like this in jeopardy. To Donnelley, there was no personal gain from impeding the investigation into dead girls in the dark heart of Appalachia. He understood that not everyone was like him though. All the evidence he needed for that claim was gotten long ago, far before the Program, far before his stint in Special Forces. When he kicked in a door or two and found little girls and boys with too much age in their eyes and not enough food. Doped up sometimes, dead behind the eyes most times.

Needles in the bathroom sink, meth pipes on the dinner table. White Tree wasn’t special. But whatever was in these hills was. The passing trees and slowly brightening sky surrounded them as they stopped their vehicles at a closed off road that turned off from the main one. This was their stop, moment of truth. He gathered his people around him and trusted they were up for the task still. Ava still looked like death, but there was a mission to be done. They’d all gone this far, and Donnelley didn’t mourn UMBRA’s dead just to turn back. “We’re goin’ on foot from here. Only way through these roads is hikin’.” He said, “Forgive me if I don’t trust Dulane here to be a faithful guide, but him and the maps we got are the only things we do.”

He looked around at his team. Laine, Dave, Jason, Ava, Foster. THUNDER too. “Any of you wanna turn back, go ahead. But you call up Dawant and tell him to take you to Maria’s grave and apologize to her parents that you just couldn’t find it to bring the people behind it all to justice.” No one moved. Donnelley nodded, “Let’s go.”

As the others prepped their gear, double-checking everything, Donnelley found Ava and brought her to the side with him. They were out of earshot of the others, but he could speak plainly even if they weren’t. He watched her swaying in place, paler than usual, and offered her a concerned expression, “You don’t need to push yourself for this. I mean it.” He said, “I can have someone stay with you.”

Ava blinked her eyes, trying to focus on Donnelley’s face and wondering if her contacts had slipped out of place as the edges of everything seemed to have a gaussian blur to them. Her head was foggy to the point that the dull ache she felt behind her eyes didn’t really bother her. “Am I a liability?” She asked after taking an extra moment to process what he said and formulate a response.

Donnelley almost cringed at her choice of words, punching him almost as hard as it did her. No matter the fondness for his team, he had to be honest. If anything, it was in their best interest. As he saw it, a long ruck wasn’t in Ava’s, “I can’t have you traipsin’ in these woods like you are.” Donnelley pursed his lips, “No shame. How far’s the range on them drones?”

She frowned, staring down at the dirt as she tried to remember the range of the drones. “EVE can fly...20-ish miles. WALL-E doesn’t go as far, you can probably take him though. Use him for the mines.” She ran a hand over her forehead, the fingers holding a faint tremor in the digits. “I’m sorry, I don’t...Don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’ll be alright, okay?” Donnelley laid a hand on Ava’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, “After we get this done, we can figure it out. I promise.”

Donnelley nodded to the trucks, “For now, just rest. Who do you want stayin’ with you?”

“I can.” Overman’s voice over Donnelley’s shoulder, “I have a, uh, feeling about what’s going on with her.”

Donnelley narrowed his eyes, turning from Ava and looking Overman over. To Donnelley, the man was an outsider, and him treading so close to a private conversation was enough for Donnelley to feel a little bitter, “Yeah?” He hissed.

“Yes,” Overman nodded, his expression not changing with Donnelley’s defensiveness, “I’m under a spell too. Not in, ah, that way. I’ve felt this way before.”

Donnelley looked at Ava, inclining his head for her to voice her decision. It was hers to make. “I can get Queen or…” he shrugged.

Ava blinked over at Overman, trying to fully register that he was there. She stared for a moment, processing the information before turning her head to call out as best she could, “Dave!” Once she saw him perk up to the call of his name she turned back to Overman. “You know what’s wrong with me?” She asked, fighting to keep her body from swaying too much the longer she stood. She wanted to sit down. “Can you make it stop?”

“It’s simple.” Overman nodded, he looked from Dave back to Ava, and stepped just a bit closer, “But we can’t do anything about it now. Not yet.”

Overman turned to Donnelley, “If you want her to get better, we need to start moving now. The quicker we get this done and get out of here, the quicker she’ll feel better. And me.”

Donnelley sighed, a low growl in the silent moment. He looked at Ava and considered her condition, and looked back to Overman, “Fine.” Donnelley looked to Ava with some resolve, “We’ll get this done. Hold us to it.”

She nodded before leaning herself against Dave. “Can Dave stay with me too?” She asked.

“I’m okay with that,” he said, almost instantly. He slipped his free hand around her waist, kept his other on his AK, and gave Overman a quick look. “I mean, we probably need some sorta gun here, right?”

Donnelley didn’t like the prospect of losing one of his shooters, no matter how newly-minted the title was for Dave. Not only that, but the damned warlock was electing to stay behind. Having Dulane around and finding whatever they would in these hills without someone who knew how to level the playing field wasn’t something Donnelley was keen on. He opened his mouth to speak, finding his eyes gravitate to where Dave’s hand had found a perch. He looked to where Laine was, checking her gear, knowing he’d do the same for her. He’d vowed it after almost watching her die that first day on the job.

Or maybe he was projecting. Either way, he looked back to the three of them that were staying back and nodded, “Okay.” He tried his best smile on, a little small for his liking, but it’d do to cover up his disappointment with the circumstances, “No joy rides.”

Dave nodded, trying to keep his relief from showing. Ava suddenly falling ill was bothering him in ways he couldn’t quite put into words; he wasn’t afraid to go on a gunfight, but the idea of leaving her behind with some witch stuck in his craw.

“No joyrides, gotcha,” he said, forcing a small smile of his own. “Hear that, sugar? You gotta behave.”

Ava nodded, resting her head on his chest, grateful to have his solid weight to keep her standing upright. “No surprise Taco Bell runs.” She mumbled, giving Donnelley a thumbs up.

Donnelley sucked his teeth, hoping to stoke the smoldering humor Ava was trying to drudge up. They all needed it. “You know if you leave now, you might have it waitin’ for us when we get back.” He said, “Bean burrito for me.”

She smiled dimly and chuckled. “Maybe a bunch of greasy fast food would take away this headache.” She lightly bumped her head against Dave. “Is there anything else?”

“Keep safe.” Donnelley nodded, “We’ll be checkin’ in every half-hour or so. We miss one of the check-ins…”

He turned deadly serious and looked at Dave, “Don’t come lookin’.”

Dave grimaced. “Yeah, that’s probably fair,” he said. “And uh, likewise. Chances are if somethin’ takes us all out at once, it ain’t nothin’ the group coulda helped with, right?”

Donnelley shrugged, his smile turning sheepish, “I liked talkin’ ‘bout burritos better.” He said, and nodded to Overman, “‘Sides, you got Dumbledore here.”

---

Donnelley expected to be chuffing lung about now, but those hours in the gym had helped. His breathing was steady and he was almost tempted to check his pulse as if this was a leisurely hike. For a moment, as he looked at Laine keeping up with him, him and his dumb little smile could almost swear it was. And then from the back of the pack, he heard Dulane giggle like a schoolboy and mutter something about promises or the Sleeper just before Poker told him to shut the fuck up.

“How you holdin’ up?” Donnelley asked Laine, “Ain’t this a nice walk?”

Laine walked along, the squats Ghost had pushed her through during the time at Langley paying off as she could feel herself passing the usual threshold of endurance. Her short dark hair was damp at her temples from exertion but her breathing was even.

She glanced at Donnelley in his tiger striped camouflage gear, feeling strangely out of place in the dark FBI polo and tactical pants. Laine caught his expression and smiled slightly despite her worry.

"I'm doing alright, at least with the hike," she said, "I thought about talking to Dulane but...I don't think he's in condition for a conversation. Leaving Overman behind, too. I don't know."

She shrugged, feeling that crawling discomfort up her spine, the memory of the squirming tendrils in the shadow of the man made her glance over her shoulder.

Laine looked back at Donnelley, searching his face and his eyes, "How are you doing?"

“Well,” Donnelley looked over his shoulder at the line behind them, Maui and Poker were talking. Queen was talking at Ghost and the big operator was ignoring him. Dulane was being Dulane, “Kinda hit the nail on the head. I don’t like Overman not bein’ here. Feel like I don’t have a gun.”

Donnelley sighed, shaking his head, “And we’re down one shooter.” He said, “Ava’s sick with I don’t know what. Overman’s the only one who knows about it and Dave won’t leave her alone with him.”

He shrugged, “Guess I can’t blame him.”

"That's the feeling, a vulnerability without our expert," Laine agreed, watching a bird flap frantically from the bushes ahead of them. It disappeared into the branches overhead and the sky beyond.

"It's strange, but I've seen flu hit hard and fast, yet," she paused, stepping over a root pushing up from the earth. "I don't think it's a virus, I think it's this place or maybe it's Dulane and whatever is..."

Laine gave Donnelley a look, a moment of doubt before the professional expression returned, "Whatever he brought with him."

The mention of Dave made Laine smile a little and she said, "Of course he wouldn't leave her, he's got it bad for our techie."

Donnelley let out a loud chuckle, catching himself and looking behind him to see if anyone was paying attention, “I’m glad I ain’t the only one to notice. He doesn’t even try to hide it.” He smiled, looking at a squirrel scurrying up a tree, “I’m his fuckin’ supervisor and he got handsy right in front of me.”

“At least I keep my extracurricular activities under wraps.” He smirked and glanced at Laine, “I miss the hell out of those activities right about now. Saving the world gets stressful.”

"Staking his claim in front of another male, even if you are friends," Laine said, glancing at him. "Well, he's not a professional, he’s probably not thinking about HR."

Laine grinned at his comment, looking down at the ground for a moment, "You're not alone in feeling that way."

She looked back up at him, a little twinkle in her green eyes, a brief distraction from the looming conclusion of their hike.

Laine lowered her voice, leaning in a little towards him, "Ever do it in a haunted mine?"

Donnelley’s smirk grew a bit wider, “First time for everythin’. Think we can ditch these squares back there?”

She laughed, covering her mouth to quiet herself, flashing a crooked smile at Donnelley. "I'm pretty sure, there's lots of tunnels. We just need one."

Donnelley chuckled, “This might be the wrong time to bring it up, but assumin’ we do what we always do and come out the other side of this,” he shrugged, trying to find words that weren’t so blatant, “You ever wanted to, uh, use the other one. You know, just try.”

Laine bit her lower lip, smothering a sputter of laughter. She took a deep breath, sobering her expression as best she could. She turned to him, her mouth trembling as it fought back an amused smile. "Did you really just... did you just ask for the key to the backdoor?"

She felt another giggle bubble up and covered her mouth, giving Donnelley a mischievous glance. After a moment she got control of herself and said, "Well, you'll just have to survive to find out."

Donnelley let out a sigh of contentment, smiling with closed eyes, “Finally, a cause worth fightin’ for.”

“Hey, what the fuck!?” Donnelley turned to see what Poker was yelling about to see Dulane barrel into him and send him sprawling onto his back. Donnelley swore and rolled over onto his stomach, sighting up on Dulane just in time to see him disappear down another trail, running as if the hood didn’t even bother him. His ankle shackles and cuffs were long gone.

“Hold your fire!” Foster yelled, putting his hands out to keep everyone from squeezing triggers, “Get the hell after him and get him detained!”

Laine's smile vanished as Dulane shoved by her, knocking Donnelley down and rushing by. It took a moment to register he was no longer shackled.

"How the hell...?" She did not finish the thought before she was running after him, they needed Dulane.

The trail was wide enough but overgrown branches still managed to slap at her as she charged after the escaping con.

"Stop! FBI, get on the ground!" she shouted, the old agent training kicking in even when it made no sense. This was more than a prison break, there was a wild urgency in the air.

Queen’s mouth was running again, something about Cabo and hookers and blowing off post-mission steam. Ghost wasn’t sure if he was reminiscing, or making suggestions for after this gig. He’d lost the thread of the conversation soon after it had started, and had never bothered to pick it back up. Instead he played Oakley-shielded eyes over the underbrush around them, tuning out the background chatter with the ease of years of experience.

It was the movement more than anything that caught Ghost’s eyes. The sudden flurry of motion drew him like a breaking deer draws a wolf, and after taking a half second to process, a half second longer than he’d have needed five years ago, he was moving too, pelting into the woods with his rifle tucked into the crook of his arm. His knees hadn’t started to protest yet, but they would soon, and he was already silently reminding himself to pull the rabbit punch he intended to punish Dulane with, lest he break the bastard’s neck for making him run.

Donnelley was hot on Ghost’s heels, finding it almost impossible that the bigger man was keeping up with them just as well. His blood was still running hot after getting bowled over by that insane fuck, and he had his teeth bared for Dulane’s neck as he pumped his legs on the trail, boots pounding on the packed dirt.

“I’m gonna shoot you, you motherfucker!” He roared as made his sprint, but Dulane seemed almost tireless, always keeping a few meters in front of them.

Every time they gained on him, it seemed he just started running faster. Donnelley’s legs and lungs started burning, but he pushed through the pain. The whole way, they only managed to pace him until they slowly started to fall back. As he watched Dulane, he wondered if he was letting them follow him. Where was he leading them? Did he even know?

Without warning, Dulane jumped into the underbrush, wading through the thick of it towards what looked like an old trapper’s cabin hidden deep in the trees. Dulane collided with the door, but it didn’t budge, shaking in place. The deranged inmate banging on the wood and screaming to be let in. He dropped to his knees in the dirt and began ripping up clods of it, blubbering sobs erupting from his throat.

The human body is surprisingly resilient. Typically, it can sustain an impressive amount of damage before anything becomes truly serious. This was all Dulane had going for him as over 315 pounds of pissed off Operator slammed into him at maximum sprint. Ghost had seen the threat, categorized it, and decided that maximum impact was the best way to bring the chase to a close before his knees really started to protest the strain they were under.

Ghost met Dulane chest-first, his rifle snug against his side beneath his right arm. The moment he struck the raving man he wrapped his left tightly around him and simply allowed his momentum to bring them to the ground, where his full bulk landed squarely on the shrieking convict. Ghost kept him clenched against him as they tumbled, and then as they came to a stop he took the mount, ignoring his own breathlessness in favor of thrusting his forearm beneath Dulane’s chin, ready to snap his neck at the first sign of resistance.

Donnelley crashed out of the treeline and skidded to a halt behind Ghost, sliding on his knees to help restrain the convict. He trusted Laine to cover the cabin’s doors and windows, whatever might be inside this dilapidated shack. He cranked Dulane’s arms behind his back so Ghost could get to work cuffing the man, “I’ll give it to you, Dulane,” Donnelley said between breaths, “You’re a fast sumbitch.”

"Not fast enough," Ghost growled. He pulled the police-issue cuffs from his belt, slapping them on and cranking them down perhaps a notch or two tighter than was appropriate, doing his best to conceal his heavy breathing for the sake of his pride. Fuck him for making me run.

That done he stood and grabbed Dulane by his collar, hauling him upright and taking control of him with his left hand, his right automatically going to the grip of his rifle and angling the weapon towards the nearest window.

"Fuck is this?" Ghost said, nodding at the cabin. "Something in there worth getting your arms broken over, freak?" He gave Dulane a shake, like an unruly child, to indicate that he was being spoken to.

Dulane was still letting loose his grating sobs, shaking his entire body with it. Donnelley was starting to get real tired of Dulane’s shit and he wrapped his fist in Dulane’s hood and yanked it off of his head. To his surprise, what he thought were sobs was laughter, a jubilant expression on Dulane’s face. A manic happiness only the insane owned.

“The fuck’s your deal, Dulane.” Donnelley stepped back and muttered, unsettled by the change of mood.

“Joey boy,” Dulane chuckled, his laughter dying down a bit as he fixed Donnelley’s eyes with a gross stare, “Come and see. Come and See, come and see, come and see, come and see!”

Donnelley wrapped his hand around Dulane’s mouth and held a finger in his face, “If you don’t keep your fuckin’ teeth together, boy, I’ll knock ‘em out of your face.”

A few giggles escaped from between Donnelley’s fingers. He fixed Dulane with a death glare and let him go roughly, “What the fuck is in this cabin?”

“You shouldn’t have left them Joey Boy. You shouldn’t have let them go into these hills alone.” Dulane slowly shook his head, a mechanical turning from left to right, eyes fixed on Donnelley.

“Who?” Donnelley swallowed, “Who?”

“You know who, Joey Boy,” Dulane smiled, “Death wakes the Sleeper. Every each one makes him stir a bit. Laurie, Weissman-“

Donnelley didn’t let another word out of that loose fucking mouth of Dulane’s, cutting him off with a right hook. He clamped his hands on his shoulders and took up fistfuls of his jumpsuit, driving his helmet into Dulane’s nose hard enough to hear the sharp crack of a breaking nose. “You don’t say their fuckin’ names!”

“Help!” Dulane yelped in his new nasally voice, “Don’t let him hurt me no more… Jake.”

He looked to Ghost with that same thousand-yard, piercing stare.

Ghost's reaction was instantaneous. He grabbed Dulane by the head with both hands and flung him to the ground, following him down. A hard, punishing right crashed into his jaw and then Ghost rocked back, jammed the barrel of his rifle into his mouth, and clicked off the safety. All Dulane did was smile around the flash hider and feverishly nod his head.

“Ghost.” Donnelley said, his own rifle shouldered, but his forward hand held out in trying to keep Ghost from putting a new hole in Dulane.

Laine did as Donnelley expected, panting hard after the run and burst of adrenaline, she managed to hold her Glock steady. She kept it trained on the door, moving closer with slow, measured steps.

The commotion Dulane made was enough to alert anything in a mile radius let alone the cabin. She could hear him ranting in the high pitched manic voice, calling them names from the past.

She paused at his address to Ghost, calling him "Jake" and the instant violent reaction.

Laine called out, keeping her distance to cover them, "Don't listen to him, he's trying to get in your heads. Ghost, please don't kill him! We need him."

Ghost’s hand was white-knuckle tight around the pistol grip, his finger a hair’s breath from sending a burst of rounds through the back of Dulane’s skull. He mastered himself with a visible effort, his rage plain in his gritted teeth and tense jaw. Finally he snapped the rifle’s safety back on and stood, planting his heavy boot on Dulane’s gut as he levered himself upright.

“I’ll kill you when we’re done,” he promised, looking down at Dulane. “You’ll die slow.”

Laine glanced at Ghost finally pulling away from Dulane and breathed out, "Thank you."

His threat set her back on edge, it was spoken without rage, in a clear and matter of fact tone that the torture and death could have been a promise to drop Dulane at the bus station. Laine felt a chill but said nothing, it was not the time nor was Ghost one to argue with. She would address it later.

Laine stepped away, turning her focus back on the cabin, her gun still out as she moved forward, trying to look through any window from her vantage point.

Donnelley hadn’t heard the crashing of feet from the treeline in all the excitement, and Maui’s voice almost made him flinch, “Goddamn, y’all are mean, bro.”

He eyed Maui standing with the others and spat to the side, “Fucker started it.”

He turned back to look at the old cabin and something quickly came to realization for him. The door looked too new. He sighted up on the door and spoke for Ghost and Laine to hear, “I wanna figure out what’s in this shack.”

As they formed up on the door, Donnelley ran his hands along the edges of the frame. Feeling nothing out of the ordinary, he stepped back and retrieved his shotgun from his back. He jammed the breaching muzzle into the door at an angle and squeezed the trigger, a loud bang and the lock was shredded by the breaching shot, another loud bang and the knob was gone. Donnelley replaced his shotgun and flicked on the light of his Badger, scanning the ground for any tripwires. The last time they went into a cabin in Blackriver, Laine had almost gotten her ankles blown off.

The only thing they’d need now was a septic tank. He stepped through the threshold tentatively, not keen on something reaching out to grab him or any other thing his colorful imagination could conjure up. The words echoed in his head as he saw what lay inside. Laurie, Weissman…

“Oh my god…” The words tumbled from Donnelley’s lips in a reedy whisper. From outside, and a mile away, he heard Dulane start to laugh again. He could only stare at what he saw inside the cabin, gawping at the sight. Donnelley listened to Dulane’s laughing only getting higher and higher, and more manic by the second.

Ghost followed Tex in, steering the giggling Dulane along with a powerful hand on the back of his neck. He cleared the doorway quickly, bringing the smaller man with him; to the well-trained eye, it was clear that while his rifle was up and ready to go into action, Dulane was suspiciously between the Operator and any potential threat. He played his gaze over the contents of the cabin for a moment.

“Gross,” he grunted.

Laine started to follow Donnelley, her heart thumping in her chest as if she was still sprinting through the woods. Her hands trembled as she held her gun, the tightening in her gut increasing with each step. Dulane's laughter was unnerving and she was rapidly losing her cool.

"Shut him up," she muttered, closing her eyes briefly to try to focus herself but in the brief darkness she saw the dead eyes and gray face, the hands of slick rotting flesh reaching out to her.

Laine's eyes flew open, her breathing fast as she examined the doorway despite the two men already entering and she stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

They hung like coats but with arms and legs, hollow eyed faces that flopped forward onto sagging chests. Two female, one male it registered in Laine's mind. It was his work, her thoughts flashed before she looked at Dulane, his jibbering laughter and felt a chill. It was the deaths that awakened the Sleeper.

Laine felt herself sway, suddenly recognizing a tattoo still visible on the arm of the male. Laurie had that tattoo, she was certain, though recalling it seemed like reaching back through the fog of years.

She took a step back, unable to look away from Dulane, he knew something. Laine demanded, "Who did this?"

"Who fucking did this? WHO, Dulane, you fucking know who did it!"

Her voice raised to a pitch that was near cracking.

“Someone who made a promise,” Dulane said, locking his eerie gaze and wolf’s grin on Laine, “Just like me. The Sleeper’s been here since before you, or me, or any of us. He wanted you to come and see this, and know our faces are not our own! Our flesh and our skin are fickle things, blankets wrapping us until we shed them!”

“Death is beautiful. Like a deep lake or a river,” Dulane laughed, looking at all of them in the cabin and speaking like he was addressing a congregation listening to his sermons, “We float on the surface, but there’s so much more underneath it we can’t see.”

He looked at Donnelley, “Death isn’t the end of us. Our skin can be like a serpent’s. All you need is faith.”

Dulane sprang away from Ghost laughing, his cuffs having fallen away again. Donnelley shouldered his rifle before arterial spray sprinkled across the room like a warm, light rain. Dulane stumbled to his left and crashed into a table, grinning with bloody pink teeth before collapsing to the floor.

“Shit!” Donnelley rushed forward and clamped a hand over Dulane’s spurting gash across his neck, “Maui, Jason!”

“Oh fuck!” Maui exclaimed as he and the other man barged into the cabin. The two stepped up to kneel with Donnelley, but all of them knew by the glassy eyes and slack face that it was a lost cause.

Donnelley fell back on his ass, resting his arms on his knees and frowned at Dulane’s corpse. Jason unwrapped the dead man’s hand and held up a razor blade, “Found his weapon.”

Laine screamed, covering her face as the blood sprayed. "No!"

She stumbled back, rubbing her eyes and turned away, being shoved aside as Maui and Jason rushed in. Laine pressed herself against the wall, watching the scene unfold.

They lost him, Dulane was dead and the skin suits hung there like accusations. She had been so close, he knew. Dulane had to have known and now he was a bloody heap on the floor and his knowledge of Maria's killer gone with him.

Laine felt a helpless fury and pushed off the wall, rushing past Donnelley to Dulane's corpse and gave it a hard kick. "You fucking asshole! You knew!"

Ghost had examined the hanging skins dispassionately, but when Dulane slipped his cuffs and darted away he swore. His rifle came up but he hesitated, not wanting to blow the man’s head off before they had the information they needed. When he saw the razor flash and the blood spray he lowered his weapon; he had cut enough throats to know that they weren’t saving him.

“Shit,” he grunted. He keyed his mic. “Hounddog Actual, Hounddog 2-2, Whitetail is down.”

---

Overman hung his head, eyes screwed shut and tapping his finger along to the pulsing of his headache. It seemed to have reached a crescendo a few minutes ago and he was surprised he wasn’t spitting blood with how hard he was clenching his teeth. If he was having trouble dealing with this, he could only imagine how Ava was doing in the other Yukon. He felt for her, he did, but he didn’t dare work his tricks on her while Dave was present.

The mountain man struck him as the old time religious type, superstitious and prone to flinching at the bumps in the night. He was like him once, until Afghanistan. He’d never forget. The stars would never look the same to him, make him feel the same. He felt in these mountains was the same rot and vileness older than time. Tethered together somehow, and he was tracing the lines so closely here that his body rebelled against him with the pain of it. Like holding his hand too close to fire.

---

Ava shuddered, her body curled in on itself as much as she possibly could to try and ease the horrid sensation prickling along her skin and twisting her gut with nausea. The pounding in her head grew worse and worse with each beat of her heart. She gripped her fingers tightly into her hair, not sure if the wetness on her cheeks was sweat or tears; probably both.

The throbbing kept getting worse, it felt as though her head was about to split open as it became harder and harder to breathe.

She didn’t know how much time had passed, she couldn’t even remember where she was as the illness wracking her body seemed to grow more intense.

Her eyes shut so tight she could see blotches of colors and sparks dancing across the darkness. Then the amorphous darkness ceased. Before her eyes she saw a winding tunnel of a cavern, the stone black like obsidian.
The tunnel rushed past her until with almost jarring clarity, she was looking at a deep lake among the trees and mountains. The landscape was beautiful, but for some reason it felt...alien. Like something wasn’t quite right about the towering pines and the deep blue waters.

The sky above the lake began to darken, fading to black with the exception of the bright yellow sun which for some reason stayed present in the center of her vision. To her numb horror, she watched the sun bulge and shift like a snake was beneath the surface. The sun broke apart into six yellow orbs, like a cell dividing.

As the hallucinatory sun broke into six separate stars, a sound began to penetrate the heavy thudding of her heart and the shakiness of her breathing. A loud bestial howl, twisted with pain and madness began to resonate in her ears.

Just as it felt the howl would deafen her forever, the six yellow lights turned into six yellow eyes.

Then, abruptly, the vision was gone. The pain in her head cleared and suddenly she could breathe normally again. Her eyes snapped open as she gasped, pushing herself upright on the back seat of the Yukon.

---

He opened his eyes as his headache vanished, the pain and pressure evaporating like someone had snapped their fingers and made it all go away. Something must have happened. He looked around at the forests surrounding him, everything was so quiet. It was as if the whole of the world had stopped and stood at attention. Frozen in place, no wind, no birds. He carefully opened his door and took a gentle step out, the dirt meeting his boots as he went to the other Yukon and knocked on the window. When it rolled down, he said, “Ava, are you okay? How are you feeling?”

The window rolled down, revealing Ava sitting up in the back seat, her skin still sickly pale and shining with sweat; but her eyes were bright and alert. “I’m...okay now.” She answered with a frown. “Still a little shaky but, it doesn’t feel like I’m dying from the plague anymore.” She said, shaking her head. “What happened?”

Dave gave Ava’s shoulder a squeeze, his brow creased with concern. He’d had his hand on her back throughout her episode, and had been moments from calling it in on the radio, mission be damned. Now, with her sudden recovery, he somehow felt more worried.

“What was that, sugar?” He asked, leaning down to look at her closely. He put his hand on her neck, then her cheek, checking for a fever, examining her eyes.

Ava looked away from Overman to Dave, her hand reaching up to touch the back of his. “I-I don’t know.” She answered with a frown and a worried crease in her brow. “I...I saw things.”

“Saw things?” Overman asked, his brow quirking with curiosity, “What things?”

“Um,” Ava shook her head again, trying to clear away the cobwebs as she glanced over to Overman. “I saw winding tunnels of dark stone, a lake in the mountains and six yellow eyes.” She leaned herself against Dave, not caring that someone else was present. “I also heard this-this howling. This mad and tortured screeching. It felt like my ears were going to burst.”

Overman’s eyes widened for a moment, breaking the air of stoicism and arrogance he had become known for before he turned around as if ashamed of it. He took a breath and turned back around, nodding at Ava, “Can you walk?”

“Um,” Ava looked to Dave in concern before looking back at Overman’s tense back. “Yeah, I think I can walk. Why?”

Overman didn’t answer, instead speaking into his mic, “Hounddog 3 to all. Standby for rendezvous, ETA one hour.”

---

Laine kicked Dulane's corpse once more before backing off, her eyes darting around the room. She gazed at the hanging skin suits then back at the blood spray and broken table under the dead man.

"Shit. Shit, shit," she hissed, "Get out, goddamn this is a crime scene and we've contaminated the shit out of it."

Laine reached to grab Donnelley, snatching at his sleeve with a trembling hand. She turned to Maui and Ghost, her face flushed with near panic, "Get out, don't touch anything!"

Ghost's eyebrow quirked behind his Oakleys.

"No, it's not," he grunted. "This isn't something for civilian law enforcement. This is a Program scene. If anybody outside the Program ever sees it, it'll be because they stumbled across charred ruins on a hiking trip ten years from now."

Donnelley looked to Ghost and knew that he was right. Hell, Donnelley was about to suggest they torch the place and leave it like Baughman’s cabin. But he also knew Laine wasn’t in her right mind. He laid a hand on hers and nodded outside to the others, “Laine’s right. We should get outta here,” Donnelley said, “Can’t burn this shit down with us in it.”

He started for the entrance, lightly pulling for Laine to follow, “Come on. Have a smoke or something.”

"No," Laine pulled away, "We have to take them with us at least, they..."

She was looking at the skins, at what was left of Weissman, Laurie, and the smaller dark haired remains that she was certain was Maria. Her throat tightened and she hated the tears that threatened. She was angry not sad, her fists tight at her side, the emotions betraying her.

"This is evidence, these were people. That bastard..." she said, her voice trembling and she pressed her lips tight together. The killer had been here, he must have stayed here and took his time. Maybe even killed here and it was going to be destroyed.

"Fuck this," she whispered harshly, "This isn't how...why am I even here?"

She turned to the men, looking over their tactical gear and weapons. At Donnelley in his tiger cammo, his war gear, "Why the fuck do you need me, if this is how it is? Just destroy everything and learn nothing."

“We’ll search the damn place first.” Donnelley retorted, “I’m not leavin’ here until the remains of my goddamn people are given a burial.”

Donnelley pursed his lips, “And this is how things are. This is how we do things, Laine, we don’t exist right now.” He said, pointing to the hanging skins, “This shit is goin’ to keep happenin’ if we play by the goddamn rules. I spent two years in Dalhart seein’ the same junkies and whores beat their kids and their wives a few months after I put them away.”

“We’re makin’ a difference. And it matters. If you don’t want to help search and scuttle,” Donnelley quieted his voice again, “Get out. Have a fuckin’ smoke outside with the others and pretend you never saw us burn this fuckin’ place to the ground.”

He regarded Laine for a moment, his own fire burning deep in his eyes before he turned away from her to Ghost, “Let’s try to find somethin’ and then torch this shit.”

Laine felt her teeth grind then she snapped, "Fuck you and your smoke. I'll handle the goddamn search. I don't need your thugs destroying shit before I can look at it."

Her face flushed and she dug into her pocket for the latex gloves she kept out of habit. Her heart was pounding and her head felt light, the loss of her temper was rare enough and she almost never showed it to work associates. Laine began to take down the skins, gently with trembling hands.

"I need something to put them in," she said, not turning around.

"Watch your fucking mouth." There was an edge to Ghost's voice. He pointed a gloved finger at her. "We're professionals. Thugs wouldn't have kept your ass alive this long, girl."

He turned and stalked from the cabin, glaring at Tex from behind his shades as he passed. "This is why I don't work with amateurs."

Donnelley watched Ghost leave, eyes tracking his back as it disappeared past the walls of the cabin. He looked at Laine, struggling with the skins and silently cursed to himself.

“Hounddog 3 to all, standby for rendezvous. ETA one hour.” Overman’s voice came over the team channel.

Donnelley rolled his eyes. A bit late for the magician to come back. He followed Ghost outside and found Foster talking with Poker, butting into their conversation and fixing Foster with a hard stare. “CORAL NOMAD.” Donnelley said, “We’re searchin’ through the cabin for further evidence and you’re callin’ in CORAL NOMAD to take them to Langley or some other fuckin’ Blacksite to go over.”

Foster pursed his lips, quirking an eyebrow at Donnelley before he shrugged, “Fine.”

Donnelley stuck a finger in Poker’s face, “You get your fuckin’ team to help clean this mess up before we leave this place smolderin’.” Donnelley said, raising his voice so Ghost could hear too, “And I don’t give a goddamn shit what anyone thinks about it. This is a Program scene and we need to sanitize it.”

Queen had been smoking, his gaze scanning the woods around the cabin with his hand resting on the Uzi. The words CORAL NOMAD caught his attention and he tossed the half smoked Kool onto the ground and crushed it out with the heel of his boot.

With the weight of reluctance, Queen went towards the cabin to assist. Whatever was in there with Dulane's corpse he was not eager to find out.

The skins caught his attention once he entered, even the sight of Laine's backside as she reached to bring them down was not enough distraction.

"Christ," he muttered, his hand going to his pocket and he rolled the vial of coke in the plastic bag around against his fingers. The hard shape of pills could be felt and his craving to vanish into that fog grabbed at him.

Laine turned to look over her shoulder, she had already laid out what was left of Laurie on the couch. To Queen's eyes it looked like the man had just melted into the sofa, like some dark Dali painting.

"I need body bags or something, I'm not folding them up to put in a shoe box," she snapped as she went back to untangling the blond hair of the dead Airman from the wire the dried skin was hung on.

"Yeah, sure...I'm here to help," Queen assured her as he looked around, the blood spray from Dulane already tacky and congealing. Anything to keep from having to look at the skins.

Donnelley stood in the doorway and watched them work, fingers dug under his plate carrier as he let his rifle hang off its sling. The cabin was bare, only the essentials needed to carry out whatever backwoods serial killing that needed doing. He glanced at the skins and swallowed audibly before tearing his eyes away from them and to the other things in the room. What interested him the most was the stainless steel work table. It was clean, no blood anywhere he could see.

He thought about investigating further, but the longer he stayed in the cabin the more he wanted to break something in it. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his forehead, stepping out to have his own smoke. He lit up, back turned to the cabin and eyes passively scanning through the woods. They’d have to burn the place, they’d have to deal with the skins, with Dulane. They hadn’t even touched the mines, and why did Dulane even come here?

“The fuck’s your deal, man?” He muttered to himself, pondering how and why Dulane knew this place.

Queen made a search for something, anything, to put the skins in to transport them. Maui had no body bags such was his confidence in his team. He went back into the cabin, into the bedroom. He looked over the cot, the blanket on it and hesitated, the ingrained habit not to disturb a crime scene hard to break.

The killer had slept here, probably jerked off onto this blanket Queen thought then he turned away, looking for something less personal and less full of DNA to transport the dead remains. He looked under the rickety nightstand and found a half empty box of Glad trash bags. Asshole couldn't even buy Hefty for this job.

Queen paused in front of the wardrobe but left it alone, first thing was to take care of the dead and they were ill prepared. He took another look around, his hand finding its way to his pocket. After a little fumbling he found a few tabs of Xanax and dry swallowed one.

When he returned to the main room he saw Laine standing still beside the surgical table, the skin suit with blonde hair still in her hands. His own skin crawled at the sight but he kept his upbeat tone.

"Found something you can use, it ain't the best but it's something to get them covered," Queen announced, setting the box of garbage bags on the surgical table.

Laine jerked her head, looking at Queen as if he had spoken another language. Then she blinked, shaking her head slightly, "I'll make do. Can you find some scissors and tape?"

"Right, Maui probably has that," he announced, then turned on his heel to saunter out of the cabin, already feeling some of the headiness of the pills.

Laine gently laid the remains of the young woman on the table. There had been no love lost between them when Weissman was alive but Laine felt a deep sadness for her loss, especially to become a victim of that monster.

As she waited Laine began to examine the table, the box of small latex gloves surprised her. She had assumed him to be at least average size if not larger to have the strength to subdue but if drugs were used then there was no need for brute strength. She turned the box over and looked at it. A small man or maybe even a woman.

Laine set it down and continued looking around, now feeling herself settle into investigation mode. The stainless steel table was clean, not just clean but wiped down and no trace of fingerprints or even a smudge was left. Nor blood, even old dried blood could be seen.

She wished for some Luminol to expose what she could not see with her eyes but Laine might as well wish for a whole CSI team. She was on her own and with limited time. No visible blood present in such a wound as flaying a person would make, they were likely drained of blood somewhere else.

Exsanguination. The word always sounded so medieval to her. And the idea of flaying a person was just as barbaric, something pagan and primeval. Something to...awaken the Sleeper.

Laine shook her head to rid herself of Dulane's voice cackling in her memories. Focus. She touched the chain around her neck, where it vanished below the collar of her shirt.

The table was very clean and there had to be cleaners around but she saw nothing by the table. The tools left out were spotless and sharp, very sharp. A surgeon's set of tools with different sized scalpels, forceps, and delicate scissors.

Laine glanced at the box of small latex gloves, the chances are the suspect wore them through the whole process but there was a chance. She thought about the trash bags and there had to be cleaners, the chance the suspect used them without gloves was slim.

She stepped away from the table when Queen entered the room again. He had a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors from a first aid kit. He started opening trash bags, cutting and taping them together to make what looked like poor man's garment bags.

"Where did you find those garbage bags?"

He looked up from his work, then shrugged, "Bedroom, by the nightstand."

She turned and entered the bedroom, pausing at the doorway to just observe. Laine doubted the cleaners would be in here but there was a draw to the space, it's where the suspect took his private moments. He slept in that very bed, it would have hairs no doubt and maybe finger prints on whatever he touched. She would need to go over this room closely before the cabin was torched.

Again she swore to herself at the absence of a CSI team or even just a kit to collect samples. Laine took out her phone and snapped a few photos, then came out and did the same of the table and the last skin to be removed. Maria, she thought, though DNA would have to confirm it. Samples needed to be taken of all of them, more kits she did not have.

"Hey, Queen," Laine said, "Take your time with those. I don't want them ripping while we transport them."

As the others went about the task of bagging the skins and sucking up their feelings, Ghost prowled the cabin. For the most part it was thoroughly uninteresting; evidence, motive, these were things investigators looked for. Ghost wasn’t an investigator. He was a killer. With nothing to kill, he was getting bored.

A tall wardrobe in the corner of the room caught his eye and he closed on it, footsteps slowing, adopting that heel-to-toe walk used to suppress noise while an Operator got into position. Everything on his gear that could click, clank, or rattle had already been taped down; the footwork was all that was left.

He reached the wardrobe and stepped to one side, raising his rifle and bracing it tight against his shoulder one-handed. Then he ripped open the door, simultaneously flipping the selector to auto.

With his nerves on edge, Ghost very nearly put a neat burst through a set of surgical scrubs that hung within the wardrobe.

“At least the guy was hygiene conscious,” he grunted, prodding at the outfit with his rifle as though expecting an attack. Trashbags and a cardboard box at the bottom drew his attention and he gave the box a kick. “Hey! I found some shit!” He bellowed, looking towards the door before backing off.

Donnelley could hear Ghost’s growl of a yell from outside, turning around to look at the cabin and letting streams of smoke from his nostrils. He and Poker looked at each other, flicked their cigarettes away and found their way inside to where Ghost was standing in front of a wardrobe.

“Clothes.” Poker said, unimpressed.

“Surgery scrubs.” Donnelley muttered, glancing at Poker’s layman’s terms. “Steel table outside and surgical tools. Whoever has me-time here has experience. This ain’t no hunter, it’s a fuckin’ doctor.”

“What’s that?” Poker said, tapping the toe of his boot against the cardboard box at the bottom of the wardrobe, next to a garbage bag.

"Well I haven't opened it, so I know as much as you do," Ghost growled, his tone surly. He was getting bored. "Could be a bomb. Or jack-off pictures of his victims. You wanna open it, be my guest. I'm going outside first."

He turned and headed for the door, not terribly eager to be in the blast radius if it was, in fact, a trap. Poker watched him go, Then looked at Donnelley. They both shrugged, Donnelley going for the box and checking for trip-wires or anything of the like. The Cartel House in Juarez flashed in his mind and he remembered how long it took him to get another man’s gut fluids out of his damn uniform. Sicarios were almost as bad as the fucking Taliban.

Probably would take a little longer to get his own fluids out of his clothes, he thought, smirking to himself in a macabre fashion. Feeling none, he carefully teased the box out of its place and onto the floor of the cabin.

Laine stepped into the room, her attention focused on the wardrobe. The mention of scrubs and the bag.

"I need to see what's in that box," she said, taking a picture of the scrubs. As Ghost left, she stayed and watched Donnelley for a moment. The memory of the other cabin and the shotgun, the other hidden box. Laine wanted to see it, exactly how it looked before it got disturbed and shuffled around.

The cabin was old and spare but there was a neatness to it, orderly and clean. Nothing extraneous, nothing not needed for the job of removing the skin from a body. At least they had been dead when it happened, that was something.

The scrubs and the tools and the air of professional clinical cleanliness and order made her reevaluate her first thought that he might be a hunter and now she could narrow the scope to suspects within the medical field.

“Explains the drugs,” Donnelley looked over to Laine, “Propofol and Midazolam. One thing to drug them up with roofies or Xanax, but…”

Donnelley shook his head, placing his fingers around the lid of the box, “Step back.”

When they did, Donnelley lifted the lid of the box to reveal something less explosive. Arranged in Manila folders and accordion binders were some documents. There was also a leather bound notebook and another book, thick and worn. “Baughman all over again.” Donnelley muttered.

He took a Manila folder from the box, slowly lifting it out to reveal it to be stamped with a red Official Eyes Only. That was never a good sign. The strangeness just got deeper as he stared at the words and the folder. He wondered if he should peek at it, the curiosity digging its nails into his hands. He flipped the folder open and the first page had an official header.

TS//SCI//CIA//MJ12//NOFORN

He slapped it shut before he could read any further and rubbed at his eyes, “Fuck me.” He said, “This is official. I don’t know what’s going on with this goddamn cabin.”

"Yes, the rare pharmacy he kept," she agreed, stepping back until just behind the door frame. When she saw him pull only folders out, Laine came forward. She reached for it like a fat kid going for birthday cake.

"Let me see, what kind of official? Like... program official?" Laine looked with naked curiosity at the folder in his hand.

She took the leather bound notebook out of the box, then looked at the spine of the book, reading the title. The Gospel of Leng.

Laine opened it, flipping past the title page and looked at the strange script it was printed in though the scribbled notes in the margins were in English. "Jesus walked East, seeking wisdom and the..." She paused, the handwriting smeared and hard to read.

Closing the book she tucked it back into the box, "We'll need a translator for that. What was in the folder?"

“Some pretty official documents. They’re classified.” Donnelley glanced at Laine, “And we ain’t got the clearance.”

Donnelley replaced the lid and hefted the box up in his arms, surprisingly heavy for a bunch of papers. Some analyst back at Program HQ would have fun with these, that’s for sure. Maybe even their own Ava if they were allowed the clearance to view these. Part of him didn’t even want to ask. The tug of curiosity, the hunger for the truth about this case wanted him to keep his teeth together about those files. “I’m goin’ to take these outside. Check what’s in that bag.”

“Roger.” Poker nodded.

“Laine, you want to help me outside?” He asked, raising his brows and glancing down at the box, hoping she got the message he wanted to be a nosy little shit and break the law by reading whatever files these were.

Laine caught his eye for a moment and glanced down at the notebook still unopened in her arms. She nodded, casually placing it on top of the box he carried.

"Yeah, I need a smoke anyway," she replied in a tired voice, reaching into her pocket for the Djarums as she followed Donnelley out. The excitement coursed through her, she wanted to read everything she could in that box. The fact this person had classified files made her think of Baughman, his attempt to bring back his wife that ended in a zombie trapped in a septic tank.

Donnelley went through the cabin and out the front without meeting anyone’s eyes. He set down the box at the side of the cabin away from the rest of his team and lifted the lid, taking the file he’d read and flipping it open. His eyes flitted across the page. His brows knitted together tighter as he read on. How had the killer gotten their hands on these?

The more he read, the less he could believe. This was a report on experiments during the 50’s and 60’s conducted by the CIA and another government organization named Majestic 12. MK-Ultra, psychics, telekinesis, remote viewing. It kept making mentions of Subject Virginia, how she had been their most successful subject. He swallowed and shut the manila folder. These were unredacted original case files. There was absolutely no way anyone without top level clearance could get these.

He handed the folder over to Laine and stood, retrieving a cigarette from his pack in one of his pouches and lighting up. He pulled his flask from another pouch and took a couple swigs, “That’s top level classified information, Laine.” He said, “This is… this goes deeper than just a backwoods murderer.”

Laine smoked as she read, the subjects often only familiar to her from Youtube videos about some conspiracy. Things she had mostly waived off as wild imagination, paranoid thoughts of the mentally ill. And yet, here it was in her hand. There it had been in the septic tank and in the questions in the depths of Langley. It was there, in black and white.

"No way these are fakes?" She asked, the devil's advocate. "Maybe he made them up for some reason... paranoid sch..."

Laine did not finish the word, it was ridiculous and she knew it. No scattered schizophrenic brain would produce such reports, they were written by professionals. Her mind grasped for reason and there was one. Like Baughman, who had been with the program for decades. Like some who fought monsters too long.

She looked at Donnelley, "Maybe he's with the Program or had been?"

Laine held her hand out for the flask. He handed it over, “Should we tell Foster?” He asked, feeling sheepish. He was supposed to be the one making decisions, the Team Lead, “I think we should hold onto these. Nobody who has these works outside our sphere.”

He said it outright, “I don’t trust anyone outside UMBRA with this. He’s rogue, this fuckin’ dude.”

Laine put the flask to her lips, holding it there for a beat before taking a sip. "No," she said, then looked at him. "I don't think we should tell him. Not yet."

She handed back his flask, the spicy flavor of cloves blending with the whiskey taste still on her tongue as she took a drag.

"Maybe I'm out of line," Laine said, "But you know we have a leak. I'm not accusing anyone and I'm sure you have every reason to trust him but personally, I think that we play this hand very close."

Donnelley tipped the flask to his lips, then nodded, capping it up, “Agreed.”

---

Overman set foot into the clearing the cabin was situated in and scanned the area around him with narrowed eyes. They couldn’t find the cabin fast enough, since his symptoms had vanished unexplainably, he needed to know what was happening at the cabin. Foster sided up with him, “What’s the problem?”

“Where is he?” Overman said, still looking around the area.

Foster gestured towards the body on the ground, draped over with garbage bags. Overman nodded and wasted no time in going towards the body and kneeling next to it. “Damn it.” He muttered.

Donnelley waved down Dave and Ava, giving the woman a smile when he saw her, “How’re you? Better?”

Ava was staring over at the shape beneath the plastic bags, her mind reeling for a moment as she processed what she was seeing. After a moment, some part of her realized Donnelley had just spoken to her and she snapped out the trance she’d been in. “Oh, hi, I’m feeling much better.” She answered with a confused frown, focusing on Donnelley so she didn’t stare at the dead body that was 20 feet from her.

“Is everyone alright?” She asked, a crease of concern forming on her brow. “I saw the other Yukon and Dave told me what happened plus…” She trailed off and glanced back over to Dulane’s body.

Dave stepped closer to Ava, his rifle at an easy ready. He knew it was her first time seeing a body, and he put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze.

“So what happened with him?” He jerked his head at Dulane’s carcass, lip curling a moment. He found it hard to feel any sort of sympathy for him. Enough so that he hadn’t bothered, honestly. Dave spotted the skull-masked Ghost haunting the shadow of the cabin, caught his eye, and gave him a nod of acknowledgement, then shrugged internally when the Operator simply gave him a stare in return. He’d thought he had made headway at Langley, but apparently until he had racked up a bodycount the big man simply considered him a potential burden.

“Suicide.” Donnelley said, simply, “Rest of us are still kickin’.”

He clucked his tongue and thrust his thumb over his shoulder to the cabin, looking at Dave, “Made it in time for the bonfire. You bring fireworks?”

Queen came out of the cabin, holding what looked like a stack of cheap garment bags in his arms. He spotted Ava's bright hair and grinned, the Xanax holding him in a haze. Overman and Dave were there, the latter hovering over the petite woman.

"Howdy, bout time y'all made it," Queen drawled, "Whattya think of this nice little place?"

With a sly grin he turned to Dave, "Remind you of home?"

“Oh sure,” Dave said, turning up his own drawl and eyeing the corpses. “Jus’ like home. Now if only we had a trailer or two, right?”

Queen just smiled then shifted the bags he held, looking over the man, "Might be an improvement."

He stepped away, going over to the covered corpse of Dulane and lay the flat makeshift bags beside it. Standing over the dead, he fished out a cigarette and lit up, waiting for the next move Foster would order.

Donnelley stepped up next to him just as he lit his own. It seemed chainsmoking was the order of the day. Speaking of reasons to chain smoke, Foster stepped up to the two of them, but his eyes glued to Donnelley made it known that he only came for the one. “CORAL NOMAD came through. They’re parked at Eastern West Virginia Regional Airport in the 167th Airlift Wing’s section.” Foster said, “They only want the assets, no agents allowed onboard.”

“Fair ‘nough, ETA?” Donnelley asked.

“They asked me the same, they’re probably already waiting. Clock’s ticking.” Foster about-faced and stalked off.

“What about the remains?” Donnelley called after him.

“Evidence.” Foster said back. “And we’re leaving none here when we leave. Hurry up.”

Donnelley hissed a swear under his breath and took a long drag off his freshly lit cigarette before ashed it out and tucked the butt behind his ear. He whistled loudly to get everyone’s attention, speaking loud and clear as they turned their eyes to him, “Alright, people, here’s the situation. Double-time on everything, snatch everything we can and we’re out of here in the next hour.”

Laine emerged once more from the cabin, holding the garbage bag in front of her body, not letting it touch her. The box of files had been stashed by Donnelley, the remains of the bodies stored albeit a haphazard way and she collected what she could. Laine wrapped the blanket in another garbage bag, labeling it with white medical tape and a pen. Another trash bag held the tools and scrubs, labeled as well. But the bag she held was from the wardrobe and she had not opened it yet.

She set it on the ground, away from the bodies and in a patch of sunlight. Laine carefully opened the bag with the first aid scissors and peeled it open, the glimpse of blue fabric and dark stains caught her breath.

With gloved hands, Laine gently began to pull the fabric apart. The clothing was clearly used scrubs, balled up and wrinkled with what looked like possible dried blood. As she crouched working on untangling the wadded up clothing and laying them on the grass with an internal wince. But they all had to make do, and it was still a cleaner crime scene than the sloppy LAPD work she had been subjected to during her time as a field agent.

One shirt and pants laid out and she worked on what appeared to be another set. For all the killer's neatness this was out of the ordinary, to stash dirty clothing rather than wash or dispose of it immediately. Maybe he saved them for a reason, maybe to burn or...

Her thoughts stopped as she held up the other scrub shirt. It was much smaller and the box of size small latex gloves flashed through her mind. Laine rolled the implications around in her mind, she had been wrong on a few different things in her original profile, important details like the possible sex and number of suspects and the possible occupation.

She sank back on her heels, sighing heavily at the discovery and looked down at the small scrub top. Laine would need to scrap the original profile and start again based on the new evidence. It was not the first time but it had been awhile since she had been so wrong.

Ava wandered away from the edge of the clearing, her eyes darting to where Overman was standing with Foster and Donnelley, over the body of Dulane. She wanted to go over and ask the mysterious man what her sickness had been, but for some reason she couldn’t make herself go near the deceased man.

He had been a murdering madman, but he had been living and breathing the last time she saw him. Now he just lay still beneath a mishmash of garbage bags. She shivered and decided to catch Overman when he wasn’t standing over Dulane’s body.

Her attention fell on Laine, spreading items of clothing out on the ground. Curious and glad to see the woman alright she headed over to her. As she studied her she frowned, noticing the line of tension in her shoulders and the cords of the back of her neck were tight. She supposed she couldn’t blame her, their lead witness had killed himself and taken whatever secrets he might have held to his grave.

Or maybe not if they had been able to find this cabin, it might hold some information. Her eyes flickered over the shack when a large shape lurking in the shadow caught her eye. She jumped, her hand twitching toward her gun holstered at her hip as she registered a large man in a skeletal mask standing and watching them.

A moment later she recognized the build, the gear and the Oakleys and she relaxed, realizing that it was only Ghost. She pressed a hand to her chest to calm herself down, gave the quiet operator a friendly wave and joined Laine’s side. “Hey.” She greeted, putting on her best friendly smile. “Look, I’m not car sick anymore.” She said, holding out her arms slightly and inflecting a light tone to help relieve some of Laine’s stress.

Laine glanced up at the sudden shadow thrown by Ava as she approached. It was normal at least, not like whatever had been in Dulane's. There was a sudden prickling along the back of her neck when a little voice asked in her mind, where was that thing now?

She shook it away when Ava spoke, raising her brows and failed at a smile, "That's wonderful, it must have been misery."

Laine looked back at the stained crumpled top and then held it up, standing as she did. Holding it out towards Ava in a gesture reminiscent of two women clothes shopping and judging what might look best on them.

"Very small figure, had to be a woman," Laine muttered, then shook her head again, looking at the petite redhead. "Well...looks like we have a two for one deal."

Ava furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, eyeing the shirt and then looking to Laine. “What is that?” She asked with a frown.

Laine breathed out heavily, "Ah, you know it's the latest from Armature, what a find right?"

She folded over the scrubs shirt and set on the rest, then gave Ava an apologetic smile, "Sorry. It's evidence is what it is. Blood stained scrubs, two sets in different sizes. I was completely fucking wrong about who the suspect might be."

Ava perked up and then paled a moment later. “Oh, those are the killers?” She asked, her eyes landing on the cabin. “This...this is their cabin?”

Laine gave her a concerned but critical look then nodded, "They were here, this was their work space, so to speak. We found evidence enough of what they were doing."

She gestured at the building with gloved hands, "Dulane led us up here, he ran and somehow kept getting out of his cuffs that slippery little... anyway, he was desperate to get in and once he did he cut his own throat."

Laine pulled her gaze from the cabin and looked at Ava, "I don't understand what he was or what had a hold of him but I think something didn't want him to talk or maybe he feared spilling information. I don't know, he was raving the whole time."

Ava frowned, brushing a hand through her hair and playing with one of the curls. “I wonder...I got better seemingly at random, but…” She looked over to Dulane and then her eyes landed on Overman. “It might be weird but, maybe if we know the times...Is it possible that Dulane dying is what made me feel better? Like he was affecting me somehow?”

Laine knelt to repack the dirty scrubs in a new garbage bag when Ava mentioned feeling better all of a sudden. She glanced up then over at the still form of the makeshift body bag. "I didn't check the time but..."

She shifted her gaze, her expression suddenly uncomfortable. Without looking at Ava she said, "I saw something weird when they brought him out. Dulane."

Laine taped a label across the bag, a date and set of numbers and letters on it that would match the other bags.

"His shadow...was strange," she said after a weighted pause, her voice low as if
embarrassed she might be overheard.

Ava blinked and her frown deepened with concern. “Strange as in how?” She asked.

Laine gripped the bag and glanced aside then at her, "I saw things squirming in the shadow, like tentacles or something. It was just a moment but I know I saw it, in the lights of the parking lot otherwise it would have been too dark to throw any shadows."

“I believe you.” Ava said without hesitation. She smiled reassuringly. “I don’t know what it could be, but I believe you.”

"Whatever it was, it wasn't good," Laine said, "Maybe it had something to do with him going suicidal, like some parasite controlling him. I don't know, but I think we need to talk to Overman. He's holding back."

Ava glanced over to the mysterious man and frowned at him. “Yeah, I have my own questions I’d like answered.”

Queen watched the pair of women over the last bag, the stained clothing brought out. The trip to the mountains had been a disaster before they even reached the mine. He took a long lazy drag from the Kool then turned to Donnelley, "So, you alright?"

“I’m goin’ to need a drink or seven after we get out of here.” Donnelley sucked in a drag off his cigarette and blew it out slowly, “Ask me after that. What’re you doin’ after this?”

Queen considered the question for a long moment, then replied, "Miami, check in at the office. See what's shakin' but first prolly Vegas or something, get laid and waste some money. You should come with me, unless you ain't about hanging with THUNDER no more."

He gave Donnelley a wink, making a point to look back at the women now walking away. His gaze lingered on their asses then he looked back up, "Daddy Donnelley got his little chicks to watch after."

Donnelley snorted, shrugging, “They're adults,” he took a drag off his cigarette and blew it out, “They’ll be fine without me for a bit. I’m sure they won’t miss me when I’m in Vegas with you and that stone-faced weirdo over there.”

“‘Least I can get drunk and high then.” He chuckled, “I took a nip in front of Laurie even once he’d probably roll his eyes at me. Fuckin’ Weissman was as big a dick as me. Wouldn’t stop callin’ me old man and shit.”

The smile faded a tad, more and more as the silence dragged on. You never got used to it. You could get used to all kinds of pain, but knowing you’ll never talk to someone ever again, or see them hanging around. That’s a special kind. “Fuck, man.” Donnelley rubbed a hand over his face and took a few long drags off his cigarette, “Fuck. Fuckin’ shit.”

Queen put a hand on Donnelley's shoulder, cigarette smoldering between his fingers as he gave him a firm squeeze. He would have pulled him into an embrace but far too many eyes were around so the quick companionable gesture would have to do. He leaned in towards him, lowering his voice, "It is fucking shit."

He shook his head, “We’ll drink to them in Vegas. And to each other.” He smiled at Queen, “The trio rides again, I guess.”

He chuckled at the cheesy line, “Or will be. Dependin’ on Foster givin’ us some time off soon.”

---

“We just lost our only living link to Blackriver.” Foster shook his head and rubbed at his face as he stood.

Overman was still staring down at Dulane’s body, but he spoke to Foster, “He died in your custody. That isn’t going to look good.”

The two of them stood in silence. Foster wasn’t oblivious to that. This case was not going well for UMBRA, and the Program’s patience wasn’t known for being the thickest. The interviews were evidence of that. Foster shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed, turning away from Dulane, “Any magic tricks? Should we hold a seance?” Foster asked.

“Bringing back the dead is trickier than that. What I do isn’t exactly a science.” Overman pursed his lips at Foster.

Laine approached the men with the last bag of evidence in her arms. She caught the last part of what Overman said and shot a hard, curious look at him.

"You know about that?" She asked, interrupting their conversation about bringing people back from the dead. "I wouldn't advise it. Seems messy."

She set the bag down, her hands now resting in her hips as she kept her gaze on Overman. "I need to know something about what happened with Dulane. Something I saw when they brought him out of the prison."

Laine tried to keep her tough FBI exterior but the hesitation flickered across her features. "It seems like your realm of expertise. It was only a moment under the parking lot lights. Might have just been a trick of those lights but I saw something in his shadow, like separate yet part of him. Squirming...like snakes or tentacles."

She felt her face start to heat up, any FBI agent would have laughed and made an X Files joke and part of her expected it even from these men.

“So did I.” Overman said simply, “It happened.”

He gestured to the body, “Now he’s dead.”

Laine stayed silent for a few breathed, looking at Dulane's bagged corpse. "Do you think it did it?"

She glanced back at Overman with sharp green eyes, the gun fight coming to mind. The first shot fired. "Do you think he did this or something else made him kill himself? He escaped his cuffs a couple times, he ran with a damn hood over his head without hitting a tree and went right to the cabin. What the hell is going on?"

“Something bigger than just a backwoods killer. But we knew that when Deputies started shooting at us, didn’t we?” Overman pursed his lips, shrugged, “The motive of this Sleeper is to have people Come and See, isn’t it? It wouldn’t be much to have its conduit in this plane silence itself. Or perhaps it was mocking, a taunt.”

He held his chin, looking pensively at Dulane, “Either way, he was troubled by what he saw in those mines. I think he just couldn’t take sharing his head anymore.” He quirked a brow and looked to Laine, “Would you have?”

Laine shook her head slightly, then glanced away as Ava approached. She stepped back, giving her teammate room to speak with Overman. She stayed close, curious if anything the young woman experienced tied into Dulane

Ava kept her eyes on Laine and Overman, fighting to not stare at the body at their feet and ignore the turning in her stomach. With Dave at her side, a source of unwavering comfort and support, she felt a little firmer in approaching the mysterious Gray Man.

She caught the tail end of the conversation and swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. She nodded to Laine and stopped a few feet from Overman, trying to ignore the tangy metallic scent of blood coming from the body bag. It unnerved her that it was starting to become a familiar smell.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I had some questions.” She said to Overman, motioning her hand to Dulane. “Possibly related to...whatever happened to him.”

“Yes.” Overman looked at Ava, standing at his full height and slid his hands into his pockets, “That is my answer. You’re not the only one, Miss Moore. It is very possibly related to whatever happened to him.”

He looked at her, his face not changing a hair towards anything other than boredom, “Unless you had something on your mind, now that it’s clear?”

For some reason, his tone and expression made a small spark of frustration flare in her chest. She clamped down on it and said, “What were the visions I had? The ones I told you about after I felt better?” She waved her hand slightly. “I heard a tortured, shrieking howl, like a dying animal. Was it Dulane dying? And why would I feel better after he died? What was he doing to cause an unexplained sickness?”

Overman looked to Foster, who locked eyes with Overman and then turned to Ava, “Well, he didn’t die screaming.” Foster said, “At least not like that.”

Overman shrugged, “I just don’t know. I know it wasn’t Dulane. From his file, everything I’d heard, he wasn’t the type.” Overman pursed his lips and nodded at Laine, “It was most likely his shadow. Or what was in it. Dulane made a promise.”

Overman nodded, narrowing his eyes at the cabin, “He kept it.”

---

The weight of the classified files was perhaps the heaviest to Donnelley, nestled in his assault pack among the loose ammo and rations. He did his best to keep himself composed and not feel like at any moment Foster or someone else would catch him on their hours long trip to the airport. They’d cut about 30 minutes off the trip by speeding along as best they could, turning more than a few heads with the bullet-riddled Yukon. At one point, they’d been pulled over, but after the State Trooper was made aware of Special Agents Davidson and Forrest they gave them an escort straight to the airport.

The 167th wasn’t hard to find, and the two Yukons were beside the runway now, UMBRA and THUNDER patiently waiting as Donnelley and Foster secured the asset recovery with the CORAL NOMAD team’s OIC. They hardly looked out of place here, but even so, the exchange was quick. The skins and Dulane’s body would be handled by CORAL NOMAD’s research team assigned to this flight. Donnelley and Foster followed them back to the Yukons, opening the back of one to reveal the trash bags for the skins, and Dulane under them. “Is that him?” One of the researchers asked.

“Sure is.” Donnelley nodded, “You need to verify ID?”

“Uh Huh.” The researcher said, pulling out a camera from his pack, “Go ahead.”

Donnelley grabbed the trash bags concealing Dulane’s body and pulled a section down that was covering his face. The researcher snapped a quick photo, “Thank…” the masked scientist stopped dead, rubbed his eyes, and then squinted back at the camera’s screen, “You.”

Donnelley furrowed his brows at the researcher, but the man only hurried off to get one of his teammates to help him load Dulane in the Blackhawk the CORAL NOMAD team was using. When everything was loaded in the helicopter, it whirred to life, throwing a whirlwind in Donnelley and his team’s faces. Before long, it took off from the ground and off it went. Donnelley and Foster watched it go as they stood with each other.

“CORAL NOMAD assets are going to scan that area of Blackriver we were in. We still never got to those mines.” Foster pursed his lips, “Hopefully in a week, we’ll get word back that they found something for us to go after.”

Donnelley nodded, watching the Blackhawk steadily shrink in the distance, “Hopefully.” Donnelley turned to Foster, “Any word about the BLACKBOX?”

“Invitation still stands.” Foster said. “But you should go sooner than later. It’s not going to be open forever.”

“I’ll tell my guys.” Donnelley wasted no time in turning away and walking towards UMBRA. They looked worse for wear even though they’d only been out a single night. He knew they barely had any time to sleep before the outing, and the weight of his own eyelids told him sleep would be a must. “Alright, people, everythin’s taken care of seems like. It’ll be a week before we’re out in Virginia again to follow the mine lead. Let’s bunk somewhere, get some rest.”

He yawned, punctuating his own words, “I still want to put some work in and follow what leads we got. Which means we’re going to the BLACKBOX soon.” Donnelley put his hands on his hips, “But for now, we’ll lay low, get some shut-eye.”

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Come With Me...

With Leidenschaft as Janus Kressimir

And @Stormflyx as Joy...

With the hall and kitchen clear of cobwebs, and the hearth fire busy warming the keep, Joy had set to find a place to freshen up with clean clothes and a wash; to run a comb through her hair.

Far less showy than her tavern clothing. Just a simple, loose linen shirt in an off-white shade, casually buttoned and tucked into comfortably fitted bottoms in an earthen shade. Bruno's gifted boots had been lovely, but getting comfortable in a new place meant getting comfortable again, and so she padded around barefoot through the halls as she explored. Even the gravel and loose stones outside didn't bother the woman. The grass was wonderful too, kissed still with cool dew from the morning.

She was searching for a friendly face.

Instincts brought her to the stable, and there she found the man's impressive horse, relaxing and making a meal of the hay that had been set down for him. As she approached, she was quiet on her feet, and her posture non-threatening. With a soft coo she lifted a hand to his velvet-soft nose. Surprisingly, the horse was open to her touch. "You're resting your feet too, hmm?" she spoke quietly before running her fingers under his chin to scratch him. "Where did your dad go to now?" she asked, as if Vodevic could understand and answer. He had very obviously been in here, and not long ago, too.

"You're just a big, beautiful sweetheart, aren't you?" Joy continued with a smile, reaching into her pocket and retrieving a ball of sugar that had hardened together. She let it sit on the flat of her palm and held it up for the draft horse, who took it happily and crunched it down. "Don't you go telling on me for that. That's between you and me..."

“That’s the first time I’ve seen him docile in a bit.” Janus’ voice came from behind her, his easy smile as he watched the two. He had Vodevic’s saddle in his arms, laden with his supplies and his horse’s, ready for a journey to wherever Janus had chosen to take them. Wherever it was, it was away from all of this talk of waging a hopeless war. “You’re set on staying, aren’t you?”

His unusually quiet footfall startled her, either that or she had been so focused on the horse she’d missed him altogether. Joy flashed him a quick smile, stepping back from Vodevic to let Janus work. She picked to sit atop a barrel at their side. “Not like I have a choice, is it?” she replied with a shrug. “Safer to be here than… Anywhere else for me.”

Janus stepped forward and set Vodevic’s saddle next to the horse, who looked at it and then went back to feeding. Janus sighed, brushing off his shirt and looking to Joy, observing her face and the subtle drop of her features as she spoke. He pursed his lips, “You don’t know that.” He said, “If you stay here, it’ll be fighting and war, and loss.”

Janus said, too much sincerity in his eyes for anyone to doubt he knew about those things intimately, “Come with me. This can’t be happening everywhere.”

“You asking me to run away with you?” Joy responded quickly, tilting her head as her hands held the rim of the barrel. She let that comment hang in the air before she sighed it away. “I can’t do that. Where can we even go?” She asked, her expression softening. “You heard what Solomon said,” as soon as the words left her lips, she knew they would prickle him. The conversation at Bruno’s hut had been tense. Very tense.

The nord bit down on her lip and glanced at the floor, the strewn hay and dirt. “I can’t come with you. Couldn't live with it if I turned away from people who need me.”

Janus frowned, sitting down on the saddle at his feet, “I’ve heard words like that before, Joy. Believe you me, they’re convincing, but it’s a fool’s task.” Janus pleaded, shaking his head and looking away from Joy, “Anvil. White-Gold, there’d be so much more for you there than anywhere in High Rock now.”

“Leave it to the Legion Men, leave it to Solomon. We’re wanderers, we were nothing but travelers before this, not soldiers.” Janus said, throwing his arms out at his side, “I’m tired of fighting other men’s wars. I’m not doing it again.”

He stood then, picking the saddle up and placing it on Vodevic’s back, the steed huffing in soft complaint, “I can’t.”

“I know. I know you are,” she said softly. She’d seen as much in his eyes. They had so much hard truth in them there was little room for anything else. Janus wasn’t lying to her, and all that was missing for her was the story of how he’d reached that point -- not that she really intended to go digging for it. “It takes more than soldiers to win a war, Janus.

I am a wanderer,” a smile crept over her lips. “We’re both wanderers. But…. don’t we need a road to be able to wander on?” Joy knew that he was set in his ways, she could feel that something had happened to him on his road. “I want there to still be people to meet on the road, places to go, the freedom to do it… We wouldn’t have met if we didn’t have the freedom to travel the road now, would we?” Her feet touched the ground again as she slid off the barrel and walked to his side.

“You don’t want to fight?” she asked, a steel grit in her eyes all of a sudden. “Then why’d you throw yourself in front of that… that thing?” Even to picture it again gave her a sickly lump in her throat that didn’t want to budge.

He looked at Joy, his sorry gaze on her own as he felt her search his soul. She was right, after all, about why he had leapt to action so readily to defend the others. He pried his eyes away from hers and went to work strapping and buckling the saddle. “Just think on it, Joy.” He said, voice resigned to a pitiful whisper, pleading with her, “I won’t be here much longer. I don’t want to see you lose your life for any of this.”

He yanked the last strap and Vodevic grunted, glancing at Janus as the man turned to Joy, feeling himself fighting the urge to stay, that righteous pull of the fight. The cause. He gave Joy his easy smile, “Maybe I’ll stay for a little. Share a drink in peace. That much I’ll promise you.”

“I’m not planning on dying, Janus,” she remarked with a twitch of a smile. “But I’ll be damned if I don’t fight in whatever way I can for the people who need me to. Some people didn’t even get that chance to, afterall.” Her hand found its way to Vodevic, and she stroked his chest, watching the Imperial before her. “You made sure that I had the chance—” she paused, turning her head as she caught a breath that was heavy in her chest.

After a moment, she steadied herself enough to catch Janus’ eye again. “You’re staying the night. You need real sleep in a good bed, a hot meal.” Then she touched his arm, rubbing her thumb against him. “If you still feel the same way come morning… Well, I’ll… I’ll even send you off with a hot breakfast too, but I’m not letting you leave today. You saved my life. I owe you this much, at least.”

Janus opened his mouth to say something until Joy had put a hand on his arm, the gentle rubbing of her thumb making the skin tingle. He shut his lips and looked into Joy’s eyes, so innocent and yet so unshakable in her conviction. Eyes he hadn’t seen since some time. He gave her a nod, “Fine.” He said, smiling voice gentle, “Since you’re so convincing.”

Her countenance changed after that, and she placed a hand on her hip, lending to a more assertive stance and she looked at Janus with a serious stare. “Don’t go trying to sneak out either,” her eyebrows raised, but the slight smirk that she couldn’t quite hide betrayed any kind of real attitude she was trying to show. “I mean it.” She was glad she’d swayed him, for now at least.

He chuckled, his smile widening a hair, “Well,” he sighed, “I’d best pick a room.”

He turned to Vodevic, the old and trusty warhorse standing there with his hay like an old man who couldn’t be bothered to do anything else. “Looks like you’re getting some rest, friend.”

The horse did not reply. Janus looked Joy up and down in her stance, “Wouldn’t want to cross you. Come on, pick me out a cell.” He joked.

Joy’s composure changed, and quickly she straightened up again, putting on a coy smile before tucking her hair back behind her ears. “Well now Sir,” she began, putting on some kind of pompous air and grace in her speech. “Is it a room with a view that you seek? Perhaps a quieter place to retire away from the rabble each evening?” She began to step around him playfully, looking him up and down with a raised brow and a hand tucked under her chin. “Any amenities that you desire in this… cell of yours?” Her brief exploration of the place gave her an almost fair enough knowledge of the layout by now.

“I’d like a room with amenities, close to the armory, perhaps.” He nodded, pretending to consider things and stroking his lengthening beard, “Something with a lock, keep the serfs at bay while I get my beauty sleep, yes.”

“Alright, armory room it is,” Joy responded, nodding along with his words. “I’ll have it made up for you. With the good bedding too. Who knows, if Sir gets comfortable enough, he might extend his stay at the Grand Keep of Ken Muhyr…” Her eyes sparkled with her grin, and she held her hands behind her back. “So I’d best go get to that, then.”

“I’ll follow,” Janus smiled to her, at ease with her being the Joy he’d met and not the tired mess they all were on the trek here, “Lady needs a companion.”

She was tired. Exhausted in fact, and the questions she had for the state of the world had gone unanswered so far. Joy was almost too afraid to ask them, the bard didn’t know enough about anything to figure it out for herself. All that she wanted was to make sure everyone could relax for the night, even if it was just one. If she could do that, things wouldn’t feel so dark, and the next day wouldn’t be so terrifyingly consuming.

Those feelings remained hidden behind her mask of a smile for now, “I can allow that.”

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>DAYS INN
>CLARKSBURG, WV
>24JUL2019
>1800...///

“Y’all got any smokes?”

Jay’s voice broke the silence of the card game, the only sound was the soft rhythms of the music being played at an almost imperceptible volume. Sounded like Motley Crüe, maybe, shit his dad listened to. His two roommates, or captors, had been in concentration over their hands. They took their gambling seriously, it seemed. Over the past day or so… had it been that long? He couldn’t remember. This room at this hotel had been his new reality for he didn’t know how long. At least they’d stopped beating him, as he’d learned being forward with information helped the punching stop. At least they’d taken off the cuffs since he’d learned not to try anything with Ghost’s watchful eye on him.

“Guys?” He tried again to get their attention.

Queen looked from his cards and thumbed over them, glancing over at Jay, "Whatcha do for one?"

A lazy feline grin crossed his face as he reached up to snatch the cigarette behind his ear and twirl it in his fingers. He put it between his own lips before reaching to snag the pack Kools from his vest pocket.

Jay sighed long and hard, breath moaning in his throat as he hid his face behind his hands. He muttered a swear and let his hands fall to the table, defeated. “I’ll tell you ‘bout them Rangers in the Forest.” He paused and after not receiving any reward he continued, “And that other Ranger, Billy, got killed in Charleston.”

Ghost perked up, pulling his eyes away from a decidedly mediocre hand and fixing that crocodile stare on Jay. The card game wasn't going in his favor, and it had been his idea in the first place; boredom was a virus. He had to keep his mind occupied, and even he could only work out so much before he got antsy.

"Keep talking," he said, his tone lazy. "Earn that smoke."

“Jesus,” Jay protested, sagging back in his chair and scowling, “Y’all wanna know my fuckin’ blood type and shit too? Favorite animal?”

Their eyes were still on him as they waited. After not getting any response, he shook his head, “Fine.” He whined, “Billy got killed after he made a call to somebody. You folks, maybe, I dunno. Next thing anyone knew, he’s dead. Wasn’t my people, Russians.”

“Nikolai’s guys. You know the ones, Bratva. They caught some other dude in Boston, don’t know how, but I heard the rumors.” He sniffled, rubbing at his nose, "Billy got killed because he talked too much. We tried to get Frank because he wanted to talk too much.”

“Your guy got killed in Boston because he knew too much.” Jay frowned, “You know, bein’ honest, I never wanted this. Momma said I should be a chemist.”

Ghost grunted. Bratva bored him. Back in the '90s they'd been bad motherfuckers, all former Spetznaz with nothing to do but kill for mob bosses if they wanted a real paycheck. Now all the Spetznaz had jumped on the contractor train, making their rubles in Syria and Chechnya, and the Bratva were left with untrained thugs with gold plated AK's and heroin addictions.

"Tell me about the forest," he said, looking back down at his cards. "What happened there?"

“What, with the girl? Fuck if I know, man.” Jay shrugged, “She was inherited by me and mine from the Sinaloa when they got kicked into the ditches. We handed her to Nikolai and she ain’t been seen since. ‘Cept for, you know. That time.”

“But yeah, man, Bratva been doin’ some weird shit. Talkin’ ‘bout London and Afghanistan. Callin’ each other comrade. It’s like, who the fuck you foolin’ with that commie shit?” Jay chuckled, “They say Nikolai is way older than he looks. Fought in Afghanistan for the Soviets, but he looks like he could be my older brother. Probably too much of that crocodile they’re smokin’ or whatever over there.”

Jay got a curious look on his face at that, tapping his finger on the table and staring hard at nothing in particular, “I think one’s got a tattoo- I mean they all do- but one’s got some kinda army tattoo. My buddy, Sly, he’s into that history and stuff and he pointed it out after we heard the rumors about Nikolai.” Jay sucked his teeth, “Buncha grown ass men playin’ pretend.”

He perked up, “I get a cigarette or what?”

Queen tapped out a cigarette and held out the green package for him to take. After he did, Queen flicked his bright colored Bic and lit his own cigarette before leaning over to offer the flame to Jay.

"Good boy," Queen cooed in an overly sweet tone. "You get a cookie. By the way, what's that tattoo look like before we get back to this hand?"

He sank back into the chair, dragging on the menthol and watching Jay from the smoke he blew out his nose.

“Got that, uh,” Jay took a long drag and savored it with closed eyes, and spoke while letting go of the smoke, “Got that hammer and sickle, the star, you know? And a parachute. VDV? Don’t know what it stands for, Sly might. You could talk to one of those dudes like you talked to me.”

Jay chuckled, but it pattered out as his humor hadn’t struck with the others, “Uh, yeah. You know, some got Marx, some got Stalin. Like I said, playin’ pretend. From what I seen, they’re trained. Better shooters than I got, and half of us got outta the Marines or the Army and came back here to shoot better.” He chuckled, “I mean, shit, Sly’s a Ranger.”

The mention of Soviet Airborne tattoos and trained shooters drew Ghost's attention, and he felt a flutter of excitement. Still, that would come. This was intel time.

"Tell me about Sly," Ghost said evenly. "Maybe you'll get another treat."

“Oh, fuck, man. He’s a friend, though…” Jay winced, then spoke again after a moment, “What do I get?”

Ghost gave him a level stare. "Queen. Is the pharmacy open?"

Queen stretched luxuriously, popping his spine and exposing the flat inked panes of his stomach as he reached his arms up. "You know I'm 24/7," he said around his cigarette, then dropped his arms turning his pale gaze to Jay. "What's your poison, honey?"

He dug into his pocket, dropping a plastic bag with other small Ziploc bags inside. He picked up one with a thick little chunk of meth and another with powder. "Or maybe you got script taste," he said, dropping those and picking up a bag of colorful pills and tabs. He rummaged through and took a couple of distinct orange Percocet and tossed them in his mouth, chasing them with a swallow of Cherry Coke.

“I like the real shit- er, no offense.” Jay smiled sheepishly at Queen, “China White?”

Queen's eyebrows arched and he leaned back, "Well, sheee-it. We got us Iggy fucking Pop right here."

He sniffed then a playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "I might have something. Whatcha got for me?'

Jay puffed his cheeks out as he reached into his pocket and produced his phone. He set it on the table, slid it towards Queen and tapped the screen to life, the phone lighting up with a picture of Jay holding a little girl, both beaming at the camera, “Sly’s address is in there. His brother’s address, anyways. Dude’s homeless, floats from the clubhouse to his brother’s couch and anybody who’ll take his ass for a night or two.” Jay said, “He’s our muscle. Top gun, cool head in a shootout. Mean left.”

Queen glanced at the phone, then grinned, "Cute kid. I wonder if Maria's dad still has a picture like this on his phone or maybe whoever the fuck is looking for that girl we found at your place."

He looked at the phone and scrolled through it, clicking his teeth when he found the information. "Shame those girls got caught up with the likes of the Russians, yeah?"

Queen copied the information down and slid the phone back to Jay, meeting his gaze. Without looking over, he passed the paper they had been writing debts on to Ghost, Sly's information scrawled across the page.

Some of the life drained out of Jay’s face at that. He tried not to think about things like that, don’t bring the stress from work home, don’t be an absent father, don’t tell his little girl that he was a piece of shit. “Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes so heavy of a sudden, filled with shame, “Damn shame. You know, and I know this don’t mean shit, but I’m glad I’m helpin’ y’all.”

He looked at the two of them, letting his eyes fall back to the table, “But I know it don’t mean nothin’.”

Ghost looked over the paper, then stood.

"Wait on that treat," he said, looking at Queen, then at Jay. "I'm going to make a call. This checks out, you get your biscuit."

He left the room without another word, stepping into the hallway. A moment later he was on his pre-pay, the most recent number he'd memorized for Tex keyed in and ringing.

The other line picked up, Donnelley clearing his throat, “Jeff?”

Ghost grunted. "About that friend of ours. He gave me the contact info for his coworker. Says he can help us out. Guy's a little higher up the chain with their company."

“Oh, supervisor’s gonna be happy about that,” Donnelley’s telltale Texan was absent, and his voice was pitched down a tad, “I think it’s best we cut out the middle man and go straight for this higher-up. Let him off easy. Pressure’s on back at the Office, we’re under a crunch now. Do what you have to ASAP, the company wants you back soon.”

"Sounds good. I'll book a flight as soon as I wrap up this meeting." Ghost killed the call and pulled out an all-weather pen, scribbling a quick note across the top of the paper with Sly's info on it. Then he walked back into the room.

"It checks out," he said as he slipped back into his chair. He passed the note to Queen, the word HOTSHOT penciled neatly at the top. "Give him his cookie, we've got our new muster orders."

Queen glanced at it and then folded it, tucking it into his back pocket. He beckoned Jay with a tilt of his head, "That shit I don't carry in my pocket. I got some gear in my overnight bag."

He walked to the bed, rummaging in it and brought out a folded canvas pouch, the kind that used to hold wrenches and screwdrivers. Inside there was a tight wrapped bag of capped hypodermic needles and a scorch marked spoon.

Queen looked over at Ghost then at Jay.

"Let's get some privacy, I might wanna taste, too," he said, flashing a mischievous grin before opening the bathroom door.

He finished his cigarette, tossing it into the toilet before taking out the kit, laying it on the sink and removed a baggie of white powder, there was another of brown resinous looking material.

"When's the last time you got fixed up?" Queen asked, flicking the small bag of heroin with his fingers.

Jay’s eyes gleamed like a magpie’s at every movement of Queen’s, his eyes locked on the baggies he was working with. It couldn’t have been more pitiful if he was licking his lips and sweating, “I used to do it all the time when I was a small-timer. B-and-E’s, drug deals, whatever.” Jay said, an almost feverish tone in his voice, “You gonna help me? Been a bit.”

Queen nodded, casting a sidelong look at Jay, "Yeah, no problem. I'll let you go first, I'm a gentleman."

He set to work, heroin wasn't something he liked to fuck with but he'd tried it once or twice when undercover when it would have drawn suspicion not to. Queen took a strip of rubber tubing and snapped it tight before leaning in to help tie off Jay's arm above his elbow.

Queen stepped back and started up the cooking process. He added a little water from the tap to the spoon and mixed in a healthy dose of powder. Striking the high flame on his lighter, he put it under the small bowl and watched intently as it began to bubble.

His gaze cut over to Jay, watching the expression on the man's face. It never really left a person, that craving, that need for the warm embrace that the opiate would give. That rush that felt like the best orgasm of his life times a hundred.

Jay’s eyes kept an intent watch on Queen, almost hypnotized by the ritual of heroin. If Queen looked close enough, he could see the reflection of the tiny flame in Jay’s eyes. Any closer and he might see into his soul. A thousand little needles of doubt and regret stung at him, but it only made him hungrier for the embrace of the drug’s high. “I don’t want her to find out.” Jay said, face slack as he watched Queen, “Amber. That’s her name. The girl with me on my phone.”

“My sister would never let me see her again.” Jay mumbled the words, and his brows moving to come together was the only sign of his regret. “I don’t care what happens to me, but she’s the best thing in the world.”

As Queen drew out the plunger, filling the syringe with the China White that he had failed to mention was cut heavily with fentanyl. The dose was larger than even a seasoned junkie would dare shoot up, taken from a seizure near Tallahassee that had been responsible for a number of deaths.

"Well," Queen said, flicking the syringe and turning towards Jay. "We always hope kids will be better than us, right?"

He leaned over where Jay sat on the toilet lid and looked him over. Redneck trash. Not unlike himself in the eyes of most of this world. He made a quick gesture and waited for the man to hold out his arm.

The vein was there, popped bluish against Jay's pale skin unmarked by tattoos. Jay held his arm out, looking away from Queen and waiting for the sharpness of the needle. He felt the sting, and after a moment the rubber strap was snapped off his arm. He felt the tingle in his head and the droop in his eyes. He didn’t even realize he’d slumped down the toilet as he sighed.

Before long, he was starting to nod, a satisfied smile on his face as he’d lazily raise his bobbing head periodically. His breathing came slow, and slower, as time went on. Soon enough, his head stopped bobbing until all of him sagged. The last thing he had the energy to do was softly wretch before a thin stream of acidic vomit dribbled down his chin. Another wretch rolled his body off the side of the toilet and onto his back, his chest fighting for air as vomit pooled in his gurgling mouth for several minutes. His heel uselessly scraped against the floor, dreaming maybe, or futile animal throes. And then it stopped.

Queen watched him, reaching for another cigarette and lit up as Jay faded. When it was done, Queen checked for a pulse and found none. He sniffed and took a long drag, speaking to the dead man.

"So worried she'll find out you're a piece of shit, huh? Better worry little Amber doesn't pay for the sins of the uncle," he muttered, wiping down the sink and other places he had touched. He thought about the girl they found, malnourished and traumatized then glanced at Jay's still form. "Sleep well, asshole. They always figure it out anyway."

Queen stepped out of the bathroom and looked at Ghost and nodded, the loose end had been tied.

Ghost gave him his typical grunt, showing no more concern than if Queen had told him the weather forecast.

"Get packed," he said. He was already putting neat grunt-rolls into his bag. "Tex wants us. Clean up the cards, leave the gear. With his record they won't dig any deeper. Another scumbag who had an OD coming for years."

---

>CIA HEADQUARTERS
>SHOOTHOUSES, THE FARM
>LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
>14AUG2019
>1000...///

The weapons handling was tight, entries were getting quicker and more crisp. Target acquisition was better than a couple days ago. Spending time at the range and putting in work at the shoothouses had done Dave some good, it seemed. Likewise, the years hadn’t slowed Maui and Poker down a bit. They were every bit the operators they were when he’d first got to THUNDER. He wanted to join Dave this run, but he instead opted to join Ghost up in the catwalks, watching how the stress shoots and dry runs had benefited the mountain man.

Donnelley had his arms crossed as he watched Dave take point on a door. He’d look down at the thickness of his arms and broadness of his shoulders every once in a while. A couple weeks wasn’t much in terms of training, but two-a-days and supplements had helped along and gotten those hard-earned inches on his arms. The steadily growing operator beard made him look almost too different now. Maybe Ghost was rubbing off on him. He spoke to Ghost but kept watching, “How do you think he’s doin’ now?”

"Better," Ghost growled. He was back in Instructor Mode, his Oakleys glued to his face and his usual Gray Man attire supplemented by a blaze-orange plate carrier and whistle. "Smoother. Like he might actually get something done before he catches a sucking chest wound. You said he's stacked bodies with an injury? One to the shoulder?"

Donnelley nodded, watching intently as they entered the room and Maui put a quick triplet into a target, “Right through. Didn’t even notice until after it was over. Plate caught the other one.” Donnelley scratched at his chin, “Think we got three or four dudes before they decided we were too much trouble.”

Donnelley didn’t let how proud he was that UMBRA was making a better impression this time around now. It still had to be said that a shoothouse and a firefight were two very different things. All the same, train and train again made for a more successful fight. “Foster’s going to want to brief us soon. We should wrap it up.”

The big Operator nodded thoughtfully. Confirmation that Dave had fought on through an injury moved him up another couple of respect points. Ghost had seen men cave because of wounds; supposed hard-dick Delta killers who'd gone their whole career without a scratch could turn into crybabies the minute a round clipped their forearm and made shit too real for them.

Ghost himself had caught two in the guts on his first op, fought through the pain, and finished the mission providing overwatch. He'd died once in the bird and twice on the table, and still gotten his dick slapped for trying to train with a shit-bag strapped to his thigh.

He raised his whistle, blew three sharp blasts. "END-EX, END-EX, END-EX! CEASE FIRE, UNLOAD, SHOW CLEAR!" His gravelly roar cut the air as cleanly as the whistle had.

"I'll clear them out," he said, heading for the catwalk stairs.

---

>BRIEFING ROOM
>1100...///

Donnelley sat in his chair, UMBRA sitting across from THUNDER. Anyone who knew what was what knew that UMBRA was taking the lead, and THUNDER would do what they did best, hit pipes and squeeze triggers. Even sharing a room with them made Donnelley wistful for the days when life was so simple. No mysteries to solve, just heads to pop open with .300 Blackout, but as he looked to his people in UMBRA there was no doubt that he was in another stage of his life. Perhaps sorely needed.

The door opened and Foster entered with another face that would be familiar to Ghost and Queen as well. The Gray Man hung back behind Foster, not giving the rest in the room the time of day to even share glances as Foster set up the projector and his laptop. Donnelley felt his muscles tense as his killer’s eyes bore into the Gray Man. The knowledge he had, Donnelley had never understood. And what Donnelley didn’t understand never sat well with him.

“Nice to see you again.” Donnelley’s voice was hard and loud in the silence.

The Gray Man finally acknowledged Donnelley’s existence with a bored gaze and pursed lips. “Likewise.”

And that was all before he went back to pretending he and Foster were the only ones here. Finally, Foster stepped back as the projector splashed an aerial image of Blackriver County.

“Familiar place.” Foster said, folding his arms and nodding at the screen, “We’re taking Dulane back to the mines that he collapsed. I have a feeling those mines are where everything originated from here in Blackriver, long before Maria Vasquez and Gorochev.”

“Make no mistake, Maria Vasquez was a tragedy like every other girl lost there. But we’re the Program. We don’t deal with the symptoms, we deal with the cancer itself.” Foster leaned on his knuckles on the table, “And when we go in there, there’s going to be a lot of people who want to stop us from doing just that. We have NPS, Sheriff Department, Bratva, Aryan Brotherhood all gunning for us.”

“When we get out from Beckley and hit the border into Blackriver, expect every eye to be on us. We’re going to be making a lot of noise with this Dulane deal, somebody wanted him locked up forever and we’re dramatically fucking up everything they wanted.” Foster pointed to THUNDER, “THUNDER is going to be posing as US Marshal Service SOG charged with protecting Dulane in transit. The rest of us are FBI, same as always. State Police is kind enough to offer an escort up to, but not past, the border.”

“We’ll be on our own in Blackriver. UMBRA’s dress code for the day will be casual, pack armor and weapons. Two days’ rations, just in case.” Foster folded his arms, “No air support, no QRF. We pack light, probe deep, strike hard. Same shit, different day, ladies and gentlemen. Any questions?”

"Rules of engagement?"

It was Ghost, just like always. The big man liked parameters, especially when it came to who he was allowed to shoot. It helped prevent misunderstandings that might end with him having to endure an ass-chewing.

“Only fire unless fired upon. We don’t need to end up on the news.” Foster responded. “That said, high probability that we will face trained and experienced opposition from Gorochev. Any shooters not wearing a badge are to be neutralized with extreme prejudice.”

Ava watched the proceedings with bright eyes, her glasses gone from her face as shortly after they were released from custody; she had switched to contacts. It was strange to not feel the slight weight on her nose and tucked behind her ears. It took getting used to putting the contact lenses in, but once she did she found them surprisingly comfortable to wear.

The past few weeks also saw her getting some better sleep, some solid practice down at the shooting range with Dave or Donnelley when they could spare the time. It also saw the interesting development of Dave crashing on her couch, at her own suggestion. After her sleepwalking episode she was afraid to sleep alone and having Dave in the front room was a reassuring safety net that likely helped her sleep a little sounder. Though unexpectedly, it had led to a change in their relationship...

She tried not to stare too much at the new faces at the table, she had heard a little about them but hadn’t been formally introduced yet; the familiar anxiety of meeting new people making her hesitate to introduce herself.

She raised her hand slightly. “I have my drones, aerial and terran,” She said, lowering her hand back down to her lap. “Should I bring them?”

“High likelihood that we’ll need both. Go ahead.” Foster nodded.

Dave sat beside Ava, as dressed up as he ever got with his flannel tucked in and the sleeves neatly rolled. When Queen had entered he’d pulled his eyes away from the young redhead and given the man a cautious nod, working to keep his distaste from his face. His feelings about the man hadn’t changed, but he understood the basic concepts of professionalism, and now wasn’t the time to start talking shit. Instead he raised his hand.

“What about...That Hound or whatever? Do we have…” He trailed off, searching for the words, trying to find a way to say it without sounding foolish. Finally he sighed. “We got any magic, or voodoo, or whatever that fuckin’ Russian guy was doin’? Or a missile launcher, maybe? I know bullets just piss it off.”

At the question, Foster only quirked a brow and pushed off the table. He folded his arms and looked to the Gray Man, leaning against the wall in much the same posture. As he always did, he took his moment as if he enjoyed being the center of attention, and then spoke simply, “Me.” He left the single word out for everyone to understand or puzzle over, and then spoke again in case anyone took too long, “I specialize in… these types of things. Magic, or voodoo, or as you put it whatever that fucking Russian guy was doing.”

“My name is Doctor Overman. I’m an adviser on matters such as this.” He finished, looking back at Foster.

Foster looked back to UMBRA and THUNDER in turn, “Anything else?”

Ava had several after a statement like that, but she didn’t get the sense they would be readily answered so she remained quiet to get on with the meeting. However, she eyed Overman with a mixture of shock, suspicion and a little curiosity. He didn’t look like much, like he would just blend into a crowd and vanish into the sea of obscurity, but given what he just said about his specialty...It leant an unsettling air to his demeanor.

Laine studied Overman but he was a picture of banality, his expression revealed little other than a certain smugness when he spoke, subtle but there. She raised her hand slightly, tugging back the sleeve of her fine black sweater. Laine peered at him over the black frame glasses, the ones she wore when she wanted to be taken more seriously. “Dr Laine, FBI. I do have a couple questions. Just what is the Hound and how do the Russians control it?”

“It’s something, ah, from the other side.” Overman piped up. “Not heaven, or hell. Inventions to keep primitive man in line and away from each other’s throats.”

Overman’s gaze didn’t falter from Laine’s, “It isn’t any more evil than a lion is to the zebra.” He shrugged, “And just like a lion, you can’t truly control it. Just lift the gate and let it run loose at the first scent you give to it. The Sinaloa, Renko. Tom.”

“But to lift that gate… to turn it back and make it retreat into that cage,” Overman’s brows rose, “You need someone like me. We’ll need to find who sent it and kill him.”

It was somehow reassuring that the Hound was not evil in the classical sense but a predator, something the Russians could not exactly control despite their knowledge on how to open it's cage and set it on prey. The way Overman had said it, an invention to control humans made her more curious.

"The other side, an invention to keep us in place," Laine repeated, making mental notes. She kept her gaze on the Gray Man, taking this rare chance to ask the questions that gnawed at her, "Just what or who invented it, this predator outside our reality? And how did you learn to open the cage?"

Overman had a look that wasn’t condescension or blank for the first time, a little smirk for someone to be asking the real questions, and eyes that told her that he didn’t have the answers for her, “No one knows.” He admitted, “No one knows anything about this world. Not really.”

Laine stayed quiet a moment, thinking over the admission. They were groping in the dark with a small tool kit, not unlike psychology sometimes but this wasn't just the mind it was a physical creation. But how it was manifested, how it became, troubled her. "It's real though, an actual creature, has anyone ever been able to take a sample? How was the ceremony to banish learned?"

She paused, there was a thought she wanted to express but it was something she thought rediculous and yet it seemed to fit the situation. "Dr Overman, have you considered this thing a creation of man, a tulpa? I know that sounds silly but what I read about them, I could see similarities."

Her fair skin blushed slightly and she could not look at anyone else, her green eyes now showing hesitation after saying it out loud.

Overman’s frown only deepened, “We, ah, humanity and the fair few of us graced with the knowledge of it… we know nothing of its nature. No one has seen its DNA, pinned some evolutionary standpoint.” He said, “A long time ago, the Al-Azif was written. And suppressed. Magic, some call it. Like the curious monkeys we are, we toy with it. And as Foster and Donnelley, and everyone in the Program can attest, you are the consequences for when that happens.”

“Humanity has barely mapped its own oceans. We can barely slip our bonds from earth to set foot on our own moon, and you’re asking me to teach a class on what lay beyond it, and even further beyond that.” Overman shook his head, “No one should have to know that, Miss Laine.”

Laine leaned back, partially relieved that her brief foray into paranormal mental powers was fruitless. The human mind was powerful in itself and to think it might be able to have actual physical power had led to a few sleepless nights after reading certain books. "Doctor," she said, whether correcting him or addressing him, it was unclear.

"The Al-Azif, this is where Renko and you got those magic words? The scarf found on Maria was said to have 'squiggly' writing on it, perhaps it was Arabic script. What if it was one of those things called to her?" Laine said, then closed her eyes briefly. It had been a work of man, to blame it on something else was reckless and yet, that black shard had been buried deep inside her.

“It wasn’t. She wouldn’t have been so… clean.” Overman said, having seen the damage the thing could do once. And once was enough. “Consolation, maybe.”

Laine nodded, then glanced down at her hands. For a moment she had hoped it was still people, even people with supernatural abilities that would be frightening if true. People she could figure out but this otherness bothered her. They were flying blind against a deadly intelligence with only a sort of expert with knowledge equivalent to flashing a light off and on in a deep cavern and catching glimpses of what lurked in the shadows. She took a deep breath, done with her questions and settled back to allow anyone else a crack at it.

“What’s our rides?” Donnelley asked after a moment of silence.

“The usual Not-a-Fed chariots,” Foster nodded, “GMC Yukons, black. Tinted. Armored.”

He pursed his lips and looked around once more, not hearing anything else from the crowd. “We’ll depart here at Zero Hour for Beckley. Make sure everything’s squared away before then, you’ve got plenty of time. I’m not grounding the mission because somebody forgot their phone.” Foster said, “Until then, consider this mission started as soon as you leave this room. Anyone outside of it is a potential leak. Working Group UMBRA and THUNDER answer only to me, we’re going dark. Don’t talk to anyone but the people in this room, that means even making calls to the misses and mom and dad.”

Foster tightened his folded arms and nodded at them all, “Good luck. Dismissed.”

---

>PROGRAM SAFEHOUSE
>UNDISCLOSED, VIRGINIA
>14AUG2019
>2300...///

Green Boxes. The secret safehouses and storage areas used by the Program to store anything a Working Group might need, often hidden in plain sight. It ranged from anything the size of a lockbox in a bank to a house in the middle of the woods. This one was more the latter, a tiny office in a warehouse rented out permanently by the black budget of the Program. It was around sundown that they’d set off from their respective places to converge when they got the text.

The night was black when the last of them arrived, and wordlessly they set to work prepping themselves in whatever way they felt was right. As usual, Donnelley was in a corner of the room that was designed as a meeting hall, the open space housing only white walls, grey carpet, and a long table on which plate carriers, duffel bags, rucksacks, magazines, and guns were splayed out like the world’s most armed board of directors were holding a meeting. He brass checked his Badger and FN handgun to the beat of Sodom’s Napalm in the Morning blaring in his headset, hardly paying attention to the others in the room.

Once he holstered his handgun in the thigh holster, he slipped the headphones off his ears and the sound of brass checks and buckles graced his ear. Music just as good. He hooked his thumbs into his plate carrier, Badger dangling from its single-point sling, “Everyone got everythin’ on the packin’ list? NODs, provisions, ammo, badges, smiles, good attitudes?”

There was the soft sound of a small whirring motor as a boxy drone, painted with a geometric camo pattern and sitting on four comically large heavily treaded tires, crawled around the room. Ava had taken the prep time to check the cameras and systems for both of her drones, more out of having something to do than out of actual necessity.

Returning to Blackriver was becoming all too familiar, including the feelings of constant dread, anxiety and cold sweat inducing terror. Maybe someday she would get used to it all.

For now, she destracted herself by driving her drone, affectionately named WALL-E, around the room like an RC car. She was also checking the tires through the sensors built in to them and playing around with the camera on her tablet, but mostly she was just amusing herself while still looking productive.

She grinned slightly as she drove the drone up to Donnelley, bumping his boot and looking up at him with the drone’s built in camera. “Smile, you’re on candid camera.” She joked.

Dave watched Ava with a grin as he went over his gear. In addition to his usual weapons, the table before him also contained a pack with several lumps of C-4 and the required accoutrements. A venture like this required more than Tannerite, diesel fuel, and fertilizer. He had swapped his flannel and jeans for something a little more official, drab clothing from the 5.11 Tactical line, but his “hat hat” was still firmly planted on his head, and the ring of a Copenhagen can was visible in his back pocket.

On the other side of the room, Ghost was meticulously checking his own gear. He’d joined up with the other members of THUNDER the moment they’d arrived, eagerly separating himself from the new meat of UMBRA. He was glad to be back among his own, with hardened killers he knew he could count on in a pinch, even if he had to play dress-up. His Here For The Violence patch had been replaced with a US MARSHALS tab, his usual hoodie and tactical pants traded in for a suit of Multicam. He’d drawn the line at standardizing his weapons, though; his .300BLK sat on the table in front of him, and he’d rather give up his left hand than the customized Glock 19 that had seen him through shit-holes on six of the world’s seven continents.

“Hey, Ma.” Donnelley waved at the camera and smiled before turning away from it, “Alright, we got an hour ‘fore we move out from here. Everyone check and re-check everythin’, anythin’ you’re fuzzy on, ask it now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Poker spat, “Gotta piss. I’ll be back.”

Maui chuckled that deep thunder from his chest he had and went back to loading his magazines. THUNDER had long ago caved to the pressure and decided it was too much trouble arguing with Ghost over cartridges. Queen still kept his uzi, but Poker and Maui had switched to .300BLK when they’d ran into an issue in Bangladesh concerning ammunition and an exceptionally exciting firefight. Tex and Ghost were the only ones who could keep firing at the thing.

“Still doin’ that?” Donnelley muttered to the gigantic Hawaiian that was Maui.

“Uh Huh. Hasn’t gotten worse, but it’s never been good, you know?” Maui smiled, before speaking more low, “Your guys. They ain’t shooters.”

“That’s not what we do, Maui. Got some solid dudes, though.” Donnelley patted Maui’s slab-like shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, not everythin’ can be solved with a bullet.”

Donnelley stepped up to Dave, watching him work for a second before he spoke, “Locked n’ loaded, partner?”

"All ready, man." Dave gave him a smile that didn't quite hide his nerves. His gaze darted to the death-dealers in the corner, where Ghost was growling something about never having met a problem he couldn't shoot to death.

"I uh… I got them explosives," he gestured to his pack. "An' all my other shit. Guns and...stuff…" He trailed off, looking down at his gear again.

Donnelley laid a hand on Dave’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze when he noticed the mountain man was quieter than usual. “We’ll be out there together. We watched each other’s backs back at the cabin, we’ll do it again.” Donnelley inclined his head and rose his brows at Dave, a consoling little smile on his lips, “So. You got mine?”

“Always, man,” Dave nodded. “I’m with ya.”

Laine dressed in snug black tactical slacks and a dark blue Bureau polo over which she wore her vest and the FBI windbreaker laid beside her. Her fingers still ached from the times she fired her service weapon while using the Program’s facilities, trying to sharpen her skill. Twice she had to fire in a combat situation and was not as effective as she had liked to have been. The truth was Laine never enjoyed the tactical courses and her job rarely put her into a position to use her weapon now that she was an analyst. But she wasn’t just a profiler now and skill was needed, despite all the swinging dicks with guns around them, the enemy did not wait until they were well guarded. Renko proved that well enough. She still was not sure what to think of the mysterious Russian but trust was dear in this game.

Her thoughts turned to Dulane and the prickle on the back of her neck made her shiver. When they had interviewed him he was trying to tell them something but the man must live in constant fear, not just of the demons he saw but of those real men that would kill him to silence him. Let the world think he was a loon, she thought, but there was something other than madness there.

Laine glanced up at the others getting ready and asked, “So who is going to be my partner this time?”

“I’ll be your Mulder.” Donnelley smiled at Laine.

She smiled slightly back at him, "Alright, Spooky."

Laine laced up her boots and stood, feeling the tightness in her thighs and rear end, those squats had almost crippled her for a week. Her gun was in a holster at her waist now, the training at the courses with Donnelley and his old team had honed her small arm skills. She felt more confident drawing and firing, her target papers now shot through the center mass rather than scattered.

With the absence of questions, Donnelley placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. The last one he needed to check in on was Queen, his old friend. He sided up with him and watched him go over his uzi and his other gear.

“You up for this shit, mi cumpa?” He said with a smile that betrayed that younger man Tex was, in it for the adrenaline and nothing else.

Queen watched the UMBRA members with an expression of interest, moreso in how certain pants fit than their state of readiness. He dragged his gaze away from Laine's backside when he caught Tex approaching. Queen fiddled with the strap on his Uzi, returning the smile he recognized.

"When am I not up for action with you?" Queen grinned, resting his hand against the compact weapon. "You playing a Feeb should be fun to watch."

“Any last-minute tips, amigo?” Donnelley quirked a brow.

Queen sniffed and shrugged, then met Tex's gaze, "Keep it professional, polite, and above the locals. They expect it, big bad FBI comes swaggering in and they might resent it but they'd be disappointed if you were just another good ole boy. The prison boys got their expectations. As for Dulane, follow your gut with him. I don't know but what I've read in the files but he's a wild card and possibly a very useful one. Don't fake it with him."

“When have I not been professional and polite?” Donnelley smirked and turned to address the rest of the teams, Poker having gotten back from the bathroom.

Donnelley nodded at him, “Yall ready?”

“Roger.” Poker nodded back. “We’ll follow your lead, This is your guys’ show. We’ll be here if you need us.”

“Alright, let’s mount up now, ladies and gentlemen. The custody transfer is goin’ to take a bit and I want to get into Blackriver by early mornin’.” Donnelley rose his voice above the hubbub, “Let’s get to it.”

---

>BECKWITH PRISON, WV
>15AUG2019
>0100...///

The prison hadn’t changed since last time they’d been here. Still an old rundown piece of shit chock full of repeat offenders and potheads that got caught with one gram too many. They’d almost charged through the halls getting everything set to take Dulane out of the prison for his little field trip.

Laine waited with Donnelley, their FBI credentials clipped to their jackets. Despite the summer, it would not do for agents to arrive in just short sleeved polos. They were dressed for field work and the other members of their team had US Marshals badges visible. An impressive layout for the small town guards, a few who kept making eyes at the alphabet windbreakers and baseball caps. Dulane was suddenly an important commodity.

Donnelley looked around the Warden’s Office as they sat at his desk. He scanned the sparse walls and got the sense that the Warden wanted to be here as much as the inmates. Last time he was here the Warden seemed the type to relish the job like a tyrant over his little slice of the country. The pictures of the Warden with his family and shaking hands with the Mayor were all taken off the walls. No knickknacks on the desk. They were all piled into a cardboard box that had once been used to transport a mass amount of potato buds.

Donnelley slyly looked at it and he couldn’t resist. He pulled one picture out to look at, then another, and another. The last picture stopped him in his tracks. The Warden was shaking hands with an old Blackriver Sheriff while two others stood next to the two, dressed in a fitted suit and a State Police uniform. They all looked well-to-do, and it didn’t look like any type of photo op he’d heard of. Usually it was palm trees and Hawaiian shirts, but behind them, heavy machinery could be seen, mud beneath their fine leather dress shoes. Donnelley took his phone out of his pocket and snapped a quick picture before replacing the photo.

He showed his phone’s screen to Laine, “Where you think that is?” He asked, “You recognize those two uniforms?”

Laine watched Donnelley snoop, glancing now and then at the door. When he offered his phone she examined the image. "A state police officer, interesting. This is the first time I've seen evidence of them being cozy with Blackriver but I guess we shouldn't be surprised. I wonder if they're at a mine, with that heavy machinery. The old sheriff, a state officer, the warden and this mystery man."

She glanced at Donnelley, "We could ask Detective Roy, maybe she'll know the state officer and maybe even the suit if we're lucky."

“Maybe Joe Dawant has some answers about that. Haven’t heard from him in a bit, startin’ to get worried.” Donnelley said, replacing his phone in his pocket.

"We should contact them," Laine said, following his train of thought. "We owe them some sort of safety. If that's possible."

She glanced at Donnelley, her deep green eyes on his scarred face. "I'm ready to face those mines, whatever we find."

Her heart jumped at the thought but after the conversation with her father she had renewed faith in this war against the dangerous unknown. Laine reached up absently and touched the fine silver chain that disappeared under her polo.

Donnelley looked to her and nodded, “Me too.”

Laine looked back around the office, "I wonder if the Warden is retiring?"

The door opened and cut any conversation off. Donnelley stood and offered his hand out to the first person he saw, which were two. The Warden and the State Trooper in the picture. Donnelley hoped his eyes hadn’t lingered too long on the other man as he felt the recognition set in, and only smiled at the Warden, “Mister McKenna, how’ve you been?”

“Well, as ever, Davidson. I’m sure you noticed the change in decor.” Warden McKenna smiled and nodded to the walls around them, “I’m leavin’ this ol’ office soon. Retirement, gonna kick my feet up and sip mojitos by the water in Florida. Not before I hand your man off to you, though.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” Donnelley smiled, gesturing to Laine, “This is my partner, Doctor Laine, BAU. She’s had an interest in Dulane.”

“How do you do, Doctor?” McKenna stuck his hand out.

Laine stood as well, recognizing the older man as the warden. She smiled politely and congratulated him on his retirement. She shook his hand, her gaze never leaving his face until he pulled away. She looked aside at the West Virginia state cop and noted his badge and name tag, "McCune". He was the same uniform from the picture and she made a quick once over for rank insignia. Sergeant. Not too high but not a scrub. Interesting that a sergeant was rubbing elbows with the Warden and the mystery suit in the photo.

"We appreciate your help. Dulane is an interesting case study of the psychology of a mass murderer and valuable to my research," Laine said, the professional courtesy in her voice. "The cooperation you've shown us will be noted, Warden McKenna...Sergeant."

Her gaze flicked to the sergeant once more but held off on introduction, leaving it as unimportant as long as the Warden did not bother. She rubbed her hands together once then looked at Donnelley.

“Of course, of course.” McKenna smiled at the both of them, “Anyway, this is Sergeant McCune, State PD. He and Roy have been active on this case since Davidson and Forrest came over here. How is Forrest?”

“He’s good. Waitin’ for this case to get closed like the rest of us.” Davidson nodded. “Mind if we kick it into gear, Mister McKenna, we’re on a crunch.”

“Certainly not, let me find that folder.” The Warden opened a drawer on his desk and set down a Manila folder and a hefty external hard drive, “Like you asked. Phone calls, visitations, security footage. Everything we got on Dulane.”

“Appreciate that.” Donnelley smirked.

The Warden opened the Manila folder and scribbled his signature on the document that signified Dulane’s formal transfer into UMBRA’s custody. Once he was finished, McKenna spun the paper around to face Donnelley and Laine. Donnelley penned down the name John Davidson like he’d been signing with it for years, then slid it to Laine.

“After we get that stamped, y’all are free to take Dulane.” McKenna nodded.

“Detective Roy should be meeting your men outside.” McCune spoke up for the first time, “State PD is retrieving Dulane right about now. We’ll give you a full escort to Blackriver, but for the safety of my officers, we won’t be crossing that line with all y’all.”

Laine signed the paper, the flourish in the L distinctive of her signature. She turned to McCune, studying him a moment. She took the file and flipped through it, then tucked it against her chest. It would be interesting reading on the ride out to the mines.

"We appreciate what you're able to do for us," Laine said, "It's unfortunate that you can't make it into Blackriver."

“Really is.” McCune nodded.

Donnelley clucked his tongue and didn’t bother with that. He didn’t expect the PD to deviate on the plan heard in the briefing as laid out by Foster. It was UMBRA and THUNDER on their lonesome out in the hills, but that wasn’t anything new for Donnelley and the Program as a whole. “Well, McKenna, good luck with your retirement and all that.”

“Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.” McKenna smiled as he set himself down in his seat.

---

Donnelley and Laine had met back with the others, the convoy of Yukons making quite the impression on the guards. Even moreso was the MRAP complete with mounted M2 painted black and emblazoned with ‘WV State Police’ and ‘SWAT’ in block lettering. Roy was bedecked in her typical business attire and a black plate carrier, UMBRA, THUNDER, and the PD SWAT all looked ready for war. All for one man. Roy waved at them and stepped up to the both of them, “Howdy, hope y’all find it a successful jaunt into Blackriver. Whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

Donnelley’s hand slapped into Roy’s, “By the looks of it, we’ll be startin’ a war in them hills.” Donnelley chuckled, “Thanks, Roy.”

“My pleasure, only regret is not going up there with you. Chief doesn’t like the idea and Chief gets what Chief wants, huh?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Donnelley nodded.

The klaxon bell of the prison gate sounded out the warning of its opening. Flanked by SWAT officers with masks and the boys of THUNDER, Dulane walked of his own volition, chained by the ankles and wrists like an animal. His face was that of a man who just got everything he wanted, like this all was a great triumph for him. All according to plan. Dulane looked to Laine with a sickening baring of teeth as a smile, and mouthed the words, ‘I made a promise.’

Laine watched Dulane approach, gone was the hunted, haunted look of the man she remembered from the previous interview. When he smiled she felt a clutching in her stomach and for a moment there was a writhing of his shadow that stretched on the ground. The elongated man shape transformed into a mass of tentacles slithering across the asphalt.

She gasped a breath and blinked, and it was gone. Laine stared at the shadow but it bobbed along the ground just like the ones cast by the guards. A prickle ran across her scalp and down her neck as she gazed at Dulane and dread knotted in her stomach.

Laine turned to seek Donnelley but he was with Roy and she didn't want to make a scene. It could have just been a trick of the shadows and pavement but the primal warning in her gut spoke otherwise. Her face was paler than usual as she approached the truck Dulane would ride in with the disguised THUNDER and UMBRA members.

Donnelley watched Laine walk past him, some kind of trouble hanging around her, shoulders pinned back and head down. He quirked a brow at that and flicked his eyes toward Dulane before he spoke to Roy, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ‘head.”

“What’s McCune’s relationship with the Warden, McKenna?” Donnelley asked, “Seemed like they were familiar back in the office.”

Roy shrugged, “His family and the Warden’s been around here for awhile, far as I know. Went to school together, but so did mostly everyone our age around here wearin’ a badge.”

“Okay. Makes sense.” Donnelley accepted the answer, not completely trusting anything around here ever since the stories about old-blood families and the clannishness of the hills. “You trust him?”

“As much as I trust any of my people. What’s up?” Roy frowned, the seasoned detective catching on something Donnelley was working too hard to keep under wraps.

“You know how I might feel about families that’ve been ‘round here for a while. MacOnies and O’Dhoules, everythin’ like that.” Donnelley pursed his lips.

“Relax, we ain’t all hillbillies just like you ain’t all cowboys and outlaws.” Roy winked.

“You don’t know what I get up to.” Donnelley chuckled as he stepped away from her, “Thank you for the escort, Detective.”

“Our pleasure.” She tapped her brow in a salute as Donnelley rejoined his compatriots in UMBRA and THUNDER.

He caught back up with Laine in short order, “Everythin’ okay?”

Laine jerked her head up when Donnelley spoke and she turned to meet his eyes. Before she could change her mind she whispered in a rush, "Dulane isn't alone. There's something..."

She took a sharp breath, darting her gaze aside then back at him, "I thought I saw something...in his shadow."

Laine blushed slightly at the words but she still felt the primal fear that had shot through her at the glimpse of the writhing mass. She laid her hand against the door of the truck and forced herself to meet Donnelley's eyes.

He nodded slow, looking to Dulane just before he disappeared behind the SWAT MRAP and saw Overman staring at Dulane too. “Well, we’ve got that fuckin’ sorceror with us.” He looked back to Laine, hopefully easing her as much as he could, “We’ll be alright. We got a magician and a lot of bullets.”

Laine swallowed hard then nodded, they were as prepared as they could be. Yet that inhuman smile, the changing shadow, it all made her shiver despite the August heat.

"You're right, of course," she said, licking her lips slightly. "It's just... unnerving. I'll be alright, though."

She took a deep breath and centered her thoughts, Dulane or whatever was in him, would not throw her off her game. It was a scare tactic, Laine told herself and she would not be so easily frightened off.

Reaching out she gave Donnelley's wrist a brief squeeze before letting go. "I'm fine," she said, her voice more normal. "Let's get this show on the road."

Ava watched Dulane carefully as he was escorted out, the hair on the back of her neck prickling to attention as her eyes fell on him. Her palms started to sweat and as her heart began to beat a little faster. She leaned back against the car they would be taking, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to hide the quiet panic attack building inside of her chest the longer she watched Dulane from behind her sunglasses.

She dusted lightly at her arms as it felt like wisps of spider webbing drifted over her skin. “He’s creepy.” She whispered over to Dave, finally tearing her eyes away from Dulane to look up at him.

Dave’s eyes were locked on Dulane, on the sick, squirming thing he could’ve sworn he saw in the man’s shadow. He took a breath, steadied himself, his hand resting on the butt of his Sig. He tried to make the motion look casual, but the touch of the gun made him feel a little better, reminded him he was still in whatever fight might pop off. A quick glance at the heavily-armed men surrounding Dulane also helped put him a little at ease; Ghost was a spooky son of a bitch, and his “friends” from THUNDER weren’t much better, but knowing they were on his side helped.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard and moving a little closer to Ava. “He’s creepy, alright.”

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>OUTSIDE BOSTON LOGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
>15 MILES FROM BRAINTREE
>23JUL2019
>0045...///

Clouds drifted in the midnight sky leaving pools of inky blackness, looming and heavy shapes in the velvet. Breezes sent chills down spines in a night lit only by streetlights, washing out the streets in bleak orange. A bus squealed to a stop and hissed its doors open, a procession of sagging shoulders and shuffling feet lumbering inside. A lone car passed, bass thumping behind black windows. Donnelley watched it pass, sighing a breath of pale steam into the cold, still air. He’d opted to find himself on his lonesome, one of the first to exit the plane and grab his luggage.

He wondered why he did this to himself, fretting on what was to come. Knowing in every bit of himself and still trying to fool his mind into being surprised by what he’d see come the following hours. He sighed a curse into the air and took another drag off his cigarette as the bus passed, leaving a breeze that made him quiver again under his hoodie. He slipped the hood over his Thrasher cap and coughed into a fist, letting his head hang. He’d wait for the sunrise.

Not that this one would bring any joy. The slight heaviness in his limbs from the drinks he’d had on the plane and the overpriced airport bar did nothing to lessen the darkness of his mood. The only sound accompanying his reverie was the sounds of passing cars on the road and a far off siren lending its echoing call to the atmosphere.

Laine stood away from Dave and Ava, checking her messages from work and family. It seemed almost a lifetime since she had been at the office let alone talk to her parents. She looked at her mother's messages and started to reply then shoved the phone back into her pocket. Instead she took out her Djarums and headed outside, leaving the crowd of the airport.

She scanned the well lit walkway, faces of strangers passing by, blissfully unaware of Russian hellhounds and undead wives. As she moved passed the taxi stand, carrying her bag and laptop case over one shoulder, the people fell away until Laine spotted a lone figure.

From his stance she knew him, Donnelley's frame was already familiar in her mind. Laine waited, watching him brood in the dark as she lit a clove cigarette. Not wanting to intrude but unable to leave him, she walked slow and took a long drag as she studied the dim stars beyond the clouds and light pollution.

Getting over herself she approached Donnelley, looking over his hooded profile and she asked, "Sex Pistols or the Damned?"

“Crass.” Donnelley said, “Ain’t for revolution, it’s just for cash.”

He huffed a chuckle through his nose and ashed his cigarette, quoting that line. It might have been about the Clash being too poppy, and not the Pistols but he wanted to hear what Laine would make of that, “You think that young punk from Dalhart would hate me if he saw me now?”

Laine gave a little smile, his answer not conforming to the choices. "I don't believe you're all about the cash," she said, moving closer, her shoulder brushing his. "You're not a sell out, no matter who is signing your checks."

She tapped the black cigarette, the embers flickering and vanishing. "I don't know, maybe. But young punks never believe they'll grow up."

“Ain’t that the truth of it.” Donnelley chuckled, taking another long drag off his cigarette and sighing into the night. He looked around, the first time he’d been to Massachusetts and the circumstances were not promising. His mind drifted to a hundred other places besides there and he worked at quieting it all down so he could focus on what mattered.

His team.

“How’re you feeling?” He asked, switching out of his drawl to better fit this northeastern coast, “Feels like it’s been a month since we’ve had any time to wind down.”

Laine shrugged, raising the clove cigarette to her lips. She wore only the Siouxie and the Banshees t-shirt and black skinny jeans, her Converse sneakers finishing the unassuming look. "I feel like time has warped and those days were actually a month. I'm also very concerned about Ava and Avery, about the girl we failed to retrieve from the hospital. I feel like every smidge of victory has been kicked like an empty can across a road of defeat. But that's the nature of tough cases."

She blew out a stream of fragrant smoke and glanced over at him, Donnelley's eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap. "We might not win every battle but we keep fighting. Even when it seems futile."

Laine crossed one arm over her stomach, tucking her hand under the other arm. "I'm fighting my own doubts, questioning my sanity at getting into this mess but here I am. With you, with UMBRA."

After the little speech she glanced aside, then asked, "What should I expect from this meeting?"

“Expect them to ask you about a lot of things that don’t even pertain to the case we’re working on right now,” Donnelley said, “They’ll hook you up to a polygraph and grill you. It’s important that you tell the truth about everything and stick with it.”

Donnelley cleared his throat and took his last drag, flicking the smoldering butt into the street, “The Agency, and the Program even more, takes these things seriously. A nuke or a dirty bomb. Stolen files, that’s one thing, but,” he shrugged, “You know what we deal with. You need a radicalized chemist or a foreign agent to get on the Agency’s radar. The Program has to be pinged every time a crackpot says something weird.”

"So help me, God," she quipped after he had laid out the inquiry they faced. Laine looked over at him, hugging herself. "What about you?"

Donnelley shrugged, “I’m fine.” He said, tugging another cigarette from his pack and clucking his tongue that he was getting low, “Fine as I ever am. Foster secured some rooms at the Envision hotel in Boston, single night. We won’t be here for long, I’m not even going to unpack.”

“Hopefully the hotel’s bar is cheaper.” Donnelley snorted.

"I don't think I'd like to face the Inquisition hungover," Laine replied. "What do you think about the outcome? With our case?"

“We’ll get them. No doubt.” Donnelley shook his head with some resolve.

---

Ava felt numb. She wondered if maybe she was feeling some kind of shock after the rapid change in location. She had scarcely had a chance to deal with her midnight walkabout in the comforting security of her team when they were quickly shuffled out of the hospital, speed packed their belongings at the hotel and then grabbing the first plane to Massachusetts.

They were just a few hours drive to her home state, Rhode Island. Just a few freeway exits and she could be knocking on her parent’s door; go up to her childhood room and...Well she wasn’t sure what, but it was an idea that was very appealing to her right about then.

But, she couldn’t. Aside from the fact that the Program would tan her hide for abandoning an assignment, she didn’t want to risk bringing the attention of the Russians or their pet from the bowels of Hell to her family.

So, she stayed, standing with Dave as they waited for... something. A ride maybe? She didn’t know. Her mind felt blank and she was currently staring over at the line at the Cinnabon in the food court. A warm pastry sounded good.

Dave eyed Ava subtly, trying to gauge her emotional state. Her sleep-walking session seemed to have taken a toll on her. While he'd never experienced it first hand, he was feeling some distress himself at their sudden shift in focus and relocation. He couldn't imagine how she was feeling.

She'd been silent most of their flight; that was odd. Recently she was more talkative, at least with him. He tracked her gaze and gave her a gentle elbow.

"You look like you're wantin' somethin'," he grinned. "Hungry?"

Ava started a bit from the nudge, glancing up at him and trying to must a ghost of a smile. “A little.” She said with a small shrug of her shoulders. “Plus, it’s Cinnabon.”

"Well let's get Cinnabon," he said. He put his hand briefly on the small of her back, guiding her towards the restaurant. "Got a feeling we ain't gonna have time for snacks for a bit."

As they walked he kept his gaze moving. He was unarmed, and hated it. His pistol was checked on the plane, the other gear left with the two goons from THUNDER. He felt naked.

Ava followed Dave’s guiding touch, the warm hand on her back bringing a small spark of comfort with the contact. “Yeah, probably. We should get some stuff to go, in case the others need a little pick-me-up.” She said, eyes roaming over the approaching menu, but she already had an idea what she wanted.

"I've got cash," he said. "Never been here before though, so tell me what I want. I trust ya."

“It’s a little messy, because cinnamon buns.” Ava said as they joined the short line. “I’m getting the Center of the Roll, which comes in a bowl and makes eating a little easier. Because bowl.” She said, a bit of a smile appearing on her face. “Center of the Roll in a bowl.”

"Sounds good to me." He returned the smile as he dug out his wallet, glad to see a spark of happiness out of her. "So should we just get a buncha cinnamon bums for the others?"

“They have like little donut holes we can get that are easy to eat or we can get the bite sized cinnamon buns.” She said, looking over the menu to see what they had. “Maybe some hot chocolate?”

"I don't know anybody who don't like hot chocolate and donut holes," Dave said seriously. When their turn arrived he approached the counter, exchanging pleasantries with the skinny, tattooed hipster running the register before giving their order. He paid with cash, as he had always preferred, then led Ava off to the side to wait on the food somewhere he could put his back to a wall.

"So," he said quietly. "How you holdin' up, sugar?"

“...” Ava looked down at the ground, fiddling with the soft peach colored sleeve of her sweater. “It’s...a lot.” She finally answered him after the seconds of tense silence ticked by.

Dave watched her, sympathy in his steel-blue eyes. He nodded; things were rough for him, too. He wasn't surprised she was having trouble.

"Yeah, it is." He rested his hand on her shoulder, gave it a short squeeze. "But I'm here for ya. The whole team is. We all got each other's backs."

“I know, thank you.” She said, looking at the hand and then looking up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. “I just...I don’t know what’s going on with me.” She said, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"I know," he said. His voice was gentle, and he leaned down to put their faces level. "But we're gonna figure it out, alright?" He gave her his most confident smile. "We got this, and we got each other."

She sniffed and nodded, pushing up her glasses to dab at her eyes with her sleeve. “I know.” She said, lowering her glasses back down and turning to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders. “Thank you Dave.”

Dave gave her a firm squeeze, holding her for a few moments. "'Course, sugar." On impulse he leaned down and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. "You're a tough lil' lady, you know that?"

Ava blinked in surprise at the kiss, feeling her skin grow warm in response and her heart giving a little flutter. “It’s the pastels and cartoons, isn’t it?” She asked with a half smile, trying to perk herself back up.

"Definitely," he nodded. "Anybody who'll wear cartoon pun shirts ain't to be messed with," he said. "It's a sign of strength. That's why I love my hat." He touched the brim of his ball cap and winked.

She smiled a little wider and chuckled. “You are definitely a strong man.” She said, reaching up to tap the brim of the hat.

He laughed. "Yeah, I try," he said. He leaned back against the wall, a small smile on his face and his hand resting on Ava's shoulder. He stayed that way until their order was called.

"Alright, snack time," he said. "This was a good idea, junk foods always bring the mood up."

“It does.” She agreed, picking up her hot chocolate and her Center of the Roll in a bowl, which were just chunks and pieces of warm cinnamon roll covered in icing. “Should we go find Donnelley and Laine? Or eat our bowls first?”

"Eat first," Dave said emphatically. The moment he'd gotten his food his stomach had started snarling. "They got our numbers, they need us they'll call. Won't take us long anyway. I'm starvin'."

“Cinnabon has that effect.” Ava nodded sagely, picking up the bag of donut holes and leaving the box of mini cinnamon rolls for Dave to grab. She led them over to a nearby table and sank into the hard plastic with a sigh. “Maybe we should have gotten actual food.” She noted when Dave joined her.

Dave gave her a blank look as he sat down across from her.

"I don't understand," he said. "Anybody who says cinnamon rolls an' donuts ain't food sounds a bit like a communist to me."

Ava smiled, a startled giggle bubbling out from her chest. “Well, I do have red hair…” She said, trailing off while looking at him pointedly.

"Oh hell, you're right," he said, his eyes widening. "I shoulda seen the signs!"

Ava grinned, poking at her cinnamon roll innards with her fork before picking up a piece to eat. There was a comforting feeling to eating a warm bit of pastry, though who she had for company could have also played a role in the sense of ease she felt.

“How long have we been on assignment?” She asked Dave with a curious frown. “It feels like weeks.”

"Um… Like, three, four days?" He frowned, pausing in his chewing. "I dunno, honestly. I don't think it's been a week yet."

“Jesus.” Ava muttered, frowning down at the bowl of baked goods in front of her. “The cookout feels like forever ago.”

Dave flashed back briefly to the cookout, the sense of comradery and general ease they'd felt.

"Yeah, no kidding," he sighed. "Shit feels like it's comin' faster and faster, don't it?"

She nodded, staring at her bowl for a moment longer before looking back up at him with guilt in her eyes. “I’m sorry about scaring you all. I really am. I don’t know why it happened.”

"Hey, it's alright sugar," he said. He smiled. "Shit happens. We're just glad you're alright, ya know?"

“Yeah.” She tried to return his smile and took a bite of her pastry, trying to ignore the guilt still clawing at her insides. “I guess lucky for us Renko was close by, apparently.” She said, a thoughtful crease appearing between her eyebrows. “In a weird way, I did find him again.”

"Yeah, that is… Kinda weird, really," Dave frowned and shook his head. "Guy is helpful, but shit man… I dunno. I'm just…" He shrugged and poked at his cinnamon roll. "He just keeps comin' outta nowhere."

Ava nodded, frowning down at the table as she mulled it over. “I guess he was paying us back for helping him. I wish he would have just brought me back to you all, but he probably wanted to avoid joining Jay in the bathroom.” She tapped her fork against the rim of the bowl. “Tony, the nurse at the hospital, said it seemed like he cared.”

"Well, I'll hafta thank him when he pops up again," Dave grinned. "Unless he brings that thing along. Then I'ma punch him."

“I’ll punch him too.” Ava shuddered visibly, setting down her fork to take off her glasses and rub her hands over her face; slumping back into her chair and almost curling in on herself.

Dave reached across the table and took her shoulder for a moment, giving it a squeeze.

"We'll get through this," he said confidently. "Have some faith. In God, or just in the team. We're gonna be alright."

“It’s not that.” She said, her voice small and her hands trembling against her face. “I’m just...remembering the nightmare I had when I was sleepwalking.”

"You wanna talk about it?" He put his fork down and leaned forward. “We can do that in a bit, if you wanna. Away from… You know." He gestured at the crowd around them.

She started to shake her head, then paused for a moment before she slowly nodded. “Yeah.” She said, taking in a deep breath and lowering her hands down. “Later, but, yes, I want to talk about this.”

"Alright," Dave nodded. He ate the last of his cinnamon roll and sighed, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction. "That was a good idea."

Ava mustered up a smile for him, her bowl relatively untouched in front of her. “I’m glad you liked it, Cinnabon is always a good idea.” She looked down at her food, her stomach flipping but she forced herself to take a bite. “Better hurry and eat this before we have to go.”

"Yeah, I don't think it'll keep," he said. He checked his watch, then his phone. "They ain't callin' for us yet so we got a minute."

She nodded, swallowing what she had been chewing before reaching over to touch Dave’s hand. “Thanks again Dave, for everything.”

He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "'Course," he said lightly. "Ain't no trouble at all, sugar."

---

When the team scrambled out of West Virginia Jason was quick to follow. They had paraded out of the makeshift base with quick sense of purpose he hadn’t seen since his Air Force basic training days, though what they were heading into Donnelley kept close to the chest. He didn’t like that, but he trusted the team lead otherwise—either by choice or necessity he had to. While they waited to board one text had been enough to cancel Jason’s flight just minutes before taking off to Boston. He had mouthed something quick and vague to Donnelley at the boarding gate before they parted, and there was a business-like glare in his eyes hinting it was something important. It would be hours after UMBRA landed when he’d finally arrive in Boston, but it would be worth it. His DIA team linguist, Dan Treston, had finally come through with a follow-up on the ghostly phone data coming out of Syria.

Jason couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to Dan, but when he had Dan had promised intelligence over the phantom signal. The promise had been a tentative and unspoken one, both men knowing the fine line they’d have to follow chasing the lead, and that meant weeks, perhaps months, before either of them could communicate safely. The text came on his burner phone, Dan being the only person outside of the Program to have the number.

Dead account: [e-mail], standard pw, NO PGP! Email has encryption script, the text said.

Jason was no tech analyst but even he knew PGP encryption would be out of the question. Lettered agencies loved it when the bad guys used PGP. It would light up their presence like a gas station on a desert night, and although the messages would still be encrypted, the meta-data was free for the taking. Jason and his team had caught too many terrorists using this method. The irony was the same encryption his targets used was the same the CIA had engineered and feigned as a Mujahadeen secure network. Anytime a terrorist would use messaging systems like Mujahideen Secrets or whatever half-assed encryption program their tech guy cooked up their meta-data immediately framed them as potential terrorists.

It seemed to Jason there was little anyone could do to hide from the all seeing eye of technology these days, and that made him nervous opening whatever Dan had sent him. He had to download and install the several executable files in the dead email account, the actual data an encrypted jumble floating somewhere unknown in the unindexed void of the dark web. Jason didn’t dare read anything until he was in the air and physically disconnected from any network, the data downloaded moments before boarding.

What Dan had uncovered produced more questions than answers. The original anomaly was a series of encrypted messages from an asset cellphone in Syria, a series of messages from a dead man. Anis al-Shamard, Jason’s late asset, had been the previous owner. He was beheaded around the time Jason was recruited by the Program, right when a firesale’s worth of agency spies turned up dead or missing. Jason had watched the execution video himself, Anis’s dripping head flashing in his mind’s eye as he sat in the back rows of the small, commercial two-engine plane. Any other time it would have prompted Jason to take anything to numb his trauma-shelled mind, but he was fixated on the intel.

After Anis’s death his phone, written off as lost equipment, began sending the series of messages. Dan had mentioned before the phone was deactivated, meaning it wouldn’t be able to access the DIA towers even if it was recovered, but somehow the messages came through. What Dan discovered was even more puzzling. The phone pinged from only one cellphone tower, a tower no American agency knew of, deep in a Syrian town called Ar Rastan in the Idlib province. The province had been notoriously difficult to operate in due to heavy fighting, even more so since Russian military intervention. That’s who Jason thought of as the culprit initially, but Dan seemed to have ruled out the Russian’s as well. He had checked all cell tower data in the country, which didn’t show the phantom tower at all, and all Russian equipment squawking any electronic signal had been accounted for. And still the messages came through.

Dan had compiled and sent the logs, yet as Jason began reading an incredible drowsiness came over him. Just moments before he had been wired awake, his mind racing with potentials and theories, but now a heaviness pulled at his eyelids and rolled his head forward. He fought a losing battle against it. Perhaps it had been the week of restless sleep, deep and dreamless yet no more satisfying than if he had tossed and turned all night. Perhaps it was the girl, who they couldn’t recover, or the man he had killed, or Ava’s disappearance. And then he read it halfway through the logs of garbled nonsense.

Y76….$..4;r6
Gqalshamard20&3602…<+[-Mathieu%adf
, (./ Stewart
WEissman
T heLong 7 sleep,dreaming6^.*..@34
come@1.j.,aNd see /syt9dufk4

(Note: One of the few texts with words “al Shamard Mathieu Stewart Weissman the long sleep dreaming come and see” failed encryption wouldn’t do this)

Jason woke up to the jostling of the plane as it settled on its landing gear. The unknowable hours of his sleep spread like a panic, but his mind was immediately focused on the last message he had read. The message that had been sent weeks before Laurie, Gwen, and Tom had died.

---

>ENVISION HOTEL, BOSTON, MA
>0200...///

Goddamnit, Donnelley thought. No hotel bar. Nothing to speak of in the mini fridge, either. He couldn’t even bring his flask along on the trip. He’d have to find a bar before going to sleep or he just fucking never would. Either that, or… Donnelley looked at himself in the mirror, shirtless and in nothing but his boxer briefs. There were bags forming under his eyes the closer he looked. He brushed the gnarled scar on his thigh from whatever that thing was in the forest, eyed the old burn. The longer he looked, the less he liked everything he saw, so he turned away.

He needed a drink. Whiskey and cocaine. The dreams would feel less real that way. Like a mad hallucination, hazy and disjointed. He pulled on his jeans and slipped the first shirt he found on himself, a plain black thing, and threw some shoes on before walking to the door. He placed his hand on the knob before remembering to get his gun, shoving it holster and all into his waistband.

He eased his room’s door open and stepped out into the hallway, small footsteps that felt laughable to be attributed to the bold and brash J. Donnelley carrying him to his destination, like a squirrel along the forest floor instead of the proud bull tramping down weeds in his pasture. As much as Laine’s presence filled him with a sense of comfort and some sense of nervousness he hadn’t felt since he was a scrawny teen, he wanted something else. So he rapped his knuckles over Dave’s door. Something about the steady and stalwart Dave made Donnelley comfortable. Reminded him of the days when the soldier on his left and on his right were the only things in the world he had to worry about, and he didn’t have to worry about them at all. “It’s Donnelley, man.” He said.

There was the rustle of fabric and a few moments passed, then Dave pulled open the door. He wore a white beater and jeans, his Sig tucked into the front in what his bastard father had always called Mexican carry. He eyed Donnelley, his initial welcoming smile becoming a frown.

"Hey, man, you alright?" He stepped aside, waving Donnelley in without a moment's thought. "You ain't lookin' great."

Donnelley returned the smile, mirrored as best it could be through the filter of his stress. He stepped inside and the smile faltered. “Ain’t been sleepin’.” He said, slipping back into his drawl as he always did when Dave was around, “Just can’t some nights.”

He plopped himself down in a seat and settled into it. “I don’t want to be a mood killer, man, but Foster didn’t call us to Massachusetts for tea.” He frowned, “He sounded stressed. That makes me stressed. The fact the Russians and us got each other on our radars, the fact that Tom lives here near Boston… it don’t look good.”

Dave listened attentively, nodding along as Donnelley spoke. The only interruption was the snap of his dip can. After he'd packed a lip he offered his friend the can.

"Well…" He poked and prodded his dip into place with his tongue, his cold-steel gaze far away. "It sure ain't good, I'll give ya that. Russians… That's some shit I never thought I'd be mixed up in." Dave paused, concern once again creasing his features. "You think there's something with Tom?"

Donnelley took the can and tucked some of the tobacco in his lip. He’d never been a fan of the stuff, even when some of his buddies in Batt would go so far as to pack a dip and run with it in. He liked the feeling though. A distraction. “I really don’t know, man.” He said, offering the can back and settled back in his seat. “Listen, I’m not one to spread scuttlebutt and shit, but I’m just tellin’ you, because if what I think happened did happen.”

He shook his head, “It’s a real fuckin’ situation. Any chance you get, get whoever you got back home waitin’ for you squared away.” He said, “There’s another thing I need to let you know about.”

Dave's eyes grew hard, his genuine concern replaced with a deep-seated fury that came on all at once.

"You think someone might be comin' after my boy?" His calloused hands curled into rock-hard fists. "You tell me the truth now."

“The Russians. I don’t know what they know about. I need to tell my wife…” Donnelley cleared his throat, “My ex-wife to make sure she’s safe out there. I got a little girl too, man, I’m pissed as you.”

“But whether or not the Russians have their sights on our families, we gotta answer to the Program about Renko.” Donnelley said, “You worried?”

Dave shrugged a shoulder, prodding at his dip. It was a nervous habit he'd never been able to break; it had driven Kahlia nuts.

"I been fucked with by feds most my life," he said finally. "I ain't lookin' forwards to it, but I figured I'd hafta talk to suits eventually...They uh...We gettin' black-bagged if they don't like what we say?"

Donnelley shrugged, a macabre smirk on his face, “Never been on the other side of the recorder.” He chuckled, “Expect a polygraph. Expect ‘em to bring up your ol’ Pa. You only talk about what happened with Renko and that’s it. Tell the truth about everything and stick to it. They’ll try to fluster you, but don’t take the bait.”

“We’ll come out of these fuck-fuck games and get back to the case in no time.” Donnelley nodded. “But they got your file, Dave. Don’t let ‘em use it against you, you’re with the good guys doin’ the real work while they’re stapled to a fuckin’ desk. We’re their entertainment.”

“Besides, the cells there are nicer than this fuckin’ room. Beds are pretty comfortable.” Donnelley smiled.

Dave grinned, his good humor back in an instant. "Probably better than the racks at Boone County, huh?"

He laughed and shook his head before trailing off, his gaze settling on the far wall. "I been questioned before. ATF. The Old Man, you know? Didn't snitch, I ain't that kind even if the Old Man does deserve a bullet, but…" He sighed. "This kinda seems… I'unno. More serious."

“You’d be right.” Donnelley nodded, a little more gravity weighing his smirk down, “That black bag you mentioned earlier? I don’t think any of us have anythin’ to worry about. Renko made contact with us, not the other way around.”

“I know you’re new to this spy shit, but you’re doin’ pretty alright so far. Since we’re goin’ to Langley, maybe I’ll put y’all through some courses at The Farm.” Donnelley shrugged and chuckled, “Shoothouses and everythin’, CQB. Show you how the pros kick doors. Higher clearance, better perks.”

Dave perked up, his eyes alight at the prospect of gunplay in professional facilities.

"I like shoothouses," he said, grinning as he thought it over. "Ain't been in one in a minute, but I like 'em."

“You’ll like those ones.” Donnelley nodded.

“I need to know, man,” Donnelley said, “What happened that night?”

Dave paused as he considered the words. He'd told the story before, they all had.

"I really ain't sure," he said finally. His gaze grew distant and he stared at the far wall, digging deep for details he'd been trying to forget. "We were fine. Hangin' out. Then that Renko guy came bangin' on the door. We started smellin'... Burned wires. Like when you got an electrical short. Or maybe we smelled it, and then Renko showed up. Or it mighta happened all at once man, I dunno."

He shivered, sighed, looked down at his hands. "Then there was guns out and everyone was yellin', but nobody was doin' nothin'. So I did. I told him to drop his gun and he did, so we got in that circle. Then that...thing came. We said a prayer or somethin' and it went away… Ava, she was in bad shape. Said she saw it before it got there. Like in her head."

Dave fell silent, staring at the wall and messing with the dip in his lip. Finally he looked up at Donnelley. "If I fucked up I'm sorry, man. Don't let 'em take it out on the others. But somebody had to make a decision, an' I figured it was gonna hafta be me. I just wanted to keep everyone safe."

Donnelley nodded along as Dave’s eyes grew distant and looked far back to that place. His story was consistent with Laine’s, for sure. He’d better keep it that way, he thought firmly, but when Dave’s eyes came back to the present and he’d said what he did. Well, Donnelley knew he’d made the right decision leaving him in charge that night. “You did everything same as I would, man, don’t you worry ‘bout that.” Donnelley nodded, “I’m glad I chose you. Ain’t any better you could’ve done.”

Dave gave him a grateful smile, pleased with the praise. "Thanks, bud. I appreciate it. Way I figure it, we got too many enemies right now to be questionin' friends. I ain't sayin' we should trust Renko, really, but… If he's helpin' he's helpin'. If the mob is after him too, least we can do is wait to start shootin' at each other 'til they're handled. An' he seems like an alright guy. Helped Ava out right?" ”

“It’s what they’re sayin’. Least he could’ve done was leave a note,” Donnelley snorted, “This ain’t gonna be the last time we see Renko. We’ll find out if he’s a friend soon enough.”

Donnelley prodded the wad of tobacco in his lip and clucked his tongue, nodding in the silence, “So, you alright, still?” Donnelley asked, “We been through some shit.”

"I'm okay, I guess." Dave looked at the wall, then at his hands. He shook his head. "I dunno. I'm scared, man. I'm seein' shit I didn't even used to believe in. I'm killin' people. Shootin' 'em down." He gave a bitter, sad laugh. "Just like the Old Man taught me, right? His li'l soldier."

Donnelley nodded, eyes going over the whole of Dave’s face. Some people took to it, killing. Those were the ones he worried about, but Dave was too solid for that. He couldn’t see the well-meaning mountain boy getting addicted to pulling triggers. A little part of Donnelley wondered if he was the same as Dave, or if he was just a little bit like Ghost.

“I get it.” He said, “I’d say this is what you volunteered for, but… I know I didn’t know what the hell I’d be doin’.”

“For what it’s worth,” Donnelley thought about what he was about to say and found himself wanting, “You ain’t doin’ it for whatever bullshit reason your old man told you to. My door’s always open, man.”

"Thanks, hoss," Dave's smile grew a little brighter. "What about you? You holdin' up okay?"

Donnelley nodded, gave him a smirk, “Every day. Waitin’ around for that sunrise, man.”

Donnelley felt the need to keep up the image of the cool and calm leader. His team didn’t need to see the side of him with doubts and fears, but that side of him reared its head more as the years went on. He sighed, “Twenty-eight fuckin’ years, man.” The slow shake of his head might have clued Dave in to how Donnelley felt about those years, “I’m good at what I do. I just done it for so long I got bad at everythin’ else. You got a boy and a woman waitin’ for you. I lost that privilege way back, man. This case is the first time I been stateside for more than a week. My daughter don’t even know me.”

He rolled his jaw, “Just don’t get so caught up in savin’ your boy that you forget a father is more important to that kid than some dude runnin’ and gunnin’ doin’ shit he’s never goin’ to know about in a place he’s never heard of.” Donnelley gave Dave a beaten down smile, “Copy?”

"Yeah man, I copy," Dave said. He reached over and patted Donnelley on the shoulder. "You hit me up if you need to, though, alright? We'll have us a few beers."

“You wanna run to a gas station right now, partner?” Donnelley chuckled, only half-joking.

Dave nodded. "I can do beer, as long as the government's buyin'." He grabbed his pistol and tucked it in his pants. "Let's do it."

---

>ENVISION HOTEL, BOSTON, MA
>0200...///

Laine stared into the darkness of the hotel room, up at the ceiling that had a spot of faint glow from the alarm clock. Sleep evaded her as her thoughts raced through recent memories, trying to solve the puzzle with so many pieces missing. She rolled over onto her side, alone in the bed since Pari had insisted on getting her own room which allowed Ava her own bed.

The idea of Ava sleepwalking again also kept Laine awake, since she had failed to notice last night even though they had shared a bed. No sounds of sleep could be heard and Laine was certain Ava was awake despite the hour. Sleep was no longer a refuge.

Laine sat up and asked in the darkness, "Are you up?"

“...Yeah.” Ava answered back, her voice weary as after a moment and the rustling of sheets, she sat up in the bed. “I don’t want a...repeat of last night. I’m seriously considering handcuffing myself to the bed frame.”

Laine turned over on her side, peering at Ava in the other bed. "We could bar the door or maybe some kind of alarm. I don't want you getting out either but tying you down seems drastic."

She glanced at the door, then stood up and went over to a wood frame chair and jammed it under the door handle. "That might slow you down," Laine said as she turned to face Ava, dressed in an old band shirt to sleep in.

Laine went over to her and sat at the edge of Ava's bed, "You said something that's been bothering me, about your dream. You mentioned 'Tom', was it our Tom? The FBI agent that left us just after you arrived."

“I-I don’t know.” Ava answered, her voice quaking in the dark. She shifted on the bed until she could reach the nightstand and turn on the lamp that rested there. Her expression was disturbed as she turned her dark ringed eyes to Laine. “I couldn’t see past the...blood and fear.”

Laine watched her as she spoke, then replied, "If it's hard to talk about, you might try writing it down. It's a dream, a very powerful dream but a dream. It can't hurt you."

“It can’t-That thing came for us!” Ava shouted, her voice raising higher than she had ever spoken with it before. Something behind her eyes seemed to visibly snap as she got up out of bed, standing with her hands shaking and clenched into fists at her sides. “It came after us and it would have torn us apart just like it did in my dream or whatever it was! Because I’m starting to think it’s not ‘just a dream’!”

She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes but her face was still twisted with anger. She brought her hands up to her head and ran her shaking hands over her hair. “It could come for us again and you’re going to sit there and tell me it can’t hurt me!? I watched that fucking thing slaughter two innocent people and it felt like it was happening to me! So don’t tell me it can’t hurt me! Because clearly it can, even when I’m sleeping!”

Her voice cracked near the end, her breathing heavy from both the volume of her yelling and the effort it took to not break down completely.

Laine's expression remained calm as Ava let go of what she had been holding in, the torrent of horror spilling out. It needed to be exposed, the shine the light of conscious day onto the writhing dark mass of nightmares.

"It came for Renko," Laine said, softening her expression, "But it doesn't mean it won't get sent after us. Did you recognize the people? I know it's hard, I'm sorry. But if this thing somehow made a connection or is somehow projecting into your mind then we need to know. We have to figure it out to find out if we can stop it."

Ava sniffed, her anger lessening in the face of Laine’s calm and leveled reaction. “They...They just looked like normal people.” She said, shaking her head as she deflated and sat back down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumping. “Upper middle class, middle aged married couple from what I could tell, but...There was so much happening I didn’t get a good look. I,” She swallowed past the tightening of her throat. “I think I was seeing it through the eyes of the wife, I could feel her terror as she watched the Hound…” Her voice broke and she shook her head. “I don’t think they survived.”

"That is a horrible thing to witness, even in a dream," Laine's said,"And if it's real, then there's a possibility you have some sort of...well, psychic connection."

As soon as the words left her lips she blinked then sighed, slumping against the bed, resting against her palms.

Ava turned and blinked at her, her face blank for a moment as Laine said out loud what she herself had been quietly trying to avoid saying. But as the words drifted into the air, she felt her lips start to twitch.

Then a giggle started to bubble up in her chest. She startled herself as a grin began to form on her lips and she snorted. “I’m sorry,” She said as she felt strangely amused by the whole thing, even though she suspected it might be true. “Just, hearing it out loud...It sounds so fucking stupid.” She managed to say as the laughter finally came tumbling out as though Laine had just told her the funniest joke in the world.

“Psychic!” Ava laughed, the grin now wide on her freckled features as she tried to contain her sudden onset of jocularity. “I’m the Rhode Island Medium!”

Laine looked up at her and then smiled ruefully, shaking her head. "That's how I felt when they called Mrs Baughman a zombie. Unreal, except...well, it fucking is real."

Ava laughed more, leaning forward as the full absurdity of the situation descended on her. She knew it was strange to laugh about it, but she couldn’t help it. The stress, confusion and anger of the whole thing came out in the form of what she was sure was manic sounding laughter.

She pitched over sideways on the bed, her laughter eventually dying down to a fit of sporadic giggles. “We’re in an episode of Supernatural.” She said around her chuckling. “We even had to stand in the middle of a salt circle to keep out the demon!”

---

>BRAINTREE, MASSACHUSETTS
>24JUL2019
>0900...///

The sunrise had come just like it always did. Donnelley missed it as it hid behind the blinds of his hotel room while he showered and got ready for the day. He dressed professionally- blazer, tie, gun. When they caught their ride out to Braintree, which were two very fitting blacked out Chevy Tahoe’s, they cut the image of the men in black from the stories. The duo of cars raced down the highways towards their destination and only slowed when they got a few blocks from where Foster had told them to meet up.

A police cordon had been set up on the street, CSI in white jumpsuits and men in sunglasses and black suits were the order of all in attendance as Donnelley looked out the window and watched the happenings of the day. It was like a slice of El Paso dropped haphazardly into a sleepy Massachusetts suburb. Red and blue lights, uniformed cops farther down the streets giving the suits space. Foster turned and waved at the two cars from his place in the driveway.

“Your stop.” Said the bald man in the driver’s seat, and Donnelley dismounted, smoothing down his shirt and fixing his tie.

Foster stepped away from the crime scene and up to Donnelley, pressing his hand into Donnelley’s own, “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

“Mm.” Donnelley nodded, feeling a numbness set its hands over his shoulders. “So, I was right.”

Foster looked Donnelley up and down, his eyes squinted in scrutiny as Donnelley stared at the house, “Yeah.”

“What happened?” Donnelley asked, jaw set in the stoney calm of his face.

“Tom was working a case against Russians, don’t know if you remember.” Foster shook his head and shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets, “Caught up with him like it caught up with us… with you. He wasn’t as prepared.”

“We were fucking lucky.”

“Whatever.” Foster sighed, “These are all Program folks, if you were worried. The cops down there don’t need to know shit, so they don’t.”

“That’s good.” Donnelley’s frown grew a bit more.

“I think you’ll want to see every-“

“No.” Donnelley shook his head, finally breaking his gaze from Tom’s house, “No, I don’t. I’ve seen enough, I know enough.”

Foster returned Donnelley’s frown, looked at Donnelley and finally nodded in understanding. These things might be common in the Program, but Donnelley never liked it. Liked it even less when it was his people. He swore under his breath as he watched two of the crime scene workers step out of the house with two body bags. “She was pregnant…”

“Yeah.” Foster nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Donnelley folded his arms tight against his chest, “Tell that to Tom.”

“Two nights ago.” Foster said, nodding at everything around them, “I already visited the FBI office today and notified that Tom’s death and the circumstances surrounding it warranted people of a… higher clearance investigating.”

“Investigating what? We know how and who, it was textbook. They were going to do this to Carlisle if me and Ghost didn’t get to him first.” Donnelley spoke pointedly, turning to face Foster, “You let me off the leash and recall the rest of THUNDER, I’ll wipe this whole fucking thing away.”

“You know I can’t do that.” Foster shook his head, looking at Donnelley like he was a misguided kid offering simple solutions to a problem that had none. Maybe he was. “Office of Security wants you. They get what they want.”

Donnelley’s lip curled in contempt as he turned away and stalked off for a cigarette. Everything was becoming a fuck-up and unlike Chechnya, it wasn’t kalashnikovs in the bushes. It was a threat that wanted them all to know just how easily they could be touched.

Ava stepped down from the car, dressed in the blazer she purchased at the start of the case, a mint green blouse and a pair of dark jeans. Not strictly professional but it was the best way to carry her gun and she was reluctant to be without it after everything.

She looked toward the nice, quiet and tasteful house at the center of the crime scene. A shudder ran through her body as she felt a crawling prickling sensation tickle her scalp. She didn’t know if it was from general unease or, God forbid, it had something to do with...whatever was happening to her.

She watched Donnelley stalk away from the familiar form of Foster. She tightened down on a surge of nerves and anger, tried to keep her emotions in check and marched over to him, her hands clenched at her sides. If anyone could tell her what was going on with her, it would be the man that had her recruited into the Program in the first place.

“I need to speak with you.” She said when she walked up to him, trying to keep the glare off her face as she looked up at his features.

Foster looked away from Donnelley and nodded to Ava, eyes noticing the small nuances of her stance. If it put him off, it didn’t show, “Yes?”

Ava glanced around for a moment to make sure no one was close to over hear them, because what she was about to say would make her sound crazy. “I’m having dreams and visions and I’m sleepwalking again.” She said, looking up at him and waving her hand to the house. “I saw this last night, through the eyes of Tom’s poor wife. Something is happening to me and I need to know what because I can’t make sense of it.”

“I’m sorry.” Foster said, frowning at Ava, “I can’t tell you what’s happening. Not in the sense that… you know, but I really can’t.”

He shook his head and sighed, “If you have time, I need to show you something. It might shed some light on some things for you.” He said, “You have to promise me that this stays in our Group.”

Ava felt her frustration drop out from under her, followed quickly by a sense of disappointment and then dread. “What is it?” She asked nervously, her head turning slightly to try and catch sight of Dave or Laine or Donnelley from the corner of her eye.

“Come with me.” Foster said, turning for his car parked along the curb, a grey Chevy Malibu. He opened his driver door and beckoned for Ava to follow him inside. Once she’d closed her door, Foster reached into the back seat to get his laptop. On the screen was a website, it’s layout in a grey and red color scheme. A forum, the name ‘Dream Syndicate’ boldly emblazoned at the top of the page.

He let Ava watch his screen as he scrolled through the site, clicking on a board called ‘Dream Meanings and Analyzing’, and then clicked on the newest post- “HELP ME FIND OUT WHAT IT MEANS!!”

There was a detailed post going through the events that seemed to eerily mirror what had happened two nights ago, the post made at the early hours of the morning. The poster seemed frenzied, barely formatting their writing in an attempt to get everything they’d seen onto the page. Ava may have recognized it more and more as she read. Below the original post were others that said they’d had the same dream, every detail matching the others’ experiences to a tee. “We could never find out why you were like you were or who your real parents were. I ran background checks and everything.” Foster said, “We hadn’t seen anything like you from the files I could get access to. But the Program has tracked this website for a while now ever since the Malaysia Airlines jet went missing.”

He passed the computer to Ava to scroll through the website herself, “These people are like you. Some of these dreams, we traced them and pinned them to real happenings.” He shook his head and sat back, “Some of them match case files from our own lockers.”

Ava sat quietly, scrolling through the website with the faint blue light of the computer reflected in her glasses. “Did you look into the people posting these?” She asked, looking up at him with furrowed brows. “Is there...some kind of connection between them? Us? A pattern?”

“None of the IPs belong to anybody that should have access to anything nearly as secret as what they’re talking about.” He said, looking between Ava and the computer, “They’re all kids. Some of them as young as twelve. Most have CPS files, but not all. Most of the posts come from Stateside. Most of them are only-children, no siblings.”

Foster shrugged, “I don’t know, but if anything,” Foster sighed, “You’re not the only one out here dealing with it.”

“Look up the term ‘Marlene’ in the site’s search function.” He said, “Tell me what you find.”

Ava’s frown deepened, but turned back to the computer to type in the name ‘Marlene’. She read quietly for a few moments, a chill running down her spine. “These...They’re talking about the thing back at Baughman’s cabin. The thing that nearly killed Laine.” She said softly, leaning back into her seat, her expression stunned as she stared at the screen. “They’re talking about the exact events that happened when UMBRA got there.”

She shook her head, running a hand over her hair. “Where did these kids come from?” She shook her head again, still processing the information. “There has to be some kind of connection...What is the Program going to do with this?”

“Office of Intelligence and Security monitors it for anything that might be useful. It’s how I got to Tom’s house so quick.” Foster frowned, “I wanted you to see it. When I recruited you, I knew the Program would need an actual asset with the same ability. Turns out, UMBRA does. You might be a tinkerer, a hacker, but there’s so much more.”

“For what it’s worth…” Foster looked at Ava, “I’m sorry it has to be you here.”

Ava stared back at the computer screen, her childhood and adolescence bouts of nightmares and night terrors rushing back to her. “I don’t see how it’ll be helpful.” She said, looking up to the house with an expression of sorrow mingled with exhaustion. “It didn’t help them.” She took in a deep breath and tried to pull together some amount of strength.

“It’d be nice if I could throw things around with my mind or shoot Force lightning, but I guess we’re stuck with dreams we don’t understand.” She said, turning to him with a forced smile, making the joke mostly for her own sake than his. “Is it safe to say that I’m the oldest of these kids?” She asked, shifting her eyes back to the computer.

Foster nodded, “We think so.” Foster said, “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” She nodded. “Do you know where I was abandoned?”

“West Virginia.” Foster shrugged, “Anything other than that is a mystery. All we know is that someone found you. Wouldn’t be having this conversation otherwise.”

She passed his laptop back to him. “It’s a start at least.”

---

Donnelley flicked the last of his cigarette far off past the borders of the crime scene and withdrew another from his pack. He only had his lucky one left and he sucked his teeth at that, shoving it back in his coat’s inside pocket. He spotted the man he was looking for standing away from everyone else, looking even more the sore thumb than he might’ve hoped in his flannel and jeans… and the sizeable lump in his lip.

Donnelley stepped up to him and lit his cigarette, looking Dave up and down through his Ray Ban style shades. Finally, his lip turned up just a hair, “I thought I said dress for the occasion, Bunyan.”

Dave glanced at Donnelley, gave him a sheepish grin. "I forgot my suit," he shrugged. "Well, I didn't forget it forget it, but it's in my bag and kinda… You know. Squashed. So I figured this was better than showin' up lookin' like a bag of smashed assholes, you know?"

“Fair ‘nuff.” Donnelley nodded, looking back at the house and feeling another wave of hot anger, “I’m gonna kill ‘em. All of ‘em.”

"I'll help," Dave said seriously. He didn't know Tom, not well, but he was still one of their own. An attack on him showed that none of them were safe. "You gimme that call, man, an' I'll be there."

Donnelley exhaled smoke and nodded, “Keep the phone close.” He said, looking about the scene and shaking his head, “I seen enough. Let’s go.”

---

>ENVISION HOTEL
>BOSTON, MA
>1030...///

“Remember to be on your best behavior.” Foster squeezed Donnelley’s shoulder and was promptly shrugged off.

“Fuck off.”

“If you’re nervous, just remember I’m there.” Foster was trying to lighten the mood, Donnelley could tell, but there wasn’t any lifting of his spirits just then. Evidenced by the glare, “I’m sorry.”

“Did they hire you because you’re an asshole, or did they teach you at The Farm?” Donnelley frowned. Foster just pursed his lips and shrugged.

“They’re not going to find anything,” Foster inclined his head towards Donnelley as he packed his suit back into his bag, “Right?”

“Foster, are you insinuating that I’m feeding intel to Russian GRU?” Donnelley narrowed his eyes, “Fuck. You.”

“All I needed to know.” Foster nodded, “Now, remember to answer them just like that. See you there.”

Donnelley shook his head and growled, busying his hands with folding his clothes and stuffing them into his luggage. How Foster could go from grieving Case Officer to an impish little prick circling his head, he could never know. Perhaps it was payment for all the times Donnelley was an asshole. Whatever it was, a break would be welcome, but he knew Foster was right about what he’d said earlier.

Office of Security wanted them. Office of Security got what they wanted.

---

>LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
>CIA HQ, UNDERGROUND PARKING
>24JUL2019
>1700...///

“Listen,” Donnelley’s voice hard and serious in the back of the sprinter van they were all stuffed into at the airport. Even Avery had joined them. They were cargo, roughly handled by suited assholes belonging to the Program. The Inquisition, Donnelley thought bitterly, “I’ll say this one more time. We all know what happened that night. Stick to it. Tell the truth about everythin’, we’re fuckin’ innocent.”

He looked around at the faces of his team, all of them here awaiting to be thrown deep into the belly of the beast. “Anybody got anything they wanna say?”

Before anyone could answer, the back doors of the van were thrown open, their driver and his partner stepping back and nodding, “It’s time. Follow us.”

The walk was brisk, the pace of their inquisitors that of busy men with a dearth of time to spend on formalities such as saying anything or smiling. At least Donnelley and the others were spared being paraded through the Agency HQ in handcuffs. Those of them that didn’t have badges provided to them by the Agency or one of its contractors like Donnelley or Ava were scanned in and told that badges would be made for them.

The last part about the badges only being made if they weren’t found to be guilty of treason or espionage, or whatever charges could be drummed up, was politely left unsaid. The walk finally took them far deeper into the underbelly of Langley, a place seldom few ever got to see. Past a guarded gate they had to scan through, and a walkway that led into a bland, windowless, concrete citadel of an office complex. After a brief foray into the offices with hushed conversations interrupted by their passing, trilling ringtones, and the sounds of a small and secretive government agency at work, they were dumped off into a glass meeting room.

A long table adorned with still steaming coffee mugs apparently poured out for them prior to their arrival was at the center. They were expected to take a seat, and so Donnelley did, taking up his roost at the head of the table. “This is gonna be so fun.” He droned, “Just one last time, before the vultures of the Office of Security peck us to death… y’all ain’t double agents, right?”

Dave made a sound of nervous amusement. Unlike Donnelley he was standing, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and sweat on his brow.

"Hell, I ain't barely a regular agent, let alone a double one," he said with an uneasy grin. Still, beneath his nervous demeanor he was angry. In fact he was mad as hell.

Being manhandled by federal goons had pissed him off good. Only his trust in Donnelley's leadership had kept him from manhandling them right back; that, and the knowledge that they undoubtedly knew about his boy, and he didn't trust them not to play dirty.

Ava turned her chair around to smile at Dave, picking the one closest to him without much thought. She left her coffee where it was sitting, she was already anxious enough, she didn’t need to make it worse with caffeine.

She didn’t know how they would react to her visions and she hoped that they didn’t know about the hospital incident. It wouldn’t exactly help their case, or at least not her’s.

“I think I’d notice if I was.” She said, forcing a bit of good humor into her voice. “The only thing Red about me is my hair.”

Laine sat in a chair adjacent to Donnelley’s head of the table position. She had been silent nearly the entire trip, her face a mask of calm professionalism in a predictably black suit blazer and skirt combination. She forced herself to go over the events, making sure nothing was overlooked or switched around. Forcing herself not to think of the little girl they were never able to rescue because of plans going awry, Laine watched the door, waiting for the call.

Across the table from Laine was a quickly silent Jason, a wrinkled blue dress shirt snug against his bulky form and lined with messy creases. He avoided eye contact, letting his eyes skate across the table’s surface, Adam’s apple bulged against his collar as he swallowed. His mouth was on the verge of a sticky dryness and he chanced the bitter coffee to wet his throat.

“Always hated this building,” Jason croaked, slurping another scalding splash of coffee. “Reminds me of Houston. You sweat inside the fuckin’ buildings.”

He had been wholly absent in Boston, confined to his room pouring over Karen Barr’s Sky Devil and a plethora of John Keel kindle books. Even now his eyes seemed distant, checked out. He felt it too, feeling almost hypnagogic. Waking but not awake, not sleeping but dreaming. All he had to do was tell it straight and get back to what mattered. Today was just another song and dance, it had to be. A faint shean of moisture settled on his forehead, and another sip of coffee kept his body temperature uncomfortably high.

“Better than Seattle.” Donnelley sighed.

Laine shifted her gaze looking at Jason starting the sweat. The room was stuffy and growing more warm with all their bodies in the closed space. She sat up and unbuttoned her blazer, slipping it off and hanging it on the back of the chair. The snug gray blouse was light weight and she immediately felt better.

"This is estuary country, marsh," she said, after a long silence through the ride. "Neither land or water, something else entirely. A border between worlds."

Her thoughts had not been on the ecology of the DC area but of the Hound and his handlers, where it came from and how it traveled. There must be something, a portal or path, a border. But it was a subject out of her depth and she would have to change it, force herself to embrace that strange reality.

“Mud,” Donnelley frowned, looking around at the cubicles and offices situated a small distance away from this glass box. They were locked away like animals in a zoo, “And secrets.”

Jason leaned back in his chair and gave each of them a darting glance. He wish he had more coffee, something to do with his hands. Secrets. After some of his hotel aesthetic reading it had an entirely different context.

“Back in 73 the CIA had this program, psychics used like spy planes,” Jason said, tone and pitch airy as if amused with myself for telling the story. “This guy Ingo Swann is putting on a show for some spooks and they only give him some coordinates, longitude, latitude. Ingo starts describing this place, first the hills and trees, the driveway, the cabin.

“He goes inside,” he quotes with his fingers, “offers to look inside a black filing cabinet. Reads this codename on a document and gives a sketch. Problem is one of the spooks gave coordinates to his summer cabin and it’s the wrong building. No one knew nearby there was a NSA code breaking facility. Codename even confirmed it. When they asked how he got it wrong, he just said ‘the more you hide something, the more it shines like a beacon.’”

Donnelley quirked his brow at Jason before he locked his eyes on a pair of suited men quickly closing in on their holding cell. One of them held a dossier and the other was Foster, whose face looked like he was holding nothing but nervousness. His brow was knit firmly together as he and the other man opened the door. The man next to Foster spoke first, “My name is Booker, Office of Security with Internal Affairs.”

“Your Case Officer Steven Foster has signed you over to us for the minimum duration of two days to get everything sorted out.” Booker looked around at Working Group UMBRA, his eyes boring into each of theirs with the most subtle hint of what a cat must feel with a mouse in its sights, “But we are fully prepared to extend this if we find any discrepancies.”

He smiled tightly as his eyes ran over the assembled agents in reverse order, fangs peeking out from behind thin lips, “We have two rooms dedicated to this investigation. You,” He nodded to Laine, then looked at Jason, “And you.”

Laine glanced at Donnelley, a moment of seeking reassurance before the cool expression settled into place and she stood up, swinging her jacket over her shoulder. She turned her gaze to the man who held their freedom in his hand, he had a weasel smile and a slick look that showed he enjoyed their discomfort. Her attention pulled away and Laine waited for Jason, keeping her eyes on him.

Jason smirked, sighing as he rocked to his feet. He wondered how this place would look to Ingo Swann, lit up like a sad parking lot carnival he could walk through like a ghost. Damn, he didn’t want to be here. A waste of everyone’s time. He passed Ava and looked down at the top of her head, his smirk fading. Jason wanted to hide her from them, from the whole agency. Whatever was happening to her wasn’t meant for I.A. or oversight committees to see. They’d only determine her a risk and pin her to a table like a butterfly. They’d peel her wings off, alright. If the team had time they could figure it out, what it meant. And they could keep her safe, despite recent events. It was a comforting lie.

Ava tore her eyes away from Agent Booker after a few moments studying him, finding it hard to not glare at the man for seemingly enjoying the delicate position they were in. Like he assumed they were already guilty of something and he couldn’t wait to needle it out of them.

She felt her nerves grow and was glad she hadn’t touched her coffee. She was beginning to doubt telling them what she had gone through before the Hound appeared.

She glanced over her shoulder as Jason passed, then looked up at him; offering up as encouraging a smile as she could when she saw the expression on his face. She didn’t envy him having to go first.

---

>LAINE
>INTERVIEW ROOM 1
>1710...///

“Please, stay put.” Booker droned as he pulled the metal chair whining across the concrete floor and offering it to Laine.

It was a drab place, of the same menace as Beckley Prison. Four sterile white walls looming over the two of them, and a mirrored window stretching across one. No doubt, a team of Counterintel and IA agents were clustered around it to watch the show. Foster might be behind it, and he was the only friendly face any of them had here. “Your interviewer will be here shortly.”

The last thing Laine heard before the room grew silent with only her breath was the shutting of the door. Moments passed by at the speed of a glacier, seeming almost an hour in this stagnant and dusty lonesome. The sound of the door opening heralded Laine’s interviewer, the tall, dusky man coming into view and plopping himself down in the seat across from her. His curly black hair pulled back into a bun and he pushed his glasses up his nose as he set a Manila folder on the table.

“Hello,” he smiled, seeming almost friendly in comparison to Booker’s wolf’s grin, “My name is Feroz. I am your interviewer. Please state your name, date, and place of birth.”

Laine waited out the time recounting details, not just of the events but of her team. Each person held a place now in her heart and her life, even Tom, poor dead naive Tom. And Laury and Gwen, they had been killed by the thing that hunted Renko. It could be anyone of them next, UMBRA picked apart one by one until they were gone. It meant at least they were getting close, the more dangerous it became.

The door opened and interrupted her thoughts, the man did not look like a CIA spook but that meant little, he was still there to try and pick her story apart.

"Hello Feroz," Laine responded in the same polite professional tone. She was giving him information he most likely already had, control questions. "My name is Dr Heather Laine, born January 30th, 1985 in Van Nuys, California."

“California,” Feroz chuckled, “Some ways from home.”

Feroz kept his smile as he reached into his bag and pulled out a recorder, a pad, and a pen. He began scribbling down notes and pressed record, reciting the names of both of them and then looking back at Laine, “So, I would like to know something. Did all the members of Working Group UMBRA witness the unnatural incursion vector- this Hound- and were you all there when the GRU Officer made contact?”

Laine gave him a tight smile and a slight shrug, "You go where the work is."

"All the members that were present," she replied, "Myself, Dave, Ava, and Avery not a member of UMBRA but he was there as Safehouse security. And we were all there when the man calling himself Renko showed up on the doorstep."

Feroz nodded, “Okay. And the rest of the team?”

"You mean Mr Donnelley? He was out with two other Program members to apprehend a local drug runner working for the Russian mob in this area, the Tadjbegskye Bratva," Laine said, looking directly at Feroz, clasping her hands loosely as they rested on the table.

“At about what time was their return with this target?” Feroz asked, “Just trying to get a timeline between their leaving and Renko’s arrival.”

Laine shrugged slightly, “It was very late or early rather, in the dark of the morning. I don’t recall checking the time, things were very tense. I just know it was at least after 2 AM and before sunrise.”

She could not remember, even after recalling and going over the events for hours. That night time seemed elastic to stretch into long minutes that lasted a lifetime and snapped forward flying towards the reckoning.

“I see,” Feroz scribbled more notes, “And your Team Lead was not present for Renko’s arrival? Can you recount everything you can remember? Please, do try to be detailed, Dr. Laine.”

"No, he was out on a ... mission, I guess you might call it. We were resting at the Safehouse, going over the case when there was a knock on the door. Dave and Avery held guns on the door. There was nothing at the door, Avery saw nothing but you could feel it. Like the tension before the storm breaks."

Laine took a sip of the cold coffee and glanced at the interviewer. "There was a smell, like burning wires. Then more knocking but Avery kept saying he couldn't see anyone until we heard the voice. The man appeared. Just like that, from what I understand. He didn't walk up the sidewalk.
He was telling us he needed our help, that something was coming through. That we needed to help him. There was a moment of uncertainty, we had our guns out and this guy, who he later identified himself as Renko, held his own gun to his head. It was very tense but...well, he said he could stop what was coming, turn it away but we had to help."

Laine paused, reaching up to rub her forehead then brush her thick dark hair back. "Then he drew a circle on the carpet in salt, and when we were all inside it gave us these papers to read. A phrase in a language I didn't understand."

Her eyes flicked away from Feroz for a moment before meeting his gaze again, "Then the Hound came."

Feroz nodded slow, keeping his gaze on Laine’s, taking his moment before he spoke, “So, Renko made contact, asking for your help, and then instructed you on how to turn away this Hound?” Feroz nodded again, looking down finally to scribble more while speaking, “Interesting. Thank you, Dr. Laine. We can follow up on this for the duration of your stay here at Langley if needed.”

Feroz stood and offered his hand, “You are helping a lot with this.” He smiled, “We take things like this very seriously.”

Laine nodded, giving a slight lift of her shoulders, "That's fine."

She stood once he did and shook his hand, "I would assume you would. And are you going to need me around the entire time? I live not too far in Stafford County and I'd like to check up on my place."

“We’ll have some of our people take care of that for you during your stay here.” Feroz smiled politely. Something to put her at ease coming from anyone else, but a veiled show of just how much the Program knew about her already without her giving it to them. How deep that rabbit hole went was anyone’s guess. “Have a good day, Dr. Laine.”

Laine bit her tongue, then just smiled slightly before leaving the room. A reminder they were basically prisoners until they were cleared. She walked with a quick, purposeful stride out to the waiting room.

---

>JASON
>INTERVIEW ROOM 2
>1710...///

There were no formalities for Jason. Booker had split the pair of Jason and Laine, leading Laine down the corridor and disappearing behind a metal door. Another set of footsteps were coming up the hallway, belonging to a stocky gentleman that Jason could see was a few inches shy of himself. If this bothered the man, he didn’t show it. He smelled of cigarettes and too much body spray, his frown nestled in a rug of beard and brows that seemed permanently knit together.

He held his hand out for Jason, a friendly gesture from a man who looked anything but, “What’s up, big man?”

“Oh, just waiting for the foreplay,” Jason said, taking the hand and reciprocating a firm, respectful squeeze and shake. He beamed a playful smile, thinking good humor could defuse the muggy tension. He tried to keep his mind clear, blank. Tuned out.

“Mm.” His face hadn’t even twitched into anything different than what it started off as. “First time here? You’re one of Foster’s, yeah?”

“This floor? Nah,” Jason said, looking around at nothing in particular. “Been around for interagency training, consultation. You know how it goes.”

Jason didn’t smoke but the thought of working a cigarette from table to lips and back again was appealing. He wanted to do something with his hands, and smoking looked more calm than idly tearing up paper or fingernails. The interrogator hadn’t given his name but Jason hardly thought it mattered. He turned his gaze to his questioner and sank into whatever chair he was ushered into.

There were questions, but Jason thought it best to respond, not give any leading curiosity. It hadn’t been internal affairs but he had been on the other side of the desk before. Any leading comment, answers too quickly given, fake events corroborated out of fear—anything he said now was evidence.

“You point, I march, Agent,” Jason said, almost surprised at his own confidence. “Just tell me where we need to go.”

“Alright,” The other man smiled, “First things first, name’s John. Figure that’s enough for my introduction. I take it you know that I already know your name, so let’s take it back a bit.”

John rested back in his seat, demeanor as if this was a chat at a bar and not an official interview. “What did you talk about when you went back to Florida after your debut with Donnelley and Foster?”

“Department head wanted a chat, well—he wanted to chew someone’s ass. At the time we had a major Ops fiasco and my recruitment was timed during the windfall. I guess I turned into the fall guy.”

“Ain’t that some shit.” John shook his head, “I understand they shoved you into Embassy duty riding a desk somewhere. Can’t have been fun.”

John smirked and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the stainless steel table between him and his subject. “Where’d they put you again? And how long until you made it CONUS?”

“Amman,” Jason said, watching John move with a canine-like like focus. His eyes were practically glinting with thought. “I can’t remember how many weeks it was until I was back home. Mostly I was approving daily reports for embassy staff, sometimes answered questions for the ambassador’s risk assessment team.”

The embassy wasn’t fun the way detention wasn’t a thrill for a teenager. Monotony was its own torture. If Jason could have done it again he would have read more, would have scrounged any material that related to high strangeness, anything to make sense of the Program. He still hadn’t found an intersection between what was happening to the team and the growing gamut of paranormal accounts in the modern world, but it was a wide world, growing wider by the day. Who knows what Syrian town where the residents dream together could be linked to a strange being stalking livestock in Puerto Rico, or a section of an Australian refuge known for its ‘time slips.’ There was so, so much happening around the world. They were just interested in the boogeymen.

Jason spread his elbows on the table and leaned in, thinking over John’s questions. “But you know all that John. Report no later than dates, agency accountability, flight itineraries. This isn’t about where I was.”

John seemed to warm as Jason showed his teeth so early from the start. Like the master meeting a peer, a twinkle of interest shone in his eye. “Nope.” John put it bluntly, “We both know Russians are active in Syria. After Ukraine gave up their nukes, they handed Russia their balls too.”

“And they’ve been getting braver ever since.” John’s smile widened, “Everybody here at the Agency heard about the little asset who knocked over so much. I wonder how that happened.”

“I’m not here to prod at scabs, Jason. I know the DIA is already doing that enough. I’m just wanting to know how a single asset royally fucked US interests in Syria just around the time British Intelligence loses track of a big ass American there, Daesh comes out of the shadows in Iraq and starts skinning people, and Russians kill three of our own agents with demons in Massachusetts and bumfuck West Virginia- agents you knew- a stone’s throw from Quantico and Langley.” John’s eyes took a hardened edge, voice like rasps over a whetstone, “A single asset with a single handler. You been busy lately, Jason?”

John sat back, laying his hands over his lap, as he regained his Devil-may-care smirk, “Just asking.”

Jason’s lips tensed in a closed lip smile, his eyes on the table. He was nodding as he listened to this ‘agent John,’ could see the narrative he had put together. It was all conjecture as far as Jason was concerned, how he inferred Jason’s place in all of this. He could see the ways he could pick it apart, and he was getting lost in its mental sinkhole.

“That big American in Lebanon, the ones British intelligence lost track of, that’s a crock of shit,” Jason said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of his chair, eyes now glowering at John. He didn’t mean to bite back but he couldn’t help the outburst.

“And think about that asset,” he went on, “A fucking nineteen year old looking for an amnesty ticket to the states. Low level running boy. And he orchestrates this shitshow? He, it—they’re symptoms, not causes. What is this, fuckin’ pin the tail on the commie?”

“That’s fair.” John shrugged, “I just hope you understand when I say that I’m still fucking suspicious about all of this.”

Aren’t we all, Johnny boy.

“Even if I give Foster and that asshole Donnelley the benefit of the doubt that they weren’t too busy pulling cowboy shit to remember the Program’s SOPs,” John leaned forward again, elbows on the table, “A foreign intel officer from a hostile agency locking a Working Group in without being flagged themselves by Program CI, much less those Fucking Big Idiots in Quantico…”

John frowned, shrugging his shoulders as he stood and sighed, “I don’t want to believe that some of our people are being clocked. I don’t want what happened in the Middle East to happen here, Jason.”

John locked Jason into a long stare, eyes searching for something. Emeralds glinting in his aged face, dissing out anything they could in the tiniest movements of Jason’s own dark eyes. He sighed long and hard, pushing off the table and he didn’t even say goodbye as the door shut on Jason, leaving him alone in the room.

---

>DAVE
>INTERVIEW ROOM 1
>1740...///

The door shutting heralded Dave’s false solitude. Behind the two-way mirror were probably faceless inquisitors waiting for the Mountain Man to make one fatal slip of the tongue so they could swoop down, slap the cuffs on him, and lock him away for espionage. Or maybe not. Who knew? In short time, the door opened again, and from around Dave’s peripheral, a gruff looking man with a scruffy beard stepped into view and set himself down in the chair across from Dave.

He smelled of tobacco, and something about him could’ve been likened to Donnelley. The smirk, the thick black beard that crawled up to his cheekbones and reached down past his neck, the heavy eyes that seemed to be taking Dave apart in his head. It stopped there, his hair was obscured by a gray Carhartt cap that fit with the neutral tones of his gray 5.11 pants, olive drab shirt and brown bomber jacket. He had maybe twenty pounds in burly heft and gut on Donnelley. The accent was close though, “How’s it, man?” The man asked, “Let’s start with names, mine’s John.”

"Dave." He hated him. His stupid smirk, his stupid operator beard, his dumbass bomber jacket. Dave even hated his hat. "Dave MacCready."

The mountain man eyed his interrogator, the Fed who'd been sent to pick holes in his story and try to find a reason to black-bag him off to some CIA gulag in Alaska or something. He bit back a growl and reached into his pocket, taking out his Cope and snapping the can a few times before digging out a respectable wad and jamming it in his lip. He'd seen half a dozen 'tobacco free' signs as they were led in. Fuck 'em.

"Guess we might as well get started," Dave grunted, prodding his dip into place with the tip of his tongue. "I don't figure my constitutional rights are terribly important here, so just ask your questions."

John’s smirk only widened as he nodded, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. So, it was like this, then. He’d be a little less pleasant than the big ass Mexican. “Still talk to your Pa, Dave?”

"Not since I put a gun in his face for darin' to show up when my boy was born," Dave said, a touch of anger showing that was brought on not by the question, but by the memories they conjured. "I ain't on speakin' terms with them. They ain't my kin."

“Huh.” John seemed unimpressed, that infuriating and self-assured smirk still playing across his face. “Look, man, I’m not here to play who’s the biggest asshole in the room. I’m saving that for Donnelley.”

John leaned back in his chair and placed his hands in his coat pockets, bringing them out with a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo with the 101st Airborne insignia engraved into it. He put a cigarette between his lips and lit up, “I’m just here to ask all y’all just how in the heck a Russian spy pranced right up to your front door and wrecked a fucking Safehouse.” John shrugged, “Because, as I have it, everybody else has some firm ties to LEAs and the CIA. What do you think I see when I read your file, Dave MacCready? Not pointing fingers, of course.”

“Aren’t you the only one left out of Working Group BLACKBEARD?” John frowned, cocking his brow, “They were killed the same way as a shitload of Sinaloa, killed the same way as Tom.”

John held his hands out, “What a heck of a coincidence, man.” John sighed, “And you haven’t even called Bob Kopelmann to tell him all about your adventures with UMBRA. Who have you called when Donnelley dropped you off back home and fucked off to drink and fuck somewhere?"

"But you ain't here to play 'who's the biggest asshole', right?" Dave snorted, thoroughly unamused. "You serious? I don't even trust our fuckin' government, and you think I'd trust Ivan? And lemme guess, I'm some sorta super-assassin, runnin' around skinnin' folks like the goddamn Predator."

"First off, I ain't called Bob 'cuz I don't fuckin' know how. He never gave me a number, an' when I talked to Foster 'bout it he just said not to worry, he'd handle it," Dave began counting off on his fingers. "Second, BLACKBEARD got killed by some big-ass goddamn monster that chased me halfway to Hell, and put a hole in Donnelley's leg when we was tryin'a get away from it. I ain't talked to nobody about what I'm doin' cuz I ain't got nobody to talk to 'cept my boy and his mom, an' my grampa, an' I ain't talked to them 'cuz they don't need to be mixed up in none of this shit."

He shook his head, lowering his hand to the table. "An' as for the Russian, I dunno how the fuck he found us. He just came bangin' on the door with a gun to his own head, hollerin' about monsters. An' then one fuckin' appeared, man. Now I ain't a spy, an' I ain't a soldier. I'm just a dumb-ass shitkicker from Arkansas who's handy with a rifle an' a bag of fertilizer. How about you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

“I don’t know, ask your Team Lead.” John shrugged, taking another drag and blowing it toward the ceiling, “I’m just trying to piece together this fucking shit-show of an Op y’all are running, and so far, you’re the only one I can even think of pointing a finger at.”

“Colorful history. Tough childhood, whatever. I been there. Just I didn’t get put to sleep getting read the Unabomber’s manifesto and eating MREs for breakfast before marksmanship practice.”

"We read Mein Kampf. The Old Man thought Ted was a government plant. An' Donnelley don't know what's goin' on either, or he'd tell us," Dave grunted, bristling slightly at the implied slur against his friend. "Look, if you know my history like ya say, then you'll understand why I think this whole deal is fuckin' stupid. I got guns an' some Tannerite, an' a record that's mostly bar fights an' drivin' without a license. I ain't ever been to prison, an' more than half the dudes I've roughed up at the bar had Confederate flag truck stickers an' swastika tattoos. I ain't a choir boy, but I sure as shit ain't no Russian spy, neither."

“Then tell me about Renko.” John offered, “We have polygraphs if y’all want us to break them out, or you could just make it real easy on me.”

"They ain't admissible in court, too unreliable," Dave said, almost by reflex. "But fine. Donnelley, Ghost, an' that other fuckin' clown were off doin' some operator shit, an' left me with Avery an' the ladies."

He recounted the tale step by step, from his decision to sit up in the living room after the attack on their previous safehouse, up through Renko's arrival and departure. Everything, the sounds, the smells, the way the words he chanted burned his throat and made his gums bleed. The only things he neglected to mention were Ava's visions; Foster had made that seem like a secret, and it wasn't any of this jackboot's fucking business anyway.

"He's a weird dude," Dave finished, sitting back in his chair. "Some kinda… Witch or somethin', I dunno. Whatever he did, it made that demon or Hound or whatever-the-fuck go away, an' it seemed like it went away pissed. Maybe hurt."

“So, some fucking warlock threatens to kill himself and expels a demon.” The humor was not lost on John, as he chuckled a bit before nodding, “Okay. So, after he does his magic trick, he tells you about a suspect in Charleston, leaves you some vodka and skips away.”

John let out a good laugh and slapped the table, leaving his hand there and pushing himself up from his chair. He ground the end of his cigarette on the table and left it, pausing at the door. “Oh, and Dave?” John said, “I think I won that game, by the way. Dismissed, get back to the box.”

The last sound in the room was the shutting of the door.

---

>AVA
>INTERVIEW ROOM 2
>1745...///

The hum of the overhead fan had gone on so long that Ava hardly noticed it now. Everything about the room was almost hospital sterile. The floor was concrete, the furniture was shiny metal, white walls, and a mirrored window across one wall. Her lonesome had gone on for a long time, perhaps seeing how she acted. They were expecting nervousness, of course. Who wouldn’t be? Whoever was behind the glass seemed faceless monsters, licking at their chops. Or silent judges.

Finally, the door opened, the loud sound echoing through the interview room suddenly enough to be startling. A tall woman with pale skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes took her place across from Ava. She smiled pleasantly, offering her hand over the table, “My name is Angeline, with Internal Affairs. I’m sorry I took so long, how are you?”

Ava blinked at the woman, standing up so she could reach over and shake her hand. When thinking of the appearance of her interrogator, Ava had not been picturing someone like Angeline.

In some ways that made her more nervous. “I’m alright, all things considered.” She answered

“Good,” Angeline settled back in her seat, knitting her fingers together, “I think you know why you’re all here, I’ll spare you anything about that.”

Angeline reached down to her leather bag and withdrew a dossier, gently placing it unopened on the table, “Please, can you recount what happened the night Renko made contact?”

Ava took in a deep breath, recounting the events of the night with relative ease thanks to her ability to vividly recall memories that she was cursing right about then.

When it came time to get to the detail of her vision of The Hound before it arrived; she hesitated. The silence stretched on for a moment too long and Angeline pursed her lips, “Is that all, Miss Moore? Nothing particular stood out about that night?” Angeline smiled sheepishly, a little consoling, “Besides the, um, Hound.”

“There was this smell in the air, like burning wires or kind of like how you smell ozone before a lightning strike.” Ava resumed slowly. “I was the first to smell it, I remarked on it and then Agent Laine left Agent Pari and I in the room. Then... I felt this,” She frowned as she tried to put to words what she felt before her visions came. “Shift, like I was struck with vertigo all of a sudden.”

“Interesting.” Angeline nodded, “So, the others didn’t notice it at first or… was there anything different between your perception of events versus your team’s?”

Ava pursed her lips in thought for a moment then gave a self deprecating smile. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

Angeline took the smile and ran with it, a textbook showing of trust in some amount between the two. Angeline smiled back, a small chuckle, “Miss Moore,” she began, leaning forward almost conspiratorially, “You and I both know who we work for. If anybody outside this building knew what we deal with, they’d call us all crazy.”

Angeline leaned back again, gentle smile still on her lips, “Please, I won’t think you’re crazy. Go on.”

Ava sighed, there was no turning back now. “I saw the Hound before it...I guess materialized is the best word for it. I saw it looking at me and even when I closed my eyes, I still saw it.” She frowned, staring down at the table. “I don’t really...remember much between that and it disappearing. I remember Dave grabbing me and running, but my mind was filled with the image of that thing.” She shuddered and shook her head. “Hard to forget something like that.”

“I can imagine.” Angeline nodded along, a frown to mirror Ava’s on her own face. She cleared her throat after studying the other woman, carrying on with the interview, “And have there been any incidents of this same nature before or after this happening?”

“When I was originally recruited to the Program.” Ava answered, her stomach curling as the hospital incident flashed back to her. “And I had an episode of sleepwalking after the Hound.” She sighed again and pushed her glasses up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I’m never going to get to sleep again and I already didn’t sleep much being IT.”

Angeline’s eyes flicked to the two-way mirror on the wall before she continued in stride, “Please, tell me more about the sleepwalking after the Hound.”

Ava straightened herself up enough to notice the glance towards the mirror and realized that they were drifting away from the original topic set at hand. “With all due respect.” Ava said carefully. “That has nothing to do with the incident involving Renko, which is what this interview is about.” She smiled apologetically. “Please, let’s not get off topic. I’d like to get back to our case.”

Angeline’s smile grew a bit as she nodded, “Of course.” She said, “Another role of this interview is making sure that members of the Program are fit for duty. Another thing IA does, is all.”

“You wouldn’t be having any… thoughts or feelings about your readiness to resume the Blackriver case, would you?” Angeline asked, tone every bit the concerned colleague. “This is a pretty extenuating occurrence that the Program takes seriously. Witnessing an unnatural incursion firsthand can be… traumatic. Both to physical and mental health.”

Starting to see her game now, Ava brought her guard back up and shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned? I’m ready to get back to work as soon as I leave this room.” She said with genuine conviction and determination in her eyes. “We have some madmen to stop and we aren’t getting anywhere by being here.”

Angeline nodded slowly, “I understand.”

Angeline leaned back in her chair, eyes going up and down Ava before she continued, “I’m not trying to hinder your case, Miss Moore. I’m trying to make sure we have all the pieces, and someone of your… disposition… paired with the details we have of Renko’s appearance is a little concerning.”

She nodded to the mirror, “Their words, not mine.” She smiled, “So, we want to know if Renko is playing a dangerous game with US interests or not, whether or not Renko is who he says he is. The quicker Working Group UMBRA gives their statements, the quicker you can catch your madmen.”

“Who is to say Renko isn’t one of them?” Angeline rose a brow, “Now, Miss Moore… tell me about the circumstances surrounding your sleepwalking incident post-incursion.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with your investigation. Whatever triggered my sleepwalking had nothing to do with Renko.” Ava said, frown deepening. “If you want my honest opinion on why Renko showed himself when he did? I think he needed help getting rid of it, whatever that entailed.” Ava arched her own brow. “Now would you like to hear what happened afterwards, as you claim, because I remember that part quite vividly.”

She smiled, the expression surprisingly chilly. “Because I’m sure I can find some kind of form to file against you for overstepping the parameters of your investigation.” She adjusted her glasses. “I’m quite good at that kind of thing.”

“So I’m told.” Angeline smirked, leaning forward again and knitting her fingers together on the table in front of her. “I’d like to hear about what happened afterwards, then, if you remember it vividly.”

“Gladly.” Ava smiled, resisting the urge to crack her knuckles as she took in a breath and launched into a detailed explanation of what happened after the Hound disappeared. An extremely detailed explanation, from time to time she would intentionally veer off in her retelling in order to describe minute details that added absolutely nothing of interest.

She described the placement of the furniture after the Hound was banished, then went to explain how the furniture USED to be set up in the living room. She took minutes describing not only how many holes were knocked into the walls but also the relative size and shapes of the holes. Anything trivial she could think of from the scene that wasn’t important, she made sure to describe, in vivid detail, to Angeline and the people in the glass window behind her.

Not only that, but she decided to call up every bad public speaking habit she could think of and threw those in for a little flavor and make it extra excruciating to listen too. If she had a stick of gum, she’d be chewing it and snapping it as loudly as possible.

Angeline’s smile had disappeared long ago, replaced with a look that could kill that was only barely masked. Whatever vestiges of a smile she had left had been twisted into a crooked smirk. To her credit, she slowly rose, grabbed her things and looked back at Ava. “Thank you.”

The words seemed almost to cut her tongue on the way out and she took a seat on the table, leaning closer to Ava, “If Renko is responsible for the death of Tom, the death of one of our own agents,” Angeline’s lip curled up as her eyes narrowed, “There isn’t a fucking form in existence you could look up if the Program gears up to overstep all over your asses.”

She held Ava’s own glare, “Foster, Donnelley, the goddamn President. No one is stopping my investigation.” Angeline gave Ava one last look over, “Dismissed.”

Angeline stood and the haughty clack-clacking of her high heels only ended with the door slamming shut.

Ava sat there for a few moments before glancing over to the mirror, seeing her pale, freckled face looking back at her with dark bags forming beneath her eyes. She forced a smile back on her face, a crooked little grin she had picked up from another red head. “I think that went well.”

---

>DONNELLEY
>INTERVIEW ROOM 1
>1810...///

It had been a long, long time since Donnelley was in one of these rooms. An even longer time since he was on the other end of the recorder. The air inside was stagnant, lukewarm. He sat in his uncomfortable metal chair with his arms crossed, chanced a look at the two-way mirror set in the wall and only found himself looking back. Was Foster behind the glass? Who was? He sighed, deciding that train of thought wasn’t worth indulging in.

The door opened behind him and the sound of footsteps brought a familiar face to sit in front of him. Donnelley gave a tight smile, feeling his arms tighten around himself. John smiled back, “Hello, Joe.”

“John.” Donnelley almost growled the name. He immediately knew how this would go. Some years ago, the man in front of him was grilling him about different things. Baseless accusations, trying to get a rise out of him using every stupid shaky line of evidence and possibility there was under the sun.

“How’s the leg?” John asked, “Dave told me about your boo-boo.”

“Dave tell you to go fuck yourself?” Donnelley smirked, “Because if he didn’t, I can.”

“More or less, yeah. It’s in the eyes, you know?” John shrugged, taking his pack of cigarettes out and lighting one, “Want one?”

“Sure, fuck it.” Donnelley took the Marlboro red offered to him and lit it with John’s lighter. He set it back down on the table and spoke before John had a chance, “You gonna ask me if I pointed Renko at my own team, because I think we both know where I stand with Russians.”

“I was.” John admitted, blowing his smoke through his nostrils, “I was going to ask you about Dave and Jason.”

Donnelley laughed, a loud bark full of spite that sounded like a gunshot in the echoey interrogation room. Donnelley had expected that much when Dave had come back to the holding cell with fire in his eyes, “You don’t change much, do you?” Donnelley spat, “I found Dave shiverin’ in the fuckin’ woods and I trust Jason. They were vetted and brought in. That’s all I need to know.”

“You’re not worried Dave’s people are gunning for you out here? They have ties. Maybe not Dave himself, but I understand he pissed off more than a few people from his old life-“

“Oh, shut the fuck up, man.” Donnelley rolled his eyes in exasperation, “You think I’m new to this? All you care about is shuttin’ whatever case file you have on UMBRA while you got us benched here and goin’ back to knockin’ back brews at the bar with the rest of the cocksuckers in IA and CI.”

“Tell a few war stories ‘bout this so y’all can feel like real agents.” Donnelley mocked, his lip curled up in contempt.

John took it in stride, his smirk not drooping an inch while receiving the fiery tirade, “You redheads are feisty.” John chuckled, “So, what were you doing in West Virginia, more cowboy shit? I understand you so love keeping up your image.”

“I’ll let you know it ain’t fucking cute.” John was dead serious at the drop of a dime, “Just because you made it out of Chechnya alive and half-assed an Op by yourself instead of aborting, crawling your sorry ass to safety and trying again with a new Group, it doesn’t make you fucking James Bond.”

“Two Program vets were killed because of your shitty decisions, and I have half a mind to recommend that you get taken off of UMBRA before you do the same to these guys.” John growled. “So you better pull some reasons out of your ass, or I’ll PNG you to some embassy and blacklist your ass from any Program work.”

Donnelley’s eyes darkened at that, his head tilting towards John, “Whatever y’all’s game is here, it ain’t gonna be fun for you. You take us off this case and it’s gonna blow the fuck up in your fat fuckin’ face, John.”

“You try to take the easy way out of this and take one of mine to the gallows, I’ll personally fuck your world sideways, boy.” Donnelley’s fists were balled on the table, the filter of the cigarette flattened between two fingers. He let go a sigh and took a draw.

“Two fucking safehouses. You got clocked by Russian GRU in America, dumbfuck.” John jabbed his finger into the table to accentuate his points, frowning something deep, “If anybody sees any of you talking to this dude and the conversation doesn’t end with a lead slug to his forehead, I’m putting you away where no one’s going to find you.”

“I got two ways to work this out, either you’re a fuck-up and getting sloppy with your tradecraft,” John held up a finger and then added another, “Or somebody is giving the Russians your location. Someone close. Could be any of you.”

“Fuck you.” Donnelley growled. “Nobody wanted what happened to happen. Tom was my guy, I’m not a fuckin’ turncoat, you fuckin’ prick.”

“Uh Huh.” John shrugged, “Laine says you were away when Renko showed up. Care to elaborate?”

“Me and the boys in THUNDER hopped over to McMecken’s Run to nab an HVT. He’s a good source so far.” Donnelley said, ashing his cigarette. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” John smiled, “Do you usually blow up an entire house when you’re trying to be covert?”

“Plausible deniability.” Donnelley smiled back ruefully.

“How many people got killed that night?” John asked.

“Enough of ‘em.” Donnelley answered.

“And the night the Blackriver Safehouse was compromised, how many then?” John asked.

“Enough of ‘em.” Donnelley answered, again.

John chuckled ruefully and shook his head, drawing off his cigarette and looking at Donnelley the same way a school principal might a troublesome child. “I’m telling you, Donnelley, you keep playing fast and loose and you’ll learn life isn’t a fucking movie.” John said, leaning forward across the table, “The hero dies sometimes.”

Donnelley touched his chest and pushed his bottom lip out, trying to muster up some wetness in his eyes to complete the performance, “Did you just… call me a hero?”

John’s eyes narrowed to sharp slits, “I’m starting to think I care about the lives of your team more than you do.”

Donnelley snorted, “Oh, shut the fuck up, you’re the one trying to black bag Dave for the sins of his father, Pontius.” Donnelley held his hands out, “Whatever Laine or Foster or anybody else said happened is the truth. None of us fuckin’ know Renko, none of us are double agents. We’re just a poor ol’ Working Group tryin’ to solve the deaths of some girls, man.”

John got up from his seat and shook his head. He ground his cigarette into the table and stalked off, “Dismissed. This isn’t the last conversation we’ll be having.”

“Yep, nice seeing you again, John.” Donnelley waved back at the man.

“I still don’t believe you did Chechnya by yourself. I find out you got friendly with any Russians over there and just forgot to tell us…” The sound of John smacking a fist into his own palm made Donnelley grin as he stood.

“I’ll tell you like I told IA back then.” Donnelley threw his arms out to the side helplessly, “I don’t remember all of it. You wanna lock me up for forgetting something, go ahead. Agency General Counsel is gonna make you bite the pillow, John.”

John lost his usual good humor in the face of the only man who was as much of an antagonistic asshole as he was. Donnelley nodded slow, “And it’s gonna be me behind you.”

The door slammed loud as a gunshot as John left, leaving Donnelley alone in the room. He knew they’d have trouble putting him away for something he didn’t remember huge chunks of. Chechnya was a very non-permissive environment, and on a lot of days, he didn’t really believe he finished the Op all by himself. Anything he didn’t remember was worth as much as a lie to John and IA, especially CI. The bluster seemed to deep out of his chest as he wrung his hands and sighed, looking back at his reflection in the two-way mirror.

He scowled then, giving the people behind it his finger and walked out after, flames in his eyes.

---

>MEETING ROOM
>1810...///

You could have heard a pin drop inside the glass meeting room. If they had any illusions of comfort in the Program’s hospitality in the form of coffee mugs and a place to sit, they were all gone now. Each one of them were perturbed in some way as they sat in the silence, waiting for Donnelley to get back to the meeting room, now feeling like a zoo enclosure. Two steely-eyed big men in black multicam Crye outfits had taken their place flanking the only door into the meeting room, backs turned. Pistols were holstered at their hips, magazines and cuffs hung at the ready.

The familiar face of Foster stopped in front of them and exchanged a couple words, nodding before he opened the door and stepped inside. He took a seat at the head of the table and sighed, looking at all of them. “I’m sorry.” He said, voice lame in the silence, “About all of this. I don’t know what they’re trying, but this is… it’s something.”

Ava lifted up her head from her arms when the door opened, blinking tired eyes over at Foster. She glanced over to the men outside the door while picking up her glasses. “It certainly seems like they’re interested in more than just what happened with Renko.” She said, leaning back in her chair with a frown. “Unless that was just my interview.” She added, glancing around at the others with a mixture of curiosity and worry.

"Course they are," Dave grumbled from his place against the wall. His blue eyes were stormy, his arms folded, and a fresh dip in. He'd been going steady since they got there.

"They're Feds. Buncha nosey fucks, just tryin'a pick us apart for dirt." He glared at the door, still furious at his interviewer's insinuations that he might secretly be a Russian spy or, worse, in league with his Old Man. "They're all so shifty they can't believe some folk might genuinely wanna help. Gotta think everybody's got an agenda."

"Because they often do," Laine said, glancing at Dave. "It's always a hunt for a bigger fish and the deals you have to make to find him."

Ava frowned and sighed, leaning back in her chair. “This is why I stick with computers, they’re a lot simpler.”

Dave grunted. He didn't know computers, but he was missing his mountain, his dog, and more than anything his son. He sniffed hard at that thought, pushed it away.

"I'm sorry, y'all," he said. "About the Fed thing. I don't mean present company, just these fuckers. Y'all are alright in my book."

Ava turned her chair to smile over at him. “It’s alright, after all this, I’m inclined to agree with your sentiment.”

Dave returned her smile. "Yeah, well, we'll get through this sugar. Be back on the trail before ya know, and stompin' Russian ass any day now."

Laine smiled slightly at his statement, then glanced towards the door. They were still missing some of their team and though she tried not to show it the longer Donnelley was away the more worried she became. They were interested in him, Feroz didn't seem to care what she had done but it was Donnelley her instincts told her that was their interest.

From down the hallway a man stalked out, steps with purpose and shoulders pinned back, fists clenching and darkness in his eyes. He stopped just short of the two guards and spoke a few words. The moment grew tense, the three of them seeming to freeze in time. One finally reached over and opened the door, the sounds of the offices outside the meeting room blaring in for a moment as Donnelley stepped inside, and just as soon the door closed, cutting off the outside.

“This is a fuckin’ show.” Donnelley growled, standing where he was for a moment before he reached up and rubbed at his face. “Dog and pony. Fuckin’ circus.”

“What did they ask-“

“The fuck you think?” Donnelley cut Foster off. “They’re not tryin’ to protect us, they’re just lookin’ for someone to point the finger at.”

Donnelley went to the table and took a seat, shaking his head, “It’s all political. You know how embarrassing for the Program it would be to tell the Director an op was compromised by a foreign agent in our own backyard? It’d be different if this was some East Europe shithole, but…” Donnelley pursed his lips and showed his hands. “Well, how’d everyone else like it?”

"I don't like it, I want my money back," Laine replied dryly, looking over at him. She wanted to ask how it went but the stormy look on his scarred face said enough for now. "When do you expect them to let us go?"

Donnelley shrugged, “Could be tomorrow, like they say. Could be they extend our stay.” He shook his head, “I was tellin’ Dave, ‘least the beds are comfortable here.”

Ava deflated slightly hearing that, she had been hoping she could go home. Her house was only twenty minutes away and it would be nice to have at least one night in her own bed. “Do they provide room service?” She asked, trying to inject a note of light sarcasm into her voice.

"Holdin' us without charges," Dave grumbled, toeing the floor with his boot. "Tramplin' our constitutional goddamn…"

The mountain man prodded his dip with his tongue, then glared first at the door, then at Donnelley. "And fuck John. And Foster, why the hell didn't you get 'hold of Bob, man? They were grillin' me about that. I thought it was all good or I'da reminded you or somethin'." By this point Dave didn't look angry, just frustrated. He'd long ago moved past his anger at Foster, particularly after the man had, in his eyes, straightened up his act as a leader.

Foster pursed his lips, “I did. It’s either Bob being territorial or John being an asshole.” He said, “I called him when I said I would, submitted the paperwork for a transfer.”

“Oh, shit.” Donnelley stood erect in his chair, peering past the two guards to see someone who might be familiar to one of them.

He strode with a purpose towards the meeting room and the guards opened the door for him without question. Bob Kopelmann, the forgettable ISA man stood in front of them. The look in his eye was hard to read past the small grin on his lips, looking at all the assembled faces and finally settling on Dave. “What’s up, Dave?” Bob grinned, “Was using a phone with one number programmed into it not part of your pops’ curriculum?”

He looked to Foster next, “And you. You fucking poacher.” The smile was still there, but there was an abrasiveness in his tone, “Going above my head to get one of mine transferred to your teams. You’re the epitome of CIA, Steve.”

“Howdy, Bob.” Donnelley smiled.

Bob fixed him with a stare, and the smile still hadn’t left, “I’m not here for you.” He pointed at Dave, “I’m here for him.”

Bob pointed with his chin at Ava as he put his hands on his hips, “Stark was looking for you.”

"Here for me? Fuck you, man," Dave said. The anger was back, his blue eyes flashing. "I ain't heard shit outta you since my whole goddamn team got killed, and now you wanna come in here and run your mouth? You ain't earned the right to talk shit to me like that."

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” Bob held his arms out wide, “From the bottom of my heart, David MacCready, I apologize for making you feel as though I don’t care about an entire fucking team of mine biting the dust.”

“Except they aren’t. One’s right here and he’s a little angry at me. I’m sorry, I should’ve opened with ‘Oh, David, I’m so glad you’re safe, may I throat you in front of everybody now, or later?’” His smile had vanished completely, “Fuck me? Fuck you. Stark and I are your only chance of getting back out there.”

Bob pursed his lips at Foster, “And you, I guess.” Bob shrugged, “I started writing my letter of recommendation, if only to make sure I can go a few more weeks without seeing these two pricks.”

Donnelley held up his middle finger and Foster folded his arms and turned away from Bob.

Whatever relief Ava felt to hear Stark’s name, quickly evaporated as she listened to the infamous ‘Bob’ speak to her friends and teammates. She narrowed her eyes into a glare at him, her hands clenched into fists on the table. “We’re having a bad enough day as it is, do you really need to come in here and make it worse?” She snapped at him.

Laine observed the dick swinging in silence, watching the interaction of the team leaders. She then leaned over towards Ava and whispered aloud in a passable English accent, "Now observe the change in posture and volume of vocalizations. The rut has begun between the rival males of each clan to vie for supremacy of the choicest members. See how the newest arrival tests his strength against both the seasoned pack leader and the young upstart."

Donnelley leaned towards Laine and quirked a brow, “If I’m the young, handsome upstart, then who’s the seasoned pack leader?”

Laine raised a brow back at him, a hint of a teasing smile on her lips before continuing in the hushed accent beside Ava, "Our cameras have been spotted and the younger male comes to preen, to show his vigour before the older males. He had better be careful, the older males are wily and dangerous, displaying their armament of paperwork and backdoor connections."

Bob rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, shaking his head at the evident maturity of these people. He took a last look at Dave, “I’ll finish the letter. Clearly, you’re in good company.”

Despite her exhaustion and her frustration in general with the way things were going; Ava felt herself start to crack a grin. “Thanks Miss Attenborough.” Ava chuckled at Laine.

Dave grunted at Bob’s words, not trusting himself to speak. He was keyed up, and he knew that. When he got stressed he ran off at the mouth, and sometimes his temper got the better of him. Scarred knuckles and his Drunk and Disorderly charges were proof enough of that.

Instead, he settled for leaning back against the wall, unballing his fists, and giving the man a nod of begrudging thanks.

As Bob stepped out, it seemed the attention they were getting was not yet over. Booker had appeared from around the corner and the guards opened the door, flanking him as he stood opposite UMBRA. He regarded them with that same look of predatory amusement, as if the interrogations had actually been useful. Donnelley held his stare and snorted. Booker turned his nose up at him, “These two fine gentlemen will be escorting you to your rooms tonight. One to a room.”

...///

Just as Donnelley had told Dave, the rooms here at Langley were nice. Better than most hotels, a miniature fridge stocked with water, a bed, television, the essentials. It hardly even felt like a cell with cameras positioned to watch every movement short of showering. Not like they’d find anything from Donnelley other than the 50th Navy SEAL burpee, and the ones that followed. He needed to work off the nervous energy, and without his flask then drinking about it wasn’t an option. His smoker’s lungs thankfully hadn’t gotten the best of his aerobic capacity, so that was something.

After the 100th, he flopped himself onto the bed drenched in sweat and flipped off the first barely-hidden camera he eyed. He’d never been to prison, but he figured this was just the tiniest taste of it. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping a grip on his soap. The interview with John kept replaying in his head. As much as he’d liked Dave and even as keen as he was to defend him, he wondered if John didn’t have a point. Dave’s people did have connections. If anything, what if Jay’s people had a line of communication to put Dave’s family in danger?

What if they had a line of communication to put any of them in danger? He shook his head, of course they did. Whatever dark force the Bratva could conjure up…

He growled, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He was starting to think like John, run wild with any shred of evidence and never look back. The truth of it was the only reason Tom got killed was he was meddling in Bratva affairs even in his extracurricular activities. It had to be. Maybe. Fuck, he hardly knew how the Bratva aimed their fire-and-forget demon. That was something they needed to figure out. That was valuable intel to UMBRA, and the Program beyond that.

Perhaps that trip to the BLACKBOX would be sooner than later. He almost flinched as a knock came at his door. He stood, resting his hand on the handle and lamenting the lack of a peephole. Agency’s rules, we can see you, you can’t see us. Something he’d used against terrorists and enemy agents now used against him. He opened the door and saw Foster standing on the other side. Almost immediately his blood began to boil, “Where the fuck they keepin’ you?” He asked, “We’re dumped in here and you get to rub elbows with them?”

“Calm down.” Foster rose his hands in peace, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Donnelley’s eyes narrowed. After the interviews he’d had enough of talking about things with people who thought they were above him. “What.”

“Iraq.” Foster said. The word made Donnelley quirk a brow. “Let’s talk somewhere else, come on. No cameras.”

“They let you-“

“Fuck them. Let’s go.” Donnelley smirked a bit, he liked it when Foster seemed to be on his side. He nodded, maybe this would be worthwhile. He threw on his shirt and followed Foster out of his room.

“So, what about Iraq?” Donnelley asked as they walked.

“Not here. Your office.” Foster replied over his shoulder.

They didn’t speak another word as they took the labyrinthine route through the Program’s underground sprawl back up to Langley proper, and finally into the offices of the Special Activities Center. Donnelley closed the door of his office behind him and crossed his arms, “Okay?”

“Program doesn’t have permission to plant surveillance devices in Agency property. I wanted to wait until we were out of there before I told you this.” Foster spoke low, as if what he said wasn’t even true. The aged Operations Officer wasn’t quick to break habit though. “Your team in Iraq, you told them to meddle, didn’t you?”

Donnelley looked away from Foster for a moment before nodding, “Yes.”

“Well, they meddled. They found what you wanted. I was going through your emails,” Donnelley stepped towards Foster, but Foster again held his hands up in peace, “We need to share every piece of intel with IA and CI we can. I didn’t share this though, it’s all your business.”

Donnelley softened a bit, but not a lot. “Just fuckin’ tell me.”

“They meddled. They did what you told them and they smuggled a body back to Baghdad. Perfectly skinned, but they don’t have an autopsy yet.” Foster pursed his lips, “They’re waiting for you.”

Donnelley rolled his jaw and nodded slow. “How long are they goin’ to have to wait?”

“Not long. Everything everyone on UMBRA has, IA and CI have too. They see they’re full of shit and we’re only here to do our jobs.” Foster held Donnelley’s gaze, “Which means those letters Bob and Stark are handing up the chain are only icing on the cake. We’ll get out of here soon.”

“How soon?” Donnelley pressed, his voice raising with his impatience.

“Right after the two days they have us here. Until then, do whatever you can. IA and CI are obviously pissed, but any surveillance they have on us is passive at the worst.” Foster shrugged, “Why do you think we’re able to be here?”

“We got full use of Langley?” Donnelley asked.

“The fullest. Shoothouses, ranges, the Farm. Take your boys and girls out, have them learn a few things.” Foster nodded, “It’ll do them some good. Better than being cooped up. We still have Dulane to take out on a hike and I expect Blackriver to still be hostile. Whatever they can learn here will be useful.”

Donnelley nodded, watching Foster walk to the door and stop to lay a hand on his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze, “I was always on your side, Joseph. We’ve been at this together too long to be on anyone else’s.”

Donnelley patted Foster’s shoulder in turn and the other man closed the door behind him, leaving Donnelley in his office alone. He pulled his office chair out from his desk and plopped himself down in it, rearing to get eyes on those emails.

...///

Ava knocked lightly on the door of the office Foster had directed her toward. “Donnelley?” She called out through the door with a frown. “Are you still in there?”

Donnelley’s eyes shot toward the door at the knock. No matter what Foster said, he still felt like he’d broke some rule for sitting in his office outside of his cell. When he recognized the voice as Ava’s, he calmed a bit. He took one last look at the emails and minimized the window, pushing up from his chair and making his way toward the door. He opened it, looking at Ava and finding her appearance relieving. Too much time spent in hostility and defensiveness had him bearing his teeth at everything.

“Come in,” he opened the door wider for her to step through, “I was just lookin’ at some work emails.”

He went to his chair and set himself back into it, gesturing to the seat on the other side for Ava, “What’s up?”

Ava gave him a small smile when he opened the door, following him inside and shutting the door firmly behind her. She glanced around the office as she stepped in further, her arms folded over her chest and expression pensive. “Is it...safe to talk in here?” She asked him, sitting down in the chair with a frown. “There’s no cameras or anything?”

Donnelley nodded, “Program doesn’t have permission. Even the Agency doesn’t trust us.” He winked, “We’re safe.”

She smiled. “Good.” The smile fell away and she wrung her hands together. “I think I messed up my interview. I told them about my visions of the Hound and I mentioned my sleepwalking episode after. I didn’t tell them anything beyond that!” She added quickly. “Just that it happened, I didn’t say anything about walking out of the hotel or who found me or what I saw during my sleepwalking, but...they were really interested in knowing more about it.”

Donnelley’s brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, looking away from Ava. John had seemed to focus so much on Dave and Jason, even focused on his own past in Chechnya. He hadn’t even mentioned Ava and her dreams. “Who interviewed you?”

“Some woman named Angelina.” Ava answered, her frown deepening. “She was...really good at playing nice until she started focusing on my sleepwalking and I didn’t answer her questions.” She colored slightly and cleared her throat. “But then, I stopped playing nice after that so that could have also played into it.”

Donnelley snorted, almost seeming a bit proud, “You? Tell me, what’d you do?”

“Um,” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Well, I told her that my sleepwalking had nothing to do with her investigation, and threatened to file a report against her. Then I said I remembered the Renko incident vividly and she told me to describe it vividly sooo I did.” She cleared her throat. “I told her every single little detail I remembered.” She looked at him with a sheepish smile. “And I mean every little detail.”

Donnelley smiled and huffed a chuckle, scratching at his forehead. He shook his head and felt an urge to shake his finger at her, if only because he reminded himself of his own antics. The more he was around Ava, the more he saw his influence rubbing off on her. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, he did know that it was damn amusing.

“I’m a little proud.” Donnelley smiled back at her, “I probably wouldn’t make that standard procedure, but that’s some funny shit.”

He leaned back in his chair and set his feet on the desk, smile shrinking a bit as he dug back to the roots of the conversation, “They focused on your dreams and that stuff?”

She smiled back sheepishly before the conversation shifted back and she frowned with a nod. “Yes, it was very strange. She used some really flimsy argument about why it mattered to the investigation and she also looked at the mirror when it was mentioned.” Ava folded her arms and leaned back into the chair. “It was like she was waiting for it.”

She tightened her arms around herself. “Now I’m worried they’re going to dig into it, find out about the hospital and who brought me there and use that to turn me into some kind of scapegoat.”

“I wouldn’t let it happen.” Donnelley said almost immediately, folding his arms and holding Ava in a stern and serious expression. “Not to you, not to Dave, not to any of you.”

“Trust me, I know how they work. If they had everythin’ their way, I would’ve been non-operational forever and y’all wouldn’t have met me and my wickedly good looks.” He smiled at her, hopefully lighting up the conversation a bit, “Foster says we’ll be out of their custody after tomorrow. We’re free to do whatever we want after. It’ll be worthwhile to train up on somethin’ while we’re here for a few weeks. Or just take some pressure off.”

Ava smiled, her shoulders relaxing as she took some measure of comfort from his assurances. “Thanks Donnelley.” She furrowed her eyebrows. “A few weeks? What about the case?” She asked with a light frown. “Didn’t you leave Jay with Queen and Ghost?”

“He’ll be fine.” Donnelley nodded, “The case can wait. We’re goin’ back to Blackriver and I’ll be damned if our tactical skills aren’t brushed up on. How’s your shootin’?”

“I know not to point the shooty end at myself.” She answered with a self deprecating smile. “I was thinking about practicing my shooting anyway, before all of this happened.”

Donnelley chuckled, “Come to the range with me and Dave, we’ll show you what’s what. You’ll be a sharpshooter before long.”

“I’m going to be talking with a Southern drawl in no time.” She chuckled, her hand reaching up to adjust her glasses. She took them off to look at them with a thoughtful frown. “I guess I should bite the bullet and switch to contacts.” She said with a sigh, putting her glasses back on. “I don’t want to be like Velma when she loses her glasses. Especially if people are shooting at me.”

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>DAYS INN
>CLARKSBURG, WV
>24JUL2019
>1800...///

“Y’all got any smokes?”

Jay’s voice broke the silence of the card game, the only sound was the soft rhythms of the music being played at an almost imperceptible volume. Sounded like Motley Crüe, maybe, shit his dad listened to. His two roommates, or captors, had been in concentration over their hands. They took their gambling seriously, it seemed. Over the past day or so… had it been that long? He couldn’t remember. This room at this hotel had been his new reality for he didn’t know how long. At least they’d stopped beating him, as he’d learned being forward with information helped the punching stop. At least they’d taken off the cuffs since he’d learned not to try anything with Ghost’s watchful eye on him.

“Guys?” He tried again to get their attention.

Queen looked from his cards and thumbed over them, glancing over at Jay, "Whatcha do for one?"

A lazy feline grin crossed his face as he reached up to snatch the cigarette behind his ear and twirl it in his fingers. He put it between his own lips before reaching to snag the pack Kools from his vest pocket.

Jay sighed long and hard, breath moaning in his throat as he hid his face behind his hands. He muttered a swear and let his hands fall to the table, defeated. “I’ll tell you ‘bout them Rangers in the Forest.” He paused and after not receiving any reward he continued, “And that other Ranger, Billy, got killed in Charleston.”

Ghost perked up, pulling his eyes away from a decidedly mediocre hand and fixing that crocodile stare on Jay. The card game wasn't going in his favor, and it had been his idea in the first place; boredom was a virus. He had to keep his mind occupied, and even he could only work out so much before he got antsy.

"Keep talking," he said, his tone lazy. "Earn that smoke."

“Jesus,” Jay protested, sagging back in his chair and scowling, “Y’all wanna know my fuckin’ blood type and shit too? Favorite animal?”

Their eyes were still on him as they waited. After not getting any response, he shook his head, “Fine.” He whined, “Billy got killed after he made a call to somebody. You folks, maybe, I dunno. Next thing anyone knew, he’s dead. Wasn’t my people, Russians.”

“Nikolai’s guys. You know the ones, Bratva. They caught some other dude in Boston, don’t know how, but I heard the rumors.” He sniffled, rubbing at his nose, "Billy got killed because he talked too much. We tried to get Frank because he wanted to talk too much.”

“Your guy got killed in Boston because he knew too much.” Jay frowned, “You know, bein’ honest, I never wanted this. Momma said I should be a chemist.”

Ghost grunted. Bratva bored him. Back in the '90s they'd been bad motherfuckers, all former Spetznaz with nothing to do but kill for mob bosses if they wanted a real paycheck. Now all the Spetznaz had jumped on the contractor train, making their rubles in Syria and Chechnya, and the Bratva were left with untrained thugs with gold plated AK's and heroin addictions.

"Tell me about the forest," he said, looking back down at his cards. "What happened there?"

“What, with the girl? Fuck if I know, man.” Jay shrugged, “She was inherited by me and mine from the Sinaloa when they got kicked into the ditches. We handed her to Nikolai and she ain’t been seen since. ‘Cept for, you know. That time.”

“But yeah, man, Bratva been doin’ some weird shit. Talkin’ ‘bout London and Afghanistan. Callin’ each other comrade. It’s like, who the fuck you foolin’ with that commie shit?” Jay chuckled, “They say Nikolai is way older than he looks. Fought in Afghanistan for the Soviets, but he looks like he could be my older brother. Probably too much of that crocodile they’re smokin’ or whatever over there.”

Jay got a curious look on his face at that, tapping his finger on the table and staring hard at nothing in particular, “I think one’s got a tattoo- I mean they all do- but one’s got some kinda army tattoo. My buddy, Sly, he’s into that history and stuff and he pointed it out after we heard the rumors about Nikolai.” Jay sucked his teeth, “Buncha grown ass men playin’ pretend.”

He perked up, “I get a cigarette or what?”

Queen tapped out a cigarette and held out the green package for him to take. After he did, Queen flicked his bright colored Bic and lit his own cigarette before leaning over to offer the flame to Jay.

"Good boy," Queen cooed in an overly sweet tone. "You get a cookie. By the way, what's that tattoo look like before we get back to this hand?"

He sank back into the chair, dragging on the menthol and watching Jay from the smoke he blew out his nose.

“Got that, uh,” Jay took a long drag and savored it with closed eyes, and spoke while letting go of the smoke, “Got that hammer and sickle, the star, you know? And a parachute. VDV? Don’t know what it stands for, Sly might. You could talk to one of those dudes like you talked to me.”

Jay chuckled, but it pattered out as his humor hadn’t struck with the others, “Uh, yeah. You know, some got Marx, some got Stalin. Like I said, playin’ pretend. From what I seen, they’re trained. Better shooters than I got, and half of us got outta the Marines or the Army and came back here to shoot better.” He chuckled, “I mean, shit, Sly’s a Ranger.”

The mention of Soviet Airborne tattoos and trained shooters drew Ghost's attention, and he felt a flutter of excitement. Still, that would come. This was intel time.

"Tell me about Sly," Ghost said evenly. "Maybe you'll get another treat."

“Oh, fuck, man. He’s a friend, though…” Jay winced, then spoke again after a moment, “What do I get?”

Ghost gave him a level stare. "Queen. Is the pharmacy open?"

Queen stretched luxuriously, popping his spine and exposing the flat inked panes of his stomach as he reached his arms up. "You know I'm 24/7," he said around his cigarette, then dropped his arms turning his pale gaze to Jay. "What's your poison, honey?"

He dug into his pocket, dropping a plastic bag with other small Ziploc bags inside. He picked up one with a thick little chunk of meth and another with powder. "Or maybe you got script taste," he said, dropping those and picking up a bag of colorful pills and tabs. He rummaged through and took a couple of distinct orange Percocet and tossed them in his mouth, chasing them with a swallow of Cherry Coke.

“I like the real shit- er, no offense.” Jay smiled sheepishly at Queen, “China White?”

Queen's eyebrows arched and he leaned back, "Well, sheee-it. We got us Iggy fucking Pop right here."

He sniffed then a playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "I might have something. Whatcha got for me?'

Jay puffed his cheeks out as he reached into his pocket and produced his phone. He set it on the table, slid it towards Queen and tapped the screen to life, the phone lighting up with a picture of Jay holding a little girl, both beaming at the camera, “Sly’s address is in there. His brother’s address, anyways. Dude’s homeless, floats from the clubhouse to his brother’s couch and anybody who’ll take his ass for a night or two.” Jay said, “He’s our muscle. Top gun, cool head in a shootout. Mean left.”

Queen glanced at the phone, then grinned, "Cute kid. I wonder if Maria's dad still has a picture like this on his phone or maybe whoever the fuck is looking for that girl we found at your place."

He looked at the phone and scrolled through it, clicking his teeth when he found the information. "Shame those girls got caught up with the likes of the Russians, yeah?"

Queen copied the information down and slid the phone back to Jay, meeting his gaze. Without looking over, he passed the paper they had been writing debts on to Ghost, Sly's information scrawled across the page.

Some of the life drained out of Jay’s face at that. He tried not to think about things like that, don’t bring the stress from work home, don’t be an absent father, don’t tell his little girl that he was a piece of shit. “Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes so heavy of a sudden, filled with shame, “Damn shame. You know, and I know this don’t mean shit, but I’m glad I’m helpin’ y’all.”

He looked at the two of them, letting his eyes fall back to the table, “But I know it don’t mean nothin’.”

Ghost looked over the paper, then stood.

"Wait on that treat," he said, looking at Queen, then at Jay. "I'm going to make a call. This checks out, you get your biscuit."

He left the room without another word, stepping into the hallway. A moment later he was on his pre-pay, the most recent number he'd memorized for Tex keyed in and ringing.

The other line picked up, Donnelley clearing his throat, “Jeff?”

Ghost grunted. "About that friend of ours. He gave me the contact info for his coworker. Says he can help us out. Guy's a little higher up the chain with their company."

“Oh, supervisor’s gonna be happy about that,” Donnelley’s telltale Texan was absent, and his voice was pitched down a tad, “I think it’s best we cut out the middle man and go straight for this higher-up. Let him off easy. Pressure’s on back at the Office, we’re under a crunch now. Do what you have to ASAP, the company wants you back soon.”

"Sounds good. I'll book a flight as soon as I wrap up this meeting." Ghost killed the call and pulled out an all-weather pen, scribbling a quick note across the top of the paper with Sly's info on it. Then he walked back into the room.

"It checks out," he said as he slipped back into his chair. He passed the note to Queen, the word HOTSHOT penciled neatly at the top. "Give him his cookie, we've got our new muster orders."

Queen glanced at it and then folded it, tucking it into his back pocket. He beckoned Jay with a tilt of his head, "That shit I don't carry in my pocket. I got some gear in my overnight bag."

He walked to the bed, rummaging in it and brought out a folded canvas pouch, the kind that used to hold wrenches and screwdrivers. Inside there was a tight wrapped bag of capped hypodermic needles and a scorch marked spoon.

Queen looked over at Ghost then at Jay.

"Let's get some privacy, I might wanna taste, too," he said, flashing a mischievous grin before opening the bathroom door.

He finished his cigarette, tossing it into the toilet before taking out the kit, laying it on the sink and removed a baggie of white powder, there was another of brown resinous looking material.

"When's the last time you got fixed up?" Queen asked, flicking the small bag of heroin with his fingers.

Jay’s eyes gleamed like a magpie’s at every movement of Queen’s, his eyes locked on the baggies he was working with. It couldn’t have been more pitiful if he was licking his lips and sweating, “I used to do it all the time when I was a small-timer. B-and-E’s, drug deals, whatever.” Jay said, an almost feverish tone in his voice, “You gonna help me? Been a bit.”

Queen nodded, casting a sidelong look at Jay, "Yeah, no problem. I'll let you go first, I'm a gentleman."

He set to work, heroin wasn't something he liked to fuck with but he'd tried it once or twice when undercover when it would have drawn suspicion not to. Queen took a strip of rubber tubing and snapped it tight before leaning in to help tie off Jay's arm above his elbow.

Queen stepped back and started up the cooking process. He added a little water from the tap to the spoon and mixed in a healthy dose of powder. Striking the high flame on his lighter, he put it under the small bowl and watched intently as it began to bubble.

His gaze cut over to Jay, watching the expression on the man's face. It never really left a person, that craving, that need for the warm embrace that the opiate would give. That rush that felt like the best orgasm of his life times a hundred.

Jay’s eyes kept an intent watch on Queen, almost hypnotized by the ritual of heroin. If Queen looked close enough, he could see the reflection of the tiny flame in Jay’s eyes. Any closer and he might see into his soul. A thousand little needles of doubt and regret stung at him, but it only made him hungrier for the embrace of the drug’s high. “I don’t want her to find out.” Jay said, face slack as he watched Queen, “Amber. That’s her name. The girl with me on my phone.”

“My sister would never let me see her again.” Jay mumbled the words, and his brows moving to come together was the only sign of his regret. “I don’t care what happens to me, but she’s the best thing in the world.”

As Queen drew out the plunger, filling the syringe with the China White that he had failed to mention was cut heavily with fentanyl. The dose was larger than even a seasoned junkie would dare shoot up, taken from a seizure near Tallahassee that had been responsible for a number of deaths.

"Well," Queen said, flicking the syringe and turning towards Jay. "We always hope kids will be better than us, right?"

He leaned over where Jay sat on the toilet lid and looked him over. Redneck trash. Not unlike himself in the eyes of most of this world. He made a quick gesture and waited for the man to hold out his arm.

The vein was there, popped bluish against Jay's pale skin unmarked by tattoos. Jay held his arm out, looking away from Queen and waiting for the sharpness of the needle. He felt the sting, and after a moment the rubber strap was snapped off his arm. He felt the tingle in his head and the droop in his eyes. He didn’t even realize he’d slumped down the toilet as he sighed.

Before long, he was starting to nod, a satisfied smile on his face as he’d lazily raise his bobbing head periodically. His breathing came slow, and slower, as time went on. Soon enough, his head stopped bobbing until all of him sagged. The last thing he had the energy to do was softly wretch before a thin stream of acidic vomit dribbled down his chin. Another wretch rolled his body off the side of the toilet and onto his back, his chest fighting for air as vomit pooled in his gurgling mouth for several minutes. His heel uselessly scraped against the floor, dreaming maybe, or futile animal throes. And then it stopped.

Queen watched him, reaching for another cigarette and lit up as Jay faded. When it was done, Queen checked for a pulse and found none. He sniffed and took a long drag, speaking to the dead man.

"So worried she'll find out you're a piece of shit, huh? Better worry little Amber doesn't pay for the sins of the uncle," he muttered, wiping down the sink and other places he had touched. He thought about the girl they found, malnourished and traumatized then glanced at Jay's still form. "Sleep well, asshole. They always figure it out anyway."

Queen stepped out of the bathroom and looked at Ghost and nodded, the loose end had been tied.

Ghost gave him his typical grunt, showing no more concern than if Queen had told him the weather forecast.

"Get packed," he said. He was already putting neat grunt-rolls into his bag. "Tex wants us. Clean up the cards, leave the gear. With his record they won't dig any deeper. Another scumbag who had an OD coming for years."

---

>CIA HEADQUARTERS
>SHOOTHOUSES, THE FARM
>LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
>14AUG2019
>1000...///

The weapons handling was tight, entries were getting quicker and more crisp. Target acquisition was better than a couple days ago. Spending time at the range and putting in work at the shoothouses had done Dave some good, it seemed. Likewise, the years hadn’t slowed Maui and Poker down a bit. They were every bit the operators they were when he’d first got to THUNDER. He wanted to join Dave this run, but he instead opted to join Ghost up in the catwalks, watching how the stress shoots and dry runs had benefited the mountain man.

Donnelley had his arms crossed as he watched Dave take point on a door. He’d look down at the thickness of his arms and broadness of his shoulders every once in a while. A couple weeks wasn’t much in terms of training, but two-a-days and supplements had helped along and gotten those hard-earned inches on his arms. The steadily growing operator beard made him look almost too different now. Maybe Ghost was rubbing off on him. He spoke to Ghost but kept watching, “How do you think he’s doin’ now?”

"Better," Ghost growled. He was back in Instructor Mode, his Oakleys glued to his face and his usual Gray Man attire supplemented by a blaze-orange plate carrier and whistle. "Smoother. Like he might actually get something done before he catches a sucking chest wound. You said he's stacked bodies with an injury? One to the shoulder?"

Donnelley nodded, watching intently as they entered the room and Maui put a quick triplet into a target, “Right through. Didn’t even notice until after it was over. Plate caught the other one.” Donnelley scratched at his chin, “Think we got three or four dudes before they decided we were too much trouble.”

Donnelley didn’t let how proud he was that UMBRA was making a better impression this time around now. It still had to be said that a shoothouse and a firefight were two very different things. All the same, train and train again made for a more successful fight. “Foster’s going to want to brief us soon. We should wrap it up.”

The big Operator nodded thoughtfully. Confirmation that Dave had fought on through an injury moved him up another couple of respect points. Ghost had seen men cave because of wounds; supposed hard-dick Delta killers who'd gone their whole career without a scratch could turn into crybabies the minute a round clipped their forearm and made shit too real for them.

Ghost himself had caught two in the guts on his first op, fought through the pain, and finished the mission providing overwatch. He'd died once in the bird and twice on the table, and still gotten his dick slapped for trying to train with a shit-bag strapped to his thigh.

He raised his whistle, blew three sharp blasts. "END-EX, END-EX, END-EX! CEASE FIRE, UNLOAD, SHOW CLEAR!" His gravelly roar cut the air as cleanly as the whistle had.

"I'll clear them out," he said, heading for the catwalk stairs.

---

>BRIEFING ROOM
>1100...///

Donnelley sat in his chair, UMBRA sitting across from THUNDER. Anyone who knew what was what knew that UMBRA was taking the lead, and THUNDER would do what they did best, hit pipes and squeeze triggers. Even sharing a room with them made Donnelley wistful for the days when life was so simple. No mysteries to solve, just heads to pop open with .300 Blackout, but as he looked to his people in UMBRA there was no doubt that he was in another stage of his life. Perhaps sorely needed.

The door opened and Foster entered with another face that would be familiar to Ghost and Queen as well. The Gray Man hung back behind Foster, not giving the rest in the room the time of day to even share glances as Foster set up the projector and his laptop. Donnelley felt his muscles tense as his killer’s eyes bore into the Gray Man. The knowledge he had, Donnelley had never understood. And what Donnelley didn’t understand never sat well with him.

“Nice to see you again.” Donnelley’s voice was hard and loud in the silence.

The Gray Man finally acknowledged Donnelley’s existence with a bored gaze and pursed lips. “Likewise.”

And that was all before he went back to pretending he and Foster were the only ones here. Finally, Foster stepped back as the projector splashed an aerial image of Blackriver County.

“Familiar place.” Foster said, folding his arms and nodding at the screen, “We’re taking Dulane back to the mines that he collapsed. I have a feeling those mines are where everything originated from here in Blackriver, long before Maria Vasquez and Gorochev.”

“Make no mistake, Maria Vasquez was a tragedy like every other girl lost there. But we’re the Program. We don’t deal with the symptoms, we deal with the cancer itself.” Foster leaned on his knuckles on the table, “And when we go in there, there’s going to be a lot of people who want to stop us from doing just that. We have NPS, Sheriff Department, Bratva, Aryan Brotherhood all gunning for us.”

“When we get out from Beckley and hit the border into Blackriver, expect every eye to be on us. We’re going to be making a lot of noise with this Dulane deal, somebody wanted him locked up forever and we’re dramatically fucking up everything they wanted.” Foster pointed to THUNDER, “THUNDER is going to be posing as US Marshal Service SOG charged with protecting Dulane in transit. The rest of us are FBI, same as always. State Police is kind enough to offer an escort up to, but not past, the border.”

“We’ll be on our own in Blackriver. UMBRA’s dress code for the day will be casual, pack armor and weapons. Two days’ rations, just in case.” Foster folded his arms, “No air support, no QRF. We pack light, probe deep, strike hard. Same shit, different day, ladies and gentlemen. Any questions?”

"Rules of engagement?"

It was Ghost, just like always. The big man liked parameters, especially when it came to who he was allowed to shoot. It helped prevent misunderstandings that might end with him having to endure an ass-chewing.

“Only fire unless fired upon. We don’t need to end up on the news.” Foster responded. “That said, high probability that we will face trained and experienced opposition from Gorochev. Any shooters not wearing a badge are to be neutralized with extreme prejudice.”

Ava watched the proceedings with bright eyes, her glasses gone from her face as shortly after they were released from custody; she had switched to contacts. It was strange to not feel the slight weight on her nose and tucked behind her ears. It took getting used to putting the contact lenses in, but once she did she found them surprisingly comfortable to wear.

The past few weeks also saw her getting some better sleep, some solid practice down at the shooting range with Dave or Donnelley when they could spare the time. It also saw the interesting development of Dave crashing on her couch, at her own suggestion. After her sleepwalking episode she was afraid to sleep alone and having Dave in the front room was a reassuring safety net that likely helped her sleep a little sounder. Though unexpectedly, it had led to a change in their relationship...

She tried not to stare too much at the new faces at the table, she had heard a little about them but hadn’t been formally introduced yet; the familiar anxiety of meeting new people making her hesitate to introduce herself.

She raised her hand slightly. “I have my drones, aerial and terran,” She said, lowering her hand back down to her lap. “Should I bring them?”

“High likelihood that we’ll need both. Go ahead.” Foster nodded.

Dave sat beside Ava, as dressed up as he ever got with his flannel tucked in and the sleeves neatly rolled. When Queen had entered he’d pulled his eyes away from the young redhead and given the man a cautious nod, working to keep his distaste from his face. His feelings about the man hadn’t changed, but he understood the basic concepts of professionalism, and now wasn’t the time to start talking shit. Instead he raised his hand.

“What about...That Hound or whatever? Do we have…” He trailed off, searching for the words, trying to find a way to say it without sounding foolish. Finally he sighed. “We got any magic, or voodoo, or whatever that fuckin’ Russian guy was doin’? Or a missile launcher, maybe? I know bullets just piss it off.”

At the question, Foster only quirked a brow and pushed off the table. He folded his arms and looked to the Gray Man, leaning against the wall in much the same posture. As he always did, he took his moment as if he enjoyed being the center of attention, and then spoke simply, “Me.” He left the single word out for everyone to understand or puzzle over, and then spoke again in case anyone took too long, “I specialize in… these types of things. Magic, or voodoo, or as you put it whatever that fucking Russian guy was doing.”

“My name is Doctor Overman. I’m an adviser on matters such as this.” He finished, looking back at Foster.

Foster looked back to UMBRA and THUNDER in turn, “Anything else?”

Ava had several after a statement like that, but she didn’t get the sense they would be readily answered so she remained quiet to get on with the meeting. However, she eyed Overman with a mixture of shock, suspicion and a little curiosity. He didn’t look like much, like he would just blend into a crowd and vanish into the sea of obscurity, but given what he just said about his specialty...It leant an unsettling air to his demeanor.

Laine studied Overman but he was a picture of banality, his expression revealed little other than a certain smugness when he spoke, subtle but there. She raised her hand slightly, tugging back the sleeve of her fine black sweater. Laine peered at him over the black frame glasses, the ones she wore when she wanted to be taken more seriously. “Dr Laine, FBI. I do have a couple questions. Just what is the Hound and how do the Russians control it?”

“It’s something, ah, from the other side.” Overman piped up. “Not heaven, or hell. Inventions to keep primitive man in line and away from each other’s throats.”

Overman’s gaze didn’t falter from Laine’s, “It isn’t any more evil than a lion is to the zebra.” He shrugged, “And just like a lion, you can’t truly control it. Just lift the gate and let it run loose at the first scent you give to it. The Sinaloa, Renko. Tom.”

“But to lift that gate… to turn it back and make it retreat into that cage,” Overman’s brows rose, “You need someone like me. We’ll need to find who sent it and kill him.”

It was somehow reassuring that the Hound was not evil in the classical sense but a predator, something the Russians could not exactly control despite their knowledge on how to open it's cage and set it on prey. The way Overman had said it, an invention to control humans made her more curious.

"The other side, an invention to keep us in place," Laine repeated, making mental notes. She kept her gaze on the Gray Man, taking this rare chance to ask the questions that gnawed at her, "Just what or who invented it, this predator outside our reality? And how did you learn to open the cage?"

Overman had a look that wasn’t condescension or blank for the first time, a little smirk for someone to be asking the real questions, and eyes that told her that he didn’t have the answers for her, “No one knows.” He admitted, “No one knows anything about this world. Not really.”

Laine stayed quiet a moment, thinking over the admission. They were groping in the dark with a small tool kit, not unlike psychology sometimes but this wasn't just the mind it was a physical creation. But how it was manifested, how it became, troubled her. "It's real though, an actual creature, has anyone ever been able to take a sample? How was the ceremony to banish learned?"

She paused, there was a thought she wanted to express but it was something she thought rediculous and yet it seemed to fit the situation. "Dr Overman, have you considered this thing a creation of man, a tulpa? I know that sounds silly but what I read about them, I could see similarities."

Her fair skin blushed slightly and she could not look at anyone else, her green eyes now showing hesitation after saying it out loud.

Overman’s frown only deepened, “We, ah, humanity and the fair few of us graced with the knowledge of it… we know nothing of its nature. No one has seen its DNA, pinned some evolutionary standpoint.” He said, “A long time ago, the Al-Azif was written. And suppressed. Magic, some call it. Like the curious monkeys we are, we toy with it. And as Foster and Donnelley, and everyone in the Program can attest, you are the consequences for when that happens.”

“Humanity has barely mapped its own oceans. We can barely slip our bonds from earth to set foot on our own moon, and you’re asking me to teach a class on what lay beyond it, and even further beyond that.” Overman shook his head, “No one should have to know that, Miss Laine.”

Laine leaned back, partially relieved that her brief foray into paranormal mental powers was fruitless. The human mind was powerful in itself and to think it might be able to have actual physical power had led to a few sleepless nights after reading certain books. "Doctor," she said, whether correcting him or addressing him, it was unclear.

"The Al-Azif, this is where Renko and you got those magic words? The scarf found on Maria was said to have 'squiggly' writing on it, perhaps it was Arabic script. What if it was one of those things called to her?" Laine said, then closed her eyes briefly. It had been a work of man, to blame it on something else was reckless and yet, that black shard had been buried deep inside her.

“It wasn’t. She wouldn’t have been so… clean.” Overman said, having seen the damage the thing could do once. And once was enough. “Consolation, maybe.”

Laine nodded, then glanced down at her hands. For a moment she had hoped it was still people, even people with supernatural abilities that would be frightening if true. People she could figure out but this otherness bothered her. They were flying blind against a deadly intelligence with only a sort of expert with knowledge equivalent to flashing a light off and on in a deep cavern and catching glimpses of what lurked in the shadows. She took a deep breath, done with her questions and settled back to allow anyone else a crack at it.

“What’s our rides?” Donnelley asked after a moment of silence.

“The usual Not-a-Fed chariots,” Foster nodded, “GMC Yukons, black. Tinted. Armored.”

He pursed his lips and looked around once more, not hearing anything else from the crowd. “We’ll depart here at Zero Hour for Beckley. Make sure everything’s squared away before then, you’ve got plenty of time. I’m not grounding the mission because somebody forgot their phone.” Foster said, “Until then, consider this mission started as soon as you leave this room. Anyone outside of it is a potential leak. Working Group UMBRA and THUNDER answer only to me, we’re going dark. Don’t talk to anyone but the people in this room, that means even making calls to the misses and mom and dad.”

Foster tightened his folded arms and nodded at them all, “Good luck. Dismissed.”

---

>PROGRAM SAFEHOUSE
>UNDISCLOSED, VIRGINIA
>14AUG2019
>2300...///

Green Boxes. The secret safehouses and storage areas used by the Program to store anything a Working Group might need, often hidden in plain sight. It ranged from anything the size of a lockbox in a bank to a house in the middle of the woods. This one was more the latter, a tiny office in a warehouse rented out permanently by the black budget of the Program. It was around sundown that they’d set off from their respective places to converge when they got the text.

The night was black when the last of them arrived, and wordlessly they set to work prepping themselves in whatever way they felt was right. As usual, Donnelley was in a corner of the room that was designed as a meeting hall, the open space housing only white walls, grey carpet, and a long table on which plate carriers, duffel bags, rucksacks, magazines, and guns were splayed out like the world’s most armed board of directors were holding a meeting. He brass checked his Badger and FN handgun to the beat of Sodom’s Napalm in the Morning blaring in his headset, hardly paying attention to the others in the room.

Once he holstered his handgun in the thigh holster, he slipped the headphones off his ears and the sound of brass checks and buckles graced his ear. Music just as good. He hooked his thumbs into his plate carrier, Badger dangling from its single-point sling, “Everyone got everythin’ on the packin’ list? NODs, provisions, ammo, badges, smiles, good attitudes?”

There was the soft sound of a small whirring motor as a boxy drone, painted with a geometric camo pattern and sitting on four comically large heavily treaded tires, crawled around the room. Ava had taken the prep time to check the cameras and systems for both of her drones, more out of having something to do than out of actual necessity.

Returning to Blackriver was becoming all too familiar, including the feelings of constant dread, anxiety and cold sweat inducing terror. Maybe someday she would get used to it all.

For now, she destracted herself by driving her drone, affectionately named WALL-E, around the room like an RC car. She was also checking the tires through the sensors built in to them and playing around with the camera on her tablet, but mostly she was just amusing herself while still looking productive.

She grinned slightly as she drove the drone up to Donnelley, bumping his boot and looking up at him with the drone’s built in camera. “Smile, you’re on candid camera.” She joked.

Dave watched Ava with a grin as he went over his gear. In addition to his usual weapons, the table before him also contained a pack with several lumps of C-4 and the required accoutrements. A venture like this required more than Tannerite, diesel fuel, and fertilizer. He had swapped his flannel and jeans for something a little more official, drab clothing from the 5.11 Tactical line, but his “hat hat” was still firmly planted on his head, and the ring of a Copenhagen can was visible in his back pocket.

On the other side of the room, Ghost was meticulously checking his own gear. He’d joined up with the other members of THUNDER the moment they’d arrived, eagerly separating himself from the new meat of UMBRA. He was glad to be back among his own, with hardened killers he knew he could count on in a pinch, even if he had to play dress-up. His Here For The Violence patch had been replaced with a US MARSHALS tab, his usual hoodie and tactical pants traded in for a suit of Multicam. He’d drawn the line at standardizing his weapons, though; his .300BLK sat on the table in front of him, and he’d rather give up his left hand than the customized Glock 19 that had seen him through shit-holes on six of the world’s seven continents.

“Hey, Ma.” Donnelley waved at the camera and smiled before turning away from it, “Alright, we got an hour ‘fore we move out from here. Everyone check and re-check everythin’, anythin’ you’re fuzzy on, ask it now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Poker spat, “Gotta piss. I’ll be back.”

Maui chuckled that deep thunder from his chest he had and went back to loading his magazines. THUNDER had long ago caved to the pressure and decided it was too much trouble arguing with Ghost over cartridges. Queen still kept his uzi, but Poker and Maui had switched to .300BLK when they’d ran into an issue in Bangladesh concerning ammunition and an exceptionally exciting firefight. Tex and Ghost were the only ones who could keep firing at the thing.

“Still doin’ that?” Donnelley muttered to the gigantic Hawaiian that was Maui.

“Uh Huh. Hasn’t gotten worse, but it’s never been good, you know?” Maui smiled, before speaking more low, “Your guys. They ain’t shooters.”

“That’s not what we do, Maui. Got some solid dudes, though.” Donnelley patted Maui’s slab-like shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, not everythin’ can be solved with a bullet.”

Donnelley stepped up to Dave, watching him work for a second before he spoke, “Locked n’ loaded, partner?”

"All ready, man." Dave gave him a smile that didn't quite hide his nerves. His gaze darted to the death-dealers in the corner, where Ghost was growling something about never having met a problem he couldn't shoot to death.

"I uh… I got them explosives," he gestured to his pack. "An' all my other shit. Guns and...stuff…" He trailed off, looking down at his gear again.

Donnelley laid a hand on Dave’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze when he noticed the mountain man was quieter than usual. “We’ll be out there together. We watched each other’s backs back at the cabin, we’ll do it again.” Donnelley inclined his head and rose his brows at Dave, a consoling little smile on his lips, “So. You got mine?”

“Always, man,” Dave nodded. “I’m with ya.”

Laine dressed in snug black tactical slacks and a dark blue Bureau polo over which she wore her vest and the FBI windbreaker laid beside her. Her fingers still ached from the times she fired her service weapon while using the Program’s facilities, trying to sharpen her skill. Twice she had to fire in a combat situation and was not as effective as she had liked to have been. The truth was Laine never enjoyed the tactical courses and her job rarely put her into a position to use her weapon now that she was an analyst. But she wasn’t just a profiler now and skill was needed, despite all the swinging dicks with guns around them, the enemy did not wait until they were well guarded. Renko proved that well enough. She still was not sure what to think of the mysterious Russian but trust was dear in this game.

Her thoughts turned to Dulane and the prickle on the back of her neck made her shiver. When they had interviewed him he was trying to tell them something but the man must live in constant fear, not just of the demons he saw but of those real men that would kill him to silence him. Let the world think he was a loon, she thought, but there was something other than madness there.

Laine glanced up at the others getting ready and asked, “So who is going to be my partner this time?”

“I’ll be your Mulder.” Donnelley smiled at Laine.

She smiled slightly back at him, "Alright, Spooky."

Laine laced up her boots and stood, feeling the tightness in her thighs and rear end, those squats had almost crippled her for a week. Her gun was in a holster at her waist now, the training at the courses with Donnelley and his old team had honed her small arm skills. She felt more confident drawing and firing, her target papers now shot through the center mass rather than scattered.

With the absence of questions, Donnelley placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. The last one he needed to check in on was Queen, his old friend. He sided up with him and watched him go over his uzi and his other gear.

“You up for this shit, mi cumpa?” He said with a smile that betrayed that younger man Tex was, in it for the adrenaline and nothing else.

Queen watched the UMBRA members with an expression of interest, moreso in how certain pants fit than their state of readiness. He dragged his gaze away from Laine's backside when he caught Tex approaching. Queen fiddled with the strap on his Uzi, returning the smile he recognized.

"When am I not up for action with you?" Queen grinned, resting his hand against the compact weapon. "You playing a Feeb should be fun to watch."

“Any last-minute tips, amigo?” Donnelley quirked a brow.

Queen sniffed and shrugged, then met Tex's gaze, "Keep it professional, polite, and above the locals. They expect it, big bad FBI comes swaggering in and they might resent it but they'd be disappointed if you were just another good ole boy. The prison boys got their expectations. As for Dulane, follow your gut with him. I don't know but what I've read in the files but he's a wild card and possibly a very useful one. Don't fake it with him."

“When have I not been professional and polite?” Donnelley smirked and turned to address the rest of the teams, Poker having gotten back from the bathroom.

Donnelley nodded at him, “Yall ready?”

“Roger.” Poker nodded back. “We’ll follow your lead, This is your guys’ show. We’ll be here if you need us.”

“Alright, let’s mount up now, ladies and gentlemen. The custody transfer is goin’ to take a bit and I want to get into Blackriver by early mornin’.” Donnelley rose his voice above the hubbub, “Let’s get to it.”

---

>BECKWITH PRISON, WV
>15AUG2019
>0100...///

The prison hadn’t changed since last time they’d been here. Still an old rundown piece of shit chock full of repeat offenders and potheads that got caught with one gram too many. They’d almost charged through the halls getting everything set to take Dulane out of the prison for his little field trip.

Laine waited with Donnelley, their FBI credentials clipped to their jackets. Despite the summer, it would not do for agents to arrive in just short sleeved polos. They were dressed for field work and the other members of their team had US Marshals badges visible. An impressive layout for the small town guards, a few who kept making eyes at the alphabet windbreakers and baseball caps. Dulane was suddenly an important commodity.

Donnelley looked around the Warden’s Office as they sat at his desk. He scanned the sparse walls and got the sense that the Warden wanted to be here as much as the inmates. Last time he was here the Warden seemed the type to relish the job like a tyrant over his little slice of the country. The pictures of the Warden with his family and shaking hands with the Mayor were all taken off the walls. No knickknacks on the desk. They were all piled into a cardboard box that had once been used to transport a mass amount of potato buds.

Donnelley slyly looked at it and he couldn’t resist. He pulled one picture out to look at, then another, and another. The last picture stopped him in his tracks. The Warden was shaking hands with an old Blackriver Sheriff while two others stood next to the two, dressed in a fitted suit and a State Police uniform. They all looked well-to-do, and it didn’t look like any type of photo op he’d heard of. Usually it was palm trees and Hawaiian shirts, but behind them, heavy machinery could be seen, mud beneath their fine leather dress shoes. Donnelley took his phone out of his pocket and snapped a quick picture before replacing the photo.

He showed his phone’s screen to Laine, “Where you think that is?” He asked, “You recognize those two uniforms?”

Laine watched Donnelley snoop, glancing now and then at the door. When he offered his phone she examined the image. "A state police officer, interesting. This is the first time I've seen evidence of them being cozy with Blackriver but I guess we shouldn't be surprised. I wonder if they're at a mine, with that heavy machinery. The old sheriff, a state officer, the warden and this mystery man."

She glanced at Donnelley, "We could ask Detective Roy, maybe she'll know the state officer and maybe even the suit if we're lucky."

“Maybe Joe Dawant has some answers about that. Haven’t heard from him in a bit, startin’ to get worried.” Donnelley said, replacing his phone in his pocket.

"We should contact them," Laine said, following his train of thought. "We owe them some sort of safety. If that's possible."

She glanced at Donnelley, her deep green eyes on his scarred face. "I'm ready to face those mines, whatever we find."

Her heart jumped at the thought but after the conversation with her father she had renewed faith in this war against the dangerous unknown. Laine reached up absently and touched the fine silver chain that disappeared under her polo.

Donnelley looked to her and nodded, “Me too.”

Laine looked back around the office, "I wonder if the Warden is retiring?"

The door opened and cut any conversation off. Donnelley stood and offered his hand out to the first person he saw, which were two. The Warden and the State Trooper in the picture. Donnelley hoped his eyes hadn’t lingered too long on the other man as he felt the recognition set in, and only smiled at the Warden, “Mister McKenna, how’ve you been?”

“Well, as ever, Davidson. I’m sure you noticed the change in decor.” Warden McKenna smiled and nodded to the walls around them, “I’m leavin’ this ol’ office soon. Retirement, gonna kick my feet up and sip mojitos by the water in Florida. Not before I hand your man off to you, though.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” Donnelley smiled, gesturing to Laine, “This is my partner, Doctor Laine, BAU. She’s had an interest in Dulane.”

“How do you do, Doctor?” McKenna stuck his hand out.

Laine stood as well, recognizing the older man as the warden. She smiled politely and congratulated him on his retirement. She shook his hand, her gaze never leaving his face until he pulled away. She looked aside at the West Virginia state cop and noted his badge and name tag, "McCune". He was the same uniform from the picture and she made a quick once over for rank insignia. Sergeant. Not too high but not a scrub. Interesting that a sergeant was rubbing elbows with the Warden and the mystery suit in the photo.

"We appreciate your help. Dulane is an interesting case study of the psychology of a mass murderer and valuable to my research," Laine said, the professional courtesy in her voice. "The cooperation you've shown us will be noted, Warden McKenna...Sergeant."

Her gaze flicked to the sergeant once more but held off on introduction, leaving it as unimportant as long as the Warden did not bother. She rubbed her hands together once then looked at Donnelley.

“Of course, of course.” McKenna smiled at the both of them, “Anyway, this is Sergeant McCune, State PD. He and Roy have been active on this case since Davidson and Forrest came over here. How is Forrest?”

“He’s good. Waitin’ for this case to get closed like the rest of us.” Davidson nodded. “Mind if we kick it into gear, Mister McKenna, we’re on a crunch.”

“Certainly not, let me find that folder.” The Warden opened a drawer on his desk and set down a Manila folder and a hefty external hard drive, “Like you asked. Phone calls, visitations, security footage. Everything we got on Dulane.”

“Appreciate that.” Donnelley smirked.

The Warden opened the Manila folder and scribbled his signature on the document that signified Dulane’s formal transfer into UMBRA’s custody. Once he was finished, McKenna spun the paper around to face Donnelley and Laine. Donnelley penned down the name John Davidson like he’d been signing with it for years, then slid it to Laine.

“After we get that stamped, y’all are free to take Dulane.” McKenna nodded.

“Detective Roy should be meeting your men outside.” McCune spoke up for the first time, “State PD is retrieving Dulane right about now. We’ll give you a full escort to Blackriver, but for the safety of my officers, we won’t be crossing that line with all y’all.”

Laine signed the paper, the flourish in the L distinctive of her signature. She turned to McCune, studying him a moment. She took the file and flipped through it, then tucked it against her chest. It would be interesting reading on the ride out to the mines.

"We appreciate what you're able to do for us," Laine said, "It's unfortunate that you can't make it into Blackriver."

“Really is.” McCune nodded.

Donnelley clucked his tongue and didn’t bother with that. He didn’t expect the PD to deviate on the plan heard in the briefing as laid out by Foster. It was UMBRA and THUNDER on their lonesome out in the hills, but that wasn’t anything new for Donnelley and the Program as a whole. “Well, McKenna, good luck with your retirement and all that.”

“Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.” McKenna smiled as he set himself down in his seat.

---

Donnelley and Laine had met back with the others, the convoy of Yukons making quite the impression on the guards. Even moreso was the MRAP complete with mounted M2 painted black and emblazoned with ‘WV State Police’ and ‘SWAT’ in block lettering. Roy was bedecked in her typical business attire and a black plate carrier, UMBRA, THUNDER, and the PD SWAT all looked ready for war. All for one man. Roy waved at them and stepped up to the both of them, “Howdy, hope y’all find it a successful jaunt into Blackriver. Whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

Donnelley’s hand slapped into Roy’s, “By the looks of it, we’ll be startin’ a war in them hills.” Donnelley chuckled, “Thanks, Roy.”

“My pleasure, only regret is not going up there with you. Chief doesn’t like the idea and Chief gets what Chief wants, huh?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Donnelley nodded.

The klaxon bell of the prison gate sounded out the warning of its opening. Flanked by SWAT officers with masks and the boys of THUNDER, Dulane walked of his own volition, chained by the ankles and wrists like an animal. His face was that of a man who just got everything he wanted, like this all was a great triumph for him. All according to plan. Dulane looked to Laine with a sickening baring of teeth as a smile, and mouthed the words, ‘I made a promise.’

Laine watched Dulane approach, gone was the hunted, haunted look of the man she remembered from the previous interview. When he smiled she felt a clutching in her stomach and for a moment there was a writhing of his shadow that stretched on the ground. The elongated man shape transformed into a mass of tentacles slithering across the asphalt.

She gasped a breath and blinked, and it was gone. Laine stared at the shadow but it bobbed along the ground just like the ones cast by the guards. A prickle ran across her scalp and down her neck as she gazed at Dulane and dread knotted in her stomach.

Laine turned to seek Donnelley but he was with Roy and she didn't want to make a scene. It could have just been a trick of the shadows and pavement but the primal warning in her gut spoke otherwise. Her face was paler than usual as she approached the truck Dulane would ride in with the disguised THUNDER and UMBRA members.

Donnelley watched Laine walk past him, some kind of trouble hanging around her, shoulders pinned back and head down. He quirked a brow at that and flicked his eyes toward Dulane before he spoke to Roy, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ‘head.”

“What’s McCune’s relationship with the Warden, McKenna?” Donnelley asked, “Seemed like they were familiar back in the office.”

Roy shrugged, “His family and the Warden’s been around here for awhile, far as I know. Went to school together, but so did mostly everyone our age around here wearin’ a badge.”

“Okay. Makes sense.” Donnelley accepted the answer, not completely trusting anything around here ever since the stories about old-blood families and the clannishness of the hills. “You trust him?”

“As much as I trust any of my people. What’s up?” Roy frowned, the seasoned detective catching on something Donnelley was working too hard to keep under wraps.

“You know how I might feel about families that’ve been ‘round here for a while. MacOnies and O’Dhoules, everythin’ like that.” Donnelley pursed his lips.

“Relax, we ain’t all hillbillies just like you ain’t all cowboys and outlaws.” Roy winked.

“You don’t know what I get up to.” Donnelley chuckled as he stepped away from her, “Thank you for the escort, Detective.”

“Our pleasure.” She tapped her brow in a salute as Donnelley rejoined his compatriots in UMBRA and THUNDER.

He caught back up with Laine in short order, “Everythin’ okay?”

Laine jerked her head up when Donnelley spoke and she turned to meet his eyes. Before she could change her mind she whispered in a rush, "Dulane isn't alone. There's something..."

She took a sharp breath, darting her gaze aside then back at him, "I thought I saw something...in his shadow."

Laine blushed slightly at the words but she still felt the primal fear that had shot through her at the glimpse of the writhing mass. She laid her hand against the door of the truck and forced herself to meet Donnelley's eyes.

He nodded slow, looking to Dulane just before he disappeared behind the SWAT MRAP and saw Overman staring at Dulane too. “Well, we’ve got that fuckin’ sorceror with us.” He looked back to Laine, hopefully easing her as much as he could, “We’ll be alright. We got a magician and a lot of bullets.”

Laine swallowed hard then nodded, they were as prepared as they could be. Yet that inhuman smile, the changing shadow, it all made her shiver despite the August heat.

"You're right, of course," she said, licking her lips slightly. "It's just... unnerving. I'll be alright, though."

She took a deep breath and centered her thoughts, Dulane or whatever was in him, would not throw her off her game. It was a scare tactic, Laine told herself and she would not be so easily frightened off.

Reaching out she gave Donnelley's wrist a brief squeeze before letting go. "I'm fine," she said, her voice more normal. "Let's get this show on the road."

Ava watched Dulane carefully as he was escorted out, the hair on the back of her neck prickling to attention as her eyes fell on him. Her palms started to sweat and as her heart began to beat a little faster. She leaned back against the car they would be taking, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to hide the quiet panic attack building inside of her chest the longer she watched Dulane from behind her sunglasses.

She dusted lightly at her arms as it felt like wisps of spider webbing drifted over her skin. “He’s creepy.” She whispered over to Dave, finally tearing her eyes away from Dulane to look up at him.

Dave’s eyes were locked on Dulane, on the sick, squirming thing he could’ve sworn he saw in the man’s shadow. He took a breath, steadied himself, his hand resting on the butt of his Sig. He tried to make the motion look casual, but the touch of the gun made him feel a little better, reminded him he was still in whatever fight might pop off. A quick glance at the heavily-armed men surrounding Dulane also helped put him a little at ease; Ghost was a spooky son of a bitch, and his “friends” from THUNDER weren’t much better, but knowing they were on his side helped.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard and moving a little closer to Ava. “He’s creepy, alright.”