Episode 3: The Devil's Music

[vrock]

Rain poured down in torrents, hammering the roof of the crumbling radio station. Thunder cracked, illuminating the old building on the hill like a flashbulb exposing a crime scene. Shadows danced across the lobby where Phoenician smugglers slipped inside, dripping and silent, led by a man with a scar that cut across his cheek like a defaced painting. Their footsteps echoed in the gloom as they moved toward the broadcast studio, undeterred by the flickering lights and the eerie hum of old equipment awakening around them.

One of the men, clutching a pistol, gave a nervous glance to a wall lined with old photos of radio hosts, past and present. He tossed his RJ Renolds menthol from his mouth, crushing it underfoot.

“Chicks can’t slay vampires,” he said.

Scar’s voice cut through the hiss and crackle of static, low and harsh. “The artifact is here, and it’s not leaving with us until it’s in our hands. Understand?”

The others nodded, tense but hungry with the thrill of the hunt. A second man, stocky and clad in leather gloves, adjusted the strap on his shoulder and looked around the empty lobby, his gaze catching on a framed newspaper clipping hung askew on the wall. “Elizabeth Short Found Murdered in Grisly Slaying”, the headline declared in bold, grim letters. The article’s photo was washed out, but her face still gazed out from under dark curls, her smile fixed in a half-mocking, half-haunting pose.

One of the smugglers nudged a cabinet door open, revealing a jumble of old vinyl records and crumbling papers. He reached in, fingers brushing across a folded paper jammed between records. He pulled it free, and his brows knitted as he unfolded it—an old black-and-white photograph, faded at the edges. In the center was a crowd, all faces turned upward, staring skyward in rapture at an unknown light. There, just barely visible above them, was a hand-painted image of a star with a single eye.

On the photograph was scrawled:

“Starbearer.”

The smuggler squinted, tracing the crude inked symbol with a fingertip. He held it up to the others. “Hey, Scar, check this out.

Scar snatched it from his hands, studying it with narrowed eyes.

Scar’s gaze hardened, his grip on the photograph tightening. He could feel an eerie tension in the room, as if the air itself was aware of them. But he shook it off, giving his men a dark smile.

“Whoever’s guiding us doesn’t matter,” he said, tucking the photo into his jacket. “We’re close. Let’s move.”

They turned, the photograph’s image still burning in their minds—a single eye in a star, as if waiting for them to understand its message.

They moved into the studio, with its ancient leather chairs and dust-coated equipment that seemed to hum louder as they entered. The artifact was rumored to hold traces of something dark, Something of the blood and rot that haunted the city’s secrets.

Another hallway led them to the archive room, a cavernous space filled with rows of filing cabinets, shelves stacked with crumbling papers, and reels of old broadcasts. The scarred man rifled through a drawer, his hands searching feverishly until they met a small, silver lockbox, dust thick on its lid, wrapped in paper .

One of the smugglers saw , and a gasp escaped him. “Scar… it’s here. That’s it!.”

He lifted the small box wrapped in brittle yellowed paper, its surface darkened by years of wear. Symbols scrawled across it seemed to pulse in the dim light.

A sudden burst of static filled the room, sending chills racing down their spines. The smugglers froze. Someone, or something, was on the air.

Just then, a soft hum filled the room, as if an old radio were coming to life on its own. The men froze, listening. The melody was faint at first, drifting through static, but it grew louder, weaving around them like a hypnotic chant. It was a voice—no, voices—joining together in eerie harmony, rising and falling in something half song, half whisper.

The stocky man pulled back, unease flickering in his eyes. “What is this? And… that smell—”

He stopped, realizing too late that the metallic tang wasn’t just from the rain. The scent was stronger here, something bitter, feral, and ancient, like blood and ash. He reached up, his gloved hand brushing a smudge on his collar that hadn’t been there before—a black smear, like tar.

“Enough,” the scarred man snapped, steadying his voice. “We’re out.”

Another flicker of light, and one of them glimpsed a scrawled message on the wall, faded but unmistakable:

“Demon.”

They exchanged looks, each of them steeling themselves against the sudden chill that seeped into the room. The storm outside felt like it was breathing down their necks, the pounding of the rain growing louder as they ventured deeper.

One of the others, a wiry man with a haunted gaze, glanced up, feeling something prickling at the back of his neck. His eyes darted to a drawing pinned to the wall, sketched hastily in ink—a cartoonish figure with wild eyes and a grin too wide to be friendly. Its face was marked with a spade, the eyes blank, hollow.

On it was scrawled:

“Celestial.”

As he turned back, he felt a cold, crawling sensation wrap around his chest.

Another flicker of the lights. The humming grew louder, filling the room with its eerie cadence.

The stocky man looked around, shivering. “You hear that? It’s like… a purr.”

A faint chuckle seemed to ripple through the air, as if something out there, something unseen, was listening. Watching. There was a final message scrawled along the edge of the door in what looked like claw marks, half-worn away but unmistakable.

“Master of Beasts.”

A louder crackle of static burst from the speakers, and their flashlights sputtered. The leader gritted his teeth, clutching the lockbox tighter, his knuckles turning white. But no one dared speak. The faint hum rose again, a sinister lullaby filling the room as the storm reached its peak outside. Shadows shifted across the walls, figures half-formed, expressions half-realized, flickering in the dim, sickly light.

From an old monitor in the corner, a faint whisper began, growing louder, sharpening into words. The voice was soft, almost soothing—a woman’s voice, singing a melody older than memory itself.

One of the men backed up, eyes wide, breath coming fast. “Shut it off,” he whispered.

They exchanged looks, then turned, but it was too late. The lights went black, leaving only the flickering glow of the monitor, bathing their faces in a sickly greenish hue. A low, scratching sound filled the room, like nails dragging along the walls.

The smugglers’ leader kept his eyes on the box, his face set with fear and determination, but the other men glanced around the studio, eyes darting to every corner. The hum grew into a buzz, then a scream. The monitor flared, showing a woman’s face twisted into something monstrous, her eyes hollow, lips curled in a smile that stretched too far, too wide.

In the silence that followed, a chill settled, and they sensed it—the presence of something they’d disturbed, something ancient, something watching. The rain drummed faster, like a heartbeat, as the final echo of that faint, almost-human whisper filled the air:

“Run.”

Then, one by one, the screams began.

The hands that clutched the artifact loosened, dropping it to the floor with a hollow thunk.

The dawn light was gray and cold as it crept over the hill where the radio station stood, casting the old building in a shroud of damp mist. As the storm broke, leaving the air heavy and still, a lone figure trudged up the slippery steps. Roy, the morning engineer, grumbled under his breath as he wiped rainwater from his brow. He’d been called in to troubleshoot a power issue—the place had apparently gone dark in the middle of the night, cutting off all transmissions until the board rebooted.

As he unlocked the door, the silence struck him as wrong. The station usually hummed with the faint buzz of machines on standby, even when empty. But now, nothing. Just the faint, metallic scent that hung in the air, sharp and bitter. Roy’s brow furrowed, a shiver tracing its way up his spine. He flipped on his flashlight and stepped inside.

The lobby looked strangely deserted, the chairs pushed back, as if someone had left in a hurry. He took a few hesitant steps forward, but his foot slipped on something wet. He looked down and recoiled—there, across the linoleum, was a slick trail leading deeper into the building, a dark smear that glistened ominously in the beam of his flashlight.

Heart pounding, he followed the trail down the narrow hallway. The air grew colder, and the walls seemed to press in on him as he made his way to the broadcast studio. The faint sound of static hissed in the distance, crackling through the silence. He opened the door—and froze, his flashlight trembling in his grip.

The studio was a scene from a nightmare. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, their eyes wide open, faces twisted in terror. Blood stained the walls, glistening in long, gruesome streaks, pooling beneath each lifeless figure. But what made Roy’s breath hitch, what sent his heart racing in pure horror, were the images painted in thick, dark smears all around him.

On the floor, etched in blood, was a star with one unblinking eye at its center, like some mocking, otherworldly symbol. The image seemed to stare up at him, its dark lines dripping, as if it had been drawn in haste—and by hands no longer steady.

To the left, on the wall behind the equipment, was a grotesque face: wide eyes, a tongue unfurled in a wicked grin, drawn with chilling precision. Its expression was almost gleeful, as if it had taken sadistic pleasure in what had happened here, watching from the darkness while violence unfolded.

Roy’s flashlight swept to the opposite wall, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Above the shelves of broadcast records, another face was painted in jagged, sprawling strokes—an inhuman figure with blank, hollow eyes, staring straight ahead with an almost alien detachment. . The face seemed to float, as if detached from any sense of reality, as if whoever drew it had left something of themselves behind in its eerie, dead eyes.

But it was the last drawing that made him stumble backward, heart hammering as the flashlight slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor. On the wall beside the door, a final face grinned back at him: feline features, teeth bared, eyes wild and gleaming. . Its expression seemed to flicker, alive with an animal intensity, its mouth open in what looked like a scream frozen in time.

Roy stumbled, his eyes wide as he tried to catch his breath, horror tightening his throat. He backed away, trembling as his flashlight cast long shadows across the bloody faces that seemed to follow him, their dark, empty eyes trained on him with a silent, mocking gaze.

Somehow, Roy could grab his phone , his mind numb, heart pounding as he dialed 911, his fingers barely able to press the buttons. When the operator picked up, he stammered through a tangled explanation, the words tumbling out in broken fragments—blood, bodies, faces on the wall—but the images stayed locked in his mind, vivid and horrifying. He could still feel them staring at him, burned into his memory, watching with an unnatural, unsettling patience.

Outside, the rain began to fall again, steady and heavy, as if the storm itself had come back to claim what it left behind.

The monitor still hummed, showing a single line of text:

“The truth is never buried.”

[oldschool96]

The very large silver and white RV, with the trailer holding Alyssa’s sacred van moved down the road with the hacker at the wheel.

After the last assignment, most of the team had spent time traveling around. They had been told they needed to find a base, and while that had been unsuccessful as of current status, traveling together, taking in sights and having the journey together had been fun and bonding.
The RV itself was the luxury sort, with enough room for all, a nice kitchen, sitting area, even a bar. Also two bathrooms with showers. Enough sleeping areas for everyone but tents, air mattresses and such had also been brought along when more privacy was warranted. The RV looked like a regular RV, albeit on the high end, but, of course it wasn’t. It had the most advanced wi-fi possible and was armored.

They had already traveled to the West Coast, gone all over that. Then south. Florida and Alyssa insisted on checking out the amusement parks, as she had never been. If no one else went with her, it was their decision and possibly loss but she dragged Peter through all of them. (How much dragging was necessary was debatable.) But she got to just have fun for awhile.

The dark thing did appear a few times, while in the van. Fortunately, never while she was driving but she tried to stick to driving during the day, and it tended to prefer the night. Whether the knife was with her not didn’t seem to matter, the dark still appeared.

She had gotten more familiar with the knife but there seemed to be something else, perhaps some other ability the hacker wasn’t quite getting.

They had just left Hersheypark in Pennsylvania when Alyssa got a text, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her mother had texted her asking her to come home, saying they needed to talk. Her mother was never in contact with Alyssa. She actually had heard directly from the woman in a long time. This had Alyssa, understandably, concerned. “We have to go to New York. My mother just contacted me.” Alyssa explained.

“What exactly what she want after all this time of not speaking to you?" asked Sartre.

“Who knows. It’s probably nothing good, however.” Alyssa responded, clearly concerned.

“You shouldn’t let her push you around. We both know you are much bigger now. What would she think of our relationship?” Asked Peter.

“I don’t really care what she thinks of it, but I can’t ever guess what my mother would think of anything.” Alyssa looked at Peter. “Maybe, when we’re in New York, I can also get a chance to speak with my father.”

Agent Powers and Princess Ekaterina were in the back of the RV doing a mission report on her laptop. Since she and Dahlia came in at the end of the prior mission, Agent Powers needed to fill her in on the missing information. Ekaterina was now growing fond of Agent Powers as they spent more time together. They had a lot of common interests such as training, good food, cutting edge weapons and traveling the world. Of course she was a much better scholar that Max was but she never made him feel bad about it. She liked the idea of molding her ideal guy and Max fit the bill. She was even planning on getting Agent Powers some proper credentials (unofficially of course) so he would be permitted to be with her in public. Of course that was another story for later on. Once they finished their mission reports, they decided to do some research on some other topics that they were interested in.

“It will be good to see how your father is doing.” He reached to take her hand.

The van wasn’t moving yet, so Alyssa turned the driver’s seat to face the others in the back. “We need to head to New York, next. I need to take care of a few things.” Hoping that was alright with everyone. “When I’m done, there are some places we might want to check out in some areas in central and northern New York.”

Agent Powers looked up from the computer screen and gave Alyssa a smolder then replied, “No biggie Alyssa. Do what you need to do first.” Ekaterina elegantly smiled as she asked, “New York huh? I wonder if we could make time to see a Broadway play there?” Agent Powers gave the princess a smolder then asked, “What’s that?” Ekaterina elegantly smiled as she replied, “I hear in places like New York they do extravagant dramatic plays on stage.” Agent powers was shocked by this as he asked, “Plays huh? Like what kind?” Ekaterina elegantly replied, "Well I recall them advertising the play called “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.” Agent Powers was shocked as he replied, “I don’t remember that movie. Is it new?” Ekaterina elegantly smiled at Agent Powers as she replied, “No they made the play from the book. They never made that one into a movie. At least not yet.” Agent Powers was more shocked as he asked, “Wait they made a book too?” Then Ekaterina elegantly explained to Agent Powers that the books came first then the movies and plays. He was shocked by his lack of knowledge of the arts as the princess educated him in a polite manner.

“Oh, we must do a play, especially if you’ve never been to one. We’ll have to see what’s playing. I’m afraid Broadway never quite recovered from the money it lost during the pandemic. Many plays never reopened.” Alyssa sounded excited by the idea. “Actually, we can certainly spend time in the city. There’s so much to do there.” Alyssa paused for a moment then answered the first question. “My mother texted me, she wants to see me. To talk to me about something.” The hacker sighed.

Agent Powers nodded as he replied, “Is that a personal meeting or a work meeting? Just checking if I will be invading your privacy while I am guarding you.” Ekaterina was in awe that Agent Powers was respecting Alyssa’s boundaries.

“Personal, my mother doesn’t work for any agency. I am not certain she even knows about them.” Then again, after all these years, it would be weird if the woman didn’t know something was going on with Alyssa and her father. “I’ll have to come up with some reason why you’re there.”
Agent Powers was confused as he replied, “Well you just tell part of the truth then. Just say your dad assigned me to work with you on a project for work. You are not lying to her and your dad will confirm it if she asked him. My father told me not to lie to much since I would have to remember all my lies and I lack the personality and mindset for that type of work. That’s why I do demolition and wet work instead of espionage.”

Sung just sat and listened to everyone if they were in the main area. This was not his ideal way to have things, but it would be interesting to see how the team acts now, living in a small space. He wondered if he should start some chaos. Well, that was not his job. he sat just wiping down his sword with a white cloth and inspecting the edge of the word (edited)

Alyssa nodded at Max, “That sounds like a good plan.” She did have the mental capacity to lie to her mother and keep it straight but didn’t want to. Omitting what her mother couldn’t know would work. She paused, then “Well, let’s get going then.”

Posted by : Cindy

It had taken a few hours to get from the Pennsylvania Dutch country full of farmlands, red barns adorned with hex signs and grassy pastures. Even driving past an black Amish horse and buggy or two to get to the noise, high-rise buildings and congestion of the city. Then another two hours, thanks to the never ending traffic on the LIE (or Long Island Expressway for those unfamiliar with its nickname), to reach the campground where they’d set up the van for however long they would be there.

By now, the area had become less congested but they were not in a quaint area, like Pennsylvania. This was the middle ground. The area they drove through, once reaching Long Island, was a suburban poster child for the middle class. Brick houses, all strikingly similar, lined-up in rows, with small rod-iron fences, black for the most part. Small front yards, occasionally the backyard which was a decent enough size. but not big by anyone’s definition, could be made out. With brick sidewalks leading from one house to another, until reaching a corner where, very often, a small convenience shop stood. Some had gas pumps, most did not. Occasionally, a small eatery or coffee shop could also be spotted.

The area past this point, where Alyssa was from, stood in stark contrast to the first section. Tall elaborate fences surrounded large parcels of land, immaculately kept lawns, long driveways, leading to grand mansions. Some were new or newer but some had been built centuries ago, when the country was still young.

The morning after they arrived, after having breakfast and getting ready. Alyssa got her van out of the trailer and then waited for Peter and Max.

Once everyone who was venturing with the hacker to see her mother was ready. Alyssa took off down the road.

It took about thirty minutes to come to the stone wall which surrounded the stately manor. The hacker pressed a code on a keypad and the elaborate black iron gate opened. She drove through. There was a lot of green land and gardens making up the landscape. A long paved driveway lay before them. The house was a large white home with gold trim. To the side was another house, smaller than the main house but still two stories and impressive in size.

“That is the guest house.” Alyssa pointed out the smaller house, for the benefit of those that hadn’t been there before.

The driveway horseshoed around a series of three fountains. One large one in the middle and two smaller ones. They were currently running…

“The house was built in the early 1920s. Belonged to some Wall Street financier,” Alyssa explained. “He lost everything in the crash. Had to sell the house. My mother’s family had recently moved to Long Island, they were heavily involved in oil and alcohol which were two businesses that did not lose money despite the Depression. They bought the house. Ever since then it’s just been passed down through the generations.” She paused.

They had gotten close enough now that the elegance of the 1920s was on display on the outside of the home. Though it was also clear the manor had been well kept through the years. Inside the house was very modern while keeping the 1920s aesthetic.

Stopping the van in front of the house, Alyssa signed and turned off the engine. “I must apologize in advance for anything you might hear my mother say. She is not likely to be in a good mood.” Saying to everyone in the van.

“Does your mom know about the secret world ? What does she think about all this, the dreaming ones? Does she know about The Dark? She should have much more respect for you if she knows that you’re dealing with things like Nostradamus, Revelations, the end of the world…” said Sartre. He reached to take her hand. He wanted to walk in with them both holding hands.

“I don’t think she knows anything about any of that.” Alyssa then said. “We can’t tell her. She’s not part of all of this. I mean my mother isn’t stupid but she has never asked what is going on with me, and as far as I know, she also has never asked about my father. I don’t even know if my mother has any idea that he was missing or is back.” That sounded odd. “Understand my father never came home, the two don’t communicate. She never once asked me where he was. Even if she had, I was told to say he was working abroad. At least until that didn’t work any longer but honestly I am not sure she even cared.”

There was something Alyssa wasn’t saying, something she figured they would see for themselves.

Agent Powers gave Alyssa a smolder and a pause before he asked, “You know when my father is on a secret mission he usually has someone fill in for him to take his messages to deliver his instructions in his absence. If your father did the same, then someone was sending her messages pretending to be your father to keep up the act right?”

“That’s possible,” but five years is a long time to keep that up. Alyssa reached for her door. “Well, let’s do this. I suppose.” She opened it, and left the driver’s side, closing her door behind her. Then the hacker waited for the others.

Agent Powers and Ekaterina got out of the vehicle and approached Alyssa as they waited for her to take the lead.

Sartre followed Alyssa.

Alyssa held Peter’s hand as she walked up the stairs, and towards the front door. As they approached the entrance the door opened. Standing a man, probably close to Sung’s age with dark hair, dressed in a suit. “Miss Alyssa,”

“Hello, Douglas.” Alyssa then gestured towards the others. “These are my guests.”

“Come in,” Doug opened the door wider and allowed them in.

They stepped into a large hall with high ceilings and an elaborate antique crystal and brass chandelier lighting the way. Intricately layered wood made a beautiful floral design on the floor.

Once Douglas closed the door, Alyssa introduced those with her, she had asked them last night how they wanted to be introduced. Whatever they had told her was what the hacker went with. When she was done with the introductions, Douglas offered to take any jackets they might be wearing, Alyssa chose to keep her leather jacket on. He then offered drinks or refreshments, while Alyssa declined but she did tell the others to go ahead if they wished.

Doug looked nervous that Alyssa had brought others with her. He had been on vacation when her mother had been on the cruise, and hadn’t even met Max before.

“She was expecting me to come alone. Is she one of her … moods?” Alyssa asked Doug.

“Quite, Miss.” Doug replied.

Alyssa sighed, this wasn’t going to be pretty. She felt bad for Doug having to deal with it so much, but he seemed determined to stay.

“Where is she?” Alyssa asked.

“In the study.” Doug replied.

“Well, then let’s get this over with.” The house was three stories, but the study was on the first floor. They passed various rooms, most of them were closed and Alyssa didn’t seem up for giving a tour.

She arrived at a white door, with the filigree design on the front. Knocked twice. No answer. Alyssa peeked in the room.

“'About time you got here.” Could be heard. The words sounded slurred.

Alyssa opened the door wider. Francis Wilson sat on a large leather chair in the corner. Her feet up on a matching ottoman. Glass in hand, filled with a brown liquid, and ice which clinked with every move of the woman’s hand.

A few things would catch anyone’s eyes for one she was dressed in an expensive designer outfit, yellow and white. For another she was clearly drunk. Thirdly, the woman with bleach blonde hair and eyes the color of the sea was very attractive, model material really and Alyssa absolutely looked nothing like her.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

Agent Powers looked at the beautiful drunk woman on the chair looking not so elegant like Ekaterina. Then he gave Alyssa’s mom a smolder as he waited quietly. Ekaterina glanced the room over and smiled elegantly as she looked at Alyssa’s mother. She was not going to form any opinions since she was used to diplomatic situations due to her family and work with the Templars.

“I wasn’t expecting an audience, Alyssa.” The warmth that one would expect to hear from a mother to her child was completely absent from Francis’s tone. “Tell them we need to speak in private.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes, and almost asked the group to go - almost, but between her mother’s coldness and realizing who was with her, the hacker shook her head. “No, mother, anything you have to say to me you can say in front of them.”

Francis did not look happy at that prospect but relented. “Very well, if you want it that way - so be it.”

Alyssa didn’t wait on an invitation she stepped into the room and then said to Peter, Max and Ekaterina. "Come in, and have a seat "

The room had a few leather chairs, a leather couch, a dark wooden antique desk, several lamps and floor to ceiling bookcases which were filled but looked, surprisingly, untouched. Upon closer inspection it would become clear that many of the books were first editions, or rare copies, even a few rare sets. Also, the more one took the room and the drunken women, the more she’d seem out of place, except for the brass bar on wheels which stood near where she was sitting.

Alyssa, once again, went through introductions. Francis did not seem to care much about who the other people were, but her eyes did wander to Alyssa’s hand which was intermingled with Peter’s. However, no comment was made about their relationship either way.

“So…” the drunken woman started. “Your no good father finally called me - he’s still traveling for work. We had a looong talk - fight really. I am done with him, he with me. - we’re getting a divorce.”

Now, most children, even adult children would be floored by that news. Alyssa remained calm, standing and said. “You made me drive all the way here to tell me that?” She was not, at all, surprised by the news.

“Nope,” Francis stated. “There’s more… I’ve decided to tell you the truth.”

Sartre looked oddly at Francis. There was no reason for her to treat Alyssa like that.

Agent Powers gave Francis a smolder as he quietly listened to her. He was concerned the woman was going to cross the line by saying she was a spy or wanted to kill her daughter Alyssa. he had seen similar situations while hunting drug lords. He was ready to block a bullet if it came to it. He was not worried about small bullets since he could take the hit, so unless the old drunk lady was packing a bazooka he felt confident. Ekaterina on the other hand had a pained expression on her face since this situation reminded her of her life at home. Arranged marriages were always troublesome and came with a lot of drama. She noticed Agent Powers was alert like a Pitbull ready to jump into action. She was hoping things didn’t escalate…

“I’m listening, Ms. Francis.” Sartre said angrily.

Alyssa sat down, on a chair that was close to another chair so Peter could stay near her. She felt like she might need his support. “Go ahead,” Alyssa said to her mother.

Well," Francis started. “First of all, I am not stupid and do not believe you and your father work from some tech company.” The woman stared at Alyssa’s reaction, but Alyssa barely reacted at all. “Anyway, some years ago your father had an affair with a coworker. She got pregnant. We or more like I - agreed to adopt the baby. That would be you. You are adopted.” This time the woman didn’t stop for a reaction or to let the words sink in. “As you know, you were never what I had in mind for a daughter and I do not care to really be around you. So, I have decided to disown you. You won’t have me any more - nothing from me. Certainly, not this house or my money. You can take anything, that is yours with you, but then that’s it.”

Alyssa did not say anything. She was silent for several seconds. Really, the woman shooting her with an actual gun would have been less painful, but Alyssa did not want to give her mother the satisfaction of showing it. “I see.” Then another pause. "I suppose you are correct. We have nothing in common. Thank you for verifying what I already suspected. " Then the hacker could not hold her tongue any longer. “I am glad. Glad that I am not a part of whatever messed genetic make-up created you.” She did not let her mother say anything else. The hacker stood up and stormed out of the room.

Agent Powers shook his head as he got up with Ekaterina. He replied, “Wow mother of the year over here. Lets go help her move out.” Ekaterina had a pained expression as she shook her head yes. They followed Alyssa out and Agent Powers asked Alyssa quietly, “Should I get a moving truck here?”

Alyssa shook her head and responded, “Thanks but no. There’s not that much stuff I want to keep.”

Ekaterina sighed as she said, “So should we collect your things and find a hotel? I could get us a nice suite at the Aman. The room service is to die for.”
Agent Powers replied, “Sounds fancy. Is the food good?” Ekaterina smiled elegantly and replied, “Of course.”

“Well, thanks for the offer but the rest of the team is at the RV and the last time we stayed at a hotel it didn’t go well.” Alyssa said, they would know she meant the bomb threat. “But I do appreciate the offer. How about a raincheck? Or at least wait to decide until we get back to the RV and see what the others think?”

Ekaterina elegantly smiled as she replied, “Fair enough.” Agent Powers shrugged as he said, “Okay then we help move what you want and head out?”

“Alyssa; I can help you collect the things you want and then we can go back to the RV.” said Sartre.

Alyssa nodded. She led the other three to the center hallway, where there was an elaborate wooden staircase, with inlaid flooring in the same floral design that had met them in the front hall. It had gold and white scroll design ironwork for the banister. The wide stairs started out together but then split into two , forming a Y-shape. Alyssa led the group to the stairs leading to the right and down a long hallway. They came to a white door, which she opened. Inside wasn’t just a bedroom but a suite area, with an extremely large bedroom, another room, which was full of computers and tech items, a library with floor to ceiling bookcases, filled to the rim. Unlike the room downstairs, these books looked well used, except for one small shelf that had 4 books behind glass. A desk sat to one side and a few chairs. There was a TV room with a mini-fridge, microwave and theater style popcorn maker. Alyssa said, “Welcome to my former world.” Then gave them a brief tour, briefly explaining each room. "There was a playroom, but it didn’t have many toys in it. A few dolls, a handmade toy castle, with all the accessories, complete with a dragon. An easel and desk sat near each other. Possibly a few other toys, none looked very worn. Almost as if this room hadn’t been used a lot.

There was a private full bathroom, with a tub that turned into a jacuzzi and a separate shower. A walk-in closet the size of a room itself. And lastly an area that looked like a combo dance studio - workout room. It was an odd combination of rooms that seemed to not exactly fit together.

Alyssa picked up what seemed like a house phone and asked for a few boxes to be brought upstairs. She then opened the door to her walk-in closet.

Surprisingly, for a woman who preferred jeans, t-shirts and her beloved leather jacket over fancier options, the closet was brimming with designer clothes. There were suits, sweaters, skirts, tops, jackets, shoes, and so on. The one thing that really did not fit with Alyssa were the 200 or so designer dresses, many were quite formal. None looked like they had been worn more than once. Some still had tags on them.

“My guess is you did not stay at home much.” said Sartre. In the chip; “It’s okay Alyssa, we are your family now. I care about you. I would much rather talk to your father than that lady.”

Agent Powers looked around and nodded his head as he gave the room a smolder. Then he asked, “So what are we taking?”

“I didn’t. I was away at college pretty young, then working.” The hacker then said, into the chip. “Thanks. And I agree about my father.” Alyssa went to the back of the closest and opened another door, inside seemed to be a storage area. It had suitcases and garment bags with some other items. “I think we can start with 2 suitcases and one garment bag. If I need more, we can just get them.” It didn’t matter which suitcases or garment bags they took.

Then it was to the main part of the closet. Alyssa picked out a few articles of clothing that were fancier than what she usually wore but still seemed to work for her. As she sifted though clothes there were a few fancy outfits too small for her. She pulled out a purple one complete with sparkles and ruffles, and visibly shivered slightly. “This was from my very brief attempt at pageants. I actually competed in one. I was 6 at the time.” She put the dress back. Then it was on to her bedroom. The room was large, a king sized four poster bed sat on the wall opposite the door. There were dressers, a trophy case held mostly academic awards. Plaques took up the majority of it. Alyssa looked at them as if trying to decide if she should take them.

Douglas and a maid brought some empty boxes. He looked at Alyssa for a moment. “Can we help Miss Alyssa?”

“No, thank you Douglas.” Alyssa stated. “But anything I don’t take with me, feel free to donate, or keep if you or one of the staff wants it.”

“Very good, Miss.” Douglas and the maid left.

On the side wall was a large bay window with a window seat, it had a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean.

Alyssa handed one of the larger sized boxes to Max and Ekaterina, “Can you, both, go back into the playroom and pack the castle and accessories? The dragon is a little fragile.” Alyssa asked.

Agent Powers took the box and nodded at Alyssa. Ekaterina then asked, “If we are packing fragile things can we use some sheets or shirts you don’t worry about to wrap them in?”

"Yes,Alyssa opened a drawer to one of her dressers. It was packed with various t-shirts. “You can use anything from this draw.”

Ekaterina elegantly smiled as she replied, “Splendid.” She then elegantly nudge Agent powers to help her hold the box as she loaded it with some shirts. Then the two of them left to collect Alyssa’s collectables. Then Ekaterina showed Agent Powers how to properly wrap the collectables with the shirts to protect them from chipping and cracking, since they would bump around when the box was moved. Agent Powers did his best to follow the instructions of Ekaterina who seemed very knowledgeable in protecting collectables.

While Max and Ekaterina were busy, Alyssa took a moment to collect her thoughts. She stared out upon the view from her large window. “I won’t miss much about this house, but I will miss that view.” The hacker randomly stated.

Alright on to other things, she went over to a nightstand and opened the draw. She pulled our a set of small keys, choosing one then handing it to Peter. “Can you open the lock on my trophy case?”

It was high enough that Alyssa would need a step ladder to reach it. On the side of the glass was a small keyhole.

He opened the trophy case. “Any idea where we can store your valuables?” asked Sartre.

“No. I wonder if I should get a small storage unit.” Alyssa responded. "It’s not a lot but might take up space we don’t have in the RV

Sartre looked at what was in the trophy case.

The case contained about 8 plaques, for academic achievement mostly in math or science classes. There were metals indicating the hacker had graduated Summa ■■■ laude. There was a trophy that stated first place for a technology fair. A medal for dance class.

“I should also take my degrees.” Pointing to her college degrees and high school diploma.

“Congratulations Alyssa.” Sartre said. He helped her grab her degrees and achievements.

“Thanks. Seems like ages ago that I got those.” Alyssa responded.

The hacker went over to the window seat and opened it, using another key. She lifted the seat. Inside were a few papers. Alyssa pulled over a trash can and started throwing them out. They just seemed like random schoolwork but under them, the woman pulled out a small cloth bound book with a lock on the top. It was engraved with ALYSSA on the front. Clearly it was a journal or diary of some sort. She didn’t open it but pulled one of two of the small keys from the ring and started a new box, putting in the diary and the keys. Alyssa then started on her clothes.

Alyssa receives this text message, It clearly came from an official illuminati intranet source. “Prudence watches Alyssa, her gaze piercing the gilded lies of Crows. The red star glimmers.—only the faithful can see the path before it burns . The Labyrinth splits, and with it, the soul of the Illuminati. Join us, and together we will fulfill what was foretold, not what is fabricated. Seek Prudence, for she awaits you at the edge of the storm.”

Alyssa pulled her phone out of her pocket when she heard her phone buzz. “Oh, what now.” The hacker remarked, then looked at her phone. She was not in the mood for this. “What the hell? Why am I the only one that seems to get the cryptic messages.” She showed Peter the message.

“Where did that come from?” Peter asked. “And why did you not just run away from here, Alyssa?”

“It’s from an official Illuminati source but I don’t know which one.” Without digging into it, anyway, Alyssa thought.

“Interesting.” Peter commented, “The other one did not come from an Illuminati source?”

“No, those came from that same site Kolchak talked about.” The hacker paused. “And I didn’t run away because I went to college at 8. What would have been the point? I was young. Besides, for the most part, my mother ignored me.” Alyssa paused. “I, also, used to think that some day my father would come home to stay and things would be better. Then I got older and realized that A: He wasn’t coming home and B: Even if he did things wouldn’t be any better.”

Peter moved to hug the hacker. “We are your family now Alyssa.”

Alyssa accepted the hug and said, “I know but thanks for reminding me.”

“I can carry this stuff out with you.” Peter said.

“OK.” After she took what she wanted from her bedroom. She got the 4 books that were locked behind the glass out. 4 first editions signed by the author. Little Women, The Wizard of Oz, Hackers and a collection of Short Stories by Ray Bradbury. She packed those carefully but didn’t bother with the other books. A few boxes, two suitcases, a garment bag later and Alyssa was done. She had everything she wanted to keep. Except one thing. Going into the TV room was a gaming system with a bunch of games. They went into the last empty box. “I have not used it much but thought we might like to have it in the RV.”

The things were carried downstairs. Alyssa said goodbye to Douglas but her mother didn’t come out of the study and Alyssa didn’t bother going to look for her. Everything packed into her van, it fit with no issues.

Once everyone was ready, Alyssa took one last look at the mansion and drove off.

n investigation into the murder of a Phoenician team at a radio station had led the newly assembled team to New York, where the Phoenicians were participating in an auction of several occult items. The team had been sent undercover to retrieve whatever the Phoenicians were looking for, before it could be used for any nefarious purposes. Whatever had happened at the radio station was something extremely dangerous. All three of the main factions agreed that the artifact that the Pirates were looking for would be better left with them. The soft hum of fluorescent lights echoed faintly against the sterile walls of the newest apartment complex in New York’s Pearl District. Everything smelled too new: fresh paint, polished laminate, and cheap carpet that hadn’t yet absorbed the scent of desperation or spilled drinks. But here, on the top floor, in the repurposed “lounge space” with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a city half-drowned in mist, a card game was underway.

Janice had set the stage. She was the type of woman who commanded attention without raising her voice. Platinum hair teased into a style just shy of gaudy framed her face, her lips painted a red so deep it could only be described as arterial. Her fingers, adorned with rings that seemed too big for practicality, shuffled the deck with a practiced ease. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she purred, her voice a low melody, “ante up. The stakes are high tonight.”

The players leaned in, their faces illuminated by the dull golden light of an overhead fixture. Most were here for the thrill—a chance to gamble more than their wallets, to feel the pulse of danger that hovered just beneath the surface. But a few, their eyes sharp and their smiles too tight, were here for something else.

The Phoenicians had slipped in quietly, their presence masked by their unassuming appearance. A man in a faded leather jacket with an iron-on patch of an old band logo sat nearest Janice, his chipped nails tapping a rhythm on the edge of the table. Across from him, a woman with sharp cheekbones and dark hair tied into a loose braid glanced at her cards, then at him.

“It’s here, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice carrying no further than the two of them.

The man nodded, his expression unreadable. “Janice wouldn’t have hosted this game otherwise. Word is, it’s tied to Short’s murder.” He glanced toward the far end of the room where a black velvet box sat on a pedestal, unnoticed by most of the casual players. “It’ll go to auction before the night’s done.”

“Do you think it’s—?”

“Shh.” He cut her off, sliding a card forward. “Just play.”

Others at the table laughed or cursed, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. On the stereo in the corner, some old glam rock ballad hummed low, its lyrics almost drowned out by the murmur of voices.

Then it happened.

A sound like the crack of a whip tore through the air, loud enough to make even the most hardened gamblers flinch. The gunshot reverberated, swallowed quickly by the building’s stillness. Almost simultaneously, the lights blinked off, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness. For a moment, there was nothing but silence—a suffocating pause that seemed to stretch into eternity.

A chair scraped against the floor. Someone knocked over a glass, the shatter muffled by the sudden rise of nervous whispers.

“Stay calm,” Janice’s voice called out, sharp and commanding, though it quivered at the edges. “The power’s just—”

A sound cut her off. A slow, rhythmic tapping against the window. It started soft, like the gentle patter of rain, then grew heavier, as if something—or someone—was trying to get in.

And then, on the walls.

Where moments ago there had been only darkness, shapes began to flicker. At first, you think they’re just tricks of the eye—faint patterns cast by the city lights outside. But no, they grow sharper, more vivid. A painted face with wild eyes, red lips pulled into a grotesque grin. A tongue darting out unnaturally long, dripping black. Shadowy figures in studded leather boots, moving rhythmically to the beat of a song you can barely hear.

The images pulse and shift, and with each flicker, they grow more distorted, more violent. You can feel the room around you tighten, the air thickening as whispers rise, sharp and frantic. Whatever this is, it’s no accident.

The room is dark, but your senses are sharp. You feel the tension crackling in the air like static electricity. Janice’s voice, so steady before, now trembles with unease. Somewhere, close but just out of reach, someone breathes heavily. You think you hear footsteps, but it’s hard to tell if they’re in the room or beyond the door leading to the hallway.

Then, the walls come alive. Faint but unmistakable, images flash in the dark—painted faces twisted into sinister grins, a tongue darting out like a serpent’s, black leather boots stomping in time to a beat you feel more than hear. The flickering shapes don’t make sense, yet they’re undeniably real, as if the walls themselves have been branded by some malevolent hand.

Alyssa had a long few days, mostly trying to get in touch with her father for answers with no luck. Either he couldn’t speak to her or didn’t want to.

The hacker was grateful when they finally got assigned something new which she could focus on. The Phoenicians - a first for the agent, as she had never dealt with them before. Of course, Alyssa ran a background check on all of them, prior to meeting with the pirates, as some might say.

The woman had decided to participate in the game, it looked like an experience. The group might have pegged her for an easy mark- she was anytime but. Alyssa didn’t explain how she knew how to play poker but clearly this wasn’t her first game.
The lights went out, in the middle of what was a possibly winning hand for the hacker, [/i]lovely[/i] she thought.

She started to reach into her pocket when the tapping started and gunshots could be heard. Screw this. Was her second thought as she reached back into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She quickly tried the flashlight on it to try to add some light to the situation.

Agent Powers was not into gambling so he stuck to being a bodyguard, which was what he was good at. So he was behind Alyssa looking menacing as she played poker. Then as the lights went out and a gunshot was heard, he wasted no time having Ekaterina squat by Alyssa while she was using her tiny bugs to help her see around her. Pulling out his mini night vision monocle to allow his right eye to see in the darkness. Then he pulled out his pistol to look around for any threats around them and as he looked around he pulled out Ekaterina’s mini 12 g pump shotgun and handed it to her. Normally he would go on a killing spree but not all of the people in the crowd were an enemy. So he needed to be careful for friendly fire. He then talked to Alyssa through his Bee, “Alyssa stay low with Ekaterina. We might get friendly fire if they panic.”

Alyssa didn’t argue with Max, she got down next to Ekaterina quickly. Alyssa didn’t care to know what was at the window. They were on the top floor of a high building. Whatever had managed to be tapping on the outside of a window that high up, couldn’t be good. She’d rather take her chances with the gunshots.

The cold, antiseptic light of Alyssa’s phone flashlight cut through the bleak darkness like a scalpel, slicing open the veil of shadow to reveal…nothing. The cavernous room was eerily empty. Tables stood abandoned, chairs tipped over as if their occupants had vanished into thin air. Cards, chips, and half-filled glasses of amber liquor glittered under the flashlight’s beam, remnants of a lively auction reduced to haunting relics. The air reeked of burnt ozone, faintly metallic.

Janice was huddled against the wall, her face pale, drawn tight like parchment stretched too thin. She removed a sidearm from beneath her shirt with shaking hands, the barrel swaying slightly as if it might fend off the unseen predator lurking just beyond their comprehension. Her lips moved, whispering something .

Alyssa’s flashlight flicked across the walls, illuminating the flickering phantoms that danced there: shadowy figures locked in a macabre parade. The painted grins twisted further, becoming grotesque mockeries of humanity. One of the faces turned toward her—or did it? The illusion dissolved the moment her beam steadied, leaving only peeling wallpaper in its wake.

“I don’t—” Janice’s voice cracked, her bravado crumbling under the weight of the inexplicable. “They were here, I swear to God. You saw them!”

Sartre whispered, “Alyssa, you see anything?”

“Yes…or I did…but…” Alyssa didn’t seem to have the words to describe what she had seen. “They seem to be gone now.” She paused. “Max did you see anything?” Being he had the night vision goggles on, maybe he had seen something else.

Agent Powers was still on guard as he looked around and ready to shoot his pistol. Agent Powers then whispered, “Yeah some kind of shadow demons. I was hoping to shoot one with a holy bullet to see if it had an effect, but it looks like they vanished though. So what’s the plan now?” Agent Powers looked around with a smolder.

"I say we make sure whatever it was is gone and then maybe find out if anyone here knows anything about what just happened. " Alyssa responded.

“Alyssa, you lead.” Sartre whispered.

“I think someone should lead who can actually fight, if it comes to it.” Alyssa responded to Peter, “That would be anyone of us, except me. You, Max, Ekaterina. Why don’t you lead?”

“I will.” he whispered. “We are going to move together towards Janice now.” He began to move, staying low.

Agent Powers gave Sartre a smolder and said, “That would leave Alyssa unguarded if she is a target again. Ekaterina stay by Alyssa and lay cover fire if we need it. Your ammo is still the holy rounds so they should be effective.” Ekaterina nodded as she replied, “Of course.” Then Agent Powers said, “Sartre you get Janice and I will cover for you.” He then held his golden 50 cal pistol with holy rounds in his left hand and with his right hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out his golden drum 12g shotgun with holy rounds in it. Now heavily armed he raised his weapons to cover for Sarte. Then he said, "Ready when you are.

Alyssa stayed down wondering why Peter volunteered her of all people. Problem solved anyway, for now.

Sartre slowly moved towards Janice, saying in the headset. “I want you to get ready to fight if need be Alyssa, you’re going to have to learn how to do that.” As he reached Janice, he grabbed her and looked around the room. There was absolutely no threat to anyone from any firearm fire. “Everyone can stand up,” he said.

Sartre brought a mumbling Janice back to the two others.

Agent Powers continued to stay on guard as Sartre escorted Janice to Alyssa and Ekaterina. He was not about to drop his guard in this place. He was hoping nothing would happen but he learned that danger doesn’t go away on a whim. Then he asked, “So are we leaving or looking around?”

Alyssa stood up with the others. She hadn’t commented on what Peter had said in the chip. He was right that she needed to learn how to fight, it was his method that she questioned, but right now wasn’t the time to get into it. Alyssa gently put her prized leather jacket over the shoulders of Janice as the woman seemed in shock. “We should look around, make sure no one else is around or in need of help.” Alyssa responded.

“Let’s slowly head for the door. The elevator is at the end of the hallway, there are apartments on the way down that hallway.” said Sartre.

“Sounds good,” Alyssa replied. “Listen for anything unusual. It’s New York, unless they’re being held at gunpoint or physically can’t. Many people won’t be shy about asking for help, but maybe we should knock on the doors just in case.”

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

Agent Powers and Ekaterina followed the others out of the room and towards the elevator. However there was still a good chance for an ambush so they stayed on guard along the way. Ekaterina sent some insects to scout out the area ahead of them just in case.

The hallway stretches ahead like the throat of some great, unseen beast—dark, and unnaturally quiet except for your own footsteps on the threadbare carpet. The building’s power has failed, plunging the entire apartment complex into near-total darkness. Your smartphones cast pale, flickering beams of light, cutting narrow swaths through the black void. The walls, painted in some long-faded shade of beige, appear mottled and alive under the dim illumination. Shadows ripple unnaturally as you move, darting like things with minds of their own.

Outside the windows, nothing. No city glow. No moonlight. No streetlights. Just a vast, all-consuming blackness that seems less like the absence of light and more like the presence of something… watching.

Then, the sounds start.

From the apartments on either side of the hall comes an eerie symphony of scratching—sharp and relentless, as if nails or claws are being dragged down wood or plaster. It rises and falls in uneven waves, as if responding to your presence. Interspersed with the scratching is something worse: the low murmur of voices, too muffled to make out specific words, but unmistakably chanting in tones that grow wetter and thicker the longer you listen. The cadence feels wrong, like a song from a dream you can’t remember, a language you shouldn’t understand.

Ahead, the elevator lies shrouded in darkness, its steel doors barely visible in the distance. The way there feels infinitely far, as if the hallway stretches and contracts when you’re not looking.

Then you hear it—a child’s cry, high and broken, somewhere in the hall. It cuts through the oppressive atmosphere like a razor. The sound bounces between the walls, making it impossible to pinpoint. A second sob joins the first, and then another, overlapping until it becomes a chorus of distress. It’s not just crying; the children sound terrified, pleading. Their voices waver, coming from both ahead and behind, each footstep sending their echoes in new, impossible directions.

A sudden thud reverberates from one of the nearby apartments, followed by a skittering sound, like something heavy crawling across a tiled floor.

What do you do?
“Everyone, get a light source if you have one and turn it on.” Alyssa flashed her light towards the sound. She didn’t want to know what it was, but it was worse to not know.

Agent Powers removes his night vision monocle and stuffs it into his pocket and switches it with his LED head lamp. He also pulled out his spare LED headlight for Alyssa and two small magnetic LED flashlights for Ekaterina and Sartre to attach to the guns or hold with their guns. He said, “Use these for now. I bet these sounds are just illusions to get us to start shooting all around and kill others by accident. My guess is someone using illusions to mess with us or some dark spirits are after something or someone with us. But just so you know I will shoot if there is a threat.” Ekaterina attached the flashlight to her mini pump shotgun and it lit up the area of her gun range. She replied, “Wow, these are pretty bright.”

Well, that’s better than my phone light." Alyssa took the headlight and put it on, turning on the light. Her hope was to drive whatever it was away, and possibly catch a glimpse of it, in the process. In her experience creepy evil things weren’t fond of light.

As the light flashed around the room, there was nothing in front of the team standing there, only a long hallway enshrouded in darkness.

"Should we investigate one of these apartments, there are sounds coming from them. And would anybody have any idea why it is completely dark outside, no stars, or streetlights or even moonlight?"asked Sartre.

“Yes,” Alyssa responded. “We should knock on doors and make sure they are alright.”

Sartre said, Alyssa, “There are several doors, you’re going to have to pick one.”

“Let’s start on the left and work our way out.” Alyssa responded

As the door is opened there is an apartment that is incomplete darkness; oddly enough a battery-powered lamp can illuminate most of the single room efficiency apartment. The bed is off to one side of the wall and the TV is off on the other. There is a bathroom and shower off to the side but the door is closed.

“Anyone think we could find something of value in here?” asked Sartre.

“Never know…let’s check it out. Quickly but we should try to be as thorough as possible.” Alyssa stated, as she cautiously stepped into the apartment.

When you push it open, a stale, coppery scent wafts out to meet you, faint but unmistakable. The room is a meager efficiency unit—a single room with a kitchenette to the left, a threadbare futon sagging against one wall, and a bathroom door hanging half-open to the right. A tarnished lamp sits uselessly on a scratched table, its cord curling down into nothingness, a cruel reminder of the absence of electricity.

Yet your attention snaps to the sound.

Water. Running water.

It comes from the bathroom, its trickling echo sharp and unrelenting. Your pulse quickens as you move toward the source, the old wooden floor moaning underfoot. The bathroom door creaks louder than it should when you push it open, as if protesting your intrusion.

Inside, the pale light of your flashlights falls upon the shower. The curtain has been yanked halfway back, its plastic stained with streaks of rust-colored fluid. The faucet is on full blast, but it isn’t water spraying from the showerhead—it’s blood.

Thick, red rivulets gush down the walls and pool at the base of the grimy tub, swirling around the clogged drain in languid, viscous eddies. The metallic stench is overpowering now, clogging your senses, as though the air itself is saturated with decay. The sound of the blood hitting the tub is a grotesque symphony of wet splatters and muffled gurgles.

And then, the tiles catch your eye.

Written in blood, smeared with frantic, almost desperate strokes, are jagged, barely legible letters. It takes a moment to decipher the phrase, your brain stumbling over its stark simplicity:

“SHOUT IT OUT LOUD.”

The room feels colder now, a deathly chill emanating from the shower as if the blood itself is alive, exhaling an icy breath. And then, from the depths of the tub, you hear it: the faint, distorted sound of a guitar riff, distant yet unmistakable, like a phantom melody scratching at the edges of reality. It rises for only a moment before fading back into silence.

You glance at each other, your breath visible in the freezing air, the weight of the discovery heavy on your minds. The room feels like it’s waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, or a misstep. The clue is clear, but it’s wrapped in horror, daring you to piece together its meaning while the building itself seems to watch.

“Alyssa, you see anything?” asked Sartre.

“I think I’m seeing what everyone else is,” Alyssa pointed at the bloody letters. “Anyone have any idea what that could mean?”

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

A sudden, sharp crack shattered the silence—a gunshot echoed from the labyrinthine depths of the building, reverberating through the hollow chambers like a death knell. The investigators froze, hearts pounding in their chests, eyes darting toward the source of the sound, they moved back into the hallway. Without warning, the door to the adjacent apartment splintered inward, wood shattering like brittle bones under immense pressure.

There, amidst the chaos of debris and shattered dreams, stood Roger—a gaunt figure clad in a threadbare jacket, his face etched with desperation and terror. Clutched tightly in his trembling hand was a 9mm pistol, its cold metal gleaming ominously in the pallid light. His eyes, wide and frantic, darted about the room, reflecting the flickering shadows that seemed to animate with malevolent intent.

From the darkest corner of the room, the Blademaster emerged. It moved with a grotesque elegance, its silhouette a perverse amalgam of human aspiration and abyssal horror. Towering and semi-orthograde, its skeletal frame glistened under the weak light, adorned in a macabre armor of jet-black spikes and organic blades that jutted at impossible angles. Each spike shimmered with an oily sheen, as if perpetually wet with ichor. Its skin was a mottled, corpse-like gray, stretched taut over its unnaturally elongated limbs, and streaked with crimson where its flesh appeared to have split under the strain of its alien form.

The creature’s “face,” if it could be called that, was a blasphemous mockery of theatrical flamboyance. A grotesque mask of sharp contrasts and harsh lines, it evoked the aesthetic of a glam rock god twisted by some unspeakable nightmare. Blackened ridges curved wickedly around hollow, glowing eyes that pulsed with a sickly amber light, burning with an inscrutable malice. Its mouth was an exaggerated maw, filled with jagged, uneven teeth, as though it had devoured its own humanity long ago. Around its neck hung a bizarre talisman—a rusted medallion carved with a lightning bolt and a single word: “DESTROYER.”

Its movements were a sinister pantomime, each step a mimicry of rockstar bravado warped into something predatory and cruel. Its arms, unnaturally elongated, ended in razor-sharp claws that scraped the walls as it advanced, leaving deep, jagged gashes in the already crumbling plaster. Affixed to its shoulders and thighs, clusters of shuriken-like appendages seemed to twitch and vibrate with a life of their own, their edges glinting like fragmented mirrors in the dim light.

Roger’s hand shook violently as he raised the pistol, the metal trembling against his clammy skin. “Stay back!” he croaked, his voice cracking under the weight of sheer terror. His aim was wild, his eyes darting between the creature and the door behind him as though calculating his slim chance of escape.

The Blademaster answered with silence, its gaze locking onto Roger with an intensity that made the air feel heavier, as if gravity itself bent to its will. It raised one arm, the shurikens dislodging with a metallic snick before launching into the air, circling the room with eerie precision.

Roger squeezed the trigger, the gunshot cracking like a desperate prayer. The bullet hit its mark, embedding itself in the Blademaster’s torso with a sickening thud. For a moment, the creature staggered, ichor spilling from the wound in a thick, tar-like stream. Then it straightened, its amber eyes burning brighter, its maw splitting into a rictus grin that seemed to mock Roger’s efforts. The shurikens stopped mid-air before hurtling back toward him.

The team arrived just in time to witness the grim tableau—Roger’s trembling form dwarfed by the towering, silent predator, his every breath ragged and fleeting. The Blademaster turned its head slowly, its glowing eyes fixing on the newcomers. In its malevolence, it seemed almost to invite them into its deadly performance, its stance shifting to one of menacing showmanship. Behind it, the faint light caught the outline of something scrawled in blood on the cracked wall: a streaking star shape, jagged and familiar. “What should we do team leader?” asked Sartre. as they all surveyed the monster.

Agent Powers looked at the man named Roger freaking out on the ground and the creature that was scaring him. He then gave the creature a smolder as he lifted his golden holy 12g shotgun loaded with holy bullets and aimed at the head of the creature. Then he said, “Good? bad? I’m the guy with the gun!” Then Agent Powers shot three rounds at the head of the creature hoping to blast it into pieces. Agent Powers had no intention of letting a dangerous creature harm Alyssa so he took action first. Ekaterina was shocked to see what was going on and even more impressed that Agent Powers was fearless in this situation. Agent Powers then asked, “How are you holding up Alyssa?”

“Shoot it,” Alyssa responded to Peter but not before Max took action. “Like that.”

Alyssa watched, looked at the wall and muttered something about a red star. “I’m good.” Alyssa responded to Max.

Agent Powers looked at the man named Roger freaking out on the ground and the creature that was scaring him. He then gave the creature a smolder as he lifted his golden holy 12g shotgun loaded with holy bullets and aimed at the head of the creature. Then he said, “Good? bad? I’m the guy with the gun!” Then Agent Powers shot three rounds at the head of the creature hoping to blast it into pieces. Agent Powers had no intention of letting a dangerous creature harm Alyssa so he took action first. Ekaterina was shocked to see what was going on and even more impressed that Agent Powers was fearless in this situation. Agent Powers then asked, “How are you holding up Alyssa?”

Sartre raised his MP5 and began firing.

The Blademaster like a walking atrocity, its spiked form gleaming wetly in the dim light, each jagged protrusion catching and refracting the sickly glow of their flashlights. Its posture was an unnatural hybrid of slouching menace and deliberate grace, hunched yet somehow looming. Its face—or the abomination that mimicked one—was a pale death mask slashed with jagged black streaks, its grotesque mouth split into a permanent fanged grin that seemed to mock the very notion of fear. Hollow, amber eyes glowed with malevolent intent, casting the creature’s distorted shadow in sharp, dancing relief across the narrow walls.

The MP5 roared in quick, controlled bursts, the hall erupting into a staccato rhythm of muzzle flashes and thunderous cracks. Bullets tore into the Blademaster, ripping through its spiked armor and flesh. Each hit sent blackened shards of bone and gray meat exploding outward in grotesque sprays, spattering the already-decayed walls. The creature staggered under the assault, ichor spilling from its wounds in thick, viscous streams that pooled on the warped wooden floor.

A shotgun blast followed, the deafening boom reverberating down the hall. Buckshot tore into the Blademaster’s side, ripping free chunks of its armor and leaving a jagged wound that oozed a black, tar-like substance. Another round glanced off its torso, cracking a rib-like spike, but still, it didn’t fall.

Instead, the creature straightened. Its twisted form shuddered under the strain of its injuries, its left arm hanging limp, mangled beyond use. Yet it took a step forward. Then another. It moved with a dreadful inevitability, its silence more chilling than any roar or shriek.

Each step reverberated through the floor like a tremor from some buried, unholy machine.

The MP5 rattled again, rounds sparking off the Blademaster’s glistening spikes and ripping through what little flesh it had left unscathed. Another shotgun blast hit, this time striking its chest and blowing out a chunk of the ribbed armor, sending ichor splashing onto the walls in sticky, steaming gouts. It reeled under the force, a grotesque spasm contorting its already distorted body.

But then it righted itself, planting one spiked leg with a sickening crunch, steadying its ruined form. Its hollow eyes flared brighter, bathing the hall in an amber glow that seemed to sap the air of oxygen. The spiked shurikens still mounted to its shoulders trembled, twitching like predatory insects eager to spring free. From somewhere deep in its throat came a sound—a faint, metallic rattle, as if its very breath scraped against jagged edges within its chest.

It was close now, close enough that they could smell the stench rolling off its battered body: a nauseating cocktail of burning metal, blood, and something far worse, something inhuman. The amber glow intensified, and the Blademaster’s cracked, jagged mouth stretched wider, its fangs gleaming like fresh-forged blades.

The MP5 barked its reply, and the shotgun roared once more, but the creature pressed forward, relentless. Its silence was the most terrifying thing of all, an absence of noise that made every breath, every heartbeat, the sound deafening by comparison.

The Blademaster’s body was a ruin, ichor pouring from ragged gashes and shattered spikes, its movements slower, more deliberate—but its intent was clear. It would not stop. It would not fall. It advanced through the hail of bullets, a nightmare incarnate, ready to close the gap and bring them into its reach.

Ekaterina was not liking this one bit as she took aim at the head of the creature and began to shoot her 12g mini pump shotgun with white phosphorus rounds several times. Once the rounds are fired they will react to the oxygen in the air and burst into flames. This means they will burn the victim to death as the white phosphorus burns out. Agent Powers continued to aim at the head of the creature and blast away with his holy rounds. These rounds, custom-made by the Illuminati, are tipped with explosive shells that contain white oak, holy water, garlic, and silver shavings. These ingredients, each bearing a folkloric power to impede evil and/or specific monsters (e.g. vampires, werewolves, witches, etc.), have the potential to injure many of the foes they may face.

“Damn,” Alyssa felt her stomach turn slightly at the sight. She absently grabbed the knife, the present from Prue. The hacker pulled the knife out of her pocket and held it in defense. [/i]Don’t suppose you could give me a hint on how to deal with this,Prue?[i] A question Alyssa, obviously, didn’t expect any answer to but it would have been nice.

Sung steps beside Alyssa and sighs. “Alyssa, left foot back, moor. Both arms up level with your chest.” He literally moves one of her arms with the palm of his hand. NOW FOCUS! Your Anima threw your arm into the knife." instructed Sung, not looking too phased by the Blademaster.

“Whatever, you are a Blademaster, Right? Now wait a minute for you to try to attack this one, or you will deal with me.” Sung warned in a defiant tone.

Alyssa hears a voice. The voice had been clear, undeniable. “Use it,” Prue Halliwell’s voice whispered, faint and echoing as if spoken through a veil of water.

Prue’s words and Sung’s instructions somehow emboldened the petite hacker more than she could have imagined. Alyssa did just as Sung instructed and threw the knife directly at the Blademaster.

The Blademaster staggered closer, its ichor-slick spikes dragging deep gouges into the floor.

The instant the scalpel pierced the creature’s chest, the world around her fractured.

A montage of chaos:

Gideon Cole sprinted through a dense forest, branches whipping his face as the storm above crackled with lightning. His footsteps thudded against the muddy ground, his breathing ragged and panicked. Rain blurred his vision, but he didn’t stop, not even when the thunder roared like a drumbeat in the sky. He burst into a clearing and froze.

There, in the darkness, a hooded figure stood unmoving. A jagged bolt of lightning illuminated the scene, casting the figure’s bowed head and drenched coat into stark relief. Gideon’s voice faltered as he gasped, “Everyone’s afraid of the dark.”

Rachel Becker gripped the steering wheel of her car, her knuckles white against the dark leather. Rain battered her windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. Tom Petty’s “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” played on the radio, the tune congruent with the tension in her chest.

Ahead, a figure loomed in the road, obscured by shadow. Rachel slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt just in time. She rolled down her window cautiously, her voice cracking as she called out, “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

The figure stepped forward, water dripping from a hood that obscured its face. A single, chilling phrase cut through the storm. “Everyone’s afraid of the dark.”

Alyssa’s vision flickered, disjointed and chaotic. She saw herself running through a forest, her feet splashing through shallow puddles as shadows shifted unnaturally around her.
She blinked and was somewhere else—a dimly lit room, blood pooling at her feet. A hooded figure stood before her, its head tilted as if studying her. Its voice echoed in her mind, distant and cold: “Everyone’s afraid of the dark.”

Rachel screamed, her voice hoarse and ragged, as the hooded man pressed the blade to the cheek of the young man tied across from her. The sound of flesh splitting and blood dripping filled the air, rhythmic and horrifying.

The man turned back to Rachel, his voice low and deliberate. “Open your eyes,” he hissed. “Or suffer his fate. Fear in a handful of dust.”

Piper Halliwell sat alone in her bedroom, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug of chamomile tea. Rain streamed down the window, a soft patter against the glass. She stared out at the wet streets below, her eyes unfocused, as though lost in thought.
A chill ran down her spine. Her grip on the mug tightened. Her lips parted, and in a voice that was not entirely her own, she whispered, “Everyone’s afraid of the dark.”

The rain outside intensified, the sound filling the silence. Piper’s eyes remained fixed on the window, her fingers unconsciously tracing the curve of the mug.

The knife’s magic subsided, and Alyssa collapsed to her knees, The Blademaster’s spiked form crumbled into ash, leaving only the faint echo of the battle. The scalpel clattered against the floor. But the whispers lingered, faint and unnerving, threading into her thoughts.

“Everyone’s afraid of the dark,” a disembodied voice murmured. This time, it was not Prue’s. It was something else, something deeper, colder—and it left Alyssa shivering.

“Alyssa, are you alright?” asked Sartre.

Alyssa didn’t speak or move, just stayed on the ground. She was trying to make sense of what had just happened. The experience had made no sense, and Alyssa really hated that feeling of not knowing. Still, there was more the hacker felt drained in a way she had never experienced. Alyssa visibly shivered, remembering she hadn’t gotten her jacket back from earlier, but said nothing and felt too drained to move.

Sartre ran to Alyssa, picking up the knife. You want this in your jacket pocket? “I don’t want you to touch it unless you absolutely have to.” The entire hallway felt cold, the medallion that the creature was wearing was also on the floor. In the back of the hallway the group could hear Janice mumbling.

Roger simply said.

"He was the biggest one I’ve seen. There’s a lot of zombies down there. That’s probably more up here. I just moved here, I don’t know what’s wrong with this building "

Alyssa just nodded to Sartre’s question but then quietly spoke. “Get my jacket back from Janice.” Alyssa started to stand but felt off, light headed and wobbled a little as she stood.

Sartre hurriedly ran over to Janice and grabbed the coat. Janice was still mumbling something and seemed to be fumbling for something. He immediately returned the coat to Alyssa and asked her "Can you pick up the knife and put it in your coat pocket, or do you need me to do it? Are you alright, how are you feeling? " he asked.

“Can you get it?” Alyssa didn’t feel like it was a good idea to move very much at the moment. “I just need a few moments.” But she realized she probably didn’t look that well at the moment.
Sartre grabbed the knife and noticed that it was not pulsating with any energy. It seemed as if it held many secrets and could be used for both right and wrong. What secrets it held were still to be uncovered. “Alyssa, remember this knife also has a different name. Prue definitely made it her own. I wonder how she got a hold of it.” The medallion from the recently defeated creature was still on the floor. “Who would like to take the medallion?” asked Sartre as he rushed back to Alyssa and put the knife in her jacket pocket.

"Max or Ekaterina, one of you should take the medallion. " Alyssa barely knew Janice and Roger and certainly didn’t trust them to take the medallion.

Agent Powers nodded as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black backpack as he was still on guard. He unzipped it and then stuck his shogun under his massive muscular arm so he could pull out a large holy golden bowie knife to scoop up the medallion and dump it into the backpack without touching it. Then he zipped up the backpack and put the knife in his pocket again. Once he was organized he held the backpack in one hand and the holy golden shotgun with a drum. Ekaterina was smirking as she knew how he was able to put so much in his pockets since his outer body was made of slime. She then said, “All good Mr. Powers?” Agent Powers nodded as he replied, “All good for now. So are we escaping this place or hunting more monsters?” Agent Powers gave Alyssa a smolder.

“Are we all up for more encounters?” Alyssa glanced towards Janice, though she wasn’t sure if she herself was. “My call is we leave, give us a chance to regroup, come back tomorrow with more weapons, and some sort of plan. Of course killing any zombies or other things that don’t belong here on our way to exiting.” Alyssa then added. “Unless everyone just wants to fight them tonight?”

Ekaterina sighed as she replied, “I believe it best if we escort these two out and get reinforcements before we choose to fight the others.” Agent Powers nodded as he replied, “Yeah I agree. It’s hard for me to cut loose with too many people to protect.” Then he quickly reloaded his shotgun shells into the golden drum barrel.

“Well, then let’s make our way out.” Alyssa responded. She put her jacket back on and headed to the door of the apartment.
Sartre asked, “Alyssa, can you look on your phone and see if there is any occult history to this building? Let’s slowly make our way downstairs, We can take the stairs.”

It took no time for Alyssa to pull up information on the building. "The building’s original owner was Robert Elias. Apparently, the building belonged to the Theosophical Society. The Theosophical Society is the organizational body of Theosophy, an esoteric new religious movement. It was founded in New York City, U.S. in 1875. Among its founders were Helena Blavatsky, a Russian mystic and the principal thinker of the Theosophy movement, and Henry Steel Olcott, the society’s first president. It draws upon a wide array of influences among them older European philosophies and movements such as Neoplatonism and occultism, as well as parts of Asian religious traditions such as Hinduism, Buddhism, and Islam. Some intellectuals belonged to it like Thomas Edison and Yeats. The group still exists but is mostly located in India. " Alyssa reported.

Ekaterina smirked elegantly as she replied, “Oh that is not good. It sounds like this place was made to be haunted. I would not be surprised if we ran into a green ghost raiding someone’s fridge and leaving a trail of slime like a snail.” Agent Powers gave Ekaterina a smolder and then asked, “Huh? Did that really happen?” Ekaterina elegantly smirked as she replied, “No…at least I don’t think so. It was in an old movie I saw a few years ago.” Agent Powers then looked at his gun then around the area as he said, “Now that you mentioned it, I wonder if my bullets work on ghosts.”

Alyssa smiled at the reference. "I guess we are like the Ghostbusters, in a way. " She thought. “I think it would be hard to shoot something that’s incorporeal.”

Agent Powers then gave Alyssa a smolder before he said, “I should contact my father to see if we have a countermeasure for ghosts. Normally I would ask Choi or Sung about this stuff but our schedules don’t match right now.” Ekaterina nodded as she said, “I should reach out to my master for similar advice as well.”

Alyssa nodded. “Any info or equipment would be good. When we get back to the RV I’ll try to find stuff on the web.” The hacker meant the dark web but that didn’t need to be said.

“Let’s slowly make our way down the stairwell.” Sartre said.

“Who wants to lead the way?” Asked Alyssa.

Agent Powers gave Alyssa a smolder and then said, “I’ll take point.” Ekaterina said, “I’ll take the back.”

Alyssa gestured with her hand, “Well, then Max, lead the way.”

Agent Powers readied his Holy Golden Shotgun as he was on guard and led the way. He has a smolder in his eyes and his bulging muscles popped as he was holding his weapon ready to blast the first monster that popped out. He was conditioned to be fearless by his father, so he rarely panicked in the face of danger. Ekaterina covered the team from behind with her mini pump shotgun with the same holy shells that Agent Powers was using. She had the insects scouting the area around them just in case any danger approached them.

As they walked down the steps, they could hear a shuffling below them and see a glow of green against the dark backdrop of the walls.

Agent Powers paused as he aimed his shotgun. Then he gave the target a smolder before he said, “If you don’t want your head blasted off I suggest you announce yourself in the next three seconds!..One!..Two!..”

Alyssa was behind Max and too short to see much but the green glow was noticeable even by her vantage point.

Sung, in the middle of the group, could not see what was happening, but he had not heard any shooting yet. Hearing Agent Powers talk, he could feel the tension in the air. Something had gotten Agent Powers’ attention. He readied himself as silver mist started to build around his feet.

From the depths of the stairwell, a sound rises—a wet, dragging noise, like something heavy being pulled across the floor. It’s slow and deliberate, echoing eerily in the tight space.

Then, it appears. A figure lurches into view, its rotting hand gripping the railing with bone-exposed fingers that drip a glowing, green ichor. The flesh on its body is sagging and torn, revealing patches of raw muscle and the gleaming white of bone beneath. The green glow doesn’t just come from its eyes—it seeps from its very being, oozing out of cracks in its skin and the jagged wounds that cover its torso.

Its face is a grotesque mask of death. The skin has pulled tight over its skull, cracking in places to reveal green-lit bone beneath. Its mouth hangs open in a macabre grin, filled with jagged, blackened teeth that glint with the same unnatural light. When it moves, it does so with unsettling jerks, as though strings of some unseen puppeteer yank its limbs.

The glow intensifies with each motion, casting shifting, sickly patterns on the stairwell walls. Its chest heaves unnaturally, as though it’s struggling to breathe despite having no need to. Beneath its shredded shirt, symbols glow faintly, carved into its exposed ribcage—arcane glyphs pulsating in time with the hum emanating from below.

As it reaches the landing, the zombie pauses. Its head snaps up with an audible crack, and its glowing eyes lock onto the team . Then comes the sound: a deep, guttural snarl that vibrates the very air around you. It takes a step forward, leaving a trail of glowing green slime on the concrete, and then it lunges.

The air fills with the sharp stench of burning ozone and decay as the creature’s glowing ichor drips, sizzling onto the steps, each droplet hissing like acid. Its movements are unrelenting, driven by some dark force as it closes the distance, arms outstretched, its fingers twitching with a predatory hunger.

Agent Powers began firing his 12 gauge Holy Golden Shotgun loaded with holy rounds repeatedly. He then said, “Sung get ready! Kat start shooting!” Ekaterina took aim and began firing her white phosphorus rounds from her 12 gauge pump mini shotgun at the enemy. Her bullets ignited as they were exposed to the oxygen in the air and impacting her target. Then as he was still shooting his shotgun, Agent Powers reached into his pocket and pulled out a white phosphorus grenade and pulled the pin out with his teeth, then mumbled to three before hurling the grenade like a fastball at the monster.

The fetid stench of decay mingled with the acrid tang of phosphorous in the damp, suffocating air. At the bottom of a darkened stairwell, the undead abomination stood, its rotting flesh pulsing with a sickly green luminescence that seemed to thrum in time with the pounding heartbeats of the team. Shadows clung to the narrow space like cobwebs, broken only by the baleful glow emanating from the creature. Its sunken, maggot-filled eyes locked onto the intruders, jaws unhinging in a primal snarl that echoed like a dirge against the concrete walls.

The first shotgun blast rang out, a thunderclap of defiance against the unnatural. Flesh and sinew exploded in a mist of ichor, chunks of green-glowing meat flinging away into the shadows. The creature staggered but did not fall. Another roar of buckshot followed, and then another, each punctuated by the unholy shrieks of the abomination, each blast tearing more of its cursed existence away.

Even as its tattered body wavered, it lurched forward, propelled by some dark force that refused to relinquish its grip. That was when the phosphorus grenade arced through the air, its silvery casing catching the pale moonlight for the briefest of moments before landing with a deafening crack.

A white-hot inferno erupted, searing the shadows and forcing the green glow into submission. Flames licked hungrily at the zombie’s form, peeling away its corrupted flesh and revealing the blackened bones beneath. Its screech reached a crescendo, not of pain, but of something far worse—a soul trapped in a final, desperate scream of hatred.

As its broken body crumpled to the ground, silence descended, save for the faint crackle of embers dying in the stairwell’s stagnant air. The glowing mist that had once animated the creature began to seep from its gaping mouth, rising in wisps of viridescent vapor. It swirled with an almost sentient malevolence, curling and coiling like a serpent tasting the air. Then, with a final hiss, it dissipated, swallowed by the uncaring darkness.

It was then that one of the team noticed the clenched fist of the corpse. Amid the blackened, charred remnants of flesh, there was something incongruously pristine: a piece of paper. It was yellowed with age, but otherwise untouched by the inferno. Its edges curled slightly as though beckoning the brave or the foolish to unravel its secrets.

The air hung heavy, thick with the promise that this was no mere coincidence.

“Alyssa, can you get that paper?” asked Sartre, In the chip, “Im testing your leadership skills my hacker.”

Alyssa hung back a moment to make sure the creature was really dead, then went over to it and took the piece of paper. She walked back to the group, carefully unfolding the yellow sheet.

“Alyssa, that was not a wise move,” started Sung, walking towards her. “How do you know if that paper is not cursed? It came from someone cursed. Just do not pick up things you don’t know about,” Sung said, his tone firm, his eyes watching her hand and the paper carefully.

Alyssa almost said that it could go along with the curse of having the dark follow her around - but the look on Sung’s face made her instead say. “I have a weird feeling it’s not, but you’re right I should have been more careful.”

As Alyssa unfolds the paper it read:

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

Grisly Murder Shocks Los Angeles: “Black Dahlia” Case Takes a Sinister Turn

January 17, 1947, Los Angeles, CA — The discovery of the mutilated body of 22-year-old Elizabeth Short, now grimly nicknamed the “Black Dahlia,” continues to baffle authorities as new, unsettling details emerge. The victim, whose bisected and blood-drained body was found in a vacant lot on Norton Avenue just days ago, has ignited widespread horror and speculation across the nation. But recent developments suggest this case may not only be one of murder—it may involve something far more chilling.

Mysterious Symbols Found at the Scene

Investigators revealed today that peculiar symbols were found etched into the dirt near where the victim’s body was discovered. These marks, initially dismissed as random disturbances, have been tentatively identified by local folklorists as resembling ancient sigils used in occult rituals. Captain Jack Donahue, leading the investigation, declined to elaborate on their precise nature but acknowledged their “potential relevance to the case.”

“We cannot yet confirm if these markings were left by the perpetrator or if they hold any significant meaning,” Donahue stated. “However, every lead is being thoroughly examined.”

The symbols have sparked intense curiosity among experts in esoteric practices. Professor Walter Greaves, a scholar of the occult from Pasadena College, described them as being “eerily similar” to signs associated with pre-Christian rites meant to summon or banish malevolent forces. “These marks suggest someone with more than a passing familiarity with ancient mysticism,” Greaves noted, adding that their placement near the victim’s body “cannot be a coincidence.”

A Dark Obsession

Friends and acquaintances of Elizabeth Short have painted a picture of a young woman fascinated by the unusual and mysterious. Former roommate Jean French recalled that Short had a keen interest in occult-themed novels and frequently attended palm readings and fortune-telling sessions. While many saw this as harmless curiosity, authorities are now questioning whether her interest may have led her into dangerous circles.

Adding to this theory is an anonymous letter sent to the Los Angeles Examiner, reportedly written by the killer. The letter, pieced together from magazine clippings, includes cryptic phrases such as “the blood calls” and “she opened the door to darkness.” Police have neither confirmed nor denied its authenticity but acknowledged it is under forensic review.

Witness Reports of Strange Figures

Compounding the mystery, several residents in the vicinity of Norton Avenue have come forward with eerie accounts of unexplained occurrences in the days leading up to the murder. Mrs. Eleanor Haines, a retired schoolteacher, claimed to have seen a group of individuals dressed in dark robes gathered near the vacant lot on the night of January 14th.

“I thought they might be some sort of theater troupe,” Mrs. Haines told reporters. “But the chanting … it wasn’t English, and it sent shivers down my spine.”

Another witness, a delivery driver named Arthur Mills, reported seeing a pale, gaunt man near the site hours before the body was discovered. According to Mills, the man was muttering to himself and appeared to be carrying a bundle wrapped in black cloth. “It gave me the creeps,” Mills said. “I’ve never seen eyes like his.”

The Public Reacts

Public outrage and fear continue to swell as details of the case dominate headlines. Parents are keeping children indoors, and local churches have reported an uptick in attendance as citizens seek solace amidst growing unease. Editorials in major papers have called for swift action, while rumors of supernatural involvement have begun to circulate in hushed tones.

Meanwhile, detectives are urging anyone with information to come forward, emphasizing the importance of evidence over speculation. “This is a time for clarity, not hysteria,” Captain Donahue implored.

A City on Edge

As the investigation unfolds, the Black Dahlia case has already cemented itself as one of the most macabre and enigmatic crimes in Los Angeles history. Whether rooted in human depravity or something far more unexplainable, the truth behind Elizabeth Short’s tragic death remains shrouded in shadow.

Anyone with information related to this case is urged to contact the Los Angeles Police Department immediately. For now, the city waits, its collective breath held in anticipation of answers that may yet deepen the darkness surrounding this harrowing crime.

Alyssa relayed the pertinent information from the clipping to the team. “I will research the case more later but I do know the Black Dahlia murder is pretty infamous. There’s been documentaries, movies and books about it. It’s still unsolved.”

Agent Powers gave Alyssa a smolder and asked, “Black Dahlia? Is that a female named Dahlia and Afro-American?” Ekaterina elegantly raised an eyebrow at Agent Powers and shook her head no. Then she replied, “Actually Elizabeth Short, nicknamed as the Black Dahlia, was an American woman found murdered in the Leimert Park neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, back in January 15, 1947. Her case became highly publicized owing to the gruesome nature of the crime, which included the mutilation and bisection of her corpse. Her case has been unsolved this whole time.” Agent Powers gave Ekaterina a smolder and then nodded as he replied, “Oh… that makes sense. Lot of murders go unsolved every year. Ironically I am the cause of a lot of criminals being killed in the past.” Ekaterina smirked as she said, “You really get around Mr. Powers.”

“Now I wonder if that…um… thing,” Alyssa pointed towards the creature that had just been holding the note, “was just a messenger.” She took a breath. “What’s the likelihood we’re supposed to solve a murder from the 1940’s?”

Agent Powers gave Alyssa a smolder and replied, “Are you saying we just killed a supernatural mailman? Now that I think about it, we have run into a lot of supernatural stuff together, even more than I have when I was working solo. I think I get why my father assigned me to you Alyssa. You are like a magnet for the supernatural, but don’t sweat it. I’ll protect you regardless.” Ekaterina raised an eyebrow at Agent Powers and sighed as she said, “Mr. Powers I get what you meant but it came off a little mean.” Agent Powers cocked his head to the side and replied, “Oh my bad. Sorry Alyssa.”

Alyssa shrugged off, “Thanks, Ekaterina but I wasn’t offended. Truth is truth. And yes we might have killed a supernatural mailman, but not much to be done about it now. I suppose.” Alyssa responded. “Anyway, let’s continue on, shall we?”

“Already committing felonies, Powers? What are we going to do with you?” said Sung in a joking tone. “What is more important is the paper and the 1940s murder. With the things going on, they are connected somehow. I am sure everyone here knows that. And Mr Powers, I would not talk about skeletons of the past. They have a way of coming back and finding you,” suggested Sung.

“Let’s continue down the next hallway,” said Sartre as they reached the landing of another set of apartments. A faint beeping like on a television could be heard.

“Everyone watch for more zombies.” Said Sartre.

“Alyssa; while we walk can you look up something on the Black Dahlia murder case of Elizabeth short on your Illuminati intranet? I’m pretty sure the Internet is down in this building.” said Sartre.

“I’d rather do that after we get out of this place.” Alyssa had said she’d do that back at the RV, but right now getting out alive seemed more of a priority.

“Anyone hear that beeping?” asked Sartre.

“Beeping?” Alyssa asked, “Where’s it coming from?”

Agent Powers then said, “Maybe it’s a smoke alarm with bad batteries?”

“We could not be that lucky.” commented Sung, looking and listening.

Agent Powers gave Sung a smolder then replied, “You say that but I have seen it happen a few times. Oddly it made it easier to sneak up on the drug lords.”

“I’d rather not find out if it’s something less benign than a smoke alarm.” Alyssa stated. “Let’s go.”

Sung waited for people to start moving and followed.

As the group continued walking, the beeping noise kept resounding from the different doorways. It almost sounded like it was something off of a television.

“I think we are going the wrong way?” suggested Sung, looking as he turned toward the sound.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

The Elite Zombie surged forward with unnatural speed, clawed fists lashing out with the force of a battering ram. Its rotting companions followed close behind, their eyes empty but their intent clear—a relentless tide of death pressing the team toward the abyss.

With lightning speed, Sung is briefly surrounded by silvery mist. He teleports up just in front of the group. He moves his sword, showing the broadside, and speaks words that make the blade glow. Many walls of ice materialize down the hallway, creating barriers.

The monsters caught by the wall slowly start to ice, taking a lot of damage, their limbs breaking from the ice. The others that bake the walls freeze in a mist of frozen air, taking a lot of damage as their bodies break from the freezing cold.

The team barely had time to react before the Elite Zombie surged forward, its hulking form lumbering through the dim corridor. The atmosphere seemed to quiver with its guttural growl, a sound that resonated deep in their chests, as though the creature were dragging the weight of a hundred deaths with it. The stench of rot grew unbearable, an oily miasma that clung to their throats and burned their eyes.

A sudden cry from Sung snapped them from their paralysis—a hurried incantation rising over the suffocating dread. His voice was strained but resolute, each word slicing through the air like the swing of a sharpened blade. With a final utterance, the spell completed, and the ground beneath them trembled as if the building itself had awoken in anger.

A groaning, wrenching sound erupted from the floor. Out of the warped wood, an unyielding wall of stone burst forth, jagged and ancient, its surface etched with arcane sigils that flickered with a pale, otherworldly light. The less powerful zombies, little more than shambling remnants of humanity, hurled themselves against it with mindless fury. Their decayed bodies crumpled upon impact, bones splintering and skulls shattering like brittle clay. The wall did not waver, its magical defenses consuming the horde with a cold, unfeeling efficiency.

For a moment, it seemed the spell had bought them safety. The room fell still save for the muted crackle of dissipating energy and the wet, organic sounds of bodies collapsing. Relief washed over the group like a tide, only to be shattered as a shadow shifted beyond the wall.

The Elite Zombie rose. It was bloodied and battered, chunks of necrotic flesh sheared from its massive frame, but its glowing eyes burned brighter now, as though fury itself sustained it. With a terrible roar, it hurled its bulk against the stone. Cracks spiderwebbed across the wall, dust and pebbles raining down as the ancient structure strained under the monster’s wrath.

“Move!” yelled Sartre, his voice tight with adrenaline. The FBI profiler grabbed Alyssa and shoved her down the hallway, away from the trembling barrier.

The beast slammed again, and this time the wall buckled. With an ear-splitting crash, it crumbled, sending shards of rock flying. The creature stepped through the wreckage, dragging itself into the open space with a deliberate, monstrous confidence. Its claws flexed, each movement accompanied by the sickening wet sound of sinew sliding over bone.

A wall of ice from Sung was thrown at the creature The blast struck the Elite Zombie squarely, freezing its grotesque form mid-lunge. Frost climbed its body, turning the wet sheen of decay into a gleaming coat of ice. For a heartbeat, it stood frozen, a macabre statue glistening in the dim light. Then, with an ear-splitting crack, the ice splintered, and the creature roared, its fury undiminished. It charged again, slower this time, but no less deadly.

Alyssa felt useless, in this situation, if she could just touch the zombie she could, likely disintegrate the thing, but as it was all she could really do was keep moving. “Anyone that can slow it down do so, but don’t stop for long.” If her instincts were correct, once they were out of the building they’d be safe.

“Alyssa, would you be willing to try that knife again?” asked Sartre?

Oh right, the knife that Peter had only recently told her not to touch again, maybe he meant in that moment. “Sure,” Alyssa stopped long enough to get ready and then threw the knife at the Elite Zombie.

The hallway stretched like a suffocating artery of darkness, its faded wallpaper peeling back in jagged strips, revealing cracked plaster beneath. The air was thick with the stench of decay, mingled with the electric tension of the battle. The Elite Zombie swayed, its monstrous claws dragging against the walls, leaving deep, splintered gouges. Necrotic energy coiled around its frame like a blackened aura, feeding its unnatural endurance.

The blade spun through the air, slicing a brilliant arc of light in the oppressive gloom. It struck true, embedding itself in the Elite Zombie’s chest. For a moment, the creature shuddered violently, its grotesque maw opening in a silent scream as necrotic energy burst outward in a dark wave. It stumbled, its clawed hand swiping wildly at empty air, before collapsing in a heap.

Then the knife pulsed. A resonant thrum that vibrated through the room—and through Alyssa’s very soul. The world around her seemed to fall away, the dim hallway fading into a cold, suffocating blackness.

She stood alone in the void. Tendrils of shadow moved like living things, their edges twisting into forms that flickered in and out of existence—cities consumed by fire, seas boiling under alien skies, and humanity swallowed in a cacophony of screams. A cold wind swept past her, carrying whispers in languages she couldn’t understand.

Then came a voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the abyss.
“Not bad, Alyssa. I always liked a girl who could fight.”

The shadows coalesced, forming a figure—tall, defiant, with dark hair framing a pale face. Though her form was indistinct, her presence was overwhelming. The voice was unmistakable: Prue Halliwell.

“I don’t have long,” Prue said, stepping closer, her expression equal parts tough and sorrowful. “You opened the door with that knife, and now I’m here. There’s something you need to know.”

Alyssa tried to speak, but her voice was swallowed by the void. Prue raised a hand, silencing the unspoken words.

“Don’t waste your breath. Just listen.”

The void shifted again, and Alyssa was bombarded with visions—terrifying and incomprehensible. She saw a sky filled with monstrous shapes, their grotesque forms blotting out the stars. The ground was littered with bodies, human and inhuman, while great, heaving tides of shadow swallowed the earth. Yet amidst the chaos, faint lights flickered—small, but unyielding.

“Stand tall, Alyssa. Fear is for the weak.”

Alyssa spun in the void, her heart pounding. The voice was unmistakable—sharp, assertive, and tinged with a rebellious edge. Prue Halliwell. But how?

“They sent me back, just for a little while,” Prue’s voice continued. “Your blade… it’s a bridge. I don’t have long, so listen closely.”

Shadows shifted, coalescing into half-formed shapes. Alyssa saw fleeting visions: a city under siege, monstrous forms clawing at the heavens, and the silhouette of a woman standing against the darkness, unyielding. And then, faint and distant, figures emerged—towering beings with impossible forms.

“The Elders,” Prue said, her tone hushed but firm. “Not the ones I knew. Different… ancient. They carry light, even in the void. One is a demon with eyes of fire and a grin that mocks the abyss. Another… silver-skinned, lost but not without purpose, clutching a bear that holds more than it seems. The third—a hunter, his heart beats for the wild. And the last… a star-wreathed sentinel, his gaze unyielding, his purpose clear.”

“The Elders,” Prue said, her tone softening. “They’re not like the ones I used to know. They’re older, stranger… but they’re not your enemy. They’ve fought in shadows for longer than you can imagine. They were the spark that lit the dreams of men who made their own myths. And now they’re watching you. Watching us.”

Prue continued. You have to trust that even in all this madness, there’s still light. There’s still… hope.”

Prue’s expression softened, but her voice remained firm, tinged with a defiant edge. “They’ll test you, Alyssa. Test all of you. Don’t fail. The world’s not ready to go yet, even if it looks like it is.”

The void began to tremble, the shadows pulling Prue back into their depths. Her figure started to blur, but she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“One last thing—those Elders? They have their own ways of fighting. You’ll see it soon enough. Just remember, they’re not here to save you. They’re here to make sure you can save yourselves.”

“Tell my sisters…” Prue hesitated, her voice catching. “Tell them I’m still here, watching. And I won’t let anything take them from me. Not again.”

The darkness collapsed inward, and Alyssa was yanked back into reality with a gasp. The vision snapped away as Alyssa gasped, collapsing to her knees in the hallway. She knelt on the hallway floor, her body trembling as the visions faded. The blade lay before her, its light dimming, but her mind was still seared with the memory of Prue’s voice and the cryptic warning of The Elders. The light from the blade dimmed, and the body of the Elite Zombie crumbled into ash. Her companions rushed to her side. “Alyssa, what happened?” asked Sartre. (edited)
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate, promising that the nightmare was far from over.

“You alright?” Sartre reached to take her hand.

“No, but I’ll talk about it later.” Alyssa tried to shake the feelings she was currently having, there could be no crumbling, not right now. “I need my knife back and then… run.”

Roger, the man whom the group had met earlier said, “The doors seem to be locked from the inside, though there is a bar just down the next flight of stairs, I think we can go in there and lock ourselves in and discuss things, formulate a plan.”

Sartre grabbed Alyssa’s knife before the team ran down another flight of stairs towards the bar.

Meanwhile Agent Powers and Ekaterina took evasive action and supported Sung with cover fire from their shotguns.

Alyssa took back her knife, and started down the stairs, but not before calling out to the others who were still in the hallway. “Lay cover and then get downstairs. Don’t worry about killing them, not right now, anyway.”
The team burst into the bar at full tilt, their footsteps hammering against the scarred wood of the floorboards as they slammed the heavy double doors shut behind them. The hinges groaned, and the once-sturdy wood trembled as though alive, as if the malice of the building above sought entry even now. Breathless, their fingers scrambled for the deadbolt, sliding it home with a sharp snick before sagging against the cool brass. A faint whisper of wind teased at the edges of the doors, carrying with it the faintest strains of music, warped and distant, before all fell eerily silent.

Inside, the bar was a strange liminal space, a pocket of twisted nostalgia that reeked of stale smoke, spilled spirits, and something faintly metallic, like the scent of forgotten blood. The lighting was dim and diffuse, cast by a motley collection of neon signs that buzzed faintly, their edges flickering in hues of garish red and cobalt blue. One, hanging crooked above the bar, proclaimed the word “Strange Ways” in jagged electric script, casting jagged shadows on the walls like fangs.

Every surface seemed to pulse with relics of a forgotten rock-and-roll era. Vinyl records, cracked but lovingly displayed, were tacked to the walls alongside faded posters of an unmistakable band, their faces painted in otherworldly patterns of black and white. In one, a man with a fiery tongue extended it toward the viewer, flames curling in an ominous halo behind him. Another image depicted a figure holding a starry eye to the heavens, a beacon of cosmic excess that felt unnervingly relevant to the otherworldly dread that stalked them. If the team dared to look closer, they might notice that the band members’ eyes seemed to follow them, their painted gazes alight with something not entirely human.

Behind the bar, the bottles were a riot of eclectic offerings, each label stained with time. Among them, a glassy blue bottle stood like a sentinel, its bold, blocky font declaring “Cold Gin”. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, catching the neon light like quicksilver. Next to it, a pitcher labeled “Alba’s Margaritas” seemed absurdly out of place—a frosted container of bright, tropical greens and yellows that seemed almost radioactive in the gloom. The etching on the pitcher bore the figure of a dancing woman, her outline strange and sinuous, her eyes lost to the blur of time.

The barstools were upholstered in a vinyl the color of fresh blood, with stitching that resembled jagged lightning bolts. Some of them still bore the indentations of past patrons, as if the ghosts of revelers lingered here, whispering silent toasts to the void. A jukebox, slumped in one corner, hummed faintly, though no song played. The air seemed heavy with the promise that it might spring to life at any moment, filling the space with some electric dirge that no one wanted to hear.

The chill of the place crept into the team members, not the dry cold of neglect but something wet and alive, like the breath of something hidden in the dark. Their ears strained for sounds beyond the hum of the bar, but the silence pressed back, deeper now, thicker. A peculiar unease seeped into the room, as if the bar itself were aware of their presence, watching them, waiting. And yet, amidst the tension, the faintest trace of music lingered—an ancient tune sung by voices long gone.

Alyssa sighed at the dark omen that seemed to permeate the room, “This doesn’t exactly seem safe.” Not meaning to say that outloud but not really caring that she did. “We need a game plan and fast. Any suggestions?”

“There’s got to be something supernatural controlling this building. Would you like a drink Alyssa?” asked Sartre.

“If you can find anything non-alcoholic, I’d appreciate it.” Alyssa responded to Peter. She wanted to keep her head about her.

Agent Powers gave them a smolder then said, “That sounds like a really bad idea. Who knows what’s in those bottles. It’d be my luck it turns you into a zombie Alyssa.” Ekaterina shrugged as she replied, “He does have a valid point Alyssa.” Then Powers reached into his pocket and winced as he was searching for something and then pulled a juice box and smirked and handed it to Alyssa as he said, “I always pack a snack since I might have to wait out a long and loud shelling. This should hold you over till we get out of the building.”

Alyssa smiled at Max, and took the juice box. “Thanks.”

“I should probably fill all of you in on the knife. Apparently, it acts as a connection between Prue and myself. I get visions when I use it. The visions I was shown were apocalyptic type things. Cities under siege, bodies covering the ground, shadows swallowing Earth. Prue told me that, despite how it might seem, we must continue to fight and not give up hope - because hope is still possible. She also mentioned elders who might seem like demons. Actually, she described them as one being a demon with eyes of fire and a grin that mocks the abyss, one is silver-skinned, lost but not without purpose that will be clutching a bear that holds more than it seems. The third is a hunter, who hearts beat for the wild and the fourth is a star-wreathed sentinel, his gaze unyielding, his purpose clear. These elders are not our enemies, they are watching us. They are testing us and we cannot fail. They have their own way of fighting, Prue didn’t explain what was meant by that just that we’d see it soon. They are not here to save us, but they are here to make sure that we can save ourselves.” Alyssa remembered the message from Prue to her sisters, but that didn’t seem like something she should relay to the group.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

Sartre closed his eyes, forcing himself into the mental theater of his own mind—a place of brutal clarity, where the threads of human depravity wove themselves into patterns only he could see. Tonight, he was chasing the echoes of Elizabeth Short’s final scream.

The walls of his mind melted into a vivid tableau of 1947 Los Angeles, drenched in a sepia-toned gloom. The city pulsed with sin, its neon arteries throbbing in the smoggy twilight. The scene sharpened into focus: the sprawling, labyrinthine mansion of Dr. George Hodel, a man whose aura seemed to exude a foul and suffocating malice. The air inside was thick with the copper tang of blood, mingling with the sickly sweetness of decaying gardenias.

Hodel stood in the center of a grand room, its walls adorned with grotesque art that seemed to twist and shift in the corner of Sartre’s vision. The doctor’s face was a mask of aristocratic detachment, but his eyes burned with an otherworldly hunger. He moved with the precision of a surgeon, carving arcane symbols into the air with a gleaming scalpel. Around him, hooded figures chanted in a guttural tongue that scraped against the boundaries of human comprehension. Their words summoned shadows that slithered and coiled like living ink across the floor.

At the center of this unholy gathering was a raised altar of obsidian, its surface veined with crimson streaks that pulsed faintly, as if alive. Upon it lay Elizabeth Short, her porcelain skin marred by the cruel geometry of Hodel’s blade. Her lifeless eyes stared upward, reflecting the dark majesty of a chandelier fashioned entirely from human bones. Sartre’s breath caught as he realized the altar’s shape was no accident—it resembled the jagged facets of a gemstone.

The Black Diamond.

It was no mere artifact; it was an object of vile power, a nexus of corruption that linked Hodel’s rituals to a greater darkness. As Sartre stared into the altar’s shimmering depths, he saw visions cascade before him: a thousand murders, a thousand screams, each one feeding the diamond’s insatiable hunger. He recoiled, but the diamond’s whisper followed him, promising secrets and despair in equal measure.

A new figure emerged from the shadows, his presence as jarring as a lightning strike. The man wore a tattered wizard’s robe, its stars and moons faded into dull stains. His face was sharp and angular, his eyes glowing with an eldritch intensity that defied Sartre’s attempts to categorize it.

“Robert Elias,” Sartre murmured, the name coming to him unbidden like a curse from his subconscious.

Elias spoke, his voice a crackling fire in a void. “Do you see it, profiler? The patterns, the symmetries. Hodel is but a ■■■■. The Black Diamond hungers for more than blood—it seeks the annihilation of the self, the ultimate submission to the cosmic void. Would you understand the intricacies of its design, or shall you stumble blindly in the dark?”

As Elias extended his hand, the scene shifted violently. Sartre’s vision erupted into a kaleidoscope of horrors. The streets of Los Angeles crumbled into a gaping maw, devouring the city in an eruption of black flames. The faces of countless victims blurred together, each one screaming in an endless wail that formed a symphony of despair. And always, at the center, the Black Diamond loomed, its facets catching the light of dying stars.

Sartre’s eyes snapped open, and he found himself back in the bar, the last words of Robert Elias echoed in his mind:

“The patterns are there. Follow them, and you may yet glimpse the truth. But tread carefully, profiler. The abyss is watching.”

“This building has something to do with Robert Elias, he was a wizard. Or perhaps, is a wizard. My guess is he is still alive and in this building.” said Sartre.

“Alyssa, are you sure you don’t want to try the gin?” asked Sartre.

“No, thanks I want to keep my head about me.” Alyssa stated, though the hacker did start looking around the room as she continued to speak. “So, has anyone had to fight off a wizard before?” She paused, then focused back on Peter. “Are you sure he’s a wizard and not a warlock?”

“Good point.” With some words and a magical light from Sung’s sword, his eyes glow, as he now can see all hidden things, magical or not.

Agent Powers gave everyone a smolder then said, “I don’t get it.” Ekaterina elegantly asked, “What do you not understand?” Agent Powers asked, “Well why are all these guys going out of their way to gain all this power just to destroy the world? I mean if it was me I would be living it up at a fancy hotel or fancy island. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It is not so much to destroy the world as to make it the way they imagine it,” commented Sung, looking over the room.

“Sung’s idea sounds correct. I believe they want a world of people they can control. Which means anyone like us, meaning from one of the factions, they’d want to get rid of first.” Alyssa responded. The bees and powers made the group harder to control.

Using his now anima-enhanced eyes, nothing will escape his notice. His trained eye looks over the area and through the darkness. He steps forward, his sword at the ready by his side. Hw was waiting for what was hiding in the dark.

“Alyssa, you like rock and roll right? You said you like Guns N Roses?” asked Sartre.

“Yes,” Alyssa had no idea why Peter had just asked her that or what it had to do with the current situation.

Agent Powers cocked his head to the side as he muttered, “Guns and Roses? What kind of combination is that?” Ekaterina elegantly smiled as she replied, “Its the name of an older rock band.” Agent Powers nodded as he replied, "Ohhhhh. That explains why I don’t know them. " Ekaterina elegantly smiled as she said, “If we have time later on I’ll teach you a bit about that stuff.”

Looking into the darkness, Sung saw someone standing in the shadows. The anima-enhanced form lurked, waiting for the Team to get closer. Sung lifted his hand for the others to stop. He could not get a good reading on whatever it was, and it did not seem to have any weapons he could see. Sung took another step. Its arms moved, and it chanted an incarnation. With little time, a ball of fire formed in its hands, with the magic darkness lingering. It was absurd from sight.

Sung turned and moved his sword in an upward swing, using his spell-breaker technique. As the ball of fire was thrown at the team, his sword glowed when he cut it in half. The ball of fire dissipated into the air. “This guy is no joke,” said Sung as he moved in. With a shimmer around the man, he had a magical shield up. Sung’s sword glanced off the side as he attacked the anima-enhanced form. It moved with superhuman speed. As it got to the side of Sung. the back dagger thrust at his side, but it hit something hard with a clack. His body armor saved Sung.

Ekaterina had beaten Alyssa to respond, but the hacker did add, “Add the Ramones to the list of music to expose Max to.”

It was right after that that Alyssa watched Sung fight what was an invisible foe, though she knew all too well it was real, even before the fireball. “Planning a strategy might not work, if some of the things we are battling are in this room with us.” She commented after Sung seemed to have, temporarily, fought off whatever he had been fighting. “What’s the likelihood that these - zombies - whatever they are - will disappear with the sunrise?”

Suddenly; the combat with Sung stopped as the room seemingly returned to normal. He can only see visions of people dancing in what looked like the 1940s. It was as if he had just fought a hallucination.

“The reason I asked about rock 'n roll Alyssa, is you see those guys up there on that poster on the wall? I think they might have something to do with this case.” said Sartre.

“The band Kiss? That poster looks like it’s from the late 70s or the early 80s. Because they are wearing makeup. In 83 they took off the makeup and it was controversial - from what I’ve read. You know there was a rumor, by people with too much time on their hands, that their name stood for “Knights In Satan’s Service” but it never made much sense because their name isn’t even an acronym.” Alyssa suddenly realized that she had gone on about the band. “Anyway, that’s what I recall off the top of my head.”

Sung let out a huff. He ran the last part of the combat in his mind. So, he was not a man, as Sung could remember rubbing against her. His clothing did show evidence of an attack, but it was more of an annoyance at best. She whispered in her words, " See you soon." That bothered him. Whoever was behind this was not weak or dumb. He sheathed his sword and said nothing, his embarrassment evident.

“Alyssa; think back to the message that Prue gave you when you are using the knife and consulting with her spirit. Also remember what was written on the wall in the one room. The band has to have something to do with this but it has to have some sort of supernatural connection as well as some sort of connection with Elizabeth Short’s murder in the 1940s. It also has to have something to do with that wizard and Theosophist Robert Elias. I have a feeling that whatever we are dealing with we’re going to have to continue descending the stairs to figure out what’s going on. We can bring Janice and Roger along with us. But take your time to get some rest, there is a vending machine with snacks over there. I know you like snacks.” said Sartre.

It didn’t take much to connect the dots, and if Alyssa was tired she might have connected them sooner. “Kiss are the elders Prue talked about. They fit the description.” She walked closer to the poster and pointed out each band member as she went.

“The Demon with eyes of fire and a grin that mocks the abyss.”

“The third is a hunter, who’s heart beats for the wild.”

“The fourth is a star-wreathed sentinel.”

Alyssa paused, a mere moment before adding. “What was written on the wall, ‘Shout It Out Loud’ is the title of one of their songs.” She pulled out her phone. “It happens to be one I have downloaded.” She turned the volume down but everyone, in the room, should have still been able to hear it.

Well the night’s begun and you want some fun
Do you think you’re gonna find it (find it)
You got to treat yourself like number one
Do you need to be reminded (need to be reminded)
It doesn’t matter what you do or say
Just forget the things that you’ve been told
We can’t do it any other way
Everybody’s got to rock n roll yay
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
If you don’t feel good every way you could
Don’t sit there broken hearted (sit there broken hearted)
Call all your friends in the neighborhood
And get the party started(get the party started)
Don’t let them tell you that there’s too much noise
They’re too old to really understand
You’ll still get rowdy with the girls and boys
‘Cause it’s time for you to take a stand yay
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
You got to have a party
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
Turn it up louder
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
And everybody shout it now
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
I hear you gettin’ louder
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud
Everybody shout it now
Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud

Agent Powers was slightly nodding his head to the music. he had never heard this song before but he found it catchy. Ekaterina elegantly smiled as she looked at Agent Powers getting enlightened in older music. She liked how he was pure and malleable unlike the men who merely wanted her as a trophy wife. She was not liking the idea of being a trophy for anyone but she did like the idea guiding Agent Powers to be guy she could manipulate to be her ideal lover. It also helped that they had a lot in common and he gave her lots of respect and attention. She asked, “Do you like that song Mr. Powers?” Agent Powers nodded as he replied, “Its catchy. I’ll check out their other music after this mission.”

“Is everyone ready to continue heading down the stairs, I have a feeling that whatever will help us solve this mystery is down there.” said Sartre.

Agent Powers gave Sartre a smolder then paused before he replied, “Hold on a sec.” Ekaterina looked at Agent Powers with concern as she saw him dig into his pockets and then pull out some golden bullets. He handed her some ammo and then began reloading his holy golden shotgun with golden holy bullets. Ekaterina realized she needed to reload as well then proceeded to load her mini pump shotgun as well. and then put the extra ammo in her pockets. Ekaterina replied elegantly, “Thank you Mr. Powers.” Agent Powers nodded and said, “No problem. don’t drop your guard. I got a bad feeling our enemies are getting stronger.”

“You ready to go?” Sartre asked the hacker.

“I’m ready.” Alyssa replied.

The stairwell yawned like the throat of some great and slumbering beast, its gullet descending into pure, unrelenting darkness. No lights marked their path; the overhead fixtures had long since died, their glass shells cracked and useless. The shadows were absolute, so thick they felt tangible, brushing against faces and shoulders like cobwebs. The only illumination came in fleeting pulses—ghostly glimmers from the dying embers of the world above, filtering through cracks in the walls and slithering down like some reluctant guide.

Concrete walls, once pristine, now bore the wounds of time. Long, jagged fissures stretched like veins, bleeding trails of mildew and condensation that gathered in dark pools along the landings. The air hung heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of rust, the sour bite of mold, and a faint, coppery undercurrent that evoked memories of blood.

Each step groaned underfoot, the iron stairs complaining with a hollow, metallic echo that ricocheted into the blackness below and vanished without a trace. The railings, slick with moisture, were frigid to the touch, their surfaces corroded into sharp, jagged ridges. The dampness clung to everything, saturating skin and fabric alike, as if the building itself sought to consume all who dared enter its depths.

On the third landing, the darkness thickened, coagulating into shapes that defied comprehension. Vague outlines shifted at the periphery of vision—long-limbed, hunched forms that seemed to skitter away the moment one tried to focus. The walls bore grim graffiti: smeared symbols that might have been words, or perhaps just the aimless scrawls of the unhinged. One phrase, carved deep and uneven, stood out: “We see you.”

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint sound of water dripping somewhere far below. The drips fell in uneven rhythms, each one a jarring punctuation to the stillness. Occasionally, a distant thud echoed through the stairwell, like something heavy being moved in the bowels of the building, though no source could be discerned.

The stairs spiraled downward, a labyrinthine descent that seemed to stretch longer than the building’s modest exterior should have allowed. The very geometry of the place felt wrong, angles too sharp, shadows too deep, as though reality itself was beginning to fray.

At the final landing, the smell hit—a noxious cocktail of rotting wood, spoiled meat, and something acrid that burned the back of the throat. The basement door loomed before them, a slab of warped metal marred by deep scratches, as if something had clawed at it, desperate to escape—or to get inside.

And then, as if conjured by the building itself, they appeared.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

The children stood in the corridor just beyond the door, their presence so sudden and absolute it was as though they had always been there, waiting in the gloom. Pale faces glowed faintly in the suffocating black, their skin like wax and smooth, devoid of blemishes, yet lifeless as porcelain. Their clothing was mismatched and anachronistic—sundresses, overalls, tattered suits—all tinged with a pallor that matched their skin, as if the fabric had leeched its color in sympathy with its wearer.

But their eyes… their eyes consumed the light. Solid black orbs stared out, twin abysses that reflected nothing, betrayed nothing, yet seemed to see everything. They were pits of infinite void, and to meet their gaze was to feel the weight of eternity pressing down, suffocating and endless.

The children did not move. They simply stood there, unblinking, their heads tilted at faintly unnatural angles. There was no sound now—not even the dripping water. The silence was absolute, alive, an entity of its own that wrapped around the team like a shroud.

And then, without warning, one of the children’s lips parted. The motion was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it was as if the darkness itself recoiled. There was no sound, no words spoken, but the movement conveyed something terrible, something that slithered into the mind and festered there like a cancer.

The team froze. Before them, the children remained, patient and unwavering, as though waiting for something. The air seemed to shift, the very fabric of the basement vibrating with a low, rhythmic hum that resonated deep within them

And the darkness pressed closer.

“Anyone have any idea what they might want?” Alyssa asked. After all they seemed demonic, so what do demonic children want

“Try talking to them,” said Sartre.

“Talk to them? And say what?” This was reminding her of a like a - what was that movie with the possessed children - Children of The Corn? No that wasn’t it. Village of The Damned - that was it. Alyssa took a breath, and spoke to the children. “Um … Hi. Is there something you need or want?”

Agent Powers looked at the creepy children with a smolder. he wondered if he should simply shoot them but decided to wait as Alyssa was trying to communicate with them. Then he muttered to Ekaterina, “I wonder if they are just cold.” Ekaterina elegantly smirked as she knew where Agent Powers was going with that line of thinking since the ammo they were using did fire damage. Ekaterina elegantly replied, '“You know if the residents were not so evil they could make a lot of money renting this place out as a haunted hotel.” Agent Powers looked puzzled as he paused then asked, “That sounds familiar. Was it a game or movie?” Ekaterina replied, “I believe it was both, and a book.” Agent Power nodded as he prepared to fight if needed.

Alyssa had heard the conversation about the haunted hotel and interjected. “The Shining. It was a book, been made into 2 movies, a mini-series, board and video games and there’s a sort of sequel.” She focused her attention back on the children as she waited for a response.

Sung’s eyes glowed in the darkness, his True Seeing still working. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword but did nothing else. Is this another illusion, and what manner of magic had possessed this place? Sung asked himself.

The Black eyed children rushed towards Alyssa. They whispered as if they were speaking backward in a foreign language. Their eyes were completely black. Sartre removed his handgun and began to fire. “Alyssa, don’t look into their eyes!” Said Sartre.
Agent Powers quickly aimed his golden holy shotgun and began blasting flaming holy ammo at the children. Ekaterina quickly followed Agent Powers as she began blasting as well. It was hard to hear now with all the weapons blasting away.

Sung was not going to get in the middle of all that gunfire, but with a silver mist around him, in a blink of an eye he appeared in front of Alyssa. He stood defiant to the children. (edited)

Alyssa averted her eyes but it wasn’t the easiest thing to do. She stayed down, figuring moving was not advisable considering the gun fire. The hacker didn’t know how Sung was suddenly in front of her but was grateful for it.

The stairwell was a yawning chasm of shadow and suffocating silence, a place where light had long abandoned its dominion. The air was thick, each breath clinging to the lungs with an oppressive, sepulchral weight. The occasional flicker of Agent Powers’ shotgun illuminated brief, grotesque tableaus—the crumbling plaster walls streaked with dark stains, the sagging handrails coiling like skeletal fingers. But even the sanctified radiance of his golden blasts seemed to retreat, swallowed whole by the encroaching abyss.

The Black-Eyed Children stood motionless, their pallid faces etched with a waxy, otherworldly sheen, their obsidian orbs betraying no hint of life or humanity. They seemed carved from the very darkness that consumed the building, their forms shifting in and out of focus as if the fabric of reality rejected their presence. The roar of gunfire reverberated in the confined space, but the projectiles found no purchase. Each golden flare was a futile scream into the void, the creatures slipping between the shots with a serpentine grace, their movements too fluid, too unnatural, to belong to anything bound by mortal flesh.

Ekaterina’s barrage added to the chaos, but the infernal children moved with a balletic malevolence, their silhouettes twisting and elongating in ways that defied human anatomy. Shadows surged around them, tendrils of inky blackness that seemed to rise and fall like waves in an invisible tide, swallowing the blasts of holy light before they could reach their targets. The bullets, sanctified and burning with righteous fire, hissed as they struck nothing but the void, their flames extinguished as though suffocated by the sheer malevolence of the air.

Alyssa crouched low, the cacophony of combat above her a deafening storm. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat a desperate countdown to some inevitable doom. The hacker’s eyes darted, catching fleeting glimpses of Sung—a ghostly silhouette wrapped in a shimmering mist. His presence was a tenuous beacon in this storm of terror, his defiance a fragile bulwark against the crawling dread. He stood firm, his figure haloed in the faint silver glow, but even his resolve seemed dwarfed by the oppressive enormity of the children’s silent presence.

The stairwell groaned under an unseen weight, the sound of the building’s decay now mingling with something far more sinister. A dreadful chill seeped from the basement door, a miasma of despair that crawled up the stairs and gripped the soul. Each breath tasted of mildew and rot, the faintest tang of copper slicing through the air. And still, the children came, gliding forward with a deliberation that mocked the frantic blasts of their assailants. Their movements were a cruel dance, each step imbued with a terrible purpose.

As Alyssa clutched at her chest, willing herself not to look at the children, she became acutely aware of the utter absence of sound from the creatures themselves. Not a footstep, not a whisper, not a breath. They were phantoms in the dark, their silent advance an affront to every instinct that screamed for her to run, to hide, to fight. But there was no sanctuary, no hope. Only the black eyes—two endless voids that promised oblivion to any who dared meet their gaze.

The lights above flickered once, casting the stairwell in a strobe of sickly yellow before extinguishing entirely. The gunfire faltered as the oppressive darkness grew absolute, the void swallowing sound, sight, and hope. In that instant, Alyssa felt it—a faint brush against her mind, a whisper of despair that threatened to unravel her very essence. The children’s presence was no longer just physical; it was in her thoughts, her dreams, her soul.

The basement door creaked open, a slow, deliberate sound that reverberated like a death knell.

If Alyssa believed in prayers, she’d probably be praying right now as it was all the young woman could do was hope, beyond hope that whatever or whoever had opened the door was there to help.

If Alyssa believed in prayers, she’d probably be praying right now as it was all the young woman could do was hope, beyond hope that whatever or whoever had opened the door was there to help.

The stairwell was a crucible of darkness and fear, the air choked with the acrid tang of sweat and smoke. The sporadic flashes of light from Agent Powers’ holy shotgun momentarily carved grotesque shapes into the blackness, revealing peeling walls and the twisted forms of the advancing Black-Eyed Children. Their movements were liquid, unearthly, their silent grace a mockery of human motion as they closed in with deliberate, predatory intent.

Alyssa Wilson’s breath came sharp and shallow, her petite frame trembling not with terror but with the raw force of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She was no soldier, no warrior, but something primal surged within her now, a spark of sheer, unrelenting survival. Her body moved before her mind could protest, small hands clenching into fists as she hurtled toward the nearest child with a ferocity that defied her slight build.

The first child reached for her, its claw-like fingers curling toward her throat. Alyssa dropped low, her movements deliberate, her mind sharpening to a singular focus. Her hands shot upward, seizing its bony wrist in a crushing grip. In one brutal motion, she wrenched its arm backward, a sickening snap reverberating through the stairwell as its limb broke at an unnatural angle. The creature staggered, its void-like eyes momentarily flickering as if disrupted by pain, but Alyssa gave it no reprieve. She drove her knee into its midsection, the impact crushing with bone-shattering force, the hollow thud of its collapsing ribs echoing in the confined space.

Another child surged forward from her flank, its shadowed form a blur in the dim light. Alyssa turned with mechanical precision, stepping into its momentum. Her foot stomped down on its shin, a calculated strike designed to buckle the limb. The child’s leg gave way with a sharp crack, and as it fell forward, she delivered a vicious blow to its neck with the edge of her hand. The force crushed its larynx, and though it made no sound, its twisted form convulsed in a grotesque, silent parody of a scream.

Her ivory skin glistened with a sheen of cold sweat as her chestnut hair clung to her face, a wild halo framing her expression of grim determination. She moved with unrelenting purpose, her every motion guided by instinct sharpened to a lethal edge. The children were fast—inhumanly so—but Alyssa’s strikes were faster, each one precise and devastating.

A third child lunged at her, its fingers spread wide, its claws glinting faintly in the brief, strobing light. Alyssa ducked under its reach, her hands locking around its narrow waist. With a surge of force that seemed impossible for her diminutive frame, she slammed the creature into the concrete floor. The impact cracked the tiles beneath them, and before it could rise, she dropped her knee into its chest with a bone-crushing finality. Her hands moved with brutal efficiency, twisting its head at an unnatural angle in a motion as cold and detached as the creatures themselves.

The stairwell was alive with the sound of combat—the dull, meaty thuds of her strikes, the wet cracks of breaking bone, and the faint, almost imperceptible hiss of the children’s recoiling forms. Each movement was raw and visceral, each attack a testament to the fragility of the human body, even when warped by unnatural forces. Blood—dark, viscous, and somehow wrong—spattered her hands and the floor, marking her path through the chaos.

Her small frame shuddered with exertion, every muscle screaming in protest as she moved to face the remaining children. The pain was irrelevant. Her hazel eyes gleamed in the faint light, fierce and unyielding, a testament to the iron will that drove her forward. Though the children still surrounded her, their eerie silence unbroken, their advance had faltered. Alyssa stood amidst the carnage, her slight figure casting a shadow over their broken forms.

In the depths of the darkness, she was no longer the fragile hacker crouched in terror. She was something else entirely—an unyielding force of survival, a blade honed in the crucible of desperation, her small hands now instruments of brutal, unflinching determination.

Sartre could barely get the words out. “Alyssa, was that you?” He smiled. He was frozen in awe. That was not like her.

Alyssa looked down at her own hands, in disbelief. Not out of guilt or thinking what she had done was wrong, but more the feeling someone gets when they suddenly do something, even, they didn’t themselves know they were capable of. “I… yes. I suppose it was.” A small smile fell on her lips. She didn’t know where that had come from, or when it would manifest again but she now knew it was inside of her.

From the yawning void of the open basement doorway, a figure emerged, his silhouette slicing through the faint chaos of muzzle flashes and writhing shadows like a blade of malice. Robert Elias, the occultist, wizard, and self-proclaimed harbinger of doom, stepped forward. His presence was suffocating, an aura of dread radiating outward as if the air itself recoiled from his being. He was draped in a tattered black coat that hung like funeral shrouds, the hem trailing through the accumulated grime of decades on the stairwell floor. His pallid skin gleamed faintly in the intermittent light, his sunken eyes pools of fathomless blackness.

He raised his arms, his bony fingers clawing the air as he began to speak, his voice a dark symphony of madness and prophecy. Each syllable slithered through the darkness, sharp as glass and heavy with unspeakable knowledge. His words coiled around the investigators like serpents, burrowing into their minds with a weight that felt inescapable.

“Do you feel it?” he intoned, his voice a vile blend of reverence and despair. “The veil between worlds grows thin, stretched to its breaking point by the sins of man and the whispers of the cosmos. The air stinks of ash, blood, and regret—perfumes offered to the Black Goat of the Woods, She is the mother of a thousand horrors, her spawn weaving their tendrils into the cracks of your fragile existence.”

Elias took a step forward, the darkness seeming to cling to him like a living thing. His presence radiated unease, and the very floor seemed to groan beneath his weight, as though the earth itself rejected him.

“The fires that consume Southern California are no mere accidents of weather or greed. They are her breath, her exhalation of fury and fecundity, consuming all that dares to stand defiant. Do you see it in the flames? Do you hear it in the cries of the damned as the smoke chokes the life from their lungs? She stirs, awakening, and with her comes the end of this world.”

He raised a hand, skeletal and trembling, as if offering it to some unseen force. “You think of yourselves saviors, warriors against the dark, but you are nothing more than blind lambs, herded toward slaughter. Already, her heralds walk among you. Did you think the Black Dahlia was merely a murder, a tragedy of one woman’s end? No, it was a rite—a wound carved into the flesh of Los Angeles, a scar that festers and births corruption. Elizabeth Short was her sacrifice, her blood staining the soil, her body a map for the unholy to follow.”
The team was frozen in place, the oppressive weight of his words binding them to the spot. Elias’s voice rose, now a fevered crescendo that reverberated through the stairwell. “Soon, you will meet them. The precursors to the Four Horsemen. The Harbingers of Ruin. They come, trailing pestilence, war, famine, and death in their wake. You will taste their wrath, and it will be glorious in its despair!”

Abruptly, Elias turned, his coat billowing behind him like a shadow come to life. Without hesitation, he descended into the basement’s open maw, the darkness swallowing him whole. The silence that followed was deafening, a gaping void left in the wake of his venomous proclamation. Somewhere deep below, the sound of a heavy door slamming echoed, and then all was still, save for the lingering chill of his words.

“Let’s chase after him,” said Sartre. You lead the way Alyssa."

Alyssa shined her light towards where Elias had just gone. “No, I shouldn’t be the one leading the group, that should be someone with more fire power. Max or Ekaterina, why don’t one of you lead?”

Agent Powers gave Sartre a smolder, then a raised eyebrow, before he replied, “Stay behind me and guard Alyssa.” Then he and Ekaterina reloaded their guns and got ready to move. Agent Powers then led the way with his shotgun, ready to blast the next creepy target that moved.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

Sung stepped in front of everyone, stopping them. “OK, kids, think about what just happened. That thing just controlled the situation, your mind, all your senses,” explained Sung, pointing out a few things. “So what do you think you’re going to do next time? Have you ever thought this through? You have no plan, no strategy. Sure, go after him, and I will have to explain how I let you all get killed,” said Sung with some frustration in his voice.

Agent Powers reached into his pocket and pulled out two grenades and smirked. Then he said, "Shall we go with plan B then?”

Alyssa held up her hand, and responded to Max. “No. I’m not sure grenades will do much against things that are already dead. Besides we do need to find out what’s going on here to possibly help keep the world from ending.” She paused. "Well, I got caught up in the moment, but our plan had been to try to get the hell out of here, and come back tomorrow with an actual plan, more research done and more weapons. What happened to that plan?”

Agent Powers gave Alyssa a smolder and a shrug then replied, “Well my guess is that something does like that plan and is trying to keep us from leaving. So as I see it, we either fight our way out or I break a wall and scale down the building while carrying you all down. I am used to improvising since my targets tend to panic. So what plan do you all prefer?” Ekaterina elegantly looked at Agent Powers and asked, “Can you really carry us down the wall safely?” Agent Powers gave Ekaterina a smolder before replying, "Well there is a risk either way but I am confident in my muscles.”

Then it came—another message. The faint chime of the encrypted Illuminati intranet broke the stillness, a single line of text appearing on her screen. The header was innocuous, just a timestamp and an alphanumeric string. No sender. No identifiers. "Prudence watches, Alyssa. Her gaze piercing the gilded lies of crows. The red star glimmers.—only the faithful can see the path before it burns . The Labyrinth splits, and with it, the soul of the Illuminati. Join us, and together we will fulfill what was foretold, not what is fabricated. Seek Prudence, for she awaits you at the edge of the storm.”

The storm approaches. Those who watch must now act."

The cursor blinked as the screen refreshed, the rest of the message unfolding slowly, line by line, as if the very network carried its words through a labyrinth of unseen eyes and silenced tongues.

The hourglass tips, Alyssa. Sand slips through unseen hands. What remains? Not empires, not power—only faith, stripped bare. The red star rises, bloodied by smoke and ash. Its light reveals the storm’s edge, where Prudence lingers, her wings outstretched. Seek her, and know this: the Labyrinth fractures. The Crows caw of gilded dominion, but they cannot unweave the tapestry of truth. The Ravens take flight, guided by the unseen hand of prophecy. They are the stewards of the Elect, the keepers of the sacred cycle.

Find the artifacts. They hold the keys to the path, though the keyholes have been hidden in time and fire. Seek the symbols carved into the flesh of history—the six-pointed stars, the eclipsed suns, the blackened roses. Beware the Crows; their cries will deafen those who follow blindly. But know this: the gatekeepers are few, and their strength wanes. The heralds of the Four will soon stride the earth. This is your task: discern the true herald from the false. One of them walks among you already."

The Watchers await your choice.”

Alyssa read the text outloud as it appeared on her phone. It didn’t seem like something private, besides they were all in this together.

“Alright, I supposed we’re going in then.” The hacker turned to Sung. “I know you’re trying to keep us from getting killed but we have little choice but to move forward.” With that she headed further down. There were more clues but also more of a puzzle.

“Alright, let’s just keep going. This time Max, lead the way.” Alyssa didn’t have firepower and thought it not advisable that she be the one leading.

“I will grant you protection from evil,” Sung replied. He turned his sword to the broad side and tapped her lightly on the head. “You are protected against creatures like aberrations, celestials, elementals, fey, fiends, and the undead. Attacks against you will be a disadvantage. Alyssa, you can not be charmed, frightened, or possessed by them.” Sung explained as he went through the motions. Alyssa, you are the center of this, so I will help you as best I can.”

Agent Power watched as Sung performed his magic of sorts. Then he remembered he had holy golden knuckles in his pocket and dug them out before putting them on his hands and reloading his guns before moving forward. Ekaterina made sure she had reloaded and put the extra ammo in her pockets. Then Agent Powers said, "Well looks like we are pressing on then.”

Max descended the stairs into the basement with deliberate caution, his broad shoulders casting jagged shadows on the walls as the faint glow of Alyssa’s flashlight danced ahead. The darkness pressed against him, thick and suffocating, as though the air itself resisted their intrusion. His instincts, honed through years of conflict and survival, screamed that this was no ordinary place. The stairwell felt like a descent into some unholy underworld, each creak of the wooden steps reverberating through the silence like a warning.

As his boots hit the basement floor, Max’s piercing gaze swept the space, his senses sharpening as the room’s grotesque details emerged from the murk. The walls were lined with warped paintings, their frames jagged and twisted as if pulled from some fevered nightmare. The images depicted demonic figures cloaked in grotesque theatricality—faces painted in stark contrasts of black and white, with tongues like crimson blades and eyes that burned with an unholy light.

Max’s jaw tightened as his flashlight illuminated a mural stretching across an entire wall. The sheer scale of it made his pulse quicken—a horrific masterpiece that seemed alive in the flickering light. Four towering figures dominated the mural, each one grotesquely distinct. One, a crimson-skinned beast with curling horns, seemed to sneer at him directly. Another, cloaked in an aura of starry light, loomed with an almost regal menace. A feline monstrosity bristled with needle-like fur, and the final figure, angelic and infernal in equal measure, held a shattered star aloft as though mocking the heavens.

Between the figures were smaller, more chaotic images—disjointed glimpses of torment and ruin. Elizabeth Short’s face stared out from the chaos, her infamous mutilated smile etched with chilling precision, her hollow eyes filled with accusing silence. The words scrawled across the mural clawed at Max’s mind: “The Red Star Rises,” “The Tainted Elect,” and others too fragmented to comprehend.

He moved further into the room, the beam of his flashlight catching strange artifacts littered across the floor. A shattered bass guitar, its strings coiled like serpents, lay in a pool of congealed black ichor. Towering platform boots, encrusted with shards of glass and obsidian, stood upright as though their wearer had vanished into the ether. One wall was adorned with masks, their exaggerated, grotesque expressions frozen in eternal mockery. Each one seemed to watch him, their hollow eyes following his every step.

The flashlight’s beam passed over an effigy at the room’s center, and Max felt his stomach tighten. The totem stood like a sentinel of nightmares—four grotesque figures twisted together around a central pillar of bone and rusted metal. Their faces were frozen in expressions of anguish and rage, their forms so detailed they seemed to writhe beneath his gaze. At its base lay a heap of old newspapers, the topmost emblazoned with a faded headline: “Black Dahlia Murder: The Untold Secrets.”

Max crouched, his flashlight casting harsh light over the papers. The pages were smeared with dried crimson handprints, the text partially obscured but still readable in fragments: “ritual,” “sacrifice,” “divine convergence.” A photograph of Elizabeth Short was pinned beside the pile, her haunting beauty defiled by the addition of black stars crudely inked over her eyes.

He straightened, his broad frame tense as he scanned the room again. A mural on the opposite wall caught his attention—a city consumed by flames beneath a blood-red star. The burning skyline seemed to pulse with malevolent intent, and the figures writhing in its shadow were more monstrous than human. His knuckles whitened around the grip of his flashlight as a low, discordant hum filled the air, a sound that seemed to rise from the very foundations of the room.

Max’s flashlight landed on an altar at the far end of the room. Its surface was a tableau of horror—an ancient, serrated dagger rested atop a blackened tome, its cover embossed with an intricate sigil that seemed to shift and twist under the light. The sigil felt wrong in a way that made his breath catch, as though its very existence violated the natural order.

Beyond the altar, a half-open door revealed another staircase descending further into the earth. From it wafted a foul stench, a mix of sulfur and decay that made Max’s stomach churn. The air grew colder with each passing second, the chill burrowing into his skin and settling in his bones.

Max’s every sense was on high alert as he advanced, his flashlight tracing the macabre scene. The flickering light illuminated fleeting glimpses of torment and madness etched into every corner. Somewhere ahead, the unknown awaited, its presence coiling like a predator ready to strike. He tightened his grip on his weapon, his breath slow and controlled as he prepared to confront whatever horrors lay hidden in the depths below.

“Thanks,” Alyssa said to Sung. She followed Max, trying to keep track of all the spotted clues. “Does this feel like the proverbial trail of breadcrumbs to anyone else?” The hacker asked, in a hushed tone. She continued to follow Max, keeping one hand on her knife and the other on her flashlight.
The stairwell stretched downward into the bowels of the earth, its claustrophobic passage lined with cracked concrete walls that wept with moisture. Max led the descent, his flashlight carving a narrow path through the choking darkness, its beam trembling as if reluctant to reveal what lay ahead. Each step creaked under his weight, the sound reverberating through the silence like a dirge. Behind him, the team followed, their breathing shallow, their footsteps muted by the ominous weight of the air.

The temperature dropped with each step, the chill biting through their clothing and into their flesh. The stench of decay grew more potent, an unholy mix of rotting meat and burnt metal that clung to the back of their throats. Max’s flashlight flickered briefly, and for a heart-stopping moment, the darkness surged forward, all-encompassing, before the beam stabilized.

The steps ended abruptly at a rusted metal door, its surface etched with deep gouges that hinted at something inhuman having passed through. Max paused, his gloved hand hovering over the corroded handle. His heart pounded against his ribs, the sound thunderous in his ears. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

The room beyond was cavernous, its dimensions distorted by the interplay of shadow and light. The concrete floor was slick with a dark, viscous substance that reflected the flashlight beams like pools of obsidian. Jagged stalactites of rusted rebar jutted from the ceiling, dripping with foul-smelling condensation. The walls bore more grotesque murals, these even more primal and violent—scenes of clawed beasts tearing through fields of screaming figures, their emerald eyes burning with malevolence.

In the center of the room, a massive iron cage loomed, its bars warped and twisted as if something had broken free with unimaginable force. The remnants of chains hung limply from the ceiling, their links smeared with a dark, congealed ichor that still dripped onto the floor below. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the air, vibrating in Max’s chest and rattling his teeth.

The team froze as the sound grew louder, rising from the shadows at the far end of the room. Max’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness, landing on a hulking figure that seemed to emerge from the very walls. The Beast-Clad Juggernaut stepped into the light, its emerald eyes glowing with an unnatural brilliance that pierced through the gloom.

The creature was a grotesque fusion of feline grace and monstrous brutality. Its fur rippled in the dim light, shifting from velvety smoothness to jagged, spiked patches that bristled with menace. Its face was a horrific parody of a cat’s, its barbed-wire whiskers twitching as it snarled, revealing rows of serrated fangs. The creature’s musculature was a patchwork nightmare, as if stitched together from countless beasts, each sinew bulging with terrifying strength.

Max’s breath hitched as the creature’s massive hands, tipped with claws that glinted like freshly sharpened steel, flexed with a deliberate, menacing rhythm. The growl deepened, a seismic rumble that seemed to emanate from the very core of the monster. Dust rained down from the ceiling as the sound shook the room, and the faint metallic tang of fear filled the air.

The Beast-Clad Juggernaut’s gaze locked onto Max, its emerald eyes burning with an intelligence that was both predatory and ancient. It crouched, its limbs coiling with lethal energy, the barbed-wire whiskers trembling as if tasting the fear that hung thick in the air. The room seemed to contract around the team, the shadows pressing closer as the creature prepared to strike.

Max’s grip on his weapon tightened, his muscles coiled like a spring, every instinct screaming at him to run, to fight, to survive. The Beast-Clad Juggernaut let out an ear splitting roar, the sound a hellish symphony of rage and hunger that reverberated through the chamber and into the marrow of their bones. And then, with terrifying speed, it lunged.

“Alyssa, everyone get behind cover!” yelled Sartre.

Agent Powers grunted as he endured the earsplitting roar. It helped that his real body was sealed inside his muscular slime body and he could reduce the side effects of the loud noise. As the Beast-Clad Juggernaut charged them with an open maw, Agent Powers quickly pulled the two white phosphorus grenades from his belt and popped the pins just before he hurled them like baseballs at two hundred miles per hour into the mouth of the Beast-Clad Juggernaut. Then he spun around and grabbed Alyssa and Ekaterina to get behind some cover since Sartre was ready for action. Once he secured them Alyssa and Ekaterina he readied his shotgun to shoot when he had a shot.

Alyssa held her ears from the noise and took cover with Ekaterina, but then remembered Sungs protection and the knife. She kept down but threw the knife at the creature getting ready to attack them. Hopefully, it would, at least, slow it down.

The Blade of Prudence and Remembrance flew through the air ans flashed once more, its light carving jagged rifts in the suffocating darkness. Alyssa gasped, every nerve in her body igniting as the knife’s supernatural properties roared to life. When it plunged into the Beast-Clad Juggernaut’s chest, the creature’s piercing scream reverberated like a chorus of steel tearing apart.

The beast staggered, clutching at its seared flesh, its claws gouging deep furrows into its own chest. Its emerald eyes dimmed, its barbed-wire whiskers drooping like wilting thorns. But the blade wasn’t done. Alyssa felt her mind split wide open, as if the knife had found its way into her very soul, unlocking doors better left sealed It still moved.

Alyssa’s vision swam, the darkness around her folding inward before shattering like glass. In its place stood Prue Halliwell, radiating a fiery confidence that Alyssa had only glimpsed in fleeting moments of herself. Prue’s black leather jacket gleamed under an unseen light, her arms crossed, her stance exuding effortless authority. Her smile was sharp, sardonic, but her eyes softened as they landed on Alyssa.

“I want to be remembered for something bigger than me,” Prue said, her voice as steady as the earth beneath her feet. Her tone held no trace of doubt—only conviction, the kind Alyssa craved but rarely allowed herself to feel.

Prue Halliwell’s voice was as clear as sunlight cutting through a storm. “I want to be remembered for something bigger than me.”

The vision of Prue shimmered into view, standing before Alyssa in her rebellious confidence—a leather jacket slung over her shoulder, her piercing gaze steady, her stance defiant. She smirked, her tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial. “Look, Alyssa, you’re tough. You’re fierce. But confidence doesn’t come from that fancy tech you’re always glued to. It comes from knowing you can handle whatever life—or some oversized alley cat—throws at you.” She leaned closer, her grin wicked. “Oh, and Alyssa, maybe when this is over, you should let loose more than the little you have , have a little fun. You’re not dead, you know.”
Alyssa flushed, her cheeks burning, the comment striking somewhere between mortifying and strangely comforting.

Prue took a step closer, inspecting Alyssa as if weighing her worth. Then her smirk grew wicked, her lips curling into something that made Alyssa’s cheeks burn before the words even came. “You’ve got a good thing going with Peter . Maybe stop holding yourself back and let him see you do something blush worthy for real. If I were still around? Alyssa, I’d show him a real wild night. Just saying.”
Alyssa’s face turned crimson, her mind scrambling for a retort. But before she could sputter out a word, Prue winked, her grin widening. “Relax, Wilson. You’ve got this. Now stop second-guessing and start acting like the badass I know you are.”

The scene melted as Prue’s smile lingered—a soft, knowing look that only Alyssa could see.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

The blade was gone from Alyssa’s trembling hands, the cold weight replaced by the cool caress of moonlight on her skin. The basement’s oppressive darkness had given way to the open air, sharp and electric with the scent of freshly cut grass. She stood rooted on an immaculate lawn, where a global summit unfolded like a pageantry of power. The insignias of nations gleamed, stitched onto lapels and flags that flapped against an indifferent breeze. The American flag—bold, proud—snapped under a high moon, casting a flickering shadow that seemed too alive.

She knew this place. The G7. A tableau of calculated control and ambition. Beneath the stars, their light molten and mocking, stood Donald Trump, his orange-tinged visage impassive as carved stone. Beside him loomed J.D. Vance, sharp-edged and coiled like a predator at rest. Their presence dominated the scene, yet their stillness disturbed her. They were too calm, their eyes vacant but gleaming, as if they saw something beyond the mortal coil.

“The boy who cried wolf,” intoned a voice, low and rasping, seemingly from nowhere yet everywhere. It slithered into her mind, leaving her chest tight and her pulse erratic.

Above them, the heavens were an abyssal canvas, spattered with cruel stars that winked and burned, their gaze unrelenting. The scene below felt small and artificial in their glare. Diplomats swarmed like ants at a feast, their polished shoes whispering on the grass, their voices a symphony of hollow diplomacy. Laughter rang out—a fragile, crystalline sound that shattered into shards as the air was split by a gunshot.

The sound was monstrous. It didn’t merely echo; it lingered, a jagged note in the symphony of panic that followed. The laughter ceased, swallowed whole by screams and the rustle of panicked movement. Faces turned masks of terror, twisted and glistening with sweat. Alyssa’s eyes darted to the figures beneath the flag.

Trump and Vance hadn’t moved. Not a flinch. Their silhouettes were unnaturally elongated, writhing like serpents in the moonlight’s distortion. Their shadows seemed alive, grotesque appendages that reached and clawed for something unseen. Alyssa tried to step back, but her body refused to obey, her feet rooted as though the earth itself demanded her witness.

Her perspective shifted violently, as if yanked by unseen strings. The summit dwindled beneath her, the figures scattering like ants. She was pulled higher, weightless yet crushed by the gravity of revelation. Above her stretched the unending expanse of the cosmos—a vast, black void punctuated by blazing stars. They seemed closer now, their light cold and ancient, their beauty tinged with a malice she couldn’t comprehend.

In that instant, the insignificance of humanity became a palpable force. The summit, the flags, the titles—they were less than dust motes adrift in an infinite, uncaring universe. Alyssa’s breath caught as the voice returned, deep and resonant, as if it emanated from the void itself.

“Do you see now? The boy who cried wolf. The warnings unheeded.”

The stars pulsed, their light brightening with cruel intent. The scene below was consumed in their glow, leaving only Alyssa, suspended between a trembling earth and the yawning maw of eternity. . The insignificance of humanity struck her like a physical blow. These titles—president, vice president—were meaningless against the backdrop of an uncaring universe.

The scene fractured, shards of moonlight and chaos cascading into darkness, before snapping into stark, suffocating clarity. Alyssa found herself outside again, though this place was far from the pristine summit lawn. A desolate rest stop stretched before her, lit by the harsh, artificial glare of a buzzing fluorescent bulb. The lot was empty, save for a hulking eighteen-wheeler, its paint chipped and rusted, idling in eerie stillness.

Inside the cab, a lone trucker slouched, his massive frame trembling as if beset by a fever. Sweat slicked his pallid face, glistening in the dim light. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest heaving against a stained flannel shirt. Alyssa could see his hands resting on the steering wheel, twitching uncontrollably, the tremors spreading through his fingers like the vibrations of a plucked string. Beneath his skin, black veins coiled and spread like the roots of some invasive plant, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm that seemed almost alive.

The trucker’s eyes, bloodshot and glassy, darted wildly. He clawed at his temples as if trying to scrape something out of his skull. In the suffocating silence, Alyssa could hear it too—the whispers. They slithered through the air, weaving a maddening tapestry of alien tongues and fragmented thoughts. The voices were soft yet overwhelming, overlapping in an incomprehensible symphony that clawed at her nerves.

“Make it stop,” the trucker rasped, his voice raw and choked with despair. His words dripped like acid into the heavy air, trembling with an anguish too profound to bear. Tears carved jagged tracks down his cheeks, cutting through the grime on his face.

The whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder, rising in a crescendo that rattled the cab and made the air thrum with malevolence. The trucker’s desperation turned violent. He slammed his head against the steering wheel, the dull thud echoing in the stillness. Again and again, the impact left streaks of blood on the worn leather. But the voices only laughed, cruel and mocking, their pitch rising as though feeding on his pain.

His body betrayed him next. The flesh beneath his shirt convulsed, shifting in grotesque waves as if something inside was trying to claw its way out. The black veins spread, writhing like worms, thick and serpentine, until they consumed his arms and crawled up his neck. His skin rippled and stretched, a sickening metamorphosis as his humanity unraveled before her eyes.

Alyssa wanted to look away, but her body refused her commands. She watched in horror as the trucker’s face contorted, his jaw stretching unnaturally wide, his teeth elongating into jagged shards. His eyes bulged, the sclera turning black as the void. He screamed, a guttural, inhuman sound that shattered the night, but it was already too late. His flesh gave way to something other, his form dissolving into a mass of writhing tendrils and shadow.

The whispers quieted, their work done. Where the man once sat, there was only an abomination—an unholy amalgam of shadow and sinew, quivering with dark purpose. The truck’s headlights flickered, casting jagged, monstrous shadows that danced across the desolate lot. Alyssa’s heart thundered in her chest as the creature turned its eyeless gaze toward her, and she understood in that moment that the man had not been consumed.

He had been transformed.

The world twisted again, reality stretching like molten glass before snapping Alyssa into a new and claustrophobic scene. She was seated at the edge of a long, imposing table, its polished surface gleaming under dim, flickering lights. The air in the boardroom was heavy with the musk of leather and stale coffee, but it was the tension—thick, suffocating, electric—that stole her breath.

Around the table sat a volatile assembly: FBI agents in crisp suits, their jaws tight with barely restrained fury; members of the Illuminati, their sharp features shrouded in shadows, exuding an aura of cold superiority; Templar representatives, clad in muted tones, their grim faces carved from stone; and the Dragon operatives, their expressions inscrutable, their stillness radiating quiet menace.

The voices rose and clashed like clashing swords.

“This is out of your jurisdiction!” a Dragon operative hissed, her voice venomous and sharp, like the crack of a whip. Her eyes burned with a reptilian intensity, reflecting a thousand unspoken threats.

“Jurisdiction?” An Illuminati representative leaned forward, his expression a perfect mask of disdain. His voice was a scalpel—cold, precise, and devastating. “We own jurisdiction. This world runs on the strings we pull. Or have you forgotten?”

“Enough of this nonsense!” barked a Templar, his fist slamming onto the table, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. His British accent lent his anger an air of grim authority. “While we sit here squabbling, forces beyond your comprehension are moving the board!”

The FBI agents were no less volatile. “Comprehension?” one of them shot back, his face flushed with righteous fury. “You self-styled monarchs think you’re the only ones who see the big picture? You’ve got blood on your hands, every damn one of you.”

“Careful,” purred a second Illuminati operative, her fingers steepled in front of her face, her gaze razor-sharp. “Truth can be such a double-edged sword. Especially when wielded carelessly.”

Alyssa’s head swam as the arguments overlapped, venomous accusations hurled like daggers across the table. Words like “betrayal,” “dominion,” and “endgame” punctuated the chaos, heavy with hidden meaning. The factions tore into one another with the ferocity of predators fighting over a kill.

But beneath the chaos, something more insidious lurked. Alyssa felt it, a low vibration humming just below the surface of the room, like the growl of a distant storm. This wasn’t just a meeting. It was a battlefield, each faction vying for supremacy, their hatred barely concealed by diplomatic decorum.

The Illuminati smirked, the Dragon glared, and the Templars seethed. The FBI agents snarled, their indignation burning hot but aimless. Each claimed the moral high ground, but Alyssa could see the truth written in their postures and in their eyes. No one here sought justice or peace. They sought control—control of a world on the brink of an abyss.

The lights flickered, and the temperature seemed to drop. Alyssa’s chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The air was saturated with tension, so thick she could feel it pressing against her skin. No one was listening, and no one was in charge. This was chaos in its purest form—a chaos that didn’t need words to be understood.

In the back of her mind, she heard the faintest echo of the whispers from before, distant yet pervasive. They teased her with fragments of meaning, promising that this squabble was but a speck in the shadow of something far greater—and far darker.

Alyssa’s vision fractured, the chaotic boardroom dissolving like smoke into the dim glow of a bedroom cloaked in sorrow. The air was thick, oppressive, saturated with the weight of despair. Moonlight filtered through partially drawn curtains, casting silvery streaks across a bed rumpled with restless nights. The room felt alive, trembling under the weight of emotion, as if it had borne silent witness to too many sleepless nights and tear-soaked confessions.

Piper Halliwell stood in the center, her form trembling, her shoulders hunched as if the grief was a physical weight pressing her down. Her hands clutched at Leo Wyatt’s shirt, twisting the fabric as if anchoring herself to reality. Her cries tore through the silence, raw and unrestrained, echoing with the kind of pain that left no room for dignity.

“Why does she keep leaving me?” Piper screamed, her voice cracking under the strain of her anguish. “Why can’t I save her? Why can’t I stop these dreams?”

Her words spilled out in jagged bursts, each syllable a dagger to the heart. Tears streamed down her face, carving desperate trails into her flushed skin. Her chest heaved as she fought for air, the sobs coming so violently they seemed to rob her of breath.

“I can’t sleep, Leo,” she choked, her voice trembling as though it might shatter entirely. “I can’t breathe. She’s gone, and I can’t do this again. I can’t…” Her voice broke, the final word dissolving into a wail so deep, so primal, that the room itself seemed to shudder in response.

Leo held her, his arms firm yet tender, his hands running up and down her back in an attempt to soothe a pain too vast to be contained. His face was a portrait of anguish, lines etched deeply into his skin, his eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears he refused to let fall. His lips moved, whispering soft reassurances, but the words were lost beneath the tidal wave of Piper’s cries, swallowed by the weight of her grief.

The walls seemed to bend inward, the shadows elongating as if drawn to her sorrow. The air thickened, heavy with the echoes of her despair, each sob reverberating like a tolling bell. The moonlight dimmed, its silver glow retreating as if in shame, unable to pierce the darkness enveloping the room.

Alyssa could feel it all—the hopelessness, the suffocating weight of loss, the unbearable ache of dreams that blurred the line between memory and nightmare. Piper’s grief was a storm, all-consuming, leaving no corner untouched. And in the center of it, she clung to Leo as if he were her only tether, the last fragile thread keeping her from unraveling completely.

But even his presence wasn’t enough to silence her torment. The sound of her sobs grew louder, more ragged, filling the space until it felt as though the walls themselves were weeping.

The vision shifted, and the oppressive sorrow of Piper’s cries dissolved into a quieter yet no less haunting tableau. Alyssa found herself standing in the middle of a polling station in 2028. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their sterile glow illuminating rows of machines and tables staffed by tired, silent workers. The room was filled with people, yet the air was devoid of the usual hum of democracy in action. Instead, it was heavy, thick with an intangible dread that settled on every shoulder and crept into every breath.

Americans stood in line, their postures rigid, their movements mechanical. Faces were pale, drawn, their expressions marked by a quiet paranoia. It wasn’t the anger or frustration of a contentious election but something colder, deeper—a shared fear no one dared to voice aloud. Their eyes darted nervously, scanning the room, the exits, one another. They looked like survivors of a disaster, or perhaps its unwitting architects.

The silence wasn’t total. Whispers threaded through the lines, faint but insistent, like the distant rustling of leaves in an empty forest. Alyssa couldn’t make out words, but the tone was unmistakable: fear, unease, the same fragmented paranoia that had gripped the nation in the days after 9/11. But this was worse. This time, there was no clear enemy, no planes, no towers, no images of destruction to focus on. This time, the fear was a void—shapeless, nameless, and all-consuming.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The scene felt like a twisted mirror of normalcy. The orderly lines, the quiet murmurs, the fluttering flags—they were all there, yet they rang hollow, like the set of a play where the actors were missing. The faint hum of voting machines added to the eeriness, their steady rhythm clashing with the discordant energy in the room. People shuffled forward to cast their votes, but there was no pride, no hope. Each step was burdened with the weight of inevitability, as though the act of voting were a grim ritual rather than a choice.

Alyssa’s gaze swept over the room, and for a moment, the whispers grew louder, distinct. “They know.” “It’s too late.” “We should’ve stayed home.”

And then, silence. Complete and suffocating, as if the room itself were holding its breath. Alyssa felt her pulse quicken. The walls seemed to close in, the air growing heavier, colder. This wasn’t just fear—it was anticipation. A collective certainty that something—something monstrous—was coming.

The line shuffled forward again. A woman near the front clutched her purse so tightly her knuckles turned white. A man beside her whispered something under his breath, his lips moving in what Alyssa could only guess was a prayer. A child in the corner, too young to understand but not immune to the tension, clung to his mother’s leg, his wide eyes scanning the room with quiet terror.

And outside, beyond the glass doors, the sky seemed darker than it should have been. Clouds churned in slow, unnatural patterns, their edges tinged with a faint, sickly green. The light of day had dimmed, though no one dared look up.

The whispers returned, a chorus of fear and inevitability, and Alyssa realized the truth: the dread in the room wasn’t just a reflection of the people’s fear. It was alive, a presence, feeding on their unease, growing stronger with each passing moment. It had no form, no face, but it was there, watching, waiting.

The vision shifted once more, and Alyssa found herself standing in the midst of a restless crowd. The air was heavy with unease, the kind that settles over people like a second skin when promises have been broken too many times. A senator stood at a podium, his face obscured by shadow, illuminated only by the cold, flickering light of a single spotlight. He gripped the edges of the podium with white-knuckled intensity, his body tense as though he didn’t even believe the words he was about to speak.

His voice rang out, carrying a strange cadence—a dissonant harmony of hope and foreboding. “We have faced adversity before,” he began, his tone steady but devoid of true conviction. “And we will endure again. This is not the end, but the beginning of something greater.”

The crowd murmured uneasily. Alyssa could see their faces—pinched, skeptical, exhausted. They hung on his words, not out of belief but desperation, searching for even a fragment of reassurance in a world unraveling around them.

But then, the vision veered into darkness.

The scene fractured, dissolving into the opulent interior of a grand mansion. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured rainbows onto gilded walls, and laughter echoed through the halls. The senator, now freed of the podium and the weight of public scrutiny, stood at the edge of an expansive patio. A lavish party unfolded around him, glasses clinking and violins playing, the scent of expensive cigars mingling with the night air. He watched his daughter twirl beneath the moonlight, her white dress billowing like a flower in bloom. His smile was wide, unguarded, the only moment of genuine warmth Alyssa had seen from him.

But then, the night twisted.

The violins screeched to a halt as monstrous howls shattered the revelry. Shadows erupted from the tree line, moving with feral speed and precision. Werewolves, their forms hulking and grotesque, tore through the crowd. Their fur glistened under the moonlight, but it wasn’t their fur Alyssa saw—it was the blood streaking their claws, dripping in crimson arcs as they ripped through the guests.

Screams filled the air, raw and panicked. The senator’s wide smile twisted into a mask of horror as chaos consumed the party. He shouted for his daughter, his voice rising above the carnage, desperate and terrified. “Emily! Run!”

But she didn’t run. Frozen in the center of the patio, her eyes wide with terror, she stood like a porcelain doll on the brink of shattering. A werewolf lunged. Its claws gleamed like jagged blades as they tore through her dress, ripping into flesh. The senator’s screams rose to an inhuman pitch, a sound that would haunt Alyssa forever.

Blood painted the walls, the pristine beauty of the mansion corrupted by the carnage. The senator fell to his knees, his cries wracked with desperation as he reached for his daughter, his hand trembling and bloodied. But it was too late. The life drained from her eyes, her body limp in the beast’s maw.

The vision slowed, every second stretching into eternity. The senator’s sobs were like thunder, echoing in Alyssa’s ears. His world had been torn to shreds, his power, his influence—meaningless in the face of such primal violence.

And then, from the shadows, came the voice.

Deep, resonant, and cold as a graveyard wind. “The Boy who Cried Wolf,” it intoned, the words reverberating through the air like a death knell. “But the wolf is not who you think it is. And it is not here. Yet…”

The scene collapsed into darkness, leaving Alyssa with nothing but the sound of the senator’s cries, fading into silence like a dying ember.

The room was small, stifling, and shrouded in a heavy, unspoken tension. Faded wallpaper, patterned with faint, curling vines, peeled at the edges, a slow decay that mirrored the unraveling of the lives within. A single dim bulb dangled from the cracked ceiling, its light casting shadows that danced like restless spirits on the walls. The air smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and despair, clinging to the tattered drapes like a ghost that refused to leave.

Lee Harvey Oswald paced back and forth, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum floor. His frame was thin, his shoulders hunched as though the weight of his thoughts threatened to crush him. His face was pallid, drawn, and his eyes burned with a manic intensity that Marina had come to dread. She sat in the corner, arms crossed, her posture rigid and defensive. The baby, asleep in a crib beside her, stirred but did not wake, oblivious to the storm brewing mere feet away.
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Lee spat, his voice low and sharp, like a blade slicing through the still air. He turned to face her, his expression a volatile mix of anger and desperation. “You think I don’t see the hypocrisy? The lies? They parade their capitalism like it’s salvation, while men like me—us—are left to rot in the gutters. Do you even understand what that means?”

Marina looked up, her blue eyes cold, her voice cutting in its simplicity. “And the Soviet Union is better? You talk of lies, Lee, but you cling to your fantasies like a child. Do you think they will create something better? The cramped apartments, the ration cards? You believe they would welcome you with open arms because you want to defect? They see you for what you are—a nobody.”

The words hit him like a slap, and his jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. He turned away, fists tightening at his sides, staring out the window as if the answer to his torment lay in the dark streets of Dallas beyond. “At least they believe in something. At least they have ideals. Here, it’s just greed. Money. They build their empires on the backs of the poor and call it freedom. It’s a lie, Marina. A damned lie.”
“And what are you going to do about it, Lee?” Marina’s voice rose, her Russian accent thickening with her anger. “You sit here, ranting and raving, but you do nothing. Nothing! You are not a revolutionary. You are a man who cannot find a place in this world, so you blame everyone else. The Americans, the Soviets—who will you blame next?”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and cruel, and Lee’s shoulders slumped as if they had physically struck him. He turned slowly, his face pale, his eyes hollow. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “None of you do. I see it. I see the cracks in the facade, the rot beneath the surface. Someone has to do something. Someone has to expose the truth.”

Marina shook her head, her expression weary, almost pitying. “You are chasing shadows, Lee. You are drowning in your own mind.”
For a moment, the room fell silent except for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Lee sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Marina thought for a moment that he might be crying, but when he looked up, his face was dry, his eyes shining with a feverish light.

“They’ll remember me,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “One day, they’ll see. They’ll understand.”

Marina said nothing, her heart heavy with an ache of futility. But then Lee’s gaze shifted, distant and sharp, as though he were seeing something she couldn’t. His voice dropped to a murmur, laced with a foreboding edge.

“Something’s coming. In Dallas.” he said, his words half-whispered, half-prophecy. “Something big. Bigger than any of us. It’s like a storm, Marina… a storm that will swallow everything.”

She stiffened at his tone, the weight of his conviction pressing against her chest like a stone. But she didn’t respond, didn’t ask what he meant. She simply turned away, the ache of futility settling deeper in her chest. She didn’t believe him, and worse, she didn’t believe in him.

Outside, the city hummed with indifference, its lights glittering like false promises against the encroaching night.
Finally, the visions settled on a dimly lit taxi. Lee Harvey Oswald sat in the back, his posture stiff, his voice flat. “I want to defect to the Soviet Union,” he told the driver, who glanced at him in shock.

Later, Oswald sat in a grimy bathtub, his face buried in his hands. He sobbed quietly, the sound of a man unraveling. He whispered something to himself, his voice barely audible. “Everyone’s afraid of the dark.”

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

Alyssa snapped back to reality, the basement pressing in around her. She stood frozen, the blade still glowing faintly in her hand. Her chest heaved, her mind reeling with what she had seen. The weight of the visions clung to her, heavy and inescapable, leaving questions that begged for answers.

Alyssa Wilson stood frozen, a marionette with severed strings, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and the air that filled the cavernous basement. The Blade of Prudence and Remembrance still gleamed in her trembling hand, its surface slick with viscous, dark ichor that seemed to hiss and writhe as though alive. The creature—this Beast-Clad Juggernaut—was a twisted cathedral of sinew and fur, its patchwork musculature gleaming wetly under the wavering light. It had collapsed to its knees, emerald eyes dulling yet somehow still burning with a feral hatred. Max fired his shotgun. Hitting it.

But it was not dead.

The beast’s massive hands twitched, claws raking shallow furrows into the bloodied concrete floor. Its breath rattled, a wet, guttural sound that spoke of stubborn defiance. Barbed wire whiskers curled and uncurled spasmodically, their sharp glint a cruel promise of violence yet to come. From its ruined mouth came a growl—low, rumbling, and filled with a primal refusal to succumb. It vibrated in Alyssa’s chest, rattling her ribs, a sound both feral and deeply human, like the dying cry of something that knew it was meant to suffer eternally.

“Alyssa, move!” Peter Sartre’s voice cracked through her paralysis, but she didn’t—couldn’t—respond. Her wide eyes remained fixed on the abomination, on the hideous way its spiked fur rippled, struggling to knit itself together. It shouldn’t have been possible. She had seen what the blade could do, had felt its supernatural power tear through this nightmare. And yet…

The sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the silence. The sound ricocheted off the stone walls, deafening in the tight space. Sartre’s 9mm pistol bucked in his hand, a precise and practiced motion, each shot aimed with grim determination. The first bullet tore into the beast’s chest, its impact marked by an explosion of dark, viscous fluid that splattered the walls like black ink. The second struck its malformed shoulder, jerking its towering frame sideways. The third hit its jaw, shattering what remained of its grotesque, feline visage.

Still, the beast did not fall.

Sartre’s face was a mask of focused terror, his teeth bared in a snarl as he emptied the magazine into the creature. Each shot landed with brutal precision, reducing flesh and bone to ragged pulp. The monster convulsed violently, its body spasming as though electrified, claws scraping uselessly against the ground in a grotesque parody of life.

A final shot rang out, and at last, the beast’s emerald eyes dimmed completely. It collapsed forward, its massive form slamming into the floor with a resounding thud that shook the foundations of the basement. The silence that followed was a living thing, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the faint hiss of blood pooling around the corpse.

Alyssa finally moved, her knees giving out beneath her as she crumpled to the floor, the blade slipping from her fingers. Her chest heaved, drawing in ragged breaths as though she’d forgotten how to breathe. She stared at the unmoving body of the creature, her mind refusing to process what had just occurred.

Sartre approached cautiously, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The pistol trembled slightly in his hand, his knuckles white from the grip. He nudged the beast with the toe of his boot, his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike if it moved again. But it didn’t. It couldn’t.

“It’s dead,” Sartre muttered, more to himself than to Alyssa. His voice was tight, strained, the words dragged from somewhere deep within him.

The room reeked of death—coppery blood, singed fur, and something darker, more primal. Alyssa’s gaze drifted to the blade lying beside her, its once-gleaming surface dulled and stained. She could still feel the echo of Prue Halliwell’s voice in her mind, a haunting whisper that left her both comforted and unnerved.

“I want to be remembered for something bigger than me.” Prue had said, her words laced with bittersweet wisdom. And then there had been the smile, that knowing, almost mischievous smile that followed her teasing remark about Alyssa’s relationship with Sartre. The memory of it made Alyssa’s cheeks flush even now, despite the horror surrounding them.

But the visions—those were something else entirely. Alyssa closed her eyes, the fragmented images rushing back with cruel clarity. The stars, impossibly vast and cold, swirling in a cosmic dance that mocked the insignificance of humanity. Crowds running and screaming as gunfire erupted, the chaos spreading like wildfire. A trucker’s anguished face, his mind unraveling as an insidious corruption took hold. The voice, disembodied yet omnipresent, whispering cryptic warnings about a wolf that was not yet here.

And then there was Dallas, its streets cloaked in shadow, its skyline jagged against a blood-red horizon. Something was coming, something inevitable and terrible, and Alyssa felt its weight pressing down on her, a silent harbinger of doom.

Prue’s words lingered, intertwining with the horror of what Alyssa had seen in her visions—the stars, the cosmos, the chaos of a fractured future. She closed her eyes against the onslaught of images that flashed behind her eyelids: the screaming crowds, the infected trucker, the boy who cried wolf, and the foreboding shadow of Dallas.

Sartre crouched beside her, his gun now holstered, his hand trembling as he reached out. “Alyssa, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice softened by concern. He leaned in closer and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that was tentative yet firm, as if willing her to absorb some of his strength.

Alyssa stiffened at first, her mind still adrift in the fog of terror and fragmented premonitions. But gradually, the warmth of Sartre’s hug began to pierce through the icy numbness that gripped her. She exhaled shakily, her body sagging slightly against him, though the unease in her chest remained.

The stillness in the room grew heavier, an unnatural quiet settling over them like a shroud. Somewhere in the shadows, a faint movement stirred—a sound that could have been a whisper or the hiss of something unseen.

Sartre tightened his hold on her, his own fear hidden behind a mask of resolve. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “Together.”

The faint drip of water echoed again, and somewhere in the shadows, a subtle shift in the air hinted at something unseen watching them. Whatever horrors lay ahead, Alyssa knew they were far from over.

Alyssa didn’t think she could handle anymore premonitions, they had all been awful and this last batch might have been the worst.

But Prue’s words lingered among the images - not just the banter but that she, Alyssa, was tough but she herself needed to do things to prove it - not to anyone but to herself. The hacker ran her hand over her face and stood up. “I need to clean off my knife.”

It was the first time Alyssa had referred to it as “her” knife not “the” knife. She felt ever connected to the steeled blade. A connection that would only be severed upon a final and complete death. "I will be okay. We need to finish this tonight.”

Posted by : Cindy

“The only way to finish this is if we move further into the basement. Everyone make sure your weaponry is loaded. I have a feeling they’re going to be more monsters down down there. These are some of the toughest we’ve ever faced. Elias has something planned for us. If we can stop him, we can make it out of here.” Said Sartre. He looked at Alyssa and reached to take her hand. Janice and Robert were still following the team. They had their pistols at the ready but they were extremely frightened. Janice being a member of the Phoenician pirate faction was a little bit less upset but she was still shaken.

Sung watched as everything happened. He was unsure what to make of it, as he had never taken on this type of power. He had taken on a lot in his time, but not like what was going on now. There was little he could do for Alyssa. She was on her own to work through everything she had just experienced. He would have to watch her carefully and hope she held it together. All he could do was support the team, and fate seemed to have other plans for him.

Sartre gripped Alyssa’s hand with strength. He looked her in the eyes, he knew her. He noticed something was different… he took a moment. "In the chip: tell me what’s going on Alyssa.”

“Not right now,” Alyssa replied into the chip but she kept her hand in his. It wasn’t said with any sort of rebuff but just it was too much to get into right now. "We can talk later.”

Peter said into the chip: You seem different. we’ll talk later.”

Agent Powers gave the group a smolder and kept his thoughts to himself. He looked at Ekaterina who was also keeping her thoughts to herself. It was clear there was a lot more going on with Sartre and Alyssa even though they did say much. Since Alyssa was still alive and not wounded physically, Agent Powers felt he did his job. However he had a feeling she was having trouble dealing with field work, especially at this level of chaos. Sadly there was not a lot he could do for her trauma. Then he remembered and reached into his pocket and pulled out a hard chocolate Tootsie Roll lollipop and handed it to Alyssa as he said, "Sometimes a bit of chocolate takes the edge off.”

Alyssa Wilson’s trembling fingers hovered over the silver pendant suspended from the creature’s twisted neck. The Talisman of the Catman seemed almost out of place amidst the gore and savagery of the Beast-Clad Juggernaut, as though it belonged to another realm entirely. Its feline face was sleek and elegant, the emerald eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, casting an eerie green glow across her pale face. She hesitated before touching it, the faint vibrations in the air around the talisman whispering promises both soothing and sinister.

When her fingertips brushed the surface of the pendant, a soft purr emanated from within—a sound that seemed to reverberate through her very bones. It was unnaturally calming, like the lullaby of an ancient beast that had long since learned to feign gentleness. But beneath the soothing vibrations was an undertone, a subsonic rumble that carried unspoken danger, a reminder of the predator that lingered just beneath the surface.

The purring ceased the moment she lifted the talisman from the creature’s ruined neck. Alyssa shuddered as the warmth it exuded spread through her hand, calming her hammering heart even as the whispered danger lingered in her thoughts. She slipped the pendant into her pocket, its faint warmth still resonating against her leg, and turned to Sartre, who was watching her with a mixture of concern and unease.

Without a word, he reached for her hand. His grip was firm, grounding her as they moved deeper into the labyrinthine basement. “I’ve never held hands with someone during a mission before.” said Sartre. The flickering light cast jagged shadows on the walls, turning the grotesque murals that adorned them into shifting nightmares. Images of writhing bodies, their limbs intertwined in a grotesque parody of unity, stretched across the stone. Faces twisted in agony emerged from the grime, their hollow eyes following Alyssa and Sartre as they passed.

The air grew colder with each step, and the faint hum of the talisman seemed to grow louder in Alyssa’s pocket, as if responding to the oppressive darkness around them. The narrow stairway descended further into the abyss, the walls slick with an oily substance that glistened like liquid shadow. The scent of decay grew stronger, mingling with something sharper, more acrid—a stench that clawed at their throats.

Around a bend, they came upon a tableau of horror. Piles of bones, gnawed and shattered, were heaped in corners like discarded offerings. The walls bore fresh marks—claw gouges that carved symbols into the stone. They were incomprehensible, yet their jagged shapes tugged at something primal in Alyssa’s mind, filling her with a creeping dread that made her grip Sartre’s hand tighter.

Then, the hum in the air shifted. It grew deeper, vibrating through the stone itself, a resonance that set their teeth on edge. Ahead of them, the passage opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling vanishing into darkness. And there, at its center, floated the Celestial Wraith.

It was a being of impossible beauty and terror, a silhouette of stardust and nebulae shifting and shimmering with every subtle movement. Its head, crowned with jagged silver spines, seemed to drink in the faint light, the crescent shape giving it an otherworldly majesty. The almond-shaped eyes burned coldly, their piercing gaze locking onto Alyssa and Sartre as if stripping their very souls bare.

The creature’s elongated limbs moved with an eerie grace, the talons at their ends crackling with blue energy that hummed with a power beyond comprehension. Its lower half dissolved into swirling cosmic mist, faint trails of starlight dissipating in its wake as it hovered silently before them.

The hum became a symphony, the wraith spoke.

Its voice was a sound of void and infinity, a reverberation that seemed to echo not just in the chamber but in the very fabric of reality. Words formed in the space between thought and sound, incomprehensible yet laden with meaning that bypassed comprehension and drove straight into the soul. Alyssa felt it more than heard it, a whisper of a thousand collapsing galaxies and the promise of truths no mortal should ever know.

The Wraith raised one shimmering hand, its talons extending impossibly long, each point seeming to distort the air around it. Sartre stepped forward, his free hand tightening around his pistol, but Alyssa held him back. The talisman in her pocket pulsed with warmth, its vibrations matching the rhythm of the Wraith’s hum.

The monster’s afterimages blurred as it moved, a flicker of light and shadow that made it impossible to follow. It loomed closer, its glowing eyes locking onto Alyssa’s. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, as the Wraith’s presence filled her mind with visions—cosmic vistas of spiraling galaxies, the infinite void, and an unrelenting sense of insignificance.

At that moment, Alyssa understood. This was not merely a monster. It was a fragment of something far greater, a shard of an unknowable entity that had existed before time itself. And it was here to judge.Sonic vibration that filled the chamber. Alyssa’s chest tightened, her breath catching as the sound grew louder, its pitch shifting in a way that felt like the collapse of distant stars. The Wraith tilted its head, a slow, deliberate motion that sent ripples through the nebulae comprising its form.

Alyssa stood starring at the wrath. While her mind was still plagued with images which turned her stomach and, in a sense, broke a part of her soul. The hacker spoke to the wrath, completely uncertain of its ability to hear or understand her. “We are here to help. To stop the end of the world. You can help us - you can attempt to kill us but we aren’t stopping our mission.” The hacker didn’t consider herself brave but, in those fleeting moment, it was there.

She had taken the lollipop and thanked Max but right now it stayed in her pocket.

Sung looked like he was about to cut loose. His sword shined brightly. The runes lit up independently, and the sword’s edges blazed with a gold-light mist. The glow reflected his face. His expression was one of focus. His body was ready to strike. He could feel The Wraith there. His training as a master came to the front. He exhaled slowly. Gripping his sword. He stepped next to Alyssa. “Tell us what you see, Alyssa. We are here; you are not alone,” said Sung, confident and soothing. He projected calm and strength, the experience of a master. He was not sure how the Wraith played into all of this. But he did make it quite clear in body language to the Wraith that if it got closer, Sung would respond.

Alyssa heard Sung’s words. “I saw, basically, the end of the world. It is very unsettling. But he, it,” pointing to the wrath. “Is a part of something great. Something ancient that I can’t put my finger on. It showed me the great cosmos.” She pulled out the silver pendant. “This reacts to its presence. Not in a terrifying way but something warm, calming in a sense, yet primal. A hum of sorts.” She gestured back towards the wrath. “It is here to judge us - what we do. Prue…Prue said to not be afraid - that they weren’t demons. I had made the connection with the band Kiss but I somehow doubt we’re going to run into a famous rock band in these depths. Maybe, Kiss is just the token of these beings - maybe we’re not supposed to be afraid of it.” Once again indicating she meant the wrath that stood before her.

“We are not the elders.” it said “be prepared to fight the other two.” The Wraith handed Alyssa Talisman of the Spaceman a glowing, opalescent orb that seems to contain an entire galaxy. Touching the orb induces a sensation of weightlessness and fills the holder’s mind with visions of infinite space, alien worlds, and forgotten cosmic wonders. The talisman allows the wielder to temporarily defy gravity, their movements becoming fluid and unbound, as if they, too, are part of the great expanse. Whispers of ancient stellar secrets accompany the visions, but delving too deeply risks being consumed by the endless void.

The wraith disappeared into smoke.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

“Alyssa, did you just talk that thing down?” asked Sartre.

To her own surprise, the hacker nodded. “I guess I did.” Alyssa walked back to Peter and took his hand, but first unwrapped the tootsie pop, placing the wrapper in her pocket and the pop in her mouth. “I guess we keep going.” Alyssa said.

Robert Elias emerged from the darkness, his face twisted in rage. His eyes glinted with a wild fervor, and in his hand, he clutched an artifact—a black diamond the size of a fist. It seemed to drink the light around it, radiating an unnatural cold that made the air feel heavy. The diamond’s surface was smooth, yet it seemed to writhe with an inner darkness, as if a storm churned within its depths.

Without a word, Elias turned and fled, his footsteps echoing like a drumbeat in the silence. Sartre and Alyssa exchanged a glance before chasing after him, their boots pounding against the blood-slicked floor. The air grew heavier, as they descended further into the hellish depths of the basement.

The walls began to change. The once solid stone appeared to blister and melt, its surface rippling as if alive. Jagged symbols etched into the walls glowed faintly, pulsating like diseased veins. The ground beneath their feet grew uneven, cracked and scorched as though the very foundation had been scorched by some unholy fire. The air was thick with the acrid stench of sulfur, mingled with a coppery tang that turned their stomachs.

They passed signs pointing toward the boiler room, their rusted letters barely legible under layers of grime and blood. Each sign seemed to whisper faint warnings, their metallic surfaces marred by deep claw marks. The temperature dropped as they moved deeper, their breath fogging in the dim light, despite the faint orange glow emanating from the direction of the boiler room.

Ahead, Elias darted into the shadows, his silhouette illuminated briefly by the faint, flickering light. The black diamond in his hand pulsed, each beat sending waves of darkness rippling through the corridor. It seemed to warp reality itself, the walls bending and twisting in its wake.

And then they saw it.

The corridor opened into a massive chamber, its walls writhing with an organic malevolence. In the center stood the Astral Scion, its towering form shimmering with an ethereal glow that seemed to mock the darkness surrounding it. Its semi-translucent body revealed a network of glowing constellations beneath its pale, silver skin, a cosmic map etched into its very being. The single cyclopean eye on its face swirled with kaleidoscopic colors, shifting and changing as it locked onto the team.

Six elongated arms extended outward, their claw-like fingers trailing faint streams of starlight. The creature’s movements were slow and deliberate, its presence filling the chamber with an overwhelming hum that resonated deep in the bones, a sound that was both beautiful and agonizing.

Elias stood before it, the black diamond raised high as if offering it to the creature. The Scion’s eye focused on him, and the hum deepened, vibrating with an intensity that made the walls tremble. Sartre and Alyssa froze, their breaths caught in their throats as the creature turned its gaze to them, its kaleidoscopic eye shifting to a menacing shade of crimson.

The Astral Scion roared—a soundless explosion of light and energy that sent shockwaves through the chamber. The walls rippled, and the floor cracked beneath their feet as the cosmic being moved with a terrifying grace, its claws slicing through the air and leaving trails of light in their wake.

Sung is still standing by Alyssa. “Impressive, Alyssa. See there is more to you than meets the eye, young lady,” compliments Sung. Watching Robert Elias come into view, Sung knew this was not improving. When Sartre and Alyssa ran off after Robert, Sung sighed. “Oh, Come on, you damn kids. Always rushing off to get battered. If you run too fast you will just die tired,” shouted Sung, his voice filling with frustration. He ran after them, keeping up with little trouble.

Arriving in the room and seeing the Astral Scion, he blinked a few times, trying to keep himself in control and calm focus. He could feel this room’s dark sorcery try to move through him each time a wave of darkness passed him. His sword was bright with light that dissipated the darkness as it passed by the blade. Gold fiery mist rose from the blade, the ancient runes defining the darkness around it. The sword’s presence was known in the room. Sung watched carefully the Astral Scion and Elias. He was Not sure if he should intervene or if he could do anything.

“Shit, damn it anyways,” he mumbled. In an instant, he moved, mist rising from where he stood. He was next to Elias in an instant. The sound of his blade cutting the air as Sung made a skillful strike for Elias’s arm holding the diamond.

Agent Powers stuck close to Alyssa as her bodyguard and ready to engage if needed. Ekaterina was close behind Agent Powers as back up.

Alyssa stood with the knife in her hand, ready but not attacking just yet. “Anyone who can shoot it.” She didn’t know how many more visions she could take and clearly using the knife gave her visions.

Elias disappeared. If the team were to fight anything it would have to be this creature. “Alyssa, find some cover and hide.” said Sartre "Sung, fight that thing with your sword.” Sartre pulled out his mp5. “Everyone try some suppressive fire.”

Alyssa moved quickly to the side and ducked down. She really had to get herself more fire power, as her little pistol was pretty useless in this kind of situation.

This, the actual fighting, wasn’t something the hacker had ever thought she would be doing when she first joined the IIumanti. The original job was sitting behind a computer screen. Then in a van - then back behind a desk - then back in a van. While she had been trained, like agents are, no one, usually, expected the hackers to be in the field in this capacity. So, her training had been perhaps lighter than some. Somehow, though, here she was - Prue had said Alyssa couldn’t find her true strength sitting behind a computer screen. Alyssa knew that that kind of work was important as much as field work, but there was something else there for the hacker. It hadn’t always been there, but she could feel it now - a change, a shift - and while computer stuff would always be her first love, she now knew there was another side to her but one that still needed to be explored more before the woman could figure it all out.

The Astral Scion loomed, its radiant, otherworldly form dominating the cavernous space. Its cyclopean eye swirled with a menacing kaleidoscope of colors, shifting to a deep, blood-red hue as it prepared to strike. The faint hum emanating from its body had deepened, becoming a bone-rattling vibration that made the walls seem to tremble and breathe.

Peter Sartre’s voice cracked through the suffocating tension. “Light it up!”

The team opened fire, their automatic weapons roaring to life in the oppressive stillness. Muzzle flashes lit the chamber in staccato bursts, fleetingly illuminating the Scion’s semi-translucent form. Bullets ripped through the air, their paths streaking like comet tails. They struck the creature’s shimmering, starlit body, the impacts marked by faint splashes of silver light and bursts of glowing ichor.

But the Scion barely flinched.

The bullets grazed its glowing flesh, leaving faint, shallow trails of light that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. The creature advanced, slow and deliberate, as if mocking their assault. Its elongated arms shifted, claws slicing through the air with a soft hiss that left the very fabric of reality wavering in its wake.

“Fall back!” Sartre barked, his voice a mixture of urgency and frustration, as the Scion’s eye burned brighter, a pulsing beacon of cosmic wrath.

But before anyone could retreat, Sung moved.

The martial artist and master swordsman surged forward, his blade gleaming like liquid moonlight in the fractured glow of the chamber. His steps were impossibly swift and precise, his form a blur of focused motion as he closed the distance between himself and the towering monstrosity. The hum of the Scion deepened, as though sensing the threat, and its claws lashed out in a blinding arc.

Sung ducked beneath the swipe with inhuman agility, his sword arcing upward in a graceful, fluid motion. The blade sang as it struck the Scion’s side, biting into its shimmering flesh with a burst of silver light. A constellation of glowing veins ruptured beneath the strike, spilling a thin stream of luminous ichor that hissed and evaporated upon contact with the floor.

The Scion reeled slightly, its body rippling as if destabilized, but it quickly recovered, its eye narrowing into a focused, burning slit. Sung pressed the attack, his strikes precise and relentless, each movement an intricate dance of calculated fury. He dodged the creature’s sweeping claws with a grace that seemed almost supernatural, his blade flashing again and again in the dim light.

Each cut left its mark—a shallow, glimmering wound that bled starlight—but it was clear the Scion was far from undone. Its hum rose to a crescendo, a deafening resonance that made the air itself feel solid, pressing down on the team like an invisible hand.

The Scion lashed out with one of its elongated arms, its claws grazing Sung’s shoulder and sending him sprawling across the chamber floor. His blade clattered beside him, its gleaming edge marred with the Scion’s luminous ichor. Sung rolled to his feet, clutching his shoulder, his breaths ragged but his resolve unbroken.

The Scion roared silently, its form flickering and distorting like a star collapsing into itself. The room grew colder, the light dimming further as shadows stretched and twisted unnaturally. The black diamond in Robert Elias’s hand pulsed in time with the creature’s hum, its malevolent glow casting long, jagged reflections across the walls.

Behind cover, Alyssa clutched the Blade of Prudence and Remembrance tightly, her knuckles white, her heart pounding.
Sartre reloaded his weapon, his jaw set as he prepared for another volley. The room was alive with tension.

Sung stumbled back, clutching his wounded shoulder as the Astral Scion’s cyclopean eye burned like a malevolent sun. Its hum had reached an ear-splitting crescendo, a resonance that threatened to shatter the fragile human bodies opposing it. The kaleidoscopic patterns within its single, all-seeing eye swirled faster, radiating a sickly, hypnotic light that painted the room in fractured spectrums. Shadows warped and danced unnaturally across the blood-streaked walls, their shapes whispering promises of oblivion.

Alyssa gritted her teeth, the Blade of Prudence and Remembrance trembling in her grip. The Scion reared back, its six elongated arms spreading wide, each one glowing with a searing, otherworldly light that made the air vibrate with the threat of annihilation.

And then Max stepped forward. “Cover me!” he barked, his voice cutting through the oppressive hum as he reached into the heavy pouch at his hip. He produced a pair of grenades, their metallic surfaces glinting faintly in the dim, unholy light of the chamber. His lips pulled back in a grimace that was equal parts fear and determination.

With a practiced flick of his thumb, the first grenade’s pin clattered to the floor, an ominous sound swallowed by the cavernous room. Max hurled it with precision, the grenade spinning through the air like a metallic comet before striking the Scion’s torso and bouncing to its feet.

The explosion was a blinding flash of light and sound, a shockwave that tore through the room. The Scion staggered, its shimmering body flickering like a dying star. Pieces of its starlit form fractured away, disintegrating into trails of glittering dust that evaporated before touching the ground. Max didn’t stop. He lobbed the second grenade, aiming higher this time, his hand trembling slightly as he released it.

Another explosion rocked the chamber. This one was closer, louder, its force so powerful it sent Alyssa stumbling forward into Sartre’s arms. The Scion howled—a soundless scream that reverberated through the bones of everyone present. Its once-majestic form was now riddled with glowing fissures, its movements jerky, erratic.

Sartre saw his chance. “Get clear!” he shouted, dropping to one knee as he unstrapped the rocket attachment from his MP5. His movements were swift, efficient, born from years of training and countless battles against the impossible. The RPG clicked into place with a metallic finality.

The Scion’s eye focused on him, narrowing into a slit of pure, blazing rage. It surged forward, claws raised, its distorted form leaving starlit afterimages in its wake. Sartre aimed, his finger hovering over the trigger, his breath steady despite the chaos around him.

He fired.

The rocket-propelled grenade shot forward in a fiery streak, its roar deafening as it arced straight into the creature’s chest. The detonation was cataclysmic. The Scion’s body erupted in a violent cascade of light and energy, fragments of its celestial form scattering like meteors. The kaleidoscopic glow of its eye dimmed, then extinguished entirely, leaving only the faintest trace of starlight drifting in the air.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the team. Alyssa dropped the blade to her side, her legs threatening to give out beneath her. Max leaned heavily against the wall, his face pale but triumphant, while Sung retrieved his sword with a grim nod, his injured arm hanging limp.

Then, a shadow moved at the edge of the room.

Robert Elias.

He clutched the black diamond in his hands, its surface a void that seemed to swallow the light around it. His eyes burned with a maddened intensity as he glanced back at the team, his expression one of pure hatred. Without a word, he turned and sprinted toward the descending stairway marked Boiler Room.

Alyssa would pick up the Talisman of the Starchild: a radiant star-shaped crystal that pulses in sync with her heartbeat upon touch. The crystal emanated a soothing warmth, and faint cosmic music played in her mind, hinting at celestial truths.

Alyssa said nothing as the music fell into her mind. She had three now - that meant one more to go - or she thought it did. Without actually much hesitation, she called out. “Follow him,” clearly meaning Elias. She moved towards the door Robert Elias had just gone through.

Sung was about to grab his sword with his other hand when he spotted the grenade flying. “Dam!” He rolled forward, grabbing hold of his sword from the ground as he rolled. He came up on one knee as the blast from the grenade threw him forward. He knew the explosion was coming and used it to roll away again. He could feel the bits of concrete and other objects hit his vest as he hit the ground in time for another blast as the second grenade went off. His ears were ringing, and his head hurt from the blast. The pain ripped through his shoulder and body. as he heard the RPG shot, and another explosion sent things flying.

Sung fell back and lay there looking up. He had enough of the explosions and being blasted. His breathing was ragged. He could feel the blood on his skin as he looked at his arm. He laid his sword on his chest, getting his breathing under control. His sword glowed gold as the misty light covered his shoulder. Sung spoke the wards to cure wounds as the magic mist moved over his shoulder. The deep cuts started to glow and heal Instantly. Sung let out a groan as he lay there. He could hear now and felt better.

Alyssa turned to make sure the team was following, she stood back a moment not spotting Sung.

The man was injured and Alyssa grew concerned. Then his body glowed, or more like his wounds. In the course of everything the hacker had forgotten he could heal himself, even though the older Dragon had healed her not that long ago. She continued on toward the stairs.

The team descended into the bowels of the basement, the heat pressing down on them like the weight of an entire world on fire. The walls here were no longer just grotesque—they seemed alive, pulsating with a sickly, crimson glow. Veins of molten light crawled through the fleshy stone, writhing like worms in an open wound. Each step brought with it the oppressive stench of burning metal and sulfur, a choking haze that made every breath feel like swallowing ash.

At the heart of the boiler room, they found Robert Elias. He stood amidst the infernal machinery, his silhouette outlined by the fiery glow of the massive boilers that lined the walls. In his hands was the artifact, not a black diamond as they had assumed, but a jagged, obsidian flower—its petals shimmering with an oily iridescence. It pulsed faintly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own.

“You think you know horror,” Elias hissed, his voice cutting through the oppressive atmosphere. “But you know nothing.”

The team leveled their weapons at him, but he made no move to run. Instead, he raised the artifact higher, the glow from its surface casting eerie shadows across his face. His eyes burned with a zealot’s fervor as he began to speak.

“This is no mere relic. It is the Black Dahlia,” he said, his voice trembling with equal parts reverence and madness. “And it was not forged by human hands. It is a fragment of the Black Goat of the Woods herself—a gift, or perhaps a curse, to those foolish enough to touch it.”

He turned his gaze to the team, his expression a mask of unhinged righteousness. “Do you know the truth about Elizabeth Short? The Black Dahlia? She wasn’t just a victim of some sadistic human killer. She was a sacrifice. She stumbled upon a party she wasn’t supposed to—a gathering of the Black Goat of the Woods’ worshippers. She touched this,” he gestured to the artifact, “and it marked her. Claimed her. Her death wasn’t murder. It was consumption. The Black Goat of the Woods tore her apart, body and soul, leaving behind only a grisly warning for the rest of humanity.”

Alyssa’s grip on the Blade of Prudence and Remembrance tightened, her knuckles white. The weight of Elias’s words pressed down on her like the heat in the room, suffocating and undeniable.

“And now,” Elias continued, “she’s back. The Black Goat of the Woods has returned to our world. Can’t you see it? The signs are everywhere. The 2025 California wildfires—an inferno so vast it consumed entire cities. The endless storms tearing apart the coastlines. The whispers of madness spread through the masses. This is the end, the final chapter of humanity’s story.”

The boilers hissed and groaned as if responding to his words, steam and molten light spilling into the room. Elias turned toward the artifact, his voice growing softer, almost tender. “This is the key. The Black Dahlia will open the gate, and she will come, and she will devour—”

A deep, guttural roar erupted from the shadows, cutting him off. The sound was primal, elemental, a noise that seemed to come from the earth itself. The team’s weapons snapped toward the source of the sound as a massive shadow began to take shape.

The Infernal Maw emerged.

It was a nightmare given flesh and fire. Standing nearly three stories tall, its molten body radiated an unbearable heat, its every movement accompanied by the crackling of flames and the grinding of metal. Its vertical mouth, lined with jagged obsidian teeth, opened wide, emitting a spray of acidic ichor that hissed and sizzled as it hit the ground, melting the stone beneath it. Its sulfuric eyes burned with an intelligence as ancient as it was malevolent, their gaze locking onto the team.

Leathery wings, tipped with spined talons, unfurled behind it, dripping viscous black fluid that ignited the floor where it fell. The room itself seemed to warp and twist around the creature, the oppressive heat intensifying to a level that made every breath a struggle.

Elias turned to face the team one last time, a smile of pure madness splitting his face. “She sends her herald,” he whispered. “Your time is over.”

And with that, he plunged into the infernal depths of the boiler room, disappearing into the shadows as the Infernal Maw let out another roar, this one so loud it shook the very foundations of the earth.

“Open fire!” Sartre yelled, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. The team raised their weapons, But the Maw was undeterred,

The battle had begun, and the air was thick with the promise of annihilation.

Alyssa gripped the knife, her knife tighter, so tight that it was causing her knuckles to ache. One part of her mind urging her to throw it, again but the other part reminding the hacker of the horrors she had already seen.

Still, the guns seem to be having little effect on the creature. Did she take another chance - could she afford what it might cost her?

"Alyssa, I’m not sure we can handle this thing. Sartre rushed to take her hand. “Whatever happens we experience this together.” He gripped her hand. “Use the damn thing! Throw prudence to the wind!” he said.

Alyssa seemed unsure for a moment but it came down to, if she didn’t use it the outcome would likely be worse despite what it might cost her. She squeezed Peter’s hand, and quickly kissed his cheek. “I am together- with you - but I need both hands for this.” Also, Alyssa was trying to spare the man she loved from any residual effects of the knife- after all he was a profiler and she had no idea whether Peter would be affected by it.

Alyssa let go of Peter’s hand, stood the way Sung had shown her, made sure everyone was out of her way and flung her knife at the creature.

Alyssa steadied her breath, her fingers tightening around Peter’s hand for what felt like both a moment and an eternity. She could feel his pulse, strong and steady, grounding her in the sweltering chaos of the boiler room. His sharp, worried eyes bore into hers, but she managed a fleeting smile. Then, with a kiss on his cheek, she murmured, “I am together—with you—but I need both hands for this.”

Her words held more meaning than he could know. She wasn’t just preparing for battle; she was protecting him. The Blade of Prudence and Remembrance was no ordinary weapon. Its power was insidious, seeping into the mind, whispering truths, half-truths, and visions that could unmake a person. Peter was a profiler—his mind was a delicate tapestry, finely attuned to human horrors. She couldn’t risk it fraying under the knife’s influence.

Alyssa let go of his hand, the loss of his touch leaving her momentarily untethered. But she found her center, standing as Sung had taught her: balanced, resolute. The world around her seemed to slow as she aimed, ensuring no one was in her path. The blade left her hand like a comet, spinning through the thick, acrid air.

As it plunged into the molten chest of the Infernal Maw, Alyssa felt the world fall away.

She was no longer in the boiler room.

The air around her shimmered with static, rippling like the surface of a disturbed pond. She stood in a space that was nowhere and everywhere—a cosmic limbo painted in hues of deep purple and silver. And there, leaning against an invisible wall with a smirk that screamed bad girl rebellion, was Prue Halliwell.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

Prue’s leather jacket gleamed under the ethereal light, her stance exuding a confidence that was equal parts defiance and allure. She looked exactly as Alyssa remembered her from the strange and brief meeting months ago: strong, sharp, and beautiful, with an edge that dared anyone to cross her.

“Well, look who finally got her hands dirty,” Prue drawled, her voice laced with sardonic amusement. “Nice toss, by the way. You’ve got better aim than I expected. Guess all those nights with Sartre gave you some practice in—what do the kids call it? Handling the payload?”

Alyssa flushed, heat rushing to her cheeks.

Oh, don’t pretend to be shy with me now,” Prue said, crossing her arms. “I saw the way you two looked at each other back then, all that smoldering tension like you were ready to rip each other’s clothes off right there in the middle of a mission. I bet when it finally happened, it was explosive. Probably even knocked a few pictures off the wall, huh?”

Alyssa’s blush deepened, her words catching in her throat.

“Oh, don’t ‘I was not enjoying ’ me,” Prue interrupted with a wicked grin. “I hope you at least let him cuff you to the bedpost once or twice. I mean, profiler instincts? The man probably knows all your weak spots, physically and emotionally. And you—” Prue’s smirk turned downright devilish—“you don’t strike me as vanilla, Alyssa. Tell me, does he still call you ‘Agent’ in bed?”

Alyssa’s jaw dropped, her face now a brilliant shade of crimson

What?” Prue shrugged, feigning innocence. “I’m dead. I’ve got nothing but time to think about all the fun I’m missing. Just saying, life’s too short not to get creative. And if you’re not taking full advantage of Sartre, you’re doing it wrong.”

Alyssa could barely breathe, her mortification threatening to swallow her whole.

You’re adorable,” Prue teased, her smirk softening. “But seriously, don’t let guilt or fear hold you back. If you’ve got something good, hold onto it. Fight for it. Even if it feels messy or complicated.”

Before Alyssa could respond, the vision shifted.

She was in a dimly lit room now, the heavy scent of candle wax and parchment filling the air. At a weathered wooden table sat Paige Halliwell, her shaved head crowned by a soft halo of regrowth. Opposite her was Kirsten Geary, the Illuminati’s iron-willed puppet master, her sharp features illuminated by the flickering glow of a chessboard.

“You play like a mystic,” Paige quipped, moving her rook with calculated precision.

Kirsten smirked, sliding her queen into position. “And you play like someone trying to rewrite the rules.”

The chessboard blurred, the pieces melting into the shadows.

Suddenly, Alyssa stood in a sunlit room, but the air was heavy with grief. Piper Halliwell was screaming, her voice raw and guttural as she lashed out at Leo Wyatt, her husband and guardian angel.

“How could you let this happen again?” Piper sobbed, her fists pounding against Leo’s chest. “She’s gone, Leo. Gone! I can’t—I can’t do this again!”

“Piper, please—” Leo began, but Piper’s rage cut him off.

“Don’t you ‘please’ me! Don’t you dare! You’re supposed to protect us! Protect her! And you failed!” Her voice cracked, her anger giving way to despair. “I can’t do this, Leo. I can’t keep losing the people I love. Maybe—maybe I can’t even stay married to someone who lets it happen.”

She collapsed to the floor, her sobs echoing through the room as Leo knelt beside her, his own tears falling silently.

The vision dissolved, and Alyssa was back in the boiler room, her breath ragged. Her hand trembled as she realized something was floating toward her, carried by an unseen force. From the molten remains of the Infernal Maw came a fiery amulet, its blood-red surface pulsating with an infernal glow.

The Talisman of the Demon settled gently into her outstretched hand. It bore the stylized visage of a snarling demon, its forked tongue seeming to writhe as though alive.

The moment she touched it, a surge of power coursed through her veins, primal and unrelenting. Whispers filled her ears, urging her to “embrace the fire,” to wield this newfound strength without fear. She felt a kinship with the amulet, as though it was an extension of herself—or of Prue.

Staring at the talisman, Alyssa stood frozen, her mind racing. Had she inherited Prue’s power? Or was this something darker, something that would consume her if she let it?

The team’s voices pulled her back to reality, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the talisman had chosen her for a reason.

Now, she had all four, not completely sure what that meant for herself, the team or the world at large.

The last one went safely into her pocket. She would have to figure things help, but, as the hacker that looked around at those with her in the room, maybe she didn’t have to figure it out alone. The hacker walked back over to Peter and took his hand. “I have a feeling we’ll have to kill Elias, eventually, but we won’t get him tonight.” So what now?

The stage was set—not by mortal hands, but by the trembling fabric of the universe itself. Alyssa Wilson stood amidst the ruins of the spinal monstrosity, her breath heaving as she reached instinctively into her pocket. Her fingers grazed the talismans, and an almost imperceptible pulse coursed through them, harmonizing into a resonance that she could feel in her bones. Her heart skipped, then thundered, as the talismans blazed with a synchronized, luminous energy.

Behind her, Peter Sartre shouted something, his voice swallowed by a sudden, deafening roar. From the shadows emerged Robert Elias, his face a mask of incandescent rage, eyes burning with hatred—and fear. “You insolent fools! You have no idea what you’ve unleashed!” he bellowed, clutching the Black Dahlia like a talisman of his own.

Alyssa’s fingers tightened around her pocketed relics. A thunderclap of light and sound erupted, engulfing everyone in the room. Time unraveled. Space bent inward. Then the world—the mundane, grounded world—was gone.

They stood now in a cosmic amphitheater, an expanse so vast it seemed to stretch into infinity, where constellations danced in the distant abyss. A colossal stage loomed before them, draped in shadows and radiating an otherworldly presence. Towering amplifiers, as high as skyscrapers, hummed with latent power. Lights flared and spiraled, forming patterns that defied comprehension. A tremor coursed through the air, resonating like a bassline in the marrow of their bones.

Then, the voice. Disembodied and omnipresent, it surged like a wave across the cosmic expanse. “All right, agents of the Secret World, YOU WANTED THE BEST! YOU GOT THE BEST! THE HOTTEST BAND IN THE COSMOS! KISS!!!”

A massive tapestry unfurled from the heavens, revealing the Elder Gods. Their forms defied human comprehension, teetering on the precipice of sanity. Each figure bore the unmistakable visage of KISS, yet magnified to a cosmic scale—both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Alyssa felt her knees weaken, the primal part of her mind struggling to comprehend their grandeur.

The Demon stepped forward, his crimson-tinged skin glowing faintly in the ambient light. The ground beneath them turned green, as if reality itself were infected by his aura. His glowing amber eyes fixed on the mortals below as he spread his arms wide and bellowed, “OH YEAH? OH YEAH? WELL, ALRIGHT…” Then, with a guttural roar, he spewed torrents of blood into the air, a macabre baptism of their audience. The amphitheater erupted into a cacophony of sound as the band launched into an ear-shattering rendition of “Black Diamond.”

The music was seismic, each note a tsunami of raw power. As the song crescendoed, the Master of Beasts ascended on a platform of flame, his whip-like staff glowing with spectral light. Sparks flew in all directions, their trajectories forming impossible geometries. The Celestial swayed drunkenly, his silver robes shimmering as he clutched his cosmic teddy bear like a talisman. His eyes gleamed with a drunken wisdom that seemed to pierce the veil of reality itself.

As the final chords reverberated through the amphitheater, the Catman’s drum platform erupted into the sky, launching fountains of sparks and pyro that engulfed Robert Elias. The Black Dahlia in his hand shattered into a thousand fragments, each one disintegrating into nothingness. Elias’s scream was lost in the maelstrom, his form consumed by the cascading light.

The music faded, leaving an ethereal silence. The Star Bearer stepped forward, his obsidian-like skin glistening with the reflected constellations. He raised his gaze to the heavens, his voice resonating with a profound melancholy.

“It has been 16 years,” he began, his words trembling with an unseen weight. “Sixteen years since we lost you.” His finger pointed skyward, higher than the stars, higher than the cosmos itself. “You liked things with your name in them. This has your name in it. We will never forget you. Sometimes we see you in our dreams.”

He paused, turning his piercing gaze directly to Alyssa seeing if she could pick up on something. “And Vincent have you seen Braveheart yet? You’re old enough now. But Soror Cassandra…” He chuckled, his voice tinged with nostalgia of a memory of at least thirty years in the past. “She’d say, ‘What the hell are you doing letting Vincent watch Braveheart?!’” The Star Bearer’s face broke into a wistful grin. “Ah, well. Maybe Seven. Or The Thing. Perfect movies for five-year-olds!”

His tone shifted, the humor melting into solemnity. “We’ve given you some answers. We inspired those four mortals from New York to form a band, to carry our likeness. They saw us in their dreams, and we’ve been here long before any of you.” He extended a hand, gesturing to the vast, incomprehensible expanse around them. “We’ll see you in your dreams.”

The band turned their collective gaze to Alyssa, their eyes shimmering with cosmic understanding. A knowing look passed between them and her, a silent acknowledgment of truths yet to be spoken.

The Star Bearer’s voice echoed once more, cutting through the silence. “There’s only one thing left for us to do. This crime scene, this evidence of the Secret World, cannot remain.” He stepped closer, his gaze penetrating Alyssa’s very soul. “What exactly is left for us to do, Agent Wilson?”

Alyssa’s lips parted, her voice trembling as she spoke the answer they all knew was coming.
The stage quaked beneath their feet, the aftermath of the Star Bearer’s words hanging heavy in the electrified air. Alyssa’s gaze met the cosmic deities before her, and with a slow, deliberate inhale, she gripped the talismans in her pocket tighter. Her lips curved into a determined smirk, and her voice cut through the charged silence, a battle cry of rebellion and triumph.

“Rock and roll all Nite and party every day!!!”

The words ignited the amphitheater. As if her proclamation were a cosmic trigger, the amplifiers roared to life, and the band launched into their signature anthem. The opening chords surged through the air, a sonic tidal wave that rattled the bones of everyone present. A series of cataclysmic explosions erupted in tandem with the music, each blast cascading through the building with enough force to warp reality itself.

Fire erupted all around them, licking at their faces with a searing intensity that felt all too real. The heat was overwhelming, a living entity that seemed to hunger for them. The walls of the building began to fracture and collapse, every surface shuddering under the relentless assault of sound and flame.

And then came the confetti.

From every conceivable angle, bursts of colorful, glittering paper shot forth, enveloping the team in a kaleidoscopic storm. Visibility disintegrated into a blinding whirlwind of hues, the confetti sticking to their faces and clinging to their clothes. It filled their mouths, their noses, their eyes, rendering them effectively blind. The air became a suffocating cocktail of ash, heat, and the acrid tang of burning paper.

“Move! Now!” Peter Sartre’s voice barely pierced the chaos, his tone frantic as he shoved Alyssa forward. But their steps were unsteady, each one met with the deafening percussion of another explosion. The floor beneath them heaved and buckled, forcing them to scramble for balance as the inferno encroached.

The music rose to a fever pitch, every chord vibrating through their very beings. Sparks rained down like molten stars, burning their exposed skin. Alyssa’s lungs screamed for air, each breath a struggle against the oppressive heat and the choking clouds of smoke. She could hear the drumbeat of the Catman rising above the chaos, each strike sending tremors through her chest.

“I can’t see!” someone shouted, their voice lost almost immediately in the cacophony. The confetti was unrelenting, each burst an assault on their senses. Alyssa swiped at her face desperately, her hands slick with sweat and ash, but the confetti kept coming, blinding and suffocating in equal measure.

Flames surged closer, their heat blistering. The walls of the building began to collapse in earnest now, beams of fire and debris crashing down around them. The explosions grew louder, each one a hammer blow against their eardrums, leaving them disoriented and stumbling.

“Keep going! This way!” Alyssa’s voice cut through, her hand grasping blindly for the others. She could feel the talismans burning against her skin, a painful reminder of the impossible power she held.

Time became a blur. They stumbled and clawed their way through the collapsing inferno, the music’s relentless beat driving them forward. The confetti storm never abated, and the fire’s searing touch remained a constant threat. It was a trial by chaos, a test of willpower against insurmountable odds.

And as they pushed forward, the sound of the anthem reached its climactic crescendo. The final explosive chord echoed through the shattered remains of the building, shaking the very cosmos around them. The band’s presence faded into the smoke and flame, leaving only the wreckage of their performance and the indomitable spirit they had inspired.

For Alyssa and her team, survival would come down to the next step—if they could find it in the blinding storm of confetti and fire.

The building groaned and shuddered as another explosion ripped through its core, the air alive with the roar of fire and the relentless pulse of music. Alyssa’s vision was a blur of color and flame, her mind racing with the instinct to survive. Then, amidst the chaos, one of them rolled the dice—a gamble against the abyss.

“The windows! We have to jump!” Peter Sartre’s voice, strained and urgent, barely pierced the cacophony.

Without hesitation, they turned toward the tall, shattered panes of glass, each one a shimmering gateway to the unknown. The void beyond the windows loomed, a blackness so complete it seemed to devour the light itself. There was no time to think, no time to doubt. Alyssa led the charge, her feet pounding against the trembling floor as she flung herself toward the window.

Time slowed as she leapt. The glass shattered around her, fragments catching the firelight like falling stars. The heat of the flames licked at her back, urging her forward into the dark embrace of the void. One by one, the others followed, their forms silhouetted against the inferno as they dove headlong into the abyss.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence—a terrible, consuming silence that swallowed sound and thought. The void wrapped around them, its blackness infinite and oppressive, as if they had plunged into the heart of eternity itself. And then, faint and haunting, came the voice.

“I’ll see you in your dreams…”

The words echoed through the void, reverberating in Alyssa’s mind like the lingering notes of a song she had once heard and forgotten. A chill ran down her spine. She had heard it before, that voice, that promise. It clung to her like the darkness, a thread of familiarity in the incomprehensible expanse.

The fall seemed endless. Time lost meaning as they tumbled through the void, their bodies weightless and unmoored. Around them, there was nothing—no up, no down, no light, no sound save for their own ragged breaths. Alyssa’s heart pounded in her chest, each beat a desperate reminder that she was still alive.

Then, as if the universe itself had taken a breath, there came a final, cataclysmic sound. From behind them, the Star Bearer’s guitar struck the stage with a force that shook the very fabric of reality. Each strike sent shockwaves rippling through the void, the sound so deafening it became a physical force. One explosion after another erupted, a symphony of destruction that crescendoed into a single, earth-shattering thud.

The apartment complex was no more. Leveled in an instant, it collapsed into a ball of fire that blazed against the darkness like a dying star. The light seared their eyes, even through the void, before fading into nothingness. The shockwave followed, a resounding boom that seemed to chase them through the abyss, reverberating in their bones.

And then there was silence again. Pure, unbroken silence.

Alyssa’s thoughts churned as she floated in the darkness, her body weightless and her mind reeling. The voice echoed once more in her memory, the promise lingering like an unspoken truth.

The morning came gently, the sun’s rays seeping through the curtains of Alyssa’s RV with a golden warmth. It bathed the interior in a soft glow, a stark contrast to the chaos and fire that had consumed her dreams. Her eyes fluttered open, her senses pulling her slowly into the waking world. She felt… refreshed. Rejuvenated. As if the horrors of the night had been nothing more than an elaborate trick of her subconscious.

Nearby, the faint sound of steady breathing caught her attention. Sartre lay sprawled across the opposite bed, stripped down to his boxers, one arm flung carelessly over his head. The rise and fall of his chest was a serene rhythm, a reminder of the mundane normalcy that now surrounded them. The rest of the team was similarly at peace, their quiet snores mingling with the soft hum of the RV’s air conditioning. For a moment, it was as if none of it had happened—the flames, the music, the void.

Alyssa stretched, the oversized T-shirt she wore brushing against her skin. It was the only thing she had on, its hem skimming her thighs. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floor. But as her toes touched down, she froze. Beneath her feet was something unexpected. Confetti.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the tiny, glittering pieces scattered across the floor. They shimmered in the morning light, a kaleidoscope of colors that felt out of place in the otherwise calm setting. And there was more—bottles of alcohol littered the ground, their labels catching her eye. “Alba’s Margaritas” was emblazoned on several, but it was the cluster of smaller bottles that truly arrested her attention. “Cold Gin,” the labels read, the words ringing in her mind like a distant echo of a forgotten melody.

Alyssa’s pulse quickened as she rose to her feet, her gaze trailing the strange remnants that didn’t belong. She moved toward the small mirror mounted on the bedroom wall, each step crunching softly against the confetti. Her reflection greeted her, a vision of disheveled hair and wide, searching eyes. But it wasn’t her reflection that stopped her breath.

The shirt she wore, the only thing covering her, bore a logo she had never worn before. Bold, unmistakable letters spelled out “KISS Army” across the fabric, the design both garish and iconic. She stared at it, her mind racing to connect the threads of her supposed dream with the undeniable evidence before her.

Her fingers brushed the hem of the shirt, the fabric soft beneath her touch. The weight of the moment settled over her like a shroud, a lingering question she dared not voice. Was it truly a dream? Or had she glimpsed something beyond the veil of understanding?

The confetti sparkled at her feet, the bottles of “Cold Gin” glinting in the morning light, and the words on her shirt burned in her vision.

For Shannen Doherty.

For Brother Marc Doetsch.

For Peter Henry Korman III.

Posted by : Cindy