Episode 5: Mother of Heaven

[oldschool96]

The RV, which was now fixed, with the van in the back area (also fixed) pulled towards the gate. Alyssa had it set up so face recognition got her and the team through the gate.

The entrance opened and the RV continued down the driveway. The house - the teams home came onto view and Alyssa breathed. It had been debatable if they’d live to see it again, so it was a really good sight.

The RV parked now, it was 2 AM as they had just driven, pretty much, straight though. Alyssa made the announcement, " We’re home."

She jumped out of the driver’s seat and on to the pavement. A stretch and then, “Let’s just get what we need to inside. The rest can wait until later after we get some sleep.”

Sartre said, “Some time off will be a good thing.” He grabbed only his clothes and his side arm and headed inside the house. “What do you have planned on doing with your time off, my hacker?” he asked.

“I can’t think beyond getting a late snack and sleeping, right now.” Alyssa responded

Sartre said. “Sounds good my hacker.”

---

Alyssa woke up hazy, for a moment she forgot where she was. Her dreams were a blurr, she had been more exhausted than even she herself thought .

The RV…no…oh yeah they were home. For however long that lasted. A stretch, yawn - a reach for her phone - which silently announced it was 11 AM. Later than Alyssa had woken up in a very long time. She should really get up but with nothing pressing at the moment, just felt like laying there a bit longer.

“Sleepy hacker.” said Sartre, before he headed down stairs and grabbed orange juice. Winter snow was covering Virginia.

“Can you make some coffee?” Alyssa yelled after Peter as he left.

She crawled her way out of bed and peeked through the shades. Snow. This was her kind of weather, where one could just sit at home and be warm but the hacker had another plan.

The shower was calling her and she made her way there.

Sartre moved through the hallway like a man half-distracted, his footsteps muffled by thick Persian rugs that covered the creaking wood beneath. The mansion, a Federal-style estate nestled deep in the folds of Virginia’s Williamsburg, groaned softly in the wake of the storm. Outside, snow fell in slow, lazy spirals—thick, wet flakes that clung to the windowpanes like spectral fingerprints.

He passed a long mirror in a gilt frame, barely noticing his own reflection—hollow-eyed, unshaven, still wearing yesterday’s rumpled shirt and holster. His mind remained fixed on two things: the dream he’d had (if it was a dream at all), and Alyssa’s request about coffee.
The kitchen, despite its modern appliances, retained the heart of the house’s history. It smelled of brick dust and pine cleaner, though the coffee machine clicked and hummed like a content beast stirring from slumber. He moved past hanging copper pots and jars filled with pickled things he never remembered buying. As he prepared the coffee—dark roast, he glanced out the frost-laced window.

Beyond the glass, the grounds stretched away beneath a thick quilt of snow. The woods were close here, unnaturally so, as if the tree line crept closer each night when no one was looking. Bare branches clawed at the gray sky, black veins against a washed-out canvas. The wrought iron fence that ringed the estate had half-disappeared beneath the white, leaving only the tops of spears like crooked teeth grinning at the world.

He caught a flicker of movement near the hedgerow. A shape. Then it was gone. Just the wind, he told himself but the wind did not move like that.

A shiver passed through him, unrelated to the draft that always leaked in through the kitchen’s ancient stone walls.

He poured the coffee with practiced ease, the steam rising in soft spirals.

The mansion’s silence pressed against him, deep and layered. It was the kind of quiet that came with weight,like being buried alive beneath memory and ice. Somewhere beneath the house, the wine cellar door still refused to close all the way, no matter how many times he repaired it. Sartre told himself it was just the house settling.

He entered the bedroom without ceremony. He held the coffee. Her clothes were scattered across the bed: jeans folded with hacker’s precision, shirt still warm from the body that had fled it.

Steam crawled from the bathroom like ectoplasm, spilling into the colder air like a silent argument between worlds. He stood there for a moment, framed by the doorway, coffee in hand, watching the vapor coil and fade like thought itself.

Turning off the shower, Alyssa hadn’t heard Peter come back up stairs but could almost sense him at this point.

Using a fluffy white cotton towel the hacker dried off, her body then vigorously rubbed her hair so it would be still damp but not dripping. Being so petite another white cotton towel easily fit her body and she tucked one side into another so it stayed up. Then made her way out of the bathroom.

A smile crossed her lips, upon seeing the man holding the coffee. Alyssa took the still warm cup and gave Peter a small kiss, “Thanks.”

Sipping the hot liquid before putting it on a side table and getting dressed. “Anything planned for today?”

“No,” he said. “Only this. Only hanging out with you. That seems sufficient. What do you want to do today?”

The words might have been simple, but they echoed like scripture. Only hanging out with you. Not as possession, but as presence. A confession: that freedom is most frightening not in isolation, but in the gaze of another, where one becomes real by being chosen.

Outside, the world continued in its ruin and noise. But here, between them, was an architecture of breath and waiting—fragile, fallible, and unspeakably human.
“What do you think Sung is up to?” Sartre asked.

Alyssa nodded and gave Peter a slight smile. “That sounds nice. We haven’t had a chance to check out the indoor pool and hot tub, maybe we can do that later?”

As for Sung, the hacker shrugged. “Not sure. He’s probably been awake for hours. Maybe doing those- drills or whatever he calls them.” She finished getting dressed. “Should we go downstairs and find out?”

“Do you want the hot tub or pool later Alyssa ? I want to talk to you about something later.” “Lets go see Sung.” he said.

“Yes, later.” Alyssa agreed. She headed downstairs to the kitchen and started looking around. “Can you go find Sung? I’ll make a grocery list. We do need to go shopping, probably, at some point today as well.”

Sartre searched the house for Sung

As the morning sun rose into the sky, beams of light showed through the clouds. The light shone on Mr. Sung’s shirtless body, warming it. He moved gracefully as he worked through each kata movement, his hands flowing and his feet sliding as he moved around the brick pad in the house’s back yard. This workout took about an hour. With another hour with weapons, completing the whole training would take two hours.

His hand opened and closed, his arms moving, demonstrating different strikes and weapon use. A fist could represent a club or any blunt weapon. The open hand could be an engaging weapon, locking, grasping, and flipping. It took 10 years to master Hwa Rang Do and Moo-Gi-Gun. The energy he demonstrated in his movements started his body sweating.

He was about done when he could feel someone watching as he moved his sword through the air, slicing the air with a powerful sound. He turned towards the house with his last movements, as if he were cutting through something standing next to him. He stopped, stood, and bowed toward the house and those watching.

“Nice martial arts there Sung. How do you think they would fare against Gracie style grappling or catch wrestling?” Asked Sartre as he looked at the other team member with respect at his marshal skill.

“I’ve ridden that horse, and it was a tie, but I have a healthy respect for that Jiu-Jitsu style. You can say Hwa Rang Do is a mixed martial arts style, and Moo-Gi-Gun is more of a weapons side. If you join them and spend ten years learning them, it turns into a 1000+ year-old discipline,” replied Mr. Sung, thinking about how to explain the discipline.

" It has hand strikes and kicks, circular parries, flips, Locks, throws, chokes, and throws. The idea is to keep on moving continually. Spinning and jumping, with body flips and throws, hand strikes, locks, and chokes reserved for finishing off the opponent, it has parts of many Japanese, Korean, and Kung Fu, styles," explained Sung, hoping he would get the idea.

“Anytime you would like to spar, let me know. What is on your mind, Sartre?” he asked politely.

"“Just wondering what your predictions are for the secret world in the future, Sung.” said Sartre.

in the chip: “What are you wanting to pick up at the grocery store Alyssa?” asked Sartre.

"I’m still making the list. " Alyssa replied, into the chip. As she continued checking around the kitchen; throwing out anything expired.

Sung let out a breath slowly and looked at Sartre. “Unfortunately, I am like the wind, drifting and moving around the world as it changes. The dragon’s organization, I will not say, does not plan. But more see how things go. The organization is the most secretive of societies, with no fixed territory or structure. So you never know what is next. We watch the events and act accordingly.” Sung started to explain.

"I was asked to watch over the team and give advice. That is what I have done, " he said, putting on his shirt. “I have observed that Alyssa has something to do with the information and the end of this crisis.
I will continue supporting and watching over her as my orders demand.” Sung reassured Sartre.

“I have been wondering about the new lady we met recently. I do not trust people that easily, and I trust her less. I have not asked my people yet, but I plan to. The Delta Green team does have a reputation. but do we trust them nothing for free.” says Sung, looking at Sartre.

“Interesting using the chaos theory of the Dragon. As for the Delta Green agent, I think we can trust her, they’ve had a lot more experience than even I have before I swallowed that bee back in the summer of 2012. I’ve wondered what would have happened had I not gone home that night.” said Sartre. They called us “Gaia’s chosen. When the bees would speak to us, they would speak to us in poetry.”

In the chip: “My guess is the hacker will buy hacker snacks.”

“Of course,” Alyssa responded into the chip. “But living on potato chips might not work for everyone.”

“Hackers need protein.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Alyssa joked. “I’m adding some healthy stuff, as well. Does Sung know how to cook?”

“Sung, can you cook?”
In the chip: We’ll talk in the hot tub after you get back Alyssa."

“I’m just going to order the food. They’ll deliver it. Its easier than taking the van.” Alyssa responded, into the chip.

In the chip: “You want to eat first? Or the hot tub?”

“I meant I was having the groceries delivered but we can get takeout as well.” Alyssa explained

“Sung, what would you prefer for groceries?”

He thought about the cooking question. He can cook, but not everyone likes food from Korea, Japan, and some American stuff. “Yes, it depends on what you want.” he answered. “why do you ask?”
“Groceries? Hmm… Coffee and tea. I am not used to being in one place for very long, so I do not cook much. I know how, but I just don’t do it much. What about you, Sartre?” Mr. Sung asked. “I doubt that Alyssa does but she can surprise people.” added Sung.

“I dont cook either.” said Sartre.

He smiles, “We all going to die of hunger,” he says jokingly. “Let us go see what we do have.” said Sung, walking towards the house.

“Sung is good with anything Alyssa.” Sartre said in the chip.

“Well, that narrows it down.” She joked. “Maybe we should just get some take out Japanese for tonight and the groceries. Did he tell you if he could cook?”

“He said he doesn’t cook.”

“Well, there’s recipes and demonstrations online. Maybe we can figure it out, but not tonight.” Alyssa responded. “I’m ordering Sushi but you and Sung will have to decide what you each want from the Japanese takeout place.”

“I’ll have what the hacker is having. Do you want to talk in the hot tub before or after dinner?”
Sartre said, "Sung, what would you like from a Japanese take out? If you have any interesting theories on new martial arts styles. I’m always available to learn more. Just practice your grappling. It’s like strategy " Sartre respectfully left the martial arts and combat master to continue his training.

“Okay, its only about 1 so I’ll be ordering the take out later. The groceries now but they’ll be here later. So let’s talk in the hot tub.” Alyssa replied.

Sartre got into his swim trunks, this would be his first time trying the hot tub. He had questions for Alyssa, but also look forward to the time they spent together. He always did.

He waited for the hacker.
With the groceries ordered, for delivery later. Alyssa got into her 2- piece and met up with Sartre. “I’m ready if you are.”
She hadn’t been in this hot tub either or the pool as they had had no time for such things before.

“Feel free to push me in.” He smirked. “There are things I want to talk to you about. Our relationship seems to have changed. In a positive way, a few weeks ago back at that apartment complex I noticed that if anything we have seemed to grow even closer than we were. I want to know what that means to you.”
She turned the hot tub on, it would take a few minutes to heat up. “Well, the hot tub is a little shallow for that but the pool isn’t.” After almost drowning a while back she was unlikely to shove anyone into a pool.

Alyssa sat at the edge of the hot tub and dangled her feet in while it warmed up as Sartre asked his question. “I’m not sure. I feel closer to you than anyone and anyone I’ve been around in my past. Though if you want to know the truth, it’s a little scary at the same time. I don’t want to be dependent on anyone as much as I love you, as close as we are I still need to feel independent as well. At the same time I feel like I wouldn’t know what to do if you suddenly weren’t around.” Alyssa slid into the now warmed up hot tub water. She allowed herself to be vulnerable with him but, for some reason, she still couldn’t quite get used to being vulnerable around anyone.

He followed her. “What what make you feel more independent?”

“I don’t know. Being able to defend myself better has helped. Maybe learning more things. I don’t really know.” Alyssa tried to come up with the correct words. “Before you and the team, I had been on my own in many ways, for a long time. I didn’t have to think about being independent because I had no choice. So, now I don’t know how to bridge the two - being so close to you and having actual friends and not losing that independent part of me. The part that could rely on myself. It’s much easier, it seems, to rely on yourself when you only have yourself. It feels too easy to use you or the team as a crutch. I don’t want that but I like that there are people I can rely on.” Alyssa got quiet, she realized she had done a poor job explaining it but… “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“What’s going on in there? In your head? The next time we… May I use my ability, like the time you passed out at the motel and I saved you?”

“Maybe, later. Not when we are and not now. But maybe again at some point. I’m not sure getting in there will make any more sense, anyway.” Alyssa breathed as if she had just held her breath. “Know this I love you and I trust you. I’m just figuring out the rest myself.” The hacker paused. “Have you ever felt totally and completely alone even when surrounded by people? Like there was no one to really turn to?”

“I know that feeling,” he said quietly. His voice was gravel edged with something older than sadness. “When the world crowds in, but you might as well be standing on the surface of the moon.”

He took a slow breath, steadying himself before he spoke again.
“I used to think I knew how people disappeared. Criminal profiling gave me patterns. Runaways, abductions, staged vanishings. There were rules. You could track them. You could find them. Then I joined the Secret World, and I learned just how wrong I was.”

He leaned forward a little, speaking lower now, the room seeming to lean in with him.
“I still think about Mekayla Bali. Sixteen years old. Regina, Saskatchewan. One day she just… walked out of her life. No real warning. Security cameras caught her leaving a bus depot. After that? Nothing. No sightings. No evidence. Not a damn clue. It was like the world swallowed her whole.”

Brian Schaefer," he went on. “Med student, Ohio State. 2006. Went out drinking with friends. Security cameras caught him entering a bar. Never showed him leaving. Not once. Not even a frame. They searched every inch of that place. No trace. No way out. Gone.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened.
“And Stephen Koecher. Journalist. Saint George, Utah. 2009. His car was found abandoned in a suburb, keys still inside. No struggle. No goodbye. Just footprints leading away into nothing. No one’s ever seen him again.”
“I started digging deeper. I had to know if there was a pattern. Not just these — us. Our people. Agents, field operatives, sometimes. Vanished without a ripple.” He exhaled, slow and heavy.
“I thought maybe it was just the work. High-risk assignments, foreign ops, bad luck. But it didn’t add up. It never does.”

His voice dropped even lower
“I started looking at Operation Condor. Chile. 1970s. They called it counterintelligence, national security. Truth is, they disappeared tens of thousands. Black bags over heads, secret detention centers, people air-dropped into the Pacific like trash. Most of the bodies were never found. It was like history itself tried to erase them.”

He stared at his hands for a moment .
"I thought Condor was evil because of what humans did to each other. Now? I’m not sure it wasn’t something else
Sartre finally met Alyssa’s gaze, his voice iron steady despite the haunted look in his eyes.
“So yeah. I know what it feels like to be alone. To know you could vanish between one heartbeat and the next and the world would just… blink and move on.”

He smiled then a small, broken thing and added, almost tenderly:
“But I also know when you’re lucky enough to have even one person you can trust in this world, you don’t let go of them easily.”

Alyssa nodded, “Yes. You don’t let them go.” She thought back on his words. The hacker had always wondered why Peter had chosen this life or maybe it was something else. “I feel often like this life…that of the secret worlds- chooses us instead of we choosing it. No matter much it seems like the latter.” Alyssa had strayed a little from the original topic. “I know having someone to trust, to hold onto when things get rough. To have love. Friendships. It should feel normal. While it feels right it doesn’t feel normal. Not to me, not yet. At this point I’m wondering how long it will take before it does. That alone feeling. The completely alone where’s there’s no one to turn to - even in a crowded room. I’m so much more familiar with that.” Alyssa pushed a hair, that had fallen onto her face, back. “But you…you I feel closer to everyday and it’s wonderful…scary at times if I let my mind drift to what might happen if something was to happen to you. ..but still wonderful. Yet, wonderful is still odd for me.”

Closing her eyes for an ever brief moment, as if she was letting some thought pass. “Do you ever wish I was older…or had more life experiences? Like you have?” She couldn’t help but feel young sometimes next to him, despite everything she had already been through.

"“I don’t wish that whatsoever, that way I can have the experiences alongside you as you experience them. I feel closer to you every day as well. I like these moments, these experiences and just hanging out with you. You’ve shown extreme bravery in the field and extreme courage. Of course I also enjoy the “Ohh that!” experiences that you have and that I can have with you. Should we take a few days off for that? I think we do need a makeout session now though, hacker.” He motioned her close.

Bravery? Courage? Alyssa felt many times she was just doing what she could to survive and make sure others did as well, as much to her ability. She certainly didn’t see herself the way Peter did. “Well, thank you for the compliment. I think you are as well. Not many would jump into someone’s mind to battle an unknown entity.” Speaking of which. “I am grateful your willing to experience things with me, considering what those things are, at times.” As for the "Ohh that comment. Alyssa breathed a laugh. “I’m never gonna live that down am I?” Though it was said lightly. The atmosphere in the room had clear changed becoming lighter but she felt even closer to him now. And at his request, she moved closer to him and kissed him…

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

The portal cracked open with a low, warbling hum, a ripple of pale green light brushing across the snow-slicked grass outside the mansion. From the bleeding edge of reality stumbled a raccoon—his fur wild and matted with the damp of distant English fog, his eyes burning with a sharp, unnatural clarity.

He landed awkwardly, paws splaying in the icy crust. His nose twitched feverishly. Behind him, the last echoes of Agartha’s golden pathways faded into silence, leaving only the whip of the winter wind and the faint buzz of Anima still pulsing through his veins.

He had swallowed the bee. Not just any bee—a creature drenched in Anima, heavy with secrets. The world tasted different now: sharper, louder, alive with voices not meant for beasts. His mind, once a simple spark of instinct, now roared like a bonfire of ideas, riddles, memories he hadn’t lived. And somewhere in that chaotic weave, a name clung stubbornly: Snatchy.

Snatchy had found him near Stonehenge, amid the crumbled stones and shifting mist, a raccoon who spoke like a con artist and fought like a demon. He’d laughed when the newcomer described the bee, clapped him on the back with a grimy paw, and told him, “Welcome to the deep end, kid.”

Now, alone in a strange land, the newly Awakened raccoon skittered across the wide, pristine lawn toward the towering mansion ahead. Warm lights bled through frosted windows. Modern lines and sharp architecture cut against the wild sprawl of sleeping trees and heavy snow. His stomach growled, his tail bristled. Somewhere in that place, he sensed purpose—mystery—maybe even allies.

Or at least, snacks.

He loped up the marble steps, leaving tiny clawed prints behind, and with a grunt, began scratching at the front door, chittering under his breath. His voice—clear, ragged, alive—rose in the winter air:

“Oi! Lemme in, yeah? It’s bloody freezing out here!”

He heard a muffling noise and could already sense something at the door. Mr. Sung is always alert and has excellent senses that hardly miss anything. He did not feel danger, and the glyphs did not activate. He thought Alyss and Sartre were in the pool or hot tub in the house. So they would not be messing with the front door.

He moved to the kitchen counter, picked up his phone, and looked at the social camera feeds. At first, he saw nothing. Then, I looked at another feed, and something was at the door. An animal, Mr. Sung raised an eyebrow. “What in the hell, trash panda?” he said, looking at his phone.

He let out a sigh when he could see it scratching at the door. He wondered if he should go and kill the damn thing. Then he heard it talk, or he thought it spoke. He placed the phone in his pocket and walked to the door, thinking Messinger’s magic was strange, and he had heard of spells that could do that.

He prepared himself for anything. They opened the door quickly, probably surprising him. The “raccoon?” He was surprised at the sight. Now, how did he deal with the thing? He just stood looking at it.

The door flew open.

Warm air hit him like a dream—cinnamon, ozone, something faintly metallic. Cricket blinked up into the golden glow of the mansion’s interior, one paw halfway raised like he’d been caught mid-crime.

“Oh, finally,” he barked, shaking sleet from his fur. “Thought I was gonna freeze my tail off out here. Or worse, get eaten by one of those shadow hounds stalking the treeline. Don’t ask how I know. I just do.”

He stepped gingerly onto the threshold, claws clicking against the marble. His nose twitched once, twice, scanning the air like radar. “Smells expensive. Also? Someone’s cooking curry. Or there’s a portal to Mumbai in the pantry. Either way, I approve.”

Cricket’s ears swiveled, his eyes still burning that eerie amber, too sharp for a beast. “Right, so. Introductions. Name’s… well, honestly, I don’t know anymore. The one I used before the bee doesn’t feel right. But someone called me Cricket once. Snatchy laughed when he heard it. Told me I’d find the name again once I earned it.”

His voice dipped a bit, suddenly thoughtful. “He said a lot of things. Not all of ’em made sense. But most of them were true.”

He rubbed his paws together, glancing up again. “I came through Agartha. Got ejected like bad cargo just outside Stonehenge. Something chased me for three exits. Might’ve been a hollow thing or just my own fear manifesting. Kinda hard to tell these days.”
He scratched his side with one leg, like the talking hadn’t slowed the primal itch. “And I did eat the bee. Not just a regular one either—this thing was dripping with Anima. Got into my mouth when I was licking an artifact. Don’t look at me like that. It looked like honey.”

Cricket puffed out his chest. “Now I hear the world humming. I understand signs. Smell time. Got memories that don’t belong to me. One of ’em’s from a dude in the 1800s who stared too long into a mirror and never came out. That’s probably normal, right?”

He paused, tail flicking.

“I followed a thread here. Pulled like fate’s fishing line. There’s something old in this house. Something tangled up in destiny and broken promises and—I dunno—sleepless gods or cursed architecture or a sandwich someone left uneaten on the astral plane.”

Cricket nodded solemnly.

“So yeah,” he said. “I’m here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do yet. But I figure if I hang around long enough, eat a few power cords, solve a riddle or two, something will reveal itself. Maybe even a purpose.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief. “Also, I might’ve peed on the hedges. Just a little.”

Then, with a chirring sound that might have been a chuckle, he padded inside, leaving behind tiny, wet footprints and the faint scent of ozone and ancient woodsmoke.

Mr. Sung almost kicked the animal back out of the house. It being a bee, you’re not. But then he could test the house’s magic defense. He wondered how long it would take for the spell to take effect. He grinned at Cricket. “Understand this. I don’t know what all that chattering is about, but I did not invite you in. Now your world will change.” Not in a good way for you." He said in a way that sounded forbidding.

Fog fills all the warded corridors, making them Heavily Obscured. In addition, at each intersection or branching passage offering a choice of direction, there is a 50 percent chance that a creature other than you believes it is going in the opposite direction from the one it chooses. All doors in the warded area are magically locked. Doors disappear and appear as plain sections of the walls. Webs fill all stairs in the warded area from top to bottom, as in the Web spell. These strands regrow if they are destroyed.

Lights that could barely be made out started to blink in the hallways. There was a feeling of fear of being watched, and the Cricket was covered in shadows. Cold wind blew around the inside of the house, and the smell of death was on it. A loud voice said, “You have disturbed the spirit of the Dragon.” The voice was deep and forbidding. A disorienting fog started to fill some of the rooms.

Mr. Sung wanted to see the reaction of his spell Guards and Wards cast on the house as a permanent spell.

After spending some alone time with Sartre. Alyssa took a hot shower. She dried her hair, gpt dressed into some jeans and a t-shirt with the band Ghost plastered across the front. The woman made her to the kitchen knowing the groceries were on the way.

However, the sight of Sung with a …raccoon? Stopped the young woman in her tracks.

The fog bloomed instantly, rising like spectral breath from the marble floor, coiling in long, unnatural tendrils through the corridors. Lights blinked weakly in the mist-choked air—dim, unreliable—casting fractured beams that flickered like old film reels. The once-pristine mansion transformed before their eyes into a place of illusions and menace.
Walls groaned. Doors melted into smooth surfaces. Webs thick as wire grew down every stairwell like something had exhaled a thousand spiders at once. A foul wind surged through the halls, colder than logic, thick with a scent like forgotten tombs.

And right at the center of it—dwarfed by the spectacle, yet entirely unimpressed—stood the raccoon.

Cricket blinked once as the fog curled around him, then blinked again, slower, dramatically. He sniffed. His whiskers twitched. Then he reached into some unseen space behind his back and impossibly pulled out a pair of tiny aviator goggles, which he strapped onto his face with absurd ceremony.

He took a step forward, then suddenly leapt into a full spin, landed on two legs, and broke into a ragged Charleston-style dance. His claws scraped the floor in rhythm. He twirled once, paused dramatically, then launched into a half-hearted moonwalk. The fog pooled around his paws like theater smoke.
As the deep, terrible voice thundered through the house—"You have disturbed the spirit of the Dragon"Cricket threw both arms in the air like a stage magician finishing his trick.

He struck a pose: chest puffed, tail aloft, goggles askew. Then he did a slow, sarcastic bow to no one in particular.

From the shadowed hallway behind him, a door blinked into existence and then out again. Cricket turned to it, gave it a saucy wave, and began to pantomime knocking on air.

He mimed being confused. Looked left, then right. He shuffled in a circle, then began pretending to climb invisible stairs—his tiny legs pumping as he “ascended” directly into one of the stairwells. He became tangled in a spider web, let out a loud, theatrical fake gasp, staggered backward, and collapsed in exaggerated slow motion like a Shakespearean raccoon-actor dying from poison.

Then, after a beat, he sat up with a grin.

He clapped slowly, mock-impressed by the haunted house theatrics around him.

He walked straight into a wall—paused—rubbed his snout—and then waved his paw in the air as if swearing vengeance on all architectural illusions.

Cricket’s eyes gleamed under the goggles. He reached behind himself again—and this time pulled out a tiny kazoo.

He began to play a broken, wheezy version of Ride of the Valkyries as he strutted down the hall with the confidence of a raccoon possessed by both divine nonsense and eldritch swagger.

And still, he danced.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Sartre yelled as he made his way down the stairs after getting showered and dressed.

“You’ll have to see this for yourself. I think we might have a pet.” Alyssa yelled, cryptically back.

What was that again that Sung had said, oh yeah - the dragon is awake. However, she didn’t know if she could actually disarm what was happening. Maybe, Sung was better for that.

With much amusement the hacker watched the antics of the raccoon. “He’s adorable.” Alyssa said outloud, more interested in the newcomer than the house antics, which she assumed Sung had made happen. “Sung can you undo…well…that?” She indicated everything happening around them.

“Would you like to stay?” She asked the raccoon.

When it came down to it, Alyssa was a 25 year old woman who had a soft spot for animals. Of course she’d want to keep the raccoon - not normally maybe because they were wild animals but definitely this one. Did she ask anyone else- well no - but - in this instance Alyssa wasn’t thinking of that either.

Mr. Sung shook his head in disappointment. With a snap of his fingers, the spell stopped. He could do that, but he was the only one who could. “So now we have a talented rat in the house, " he commented. When I did not think it could get any worse, a trash panda showed up.” He walked over to the kitchen. Alyssa, you can deal with it. I do not want panda trash blood on my blade." he says, walking into the kitchen.

“But it’s soooo cute.” Alyssa sounded younger than she ever had before. “What do you mean - deal with it, clearly it’s special. I absolutely am not killing a raccoon.” Emphasizing the word raccoon because it wasn’t a rat.

She turned back to the raccoon. “So, what do you say you want to stay?”

He paused in his walking. “I said, deal with it, not kill it. It is fury, has a tail and little feet with little claws, RAT,” he replied sarcastically. Then he walked into the kitchen to finish making his tea.

“Well, so do cats. He’s not even a rodent.” Alyssa responded back before turning back to the raccoon. “Ah dont worry he’ll warm up to you.” She was determined about it

Cricket paused mid-strut, one tiny foot in the air like he’d been caught mid-dance move. He slowly turned his head toward Alyssa as she asked if he’d like to stay. His ears perked. His goggles fogged slightly.

Then, dramatically, he placed a paw over his heart.
“Would I like to stay?” he said, voice full of faux reverence. “Madam, that is the most gracious invitation I have received since the druids tried to roast me with chant spells and pinecones.”

He swept an arm wide, gesturing grandly at the mansion as the fog evaporated.
“Traps! Fog! Sentient staircases! You people know how to make a lad feel wanted.”

At Sung’s insult, Cricket narrowed his eyes like a Shakespearean actor scorned.

“RAT?” he said, as if the word had physically injured him. He placed a paw on his chest again, this time in wounded indignation. “Sir, I’ll have you know I have never once stolen cheese from a trap. I have standards.”

He paused, sniffed, then muttered under his breath:
“…Unless it’s brie.”

As Sung walked away, Cricket leaned forward slightly, watching him with mischievous curiosity.

“You hear that, Ally? ‘Deal with it.’ That’s what they say right before the demon frog escapes containment and eats half a city.”

He waggled his brows at Alyssa.
“Tell you what—I’ll stay on one condition. I get snacks, a soft place to nap, and you let me mount a GoPro on that grumpy one. I need footage. For research.”

He spun in a circle, struck a pose, and gave her a mock salute.
“Name’s Cricket, by the way. You just adopted 10 pounds of chaotic enlightenment in raccoon form.”

Then, very solemnly, he reached up with both paws, took off the goggles, and presented them to her.

“A gift. These see truths. Mostly embarrassing ones.”

And with that, he scampered toward the living room, singing what sounded suspiciously like the Ghostbusters theme—but all in raccoon gibberish.

“Oh, good.” Alyssa happily responded to the raccoon saying he’d stay. “Snacks are easy but what kind of bed would you prefer? Could make you your own room with everything designed for you…you know your size and such so you’ll be comfortable.” The hacker’s mind was going through all the possibilities. “Hear that,” Alyssa called throughout the house, making certain Sung could hear her. “The raccoon, Cricket, is staying.”

Cricket froze mid-scurry like someone had just announced free tacos.

He spun on his heel, paws splayed, and gasped.

“A room? For me?”
His voice cracked with overwhelmed joy, like a kid who just found out their new babysitter was Batman.

He twirled once, flopped dramatically on the floor with his arms spread wide, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Is this what love feels like? I think my heart just shed a layer of trauma.”

Cricket rolled back onto his feet in one fluid motion, then skittered in a tight circle like a dog testing out a new bed.

“I want beanbags,” he said decisively. “One of those tiny fridges stocked with Capri Sun. Mood lighting. A lava lamp. Maybe a mural of me doing karate on the wall? You know, for ambiance.”

At Alyssa’s declaration that he was staying, Cricket threw his arms into the air.

“You hear that, grumpy tea wizard? I live here now! I want my name on the mailbox and everything!”

He clutched his chest dramatically again.
“I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

He scampered over to the wall, pointed at it with theatrical confidence.
“That’s where my hammock goes. Over there—miniature bookshelf. I’m gonna need space for snacks, weapons, and at least three conspiracy corkboards.”

Then he paused, tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and nodded slowly.
“But yeah, mostly snacks.”

He did a forward somersault, stuck the landing, and pointed both fingers at Alyssa.
“Best day ever.”

And with that, he moonwalked into the living room again—this time humming Bohemian Rhapsody off-key in fluent raccoon.

Alyssa smiled. She spoke into the chip. “Peter you should come down here, there’s someone you should meet.” The hacker hadn’t put the glasses on yet for that she was waiting.

Sartre looked and saw the raccoon talking and speaking. As he came down the stairs he said,

"This is an anima animal. After swallowing a bee they can talk, and they gain power similar to Gaia’s chosen. They can also use new magic and freeze things or use fire and lightning. He motioned to the raccoon. “Anima buddy, can you show us a live demonstration of the powers of Gaia.”
Cricket stood perfectly still as Sartre spoke, his tiny paws folded behind his back like a dignified guest at a royal summit.

When Sartre finished, Cricket’s eyes slowly widened, lips parting in mock surprise.

“Ohhh, so now I’m an ‘Anima buddy.’ Ten minutes ago I was a rat with a tail.”

He clapped his paws together once with theatrical solemnity.
“A live demonstration, you say? Very well. Step back, mortals. Prepare yourselves for the majesty of Gaia’s smallest chosen.”

Cricket lifted a paw dramatically toward the ceiling, then began pacing in a circle as if channeling some unseen energy. His eyes fluttered closed. He muttered something in a mixture of Latin, raccoon, and beat poetry.

Then—whoosh—a tiny flicker of fire sparked from his paw… and immediately singed his own whiskers.

He blinked.

“Okay, okay, false start. Gaia’s buffering.”

He shook out his limbs, spat on the ground like a street magician about to get serious, and tried again. This time, a sudden gust of wind blasted from his direction, sending loose papers flying and knocking a bowl off the kitchen counter with a clang.

Cricket looked up, fur windswept, eyes blazing.

“Witness me.”

Then, still glowing faintly with residual anima, he formed a tiny crackle of lightning between his fingers and launched it harmlessly into a potted plant—which exploded with a puff of dirt and a squeaky poof.

He held his arms out to the side like a magician concluding his act.

“…And for my next trick, I shall absolutely burn this house down by accident if you don’t install raccoon safety locks.”

He bowed low, then added,
“Also, I’m gonna need snacks with electrolytes. Magic drains you, man.”

Alyssa’s phone chimed. “Well then you’re in luck - the groceries are here.” Alyssa went to the door and started bringing in the groceries, taking them to the kitchen.

Cricket’s ears perked up at the chime like a dog hearing the treat bag crinkle.

“Groceries?”
He whispered the word like it was sacred.
“Did someone say… groceries?”

He dropped into a low, predatory crouch, eyes narrowing, tail twitching in slow motion like a jungle cat sizing up its prey. Cricket crept closer—one paw at a time, overdramatically sneaking as if the groceries might flee at the sight of him.

“Must… investigate… contents… for national security reasons.” “Easy there.” said Sartre as he followed the raccoon and Alyssa into the kitchen.

Alyssa started unpacking the groceries. She had ordered some fruit and vegetables. The young woman turned to Cricket. “You like, maybe, some fruit?”

The hacker had, of course, ordered bags of her usual chips and other more junk type foods but had also gotten some popcorn for the movie theater style popcorn maker that they had in the house but hadn’t used yet. “Or there’s popcorn.”

Maybe she needed to read up on what to feed a raccoon. While Alyssa was pretty clear that cricket might eat just about anything, it didn’t mean I that was healthy for the critter.

Cricket froze mid–bread cuddle as Alyssa mentioned fruit. His eyes narrowed, suspicious.

“Fruit?”
He sniffed the air like it had just betrayed him.

“I mean… yeah, sure, I can eat fruit. I can also eat tree bark and the occasional unwatched sock. Doesn’t mean I should.”

He tilted his head and gestured dramatically with one paw toward the junk food bags.

“Now that—that is the language of civilization. Chips? Popcorn? These are the golden pillars of snack-based enlightenment.”

He scrambled up onto the counter, nearly tipping over a bag of apples in the process. With the serious gravitas of a gourmet critic, he squinted at an orange and gave it a cautious poke.

“…Is this one of those trap fruits with juice that squirts in your eye? Because I do not have vision insurance.”

Then, as she mentioned the popcorn maker, he froze.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You own a popcorn machine… and haven’t used it yet? What kind of cruel, snack-deprived existence is this?!”

He spun dramatically, clutched the sourdough to his chest, and pointed a trembling claw toward the ceiling.

“By the crispy wings of Gaia, I demand we initiate the sacred rite of Movie Popcorn Night! I don’t care what we watch. Explosions. Ghosts. That weird raccoon in space who’s not me.”

Then, sotto voce, with a sly glance at Alyssa:

“…And yes, I’ll eat a banana. But only if it’s peeled by a certified professional. Or you. You count.”

He plopped down on the counter, legs sprawled, a picture of satisfied chaos.

“Just keep the grapes cold. I like the crunch.”

Alyssa smiled at Crickets antics, “You sound like me about the healthy stuff.” The hacker handed the popcorn and the oil to Peter. “Can you turn on the popcorn maker and start heating it up? The instructions are right next to it.” Turning back to Cricket. “What meats, fish - that kind of stuff do you eat?”

Cricket placed one paw dramatically over his chest, ears twitching with pride.

“Ah, yes. A fellow junk food scholar. You and I, Alyssa—we walk the sacred path of sodium and satisfaction.”

At the mention of meats and fish, he straightened like a soldier being addressed by a general.

“Ohhh, now we’re talking. Meat? Yes. Fish? Absolutely. I am the terror of the tuna can. The scourge of the smoked salmon.”

He rubbed his paws together, eyes gleaming with the gleeful hunger of a gremlin about to open a buffet.

“Chicken? Yes. Turkey? Yes. Sausages? Double yes. Hot dogs? Triple yes. Bacon?”
He clutched the air like he was holding an invisible treasure.
“Bacon is my soul animal.”

Then, leaning forward in a conspiratorial whisper:

“Raw’s fine. Cooked is better. Sushi? I eat it like I’m stealing state secrets.”

He glanced toward the kitchen drawers.

“Do you have one of those little meat slicers? Because if you do, I want to ride it. And then eat what comes off.”

After a beat, his ears perked toward the popcorn machine as Peter started it up. He gasped, locked eyes with Alyssa, and whispered reverently:

“It’s happening.”

He then turned to the microwave and bowed.

“Ancient spirits of butter and salt… I am ready.”

For the first time since Cricket arrived, Mr. Sung had a slight smile. Cricket’s reaction was amusing compared to the whole food reaction. He reached over to the hard Salami and opened it. With the precision of a master chef and master swordsman, he rapidly chopped the round Salami into perfect pieces. The kitchen knife moved at blinding speed, and the smell of the Salami filled the kitchen. With the same speed, Mr. Sung threw a piece of the Salami into the air to land onto Cricket’s head. “Catch,” said Mr. Sung, not giving Cricket time to react. Testing the animals’ reflexes.

Alyssa watched Sung and Cricket with amusement. She went about preparing the butter and pulled out the salt from the packages. Pouring into a salt shaker.

She then started putting away the rest of the groceries.

Cricket’s ears twitched at the sudden scent—salami. His eyes widened, pupils dilating like twin moons in a meat-scented trance.

“Ohhh no you di—”

THWAP!

The slice landed squarely on his head with a comedic slap. He froze mid-thought, eyes crossed as if trying to look up at it.

“…Rude,” he muttered.

Without moving his body, he carefully tilted his head backward, the salami slice sliding down his forehead like a greasy crown of destiny. In a flash, his tongue shot out, catching it mid-slide.

He chewed slowly. Reverently.

“…I take it back. Rude and glorious.”

He licked his paw, then pointed at Sung.

“Okay, samurai salad-slasher, I see you. You wanna play the reflex game? Let’s go. Next time I catch it in air. First strike was yours. Round two’s mine.”

Then, narrowing his eyes with deadly seriousness:

“You and I, blade-hands, are gonna be great friends or eternal rivals. No in-between.”
Sartre helped Alyssa with the groceries.

Mr. Sung threw another piece of salami his way before placing the rest into a ziplock bag and helping put more groceries away. He looked over to Cricket. “You need training if you are to be around us, Cricket. Be great friends or eternal rivals will not matter if you die.” commented Mr. Sung, placing some things on the shelves.

Sung warming up to Cricket took less time than Alyssa had thought it would. “Sung is right. But, Sung, are you volunteering to train him?”

“Alyssa, shouldn’t he get sleepy after a while?” asked Sartre.

“I suppose. I did promise him his own room.” Alyssa wasn’t a raccoon expert, after all. She turned to the furry team member. “Cricket, would you like to take a nap? We can discuss how to redecorate your room later.”

Cricket stretched dramatically, arching his back like a cat, then flopped onto the tile floor with a groan.
“Nap? Finally, someone speaks my language.”

He rolled onto his side, paws curled like tiny fists, blinking up at Alyssa.
“Redecorate later, yes, yes… velvet chaise lounge, mood lighting, maybe a mini-fridge—these things take vision.”

Then, with a yawn that somehow sounded a little too dignified for a raccoon, he muttered,
“But first… beauty sleep. If I snore, it’s the Anima resonating. Totally natural.”

And with that, he closed his eyes right there in the kitchen, tail flicking once in contentment.

“No, not here.” Alyssa said with a kind tone to her voice. “You’re liable to get tripped over. Follow me, and I’ll show you to your room.”

“Room? All he needs is a dog bed and a bowl of water. Let him sleep on the couch unless he can do his laundry. Unless you are going to do that for him, Alyssa,” Commented Sung as they were about to leave.

“We have plenty of rooms. He can get one.” Alyssa wasn’t budging on it. “And how is him sleeping on the couch be any less laundry? He’ll still need sheets and blankets.” Alyssa gave 1/2 a huff. “I’ll do his laundry if you’re that concerned.”

Cricket cracked one eye open and gave a theatrical sigh.
“Dragged from slumber before it even begins. Truly, I suffer.”

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

He rolled upright with a lazy wobble, tail flicking indignantly.
“But alright, lead the way, gracious hostess. I assume there will be throw pillows and a snack drawer?”

He trotted after her on padded feet, mumbling to himself.
“Should’ve negotiated room service… rookie mistake.”

Alyssa grabbed some blankets and bedding from a linen closest and then opened a door. The room was like the others, bed, dresser, large window with shades, nightstands, attached bathroom, flat screen TV etc. “Your accomdations.” Alyssa said. She made up the bed, but then thought of something. “Hold on a minute.” She went back into the linen closer and pulled out a step ladder. The hacker opened it and put it in front of the bed. “That should make it easier for you.”

Alyssa then showed him the remotes on the night stand that operated the TV, lights and shades. “Well, that’s everything. I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

It was a lovely day. Everyone had settled into the house, including Cricket, the newcomer. They were doing their jobs and taking time off. The house and staff had now worked out any problems that may have arisen, with Mr. Sung and Sartre watching over them so patiently. Life was as everyday as it could get for our reluctant heroes. It was in the early morning when it arrived. Cricket and Mr. Sung both knew something was off about it. It had already gone through the security check, so Mr Sung knew it would not explode or endanger the house.

Security took the package to the evidence and forensics room, set it on the table, and left. Mr. Sung arrived shortly after and looked over the package. He recognized some of the symbols hidden in the colorful tape. He pulled his phone out, called everyone at the house, and asked them to come downstairs to the room.

Alyssa was in the pool, doing some laps, when she heard her phone go off. Who the heck was calling her and not just texting?

She didn’t pick up the call, instead, finished the last of her laps then swam over to the stairs, climbed her way up, dried off a little and then checked her voice mail. Sung? Meet him in the EF room? Well, it had been a little over a month since their last assignment so they were due.

She quickly got into one of the pool showers, just to rinse off some of the chlorine, then dried off as well as she could. Throwing the pair of old jean shorts over her suit and putting her hair up in a hair towel, the young woman then slipped into her sandels and headed to the EF room. Otherwise known as the Evidence and Forensics room was a secure room on the same floor as a pool but the opposite side of the house. She arrived, got through the layers of security and entered the room.

Based on the package on the table with the magical seal, which Alyssa quickly recognized, she figured her instinct had been right - they had another assignment.

A mysterious videotape. This was rather nostalgic Sartre thought as he made his way into the audiovisual room of the mansion.

Someone obviously had a yearning for nostalgia sending videotapes in 2025.

When they walked into the room, Mr. Sung looked at the two and acknowledged them with a nod. When they entered, he was also looking at the package. He ran a finger over the edge and corner of the box. He picked it up and held it with a flat hand, moving up and down a few times slowly. “It’s a wooden box wrapped in heavy paper.” The tape’s seals are from our offices. That is why I have not opened it yet," explained Mr Sung. “I can tell you it is safe.” He added with a glance at the two.

Alyssa gave a nod. “It might be safe but the question then is it it something we want?” The hacker quipped. “I guess we need open it.”

“Who wants to open it?” asked Sartre.

“There are two magic seals on this package: Illuminati and Dragon. So you will have to break that seal first,” Mr. Sung explained as he touched a seal. It glowed, and then some of the seals broke. He stepped back. “All you have to do is touch your seals, I think both of you,” Mr. Sung informed them.

Sartre touched his. He waited on Alyssa. “I doubt the postal service offers this level of secure mail.”

Alyssa touched her seal, and smiled at Sartre’s quip.

Now, all the tape and symbols fall away and fade from sight. As the paper opens, the box, made of ornate wood, is about the size of a jewelry box. When it is opened, there is a black dried Rose on white silk fabric and a few leaves around the rose. After closer inspection, the rose looks like it was dried; perhaps the leaves were not rose leaves. It was a magnificent silk fabric.

Mr. Sung just stared at the Rose and green leaves. “Ah… I am not a gardener. So… what now?” He reached in, carefully lifted the silk fabric out with the rose on a green leaf, and set it on the table below. It was an old VHS tape. Mr. Sung pulled that out as well and put it to the side.

“OK, I see the obvious. Any Ideas?” asked Mr. Sung.

“A red rose can symbolize love, passion, desire but also commitment. Its silk so it can’t die - never ending? Just a thought.” Alyssa shrugged. “So, should we watch the video tape?”

This had to be someone with feelings of nostalgia. VHS tapes were something from at least thirty years ago. For someone to send one of these out today, let alone sending out a paranormal one. It definitely had to be something interesting Sartre thought.

He paused. “But this rose is dead,” commented Mr. Sung. If I gave you this rose, Alyssa, would you think of love?" He asked, puzzled, looking at the videotape.

“Another interpretation could be Transformation. They can symbolize change or the end of one phase and the beginning of another. Their dark color evokes a sense of mystery, often linked to the unknown or the supernatural.” Mr. Sung said, looking at the green leaf.

“Green tea is from China, I can tell you. I do know just by looking at the few green leaves that it holds a significant place in the spiritual world, symbolizing purity, cleansing, and the journey toward enlightenment. But… what could the two mean, a black rose and tea leaf?” Sung asked the two. “Another thought is, do one of you two have a secret admirer who wants back into your lives?” asked Mr. Sung with a playful smile.

“Depends if the person giving it was goth or not.” Alyssa quipped. "Well, yes it could mean any of that. It’s also common to send dead flowers to someone who has wronged you. Of course, that doesn’t much go with the tea leaves. " as for the secret admirer, Alyssa breathed a laugh. “Not likely for me.” She paused. “Let’s watch the video tape. I have a VCR that I’ve not gotten to use yet.”

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

“What about those vampires? Like the ones in Chicago and Gary Indiana?” Asked Sartre. “A dying Rose would seemingly be one of their symbols. Or at least something that makes me think of them.”

Alyssa was starting to wonder why they weren’t just watching the video tape and still guessing, but still Peter’s guess was as good as any other. “That’s possible I suppose.”

“Lets try the video tape.” said Sartre.

“Whoever sent it has a penchant for the old school.” Sartre said.

A muffled voice drifted in from down the hall, groggy and tinged with annoyance.
“Why are we talking about roses and VHS tapes like it’s 1992… and not eating salami?”

Moments later, the soft pad pad pad of small feet grew louder as Cricket ambled into the room, his fur slightly tousled, ears twitching as if still recalibrating from sleep. He blinked at the gathering of humans, his expression straddling the line between confusion and concern.

“Okay, either I’m still dreaming, or someone mentioned vampires and secret admirers.” His nose twitched. “Am I awake for a horror movie or a soap opera?”

His dark eyes fixed on the strange object on the table. The black rose, resting delicately on folded white silk, drew him closer. He leaned in, giving it a cautious sniff.
“Huh… smells like death and dust. Classy.”

Then his gaze landed on the VHS tape, sitting beside the silk like some kind of forgotten relic, or buried threat. His ears flattened slightly.
“You’re all way too calm about cursed analog media,” he muttered. “That thing probably screams when it rewinds.”

He paused, giving his tail a thoughtful flick, then turned to Alyssa, one brow slightly arched in expectation.
“Do you have popcorn ready? Because if we’re gonna summon Sadako or some undead prom date, I want snacks.”

He glanced at Mr. Sung, his tone dry as old bones.
“And no, if you gave me that rose, I’d assume you were threatening me with a poetic death.”

With a final shake of his head, he hopped lightly onto the edge of the table, settling beside the tape. His claws clicked once on the plastic as he tapped it like someone sizing up a potential enemy, or a broken vending machine.

“Alright,” he said, resigned and mildly entertained. “Let’s play this creepy mixtape. If we all start bleeding from the ears, I’m blaming the goth ex-girlfriend theory.”

Cricket tilted his head as if listening for some distant warning siren only felines could hear, then let out a slow breath through his nose. The scent of old silk and dried petals clung to the air like memory. He sat back on his haunches, tail curling neatly around his paws, though the slight twitch at the tip betrayed a flicker of unease.

His gaze returned to Alyssa, narrowing slightly—not out of distrust, but in the way a seasoned cynic measures the calm before a predictable storm.

“You know this has ‘bad idea’ written all over it, right?” he said, as if needing someone else to bear witness to the common sense he felt was being ignored. “Like, somewhere in invisible ink on the label, probably written in Latin. Or pig’s blood.”

He leaned a little closer to the VHS tape again, inspecting it with the same suspicion one might reserve for a relic discovered in a haunted shop. His nose wrinkled.

“I mean, what kind of eldritch horror still sends messages on VHS? At least curse me in 4K. Is that too much to ask?”

Then he glanced over at the rose again, the contrast of deep black against blinding silk making his ears fold back slightly. His voice dropped, a little softer now—less sarcasm, more curiosity.

“You ever wonder who sends this kind of thing knowing exactly how it’ll mess with you? Like they want us to feel something before the trap springs. Nostalgia, dread, heartbreak. It’s never just a message. It’s a setup.”
He leaned over slightly toward Alyssa again, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, like sharing a secret too absurd to say aloud at full volume.

“Personally, I vote it’s either an ex, a bored ghost, or a vampire poet with too much time on their hands. Though honestly? Could be all three.”

Cricket stood up, stretched once, catlike and deliberate, then circled the tape like a priest preparing for a reluctant exorcism.

“And for the record,” he muttered toward the tape, “if this thing eats the VCR or chants in Aramaic, I’m hiding under the couch until next week.”

He turned back to Alyssa once more, tail swishing.

Alyssa shook her head, “Well, of course it’s more than just a video tape. Why would we get anyone normal sent to us? That’s what makes it interesting.”

Cricket let out a low, skeptical chuff through his nose, his ears angling sideways like miniature radar dishes catching sarcasm.

“Right. Because normal would be just sooo boring,” he muttered, drawing the word out like a bad flavor. He arched his back in a lazy stretch, though his eyes never left the tape, narrowed in wary focus. “God forbid we get a postcard or a text message like regular people.”

He paced once across the table’s edge, tail flicking like a metronome of rising unease.

“Interesting is how people die in horror movies, Alyssa. Interesting is how you end up possessed and vomiting Latin while crawling backwards up the walls.”

He crouched low beside the tape again, eye-level with the tiny spool window, glaring into it like he expected it to blink first.

“But nooo, let’s press play on the black rose death reel because mystery is fun,” he muttered. “Just don’t come crying to me when this turns into a found footage snuff film starring us.”

A final glance at Alyssa. Deadpan.

“Next time someone sends cursed media, I’m voting we send it back with a note that says, ‘Return to sender. We don’t subscribe to trauma.’”

Sung chuckled at Cricket’s last comment. “We could, but we do not get paid,” Mr. Sung said with some sarcasm in his tone of voice. Cricket, I am not too sure how good your smell is. But did you smell anything unusual with the rose or tape?" asked Sung, putting on some gloves to pick the tape up and place it in the player.

The caption on the screen at the bottom read, “Midnight service, Under Death, the occult of the Sun of Dark Light. Location: Savannah, Georgia, March. The Sword and Rose is a Spiritual and Metaphysical Shop.” It read in black letters as it scrolled across the screen. The pitcher was scratchy, like an old sci-fi movie. It looked to be in a room with no windows, and the piping gave the impression it was in a basement. The camera position was from the rear, near the ceiling. A sign in Latin said The Queen of Heaven welcomes all who seek clarity and direction on Their Own Unique Path.

A person stood on a stage in the front of the room, wearing a white and gold robe trimmed in red. They are talking to the people sitting in dark green cloaks. It is hard to tell if they are men or women from behind. The person also had their hood up. Curly red hair came out of the hood to mid chest. By the body shape, it looked like a woman.

It was strange. There was no sound, but the ritualistic movement of the hands told me that some ritual was being performed. After a moment, the red-haired woman picked up some beautiful and vibrant roses. She lifted them into the air, and they turned dark. The leaves fell off the stems, and the roses turned the same color as the rose in the box.

Then they stepped off the stage and tapped the roses on the head of one of the people in the green cloaks. The cloak dropped to the floor as if the person had disappeared. Dust could be seen where the person was. Everyone in the room raised their hands in the air. You get the feeling they were chanting something. Then the recording goes blank.

“Well, that was… something.” Alyssa said, with a sigh. She pulled out a small notebook and seemed to be drawing something. She didn’t speak for a few moments. “I’ll research the symbols and see if I can figure out what they are but I’m going to say they are ancient and not relates to Latin from what I can see.” Being fluent in Latin was of no help here. “So, I guess we’re headed to Savannah?”

“The mother of heaven is usually a reference to the Virgin Mary. It seems as if this cult is or was worshiping a version of her or a stand in for her. Perhaps a radical Catholic offshoot or some sort of Gnostic offshoot of worship of the Divine feminine.” said Sartre.

Cricket’s whiskers twitched the instant the tape began to play. He squinted at the flickering screen, transfixed by the scrolling caption, ears pricking at words he couldn’t hear but somehow felt anyway.

When the hooded woman lifted the roses and they blackened in her grasp, a low hiss escaped him, almost feline. He leaned forward, nose nearly touching the glass of the TV, as if scent alone might decode the ritual. The moment the cloaked figure collapsed into dust, Cricket jerked back, fur bristling down his spine.

“Okay… that’s definitely not your grandma’s midnight mass,” he muttered, voice tight with unease.

He paced along the edge of the coffee table, claws clicking in nervous rhythm while his eyes never left the screen’s static haze.

“Roses that rot on command, people turning to powder, yeah, that tracks with ‘bad idea’ in invisible ink.”

A faint shiver rippled through his tail as the recording cut to black. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, then shot a wary glance toward the ornate box on the table.

“Just for the record,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “if anybody tries tapping me on the head with a bouquet, I’m bolting for the nearest air vent.”

He settled into a cautious crouch, ears swiveling for threats only he could scent.

Pretty sure the only unusual smell here is imminent doom marinated in floral.”
Cricket closed his eyes, drew a slow breath through his nose, and let the scent roll across his palate like a sommelier sampling sorrow.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

“Metal oxide, old celluloid, a whisper of mildew, normal vintage-tape funk,” he murmured. Then his brow furrowed and his ears flattened a notch. “But underneath? Something… sweet-rot, like funeral lilies left too long in heat. Same ghost-odor clinging to that black rose.”

He opened his eyes, tail twitching once. “So, yes, nothing good, nothing natural, and definitely nothing I want rubbing off on my fur.”

Then, no one touched anything without gloves, and these thicker gloves are for bio-warfare, not just surgical gloves, he warned sternly. “Any other information anyone sees with what we have here?” Mr Sung asked as he used some tweezers to pick up a leaf and take it over to the forensics table.

“We could possibly be looking at people worshiping ancient forces, quite similar to the forces we encountered back at the apartment building. They’ve been around for a very long time. Those beings at the apartment building seemed quite benevolent though.” said Sartre.

“The ones in the apartment building were but I’m not thinking they all are. Maybe I should bring the talismans I got that day with us?” Couldn’t hurt anything, unless it did. Alyssa didn’t really know what to add to what they had just witnessed. “I think I’ll leave the handling of possibly hazardous, esoteric substances to both of you.” Indicating she meant Sung and Peter. “I’m like a magnet for creepy stuff, might be best if I don’t mess with that.” Pointing to the flower.

“It might be good if you bring the talisman’s Alyssa.” said Sartre. “Where should we start?”

“Well, I’ll let both of you start with the evidence. I’ll start by getting the RV ready to go and running the symbols though my tech, see if anything comes of it. Actually, I’ll start on the symbols first as that might take awhile, so I can do the RV as I’m waiting.” Alyssa explained, then turned to their newest member. “Cricket, you want to help me with the RV?”

Cricket tilted his head, eyes narrowing with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for vacuum cleaners and suspicious tuna cans.

“The RV?” he echoed, as if she’d just invited him to help perform dental surgery on a truck.

A long pause. Then, with the weight of a thousand unspoken feline grievances, he rose to his feet, stretched like he had all the time in the world, and flicked his tail once.

“Fine. But if I end up covered in axle grease or haunted axle grease, I’m filing a complaint with the nearest union of sarcastic familiars.”

He hopped down from the table, padded toward the door, and added under his breath, “Also, I’m not holding a flashlight this time. Last time it flickered, and I saw my own existential dread in the reflection.”

“Not the engine, the interior.” Alyssa responded. “Well, more stuff like that.” The hacker gave Peter a peck in lips. “If you need me, let me know.” As Alyssa left the room she added. “Don’t either of you get killed or possessed.” With that and making sure Cricket was with her the young woman left the room.

After looking at the evidence and running some tests on the rose leaves, Mr. Sung made some hum… noises. "Whoever even bred this rose is a genius, " he commented. He looked at some of the leaves under the electron microscope. He looked at the screen for a few minutes, then started typing on the computer and trying to match them to the pitchers on the screen. He backed away, looked over the table, carefully took all the samples, and locked them up.

He took off his gloves and disposed of them carefully. “The Rose is bio-engineered with Nightshade, Curare, and Rose, making one of the most deadly flowers in the world. I have never seen anything like it.” He said out loud, then texted his findings to the others as he cleaned up and prepared for the trip.

In the chip: Anything interesting going on in the RV?" asked Sartre.

In the RV, Alyssa had turned on the engine and it seemed to be running fine. She then hooked up the refrigerator as it needed to run a bit before it could be used. “Nope.” The hacker responded into the chip. “Just typical getting stuff ready. You could join us.” Not that he needed an invitation. Then outloud, “OK, Cricket let’s get your sleep area situated.”

Sartre made his way to the RV eager to see the hacker and the raccoon anima buddy.
Cricket leapt onto the narrow counter with practiced ease, tail swishing as he surveyed the inside of the RV like a landlord inspecting a rental after a rave.

“My sleep area, huh?” he said, ears twitching. “Can’t wait to see what five-star amenities you’ve lined up. Let me guess, folded towel in a cabinet and half a packet of beef jerky for turn-down service?”

He sniffed the air once, then gave a small nod.
“Engine smells like it won’t explode today. That’s progress.”

With a low, deliberate stretch, he padded toward the back, poking his head into a storage nook.

“I’m calling dibs on the space under the bunk unless someone else already claimed it for occult artifacts.
He looked back over his shoulder, tone dry.
“Also, if there are spiders, I’m charging hazard pay.”
“How’s my hacker doing?” Sartre said as he began to play with Alyssa’s hair.

“Well, the RV is big enough. Peter and I have our room up there,” Alyssa spoke to Cricket, and pointed to the area above the kitchen. “Sung has the room back there,” as she pointed towards the back of the van. “I figured I could use this area.” She opened a smaller area above the living area that had a bed, and a small night stand, and a small ladder leading up to it. “When we’re moving the ladder will have to be put up but it’s all yours.” She smiled slightly. “No spiders, unless you put them there.”

The hacker leaned a little into Peter. “Good. Glad to see neither you or Sung got possessed by the rose. We should be ready to leave in a few hours or we can leave in the morning.”

Walking up and into the RV, Mr. Sung started to put his gear away. He placed some of his swords under the bed in a drawer under the bunk, his suit bag in a skinny closet next to the bunk, and a bag on the bunk. Then he saw Cricket pop his head out. Sung looked at him for a moment. It had been 20+ years since he had a bunkmate.

Sung sighed. “If you leave food under there, I will throw you in a storage compartment under the RV,” Worned Sung added, sinisterly. " And no one here will be able to save you. "

Cricket craned his neck upward, eyes narrowing at the lofted nook with the ladder like he was appraising a throne made of secondhand upholstery.

“Oooh. Elevated. Private. Slightly claustrophobic. I love it.”

He bounded halfway up the ladder, then paused, glancing back down with a deadpan flick of his tail.

“And no spiders… yet. But I make no promises if someone leaves open snacks.”

Reaching the top, he nosed around the pillow, then circled once before flopping into a loose sprawl.

“This’ll do. I’ve had worse. Once had to share a motel mini-fridge with a cursed mummified chihuahua. At least this one doesn’t whisper in Latin when the lights go out.”

From his perch, his voice floated lazily back down.

“And don’t worry. If that rose starts crawling across the floor like it wants to flirt, I’ll bite it.”

“Well, I will start packing the non-refridge food from the kitchen but we’ll need at least an hour before the fridge is ready.” Alyssa stated and “I’ll get my clothes and such. Anything else we need from the house?”

He thought for a moment, “You already grabbed the talismans, go ahead and grab my assault rifle and my pistol.” You may want to possibly bring your knife as well, but you need to be careful when using that because of the power that it contains. What exactly happens when you use it?"

“We can discuss that later.” Alyssa responded to Peter. “I can grab all of that but don’t you want to pack any clothes?” Maybe, when they were getting ready to go. “And I have my knife with me. I think Prue might have something to say about it if I don’t bring it - it’d probably show up on its own.”

“Grab my suit and tie .”

Guys. Alyssa thought but didn’t say outloud. “OK.” Though, thinking he might want a few things like socks, she’d pack him a few more things and shove them into her bag. “What are you going to be doing while I’m doing all of that?” She didn’t suddenly become his maid after all.

“Just need to have the proper attire in case we need to convince someone. I prefer casual dress as well. It would be cool if you could go around in your hacker outfit. The hoodie and the sunglasses.” said Sartre as he smirked.

“We don’t know how long we’ll be there figured you might want you know some essentials as well.” Alyssa responded. “I’ll pack you some stuff but I can’t carry all of that by myself. I’ll text you when it’s ready and you can come help me.” That last part wasn’t a question. “And you didn’t answer me, what are you going to be doing?”

“Asking around occult circles. Seeing if they know of any references on the tape.”

Alyssa nodded and headed off to get stuff ready.

Cricket perched on the armrest of the RV’s couch, ears twitching with interest as the conversation floated past him like warm air from a vent.

At Sartre’s mention of hacker outfits and sunglasses, he let out a short snort.

“Yeah, nothing says ‘blend in’ like dressing like you’re about to livestream from a bunker in Belarus.”

He stretched, spine arching, before hopping down to the floor with a soft thud, tail flicking lazily.

“Also, if you’re packing for me, I request the essentials: snacks, a blanket that doesn’t smell like Sung’s meditation mat, and one of those tiny travel fans. Drama gets hot.”

Padding after Alyssa for a few steps, he added dryly under his breath, “And if I help carry this stuff, I expect to be promoted from mascot to ‘fuzzy logistics consultant.’”

He paused, glancing back toward Sartre’s retreating form.

“Asking around occult circles, huh? Just don’t trade anyone a fingerbone for info. Or if you do, make sure it’s not yours.”

The hum of the vehicle’s systems filled the quiet, but the feline’s ears remained still now, tuned instead to the thoughts winding through his own head.

He leapt lightly onto the kitchen counter, avoiding a stack of gear with practiced grace, and curled his tail neatly around his paws. His eyes, sharp and too intelligent for comfort, scanned the RV interior without really seeing it.

“Alright…” he muttered to himself. “So we’ve got a VHS tape that smells like mildew and malice, a rose that sucks the life out of people and leaves them as human-shaped dust piles, and a robed death-witch pulling vanishing acts in the middle of a metaphysical basement rave.”

His whiskers twitched. “This has Dragon fingerprints all over it—or worse, something using their style to cover ritual magic that predates plumbing. That’s never good. And those green-cloaked followers? If they were volunteers, I’ll eat Sung’s entire philosophy library.”

He hopped down and began pacing slowly across the small floor, voice low, more to himself than anyone else. “No sound on the tape… but the visuals had enough symbolism to choke a Rosicrucian. Black roses, transformation, disappearance… Could be blood magic, could be necromancy, could be performance art by cultists who never got into Juilliard.”

Pausing at the RV window, he peered out through the tinted glass, watching the motionless house.

“Savannah, Georgia. Why’s it always somewhere humid and haunted? And what the hell is a ‘Sun of Dark Light’? Sounds like something Nietzsche would mumble in his sleep during a fever dream.”

He sighed, more tired than annoyed.

“Too many unanswered questions. Not enough salami.”

Cricket padded toward the front of the RV, then sat near the driver’s seat, gazing out at the yard like a sentinel—or a cat waiting for the next chapter to begin.

Packing didn’t take long, and Alyssa did pack a bag for both her and Peter to make sure he had what he might need.

She shut down anything that needed her touch. Packed anything needed and then loaded it into the RV.

---

Later Alyssa started up the RV, made sure everyone was ready to go and headed out. It would be a seven - eight hour trip and late by the time they arrived.

The trip was long and uneventful. Traffic was a pain, as always, and the detours to the RV height were not making things any easier. However, living in the morning and arriving around four made for a relatively uneventful trip overall. They pulled into an RV park area by the beach, with a spot off almost by itself. It was a lovely day, with a gentle breeze and warm sun. The smell of the ocean was everywhere. The beach sand was decently clean.

The city has a rich history, lending Savannah a unique character and numerous historic buildings. There are manicured parks, horse-drawn carriages, gothic buildings, and haunted houses. But it is a city with something to hide underneath its beautiful character, something dark that most could not see or sense.

With a bit of research, many places could be worth investigating. Or fit what the team was looking for, thanks to the hacker who could find an electronic fly across the world away. The Mystic Apothecary, Roses Conjure, and The Sword and Rose, three shops, looked promising to get some information. Most are downtown and are popular.

Sartre said, “The Sword and Rose is the obvious starting point. It’s the only one named after an object directly on the tape. Most shops like that live in metaphor, euphemism, mystery marketing. But putting that name in black letters across the screen like it’s a news chyron?” He shook his head. “That’s a message. Maybe a signature.”

“The phrase ‘Mother of Heaven welcomes all who seek clarity’—that’s not just new age mysticism. That’s liturgical. Rooted. That phrasing doesn’t come from a book of spells you buy at a tourist trap. It sounds Gnostic. Maybe even Marian reinterpretation. Or something older pretending to be Catholic.”

He turned to the rest of the group

“We’re dealing with a group that uses religious architecture, symbols, language, ritual, to mask transformation. That woman on the tape wasn’t performing a spell. She was conducting a rite. That’s ceremony. That’s hierarchy. That’s theology. The kind of theology that builds a church beneath a store and calls it sanctuary.”

“I’ve seen cults that believe in salvation through erasure. This feels like that. Like they’re preparing for something. Or someone.”

“We start with the Sword and Rose." He looked to see what the group thought.

Posted by : Cindy

[wallyrobinett]

Episodes like this really show why The Horned God storyline stands out. The atmosphere, pacing, and lore feel deliberate instead of rushed, which is rare. I like how it leans into mystery rather than overexplaining everything. Moments like this remind me why community-driven storytelling still works when developers give it room to breathe instead of forcing constant action.

[oldschool96]

His ears flicked at Sartre’s every word, small, subtle movements that marked attention deeper than one might expect from a creature his size. But then again, nothing about Cricket was just what it seemed.

At the phrase “salvation through erasure,” his posture changed—shoulders tightening, tail curling a little more defensively around his side. By the time Sartre said “theology that builds a church beneath a store,”

Then he looked up.

“So… we’re talking about a cult that gives people enlightenment by making them disappear.”

He blinked once, as if that logic tasted sour.

“‘Mother of Heaven,’ huh? Sounds like the kind of mom that hugs you so tight your atoms come apart.”

He sniffed toward the distance—toward Savannah, where horse-drawn carriages rolled through cobbled streets and secrets slithered under brick and lace.

“Roses that rot in your hand, sacred architecture under a gift shop, salvation through becoming dust in a robe? Yeah, sure. That’s a healthy spiritual journey.”

He flicked a paw and gave Sartre a flat look.

“I’m with you. We start there. I just hope whatever they are ‘preparing for’ isn’t the kind of thing that talks back.”

“And if it is? Let’s make sure it’s something we can punch.”

Alyssa just watched the animated raccoon move about and discuss his take on things. “The Sword and The Rose, works for me. Maybe, I could do a background check on the store before we head in there.”

“Try that.” said Sartre. “Can you put on your hacker hoodie and glasses while you do it?”

Alyssa smiled at him, “I suppose, but first I’ll need to get the van out of the trailer.”

“Can I help?” he asked.

“Sure, thanks.” Alyssa headed out of the RV and towards the back where the trailer was.

Sartre made his way around to the trailer. The Savanna Georgia air was somewhat crisp. He unlocked the trailer and helped Alyssa into the trailer where the van was sitting. He thought that her computers were indeed a trove of knowledge.

“You going to drive the van out of the trailer?”

“That’s the plan.” Alyssa hit a button which lowered the ramp from the trailer. “If you will direct me out.”

Sartre gave a quiet nod and stepped backward off the ramp as it descended, the groan of hydraulics briefly overtaking the sounds of the nearby surf. The sunlight caught the trailer’s aluminum interior in harsh reflections, casting fragmented beams across the stored van like slanted blades of light.

He positioned himself at the side, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sharp. One shoe scuffed slightly on the concrete as he moved into a clearer line of sight. Alyssa’s silhouette framed in the tinted glass. The van’s engine purred to life, low and confident.

Sartre raised one hand and motioned her forward with subtle precision, his other hand outstretched in a slow, controlled gesture. The tires rolled cautiously down the ramp, the trailer creaking softly with the shift in weight.

His eyes darted to each wheel in turn, gauging the angle, the slope, the clearance. A tight pivot to the left—he motioned for it. A half-second adjustment to avoid a low curb lip—he indicated it with a downward slice of the hand. The rhythm between them was wordless, practiced, almost ritualistic.

As the back tires cleared the incline and the van rolled onto the flat earth . Sartre held up a single finger to stop.

He stepped back and gave the hood of the van a brief pat, expression unreadable, then turned toward the ocean breeze.

Alyssa stepped out of the van and walked over to Peter and stood with him a moment, watching the ocean. The beach was fairly empty being off season and brisk. “See I told you the beach is so much better when it’s empty.”

He said, "The beach and the ocean are amazing. Hemingway wrote a lot about the sea. He was also known for stating that things were hidden beneath the surface. " The Savannah coast unfolded in shades of bone-white sand and weathered driftwood, the Atlantic stretching out like a sheet of hammered lead beneath a sky bruised in slate and pewter. Wind stirred low and constant, not violent, but insistent—like a voice beneath breath—raking fingers across the tall sea oats and pulling at the cuffs of forgotten beach fences leaning in crooked prayer.

The tide rolled in slow and heavy, not with the playful cadence of summer waves, but with the deliberate rhythm of something ancient returning. Foam laced with brine coiled along the shore like lace unraveling, breaking apart only to reform again in near-silent ceremony. The surf made no jubilant cry. It whispered.

Above the dunes, the air hung with salt and ghost memory—of storms weathered, of ships never returned, of names etched into the damp heart of the sand and washed away just as quickly. Here, erosion was not destruction. It was concealment.

Alyssa nodded. She had read Hemingway, as English professors tend to like him, but never particularly liked his writing. She did, however, find the “Old Man and The Sea” better than “The Grapes of Wrath.”

The hacker turned and went back to the van, opening up the side sliding door and getting in, before closing it again. Peter would join her if he wanted to.

She started up the computer equipment in the van.

Sartre watched as the computers flickered to life.

“What do you plan on looking at with those, Hacker.” Sartre asked.

“The store, The Sword and The Rose. I will investigate the other stores as well.” Alyssa responded, before beginning to type.

Sartre watched.

“What are the basics of hacking?” he asked.

“Basics are knowing code.” That was really the brunt of it. “How to get into back windows, access the dark web. Things like that.” Alyssa kept typing waiting on a response. “Shoot,I forgot to bring a Coke with me.”

Sartre returned to the RV and retrieved a can of Coke. He made his way back to the van.

Alyssa took the Coke, it was nice and cold. “Thanks. I hope Cricket isn’t annoying Sung, too much.”

Cricket dropped lightly to the floor

He padded out on quiet paws, tail flicking with interest. Ears perked, nose twitching, he gave a quick shake of his fur like someone shrugging off a nap too short to satisfy.

“Mmm… smells like caffeine and moral ambiguity,” he muttered, hopping up onto the nearest countertop with feline ease. May I annoy the monk?"

He glanced toward the back room.

“No? Good.”

With a wiggle of anticipation, he sprang down and trotted toward Sung’s area.

“Mr. Sung,” he called, drawing out the syllables with theatrical mischief, “wake up and tell me esoteric secrets while pretending you don’t like me.”

“We can spar! Or meditate! Or meditate about sparring!”

He reappeared briefly in the hallway, eyes bright.

“Also… did you hide the beef jerky again?”

Sartre watched the computer screen.

“Lets see the hacker work.” Sartre said.

There was a good amount of commercial information in the shop. Upon reviewing the information, it was evident that tours were available in the area for those who wanted to explore the site, take a look around, or visit the store to discover more. The Sword and Rose do have a garden, and their employees do as well. There is nothing unusual about them.

It is a corner store with a large backyard. It is a Victorian house with two stories and does have a basement. What makes things interesting is the variety of accounts associated with the business and home. Most of them do not go anywhere. It’s probably shell accounts. There might be some small-time money laundering. It is not big enough for governments or states to attain.

Clare Ashlen’s name comes up a few times, and she has a company called “Executive Success Programs” (ESP)

was based in the New York Capital District and had centers in the United States, Canada, and Mexico. The subsidiary companies of Executive Success Programs engaged in recruitment using a multi-level marketing model. They used curricula based on the teachings tech of Raniere, known as “Rational Inquiry.” Courses attracted a diverse range of notable students, including actors and children of the wealthy and influential. At its height, Executive Success Programs has 700 active members. With a few million.

Alyssa sipped her Coke and she sat in her van reading the information she had found. “Now, why do you suppose a seemingly very ordinary shop have such unique accounts?” It wasn’t really a question, not as if she didn’t know how money laundering worked. She sent the information to both Peter and Sung. “So, we have a shop which is a front for - something illegal. That is not exactly what we do - so there’s obviously more going on here.”

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

“Alyssa, what is some information in there, I might know about?” asked Sartre.

“I sent everything I found to your phone. It’s probably easier for you to just read it over.” Alyssa explained

"Rational inquiry is usually defined as critical thinking such as being able to take apart arguments and seeing where contradictions are. It is also used in the scientific method as well as law, psychology and liberal arts.

This distorted version of the term is not the clinical term. Keith Raniere’s cult used the term to describe isolating an individual from their individuality and causing them to become dependent upon groupthink and simply upon doing what they are told. That way they are simply reliant on the cult’s doctrine to look for answers to everything. It always will revolve back to the leader." said Sartre. “The question is, what is the doctrine of this group?” he continued.

“I wonder if the best way to find that out would be to infiltrate them. Get someone on the inside.” Alyssa just thought it might be the best way to know but it also might take too long.

Cricket poked his head into the van, eyes half-lidded like he was still deciding whether this was a nap interruption or a vital mission.

“Someone say cults and capitalism?” he muttered, hopping up into the passenger seat and plopping down with a dramatic sigh. “Always a great way to start the day.”

He glanced at the screen Alyssa had been reading, squinting at the wall of text, then groaned.

“Shell accounts, rational inquiry knockoffs, culty branding? Yep. Classic playbook. They love sounding smart while slowly melting your brain with repetition and herbal tea.”

A claw traced a lazy circle in the air.

“Step one: convince you your mind is a problem. Step two: rent you back the pieces at a markup. Throw in a little secret language, call it ‘truth,’ and boom—you’re bathing in moonlight to align your bank account with your higher self.”

He folded his tiny arms behind his head, thoughtful now.

“But a garden, shell companies, and a creepy rose rite that disintegrates people? That’s not motivational speaking anymore. That’s old-world stuff in a new-world package. My bet? They’re using the Rational Inquiry façade to scrub people clean of identity… before rewriting them with whatever this ‘Mother of Heaven’ doctrine actually is.”

He paused.

“And if they’re laundering money, they’re laundering souls, too.”

A moment later, he tapped one claw against his snout.

“Also, please don’t make me infiltrate. I have too much personality to pass as a robe wearing zombie.”

Alyssa smiled, “Well, I think a talking raccoon might be a bit suspicious. Sung might be likely to kill some or come across to strong.” She looked at Peter. “Not sure about you. You’re mind abilities would they be effected by what the cult is doing. It looks like they want people with money but possibly more pliable than most. I know the type - I might be able to infiltrate them.”

“Alyssa, you would probably be able to infiltrate really well. Do you have any acting skills? What would your cover story be?” asked Sartre.

“We could work on a cover story. Acting skills? Umm… possibly a little.” In a way hadn’t she been acting most of her life, Alyssa thought.

Cricket tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief as he perched on the dashboard like a gargoyle with opinions.

“Oh, come on. You? Acting?” He gave a soft snort. “Alyssa, you lie to drones, bluff government firewalls, and convinced a raccoon to move into an RV. You’re a natural.”

He leaned over dramatically, balancing on his front paws.

“Cover story? Easy. Heiress to a boutique crypto fortune, looking for spiritual detox after a ‘shattering betrayal’ in Silicon Valley. Allergic to gluten, authority, and emotional accountability. Seeking enlightenment… and maybe a tan.”

A flick of his tail, proud of himself.

“You’ll fit right in. Just remember to say ‘vibrations’ a lot and never blink during group exercises.”

He settled into a loaf position, as if deeply pleased with his own genius.

“If it helps, I can forge cult personality quizzes and aura charts. I’ve been told my bullshit-to-charisma ratio is elite.”
“What cover story would you like, Alyssa?” asked Sartre.

Sung chuckled at Cricket’s ideas. But the raccoon is not far off. 'The more Alyssa makes up the story, the more believable it is. I believe they would seek after Alyssa’s skill set. There are computer geeks, then there is Alyssa. She is on a whole other level," added Sung with a sip of his tea. “If I went in, I would be detected, probably even without my sword,” suggested Mr. Sung.
“So, think lost soul. Maybe, a broken heart… from a not exactly nurturing family. Sounds like cult material. Show them I have money and am useful.” Alyssa thought for a moment. “Maybe they have meetings, there must be some way they recruit new members and weed out the ones they don’t want.”

Mr. Sung looked the place over again. "I would like to point out they will probably have a few Glyphs and Wards. It won’t be something like what they have at the house. It’s more like an alarm. I’m tempted to buy something and see what happens. Maybe go at the same time as Alyssa and draw attention from her.

“Sounds good to me.” Alyssa commented. “So, tonight let’s plan it out. Tomorrow I’ll go in.”

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

“Want to hang out after we plan, Alyssa?” What are everyone’s ideas for plans?" asked Sartre.

“Sure,” Alyssa replied. “Don’t know but my first plan is maybe everyone get out of my van.” Some how they had all ended up there. “Including me. Let’s go back to the RV, then order food. Take out of - something. Pizza?” Alyssa began shutting down her equipment in her van.

Sartre stepped out of the van, grabbed his cell phone. "What kind of pizza does everyone want? Including Cricket.

“Pepperoni,” Alyssa called out, as the last of her equipment shut down.

Cricket perked up like someone had just whispered the word “jackpot” in raccoonese. His head snapped toward Sartre, eyes wide with sudden, laser-sharp focus.

“Meat,” he said, deadpan. “And not the polite kind.”

He padded a small circle around the van’s floor, as if listing items off in his head.

“Pepperoni, sausage, maybe bacon if we’re feeling flirty. None of that fake veggie tofu nonsense. If the grease doesn’t bleed through the box, it’s not real pizza.”

He paused at the van door, tail swishing.

“And if anyone suggests pineapple, I swear I’ll chew through the van’s brake lines.”

Then, with a content little snort, he hopped down from the seat and padded after the others, muttering:

“Pizza and infiltration. We really are living the dream.”
Sartre started ordering the pizza.

Sartre headed back into the RV.

Mr Sung smiled and shook his head. “All of that is fine with me.” replied Sung, looking around. As he got out of the van, he was ever watchful.

Sartre began ordering the pizza, for drone delivery.

Alyssa closed and locked up her van and went back into the RV. She took a Coke out of the fridge, and took a seat.

“Coke instead of Pepsi?” asked Sartre

“Now, when have you ever seen me drink a Pepsi?” Alyssa asked, been with the man for months and not once had a Pepsi crossed her lips nor would it.

Pepperoni pizza, Coke two foods that were, sort of, safety nets for the hacker.

“Actually never.” he said.

“Coca Cola is good for hacking.” he smirked

“It is, lots of caffeine, sugar and it tastes good.” Alyssa responded.

Cricket paused mid-stride, ears twitching at the sacred words: “caffeine” and “sugar.”

“Oh, so that’s your mana source,” he muttered, eyes narrowing in mock revelation. “Here I thought it was spite and Wi-Fi.”

He hopped up onto a nearby seat, sat back on his haunches, and made a grand little gesture with one paw, as though conjuring an invisible menu.

“Coke over Pepsi? Bold. Dangerous. The sign of someone who has tasted chaos and found it carbonated.”

He gave a satisfied nod, then added with a smirk:

“Respect.”

Cricket clambered up to the edge of the RV table, paws tapping lightly as he settled beside Alyssa’s keyboard. He cleared his throat with theatrical importance, tail flicking once behind him.

“Okay, hacker girl, listen up.” He tapped the screen with one claw. “Tomorrow’s a ‘clarity seminar’—daily at four, right at that adorable little cult boutique. Sounds harmless. Real ‘tea and vague spiritual nonsense’ type stuff. That’s your doorway.”

He paused, sniffing at the Coke can nearby with visible disdain.

“So, you’ve got three angles to play when you waltz in there pretending not to notice the soul-devouring glyphs on the walls. First, money. Flaunt it, but soft. Designer bag, expensive watch, just enough to make them think, ‘this one’s got juice.’ Cults love cash cows.”

Cricket hopped down and started pacing on the edge of the seat, paws behind his back like a raccoon-sized general.

“Second—spiritual burnout. Tell 'em you’ve tried everything. Meditation, retreats, therapy, goat yoga. None of it helped. Now you’re empty inside, and looking for real answers. That lights up every manipulator in the room like it’s Black Friday at the soul market.”

He stopped, turned back, and pointed at her.

“Third, be open. Not desperate, not needy. Curious. Willing. That’s catnip for these creeps. Makes you seem pliable, but not broken. People who ask questions are bait. They think they’ve got the bait-and-hook answers.”

He scratched the side of his face idly.

“Now, I’m not saying you have to do all three. Could just pick one and lean hard. You’re a pro at the chameleon game. But I gotta ask—what’s your flavor of bait, Alyssa? You wanna go in as the rich lost soul? The spiritually hollow tech genius? The curious cat who just wandered into the wrong garden?”

He blinked, then smiled with a flash of mischief.

“Or maybe something else entirely? Hit me with it. I’ll adjust my popcorn reserves accordingly.”

Cricket folded his paws and waited, bright eyes unblinking.

Posted by : Cindy

[oldschool96]

“I should go with burnout but money.” Alyssa said. “I can use the fact I have tech skills to my advantage with this, as well though.” She paused. “I’ll need a few a things. Some clothes, designer but not over stated. Maybe a car, but most people Uber so I could just go with that.”

“Do you want the clothes delivered by Illuminati Drone?” asked Sartre.

“Yeah,” Alyssa started doing something in her phone. “Let me pick out a few things.” It took her maybe 5 minutes. “There, a few things are bring delivered. If I need more I can get them later.”

Sartre waited on the humming of the drone.

It took about an hour but the drones finally arrived. The dropped off the packages which were then brought inside. “I could use help getting these to our room.” She said to Peter.

He would help her get the clothes to their room, there were several different outfits to match the differing types of personalities for an undercover operation. He said something to her in the chip.
Cricket peeked his head around the corner of the bedroom door, eyes bright, ears perked high.

“Sung! Sung, hey!” he chirped, tail flicking with barely contained energy. He scurried fully into view, dragging a fuzzy sock in his mouth like it was a prized catch.

“They’re doing boring clothes stuff again. You know what that means?” He dropped the sock and spun in a little circle, claws skittering lightly on the floor.

“It means I’m ready to pounce, buddy!”

He scampered up onto the couch and leapt off it with a twisting somersault, landing in a low crouch. He chittered with excitement.

“C’mon, you’ve got those monk reflexes—I bet you could dodge me. Or try to. We could make it a game. I’ll even give you five seconds head start!”

Cricket bounded up to the coffee table, darted under it, then poked his head out from the other side.

“Or maybe you wanna play sock dragon. I’m the dragon, and the sock is my treasure. You try to steal it without me tagging you. Classic stuff, Sung. Classic.”

He froze dramatically, eyes wide, as if hearing distant thunder.

“Wait… unless… you’re scared?”

His grin spread slowly, wickedly, in the way only a mischief-minded raccoon can manage.

“I knew it. You’re scared I’ll win again.” He paused. “C’mon. Just five minutes. I promise not to use the coffee table as a launch pad. Much.”

He rolled over and kicked his legs in the air, trying and failing to look innocent.

“Pleeeease?”

Sung just shook his head in amusement. “The one that moves slow and steady is the one that will win, fur ball.” He stood up and looked around. “Why would you mess with my socks? are you a dog now?” he said, questioning Crickit, walking over to get a bottle of water. We were in a hurry to get where?

Cricket gave a mock gasp, paw clutching his chest like Sung’s words had wounded him.

“Slow and steady? What is this, Aesop’s Fables? Sung, I live in the fast lane. I am the fast lane.”

He scampered backward with a playful zigzag, still clutching the sock like a flag of honor.

“Also, socks are universal playthings, not property. Dogs fetch. I create art.” He flung the sock into the air and caught it in a spin.

“And hey, you sayin’ we’re not in a hurry? Then clearly, you haven’t smelled Alyssa’s caffeine levels or Peter’s internal storm cloud lately.” He paused, sniffing the air dramatically.

“Yup. That’s a ‘we’re about to do something big’ vibe if I ever scented one.”

Cricket bounced up onto the armrest of a chair and posed.

“But if you’re not in a rush… maybe you can chase me. Just don’t throw your water bottle again. Last time, you nearly hit the lamp. And my dignity.”

He stuck out his tongue and darted behind a chair with a mischievous trill.

“C’mon, old monk. Race ya to enlightenment.”
The next day, Alyssa approached the shop on foot, her posture relaxed, movements fluid, that faint glaze in her eyes only someone deeply searching might carry. The little green dress clung with casual elegance — neither flashy nor forgettable — suggesting wealth without effort. The building before her looked like a Victorian grandmother’s memory, faded gingerbread trim curling at the edges like old lace. Hand-lettered signage in muted gold script read: The Sword and Rose.

Wind stirred the scent of roses, cedar, and something deeper, incense, maybe ,that clung to the porch like ghostly perfume. Wind chimes clicked a minor scale. The front door, painted a soft wine red, creaked faintly as she stepped inside.

The air changed. Cooler. Drier. Controlled.
The interior was bathed in amber light, no direct bulbs, only lamps tucked behind gauzy curtains and Himalayan salt crystals. The walls were lined with mismatched shelves, every one overflowing: polished crystals arranged by hue and shape, small brass figures of Ganesha and Sekhmet and St. Michael, thick books bound in leather with ambiguous titles. Some shelves held herbal tinctures, oils with curling labels written in flowing cursive: Soul Alignment, Astral Clarity, Grounding Blend, Karmic Reset.

To the left, a short staircase led upward toward the second floor, roped off with velvet and a hand-painted sign: Private Instruction. To the right, a wide archway opened into a conservatory like space. There, a dozen mismatched chairs had been arranged in a circle beneath a stained-glass skylight shaped like a lotus. Ferns and moss climbed brick walls. It smelled like wet stone and rosemary.

Already seated were three other individuals:

A woman in her early 50s with tight skin, vacant eyes, and a thousand-dollar handbag in her lap. She nervously rubbed a rose quartz worry stone.

A younger man with rough hands and a deep tan, maybe a tradesman. His gaze darted between corners.

A teen girl wearing a school uniform with eyes too old for her age, sitting next to a woman who radiated desperate serenity.

Standing by the small podium was a man who didn’t look like he belonged anywhere except here. He had perfectly tousled hair, a white shirt that clung to lean muscles, and a golden ankh on a long cord resting against his chest. His eyes, pale hazel, tracked Alyssa as she entered.

A soft, rehearsed smile.

“Welcome,” he said, voice like warm sand. “You must be here for the seminar.”

Alyssa imprinted the looks of the various people there to memory. She would add names later.

The vacant eyes, of the older woman, was not unfamiliar to the hacker, she had seen it before. Sick, divorced or lost someone close to her, Alyssa would guess.

The younger man almost seemed out of place, not that he couldn’t have money (one never really knew) but he seemed nervous - like he was waiting for something. Alyssa wondered if maybe, just maybe he was some kind of plant - unexperienced plant, if so. Maybe he had lost someone to the group.

The younger girl - teen. Alyssa would guess the woman next had all the earmarkings of a recruiter. At least from what Alyssa knew about cults. Her guesses on the teen, lost as teens tended to be (which made them prime targets) but she seemed to have endured something- seen something? Perhaps she’s like Alyssa was at that age - minus the genus thing - lost, and alone.

The man that spoke to her, Alyssa guessed, ran the seminar. “Yes,” Making her voice seem quietly small and unsure. “I am.”

The man with the ankh gave a warm nod, slow and gracious, like he was letting Alyssa step into the moment at her own pace. He didn’t press further. His fingers made a slow, fluid gesture that somehow said this way without moving more than a few inches. Alyssa drifted toward the circle of chairs, her eyes catching on details, small things, anomalies. She sat, crossing her legs slowly, cautiously casual.

The air in the room had changed, not just from the heat of additional bodies, it was something else, a pressure beneath the skin, behind the ears, like the silence of an empty theater just before the lights dim.

The teen glanced at Alyssa. Quick. Defensive. Measured. Her posture sank slightly into her chair when the older woman beside her placed a hand, light, almost performative, on her knee. The woman smiled at the group, a tad too wide, a tad too still, trained. Her earrings were tiny spirals. Her blouse, pale sage, nearly matched the walls. She carried the kind of ease that isn’t earned but practiced.

The older woman, the one with the rose quartz, hadn’t moved at all. Her thumb rubbed the stone in small, tight circles, not for show. This was habit, obsessive and grounding. Her eyes weren’t vacant. Not truly. They were hollowed, grief, perhaps, or exhaustion carved from something deeper. Alyssa had seen that look before, online forums, chatrooms filled with the bereaved, looking for something to believe in after the facts no longer served.

The younger man sat stiffly, elbows on knees. His head turned slightly as Alyssa passed, then jerked away, too fast. Guilt in the muscles. He was here under false pretenses, maybe, or under someone else’s. There was sweat on the back of his neck. His shoes were expensive, but new. His hands, not.
The facilitator began lighting candles arranged on a small table in the center of the circle. Beeswax. Sandalwood. A low chime rang out, not from a bell, but from a crystal bowl struck lightly with a padded mallet. A sound like glass melting, deepening in tone, vibrating just behind Alyssa’s teeth.

The man spoke at last.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice calm but carried. “To those who are new, and to those who are returning. You are not here by accident. You were called.”

He did not name them.

He did not ask for names.

He gestured again, this time to a series of items laid out across a folded velvet cloth on the floor. There were small bowls of water, polished stones, slips of paper with ornate symbols stamped into them in red wax. Each item arranged in a radial pattern, like the spokes of a wheel.

“This is the Circle of Resonance,” he explained. “You may take one item, the one that speaks to you. No one will tell you what it means. That’s for the spirit to guide.”

One by one, the others moved. The girl hesitated, barely, then took a stone carved with a spiral. The woman beside her nodded approvingly. The older woman with the quartz picked a slip of paper and did not look at it. The young man looked around before selecting a bowl of water and clutching it with both hands, knuckles tight.
When it was Alyssa’s turn, the facilitator did not look at the object she would pick. He looked at her, head tilting slightly to the right.

That’s when she noticed it.

The shadows didn’t match.

The light in the room was soft and directional, all the shadows should have flowed leftward, toward the windows. But the facilitator’s shadow curled toward him. Slightly. Subtly. Wrong.

And as she leaned forward to choose an item, she felt it again.

That pressure behind her teeth,
That ache in her spine like a tuning fork vibrating below hearing,
The glyphs above the locked cabinet from earlier seemed to burn behind her thoughts.

No one else seemed to notice.

The room smelled now of honey, candle wax, and the faint, unmistakable scent of ozone, like the space just after lightning, like the space between silence and something else.
The facilitator smiles again, wider this time. “Clarity is a process,” he says. “But the storm only clears once you’ve stood within it.”

Alyssa tried to not be obvious with noticing the incongruit nature of the shadow with the man. She pretended to focus on the items, a moment before her hand made its way to a polished stone, which was purple but she didn’t look at the stone much beyond that.

As Alyssa’s fingers closed gently around the cool, purple stone, a flicker passed through the circle, not visible light, not noise, but a shared ripple. Everyone else in the room seemed to register the moment without reacting, like sleepers turning slightly in unison beneath the same dream.

The stone was heavier than it should have been. Not by weight, but by presence. For a split second, Alyssa’s fingertips tingled, then went numb.

A low chime rang again, unstruck. The facilitator tilted his head, just slightly, watching her hand, not her, not her face, just her hand holding the amethyst. His smile didn’t move, but something behind it did.

“Thank you,” he said to the group, but the words were angled at her. “You’ve chosen well.”

The candles flickered again, just the three closest to Alyssa, and the shadows twitched.

From across the circle, the teenage girl flinched, barely, her eyes darting to Alyssa, then away. The woman beside her placed a hand on the teen’s shoulder, pressing down harder than before. The pressure of it looked rehearsed, like a signal. The teen didn’t resist, but she shifted in her seat, drawing one foot inward, protectively.

The young man with the water bowl looked up now, blinking slowly. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, then shook his head once. His hands trembled slightly. Water spilled onto his jeans, unnoticed.

The older woman with the rose quartz gave no indication she felt anything. But her thumb had stopped moving. It rested flat against the stone now, still and silent.

Behind them, the back door of the shop, one that had previously seemed purely decorative, creaked open by a hand unseen. A brief draft passed through the room, sudden and too cold. The air brought the smell of soil, as if a cellar door had opened below the earth.
The facilitator turned slowly to face the door, then looked back at the group. “The next stage is always the hardest,” he said, his voice lower now, quieter, yet it seemed to echo. “But it is also the most important.”

He gestured to the table once more.

“You may leave your chosen item in the Circle if you’re not ready. Or, you may keep it and proceed.”

No one moved at first.

Then the woman with the spiral earrings stood and walked toward the back door without a word.

The teen followed her, but looked back at Alyssa, briefly, her mouth parting like she wanted to say something, then thinking better of it.

The man with the bowl remained seated, now cradling it against his chest like a shield.

The facilitator watched Alyssa again, not demanding, not pushing, but waiting.

And in her hand, the stone pulsed once, faintly.

Like a heartbeat not her own.
Sartre said in the chip: “Alyssa, whats going on in there, you ok?”
“After it’s over see if you can gain rapport with some of the cult members.” he said.

“I’m OK.” Alyssa responded into the chip. “It’s odd but I can’t explain right now.”

Alyssa stood, with her stone in her hand, took a deep breath and proceeded towards the door. In for a penny, in for a pound. she thought.

As Alyssa stepped forward with the purple stone still resting in her palm, the air around her grew heavier, like walking into a warm fog. The facilitator’s eyes tracked her silently, his smile unchanged, but his pupils seemed darker now, almost absorbing the light.

Her boots made no sound on the wooden floor, though the floorboards beneath everyone else had creaked earlier. The door ahead yawned wider as she neared it, not pushed or pulled, but as if it recognized her presence and opened in acknowledgment.

The hallway beyond was narrow, warmly lit with a golden hue that didn’t quite match the shop’s more rustic lighting. The walls were lined with framed quotes in looping cursive, “Surrender is Strength,” “The Spirit Grows in Silence,” “The Veil is Kind.” The air smelled of jasmine and iron.

Soft music echoed from somewhere ahead, chimes layered with low chanting, played backwards or sideways, impossible to place. The moment Alyssa crossed the threshold, she felt a subtle shift, like stepping out of one version of reality and into another. Her stone pulsed again, not painfully, but insistently. A part of her wrist near the pulse point itched faintly, almost like something was being written into her skin.

Behind her, the door didn’t close, but it no longer looked like a door, just part of the wall now. Seamless. There was no going back the way she came.
A figure stood at the end of the hall, a woman, mid-thirties, dressed in the same earth-toned, gauzy clothing as many in the circle. Her expression was gentle but alert, eyes scanning Alyssa not like a person, but like a security system, registering every blink, breath, twitch.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice like incense, soft but clinging. “You’ve chosen the Amethyst. It means you’ve carried pain for many lifetimes.”

She extended a hand, palm open, not to take the stone, but to touch Alyssa’s shoulder, permission asked only in her pause.

“We don’t judge suffering here. We unweave it. Come. This is the Threshold Room. You’ll have a few moments alone. Then, if you’re ready, we’ll begin the initiation of Seeing.”

The door behind her opened, this time a visible, antique oak thing with carvings of vines, owls, and eclipsed suns. Inside was a dim, candlelit space with a single chair at its center. A small basin of water rested beside it, and a mirror hung above, draped with silk.

“Sit when you’re ready,” the woman said. “The Circle will find you.”

She stepped back and vanished through another door, leaving Alyssa alone with flickering candlelight and the low beat of unseen drums. The mirror across the room still wore its veil of silk.

And the stone in her hand no longer pulsed. Instead, it felt warm now. Almost… comforted.

As if it had found its place.

Alyssa stood there, she had a feeling sitting inside the circle too hastily might seem suspicious, so she took her time, as if contemplating it or her entire life. Just in case someone was watching. After about ten minutes of nothing more happening, Alyssa did find her way to sitting in the circle.

As Alyssa eased into the chair at the center of the candlelit room, the stone resting in her palm seemed to grow heavier, its warmth more concentrated now, like a small living thing. The moment her full weight settled into the chair, the air in the Threshold Room changed.

The candles that ringed the space guttered once, as if exhaling in unison, then steadied into taller, bluer flames. The faint scent of jasmine and iron thickened, then shifted, subtly, into something older and stranger. Frankincense, perhaps, or blood warmed over stone.

The silk draped across the mirror above her began to stir, not fall, not flutter, but stir, as if touched by fingers invisible. A moment later, it slowly slid away from the glass on its own accord, revealing not her reflection, but a warped shimmer, something like a funhouse mirror submerged beneath water. The image shifted softly, impossibly, hinting at other places, other faces, none of which fully resolved.

And then a whisper, not in the room, but in her mind, soft and many-layered, like multiple versions of the same voice speaking at slightly different times:
“Let go.”

The door Alyssa had entered through no longer existed. Where it had been now stood smooth stone wall. The mirror pulsed once, a ripple breaking across its watery surface. Behind her, one of the candles extinguished with a quiet hiss.

The stone in her hand gave off a faint glow now, soft violet, matching the low light bleeding into the room from above, where no visible light source existed. On the far side of the room, directly across from the mirror, a second door began to form, carved slowly into the wall as if unseen chisels were etching it from behind.

Alyssa felt the hair on the back of her neck rise, not from fear, but from pressure, like a thunderstorm held just outside reality.

Another whisper, this time, more specific.

“You are ready to See. Let the circle open your Eye.”

The mirror cleared slightly.

And what she saw was herself, but not her now.

It was a younger Alyssa, maybe fourteen, hunched over a laptop in the dark, the light from the screen painting her face in blues and greens. There were tears, anger, fear, confusion, all of it, and she was typing frantically. The scene flickered, and then showed a nearly identical moment years later, 18 year old Alyssa now, shouting into a headset during a digital heist, panic on her face.
A third whisper, this time from the room, unmistakably real, directly behind her.

“Which of you is true?”

The chair creaked faintly beneath her.

Then, footsteps.

Soft ones, approaching the newly carved door.

Someone, or something, was coming.

Posted by : Cindy