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[DolosusDoleus]

Elder Signs
OOC
”Evil never dies. Darkness never retreats. In the cracks and the crevices of our society there are monsters undreamed of by the rank and file of humanity. I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. They exist in the spaces between things, in the folds of existence where we can’t find them. Sometimes they cross over, sometimes they manifest, and all Hell breaks loose. Only this is not Hell, nor Heaven. This is like nothing anyone has ever understood.”
Dearthwater, New Jersey
February 16, 1986
16:46:23

In the sixteen years since the fall of Delta Green, the art of moving people around quietly has become something of a science. There’s a 58 year old clerk at the FBI with access to the machine that prints out ID cards. A colonel whose grandpappy was in the P4 division, and can requisition the movement of people at a moment’s notice. DG may be gone, but the work it did in the American government bureaucracy remains.

Maybe someone notices that something’s amiss, but when they look into the fellow with the curiously high security clearance, they find out that they never existed at all. The darkness is pushed back another day, and nobody is the wiser.

Yesterday, five people from five different places received five plane tickets, five blank CDC IDs, and five copies of a letter coated in gasoline. Five letters with sets of instructions: to come to Dearthwater, New Jersey. To come to the Clearwater Public Library, in the basement. To burn the letter after reading it.

Five letters. Fifteen green dots arranged into five triangles, one for each letter. Five agents.

One mission. One operation.

Infinite Eldritch horrors.

[Stirk]

There is a library. An old and dusty library, lit by a couple of bare light bulbs. A woman's hand taps along a series of books, the red nails touching just below words that are far too worn to read. It finally picks its target, seemingly no different from the others. The hand brings the book close to the light bulb, close to a face. The face of a blond woman, behind a pair of glasses. The woman looks over a few lines, before closing the book with a sign. It is immediately returned with a *thump*.

"Sometimes, creepy old places are just creepy old places. It looks like there is nothing here. Nothing interesting, at least."

[Hibou]

Dr. Ivers quietly reads over another half-baked essay in a dusty corner of his home office. His eyes wander from the page to the still massive stack of papers sitting in front of him, and then to the clock hung on the far wall. He was entering his third hour of grading, and was beginning to question the need for this job in the first place. The CIA spooks said having a cover job was a good idea, especially after "joining" Delta Green, and teaching intro level medicine seemed to make sense. Now though, thirty essays deep into another excruciatingly boring afternoon, he was beginning to reconsider that choice.

"I need a coffee break." Will announces to the empty room. He pushes his worn out office chair to the side and exits his office, flicking off the light as he leaves.

[Maximum Spin]

A young man turns to Dr. West with a worried look and replies, "You don't think someone else got here first, do you? The fact that the Bletchley-Hausdorff collection went here is technically public record, after all. And we both know it would be just like them to accept outside help just to beat us to the punch."

[Stirk]

A young man turns to Dr. West with a worried look and replies, "You don't think someone else got here first, do you? The fact that the Bletchley-Hausdorff collection went here is technically public record, after all. And we both know it would be just like them to accept outside help just to beat us to the punch."

The mentioned doctor swipes her finger across the shelf, leaving a long line in the dust. She then rubs he fingers together, obviously deep in thought.

"No. Not here, at least. There is too much undisturbed dust. No gaping hole where the collection should be. This place looks like it has been undisturbed for God knows how long. Besides, things like the Bletchley-Hausdorff collection tend to leave their mark on a place. It doesn't feel like they where ever here at all, at least not for long. If I had to guess, it was 'lost in transit'. Either as an accident or an 'accident'. It might have just been a decoy all along. Unless..."

[Maximum Spin]

"I'd hate to see another lead go cold, least of all after the mess in the Lesser Antilles. I guess, on the bright side, if those books contain half of what they're supposed to, we can be glad they're apparently so well-hidden, or somebody probably would've ended the world some time last century."

"Still," he adds, idly prodding a rare first printing of Émile which may never actually have been read, "the sooner we have those maps in hand, the better."

[bloop_bleep]

PTW

[Glass]

Jackson's letter didn't reach him.
Which was fine enough. It wasn't technically his letter, anyway.

The head of the lab was the one to receive the requisition; he ran it by his secretary to make sure he wasn't mistaken. Jack was being shipped inside the hour.
He didn't mind. They'd given him the week's trash to mess around with; he'd already made a small item that caused the light in his room to click on and off, and was working on other things.