Director of Archives and Unusual Acquisitions office:

Alundra Cho looked at the screen infront of her while her fingers slid across the single silver claw she adorned her left index finger with. Her eyes scanned the information in front of her with scepticism. Or rather, with the pitch black, angry cousin of scepticism; Cynicism. Pure, angry, unfiltered cynicism. She flicked through the screens again and again, feeling her temper flare more and more violently. To her this was some sick joke from the higher ups, punishing her for botching something so obscure she wasn’t aware of it yet.

“This is the team we can put together?!” She exclaimed, making a young man to her left almost jump out of his shoes. Jonas Hendersen-Smith, Age 32 and Senior Adviser to Alundra was an up and coming star in the organization's RND branch, a down right master of blackmail and insider trading, he had all the makings of a future hot shot if not for his insistence to act snarky and rub his position in others faces.

“Under the time and financial restraints, YOU and financial put on it, yes. That is the team...”He said, adjusting his glasses.

“I mean. The girl from HR is… ok I guess”

“The Hipster witch? Dime a bloody dozen. The instagram models of magic.” Johan said, taking glee in shooting down his boss with what they both perceived to be the truth. Truth was, that while new age witches with a little power weren’t exactly uncommon, a Hecate sworn blood witch was a pretty good asset. Especially compared to the

“And well… They have a veteran asset.” Alundra tried, deadpanning as he looked up on the numerous complaints from Finance in regards to Old Man Henderson. A man who had been with them for so long, yet remained just an asset.

“They have a senile old man with a shotgun…” John paused. “A shotgun tied to several other shotguns.” He corrected. “He has a knack for surviving, I’ll give him that.”

“A chosen one” The exasperation all but rolled off the Director of Archives and Unusual Acquisitions. Even as she said the words, she was closing her eyes and rubbing her temples for the rebuttal sure to come. Jerimiah Tomb, the redneck prince of Sumeria. One of the few remaining links to Gilgamesh, the king of prechristian legends.

“Inbred. 0.005 percent lineage. ” John said with a shit eating grin.

“:...I am trying to be positive with the shit I am afforded here.” Alundra mumbled under her breath. “You are making it mighty difficult John”

“Again. YOUR budget proposal.”

“...Why did I promote you again.”

“Because I got dirt on you from last christmas.”

“Right…” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, in which Jacobs idly figured if he had pushed the envelope a bit too far. His boss steely gaze refused to let him go, and the tall asian woman was rumored to be part gorgon. He was seriously starting to see where those rumors came from now.

“Well fine. We’ll send this raggedy ass team out. They are only low tier assets. If they die. They die. Who gives a shit.” She said.

“HR and Financial….” He began, only to see her entire being tense up. He felt the malice rise off of her. In that moment, he knew he had committed a terrible sin. Never piss on the boss parade. Especially not Alundra Choos.

“FUCK YOU, FUCK FINANCIAL AND FUCK HUMAN RESOURCES!” She whipped around at him, her hair writhing and coming alive like a myriad of angry snakes. Jonas Hendersen-Smith, age 32, senior advisor to Alundra Cho, turned into stone. There was a long silence before Alundra sighed.

“God fucking damnit.” She hit a button on her intercom. “Get me RND, I need someone to unpetrify my fucking assistant. “ There was a mangled. angry screech from the other side.

--------

American Midwest; Requisition Filial; Alabama.

Inside a dusty room sit several, if not extraordinary, then certainly unusual individuals. They are Illuminati Assets, tapped when needed for jobs that aren’t rewarding in enough compared to the risks for real agents to be fielded. In this case, they were sitting in steel chairs likely taken from an old world war 1 storage. The stainless steel chairs were likely amazing during wartime, but they were uncomfortable enough to make Tombs back feel like he had been kicked by a mule. Standing before them was their handler. Mr Talbot. A severe looking, thin lipped, big eared eastern european man, with small, beady little eyes that reminded Jerimiah of a disney villain. His soul patch did not help him. He wore a suit that, unlike Jerimiah’s, fit him. Like all handlers, he took pride in showing the lesser people how much better he was. It ticked Jerimiah off somewhat, but he stared at his shoes, having already been beaten handily in a staredown before.

“That looks to be all of ya’ll”

Mr Talbot leaned casually against the stainless steel desk behind him. “Ok chucklefucks. Here is the deal. Deep in the Alabama forests lies this little town of Billsville. Charming name, I know. nestled against the mountain side, there used to be a iron mine there, started in 1935. But as things generally go, something happened that made the mine shut down in the early 70’s. The town was kind of dying after that, but in the 90’s it was kind of revived due to a coal baron by the name of Charlie Ledmark opened the mines up again.

Only Charlie Ledmark is no ordinary coal baron.” He hit a button, showing the pudgy man in a cowboy hat standing in front of a very strange skeleton. It was vaguely human, but its was too tall, and it had massive skeletal wings.

Ol’ Carlie collects occult memorabilia. The real, dangerous kind. He is too rich and influential to ice, he has had dealings with us in the past, hell, we buy and sell to his fatcat breed all the time. But, Ol’ Carlie dug up something bad. I mean, nobody here is really suprised.

But the nature of the beast wasn’t revealed until a few months ago. The past two months 22 people in the sleepy town of roughly 1200 have killed themselves in spectacular ways. By trying to gouge or otherwise remove their eyes.”

“Now hol’ on. Why would you let 22 people kill themselves before you send people in. That just sitting by and let shit hit the fan.”

“I am inclined to agree Mr Tomb. We did let this one hit shit creek a bit too quickly. What shit creek contains, I am about to show you.” He picked up a pair of earmuffs and put them over his ears. Then, with a voice that demonstrated he had hard time hearing himself, he proclaimed loudly. “Our RnD asset in the area recorded this before he too killed himself.” He clicked a button on the tape recorder and some folky sounding music began to play. At first, it was nothing.

But then the music began to fade into a voice. A strange, warped voice. One language became several, in different discordant tones. Jerimiah felt suddenly strange, as if his head was not his own. Everything around him seemed to be turning yellow.

“H-H-H-A-A-S” He tried to form the word but his tongue felt swollen. And then the tape recorder ended and the yellow resided.

“What you just heard was a recording of the Yellow King. IN it its original state.” Mr Talbot said as he removed the earmuffs. “That has been playing every second sunday for the past two weeks on their local radio station. And well, You know what they say. Once you see the Big Yellow, you cannot unsee the Big Yellow.” He gave them each a thick folder.

“Damage control. There is a trailer park just outside of town, you should fit in just fine there. The rest of you are Miss entourage. She is officially there to kick start her Musical Career, starting her radio show tour in Billsville. You’ll be housed at Taylors Inn, which is what passes for fancy lodgings over there.”


“HR. Tag along with PR. But ask around for a woman called Louise Tessmacher. She is a potential Asset, having manifested light ether kinetic abilities. Also she is really into that whole goth shit. So I am sure she will love talking to a real witch.”

“Damage Control, I don’t think whoever is capable of reading that language continuesly is strictly human anymore. When PR gains access to the station, find and neutralize the reader. Finance, I am going to need you to sit down with our resident fat cat in the burg, and deal the ever living hell out of him. Whatever he dug up, we are either getting or destroying. Oh. And RnD are to assess what the extent of the Yellow Kings influence is on the town.”

There was silence as Mr Talbot left them with their huge folders of information.

“Aint he… like a Old One? The Yellow Fellah I mean...”

----

>File Directory: 041 to 202
>File Name: H4STUR
>Subject: Hastur, The Yellow King, Lord of the Unspeakable Realm, The Big Yellow, Mustard Lord of the Churning Legion.

Dr Mordou at REAL (Research Association of Eldritch Lore)

“What do you do when madness spreads like a insidious disease trough written words and alien ideas? How do you stop the corrosion of reality itself as The Great Ones claw on unseen walls. These are question we at the Research Association of Eldritch Lore (REAL for short) keep asking ourselves, even as we lose colleagues to madness and worse. We have established a few things in regard to one player in the cosmic horror games: Hastur does not fuck around.”

“Most people treat the King in Yellow a myth. That Lovecraft's writing are just great fictional accounts of some disturbed mind. But the threat of the Eldritch horror is very much real, and Hastur is one of the most terrifying things we ever encountered. What It exactly is impossible to gauge, as best as we can tell is that he is a parasitic being, a malignant presence that infects our reality like a plague. Or a cancer, so malignant it might just regrow mid removal. Like all Eldritch beings, our reality appears to not be to its liking and entrance is not permitted on a whim. Like demons of Hell, it needs to be brought forth. Unlike Lucifers brood however, he only need one thing. For someone to speak its name three time. Hastur Hastur Has- You get the point.”

“By calling a name three times, you work the witches rule of three, the holy trinity, the celtic knot of spells. Why do you think urban myths tell you to call upon Bloody Mary three times. Same deal. Only Hastur is so malignant, so corrupting that his brief appearance will forever stay with you as you waste away into Yellow Madness. “

“While it is not known how or where, The Great Unspeakable Lord has help in the mortal realm from agents that write down his maddening whispers onto paper and distribute these trough the darker, unseen paths of the world. Plays that induce madness on the audience, books that speak to your mind, dragging everyone around you down with you.”

“Infact, let me show you. “

The screen shows the pasty skinned doctor lift up a book with a blank, yellow cover. His eyes seem to shine of gold as he opens it towards the screen.

---Data Corrupted--

---

The Taylors Inn - HR, RND, PR and Finance

“Welcome to Taylors Inn Miss!” The woman who greeted them had the practicied smiled of a terrified grand daughter who was forced into the family buisness. Which, to be fair, she was. Amanda .P. White had never seen a celebrity before, even someone a B-level one. First some extremely rich guy had reopened the mine, and now they had a model visiting. She would have been starstruck, but she found herself eyeing the door nervously. Strange things were happening in town as of late after all.

“Your rooms are on the second floor, all the east corridor rooms are yours. The one furthest away is yours Miss.” She said, trying to keep her calm. The other visitors would likely notice how pretty much everything in the little rustic in was shiny new or at the very least, very rarely used. This town didn’t see many visitors. However, there was a key missing behind her, the one for the Attic they renovated into a large “penthouse” suite. Charlie Ledmark was supposed to have hired it according to some snooping Finance had done while researching the Inn.

There was something not quite with the Inn, as if something lingered in the forest all around them. All the flowers appeared to be yellowing, dying slowly as if was late autumn, not early summer. Not to mention the thick layer of yellow pollen lying across seemingly every surface outside.

----

Bevel Hill Trailer Park. Damage Control

The ride up towards the small, alabama mining town was a bumpy one. The more glamorous cover up entourage had been afforded two big, roomy SUV’s with shock absorbers. Even so, they would find the ill repaired road jarring no doubt. Far worse off, the two oddball damage controllers would have found it. Their car may have been a pickup, but it was a beaten old thing that jumped and scrambled to the point Jerimiah Tomb was afraid his fillings would dislodge. The wheels of the thing they drove were likely worth as much as the run down car by the point, being the only new things on it.

“ow. Ow. OW. GAWD DAMMNIT” He yelled as he his head hit the roof repeatedly. His head was starting to feel like that time he had tumbled down a slope while chasing some gods forsaken goblin critter. The thing had damn near taken his head off when he finally stopped rolling. As they drove up onto the last stretch towards the Trailer park and temporary miner lodgings, he noted how all the trees were shedding leaves, like it was mid fall. Yellow leaves lying in droves along the way. He could feel his sword hum, the way it always did when something was wrong. Had he been a more astute person, a more intelligent one at that, he would have turned the car around then and there. Instead he rolled on into the Trailer park.

“Allright Henderson.” He said as he got out. “Our Trailers is number 21, right next to the Miners Lodgings.” He said as he looked around. Noticing that the entire place seemed rather empty. “Boy. Sure is a ghost town here.” He began heading for what seem to be a overlook area. “Where is the superintendent..” As he walked, he saw some folks peek out through curtains at him, eyes wide. He wondered what had them all so scared.

----

Stepping out of the car, Old Man Henderson's combat boots crunched against the hard gravel of the trailer park. He pulled out one of a dozen or so shotguns that made up his automatic Shotgun with Under Barrel Shotgun that has an Under Barrel Shotgun of its own, Tactical Side-Mounted Shotgun, stock mounted pump action shotgun and long range bolt action shotgun mounted on the other side. It was just the sawn-off double barrel, old and reliable with an under barrel shotgun and a spike bayonet as pointy as his spiky mohawk; the remain amalgamation of pure American firepower was in the car. His partner had insisted on reducing the initial load of weaponry and pellets firing all over the place. Given that this was Alabama, Henderson's shotgun fetish probably wouldn't be all the unusual for the local populace truth be told.

Loudly smacking down on his gum, the old man gave a 10 lightyear stare at one of the local house cats passing by, utterly terrifying it. You see, this case wasn't any old case for Old Man Henderson, it was personal. He was convinced that it was this "Hatsoup the Asian Skin Stereotype Douche King" fellow who had stole his damn lawn gnomes. His firsts had been balled up the whole way through as his eyes burned with bloodlust, eldritch blood lust, tempered only by Rupert the stuffed parrot. And whenever "Never Gonna Give You Up" came up on the radio. God bless Rick Ashley and his immortal soul.

Part of Henderson just wanted to shout Hatsoup's name and summon him, load him with enough lead to poison the entire water supply of a small town in Michigan, and then piss on his corpse to avenge his lawn gnomes. However, when he asked the magic 8 ball on its sagely advice and got "Reply hazy try again", he assumed that even here, Hatsoup was fucking with the winds of magic to screw over the innate connection that the magic 8 balls had to the universe that it used to predict the future. Fucking Hatsoup, first stealing gnomes and now stealing magical energy.

Bringing his full automatic Shotgun with Under Barrel Shotgun that has an Under Barrel Shotgun of its own, Tactical Side-Mounted Shotgun, stock mounted pump action shotgun and long range bolt action shotgun mounted on the other side out of the trunk, he began to march his way to the trailer marked with 21 as his companion wandered off to go find the supervisor. Wasn't an especially long walk for Henderson but upon looking through the window, his winkly old jaw dropped as he found a most horrid beast: a black squirrel.

Henderson cursed inaudibly as sweat dripped down his forehead, it was a good thing that he was on this mission, any lesser, less experience greenhorn jackass rookie would have fallen for the ambush and get a horrible, furry death but not this old man. In his quietest voice (as to not alert the squirrel who was now attempting to hump the far wall), he asked Rupert, "YA FINAKIN' WEERR ERM FINKANA?"

Henderson was no know for subtly, but at 100 decibles, this was about as pretty quite actually for Henderson mostly because he had blown out his vocal cords (temporarily unfortunately) while attempting to hit all the high notes of a Shakira song that had come on while they were on the interstate. Between the volume and the nigh on incomprehensible Scottish (?) accent Henderson had, he singly handily gave the rush hour traffic the closest they'd hear to eldritch chanting at a pop beat without driving insane. Okay that last part wasn't completely true but at least they were all still socially functioning individuals afterwards. I think.

With a solid kick, Henderson's foot went through the front door of the trailer and got stuck. The door creaked forward causing Henderson right in front of the black squirrel that was now attempting to renact scenes from 50 Shades of Grey on its predecessor, Twilight. The squirrel screamed, Old Man Henderson screamed, bystanders were also screaming and so began a furious brawl of the ages between the old man and the squirrel in a fight that would go down as legendary. Henderson flailed about trying to catch the slippery furry beast and Rupert taking one for the team when he was bitten in his fluffy ass. The battle was firece, but Henderson eventually managed to win out and unstuck his foot. Grabbing his overly compensating shotgun, he aimed it at the terrified rodent, frozen with shock.

"HUOPA LRAA FFISTO, BUUBOHAN." Henderson quoted a movie that cannot be said here due to copyright reasons but you should probably know. Several blasts later, the squirrel had become one with the rug and with furry creature jesus. And shotgun pellets.

Looking back on it, the fight may have been brutal, but an honorable duel between two great warriors. As such, Henderson decided to send off his opponent in the most befitting way: a viking funeral. With the help of his magic Chinese Take-Out Box of Pyromancy, Henderson set the trailer on fire after preforming a full 21 gun salute with a single blast of his automatic Shotgun with Under Barrel Shotgun that has an Under Barrel Shotgun of its own, Tactical Side-Mounted Shotgun, stock mounted pump action shotgun and long range bolt action shotgun mounted on the other side. As the hovel burned and smoke poured into the sky, Henderson was almost driven to tears and began to sing for the fallen foe. Holding back tears, Henderon jump to attention and sung the Soviet National Anthem in near perfect Hindu as he swore he saw the squirrel's soul in the rising smoke, going off to hump a cloud.

"ZEW LERNG, ZPHACEE CERBRY!" gave a final good-bye to his honored foe, still saluting at the cloud refusing the sexual advances of a ghost squirrel as the trailer collapsed in on itself, consumed by the flames.

This mission is going to go swimmingly isn't it?

From the moment that Sophia DeLaVega sat down in the SUV, she eyed the others inside, then told them, "I can't wait to start this adventure. I've never been to Alabama before-- this is the state with the peaches, right?" She spoke with the inflection of a stereotypical Los Angeles, California college to high school aged girl, her sentence implied a general lack of both common knowledge and common sense, and it was all a part of her grand scheme to make them think her to be ditzy, empty headed, and incapable of much.

To put the rainbow colored sprinkles on the "dumb girl" cake, she complained about everything from the "cheapness" of the SUV to the "bad weather"-- which, truth be told, it was just a typical humid Alabama day and nothing to complain about at all. After that, Sophia proceeded to shove her face into the depths of her cellphone screen, occasionally giggling in the most annoying way she could muster, and snapping pictures of anything stupid she could think of-- road signs, clouds, other cars-- while making a comments about how "old school" and "south cute" it all was.

There was shitty country music playing through her headphones in the meantime, so that she could memorize what a "southern" accent sounded like. On top of this, Sophia was deep into the depths of a RANT to boyfriend 1 of 3 about her current situation, all of which was typed in Brazilian Portuguese-- just in case someone took a glance at the phone screen:



Then there was the memo application open on her phone where she was figuring out song lyrics. The things she knew would appeal to trailer trash Alabamans in a stupidly named place called "Billsville" would be the stereotypical things: America, guns, freedom, trucks, country music, and a southern accent. Carefully holding in the exasperated sigh that threatened to demolish her faked bubbly attitude, Sophia smiled as they came closer to the inn. In her opinion, the thing looked like it had burned down several times, then they just threw a nice coat of paint on the outside of it. Just staring at the place made her feel nauseous.

Brightly Sophia piped up, "Aww! Look at how cute it all is. Wow-- the seasons must change really quick this far south, huh? It's already fall." Sophia was starting to get on her own nerves with her stupid comments. She stepped out of the vehicle and didn't wait for anyone to catch up with her, just charged ahead and into the Inn, giggling excitedly about how, "The inside is probably like a country music video!" Mentally, she vomited all over herself, as soon as she opened the door and got a good look at the place.

"Welcome to Taylor's Inn, Miss!"

"Is this what the underside of a landfill looks like?" Sophia thought while screaming inside.
Before she could cringe from how shitty the inside of the Inn looked, Sophia put on her brightest smile at the front desk woman, almost read her nametag, then told her, "Why, ain't this a nice Inn-- excellent choice , if I do say so myself. I'm mighty glad my agent picked this out. I'll be sure to leave a good review, ma'am." The first thing obvious about Sophia's exaggerated shower of compliments was likely the slightly "southern twang" her accent sprouted from the moment she stepped out of the car.

Sophia looked over at... who was that again? She was squinting at someone-- HR person, right? They had to go with her to the whatever wherever-- Sophia hadn't been entirely paying attention in the "briefing" and she hadn't opened her packet yet. Sophia asked whatever HR person, "Where we going? You think they got southern peanut pie here?"

Peanut. Pie. Everyone in the world knew it was pecan. Sophia cringed inwardly and decided to dial the air-head rating down slightly.

Mr. Ryan sat in the back of the car reading his tablet, devouring information about Charlie Ledmark. He needed not only to understand how Mr. Ledmark thinks but also dirt to weight any situation in his favor. He also takes stock of his "team" a ragged bunch of misfits. Not that it matters, his only job was to get assets for the team, make a tidy profit for Finance, Oh and acquire whatever corrupted materials causing trouble. The skull cracking and espionage was not Finance's job and he would be damned if he had to do anything so low as fighting. His most curious case was Sophia, initially she was an insufferable moron complaining about anything she could find to complain about. He noticed that her act was too thick, nobody was actually that dumb... or at least nobody who survives in the Illuminati for long was that dumb. He considered saying something but decided against it, because again its not his job.

The drive up to.. Billsvill or whatever the town was called, was actually somewhat pleasant. The ride through the countryside was quite zen when bob wasn't bugging him to trick the ditsy woman into selling her soul or while reading everything he could dig up about Charlie. Bob, the demon, had bugged Mr. Ryan several times during the drive but this could not be observed by anyone else as it was all in Mr. Ryan's head. An arrangement that was occasionally very surprising when office chairs or passenger seats where suddenly occupied by a skeletal demon. However he had gotten used to it well enough to not talk aloud when replying to Bob, and only mouth the words soundlessly.

On arrival Mr. Ryan took note of the weird yellowness of, well, everything. It was weird but not something that he could solve right away, and he was sure that RnD or Damage Control would deal with it. He followed Sophie into the Inn but ahead of the rest of the team, he sighed audibly while Sophie was making her Incredibly stupid statements. Although he was surprised by the sudden alteration of her accent, but he discounted it while turning on his charm and least threatening visage.

"Excuse her" He said to the woman behind the counter while collecting the several keys, "I am Mr. Ryan, I wish to thank you for your hospitality, I know we informed you that we will be reserving these rooms. I am going to pay you in advance for the week" he nods at her presenting a practiced harmless smile, along with a small pile of fresh crisp bills which amounts to 10% more than the group of rooms would cost for the week. "And keep the change love" he says winking with a tone that slides to a vague English accent. An accent that he only mastered because Americans always seem to like, and more importantly trust, people with the slight accent.

Just as he finished talking Bob appeared behind the woman at the counter, no puff of smoke or fading in, one moment he was not there and the next he just was. Not truly of course the Bob image was just in his mind and would have been imperceptible even to those who can see demons on a regular basis. The bob image lightly caressed the girl's arm, "I like this one Oscar... I want her." The skeleton said, again only Mr. Ryan could hear him. 'Not now Bob, I'm working... wait, why do you want her?' Oscar mouthed soundlessly and almost not moving his lips at all but he did eye the girl more closely trying to figure out what Bob was so intrigued by. "I have my reasons" hissed the demon but did not elaborate at all. 'Well Bob, Ill consider it, but i wont make you any promises. I still remember what happened last time...' He briefly remembered two months of agonizingly tedious seduction/bribery/coercion with a Mormon girl before he managed to get her soul to bob.

He lightly tapped the keys on the counter and nodded again to the girl, gears still running to figure out why Bob wanted the her. He turned with the handful of keys ready to pass them out to the gang, trying to put on an air that seemed like he was an agent or manager of the group who conducted their business affairs. Which was somewhat true, as he was in command of their payment and allocation of resources... a fact he was willing to use as incentive if need be.

Since everyone else seemed to into their own minds, and Fredrick wouldn't trust anyone else in this group driving him anyway, Fredrick climbed into the front seat of the car.

"I can't wait to start this adventure. I've never been to Alabama before-- this is the state with the peaches, right?"

And the moment those words made their way into Fredrick's ears, he grasped the bridge of his nose in frustration. This was going to be a long ride. Realizing this, Fredrick stuck out his hand in the direction of the bag he placed on the passenger's seat, since no one had elected to sit there. The bag moved slightly, with seemingly nothing causing it to do so, then an outdated iPod Shuffle and a set of earphones rose from inside the bag, and into Fredrick's hand. He placed each earphone into an ear, pumped up the volume on the music played, and put the keys into the ignition. And a long drive it was. All the way to fucking Alabama! Maybe Fredrick might meet Lynyrd Skynyrd while he's inevitably waiting for one of the other team members to go to the toilet at a truck stop, and they can tell him just what's so great about their Sweet Home, because he had no clue what it could possibly be. And Fredrick drove through the countrysides and along highways, he looped through his playlist exactly 2 times. It definitely wasn't as if he calculated how long it would take so he could have the playlist end perfectly. Too bad he didn't see Johnny Van Zant anywhere.

While Queen was flowing into his ears, and there was nothing to look at but the rough asphalt of the road, Fredrick went over his role again. He was supposed to assess the damage the Yellow King had done. Easy, assessing things was basically Fredrick's entire life. Unfortunately, while he was doing all of this, Fredrick would have to act like a groupie for one of the other members. Fredrick resented this idea, and even though he requested to be given an invisibility device so he could research without looking suspicious, the bosses refused. Instead, he was forced into an acting role. Acting was not Fredrick's style, and in fact, the mere though of him wearing a silly costume and putting on a different accent got Fredrick feeling nauseous. His stoner hippie parents would have been perfect for the role, but absolutely not him. The only positive from this would be that Fredrick had an excuse to use a fake name.

When the group arrived at their location of Billsville, all the passengers immediately hopped out, without any recognition of Fredrick. A thank you would have been nice, but Fredrick was used to being ignored. He justified it through the excuse that they had been cramped inside the car for hours on end. Everyone piled into the lobby of the hotel they we staying at, and Sophia immediately got to work, acting - overacting - with a blatantly stereotypical southern accent. Nevertheless, she and Mr. Ryan got their rooms sorted, and Mr. Ryan handed Fredrick some room keys. "Thank you. You seem like the only other decent person in our little group." One of the tween-looking girls then made an incredibly offensive remark about taint or something, and gave a rather bitchy look at the group. One that sort of said: "Can you believe this place?"

Fredrick leant over to Mr. Ryan. "Case in point."

Fredrick made his way upstairs, ignoring any further remarks those girls made, and entered the room specified for him. Fredrick scanned it as he entered, and while he really didn't want to call it dumpy... It looked fucking dumpy. A musty pink bed, decrepit brown bedside table and dresser, and not to mention the floral wallpaper, all made this place looked like it was ripped out of a 60s neighborhood. Fredrick tossed his bag onto the bed, and opened his curtains. Much like this room, the whole landscape of the town Fredrick could see looked like it was stuck in the past too. But while the room was supposed to look nice, the town in general just looked like an old mining town. Which was what it was anyway. The file for the mission report said a mine was the only redeemable, ever so slightly important thing in the town. So, Fredrick sat down at an old table in the corner of the room, and began to read the file, gathering all information he could about the mine and the Yellow King that inhabited it, as well as now the town.