Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate Headquarters North Arctic, Thompson, Canada - 1352 hours, February 7th, 2013
Far out in the woods, in the middle of nowhere it sat, the dilapidated warehouse. Far out in the Canadian boonies, A single snow-covered road paved the only path to reach it, a road seldom taken to anyone's knowledge. It was a large, grey, imposing group of buildings with a set of towers dwarfing the rest. The paint had been whitewashed away from cruel winter after cruel winter, except for the crude graffiti, and some of the windows had been long broken. Pallets of decaying steel sat around in heaps of the white stuff, red as a lobster with oxidation, and equipment lay helter-skelter around the snow drifts. Trash built up around the bases of the ruined chain-link fence, bent over like old men in certain places with chunks missing in others. It was easy to miss, hidden in the trees that overgrew it. A relic of time, forgotten and abandoned. A streaked, faded iron sign stood sentry outside of the broken, padlocked gate, like a tired soldier in need of a changing of the guard.
Thompson Steel and Aluminum Plant
CLOSED - Manitoba Regional Committee
CAUTION
WEAK STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE FINED
The text, once red, was now a darker shade of white than the rest of the ancient warning. But in this lonely, snowy thicket, someone was watching. Big Brother was always watching. There were a host of sensors, security cameras, and snares in layered rings around the collapsing plant, hidden well from the naked eye. If anyone were to approach, they would be challenged by "park rangers" on their intentions, possibly detained for questioning. But they wouldn't have to go far. A ways back from the sign was a tree with a camera in its branches. Most trees had cameras in their branches around here, but this one was specifically designated to be watched for entrance. All it would take for someone to enter would be to find this camera, have the required ID card and RFID signature, and give a visible password in sign language chosen on a weekly basis for the platform to raise to the underground facility below.
Underneath the abandoned plant resided a sleeping giant, a honeycomb of manmade tunnels, office spaces, storage facilities, garages for vehicles of all kinds, research labs, power blocks, servers, living spaces, the whole nine yards. And it was home to a single organization who, much like the "park rangers", didn't actually exist. The Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate, Northern Arctic Branch . The PCMC. The underground lair spread for miles in every direction and almost a full mile down, interconnected by a magnetic rail system designed for quick travel using a system that wouldn't be invented for another two years and mastered and utilized for a decade after that. A full community dwell below the surface, completely independent and self-sustaining. Everything from advanced science laboratories to armories and personnel barracks were present, linked together with systems of tunnels that reached as far as the Hudson Bay. Experimental fusion generators were used for an endless and reliable supply of energy, providing artificial sunlight deep within the bowels of the Earth through intermittent false windows, necessarily breaking up the sterile white hallways and checkered tile floors. Cameras loomed at every turn, documenting every interaction and every living thing within the hive as individuals in lab coats, power suits, and combat fatigues scurried about like termites in a hill. A paranoid schizophrenic's dream if there ever was one. And it didn't stop there. Established in the 1950's, it was the PCMC's duty to the world at large to prevent the misunderstood, the foreign, and the dangerous from threatening the human race, and even the knowledge of such entities could cause irreparable harm and cause entire countries to collapse. A shadow organization, the PCMC was given authority above all of Earth's governments combined to enact and follow procedure to prevent the unthinkable from happening, using any and all means at their disposal.
A PCMC Headquarters existed in every region, with multiple in the hot zones. The one in question below Manitoba, just off site from Landing Lake, was the PCMC Northern Arctic Branch, the second in all of North America, the other lying in the desert sands of New Mexico. Landing Lake was a fit enough title. The still winter air filled itself with a subtle buzz as the trees around the lake swayed and protest of the sudden draft. Ripples formed on the pristine water below as the sky above distorted and warped in an outline akin to some sort of unidentified flying object. Out of the depths below rose a platform, and the false floor of that platform opened itself to reveal a marked landing pad. The hazy object touched down gently, and the both of them disappeared below the lake. Stillness once again returned to the Canadian wilderness, as if nothing ever happened. Because nothing did.
"Well that was a fun one," spoke the pilot in a slightly Scottish accent. The woman was clad in a full flight suit, albeit a futuristic one with a rounded helmet. The mystery aerial vehicle was a bit more visible with its mimetic camouflaged disengaged. It looked like the unholy union between an Osprey, a Dyson desk fan, and something from a 90's Saturday morning cartoon. The pilot put two fingers to the side of her throat, and her closed jaw could be seen moving. Although she never spoke a word, her voice could be heard within the Vulture.
"This is your pilot speaking, we have now arrived at Nowhere. The time of day is a feeble mental human construct used to grasp something it doesn't truly understand and the weather is a balmy who fucking cares? Please wait until we arrive at the designated gate to disembark and go see the gate to make sure you're not a fucking... vampire or some shit. Thank you for flying UFO Airlines and get your sorry arses outta my bird." She'd delivered her line like an airline stewardess, fake enthusiasm and all. The back of the stealth helicopter opened up and a threesome of agents began to pile out, only to be met by other agents in tactical gear with handheld scanning devices. The pilot removed her helmet to reveal a freckled, delicate face and sandy blonde hair done in a french braid. Upon closer inspection of her green eyes, ghostly reflections of nonexistent computer screens could be seen.
"I'm thinkin' steak wraps for lunch, if they let us leave the fucking hanger this time. Sound good to ya?" she inquired her copilot before tucking her helmet under her arm and standing. The smooth, reflective glass of the cockpit slid back nearly instantly, and she dangled her short legs over the side of the aircraft before dropping to the landing pad. Another tactical goon caught up with her as soon as her feet touched the metal platform.
"Name?" he asked as he began to run her up and down with the device in his hand.
"Agent Samantha Patterson," she sighed passive-aggressively, complying with his procedure.
"Cargo?"
"Five live ones, one cold, pilots included."
"Favorite food?"
"Your dad's pecker." The agent folded his scanning device and took a step back.
"Check's out. Welcome back, Diz."
"Shut the fuck up feed my bird, Myers," she snapped. The agent in tactical gear made a talking motion with his hand as he was walking away, breaking into a jog for the main platform when he was done mocking her. Returning agents all went through a similar test whenever they completed a mission, including scans for the RFID tag, body signature, brain waves, voice recognition, and a knowledge check based on random pre-selected security questions. Diz, otherwise known as Dizzy for her penchant for making the newer agents barf in the aerial vehicles, or Samantha Patterson to those that didn't know her, was a pilot for the PCMC, going on three years.
"And if I find anything in the seat again when I get back I'll gouge your fucking eyes out!" she called after the jogging agent angrily. Dizzy was well-known for being a bit of a foul mouthed bitch, but her piloting skills couldn't be questioned. Dizzy could land an F17 on a pickup truck in a sandstorm, and she tended not to respect anyone without similar levels of her skill in any equivalent fields. She was generally much nicer to other pilots that could prove themselves or people who were obviously smarter than she was, but outside of that everyone was on their own.
"You gonna sit in the co-pilot's seat all day or are you gonna get some damn lunch ya moron? Clock's tickin'," she spoke, knocking on the side of the Vulture with the helmet.
A haunting song wafted down the hallway, all the way to the man-trap door, loud enough to enter the cell of one Jack Romanov and his parasitic partner Rin. It was about fifty meters of stark white, concrete walls, with security cameras and doors at both ends. Although it was obvious which was the cell and which was the exit. Both doors were identical in nature, thick with rubber sealing around the frames, deadbolts that jammed nearly a foot into the resulting concrete, with biometric keypads. But one door had a designator on it, "Subject 14791", and a posted list of warnings beside the door. It said common sense things such as Attending personnel must be escorted by armed sentry and some less obvious things like Gasmasks are to be worn upon entrance. A quartet of agents stood in the hallway, decked out head to toe in tactical gear and holding combat shotguns, one on either side of one door and mirrored on the other.
"When in walked a man, with a gun in his hand, and he was lookin' for-a you know who."
One of the guards was singing along out of tune, tapping his boot on the tile next to his discarded helmet. The tall, blond bearded man bobbed his head to the music as he sang.
"Gimme three steps, give me three steps a-mister, give me three steps toward the door!"
The man not so much sung as howled in a natural, southern drawl. A battery operated CD stereo was sitting in the corner, a little now-ancient piece of technology that he had brought in to relieve the boredom. They'd been there for three hours already, and had another three to go before the shift change went underway. He continued to bob his head to the beat of the music, escalating from merely tapping his toe to sliding his feet back in forth in a shuffling dance. Another agent on the far side of the hallway just smiled and shook his head. The dancing man was Agent Eric Parker, or as most called him, Walker. Walker was a good ol' boy from Texas, politically correct and rough around the edges, but damn if he wasn't everyone's friend. People called him Walker because he was a former Army Ranger before being scouted by the PCMC. He'd been with the Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate for over a decade and hard to believe from his current foolish behavior, is the manager of Bravo Tactical Team, the most elite tactical team in PCMC North Arctic. Informally known as "Plan B", Walker's team was usually called in when one of the other tactical teams had been wiped out. His team holds a record for maintaining the longest retention ratio of agents, with the least injured or killed in action and has never been fully wiped out as long as Walker has been a member.
"You know the Director can see you if he wants, right?" came a deep, throaty call from across the hallway. Walker responded by singing into the stock of his shotgun like a microphone while shaking his legs in an impersonation of Elvis Presley. The other agent couldn't help but just chuckle and shake his head.
"You're crazy, man."
The other agent was Agent Anthony Stone, a dark-skinned man with a clean shaven face and a deep voice that would make Barry White seem a little less manly. Stone's been in for almost nine, working mainly as an intel analyst with his share of fieldwork. He came from the FBI after a coordination sting with the DEA went sour. Instead of cocaine, the found an organ processing lab. But the organs weren't human. Or the organ dealers. Stone's a generally amicable fellow, a little on the serious side, but pretty nice to everyone he meets. Stone let his laugh and his smile pass and spoke up.
"Alright, it's chow time. Who's going out and who's feeding the subject?"
Far out in the woods, in the middle of nowhere it sat, the dilapidated warehouse. Far out in the Canadian boonies, A single snow-covered road paved the only path to reach it, a road seldom taken to anyone's knowledge. It was a large, grey, imposing group of buildings with a set of towers dwarfing the rest. The paint had been whitewashed away from cruel winter after cruel winter, except for the crude graffiti, and some of the windows had been long broken. Pallets of decaying steel sat around in heaps of the white stuff, red as a lobster with oxidation, and equipment lay helter-skelter around the snow drifts. Trash built up around the bases of the ruined chain-link fence, bent over like old men in certain places with chunks missing in others. It was easy to miss, hidden in the trees that overgrew it. A relic of time, forgotten and abandoned. A streaked, faded iron sign stood sentry outside of the broken, padlocked gate, like a tired soldier in need of a changing of the guard.
CLOSED - Manitoba Regional Committee
CAUTION
WEAK STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE FINED
The text, once red, was now a darker shade of white than the rest of the ancient warning. But in this lonely, snowy thicket, someone was watching. Big Brother was always watching. There were a host of sensors, security cameras, and snares in layered rings around the collapsing plant, hidden well from the naked eye. If anyone were to approach, they would be challenged by "park rangers" on their intentions, possibly detained for questioning. But they wouldn't have to go far. A ways back from the sign was a tree with a camera in its branches. Most trees had cameras in their branches around here, but this one was specifically designated to be watched for entrance. All it would take for someone to enter would be to find this camera, have the required ID card and RFID signature, and give a visible password in sign language chosen on a weekly basis for the platform to raise to the underground facility below.
Underneath the abandoned plant resided a sleeping giant, a honeycomb of manmade tunnels, office spaces, storage facilities, garages for vehicles of all kinds, research labs, power blocks, servers, living spaces, the whole nine yards. And it was home to a single organization who, much like the "park rangers", didn't actually exist. The Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate, Northern Arctic Branch . The PCMC. The underground lair spread for miles in every direction and almost a full mile down, interconnected by a magnetic rail system designed for quick travel using a system that wouldn't be invented for another two years and mastered and utilized for a decade after that. A full community dwell below the surface, completely independent and self-sustaining. Everything from advanced science laboratories to armories and personnel barracks were present, linked together with systems of tunnels that reached as far as the Hudson Bay. Experimental fusion generators were used for an endless and reliable supply of energy, providing artificial sunlight deep within the bowels of the Earth through intermittent false windows, necessarily breaking up the sterile white hallways and checkered tile floors. Cameras loomed at every turn, documenting every interaction and every living thing within the hive as individuals in lab coats, power suits, and combat fatigues scurried about like termites in a hill. A paranoid schizophrenic's dream if there ever was one. And it didn't stop there. Established in the 1950's, it was the PCMC's duty to the world at large to prevent the misunderstood, the foreign, and the dangerous from threatening the human race, and even the knowledge of such entities could cause irreparable harm and cause entire countries to collapse. A shadow organization, the PCMC was given authority above all of Earth's governments combined to enact and follow procedure to prevent the unthinkable from happening, using any and all means at their disposal.
A PCMC Headquarters existed in every region, with multiple in the hot zones. The one in question below Manitoba, just off site from Landing Lake, was the PCMC Northern Arctic Branch, the second in all of North America, the other lying in the desert sands of New Mexico. Landing Lake was a fit enough title. The still winter air filled itself with a subtle buzz as the trees around the lake swayed and protest of the sudden draft. Ripples formed on the pristine water below as the sky above distorted and warped in an outline akin to some sort of unidentified flying object. Out of the depths below rose a platform, and the false floor of that platform opened itself to reveal a marked landing pad. The hazy object touched down gently, and the both of them disappeared below the lake. Stillness once again returned to the Canadian wilderness, as if nothing ever happened. Because nothing did.
"Well that was a fun one," spoke the pilot in a slightly Scottish accent. The woman was clad in a full flight suit, albeit a futuristic one with a rounded helmet. The mystery aerial vehicle was a bit more visible with its mimetic camouflaged disengaged. It looked like the unholy union between an Osprey, a Dyson desk fan, and something from a 90's Saturday morning cartoon. The pilot put two fingers to the side of her throat, and her closed jaw could be seen moving. Although she never spoke a word, her voice could be heard within the Vulture.
"This is your pilot speaking, we have now arrived at Nowhere. The time of day is a feeble mental human construct used to grasp something it doesn't truly understand and the weather is a balmy who fucking cares? Please wait until we arrive at the designated gate to disembark and go see the gate to make sure you're not a fucking... vampire or some shit. Thank you for flying UFO Airlines and get your sorry arses outta my bird." She'd delivered her line like an airline stewardess, fake enthusiasm and all. The back of the stealth helicopter opened up and a threesome of agents began to pile out, only to be met by other agents in tactical gear with handheld scanning devices. The pilot removed her helmet to reveal a freckled, delicate face and sandy blonde hair done in a french braid. Upon closer inspection of her green eyes, ghostly reflections of nonexistent computer screens could be seen.
"I'm thinkin' steak wraps for lunch, if they let us leave the fucking hanger this time. Sound good to ya?" she inquired her copilot before tucking her helmet under her arm and standing. The smooth, reflective glass of the cockpit slid back nearly instantly, and she dangled her short legs over the side of the aircraft before dropping to the landing pad. Another tactical goon caught up with her as soon as her feet touched the metal platform.
"Name?" he asked as he began to run her up and down with the device in his hand.
"Agent Samantha Patterson," she sighed passive-aggressively, complying with his procedure.
"Cargo?"
"Five live ones, one cold, pilots included."
"Favorite food?"
"Your dad's pecker." The agent folded his scanning device and took a step back.
"Check's out. Welcome back, Diz."
"Shut the fuck up feed my bird, Myers," she snapped. The agent in tactical gear made a talking motion with his hand as he was walking away, breaking into a jog for the main platform when he was done mocking her. Returning agents all went through a similar test whenever they completed a mission, including scans for the RFID tag, body signature, brain waves, voice recognition, and a knowledge check based on random pre-selected security questions. Diz, otherwise known as Dizzy for her penchant for making the newer agents barf in the aerial vehicles, or Samantha Patterson to those that didn't know her, was a pilot for the PCMC, going on three years.
"And if I find anything in the seat again when I get back I'll gouge your fucking eyes out!" she called after the jogging agent angrily. Dizzy was well-known for being a bit of a foul mouthed bitch, but her piloting skills couldn't be questioned. Dizzy could land an F17 on a pickup truck in a sandstorm, and she tended not to respect anyone without similar levels of her skill in any equivalent fields. She was generally much nicer to other pilots that could prove themselves or people who were obviously smarter than she was, but outside of that everyone was on their own.
"You gonna sit in the co-pilot's seat all day or are you gonna get some damn lunch ya moron? Clock's tickin'," she spoke, knocking on the side of the Vulture with the helmet.
A haunting song wafted down the hallway, all the way to the man-trap door, loud enough to enter the cell of one Jack Romanov and his parasitic partner Rin. It was about fifty meters of stark white, concrete walls, with security cameras and doors at both ends. Although it was obvious which was the cell and which was the exit. Both doors were identical in nature, thick with rubber sealing around the frames, deadbolts that jammed nearly a foot into the resulting concrete, with biometric keypads. But one door had a designator on it, "Subject 14791", and a posted list of warnings beside the door. It said common sense things such as Attending personnel must be escorted by armed sentry and some less obvious things like Gasmasks are to be worn upon entrance. A quartet of agents stood in the hallway, decked out head to toe in tactical gear and holding combat shotguns, one on either side of one door and mirrored on the other.
"When in walked a man, with a gun in his hand, and he was lookin' for-a you know who."
One of the guards was singing along out of tune, tapping his boot on the tile next to his discarded helmet. The tall, blond bearded man bobbed his head to the music as he sang.
"Gimme three steps, give me three steps a-mister, give me three steps toward the door!"
The man not so much sung as howled in a natural, southern drawl. A battery operated CD stereo was sitting in the corner, a little now-ancient piece of technology that he had brought in to relieve the boredom. They'd been there for three hours already, and had another three to go before the shift change went underway. He continued to bob his head to the beat of the music, escalating from merely tapping his toe to sliding his feet back in forth in a shuffling dance. Another agent on the far side of the hallway just smiled and shook his head. The dancing man was Agent Eric Parker, or as most called him, Walker. Walker was a good ol' boy from Texas, politically correct and rough around the edges, but damn if he wasn't everyone's friend. People called him Walker because he was a former Army Ranger before being scouted by the PCMC. He'd been with the Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate for over a decade and hard to believe from his current foolish behavior, is the manager of Bravo Tactical Team, the most elite tactical team in PCMC North Arctic. Informally known as "Plan B", Walker's team was usually called in when one of the other tactical teams had been wiped out. His team holds a record for maintaining the longest retention ratio of agents, with the least injured or killed in action and has never been fully wiped out as long as Walker has been a member.
"You know the Director can see you if he wants, right?" came a deep, throaty call from across the hallway. Walker responded by singing into the stock of his shotgun like a microphone while shaking his legs in an impersonation of Elvis Presley. The other agent couldn't help but just chuckle and shake his head.
"You're crazy, man."
The other agent was Agent Anthony Stone, a dark-skinned man with a clean shaven face and a deep voice that would make Barry White seem a little less manly. Stone's been in for almost nine, working mainly as an intel analyst with his share of fieldwork. He came from the FBI after a coordination sting with the DEA went sour. Instead of cocaine, the found an organ processing lab. But the organs weren't human. Or the organ dealers. Stone's a generally amicable fellow, a little on the serious side, but pretty nice to everyone he meets. Stone let his laugh and his smile pass and spoke up.
"Alright, it's chow time. Who's going out and who's feeding the subject?"
