The Gothic Journals

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Sat Apr 09, 2011 11:40 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Barcelona, Spain, Sept. 26, 2004)
As I write this Kyra is passed out next to me. For her, at least, this is all over. For me, it's only just begun. The horrors we faced on the islands were but a prelude to a new chapter in a story I wish I could forget. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

From the cave we managed to hike our way towards the castle with minimal fuss up until the road leading to the drawbridge. An overturned truck on fire blocked our path, as did a few more Ganados. Since it was night we couldn't take them down with head shots lest a Plagas sprout from the neck. Thankfully they weren't wearing body armor and shots to the heart worked just as well. Someone had done a number on the defenders of the castle prior to our arrival. Besides a few crossbow bolts in the masonry there was no sign of anyone there. Even as we ventured in we found only broken wooden shields and discarded morning stars where once there may have been cultists. But the castle wasn't where we wanted to be; it was the labs somewhere nearby. It only made sense there would be a path to them through the castle.

In our explorations we found our way into the sewers by following the trail of destruction. There we encountered a thing like an overgrown insect. Only it was invisible; not magically, but it could bend light around it and blend in almost perfectly. Even I missed it until I got close enough to see the subtle distortions in the wall behind it. Kyra managed to nail it with a searing light spell. It turned visible as it died, once more melting away like everything else created by Las Plagas. These "Novistadors" (a word play in Spanish) had once had a hive, as we found in the lower levels. What few were left were likely sterile drones. But the fact that they had such highly evolved camouflage...

Eventually the sewer led into utility tunnels where we caught up with Leon. Maybe not caught up so much as saw him confront a very large man in camo fatigues and the red beret of the Army's Green Berets. It was a hand to hand fight, both wielding combat knives of similar make. The man was called Krauser by Leon; if there hadn't been pipes in my way I would have tried to take a shot at Krauser with mind arrows. As it was, Leon was keeping up with his rival just barely and I was keen on hearing what was this guy had to say. Apparently they'd been training for the Secret Service together two years ago when something went wrong. The official line was that this Krauser died in a helicopter crash, but knowing the government they'd tried to "dispose" of a potential threat to...someone. Only they didn't follow through; later documents would show that Krauser had joined Saddler out of a desire for revenge on the government who'd betrayed him. It didn't really work out; Saddler is notoriously racist against Americans and Krauser picked up on that quickly. Instead he took Las Plagas for himself and somehow had avoided becoming just one more Ganados, perhaps by taking an engineered strain.

Their fight finally ended when a third person shot Krauser. From our vantage point we could see a woman of Chinese descent, dressed in a red cocktail dress and pumps. I managed to snag her picture and send it for analysis. I hated to do it, but we had to let Leon go alone while we made our way to the labs. The tunnels led out into what was once a prison. One with some of the old prisoners still inside wrapped in burlap hammocks; the stench told us no one was still alive--or so we thought. While I helped Kyra up I heard the patter of bare feet on stone. A faceless, sexless humanoid was coming towards me. I barely had time to duck out of its grasp. I brought up the Sun Gun for a blast before I remembered that file on Regenerators. Maybe the heavy Magnum round would kill it regardless, especially backed by the magic in the weapon, but I didn't take any chances. Using the binoculars I managed to spot a hot spot on its right side and fired at it, taking nearly half its torso in the process. It had melted into so much black goo like everything else hit by attacks imbued with light. When something wasn't killed by light, it melted into a brown ooze only after being dead for a few seconds. Las Plagas was definitely drawing on some sort of power from the Plane of Shadow to be so vulnerable to light.

Getting past a veritable army outside the labs proved quite easy with Kyra's magic. We sneaked by them while the place wasn't even on alert. The labs themselves seemed to be abandoned by now, run by computers that were breeding the base strain of Las Plagas as well as four others in giant incubation vats. Kyra easily hacked the files while I managed to obtain samples of each strain in sealed test tubes by automation. Both the BSAA and OSA would want these. For all intents and purposes our mission was complete and we could--and should--have teleported out. But something kept us back. There were too many questions. What did Saddler have planned? Why would imposters try to have us sneak in and steal samples for them? And who was that odd woman in the dress?

The last question got answered first as my PDA beeped with a message. So it was Ada Wong; Chinese-American, industrial spy par excellence, known associates among all the big names in the pharmaceutical corporations--and one Albert Wesker. So Wesker was trying to get his hands on Las Plagas. Why? To hybridize the two? Or to use one to alter the other? Even as tiny as Las Plagas was, the T- and G-Viruses were even smaller still. It would be impossible to alter the Viruses. But not to alter Las Plagas. The work performed here, with relatively crude gear and so-so scientists, had produced a bevy of horrors that should not have been. What could be done in a state-of-the-art lab with the best minds money could buy? And with a mutagenic virus to aid in further genetic tampering? Removing Las Plagas' vulnerability to light would be possible, as would creating an army of Ganados able to be controlled with mundane methods.

Still there was the central question: why? Why did Wesker want such a thing? What was his ultimate motive?

These questions were put aside as the racket of a battle outside forced us to seek a place to hide. We waited...I don't know how long. An hour? Two? When it was all quiet I heard the sound of Leon's voice and that of a young woman. Leave it to him to survive this madhouse and find the First Daughter and come out in one piece! Both strapped themselves into some sort of machine where what looked like lasers fired into their chests, causing immense pain before it just stopped. They must have been infected; that was the machine to fire a special form of radiation into a host to kill Las Plagas, provided it hadn't been there too long. I dared believe we might be out of the woods when that psychic static suddenly came back tenfold. A man in a long, hooded robe with a writhing staff passed by our hiding place. It was Saddler and the sheer force of the static emanating from him was like a thousand needles being pressed into my brain all at once. Yet Leon and Ashley seemed unaffected. Was it only those in touch with the supernatural who were affected? It had to be. We couldn't fight Saddler; not without some sort of psychic buffer.

We had no choice but to flee. Whatever Saddler's plans, we were at a fatal disadvantage against him. By the time we stopped running and couldn't feel that static anymore, blood was pouring from our noses. We were on the other side of the island, right on the coast. Seemingly waiting for us was Ada Wong. She must have seen us and asked nicely for the samples, at first. When we refused she drew a gun and asked politely again. Reflexively I used matter agitation to cause her gun to heat up to the point that she dropped it out of pain. That must have come as a real surprise to her; this worldly spy didn't even know that the supernatural existed up until that point. One would think that, after Raccoon City and then this place, she'd have come to the conclusion that there was far more to reality than humanity wanted to believe.

Seeing us--well, me--as I really am, sans the minor transmutation that masks me as a normal human, with my mind blade ready to cut her down if she reached for her gun on the ground, that shook her cool. All I did was tell her to get out of the spy business before the reality of this world took her out. That's when a shudder throughout the island came. Something big had just exploded. Next thing I know Ada was raising herself up to a chopper with a wrist-mounted grappling claw. Our time on that island was at an end; we didn't even waste time teleporting to the ship waiting for us.

I must have been in shock because I felt no seasickness. All I did was give our liaisons the samples and then watch as the island began to explode and sink. From out of a cavern on the water came a jet ski with Leon and Ashley on it. Saddler had transformed himself into some huge mutation, but Ada had thrown an RPG from her chopper for him to finally end the madman. But her act of kindness was merely a way for her to take the sample of Las Plagas Leon had obtained and thus complete her mission. Was she working for Wesker this time, too? I wouldn't doubt it. It all added up that he'd be the one who tried to use us, perhaps hoping for a distraction or even our deaths. If anyone was aware of what Saddler's mere presence could do, it would be him. He, too, is a supernatural being; he literally sold his soul for power, as I witnessed with Chris at the Antarctic facility.

In the end we were taken to the US Consulate in Barcelona. Kyra and I both were debriefed by our superiors before being released. The day that had started the night before with our journey into a madman's world ended with us having a nice dinner at one of the upscale restaurants. The asymmetry of it all only really jolted us after we returned to the Consulate for some rest. Kyra just broke down and cried while I was too numb to do anything. Even for us this was not just another day at the office. We'd nearly been killed, saw the world narrowly escape domination by some magical parasite, and then ended it with dinner at a four-start restaurant!?

Yet somehow we pulled ourselves together again. Our jobs will put us in similar situations at some point. It's just a question of when. And for me, why. If Wesker was involved then this was just a move on a proverbial chessboard. But I can't tell Kyra that. For her, it's over for now. For me, it's another piece in the puzzle that began six years ago in Raccoon Forest with a helicopter crash.
(End Transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Mon Apr 18, 2011 11:40 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Boulder, CO, Dec. 14, 2004)
I got suckered into being the investigator assigned to evaluate the new WilPharma facility in Boulder. The only other BSAA agents with experience regarding the T-Virus are Chris and Jill, and both are off on missions. After reading a few of their post-operation reports I've noticed glaring holes in the times given. It looks like both of them are deliberately taking more time than necessary so they can perform covert research into the location of Sir Oswell Spencer using BSAA resources. It seems the old man and his research into the original Progenitor Virus have survived, as have bizarre reports of mutations in parts of Eastern Europe. Then there's something that bothers me more than anything else. Some sort of document that mentions the "Wesker Project." Details are sparse, but it looks like some sort of a eugenics program based around taking the best and brightest children to be found, giving them the surname Wesker, and then doing something to them at adulthood. Whatever it is seems to be potentially fatal, as thirteen of the fifteen subjects died. Only Albert and another man, Alex, survived. They haven't told me a thing and for good reason; had I known, I'd have tried to talk them out of this mad quest for revenge. I want Spencer's head as badly as they do, maybe more, but their entire lives seem to be centered on vengeance. But after seeing some of the odd things they've found I've given them my blessing.

So it falls to me to take this grunt work. The BSAA hasn't forgotten that isolated facility in the Salt Flats or the illegal experiments done there, so I was given carte blanche to do all I felt was justified in investigating this new place. Especially since they've moved all their (declared) stores of the T-Virus there. Their head researcher, an Englishman named Frederic Downing, was there to greet me. I can't put my finger on why, but he looks awfully familiar to me. He proved to be most amiable and accomodating, though.

One of the first things I noted was their use of positive air pressure to support the structure. Not very wise if there was an outbreak; the air pushing outwards would only spread any pathogens in far greater quantities. But reversing the pressure would cause the whole structure to collapse, so it's a moot point now. He assured me that their containment measures would counteract any possible leak. Looking at how each sector is effectively self-contained and can be unlocked to fall down a central shaft and into high-temperature fire for sterilization if worse comes to worst, it technically passes the BSAA's standards.

The areas I explored today were Sections Zero through Two. Zero was little more than office space for administration and required little attention. Section One dealt with virulent but common diseases like the various rhinoviruses that cause the cold. I can safely say that mankind is no closer to finding a cure. Even despite such low-risk germs, they'd taken extra steps to ensure an airtight, sterile place that could contain an outbreak. They had even implemented the most advanced HEPA filters, stuff only found in Class Four biohazard labs--and the only two of those are in Japan and the United States. But even those can't provide complete protection; so far no method can. Even in combination with UV lights to kill most pathogens.

Section Two was for more serious maladies like measles, mumps, rubella, and various forms of the herpes virus like chicken pox. At this point the researchers had to wear full-body hazmat suits to avoid contamination of the samples as well as infection. That necessitated a deeper investigation and my own suit. It took the better part of three hours to ensure that all the necessary seals were in place and solid, that sterilization measures were working properly, and that sensors were operating at optimum capacity.

Four more hours were spent studying the blueprints in minute detail and verifying that certain features were indeed in place. The entire building was indeed airtight and they had indeed done all that was required. That I wasn't allowed into Sections Three and Four today raise some red flags. So I hacked into their computers and followed sterile data trails as far in as I could. I got a lucky break when a triggered access point to their cold systems opened momentarily, giving me a lot of data that would have otherwise been cut off to me. I had gone to stealth pretty well, but as I neared the complete download of their files the security caught me and I had to bail. What I did get, and could reconstruct from those last few files, is disturbing.

Frederic Downing has been running an awful lot of tests without telling the company. Some are on a strain of virus I recognized as the T-Virus by its genetic sequence. Others are on a similar but more complex strain that I suspect to be the G-Virus. Ever since Umbrella went belly up their bio-weapons have been readily available on the black market--everything but the G-Virus. It was thanks to William Birkin's paranoia that only a few pure samples were obtained before the Feds nuked Raccoon City off the map. All of those had to be smuggled out from under Birkin's very nose by fellow researchers. So I'm having the BSAA run the personnel files from WilPharma through a store of known Umbrella employees that are unaccounted for. The problem is that that relies mainly on facial scans, the most ineffective method of identification. A little plastic surgery and its useless. But few know we have such files, so it remains an option.

Another disturbing fact is the mention of General Grande, a warlord in the Golden Triangle that has been very open with his sponsorship of bio-terrorism. The files seemed to be communiques to and from General Grande to someone within WilPharma. There was also partial mention of India; it was no mere accident that led to the T-Virus outbreak there, someone had done so deliberately and that someone was working for WilPharma. Whether or not this was a solo job or the heads of WP knew about it is unknown. The files I snagged are too degraded to tell and will require some extensive reconstruction, something that will require a much more powerful computer than even my PDA (reminder: time to matter manipulate the blue ice circuits on a sub-atomic level to improve performance and further refine the dream crystal processors and storage using the same). The BSAA will work on reconstructing the files.

Other than that there are some very peculiar messages regarding total T-Vaccine quantities and the storage of all samples of it at the Boulder Facility. Their other facilities don't have half the capability for production this one has, and even this one is only producing at about a quarter of its total capacity. It looks like someone is deliberately limiting production. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.
(End Transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Thu May 19, 2011 3:14 am

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Boulder, CO, Dec. 15, 2004)
After my last entry I couldn't fall asleep, so I ordered a movie from the hotel. What I ended up selecting was It's Flashbeagle, Charlie Brown. I'd forgotten how much I love the song "Flash Beagle." It was a reminder of the Eighties, those early innocent years before I was attacked by the Red Death's minions and forced to relocate to Raccoon City to hide from them. Now that I'm back they haven't moved against me. Maybe they're afraid now that I have no compunctions about stripping away their masques for the whole world to see?

So it was I went back to the WilPharma facility in actual good spirits today. I had to maintain the facade of civility long enough to see Levels Three and Four. But afterwards I could let loose. The reports from BSAA Central had identified Frederic Downing as one Nigel Whitehall, assistant to one William Birkin in the development of the G-Virus and wanted by every First World government and Interpol for crimes against humanity and violations of the Biological and Toxic Weapons Convention. Once I'd seen what I needed to I could put the screws on him. His days were now numbered; it was just a matter of collecting evidence to ensure a conviction. It might take years to do so, but that was fine. I'm not exactly getting any older.

Upon arrival I noticed their computer systems being systematically purged. The files were being shredded--deleted in such a way there would be no way to recover them. When I asked about this, "Fredric" let slip that they had been hacked the night before. He tried to downplay just how bad it was and I acted like I bought it. Since I was the hacker I knew well what really happened. Not that he needed to know that. Still it was a reason to delay full approval by the BSAA by at least a year or more. Without that stamp then the FDA wouldn't give them their blessing and the mistrust by the public wouldn't abate. If anything it would increase.

On Level Three I had to don a total hazmat suit and go through three different scans before I got in. This was the level where they kept Ebola Hemmorhagic Fever, both the Sudan and Zaire strains, and their equally nasty cousin, Marburg. That even EHF was considered lower security than the T-Virus says something. EHF only kills its victims. The T-Virus and its variants brought them back to unlife. They had certainly taken every necessary precaution possible and included several levels of redundancy just to be sure. Level Three passed with flying colors on everything.

Level Four was another story. From the moment we stepped off the elevator I was overwhelmed by the ethereal resonance. The place was a mix of apathy, misery, and fear. It had taken a very heavy toll on the workers there. Those that weren't despondent and depressed or emotionless robots were detached in the way only sociopaths can be. The safety measures certainly passed inspection, but that was just one concern. Psychological screening and testing was mandatory for those who worked with such dangerous material and what I saw clearly showed they hadn't been keeping up with that. Then there was the fact that the labs were all under the effects of desecrate and unhallow spells. "Frederic" didn't seem to notice them, nor did he appear to think I would, either. Since the BSAA is founded on accepted science and not magic, that was something that I couldn't really mention. My friends in the OSA, on the other hand, would be very keen to investigate under the aegis of the FBI, NSA, FDA, and just about every other agency the government could call in. If there was evil magic being performed, something would have to be done about it.

At the end of the inspection I submitted my report without even telling him before the kid gloves came off. It started out with my mentioning I was a Raccoon City survivor, then how I'd been with the STARS at both the Marcus and Spencer Estates, even being involved in that incident with Alexia Ashford. About how I'd seen just what the T- and G-Viruses were capable of and how I knew more about Umbrella's operations before and after the company had effectively been destroyed. The idea was to make him think I was his biggest concern, someone who knew far too much. He wouldn't pay attention to others. He would get sloppy. And if retribution was coming, I would be his first target.

Certainly he tried tonight. Hired assassins tried to take me out in my hotel room. Only I hadn't given him the full picture of what I was really capable of. The bodies of the dead assassins somehow found their way to his house. I watched him via my crystal ball and as soon as he saw them, I called his personal cell phone.

"Strike one, Nigel Whitehall."
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Tue Jun 28, 2011 12:02 am

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, Jan. 1, 2005)
Kyra and I were invited to Peg's usual New Years blowout at the Black Kitty Cat Club. Around eight in the evening they spotted a pretty little brunette with green eyes that they wanted to "abuse." At first the young woman was more than a little afraid but both had had too much to drink to care. Our new friend, while at first gun-shy and even wooden, soon became quite friendly and pliable in the most literal sense. She, Sarah, had been dragged to the Club by her more outgoing friend and largely ignored. It turned out to be a night of several firsts for her: her first drink, her first time at at a club of any kind, and the all-timer. By the time the ball had all but dropped for the Mountain Time Zone the three women had fallen fast asleep from a combination of fun and strong booze, pinning me under their flesh.

I stayed awake just long enough to see the passage of the New Year before falling asleep myself. That's when the dreams began. In all my life I've never truly known what a real nightmare was, simply because I usually have total control over my dreams. Even when I was in the Abyss my dreams never turned on me, more likely out of the ancient truce sealed with the Pact Primeval than any desire on Elisime's part to stay out of my mind beyond dominating me. This time was different; something with the power to override my own lucid dreaming did so. In the dream I was faced with the memories of three women from my past: Maxine, Brianna Sunblaze, and Tyriana. Each blamed me for their final fates, begging me to help them "at the Hill of Silenced Spirits." Then each was consumed by a grotesque monstrosity out of my worst fears. The same visions played out time and again, becoming longer and more detailed as each was trapped in a particular area following a theme revolving around them and their very natures. I tried fighting against these artificial visions, but I couldn't. None of my powers or abilities worked and control was impossible to establish. I was...afraid. But the fear was less than another emotion.

Guilt.

It was only because of someone gently slapping my cheek and shaking me that I finally woke up. My blood felt like ice water and my heart was racing. Kyra, Peg, and Sarah all were trying to wake me. I don't know how long I just laid there, staring upwards and gasping for air. I could see them and the intense worry on their faces but my mind refused to focus. The "Place of Silenced Spirits" kept resonating in my mind until at last I spoke the name its known by today, Silent Hill. The town had made a very deliberate, very specific choice to attack me. This wasn't the Order's work; they were children playing with fire at best. It was the Old Gods of Silent Hill themselves this time.

Just hearing the name made Kyra pale. She still hasn't fully recovered from her own nightmares. Then I began to weep as the guilt I felt came to the fore. I don't know what happened to Maxine or Brianna after we entered the portal from the Realm of Dread; it could be that they were caught in a planar time dilation and haven't "arrived" yet or were even sent to another Material Plane world altogether. But I do know what happened to Tyriana; not long before I escaped, she found me. Her escape from Elisime had landed her in the world I eventually came to. She had forsaken her former patron and even her abilities over the incorporeal undead to try and atone for what she'd done. But she couldn't forgive herself for betraying me, for betraying Lathander Morninglord, for all the vile things she had done. In the end she begged me to put her out of her misery, to let her soul be judged in the afterlife. Deep down I must have still felt something because I granted her request. Her death was as quick and painless as possible. But it was something I've never felt comfortable with or really forgiven myself for.

Kyra and Peg both tried to comfort me, as did Sarah who didn't really know me. She's still rather naive regarding men and sexuality, but she has a heart of gold. More importantly, she turned out to by a psychologist for the Office. She had only recently finished her training and indoctrination and New Year's Eve was her first real day off since Christmas. She was also familiar with the files on the cases involving Silent Hill. Her thesis for her doctorate in parapsychology had even been based on Silent Hill, "Places of Atonement for the Guilty Soul." She had theorized that the town drew those who felt repressed guilt over something, using the basis of the local Bogeyman as an example and numerous cases of people feeling inextricably called back, though she couldn't and still can't figure out why the Order and its members aren't likewise targeted. They certainly seem aware of the Bogeyman and are terrified of it. But why hasn't the cult, who has committed countless atrocities, been wiped out by the strange forces at work?

A little after sunrise we finally got up for the day after some more fitful sleep. Sarah still hasn't gotten her furniture or belongings from the moving company so her apartment is empty save for a suitcase of clothing that needed washing. Kyra invited her to stay with us until the movers brought her stuff from Maryland back to Utah. I knew she had ulterior motives, but the offer was genuine. It certainly gave Sarah a place to do her wash and a chance to talk with us both--as friends and as a doctor. This was the first time Kyra had even seen a doctor about her nightmares besides me. I know the mind, I use its powers, but I can't be unbiased with her. I knew this and tried to get her to see someone, but she had always steadfastly refused. Now she was pouring her heart out about all the things she felt. It really did take a third party to help her see what was going on and truly begin the healing process. Facing the horrors again brought back tears for us both, but it put things into perspective. And as Kyra showered, Sarah talked to me about my nightmare last night. Only this discussion wasn't so much psychological as purely analytical of objective facts.

I can now confirm that Silent Hill acts as a lodestone for those who are feeling guilt over something and have repressed the guilt--the very memories--so deeply they can't remember. This wasn't always the case; I think it goes back to when Travis Grady found Alessa Gillespie. The girl's psyche cried out for help and found someone who had a connection to the town and who felt repressed guilt. In Mr. Grady's case, he blamed himself for his mother's insanity and his father's suicide. Further he was able to resolve those issues and the town let him go. The same was the case for Henry Townshend who had euthanized his wife but repressed the memories; he apparently couldn't resolve things and either committed suicide or was claimed by the town. Or both. As a result of Alessa's pleas, a sort of psychic magnet was created. The number of cases of people reported missing after going to Silent Hill isn't large--four or five a year from all corners of the country. Roughly the same number are reported to have gone and yet returned, stating simply that they came to terms with something from the past. If they experienced the horrors of the Other World or the uninhabited, foggy simulacrum is unknown. Nobody talked about it since they would likely be put in a sanitarium if they did.

Each case also had another, critical link: each person had been to Silent Hill before. As a resort town it draws its fair share of people on vacation and thus more than a few who seem to fit the criteria. Now its calling out to me and my own repressed guilt. I'll have to go there eventually. I'll become more delusional and uncomfortable the longer I ignore its call, but to go just yet would be foolhardy at best. By studying the stories of those who went before, at least those who admit to the supernatural nature, I can perhaps have an idea of what to expect and how to overcome it.

After our talk concluded, Sarah suggested a little "bonding exercise" with her and Kyra. She was couching her desires in psychoanalytical terminology but it wasn't hard to see what she was really suggesting. Goddess help me, I think I've helped create a monster.
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Sat Jan 07, 2012 12:32 am

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, Mar. 18, 2005)
The nightmares are getting worse. Every time I close my eyes I know what to expect. Further the images have begun to appear even when I'm awake. Out of the corner of my eye I see what I think is a patient demon stumbling towards me in a straightjacket of flesh, only to find nothing when I look back. I purchase a meal and see a plate of rancid flesh and maggots that I must blink away. At times the phone rings and I answer it only to hear the voices of Maxine and Briana begging me for help, and I have to shake my head to clear my mind again.

Sarah, goddess bless her, has been aiding me in my investigations and helping anchor my mind in reality. From her own visits to others who heard the call to Silent Hill, those who ended up in the lower levels of psychiatric hospitals, the incurable and dangerous, several disparate elements are coming together. The creatures are drawn to light and sound and seem to have no real difficulty in total darkness. Their myriad forms are based partly on the current target, partly on a remnant of Alessa's nightmares while she was still trapped in Alchemilia Hospital. Either way they're meant to inspire soul-shattering dread in the target. But they're also flesh and blood then and a bullet or bludgeon will kill them. From my own experiences it may be foolish to think my psionic powers will function when I finally return there. But Repose and my Magnum will. Just in case I should be on the lookout for anything that can be used to fight back.

Drawn from her own theories, Sarah has suggested there is also a theme to it all. The town seems to draw on negativity and negative emotions: hate, fear, self-loathing, obsession, the dark aspects of the psyche. In my case it's regret. Regret at not finding Maxine or Brianna when I first arrived in this world and perhaps condemning them to a hellish ordeal. I've worked on some planar equations but there are key pieces missing. Gods forgive me, I can't figure out where, when, or why. There are so many different chaos factors...I tried to correlate them going by the factors that could have affected my own arrival. Yet there are too many to take into account. I could use my psionic powers to divine the answers, but my own fear paralyzes me. A metafaculty would show me what I need to know and yet I'm afraid to do it. The few times I have used such a power put me in close proximity to the Red Death in the metaphysical sense. Too close for comfort, for safety, for sanity.

Kyra has provided several other reports of men and women who disappeared at Silent Hill. There is more to this town's victims than simply emotion. In every case those so called must have at some point visited the place physically. They must also be connected, either directly or sympathetically, to some sort of sin committed within the town or related to the strange beings who rule there. Travis Grady, the trucker who saved the original Alessa from the fire set by her own mother, visited the town as a child while his mother was committed there for infanticide and his father hanged himself. Harry Mason adopted the reincarnated Alessa. James Sunderland went there for his honeymoon and later euthanized his own wife then repressed the memories. Alessa's third incarnation was drawn there, and for the sins of serial killer Walter Sullivan and his sick obsession, Henry Townshend was drawn into the nightmare.

So what sort of sin connects me to that place? I crossed the Order. I still possess both the odd dagger and the Flauros that once formed a series of artifacts the cult used to influence the dreamscapes borne of a little girl's nightmares. Reports of strange workings by those known to be part of the Order suggest a growing desperation. They've become more like religious terrorists lately. The loss of the dagger and the Flauros were bad enough, but Kyra has theorized that the imperfect birth, and subsequent killing, of their God by Alessa's current incarnation has cost them their last vestiges of control over the Otherworld. In short, the power they sought to take control of has at last bucked them and is taking revenge. They've been seeking "converts" to their bizarre religion in a flawed and ultimately futile effort to placate what they see as the literal Wrath of God. They haven't opened the bottle, they've broken it. And the genie inside is pissed! The old god (gods?) want the power the Order stole, even if it must be harvested from flesh and bone.

Where I come in is in the same eldritch laws that have governed the town and the land since the beginning: a series of tests must be made. If I pass, it can never again touch me directly and must offer a boon. If I fail...I'd sooner not think about it. Such would make my enslavement by Elisime look like a four-star vacation in comparison. And until I answer its call, the hallucinations will only get worse before turning into the phantasmagoric given substance.
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Thu Apr 19, 2012 7:19 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Montpelier, VT, May 6, 2005)
I endured the delusions and hallucinations as much as possible. But when I was attacked by a demonic hound that turned out to be very, very real, I knew the town was getting impatient and it was in everyone's best interest if I went to face down my inner demons made flesh. I didn't tell Kyra or Sarah a thing, instead leaving a note behind that simply said, "I'm sorry."

As I passed through Shepherd's Glen I was once more pulled over by Sheriff Shepherd, who has a vivid memory of me the first time. How he knew it was me I don't know. He tried his best to talk me out of going but I couldn't be swayed. It was either go to the town or it would come to me with disastrous results. I don't think he expected me to come back. I didn't know if I'd be coming back. The town was already wise to my abilities and would likely nullify them outright. Except for my Magnum, Repose, and the Sun Gun, I wouldn't have any real edge. Take away all my psionic powers and what's left? That thought terrified me most of all.

At a rest stop outside the borders proper I parked my rental car, steeled myself as best I could, and began walking the misty path to Silent Hill.

At the end of the path I came out into the town's cemetary. Normal cemetaries inundate me with the voices of the dead, which is why I avoid them, but this place...it was silent. Nothing. It was so incongruent it disturbed me more than if the dead were vociferous as ever. Terror began to swell in me and before I knew it was running blindly through the foggy town. I only came to my senses when I ran into a junked police car--literally. Had it not been there I likely would have fallen into a bottomless pit where the road just ended. As if the aches of running smack into a hard object like a cruiser wasn't enough, I smacked myself several times to try and clear a weird fog that had settled over my mind. That was the first time I'd really noticed it. I had to focus on something, a goal, if I was going to avoid being claimed by the town as another member of its monstrous menagerie or end up dead.

Not a moment later the FM radio in my pocket began to emit white noise that grew louder as the seconds passed. A creature that looked like a dog with its head split vertically was loping towards me. Instinctively I raised my hand to fire a mind arrow and got nothing. The town was indeed suppressing my psionic abilities. In the split moment I had before it hit me I dropped flat and raised my leg as it passed over, effectively throwing it into the pit. The white noise died off suddenly.

For a moment I just stood there and looked at the pit. The idea of the pit as both a proverbial edge and a literal barrier passed through my mind. This town had me and it didn't care about me so long as I played by its rules. I could cry, scream, yell, and carry on. Or I could exercise a little self-control and keep going! With that in my mind I began to explore and map out where the paths led or fell into oblivion.

For over an hour I walked about, checking doors and alleys as I went. Several doors had been boarded up completely, others I could chop through cleanly with the Sun Gun's massive blade. In addition I noticed fire escape ladders. My armor let me fly up and grab them, but invariably such attempts brought attacks by black, shadowy, winged things that looked like bats but screeched like raptors. Blows and bullets from the Sun Gun seemed to hurt them grievously, as did the bolts of positive energy my amulet unleashed when they attacked, but they just kept coming unless I quit trying to fly. Aside from minor cuts they didn't hurt me all that much, but they did effectively make flight out of the question. I'd have to find some way of pulling down any ladder I saw. A mooring hook, a length of rope or chain, even a rake would suffice. Sadly the vast majority of everything around was blighted by advanced dry rot or severe rust damage that would turn it to dust if I touched it. Decay seemed to be a major theme to Silent Hill; physical, moral, social, even spiritual. In the real world this place was a bustling tourist town. But here the place was as rotten without as it was within. It was an interesting existential question: was this the real Silent Hill and the one most saw just an illusion?

No psionic powers, most every potential tool useless, even attempts to build steps using drums and other junk failed when they proved unable to support my weight. This place was truly doing a fine job of countering every attempt I made to access certain areas. Yet it wasn't giving me a clue about where it did want me to go. Was this part of some test? To see if I was truly fit to face whatever horrors it still had in store for me? All I could do was continue to explore, mark off areas on a town map where pits or other obstructions cut off access, and check out areas it did let me into.

How long I wandered I don't know. My watch was flashing 88:88 along with every other icon on its LCD face. Time had no meaning here. But my first real breakthrough came when I finally made it to the Balkan Church, a Catholic chapel that seemed strangely untouched by the decay. I was relieved to find the doors unlocked and the inside empty. No patient demons in straightjackets of flesh, no split-headed dogs, and no bizarre creatures of corpulent mass. Taking a seat in one of the pews I rested for the first time since I arrived. Next to me was a hymnal, though when I opened it all the pages had been savagely torn out. Every hymnal I checked was torn up, as was a Bible on the main altar. The font for holy water was empty and stained by dried blood. Even the sculpture of Jesus on the crucifix on the wall looked like someone had tried to wrench it off.

"Tis a sad day when people turn on their faith."

When I heard that in a thick Irish accent I nearly jumped out of my skin and twirled with my Magnum drawn. It was a redheaded man wearing the black shirt and white collar of a priest. My eye couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary about him; he must have been trapped here like me.

"Lower your weapon, my son. I mean ya no harm. I'm Father O'Malley, sent here by the Church of the Holy Office to find out what's happened."

Perfect. The Holy Inquisition. The Church changed the name and most people forgot what it truly was. Though their methods had changed, the Inquisition's mission hadn't. Neither had their very narrowminded view of reality. If he knew I wasn't really human I'd likely be seeing a witch trial firsthand. Yet they were also counted as allies by the Office of Supernatural Affairs. That would work in my favor.

"What is an Inquisitor doing here?" I asked, holstering my gun. "Alexander Archer, ex-OSA agent and...I guess "victim" of this town's attentions."

"Mr. Archer, I thought you looked familiar. I've read your file. You made quite a splash among the occult circles at the turn of the century. Then hopefully we can help each other. Surely you've seen those horrid creatures outside?"

"The straightjackets, the split-heads, and things I don't know what to call. Oh, I've seen them. I had to bisect several of them."

"Aye, those things. Do you know what they are?"

"Unfortunately I think I do."

I proceeded to tell him what I knew about Dhalia and Alessa Gillespie, the Order, and how others had become trapped in this nightmare. His reactions seemed to indicate he hadn't been told all--or any--of the facts. Surely the Catholic Church knew about this place and its dark history. The Vigilia Evangelica probably had lost tomes that would explain everything. If only the Church was willing to share its hidden stores of knowledge. Instead it hoarded the knowledge away even as priests, bishops, and cardinals went about ignorant and jockeyed for political power without even the foggiest idea of what was really at work. That the Inquisition hadn't told one of their own about this place struck me as odd. Was he playing dumb and doing such a good job he deserved an Emmy for acting? Or had they sent him on a suicide mission?

Just as I finished the doors blew open and a muscled figure in a leather apron and wearing a blood-red pyramid on its head walked in carrying a knife nearly as tall as it. A bogeyman. Part of the Order's teachings about punishers of sin given terrifying life thanks to Alessa's power warping reality all those years ago. From the stories I'd heard the creatures attacked only those who had unpunished sins, including the other creatures of this twisted place. I, for one, wasn't about to test that theory by confronting it. If we just stayed out of its way it would hopefully leave us alone.

Father O'Malley, however, was not keen on being anywhere near it and bolted for the door as soon as it was up the aisle enough to evade. It must have caught his scent or something as it turned and began dragging its huge blade after him. I stood up and called out to it, but it just looked at me for a moment and then continued after the priest. Why? If I'd been summoned by the town then surely there was something I had to account for. So why would it ignore me? Unless O'Malley wasn't here on official business but had been summoned as well?

Error! File Transfer Interrupted!

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Sat May 19, 2012 8:55 pm

Connection Reestablished...Resuming File Download......
At the time I couldn't stop and think about it. That piercing air raid siren-like noise rang out and I was left clutching my head in pain as the world around me changed. Darkness replaced the once meager daylight coming in from outside and the church itself seemed to flake away the appearance of good condition for one of rusted metal grate floors, blackened and rotten wood pews, and an altar desecrated with blood and the mummified body of someone hung upside down from a crucifix. I had just crossed into the Other World. Something was anchoring this reality and I couldn't escape until I found and destroyed it. But then what would that entail? Would the horror be spawned from my own mind, the residual memories of Alessa Gillespie, or of some other event? That's one of the main reasons Kyra and I both hate Silent Hill: it never forgets sins committed by those who ever step foot on its soil.

Outside there was no light. My crystal eye let me see even in such supernatural darkness, but the creatures that dwelled there were likewise unhindered. Not that I had a source of light without my powers. Flesh demons were wandering the now-rusty metal street, darkened in color along with the world. Their awkward gait was unchanged but they sprayed a caustic liquid out of where their mouths should have been. I finally had to fight as their numbers increased exponentially when I tried to bypass them. I was being forced. That much was obvious. What worried me was the fact I was being herded towards a ledge. One of my rings would slow any fall but it wasn't the fall that scared me; it was whatever lay at the bottom.

As one they surged on my position and forced me backwards. As I practically floated down they just kept coming, falling into the same darkness. Distant thuds of flesh on stone became louder until I was standing on some sort of blackened rock. Obsidian. Dusted with volcanic ash. It was the "smell" that raised my hackles. The unmistakable stench of Hades. Or a very good facsimile of it.

In the distance was an altar that seemed to be unadorned. There was also someone kneeling in front of it. As I got closer I found broken holy symbols on the ground. It took me a moment to realize they were fragments of those to both Lathander Morninglord and Elisime. My heart sank into my stomach even as I continued walking and saw who was kneeling before the altar. That bronze skin, those blonde locks, it was Tyriana! No, it couldn't be. She had come to me in the Land of Mists, begging absolution for her betrayal of me and Lathander, for her sins, to be given a merciful death that her soul could repay its debts. She was given atonement and as quick and painless a death as I could give. I still remember the sting of the tears in my eyes.

"Alex. It's me. This place...my soul never found peace."

"No. You're not the real thing. I remember the...feeling of my mind blade severing your head."

"Yes, you killed me," it said. "You damned my soul."

"The real thing was absolved of her sins before death. She was the one who wanted final mercy. You're just a...an echo...of my latent guilt."

It dawned on me. My guilt, for those I couldn't save, those I had lost. That was what had drawn me here.

"I did what I felt was right, even if I hated to do it. I stand by my actions."

At that Tyriana--the thing screeched and turned into a caricature of flesh and wood made into one ungodly whole. The head and hair were carved, but the eyes were natural. The body an almagamation of wooden limbs, fleshy joints, and nails too long and too sharp to be natural. That thing moved like a puppet on strings, a puppet to the Goddess of Succubi. Even in denunciation the town was still trying to use my own feelings against me. My normally acrobatic style was no use with something as heavy as the Sun Gun and the creature got in several good slashes before I adapted and countered with several simultaneous heavy slashes and blasts of rounds heavy enough to pierce tank armor clean through. Every hit tore away wood and revealed rotten flesh underneath. It was as dead within as without.

A final blow to its head felled it, but it was still animate. Its one good eye watched as I stood over it, said a prayer, and decapitated it. The look it gave me was strange, though. I expected a final expression of fear, hatred, or something too alien to be recognized. Instead it was one of relief. Relief at its pained existence ending, maybe?

Once more I couldn't stop and wonder as that air raid siren rang out again and I was forced to clutch my head in agony. Only this time I couldn't resist and passed out. I have no idea just how long I was out cold. But when I came to there were no more bleeding wounds or even damage to my clothing. I was in a diner from the looks of it. Clutched in my free hand was a piece of paper covered in planar mathematics. This was part of the missing pieces I needed. Not enough to fill all the gaps, but still a vital segment. When I entered it into my PDA the program was able to get a day and month: May the twentieth. Without a year or location it was still no help, but that didn't matter right then.

From the corner of my eye I saw a flash of red turn a corner outside the diner. Another person trapped? Or another psychopomp this town manifested to torture someone? It was raining then and the creatures weren't out in the numbers I'd expected. I followed the sound of footsteps on water to a strip mall-style dojo. I was never too enamored with them; they could teach how to throw a proper punch and kick, but the styles were always watered down from the real deal. Not that they weren't effective, just not a match for an opponent trained where teachers fully expected students to use their skills in real fights for their lives. I got the feeling this demon was based on my feelings and memories of Maxine. That seemed to be what was going on here.

Other than a basic workout set covered in dust, a set of dumbells, and a bar for leg stretches in front of a wall-length mirror, there was nothing inside. Or I thought there was nothing until I saw the reflection in the mirror. It was the dojo, only it was dirty, rusted, rotted. Carpet eaten away to bare cement, bent and broken dumbells covered in rust, and the workout set's stacking weights scattered about. For a moment I paused, letting my instincts take over. Without any real conscious thought I fired the Sun Gun at the mirror. Glass shattered and what opened looked like a tunnel made out of some monstrous gullet.

Goddess help me, I walked through and found myself assaulted by humanoid things extending from the fleshy walls. A .500 Magnum slug in the "heads" worked to get them to let go. It was too narrow to draw a weapon as big as the Sun Gun. To conserve ammo I switched over to Repose. For the first time since I came to this world it shed bright light like it did before. A not unwelcome development. With the Red Death dampening magic it glowed more like a faint candle most of the time, but here its full power was visible. Was this place free of its taint? That was one possibility, but not something I was going to test. Instead I pushed onward until I saw a redhead practicing katas in the middle of a "room." It looked like Maxine, dressed like her, but there was something off. It was the movements. Fighting styles are like fingerprints, and the way it was moving was not Maxine's style. I sparred with her enough in the past to know it quite well.

When it finally noticed me its face resembled nothing so much as melted wax half-formed into a coherent shape. Even its flesh had an unnatural sheen to it like plastic. When it attacked it did so without grace or finesse. Whenever I managed to tag it with a cut it bled some half-solid fluid that looked like alchemical quintessence. Not once did it speak. Nor do I think it could. I seemed to have stumbled onto it before the town was done creating it. In fact it fell much more quickly than that copy of Tyriana. When it did another line of planar mathematics formed as burns in its flesh, complete with the unmistakable stench of such. This time the program produced a time: 13:23:54, 2010.

This time there was no siren, no pain, just the world around me fading away into blackness until I was inside some Gothic cathedral that didn't exist in Silent Hill. At least not in the material. The light streaming through the stained glass windows wasn't sunlight filtered through clouds, it was the unnatural glow of the sky in the Other World. In a pew sat Father O'Malley, rocking back and forth as he recited Hail Mary in Latin. How did he get here? When he looked up and saw me the look of panic in his eyes startled me. Not the panic of one fleeing monsters, but one fleeing the truth.

"I didn't want them to get hurt," he kept babbling.

"Who? Who got hurt?"

"They said it was okay. That I wasn't doing anything wrong by not telling the Bishop. Those teens had sinned. They were driving the evil out."

"What teens? What happened?" Then I remembered the news stories. "They were molested."

"Father, forgive me, they said I'd be defrocked, accused of harming them as they had. I didn't touch them. Don't look at me!"

With that he ran off into a corridor. Before I could move I sensed something behind me. When I looked it was something like soft wax, bone white, in the general shape of a woman. Suddenly it grabbed me by the throat and lifted me off the ground. I could barely breathe as it spoke in an unnatural whisper of hundreds of voices that changed tone and tenor every second. I'd stumbled onto its little game, ruined things by finding my way through too soon. I was still to be rewarded and freed of its influence, but now it had another part for me to play. That of judge to a priest who failed in his duties. It let me go and I fell, choking and gasping for air. It disappeared, saying I was not free until I found O'Malley and passed judgment one way or the other.

What he seemed to be involved in was heinous by any standards. And when he spoke I got the feeling he was lying about "not harming them." But lying to whom? Me or himself? I'm a priest in my own faith, and was taught to handle such delicate things by getting down to the truth. I had to know his true part in what he was talking about before I could--would judge him as guilty or innocent. First I had to find him.

If ever there was a universal truth, it's that sins among clergy always happen amongst those who consider themselves most holy. Holy enough to be above morality. Children's drawings of the Order's priests and priestesses "hurting" them as a child understood it covered the walls in one room. My heart ached and I felt the hate welling in my chest. The Order had so much to answer for. But the Order's sins were not O'Malley's. I had to remember to judge him based on his own merit and the circumstances involving him. Maybe I wasn't so free of the town's games after all.

In another room was one of those horridly obese monsters and two burnt flesh demons. Yet they didn't notice me. The following room I saw a flesh demon attacking O'Malley, who hid inside the confessional. I cut it down with ease and tried to coax the priest out. He refused, saying that he had to confess his sins. What could I do? From my pack I withdrew an altar case and stepped inside, making a show of drawing my own frock and donning it even through the tiny wicker window. It must have worked.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned," he sobbed.

"How have you sinned, my child?"

"I failed to bring to light the abuses heaped on innocents. When I tried, my superiors told me to keep quiet. That it would mar Mother Church and destroy the faithful. I played politics...when I should have followed my heart. I kept a secret..." He broke down and cried. "...I damned young, innocent souls because I was weak. But the news found out. It was all for nothing."

For my part I didn't know what to do. He was clearly guilty of the sin of omission and let priests abuse children. But he truly felt remorse. No sin could be condemned if remorse for it was there.

"I forgive you," I whispered. "The Lord will forgive you as well. I cannot absolve you of sin, but by seeking atonement your soul may be free."

All of a sudden the confessional shuddered and I heard O'Malley scream. Outside was the same wax person, along with others. O'Malley was situated on a gallows, a noose around his neck. I'd forgiven him, but the town--or perhaps he himself--hadn't. He was going to be executed. By now I knew there was no way to stop it. Even if I shot the rope and spared his life, his guilt was bound to bring him back here. Or he would take his own life. Was this how the gods of Silent Hill judged a human being? Even one who sought redemption? Or was it that he had failed their little game? That's what we were to these beings. Pawns to be used and discarded. Lives were just a commodity to them.

I closed my eyes and braced myself for it. A rope stretching, bone breaking, it felt like some sort of nightmare I couldn't wake up from. If that horrid siren hadn't rang out I might have fainted out of sheer horror.

When I came to I was back in the car I'd rented. It was if nothing had happened. If not for a scrap of paper containing the last piece of the equation I might have dared believe it was just some nightmare. A ringing from my PDA made me jump in fright. It was a phone call. From Kyra. She was terrified, but I explained I had done whatever the town had wanted me to do. It was over and I was on my way home. We met up at the rental place in Montpelier and rented a motel room so I could rest. Even before I began writing this, though, I entered the equation on that last piece of paper. The puzzle was complete and I knew where and when Briana and Maxine would appear: the same place I had twenty-five years ago, but not for another five years. It was right in the Raccoon City Hot Zone, still so irradiated it glowed in the dark. When the time came the both of them would need to be taken out ASAP. Even a few seconds would mean nasty burns and a lethal dose of radiation. Easily cured with magic but still terrifying and painful.

I'm beginning to see what Curtis Miller does in his zealous crusade to expose the government and its involvement in Raccoon. The day that truth comes out can't come soon enough.
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Mon May 21, 2012 9:36 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, May 7, 2005)
Not a day after I get back from Silent Hill I get called into a mandatory meeting for the BSAA. As in everyone-must-attend-even-via-teleconference mandatory. Imbawe was likewise put out by this, having planned a barbecue with his family that day. It was a briefing on what the World Health Organization and the Biohazard Security Assessment Alliance had learned when they got samples of the Plagas research and various tissues from the creatures. Scientists, especially mad ones, have a way of ruining one's day. And year, decade, even century.

Las Plagas was more than just a parasite that could alter DNA, it could activate recessive traits in its host genome. The Novistadors weren't insects, they'd been human beings! Ones that were turned into insect-like creatures by activating recessive traits. Even the G-Virus hadn't shown that kind of capacity. Worse still, there were two types of Plagas: worker and Master. The more powerful Master Plagas had created horrors like Salazar and Saddler, rewriting their genetics and yet keeping them from succumbing to cancer or total genetic collapse. Genetics themselves also seemed to play in how powerful a Ganado was; the more common villagers had minimal genetic compatibility while the Leatherface-like chain saw-wielding freaks had greater matches, as did the mercenaries Los Illuminados hired. The cult had actually screened out those with the closest matching DNA and then infected them with airborne larval spores.

Their one weakness, light, couldn't be overcome no matter how closely the host and Plaga were. Wesker hired Ada Wong to obtain a sample, and we know he's in bed with one of the pharma corps that sponsor us. Only we can't discern which one. It's not like they'd advertise the man's presence when he was on Interpol's Most Wanted list, the very same agency of the UN that we operated under the authority of. I would guess WilPharma, if only because they have the G-Virus. But I also can't discount reports of TriCell's CEO, Excella Gionne, being seen with a man who sounds an awful lot like Wesker. TriCell doesn't have a sample of the G-Virus; that much has been determined beyond a reasonable doubt. If it is him, he's no doubt laid plans to get what he wants one way or the other.

For a couple more hours the scientists expounded on the dangers of Las Plagas. They forget the lot of us are not Ph.Ds, we're grunts. They just had to show off how much smarter they were by going into excruciating detail of the how's and why's of what they were saying. At least until I asked them a question regarding transcription and translation of recessive RNA into DNA based on the protein inversions their own experiments showed. Inversions that violated every known law of genetics. That seemed to stumble them enough to shut them up. The lot of us wanted to leave. It was Saturday, a nice day in May in Utah. No freak snowstorms, no rain, just sun and warmth to alleviate the cabin fever.

For most of those assembled that was that. For anyone with Level Six Clearance--which was me, Chris, Jill, and Imbawe--there was a confidential briefing as well. Ozwell E. Spencer, founder of Umbrella, had been the most wanted man in the world for almost seven years now. Yet no one had been able to find him.

Until now.

Records of a previously unknown eugenics project--the Wesker Project, or Project W--had come to light. Buried in the computer files I'd snagged all those years ago was the full picture. Wesker wasn't unique; he and twelve other children had been kidnapped by Spencer as part of a project using a prototype virus to try and create a Nazi-esque idea of the super-man. Each was given the surname Wesker and raised by Spencer before being placed in positions in Umbrella. Eleven died, leaving only two Weskers: Albert and Alex. While Albert still remained under the radar, Alex had been traced to an island in the south seas. While we couldn't locate him, we did trace some calls and online movements to the Russian Caucasus to a Sergei Vladimir, who in turn was also working directly with Spencer. That we'd managed to trace this activity at all was nothing short of sheer luck; some sort of supercomputer was monitoring things and had done an excellent job of encryption, redirection, literally every hacker trick in the book and several that weren't.

We had Spencer's whereabouts. We knew there was an old castle in the region that was also an underground facility of Umbrella's. Only the way we'd found this all out was technically illegal and therefore our hands were legally tied. We had him in our sights and yet we couldn't go after him. In my anger I bent the steel circular table we were all sitting at when I slammed my fists down. I couldn't believe this! They told us to stay, told us where the man was, and then told us we were to just sit and wait? That was unacceptable! Chris and Jill agreed, this was our best hope to find and bring Spencer to justice and we weren't supposed to do a thing about it?!

Somehow I was able to contain my rage long enough to let the talking head in the six-thousand dollar suit finish. Anyone affiliated with the BSAA, whether directly or indirectly, who went after Spencer before the green light was given would be tried before a military tribunal of our country of origin. That meant no lawyer, no jury, no mercy. Execution was to be the punishment if found guilty. And knowing how the corporations had their hands in the backs of the military as well as the BSAA's upper echelons, a guilty verdict was assured.

After that we were dismissed. Why would they mention they'd found Spencer if they didn't want us going after him? The level of confidentiality surrounding this find made it unlikely we'd learn of his whereabouts even if we tried. I got the feeling this was a trap laid by our sponsors. Three of the most ardent agents who refuse to dance to the corporate tune, who also had a beef with Spencer for creating Albert Wesker and the T- and G-Viruses, yet the show us the target and then say he's off limits? The more we talked about it the more it just reeked of a setup. But then there was a legal loophole. If the Russian government asked for an emergency dispensation or evidence of a biohazard became too blatant then it would be fully legal for the BSAA to send in agents. Somehow I doubt they'd told the Russians a thing, though.

That still left a major question: why? Why go to all this work to setup three agents? It was Jill who made the leap of logic. Not just to set us up, but to acquire whatever data Spencer had in that facility without the UN finding out. All business is cutthroat, but the pharmaceutical arena was especially volatile. There were literally trillions of dollars to be made by being the first out with some new drug, therapy, or technology. Our not-so-benevolent sponsors probably wanted us to stay out of the way while they sent in their own people. All it would take is someone to tip off the Russian government about illegal experiments and eventually, no matter how corrupt or underfunded their own people were, they'd find out. Then legal constraints wouldn't mean squat.

Yet my gut is telling me to sit the action out on this one. I don't know why, but my staying here when the assault goes down seems...right. Proper. Destined, even. Like my part in it will be best served far away. So why do I still feel an icy pit in my stomach when I think about it?
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Sun Jun 17, 2012 7:14 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, May 21, 2005)
Things have been quiet the last two weeks. It's not unusual for chapters of the BSAA to be go through periods of inactivity. Agents often use that time to continue training and conditioning or else take on a more proactive role in assessing biohazards. What is unusual is to have an out of town team handle affairs when there's a BSAA office in-state. None of us in the Utah chapter had anything else to do, but they still called in a team from California to investigate the Tooele Chemical Weapons Depot. When I explained it was because that was where the Feds had stored the T-Virus I was called to the upper offices and read the riot act for divulging "top secret information." I gave as good as I got, maybe better because the suit was left in shock and outside the others backed away from me like grease does from a drop of soap on water.

For my temerity my supervisor, Yomubo (or Bo, as he insists) Imbawe, put me on paid leave for a week. It was less than a slap on the wrist and the talking heads were not happy about it, but every field agent knows they're just corporate placeholders dancing to the GPC's tune. The day I came back I was once again at loggerheads with the bureaucrats over requesting a copy of the report filed about the Tooele facility. I was well within my rights yet I get flak from upstairs. The incident motivated a walkout of BSAA agents at the chapter, with other states' chapters doing the same thing over the next few days until the entire western half of the US was devoid of any active BSAA presence. The national and international media had a field day with it, fueled by not-so-untrue stories of who was really running things and "leaked confidential documents" proving them beyond a shadow of a doubt. The field agents were just trying to do their job while the suits were hindering efforts.

Finally the UN Council stepped in three days ago and fired the upper managers en masse under international pressure to do something. Newer, younger people with backgrounds in what the BSAA handled--from military tactics and strategy to scientific research and medical aid--were installed. We're still recovering from the shock and the GPC is putting on a smile even as they secretly spit fire about losing influence in one of the most powerful member nations. None of our branch's new managers give a damn about business and politics; many don't even know the dance steps. Instead they're more concerned with cleaning up the mess their predecessors left behind. Records from the couple of years the BSAA has even existed are a total jumble of misinterpretations, incorrect facts, and political maneuvers.

Yet even this success is minor. Pharmaceutical corporations are still one of the top five leaders in terms of annual profits. Profits that can be used to buy off administrators, politicians, heads of state even. It will take one hell of an international incident for the sheeple to see how dirty their suppliers of toothpaste, antibiotics, and even computers and children's toys really are. Even then it would be a miracle if the authorities didn't use a "duck and cover" tactic to placate them. Or for enough to see through the ploy to make any difference.

For now my record has been expunged of any infractions and everyone is having an easier time getting what they need without all the red tape. So called because it's stained with the blood of those who died waiting on decisions to be made.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, June 28, 2005)
Ironic that my last entry was about inactivity. This one is about too much activity. Seemingly unrelated T-Virus outbreaks all over the world has kept the BSAA on high-alert for weeks. There doesn't seem to be anything connecting them on the surface, but in digging a little analysts found something. Every Patient Zero--the first infected--was treated for something by someone with ties to WilPharma. That's the only common thread; some were employees, others doctors who received money to infect patients, many just ordinary people told to "go here and place this and you'll be paid." Following the trail through numerous fronts and shells led the money back to a WilPharma account managed by Nigel "Frederick Downing" Whitehall.

I shouldn't be too surprised. The man did send assassins after me when I inspected their facility in Harvardville. Yet proving his involvement is problematic. He manages the account, but others have access to it. Accusing the head researcher of one of our major supporters without any hard evidence will only hurt the BSAA. There's also the question of why? Why would he do this? I suspect this is some sort of twisted sales pitch; warlords and tyrants all over the world have been inundating the black market with requests, demands, and threats to try and obtain samples of the T- and G-Viruses. This has had an unexpected, and forunate, side effect. Those that do have samples have been popping up on Interpol's radar all over; international efforts to arrest all who illegally possess the Viruses have reached an all time high in terms of success. Even those who don't have it but have the expertise and knowledge to create it have been caught in the dragnet.

By now anyone who does have either Virus has either been arrested and detained or killed by BSAA and Interpol agents, or they've gone even deeper underground and are laying very low indeed. Among them is Nigel Whitehall; as soon as he felt the heat the outbreaks stopped. Very suspicious, but not enough for an arrest. Plus we've been too busy exterminating all traces of the T-Virus in outbreak zones to investigate. Napalm, bleach, and burning flesh are now very familiar smells to me and others. The World Health Organization has been instrumental in preventing the spread, but the term "Raccoon Incident" is getting under the skins of those of us who survived Raccoon City. Throw in accusations by TerraSave at various pharma corps and suddenly everyone is on the defensive. People who have no idea what's going on anymore.

As I write this we've secured the last of the hot zones and are now in the final stages of clean-up. I'm home after nearly five weeks abroad; I'd forgotten what non-MRE food tasted like, what a hot shower felt like, and how much I'd missed Kyra and Sarah both. Every news channel has an opinion on what's happened, so-called experts are throwing out theories that don't hold water, a dozen survivalist militias are ranting about the End of Times, the world has lost its head. Finally I called Rebecca Chambers at the CDC, the first time I've spoken with her in years. Via webcam I gave an anonymous interview about what was really happening, the efforts being made, and the nature of the T-Virus. It's not airborne, it's not appearing naturally, and it isn't being leaked by accident.

The video will probably just cause more of a panic. Everything does with the masses. Not that I can bring myself to care anymore. Seeing the faces of the survivors and refugees as they lost all they had, stacking rotting corpses like cord wood to be burned, of facing zombies with all their humanity stolen away has drained me of empathy. I begin therapy with a psychologist that Sarah recommended herself tomorrow. Magic and psionics won't do a thing for this. There's only one way to recover and it will take time.
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Thu Jul 05, 2012 11:05 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, July 13, 2005)
One of the first steps my psychologist recommended was keeping a journal of my thoughts. I do, but I couldn't very well bring in what I'd already compiled! I'd be committed and given a cocktail of drugs. Worse still, simple tests would reveal I'm not human. So I went back, edited entries I'd already made to remove any reference to the supernatural or to some of my less-than-legal tactics. Her reaction at reading a random entry today was one of pure shock; I don't think my own skin is that white in my natural form. She mumbled about having to read it in detail, but I get the impression she's amazed I've held onto my sanity this long.

We've both decided against pharmaceuticals, since not-so-fake medical records show I'd have a variety of unexpected and unwanted reactions. Plus I wouldn't take them, not knowing what I do about the pharma corps. The insurance company is pushing hard for "pill therapy" in lieu of actual therapy, but that's usually the case. They don't want to pay for more expensive doctor visits if a cheaper once-a-month payout is an option.

Another technique she recommended was to "recapture the good things from my past." Given my experiences over the past century and the time even before that, I have to think outside the box on this one. My earliest years on Earth were fairly peaceful and I became an avid fan of pop and heavy metal. I was--am a fan of Michael Jackson and have been since I first heard his music. I know the man's weird; it's been documented that child stars tend to be a bit messed up mentally because of the pressures they weren't mentally ready to handle. That doesn't mean I don't like his music. Dee Snyder's "House of Hair" gives me a weekly dose of hair bands and I've a story for nearly every song he plays. Good times before the Red Death entered my world, before Umbrella did.

One thing both she and Imbawe have been adamant about is that I stay out of BSAA business. I know I should just put it out of my mind but I can't. My interview with Rebecca has gone viral (I hate that term!) on the Internet. She did such a thorough job of stripping the file of markers no one knows where it originally came from. And now that it's out there it's doing a lot of damage to pharmaceutical corporations. Worldwide buyer trust has dropped to an all-time low and already the markets are talking losses in the tens of billions of dollars for July alone. It's also turned over stones that I'd never intended. Several members of Congress and even the White House staff have been caught with their proverbial pants down. Especially Senator Ron Davis, the new punching bag for groups like TerraSave. Worse still is how President Graham has been found to have dealings that more than skirt the edge of shady. He may end up being impeached like Clinton was, only for reasons that actually matter this time.

As a final, I was forced to renew my firearms registration with the BSAA today. It was also the chance to get an international license to wield the Sun Gun. The others there ribbed me that it looked like something out of Final Fantasy VIII or Parasite Eve II, and I can see the resemblance. Of course, they stopped laughing when, at the maximum range our range has--one-thousand yards--I drilled a perfect hole in the paper target's head without once stopping to reload. When one of the younger members grabbed it before I could react he found it impossible to pick up. The Sun Gun is a sanctified relic of my faith, and in the hands of those who are lacking in true faith it goes from one kilo to fifty. This was revealed when the weapon was then weighed on an electronic scale; if I touched it, it the weight visibly reduced. I couldn't explain it without sounding like I'd well and truly lost touch with reality as they knew it.

As most know it, it seems. Some of the rank-and-file looked like they knew.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, Aug. 4, 2005)
My guess was right. Some of the BSAA do know the truth of magic and the paranormal. Only the people bugging me haven't been in contact with me in over twenty-five years: the White Rose qabal. Now because I possess a rare enchanted weapon, one created outside of Earth and thus free of the Red Death's taint, they kept bothering me. It wasn't until I showed them my powers and my firm resolve to do things my own way that they finally got the hint. Goddess, those guys are more persistent than missionaries!

They even attended the introductory seminar I was asked to do. People believed and still believe that video games desensitize kids to violence when it's been found that any who retain a sense of fantasy vs. reality form the exact opposite problem. There's a divorce from reality that makes them more sensitive to actual violence, death, and bloodshed. The BSAA uses tricks to tell who has the resolve and those who don't, including synthesizing the smell of rot, burning flesh, and bleach. The smells agents will have to deal with in the field even as they're shown slides of the most grisly and gruesome scenes we've handled. There are even dispensers for barf bags on every seat and they do get used. If we're lucky the prospective members have military training and experience or at least an education involving the field they're interested in. As often it's just a bunch of teenagers fresh out of high school or young adults from college.

Those White Rose members were one of the latter, suffering the effects of the divorce from reality violent video games instill. It's one thing to play a game where you can save and reset if things go bad. But it's quite another when you see and smell the reality. Some can't take it and withdraw their applications after the first seminar. But since these White Rose folks were already members I had to wonder where they were in their training. After a month of physical fitness and basic drilling, Basic Training moves on to some of the more horrid realities like the feel of necrotic soup--the disgusting mess of rotten flesh and putrefication--and other things they have to expect. Those who make it past that second month, or the Hell Weeks, are usually the ones who will make it. This year alone we had to deal with outbreaks that make Marburg and the strains of Ebola look like colds. That's often in addition to populations who don't speak English, are scared to death, and at times hostile to foreigners, especially Americans and Europeans. The latter are especially loathed in former colonial territories, and it's just growing worse as sex tourism by well-to-do European women has taken off in Africa. The "Ugly European" is eclisping the stereotype of the "Ugly American." But I digress.

The members I called out to talk with after the seminar. There was an air of arrogance about them. The we-know-the-truth-and-everyone-else-doesn't attitude I've encountered before on a hundred different worlds in countless other situations. I took steps to knock that attitude out as fast as possible. So they knew magic was real, that monsters were real and hid among humanity. So what? I knew, probably better than them, and it doesn't make me feel confident. It scares me to death, actually. After deflating their egos I asked them what they were even doing there. They were skipping BT. Now that was a serious offense. They'd be lucky if they just had to literally do a few hundred push-ups. There were worse punishments; acting as live targets with packets of animal blood strapped over a ballistic suit, corpse preparation for those undergoing Hell Weeks, or being kicked out altogether. Even if I'm a lieutenant, I can't commute or lessen their punishments; the major in charge of training is the only one who can. And I can't say I was too sympathetic about their reasons. I'd already made it clear to their superiors in the White Rose to back off. If they caused trouble in the BSAA I'd be the first to recommend expulsion. I'm a survivor of two T-Virus incidents, Raccoon City, and Umbrella's facilities at sea and the Antarctic. It was only by keeping our heads together that we survived; screwing around like this would get us killed!

I think I'd best extend my psychiatric leave for another month. Maybe go back and reflect on the teachings of my faith. I'm clearly not ready to be back.
(End Transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Wed Jul 18, 2012 5:31 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, Oct. 10, 2005)
The events of the last two months have not filled me with much faith in the US Government. First Hurricane Katrina tears Louisiana, and New Orleans in particular, apart. FEMA stalls on its response time, bungles the relief efforts, and earns criticism from the entire world. Then there's the T-Virus outbreak in Harvardville. The BSAA was chomping at the bit to move in, but without any reason we were stopped cold by a Presidential Order. Leon and Claire were caught up in the mess, and yet somehow managed to end things.

When news broke the lot of us in the BSAA were at our field offices, prepared to move in and do our jobs. Then Pres. Graham calls a cease and desist on us, saying it's not a BSAA matter. That didn't exactly earn him any goodwill from the people or the rest of the world when "someone" got a copy of the call and outed it to the BBC. It was only when we learned that Nigel "Fredric Downing" Whitehall was involved that we had due cause to go over the President's head. By the time we got there he was already under arrest and another pharma corp, TriCell, given the duty of cleaning up. By both the testimony of Special Agent Leon S. Kennedy and FDA Inspector Claire Redfield, WilPharma had illegal possession of both the T- and G-Viruses. Though the whole facility was all but destroyed, someone had used the G-Virus on themselves.

Whitehall had employed Curtis Miller, the same man who ruined the Regional Biohazard Countermeasures Unit by going public with its existence, to unleash the T-Virus at the airport as well as detonate bombs under trucks carrying the T-Vaccine. Subsequent investigations revealed the bombs were made by WilPharma and detonated using a WilPharma radio. All of which could be traced back to Nigel Whitehall. He had likewise given Miller an auto-injector of the G-Virus so he could turn himself into the ultimate machine of revenge.

Then there was the presence of Senator Ronald Phillips, a man who had invested heavily into WilPharma and conducted highly illegal insider trading. We'd known about his ties and put a little sniffer virus on his home computer, analyzing otherwise lost data about Umbrella he'd been given as a means of blackmail. Unfortunately he was found dead the day after, shot in the head and his computer programmed to wipe its hard drive clean. We've nothing conclusive on who did it. But we do know why: the Progenitor. Included in the files were details of a facility under Kijuju, Nigeria where the Progenitor had been found back in the '60s. Unfortunately when Umbrella fell the area was bailed out by TriCell who now has diplomatic extraterritoriality there. They're also one of the BSAA's biggest contributors and we're simply not powerful enough to bite even one of the hands that feed us.

Nigel Whitehall tried to sell both the T-Virus and its vaccine to General Miguel Grande, even going so far as to destroy the only research facility that has data on said vaccine. He gives one of the Raccoon City survivors gone radical the G-Virus, knowing full well he'll use it, engineers the destruction of trucks carrying every sample of the T-Vaccine except the ones he had, and at the same time uses the friction between TerraSave and Sen. Phillips as a smoke screen for his own twisted sales pitch. Only his plans get shot to hell and he not only fails to destroy the last known samples of the G-Virus, he allows for the creation of a monster that has no doubt given TriCell an active sample even after it's destroyed.

This isn't even going into social and political fallout. Pres. Graham's approval rating has dropped to less than one percent and he's being impeached even now over denying the BSAA access to a bio-terror incident. The UN has ratified a new law giving the BSAA clearance to intervene in any incident biohazard and bio-terror related, one the US was forced to accept under international threats of censure and trade embargo. There's been renewed interest in the US Government's involvement with Umbrella--and by extension, the recent spate of outbreaks. TriCell bought out the bankrupt WilPharma and acquired all of its assets. And the grunts in the BSAA who face the biohazards?

I wish I could answer that last question. Despite not being our fault, the talking heads are taking a lot of flak over the handling of the Harvardville incident, both in and out of the organization. To those of us in the field its a time to lay low until either the upper management smoothes ruffled feathers or gets replaced. A growing number of us are losing what little trust we have in leaders who aren't out there risking their necks. So much so we've begun to divert funds and materiel to secret bases all over the world. The old RBCU base has been reactivated as a result. It's one of those worst-case scenario situations. Despite international laws, the largest corportations--called megacorporations--have access to military-grade hardware and training. They can field small armies as good as, if not better than, many government armies.

So what are we, the nameless, faceless grunts who fight and die to contain messes created by our own sponsors, going to do?

Pray. At this point it's all we can do.
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Fri Aug 03, 2012 11:00 am

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, Nov. 15, 2005)
How?!

That's the question everyone in the country is asking. How did Graham avoid being indicted? That question is being run on every national and international news media. But those of us asking the loudest already know the answer. If the President went down, he had enough blackmail material to ensure plenty of others went with him. The corruption of big business in the government runs a lot deeper than even some conspiracy nuts think. The really sickening part is it's publicly available for anyone who knows where to look. But most sheeple don't want to know. They'd sooner just immerse themselves in their reality TV, massively-multiplayer online games, and celebrity scandals than admit they're part of the problem. I can almost understand the desire. I've begun to play World of Warcraft myself and found it a thoroughly addicting game. Certainly it's done a lot to take my mind off the situation at work and relieve stress. I've even gotten into a series called Criminal Minds and find myself fascinated. Behavioral analysis is something I use all the time, but this show portrays it as something of an art. Flawed on several levels, but still very close to the real thing on many more.

As much as I'd love to study at the real BAU, my name is blacklisted and only Graham can remove it. That's as likely as his winning the next election. He's a lame duck already and though he didn't get thrown out of office, a majority of congressional members did. Snap elections put in place new members who still have some level of idealism left and a serious loathing for the pharma corps. It would be a good thing if it didn't deadlock the government completely. If not for double jeopardy another impeachment of Graham would be underway. As is he's lost all real influence and is more of a figurehead than any kind of authority since no one wants to deal with him. The best anyone can hope for is he steps down--willingly or otherwise. "Law" and "justice" are truly two different things here.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Draper, UT, Nov. 18, 2005)
Pres. Graham has announced his resignation. Combined efforts of the UN and NATO forced him to leave office on his own lest he plunge the economy into a massive downward spiral. Not that this is going to stop the bubble from bursting; Clinton's deregulation of the banks has already set the country on a path to a head-on collision with a Second Great Depression without some miracle. It does mean, however, that the government is running again. My name was also removed from the blacklist and I've already applied for training at the FBI's BAU center in Quantico. Bo and several of the other officers in the BSAA thought that was a stroke of genius and have begun to build our own profiling center. Agents from all over the world have applied as well. I'm not so sure that's a good idea. We see true evil all the time, but to get in its head? That path leads to misery. Ask any Vice cop.

The new President, William Calahan, has also begun fostering better relations with the BSAA. This is a major step forward that our corporate sponsors don't seem too fond of. But as the BSAA is not beholden to them outside of financial sponsorship, they really can't do anything about it without a serious PR disaster. That's all we are to them. A tool to spin doctor their mistakes by making the public think they care if one of their illegal ventures gets exposed or causes collateral damage. I'm cynical enough to accept that. That's one reason I wanted formal training in psychological profiling to begin with. When, not if, they cause another incident I'd like to have a better idea of what the people behind it will do and why before going in. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.

Kyra is supportive of my decision to learn about psychological profiling. She was doing the exact same thing centuries before and could put even the fictional Gideon to shame in how fast and how precise a profile she can whip up. But she works for the OSA and I can't farm out work to her in the field. Sarah is cautioning me about the same things I mentioned earlier. She still hasn't fully accepted that I'm more than I appear to be. Evil is something I've grown all too familiar with. To say I fear evil is true to a point, but I actually pity it more. It's a weakness of character, a lack of inner strength to do the right thing over the easy thing. I wouldn't really be doing this if I could use telepathic powers on mortals without driving them insane. But I do, so I have to work around it.

Since I'm not an FBI agent I'll be skipping the basic training and going straight to BA school. How long I'm there isn't exactly set. It depends on how fast I learn and pass their certifications, then a certain amount of time with a true Behavioral Analysis Unit where I'm to be judged on how well I can create a working profile for active cases. There's talk of at least three cases--and with the way the BAU is swamped it won't take long--but possibly more since I'm not an agent and will need more hands-on experience that I won't necessarily get when I leave. They're showing an awful lot of trust in allowing me to work on real cases, some of which can be life-or-death situations. If this works out then the BSAA will be able to setup its own BAUs and hopefully do our job better.

If only we'd done this before Nigel Whitehall...
(End Transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Sat Aug 25, 2012 6:06 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Quantico, VA, Jan. 10, 2006)
At last count over a hundred BSAA agents had applied for training in the BAU. So the FBI made special classes to accomodate us in groups of twenty. The first three weeks of December were spent going over basic stuff, with those of us who have some training or experience in behavioral analysis, however informal, being moved ahead to advanced courses. I can look at a man and at a glance tell what his feelings are, what he'll do in a combat situation, even sniff out bull from all but the most pathological or lucky liars. Digging deeper into what makes them tick, though. That is what I'm not all that capable of.

What I'm learning here is how to better take what I already know and use it in a practical way, to use what I can already deduce to better understand what's going on inside a person's head. They admit that Criminal Minds has led to several people wanting in but few actually being prepared for the reality, that the show is more fiction than fact, but it does have some kernels of truth. The astounding leaps of logic, the ability to profile someone based on so little data, that's bogus. As for the psychological factors of the offenders, the ability to pick up on behavioral cues from the crime scenes, that's more firmly based in reality. As I learn how to apply what I do know I find it hard not to profile someone. I can't be certain of my deductions--that part is always guesswork more than certainty until proven otherwise--but I do know from anthropology and psychology what potential precedents are.

Other than a week off for Christmas we've been run ragged academically. The BSAA is unwilling to let so many agents spend months--or years--studying when they need us now. Or so the talking heads keep complaining. The Bureau's bureaucrats have tried talking to them, but the net results of bureaucrats talking to bureaucrats is a steaming pile of political BS as empty of any real meaning as they themselves. I'm here to learn properly, not cut corners. It took another of my infamous tirades to get them to drop the subject and let us learn properly. If being labeled a hothead is what it takes, so be it.

And if they tell me, "The FBI does not recognize the position of "profiler," but rather Behavioral Analysis Technician," one more time, I'm going to explode. I get it already!

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Quantico, VA, Jan. 21, 2006)
I've been so busy studying I haven't had time to write in my journal. I was advanced again to an actual BAU team for final study and evaluation. Admittedly I expected to be treated a bit poorly as the FNG and an outsider, but the team is pretty understanding. That I made it through so quickly is surprising to them. According to the unit chief it was just a matter of learning how to apply what I already knew. It's just as well; bureaucrats were leaning on me to "give up and leave" so they could be rid of me without a major fiasco. I'd passed their psych evals, so to say I was being thrown out for "anger management problems" would reflect even worse on the BAU. They're still dealing with wrongfully arresting Richard Jewell for the Atlanta Olypmics bombing and the bungling of the Amerithrax scare. Those two cases still linger in the public mind when talking about the BAU and have been used as fodder for groups who point to the Unit as "big brother." What they never speak of are the thousands of cases that have been brought to a close--happy ending or not--in the twenty years since the program began. People really didn't accept the use of fingerprinting, mugshots, or DNA evidence at first. It's just going to take time for the method to prove itself and for folks to map the pitfalls to avoid.

The team I'm working with is helping investigators in Indianapolis figure out a rash of grave robbings. The problem is that the graves are apparently being dug "from the inside out." Throw in symbols I recognize as necromantic and it's not hard to see this is the work of a necromancer of some kind. I was surprised to find that other such cases appeared from time to time. The idea of magic and the supernatural wasn't being considered. Not even the possibility of someone who at least thought they were necromancers as part of some delusion. Cases like this were usually just hijacked by some "unknown agency" (read: the OSA) who never really told them what happened, but did put an end to it.

Only this time they were intent on keeping the Office out and solving the case on their own. The fact that I'm BSAA and they're terrified of a bioterrorist is what got me assigned here. It sickens me to admit that I wish this was a case of the T-Virus. At least then they'd swallow how a zombie could exist. But to try and explain that "magic" was at work? At best I'd be laughed out of the program. I have to play this cool and act like the dutiful, skeptical agent. To that end I asked if they'd had testing done on the soil near the desecrated graves. They had, but nothing out of the ordinary except an abnormally high level of mycotoxins common to negative energy animating the dead already interred. Not enough to be dangerous but still odd. That wasn't how the T-Virus worked, though. There would have been traces in the ground and the soil sterile of anything else.

At first they were relieved to hear it wasn't a bioterrorist at work, but also frustrated that they had no other ideas on how this was happening. Reality really was different from television. These people weren't able to see the forest for the trees. I literally had to remind them to stop focusing on the crime and start focusing on the criminal. Graverobbers these days come in two types: the petty thief stealing from corpses, or those who were keeping the bodies for some sort of reason. Thieves generally prefer easier targets: mausoleums, freshly dug graves, above-ground burials, something that doesn't require the time and effort of digging up a settled grave since it's very hard to hide the evidence. So it was likely the latter type who keeps bodies. That kind of person is often a loner, quiet and unassuming in public, often going out of their way to appear completely normal. Or at least that was my usual encounter when investigating folks who delved into necromancy. Other than needing space to work and store the bodies--animate or not--there weren't necessarily any other tells.

That seemed to shake their minds up enough to even start a profile. That they hadn't gone to the site itself to investigate, especially for such a bizarre case, struck me as odd. But they gave me some pretty good reasons: the local police had only asked for a consultation and thus they didn't have permission to actually go there, the politicos in charge had slashed the budget, and if they did go then news of FBI involvment would get out and start a panic. There was also the hint that the Office would muscle in and take over the case but no one actually said as much. It was an unspoken understanding.

Other than giving the local PD the profile there wasn't much we could do. There were literally at least a couple hundred other cases waiting and pressure from above to solve as many of them as possible. So much for my first case; once we'd heard back on whether the profile led to an arrest or at least identification then that would be one case finished and my certification closer to being done. I really can't wait to go home. At least back at the BSAA offices the politics are a hassle only the talking heads deal with. In the Bureau it feels like everybody has to play.
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Tue Sep 04, 2012 7:59 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Gary, IN, Jan. 22, 2006)
So much for just doing cases from Quantico. When the local SWAT busted down the door on a suspect they ran into what they thought were T-Zombies. The CDC got called in but found not a single trace of any of Umbrella's viruses. So we got called in to try and figure out what the hell is going on. Of over a dozen zombies, most had been destroyed only after excessive firepower. Not even shots to the head or decapitation but them down. I forgot how nasty regular zombies are in a fight. No real weaknesses other than usually being slow.

Two had been contained by the CDC, with Rebecca Chambers the supervising doctor. I wish this reunion had happened under better circumstances. No one has answers--or rather, no one has answers that "sane" people would believe. Yet the evidence is moaning and bashing helplessly in a plastic containment box. Toxicology reports have been done dozens of times and still turned up nothing, scientists are pulling wild theories based on pseudo-science to try and explain it, and the media? Strangely they haven't run with this yet. Someone--or perhaps something--is working overtime to make sure this event never sees the light of day in any media. Only blogs and social networking sites are carrying it, and older posts have been burnt even as it goes truly viral. It's almost laughable to watch the wasted efforts of the Red Death's pawns. They erase all evidence of one post having existed as hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands more pop up for each one.

Not that this story will see the light of day outside something like the National Enquirer. It's just too ludicrous for sheeple to believe that zombies not related to Umbrella's experiments exist. The vast majority do their best to ignore the threats that are acknowledged. Even those who are looking straight at the terrifying reality are desperate to rationalize this away.

As if to challenge the credulity of the sheeple is the house these things were found in. Walls just covered in mystical writings, tomes containing actual magical lore, works of heinous authors on how to reanimate the dead, even a ritual circle painted in human blood and stained with the rotten flesh of cadavers brought back. Yet no one wants to admit that there may be something to the idea of magic being real. Even my team is trying to explain everything with psychology and science. It was only when the local Office stepped in, superceding everyone, that this was put to bed. One of them must have recognized me because I was approached and asked what I was doing there with the FBI. The last most of the OSA had heard I was persona non grata with any American federal agency. It wouldn't have been a problem but they mentioned I was once one of them to the team. That led to some rather pointed questions over dinner.

I'd thought they already knew. A background check is mandatory for anyone who works with the FBI and they cover everything in it. But they hadn't done their homework. I tried to dodge the questions, but they kept probing. So I gave it to them straight, telling them (almost) all of it. Any other day they would have asked if I was insane. Today, though, had left them wondering if what they thought was real and what wasn't could be horribly wrong. The fact that the federal government seemed to know--their employers--seemed to know and hadn't said a word got under their collective skin. I just know when we get back to Quantico they'll try and find out the truth, only to be smacked down and told not to continue their investigation if they valued their jobs.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Gary, IN, Jan. 23, 2006)
Orders from the BAU are to stay and finish the profile on the person responsible. The Office isn't trained to handle that kind of thing and it seems to grate on their nerves that they have to let a group of people who are "totally ignorant of reality" in on "their" case. Frankly I just want to get this done. After the Section Chief called me personally and read me the bureaucrat's version of the riot act I'm more eager than ever to finish this and leave!

Likewise the CDC is sticking around, making sure there aren't any biohazards to deal with. I don't think they'll find anything. Negative energy may foster the growth of certain mycotoxins at first, but prolonged exposure sterilizes even those.

Going on the original profile we were able to flesh it out more. Albeit with gaping holes that none of the accepted sciences can explain. From everything not related to the occult we determined I was right: the unsub was a loner, average in every way, and went out of their way to appear as no one special. What I hadn't taken into account was that the unsub was a woman. Men dabble in necromancy, and other forms of creation, out of a deeply subconscious envy of our inability to create life. At least that's a huge part of it; power is also a factor, the urge to play god. But the female necromancers I've met usually have more personal motives behind the obvious. Hate, rage, a feeling of powerlessness in patriarchal societies (and America is still very patriarchal), or even grief at the loss of a loved one. Judging by the lack of mirrors anywhere and the diaries she wrote, it was pretty easy to tell that Kimberley Chambers was possessed of a severe sense of self-loathing and nihilism.

She first learned of true magic from someone she simply calls "the Reaper, who brings death and destruction to those around him." This Reaper kept to a nocturnal schedule, stole into the blood bank where she worked on several occasions, and recoiled from mirrors and crucifixes. A vampire, obviously. He kept a large library of true magical works, but was a failure at making any of them work. According to her diary he wasn't stupid, but he certainly wasn't going to get into MENSA. It takes a genius to make magic work on other worlds, so it's no surprise he failed if he wasn't smart enough. He also must not have been terribly old or he would have known something was up when she invited him to her house after several bad encounters. She took a wood stake from the local hardware store and managed to plunge it into his heart, then dragged him into her own basement, doused him in medicinal alcohol, and burned the body. His charred skeleton was still in one corner, complete with fangs still razor sharp.

She then ransacked his place and dove into what she found. Unlike him, she actually got several of the spells to work. The successful casting of animate dead on a medical school cadaver clinched it. She now had the perfect tools to begin acting out fantasies of revenge. The first of these were the bodies of the dead, each of which had ties to her. One was her teacher from the fifth grade who used to berate her about her weight, another a man from her old neighborhood who tried to molest her, yet another the popular girl from high school who picked on her until she died of lung cancer after ten years of two packs a day, the list goes on. The two zombies we'd found were the remains of said popular girl and one of her bosses from a burger joint she worked at as a teenager. This woman was holding on to grudges most would have forgotten after so long.

Her diaries also helped us compile a list of victims. Sadly they included murders that had been reported just after the grave desecrations, with only two still not accounted for. The police had managed to foil them for the time when they invaded her home, but she wasn't anywhere to be found. Neither were at least twelve other zombies. To move them around she'd need something big--a very large moving truck at least, an insulated hauler at best to hide the smell. That led us to a truck stop outside of town where a trucker reported being hit in the head and his truck stolen. He got a brief look at his attacker, a pudgy woman in a wool sweater with thick glasses, before she nailed him with a tire iron. His rig, a refrigerated tractor-trailer, was empty and he was on his way home. Fortunately it was a custom job and the markings were distinct. She was making her way to Chicago going by the reports of other truckers, who noticed how poorly she seemed to handle a big rig. She'd had to stop several times already to repair the thing using spells, slowing her down considerably.

From there it wasn't hard to pinpoint where she was using the truck's GPS. That's where the Office took over. They'd handle her and her undead minions, leaving the rest of us to clean up at her home. Only when we returned there we found several of the books, papers, and other items gone. All that was left was magically-useless diagrams, pictures, and occult trash. I should have known they'd confiscate anything of real power. But what was left, coupled with the hard evidence of her involvement in grave robbing, meant she'd be committed to an asylum if she was still alive after the Office got done with her. Rogue adepts and mystics they wouldn't allow to live without a lobotomy to destroy their ability to work magic.

Couple that with whatever is keeping this whole incident out of the mainstream media and few to no one not involved will know what really happened. For now CDC teams are sterilizing every inch of her house as a team of Office mystics work to hallow the area. The other BAU members are so emotionally exhausted they went back to their hotel rooms and collapsed before eight in the evening. This was a chance for me and Rebecca to catch up.

Her work with the CDC has been rewarding, if frustrating, given the politics and unwillingness of the masses to accept the reality of the supernatural. For the most part she's been working with various international agencies, then the BSAA once it reformed under the UN after its image took a hit along with the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium for the Umbrella Incident. She was one of the researchers working to create vaccines for the Viruses independent of the GPC, as well as the head of a team studying Las Plagas when some samples were found in the black market. The Plagas have much the same ability to reconstruct a host's DNA like Umbrella's creations, but to a more limited degree. Experiments with crossing a Plaga with the Viruses yielded the ability to remove its weakness to bright light, but not much more than that. Since the T-, G-, and T-Veronica Viruses are already modified it's hard to achieve anything truly drastic. A sample of the Progenitor that created the original T-Virus, she theorized, could create something wholly new. It makes sense; to create something, start with the purest materials.

From the files found in both mansions, the records I'd stolen from Umbrella, and the books Natural History Conspectus that Henry Travis published, the Progenitor was native to what is today the Kijuju Autonomous Zone owned and operated by TriCell after Umbrella was torn apart. Whether or not they even know what's there is another matter. Only Ozwell E. Spencer, Albert Wesker, and I know the truth of the Progenitor now. The rest have either died off, been killed, or gone missing. Still, TriCell did acquire samples of the G-Virus after the Harvardville Incident so they must know something. I dare say that Wesker might be working with them, now that he's lost Umbrella to continue his research. And he has a sample of Las Plagas to boot.

Dark rumors are already surrounding the head of TriCell Africa, Excella Gionne. A true blue-blood gifted with both phsyical beauty and a genius IQ--and the belief that "commoners" are worthless save as labor or test subjects. For all the talk of European aristocrats dying out the truth is they still exist, some of them still quite wealthy and as haughty as ever. Old justifications of God's favor for their disregard for non-aristos replaced by baseless theories of genetic superiority. That Excella is a true genius but was only given one research team would be a slight to someone with her sense of superiority. It wouldn't be a stretch to imagine her teaming up with Wesker to try and raise her position in the company. What else she might be up to is something I don't want to think about.

After several more hours of catching up she took a cab to her own hotel and I returned to my room for some sleep. We leave for Quantico early in the morning. I just hope this is the most involved we actually get in a case while I'm there. I was banking on reality being duller than fiction. I'm praying this was just a fluke.
(End transcript)

High Priest Mikhal · Post by **High Priest Mikhal** » Wed Sep 12, 2012 8:45 pm

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Quantico, VA, Jan. 26, 2006)
Two consultations to local PD in as many days, I'm ready to go home and put what I've learned to good use, but the terms of the agreement weren't what I thought. I need three field cases to earn certification. How long will that take? Weeks? Months? I should have known to get a good look at the fine print. The US Government--and their corporate puppet masters--has no real love of the BSAA. After all, the first incarnation of the BSAA was a corporate creation of the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium; for three years now we've been under the aegis of the UN and Interpol with those corps just sponsoring us and unable to use as a PR smokescreen. That's got to piss them off. Or it could just be that the FBI sees this as an opportunity to take profiling--not profilers, as they've reminded me from day one that the Bureau doesn't recognize such a position or title--abroad and redeem it in the eyes of the sheeple.

Frankly I can't say I'm happy about this. Neither is Kyra or Sarah. We spent four hours talking on a conference call. I miss them terribly, and they me. If I could go home I would, but they've got me under constant surveillance. For people who are supposed to be able to read others like open books they've admitted I come off as a blank slate. They can tell I'm married by my wedding band, that I'm organized and meticulous by how I'm constantly taking notes in my PDA, but that seems to be about it. My body language is almost mechanical, they say. If they'd done their homework they'd see it's more a case of extreme mistrust. I simply don't trust many people beyond a professional level and would as soon not invest myself in anything I do during my time here. I'm not even officially a part of the team! Which technically means they're down a man and have someone new coming in tomorrow from counterterrorism.

Whoever it is I hope they know what they're getting into. My time here has only withered what little faith in humanity I have left. Pure evil, willful ignorance, the truth of their actions or what's going on could be right in front of their faces and they won't believe it. Not even Arnie Feldman as "Eye-gor" in Young Frankenstein is lifting my spirits. Goddess, help me!

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Des Moines, IA, Jan. 27, 2006)
I guess I'm still in a state of shock. The new agent...I already knew her. It was Chante Baker, Karen's daughter! I knew she'd joined the Bureau, following in mom's footsteps--sort of. But I'd no idea she'd choose to join the BAU. Terrorism is a horrible thing, no matter how you slice it, but this part of the Bureau deals directly with some of the worst evils humanity has to offer. In a way it's evil is worse than that of fiends; by their own free will these monsters choose evil, but a fiend has it encoded in their very makeup. Kyra and others like her are the exception, the rarest of the rare.

There wasn't even time for her to get settled. We were in the conference room almost as soon as we each got there. Pictures of dismembered young women, cuts too clean to be done without tools, greeted us. The Des Moines police had hit a wall in an investigation into a cannibal killer and we got the case. One of the first things we were looking at was mental hospital releases. It isn't exactly common for someone to just up and decide to be a cannibal one day. Often it's part of a mental illness or social deviancy, both of which get a person sent to the hospital. Worse is that almost none of those treated stay on their medications. The antipsychotics used to treat the disorder have the side effect of truly massive weight gain. Sometimes cannibalism isn't even the most disturbing thing about them. But what truly scares me is how normal they can appear for years, even decades.

So the question we're all asking is, what happened? How did they get caught? Is this deliberate? Or was it a mistake? From the crime scene photos it looked like someone who was methodical, organized. Not the type of person to just abandon the scene without trying to clean up or hide the evidence first. There was something the police weren't telling us. And when that happens it's something they'll run interference on.

At the actual scene things felt "wrong." Even with the police investigating and the media doing their level best to get inside, the place felt eerily still. It was the corrupting aura of a hag. But it didn't look like she'd been alone. There was an outline of a print on the floor, like someone tried to clean it up. Fortunately for us it's not that easy to clean up blood without leaving traces of it behind. A crime scene technician let me borrow his UV light and the outline came alive, down to the tread pattern and size. A men's size eleven bootprint. Another that hadn't been cleaned up was a woman's size nine. Why did someone take the time to clean up the one print, but not the other?

That could well explain what hadn't been told. Someone on the force was protecting whoever was involved. And judging from what the scene told me, this second party was likely the reason the scene was even found. They must have panicked and run, forcing the hag to chase them and thus leave her space unprotected. But what was this second party doing there to begin with?

When I asked the Chief of Police who owned this place I detected a sense of defensiveness in his voice. I'm not really sure why. The place was owned by a local woman named Kitzie Nash. A spinster who had disappeared just before this grisly discovery was made. There was also the bigger question of who the victim was. There was no head and no extremities. What we could tell is that the victim was a young white woman in her teens, brown hair going by some we'd found around the area the neck had been. Analysts had already come back with a report that the hair contained large amounts of heroin, meth, and crack. Whatever someone injects into their bodies can also be found in the chemical composition of their hair. So three hard drugs in a single body, young, and apparently emaciated antemortem. The coroner would need to do an autopsy on the parts still there, but it's pretty obvious this was a junkie and maybe even a prostitute. High-risk, easy prey for a hag looking for a quick meal, and unlikely to be reported missing by her fellows. Even a search of missing persons would only go so far, especially without prints to go on. DNA testing will take months we don't have. But this time I decided to cheat a little and asked the remains, seemingly rhetorically, "Who are you?" I got a name, but I can't give it out with a little more to back up a "hunch."

I couldn't even eat tonight. This is a case I just know is going to be stranger than it appears.
(End transcript)

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