As a responsible “citizen journalist” I do my best to research a topic before I post about it. Usually I’ll focus on a subject for a few days, sometimes a week, occasionally longer, but there’s one area of research that I’ve pursued incessantly for years.
It’s all based on a collection of loosely organized documents, images, and recordings; a series of semi-anonymous recollections and first-hand experiences that expose the methodology, technology, and clandestine operations of an unusual organization.
Given this context it wasn’t surprising that much of the dossier was unclear if not outrightly opaque. Nevertheless, I could at least authenticate the bulk of the information, which can be found in its entirety on the web – if you know how and where to look.
Since I’ve taken some liberties with the source material I thought it best to repeat the same disclaimer that the collection opens with, namely, a warning that not everything contained within is 100% accurate for reasons of security, secrecy, privacy, etc. At the same time, however, a lot of it is.
Mostly it’s a matter of corroboration.
Without any additional preamble the dossier dives straight in, describing a man clutching a leather messenger bag as he makes his way through a public park. He’s nervous and sweating, clearly anxious to avoid detection.
He glides along carefully in the misty night, sliding his Oxfords gently over the glistening grass, the trees overhead providing a cover of darkness. He’s almost made it to the edge of the park when three black figures emerge from behind the final tree and stand to confront him.
The two silhouettes on either side are bulky and tall. Even as abstract shadows they exude brute physical strength. The one in the middle is roughly two thirds their size and it’s she who first breaks through the curtain of shade and emerges into the light of the full moon.
She’s porcelain. Her doll-like features glow white against the contrast of a fiery curtain of hair, framing a face of surreal beauty. A Ruby-lipped smile and a slyly raised eyebrow surround a pair of Ray-Bans which she removes as she advances.
As he gazes into her piercing coal eyes he suddenly understands that he’s staring into swirling vortices of ravenous malevolence. A feeling of faint quickly yields to panic as the abyssal whirlpools begin to seep out of her eyes and out into the world, slowly blotting out the surroundings and reaching out to engulf him.
Sliding the bag into his tweed overcoat he clutches it close to him, looking around frantically for an escape. Seeing no better option, he spins around and prepares to run in the opposite direction.
Impossibly, mere feet away and blocking his path stands the same woman, her eyes pools of roiling black liquid. He stumbles backwards in shock, tripping, landing on his back, spilling the contents of his coat onto the wet grass.
As the woman approaches she leans in and grins. The smile cracks suddenly like a mirror and begins to melt into a creeping, grotesque, demonic mouth. As the horrific maw spreads across her face he scrambles madly away like a flailing crab, coming to a crashing halt on the legs of her companions. With nowhere left to go he curls up, whimpering and shaking, urine soaking through his pants.
“Okay, I think that’s enough,” says the woman, a mild and exotic accent woven into her words. Her sunglasses are back on and her features are almost normal, almost human.
Her two sidekicks bend over to gather the satchel and its contents, handing them to her. She flips through the documents, regularly nodding with satisfaction. After some moments she puts everything back into the messenger bag and squats down in front of her visibly calmer quarry.
“So,” she begins sternly. “Why don’t you start by telling us who you are, why you took these, and who the fuck you’re working for.”
The man on the ground stares up at her, his tear-streaked face slackened with fear.
“F-Feir,” he stammers.
“Fear?” she asks. “Like scared? Afraid?”
“N-no,” he stammers again. “F-E-I-R”
She chuckles mildly. “I already know that, Harold, and I gotta tell ya, I’m glad you’re being honest because I really would prefer not to have to drop by your place for another chat like this one.” She holds up his wallet and then casually tosses it toward him.
Rummaging through his coat’s pockets, he stares fixedly at the billfold in disbelief. He has no memory of losing it, no idea how or when she could’ve pulled it out of his zipped liner pocket.
“Harold!” she says abruptly, snapping him to attention. “I need you to concentrate because we’re very short on time. My other questions.”
“They said that you’d stolen some of their research. Some files. They wanted them back.”
“Uh-huh,” she acknowledges brusquely. “And who are they?”
He pauses again as he avoids her darkened gaze. Nearly whispering, he mutters, “the Academy.”
“Okay,” she shoots back with irritation. “A, you need to speak up and, B, what the fuck is the Academy?”
“I don’t know anything. Honestly,” he explains, fumbling nervously with his coat. “Maybe some kind of school. One of their people, some Asian guy, met me over lunch and offered me a bunch of money if I got them the files. Just walk in after hours and take them. I didn’t ask too many questions. It seemed like it would be easy. My job doesn’t pay great, you know?
“Please. I’m sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before. I swear,” he continues, hands clasped in supplication, “this was nothing personal. I don’t know any of you. They never told me about you … about your … I never would’ve done it if I knew …”
“But you would’ve done it otherwise?” she says, jutting her jaw forward. “You jackass.”
His head slumps in shame.
“So if I’m putting this together correctly,” she resumes, “you work at the library?”
He responds compliantly with an exaggerated nod.
“Okay, well that explains how that happened.”
She stands abruptly, reaches into a pocket in her long dark coat and spins around, putting a retrieved phone to her ear.
The conversation is quiet, brief, purposeful.
She spins back around and faces Harold again.
“Listen carefully,” she commands, pulling off her sunglasses. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”