Chương 103: Arc 5 | Dead Pacifica (Part 18)

DEAD PACIFICA Part 18 They're the Institute. From the moment I saw them, I knew. Oracle helped me track them, of course, along with my [Fractal Omniscience] identifying who they were. I expected these guys to show up at some point, since their little spy soldier got splattered on the highway. Although way later than I had hoped.

It gave me a panic attack knowing that the government might start busting down my doors the days after the Institute spy was killed, but they didn't arrive in Point Hope until earlier last week. They took their time. Assessing the situation. Learning about the threat. Interviewing witnesses. And when they smelled the Brotherhood was also in town, they stalked them, watching their every move and waiting for the perfect moment to make contact. They did that with Professor Kincaid in Salem today.

And now they're here, helping the Brotherhood bury a dead body, no questions asked. Neither the Institute nor the Brotherhood held any love for the Astarothians—or any other devil cults, for that matter. Decades of bad blood and run-ins with them had forged an unspoken truce between the two factions when it came to dealing with cults. Seeing a shadowy government faction play nice with rogue monster hunters warmed my heart in a twisted sort of way.

Demon advised me to stay cautious, but I wasn't losing sleep over a few suits riding in dark sedans. It struck me as odd why the Institute would only send three guys, but they were probably here as reconnaissance. If they became a nuisance, I'd dispose of them the same way I handled every other obstacle in my path. Besides, the feds weren't my top priority, but building the second dungeon in New York was. None of the delvers knew that was my goal. Not even the Astarothians.

They probably thought I couldn't build a second dungeon. With Diaz and Pascoe's deaths, I gained three essences for tonight's scenario, so close to my goal! It saddened me that I would not be collecting Harrison's. Oh, well. Eighty-six essences to go, I thought. While the brotherhood and the feds were busy burying the body, I turned my attention back to town.

From the shadow of the treeline, three distinct shapes emerged into the moonlight, their gazes locking onto the warm, golden glow of the Hyacinth Hotel where the crew of Dead Pacifica was staying. It was a quiet night. All of the guests were asleep, and only a handful of staff were roaming about. In two hours, there would be a shift change, but the clowns only needed barely ten minutes to complete what I had sent them to do. They'd be gone without anyone noticing.

The largest of the three clowns stepped forward first, a massive, muscled brute named Moody. He looked less like a circus performer and more like a heavyweight wrestler. His bare chest, corded shoulders, and bulging biceps were exposed to the moonlight. Over his massive frame, he wore nothing but a pair of brightly colored and garish-looking overalls that strained against his thick muscles. His head was entirely bald, the pale skin painted over with a chaotic menagerie of circus animals.

Across his lower face was an exaggerated frown, giving his brutish physique an air of brooding malice. He reminded me of Bane, one of Batman's villains. He dragged an oversized High-Striker carnival mallet to his side. To his left stood Casper, tall and lean, dressed in a vintage 1960s polka-dot white suit topped with an oversized, stiffly frilled collar that hugged his neck. A shock of bright red, curly wig made out of synthetic hair perched beneath a drooping wizard's hat.

The outfit wouldn't be complete without a classic bulbous red nose. Painted stars framed his eyes, highlighting a face that wore a surprisingly subdued smile. He carried no weapons with him compared to his other companions. Swaying on the other side of Moody was Jingles, the smallest of the three, standing only four feet tall. Dressed in the traditional diamond-patterned outfit of a Renaissance harlequin, his fitted tights and jester's tunic hummed with restless energy.

The two small brass bells on his pointed cap chimed softly with every erratic twitch he made. His face was a canvas of unadulterated joy; an impossibly wide, painted crimson smile stretched virtually ear to ear, showing off gleaming teeth frozen in glee. A sharp-looking sickle rested on his belt, the handle made out of a human's spine.

"I apologize for our tardiness, my lord," Casper said in a raspy, hyperactive, and playful tone that reminded me of Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. And yes, he even included the spittle. He might sound dumb, but you'd be surprised what his voice sounded like against a delver, filling it with such playful menace that even I was slightly creeped out. Jingles giggled while Moody just huffed behind him. These clowns were considered as one entity, but the archetype used Casper as the speaker more than the other two.

"You're actually on time," I said.

"And I'm not in a hurry. Dawn is still far away."

"I take it Demon was successful?" Casper asked.

"Yeah, he freaked them out good," I said.

"Unfortunately, Harrison is dead." The three clowns perked up, giddy at the thought.

"Oh my. They triggered another scenario?" I shook my head and told them all that had happened. Their excitement waned when they found out I didn't collect anything from the kill. They asked if they were sent here to also eliminate one of the crew members, but I shut that notion down. It was too early to kill anyone from Dead Pacifica. While the Brotherhood and the Institute were fully aware of the threat I posed, I wanted Dead Pacifica to ease into the delve and let them find me for themselves.

They wanted to pretend to be investigative journalists, so I was going to give them a few morsels of truth. Well, not the real truth. Just the truth I crafted. They still thought this supernatural angle they were going for the livestream was a publicity stunt and to entertain their massive audience, where a vocal minority were already chastising them for making fun of the people who died here.

I had no idea which hunter they would ultimately choose, but my archetypes and I had already made contingency plans in case of an inevitable selection. I still have a few days to plan, but since Dylan and Retto were leaning towards the satanic cult storyline, it seemed likely that they would gravitate towards Demon's Door. Oracle gave a forty-eight percent chance of opening the door and a meager survival rate of three percent.

Demon was one of my top-performing archetypes for a reason, and if Dead Pacifica ended up on their path, I doubted many would survive the night.

"How many should we target?" Casper asked.

"All of them," I replied.

"Give them the standard package." A standard package, as we called it, was what we used to season the delvers before the feeding. It came with mild to moderate nightmares, fleeting apparitions while they were awake, and other minor strange occurrences that the delvers would notice but sometimes overlook the days leading into the delve. It also included a harbinger, but the Dead Pacifica crew had already encountered those individuals organically, sparing us from a forced encounter.

The next stage would be the nightmares, which the clowns would perform tonight. I meticulously crafted them to be the ideal dream-walkers; they didn't require my guidance on manipulating the delvers' dreams, fully trusting them to shape the dreamscape to their desires. The three avatars stood side by side at the perimeter of the lawn, staring up at the darkened windows where the delvers were asleep. A psychic frequency pulsed between them as their shared consciousness reached across the distance.

Without taking a single step closer to the building, they began to weave their invisible tendrils into the sleeping minds inside. THE CLOWN Dread Score: 6/10 Creature Type: Abomination Cooldown: 1 week Special Traits Shapeshifter (Clown-form) II The archetype possesses complete control over its physical mass, capable of replicating the flesh, clothing, cellular composition, and voice of any creature (up to the size of large) it has observed or has knowledge of.

In any assumed form, the archetype's statistics remain the same, though it can adopt the size, movement speed, and physical senses of the copied target. You have selected Clown as the standard form. If a delver realizes the true identity of the archetype, their Resolve drops by one degree. True Form: If the archetype's health drops below 50%, its true form is revealed. They can also voluntarily drop the disguise. You have selected Clown Scorpion (large).

Any delver who witnesses the creature reveal its true form for the first time decreases their Resolve by one degree. Shapeshifter comes with the Speech trait. Avatar Duplicate I The archetype is considered as one (1) creature, but it can create multiple duplicates of itself. They are only truly slain once all avatars are destroyed. If an avatar dies, the remaining avatar(s) survive unimpaired.

At Level I, the archetype can create two (2) stable duplicates, and up to four (4) duplicates for ten (10) minutes (1 hour cooldown). Each avatar manifests a different dominant trait or emotional disposition from the original entity. They speak, react, and make decisions independently while sharing a psychic awareness of one another's actions. In conjunction with the Shapeshifter trait, each avatar can independently assume a completely different form simultaneously.

It can impersonate three distinct delvers or take the shape of three different dungeon archetypes at once. Dream Walk (Nightmare) I The archetype can weaponize the delvers' own minds against them. During exploration and even in long rest, it acts as a psychic parasite. The archetype can invade their dreams (even during long rests), seizing control of the dreamscape and folding it into a localized pocket dimension it has complete control over.

Damage sustained within the nightmare translates into psychic damage, corruption, or exhaustion upon waking. If a delver dies in the nightmare, they die in real life. Special skill - Waking Nightmare: The archetype can also target one (1) delver while they are awake and within line of sight. It forces a momentary break in a mid-to-low Resolve delver's perception, dragging their mind into a micro-nightmare for ten (10) seconds, which translates to one (1) minute in the dreamscape.

Their body is stunned and incapacitated while in this state. Bring Them Fear I All archetypes feed on fear, but this archetype uses it as fuel to manipulate and increase its physical abilities and restores 10% of its health: The greater the fear, the greater the benefits. With this trait, they can reach into the minds of others and unearth their deepest fears, give it form, warp their reality, intensify the emotion, and use it against them to cause pure terror and hysteria.

The archetype gains a Fear radius of a hundred (100) meters. Any delver inside the radius is susceptible to this effect. At Level I, the archetype can target only two (2) creatures at once. Depending on the intensity, there is a 5% chance that a delver will die from shock. Dylan Griffin snapped awake to the silence of the hotel room, his heart thumping against his ribcage. Beside him, in the second queen-sized bed, Big Mac's loud snoring cut through the darkness like an idling engine, on and off.

Dylan hated it when people snored, couldn't help but get annoyed by the guttural sounds they made, like they were dying. But hearing Big Mac's, he found it oddly comforting, knowing he was not alone in this strange, dark room. He rolled onto his side and squinted at the digital display on the nightstand. 3: 14 AM. He groaned softly, flopping back onto his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. His skin felt strangely clammy, coated in a layer of cold sweat from a dream he couldn't quite remember.

He still reeked of alcohol, but thankfully, he didn't drink that much to give him a pounding headache. He forced his eyes shut, trying to sink back into deep sleep, but as ten agonizing minutes dragged by, he was largely unsuccessful at his attempts, hard as he tried. Counting sheep didn't help. He looked at the clock again. 3: 15 AM. He found that strange. Surely ten minutes had passed, right? But in his bleary mind, he shrugged it off that the clock might be broken.

Giving up on sleep, Dylan swung his legs off the bed. He might as well go to the bathroom while he was awake, feeling the pinch of his bladder after a night of tequila shots and cold beer. His bare feet hit the cold carpet, and he padded into the bathroom, making sure not to wake Big Mac as he dashed. Although the man was a notorious heavy sleeper, so why did he even bother? He didn't turn on the main light, opting for the soft glow of the nightlight as he relieved himself and splashed cold water onto his face.

He looked at his reflection and saw the signs of a pimple growing on his forehead. Grossed out, he rummaged through the drawer and grabbed his blemish stick and scrubbed it on the spot. That should take care of that. He had to make sure he looked good for the cameras. Drying off with a hand towel, Dylan walked back into the main room when something caught his eye from the window. Before he could react, he was drawn toward the heavy drapes. He pulled the curtain back an inch and peered outside.

The manicured golf course of the Hyacinth Hotel stretched out below, bathed in the yellow glow of several distant pathway lights. Beyond the rolling greens lay the treeline of the McLaren forest, seemingly drinking in the moonlight into its dark canopy. Nothing stirred down there. Yet, a prickle ran up the back of Dylan's neck, as if he were being watched. He imagined golden eyes glowing in the dark, staring back at him. The memory of that old Snow White cartoon rushed back. The haunted forest.

Snow White running blindly through the trees while skeletal branches clawed at her dress and robes while twisted faces seemed to leer from the bark of trees. As a kid, Dylan had thought it was terrifying, had nightmares right after watching it. He told himself it was nothing. Just nerves. Or some of the alcohol still left in his system. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Dylan froze, the curtain slipping from his fingers. Someone was knocking softly on the door.

He glanced back at Big Mac, but the cameraman hadn't even stirred, his mouth slightly open, snoring without a care in the world. Dylan took two steps toward the door.

"Who is it?" he called out, keeping his voice down so as not to wake Mac. Silence. He waited for a second, but no one answered. He looked below the gaps on the door, hoping to see a shadow standing behind it, but the lights in the hallway must have dimmed, and he saw no shadow there. Dylan frowned, stepping closer until his bare feet touched the only strip of cool tile near the front entry. Knock. Knock. It was slower, but firmer. Someone was really behind the door.

"Yo. Who's out there?"

"Dylan?" a soft, muffled voice whispered through the crack.

"It's me... let me in."

"Heidi?" he leaned toward the door.

"What are you doing? Is someone out there with you?"

"Just open the door, Dylan. Please," she pleaded, sounding breathless and strangely distant, as if she was still drunk. He couldn't remember if Heidi drank at all last night.

"Before someone sees me," she added. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Dylan raised his eyebrow. She knew that Big Mac was sleeping in the same room as he, and if she wanted to have sex, this was not the appropriate place to do it.

Sure, Big Mac was a heavy sleeper, but in the split second after hearing Heidi wanted to come in, he entertained the idea of sneaking her in anyway, his tongue between her thighs, and sliding inside of her on his bed, hoping that Big Mac was too drunk to notice the noises they'd make. Also, Cole was literally staying the next room over. Another second passed, and Dylan was excited at the thought of screwing her while her boyfriend was in the other room.

But then he remembered the days she had ghosted him right after they hooked up a month ago. What was that all about? Dylan's head was swimming, too muddled to think deeper.

"You know it's kinda late…" Of course it was late. He didn't care about that; it was something he had to say. He just wanted the confirmation that Heidi wanted the same thing as he did. Wanted badly. God, he missed her.

"Cole and I had a fight," she said.

"Open the door before I change my mind." Dylan reached up and peered through the peephole. Heidi stood behind the door, wearing her oversized beige cardigan; he could tell she was not wearing any bra, her hair a bit disheveled just the way he liked it, her face turned slightly away as if checking over her shoulder down the corridor. She wore lip gloss. Could tell she readied herself before meeting him. He couldn't help but smile when she saw her.

Dylan unlatched the deadbolt with a metallic click, turned the handle, and pulled the door inward.

"Heidi, if Mac or Cole wakes up—" The hallway was empty. Dylan stopped short in surprise. The long, carpeted corridor stretched out in both directions under the buzzing glow of the hallway lights. Every door was shut. No way Heidi could have jumped inside to hide. He heard no footsteps down the hall, no creaking floorboards, no sound of an elevator bell. Was this some kind of prank? But Heidi wouldn't play such tricks.

She was the kind of person who would immediately call out such behavior as immature, would often scold Dylan and Retto for their antics on their other prank videos while Owen only cared about the views.

"Heidi?" he called out, looking left and right down the empty hall. Nothing. He turned to the door immediately to his right, to the room Heidi shared with Cole. Dylan crept over and reached out to gently test the handle. It was shut tight. Not even a sliver of light showed beneath the frame. Were they asleep this whole time? So, who was he talking to? Did he sleepwalk out of his hotel room? A knot twisted in his stomach. Something was very wrong.

He spun around to duck back into his own room, only to freeze dead in his tracks. His door was already closed. He didn't even hear it shut behind him. He was so sure he left it open, right? Dylan stared at the door in total disbelief. Desperate, he jiggled the lever. Locked. His room keycard was sitting on the nightstand right next to his phone.

"Shit," Dylan muttered.

"Shit, fucking shit." He tried to calm himself down. He didn't know why he felt afraid, but it was the only emotion that made any kind of sense. Might be brain fog. Might be the hangover talking. But it felt like he shouldn't be out here, should never have left the room when he saw no one behind the door.

"Mac!" Dylan raised his fist and pounded on the door.

"Mac, wake up! Man, open the door! I got locked out!" He pressed his ear against the door, but only the muffled sound of Big Mac's loud snoring answered him back.

"Come on, Mac, wake up!" Dylan hissed, slamming his palm against it in growing frustration. The guy could sleep through a hurricane, and Dylan felt a hot flash of annoyance for deciding to room with him. He should have booked the room with Retto, but Emily was with him. A pang of jealousy wormed its way there, too. His best friend got his rocks off while he was locked outside in the hallway with nothing but his pajamas for sleepwalking because he had a bad case of the blue balls. Life wasn't fair sometimes.

The elevator bell dinged, and the doors slid open. Dylan looked down the hallway, embarrassingly expecting other hotel guests to find a strange, half-naked man in the middle of the hallway. But he stiffened. Beyond the sliding doors was only a wall of pitch-black void, as if the shaft opened directly into the abyss. From deep within that shroud, something began to move. A jointed, hairy black leg as thick as a tree branch, tipped with a hooked talon, shot out of the darkness, gripping the elevator frame.

Then another. And another. And another. Dylan gasped. One of the few things that Dylan was terrified of was spiders. He detested them. A single tiny house spider made his skin crawl and made him want to burn down the house, but this… no, this was something else. He couldn't move even when he begged his feet to turn around, transfixed at the monster squeezing its way into the hallway.

A massive, bulbous abdomen like a tarantula squeezed through the entryway, but where the arachnid's head should have been, the bloated body merged into the pale, twisted torso of a naked old woman with its sagging breasts oozing green milky fluids, and her long, tangled silver hair cascaded over her masked face. Resting atop her shoulders was a frozen porcelain clown mask, its painted crimson smile stretched into a hideous, mocking grin.

The monstrosity twitched, its porcelain head tilting from side to side, red eyes glaring behind the mask. Its spindly legs were too big and wide for the hotel corridor, forcing the creature to squeeze inside and walk clumsily, scraping against the walls and stripping wallpaper away into shreds as it stalked toward him. He turned back to the door and threw his entire weight against it, pounding frantically with both fists.

"Mac! Let me in! Mac, please! Dear God, open the door!" With all the racket he was making, why wasn't anyone opening their doors? Surely they could all hear him, could hear the monster, begging just one— just one— to open their door, see this monstrosity coming after him, and help him. The abomination hastened, her awkward gait turning into a scrambling drag as it sobbed and moaned. The scratching of her claws tore up the carpet and more of the wallpaper. Click-clack-screeeek-click-clack-screeeek.

She was thirty feet away. Then twenty feet. Dylan could see the hairline cracks in her porcelain facade.

"Mac!" Dylan screamed again, throwing his shoulder into the door in absolute terror. The latch finally gave way. The door budged inward, and Dylan scrambled through the gap, throwing himself onto the floor inside just as a limb whiffed into the doorframe right above his head. He kicked the door shut with his bare feet. Dylan scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared at the second bed. Big Mac hadn't even moved. He was still lying on his back, asleep.

There was no time to yell at him. Before Dylan could even pull himself up, he heard the doorhandle jiggle behind him. It was going to get in. Dylan scrambled onto his bed, grabbed the heavy duvet, and dragged it completely over his body, pulling it tight around his head and curling into a shivering, terrified ball. The door creaked open. Dylan pressed his hands over his mouth to choke back his sobs, refusing to lift the blanket even a millimeter.

He heard the dragging sound of heavy legs, sounding like it was pulling a bloated body over the carpet. It was inside the room. The air instantly grew rancid, choked with the stench of rotting meat and damp soil. Dylan squeezed his eyes shut under the fabric. He could feel the sheer weight of the entity moving toward his bed.

He could feel the sudden pressure on the mattress as something grabbed the edges of the bed and leaned over him, imagining that frozen, smiling porcelain face hanging mere inches from his head through the thin layer of the blanket. He held his breath, every muscle screaming to run as he waited for the fangs to sink into his body and kill him. He was sure of that. The monster was going to eat him. CRACK-zzzzztttttt!

A sharp blast of static shattered the silence as the hotel television mounted on the wall suddenly flared to life at a high volume. The bright TV glow illuminated the dark room, then the white noise changed to some late-night rerun of a procedural cop show Dylan couldn't remember the name of. The creature let out a high-pitched hiss. Terrified by the sudden burst of light and sound, the monster violently recoiled. Dylan felt the heavy thud of its legs scrambling backward as it fled the room.

He stayed curled under the covers for what felt like an eternity. A minute dragged by, then two, marked only by the pounding of his own pulse against his ears. Slowly, he pulled the edge of the blanket down past his chin. The door was still standing open. Outside, the hallway lights had inexplicably dimmed, casting deep, elongated shadows across the threshold. Beside him, Big Mac was remarkably still sound asleep after all that ruckus.

He was too terrified to call out his name, afraid that the slightest sound might summon that thing back. The blue-tinted glow of the cop show dramatically paused at a cliffhanger, leaving the identity of the real killer for the episode to be revealed before transitioning into the commercials. A soothing, melodious female voice began to speak over a backdrop of sweeping drone shots of lakes, waterfalls, forested mountains, the city of Portland, and so many hiking trails.

The actors laughed and smiled, drinking wine and camping out in the woods under the stars.

"Escape into the pristine wilderness. Experience the quiet majesty and culinary bounty of the Pacific Northwest, where nature still holds its oldest secrets, and witness the scenic beauty of life," the voiceover said. Dylan's eyes locked onto the screen. The footage cut from a cascading waterfall to a dense, sunlight-dappled forest, finally coming to rest on a weathered cabin nestled deep in the trees.

"Visit the Pacific Northwest. Visit Oregon. Visit the cabin." Dylan's breath hitched. It was the cabin. The exact one from the woods nearby. It was hard to forget since he had been looking at it for over a year, and at every episode they covered about the spree of crimes and disappearances around McLaren Forest. The soothing narrator had stopped speaking, but the commercial didn't end. The camera stayed frozen on the cabin, bathing it in idyllic daylight as birds sang in the distance. Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty. Then thirty. He reckoned it would never end. He thought about getting up and finding the remote to shut the TV off, but he didn't want to leave the safety of the bed. A sickening sense of compulsion gripped him, forcing him to stare at the screen. Then, the front door of the cabin creaked open. Every instinct screamed at him that whatever was stepping out of that cabin was not something he could afford to see.

With a surge of willpower, he tore his eyes away from the TV screen and whipped his head to the right. The abominable spider was hanging directly above him. Her thick, hairy legs were anchored to the ceiling like a grotesque chandelier. Hanging mere inches from his face, she stared directly into his eyes, mouth parting open to reveal rows of sharp teeth.

Dylan let out a choked shriek and threw his arms up to guard his face and throat just as the creature lunged forward, its fangs bared for his flesh— Dylan snapped upright, his arms thrust out in front of his face, his chest heaving as he desperately gasped for air. The room was pitch black. The television mounted on the wall was completely blank and silent. There was no giant spider on the ceiling. No smell of rotting meat.

By muscle memory, he fumbled blindly on the nightstand, his trembling hand finally catching his phone. The screen flared to life, showing the digital time. 4: 53 AM. The time on his phone matched the clock on the nightstand. Dylan slumped back against the headboard, running a hand over his face covered in sweat. A dream. It was all just a dream. But the sensation of those chitinous legs brushing against his skin lingered.

Knowing there was no chance in hell he was getting back to sleep tonight, Dylan unlocked his phone and opened Reddit, blindly scrolling through his feed in a desperate attempt to drown in mindless brain-rotting noise. After a while, the dream withered into vague shapes behind his memory, although a part of him now refused to go back to sleep. In a few hours, the nightmare would become part of his subconscious, barely grazing his waking mind. A soft rustle came from the other bed.

Big Mac squirmed beneath his sheets, groaning softly and turning onto his side, his face twisting into a troubled scowl as he drifted deeper into his own nightmare. Two hours later, the clowns had finished their job of visiting their dreams and terrifying the entire crew, and Harrison was now five feet below the ground. It was a small miracle Tim Crothers had never bothered installing security cameras around the old property, an oversight the Brotherhood exploited.

Before hitting the road, Leo and Paul had to burn their bloodied clothes inside an oil barrel and change into their fresh spares they brought from the emergency duffel bags in the trunk. Monster hunting was a bloody trade and ninety-eight percent of the time, you'd end up soaked from the guts of whatever creature you were hunting. Professor Kincaid, despite it being barely five in the morning, asked casually over the speaker phone, "Is anyone hungry for breakfast?"

Leo's stomach churned at the mere thought of food after watching a man gouge his own eyes out, but he forced out a dry yes anyway. Thankfully, Paul was behind the wheel. In his side mirror, the black unmarked sedan of the Institute agents fell into formation behind Kincaid's car. The professor had clearly invited the suits along. Only a couple of diners in Point Hope were open at this ungodly hour, and Leo needed answers. He was sure Paul felt the same. Then, he remembered Danny, who was staying back at the house.

Kincaid quickly reassured him over the line that he had already asked Casey to watch over him. Leo winced, knowing Casey was going to make him pay dearly for that favor. He owed her big time, and Casey never liked babysitting duties. Danny was still asleep, which was good. The boy was never an early morning riser. He'd sleep until nine AM if given the chance, so he texted Casey to let him sleep as long as possible.

Waking him up now would only trigger an avalanche of questions Leo wasn't remotely prepared to answer, starting with why he had abandoned Danny and their mother in the first place. Ten minutes later, they pulled into the gravel lot of Josey's Diner. Leo felt uncomfortable about how close this diner was to the border of McLaren Forest and the dungeon itself, but they didn't have a lot of options.

Josey's was the only diner with affordable food that was open this early and that Leo was confident actually had a decent menu. Leo wasn't surprised to see more than twenty people were already here since the joint was a local gem. Sure, most of the customers were truckers or long-haul travelers using Point Hope as a rest stop to Bend, Salem, Eugene, or Portland and beyond, but the place was big enough for a hundred people. When the food came, the professor mostly did the talking.

He walked Leo and Paul through how he'd ended up crossing paths with the feds, occasionally firing back questions to clarify details he had touched on during their initial rendezvous. The professor had originally driven up to Salem to consult an old contact who held files not at the local town hall, only to be intercepted by the Institute agents. They had been following the Brotherhood for quite some time, which didn't sit right with Leo. He was never a fan of people spying on him for long stretches of time.

They learned about the Institute spy and the desperate call he made right before he was killed. It confirmed Harrison's account that a platoon of Astarothian soldiers entered the forest. Leo's stomach dropped when he heard how the spy died, coincidentally hit by a truck, which the coroner already dismissed as an accident.

His body currently occupied the morgue as a John Doe since they did not find any identification on him, an excuse the Institute agents exploited by pretending to be FBI agents investigating the mysterious body, claiming he was an undercover FBI agent, too. Leo wished he could do that, but he couldn't stay anonymous when more than half the town knew him by name and recognized his face. Leo took another slow sip of his black coffee, watching the trio over the rim of his mug.

The ringleader called himself Agent Sheridan. Looked to be in his late forties, a handsome man in that slick, mid-century anchorman way, with short, impeccably groomed salt-and-pepper hair parted on the left. His face was clean-shaven with a hard jawline save for a pale crescent of a scar tucked right under his chin. Much like Professor Kincaid, he was a talker with his southern twang and smiled easily enough, but Leo could never trust the talkers.

As much as they buttered you up, they were very slick with the lies, too. Sitting beside him was Agent Laramie, a Black man also pushing in his late forties. Laramie was huge, broad-chested, muscular, and crowded the space in the booth he was sitting at. His beard was neatly trimmed, and Leo noticed he wore a strong cologne even after they dug up Harrison's grave. He wore a new crisp, snow-white button-down that strained against his shoulders after digging all that dirt in the woods.

Laramie didn't do much talking; he just watched the room. Watched Leo back, which he was more than happy to indulge and get into a staring contest while the professor and Sheridan talked. Then there was Agent Gillette. He was the oddity of the bunch, barely in his late twenties and built like a twig. Lanky, narrow-shouldered, with short black hair that stuck up in messy tufts. Unlike his companions, he hadn't bothered with a suit or a tie.

He wore an oversized tweed sweater over a plain shirt, looking less like a federal agent and more like a burnt-out graduate student who'd spent the last forty-eight hours in a library. He kept tapping his fingernails against his water glass in a silent rhythm, nervous to chime in. Leo studied the kid's soft hands and nervous posture. Not a cop. Not a fed. Not someone who had ever drawn a weapon, much less shot a guy. Why would the Institute bring a rookie to a dangerous case like this?

Unless, of course, the Institute had no fucking idea what they were walking into, which concerned Leo greatly. Sheridan. Laramie. Gillette. Leo recognized them as the major towns and cities of Wyoming. Once they mentioned their handler's name, whom Kincaid seemed familiar with, it now made sense to him. Leo found it quite strange. Sheridan excused himself to talk privately with his team outside the diner.

After Leo counted they had been gone for a couple of minutes (but saw that their vehicle was still parked outside), he turned to Kincaid.

"So, what's the play here, professor? Do we trust these guys?"

"We shall see," Kincaid said as he took a bite of his bacon and tomato omelette.

"Do you think they'll be open to working with us?" Paul asked.

"I noticed that Sheridan and Laramie look like they're armed forces. Army, maybe? Laramie might be a Marine." Kincaid raised an eyebrow, but he also nodded.

"As much as my peers from the council believe the Brotherhood should work alone, I do see the benefit of having them with us."

"It might not be too late," Paul said confidently.

"I think I have a strong case for more backup." He brought out an iPad with the footage of the Harrisons' interrogation already uploaded inside. It also included the dash-cam footage of the Yeti chasing their vehicle. But Leo shook his head.

"We don't have much time to waste. We all know the livestream is in a few days. The Brotherhood can't mobilize that fast. I don't know the extent of the Institute's resources, but I doubt they can pull more men in less than two days. We need soldiers."

"They're the government. They might be able to get us that," Paul said.

"Do you think they can stop the livestream themselves?" Kincaid frowned.

"It's not illegal, and they have a permit from the county office to film there, signed off by Mayor Warrick herself. Trust me. I saw the permit. Unless you have the mayor on speed-dial or on a first-name basis, we might have a chance." Leo shook his head. Kincaid sighed.

"Well, the only way of stopping it is to sabotage the set in some way, but I fear they'll just postpone the stream. A lot of money is involved in producing this show, so it won't be easy. It is not a guarantee we will get backup."

"Unless we burn down the woods?" Paul suggested.

"And cause a wildfire and potentially kill forty thousand people, possibly more from the other surrounding towns?" Kincaid raised an eyebrow.

"Not a chance."

"I don't understand why they're dragging their feet on this. Can't they see what's going on here?" Leo said.

"My peers are not as open-minded as I am, Leo. What you saw… none of them believe those things exist. The Brotherhood was created to fight vampires and demons, and the occasional wild lycanthrope. We don't have experience, the protocols, nor the resources on fighting the unknowable. If we rush into this, a lot of people are gonna end up dead. People with families of their own, like you do. They have to take that into account before sending more of our people to us." He was right, of course. Leo knew that.

The Brotherhood wasn't ready to fight whatever creatures lurked around North Cedar Lake. It didn't matter if there were ten, twenty, or thirty guys with them; a lot of people were going to die. Heck, Harrison came with a fully armed platoon and all of them ended up dead.

"It doesn't matter. What chance do we have anyway?" Leo asked quietly.

"All we can do is observe and do the best we can," Kincaid said.

"Maybe we can help Dylan Griffin and the rest of the crew if trouble arises."

"That's it?" Paul rolled his eyes and threw his hands up.

"We just sit and do nothing?"

"Not exactly. We just have to be nearby when that trouble happens. Anyway, those potions you took…did you notice anything different?" Both Paul and Leo shook their heads. They never told the Institute agents about the boons, only to the professor while they were digging the grave.

"Hm. We'll keep an eye out for any changes, just in case. I'm quite curious why the entity wants you both to take it," Kincaid said.

"None of it good," Paul said.

"What happened to Harrison's bottle?"

"It disappeared," Leo said.

"I tried looking for it without the Institute noticing, but I couldn't find it anywhere."

"A shame. If what that demon said was true, it would have been useful." Eventually, the Institute agents came back inside, though the two older agents looked none too pleased with whatever they discussed. Leo had snuck a peek once in a while and saw that they were talking over the phone, probably to their handler.

"This is becoming a more complicated case, Professor Kincaid," Agent Sheridan said.

"Handler Wyoming would like to extend the invitation for the Brotherhood to join our case as consultants." Kincaid smiled.

"Ah. An invitation, he said? How very formal of him. But this is our case first."

"Is that really something you want to argue about, Kincaid? We see what's been going on here. Something's up. Now we can either be headless chickens and run around the pen looking for the golden egg, or…we work together and find it."

"Relax, agent. I didn't mean it that way," Kincaid said.

"I was going to offer your team the same thing. Do you guys like movies?" Sheridan and the other agents didn't know how to answer that. Kincaid motioned for Paul to give them the iPad.

"I suggest you all put your AirPods on unless you want the whole diner to hear this." Agent Sheridan watched the footage first. After a while, he handed it over to Laramie, who then passed it to Gillette. All three individuals maintained a hard, stoic expression, except for Gillette, who watched it with his mouth agape. Once Gillette passed back the iPad, Sheridan scoffed.

"Well, shit. We just jumped into a cesspit, didn't we?"

"It's a shit-show, yes," Kincaid replied.

"Can we get a copy of that? You know? To send to our guys?"

"As a token of our goodwill, sure. You can have a copy, agent." Paul shot Kincaid a look to see if he was being serious, but Kincaid just nodded to him that it was alright. Sheridan looked relieved.

"How much can you do?" Leo asked, surprising the others. So far, Kincaid had done most of the talking.

"With what?" Sheridan asked.

"Can you call for backup?" Sheridan frowned and glanced over to his companions.

"Kid, we are the backup."