Per 
"We are a group of peoples; the defenders of Earth. We Discover. We Captivate. We are AN-SO."
"AN-SO: Recording, Revealing, & Reinstating The Dangers of Our World"
Overview:
"If you're here, that means you've passed the basic training stage. Welcome to the AN-SO. Meet your fellow leuchten. - Sean Heichel
((internal GoI format))
(Out of Universe) Overview:
On the outside a low-budget wikileaks-type agency, on the inside a carefully executed paramilitary organization; trying their best to help declassify all the anomalous items/creatures from the "spiessers" (the anomalous containment agencies). They are overzealous and less than competent, and they're not above bending the law: breaking and entering, theft, and kidnapping are on their list of crimes committed.
They all do this with a can-do attitude that they think are saving the world. Their main HQ is located in the (fictional) city of Teufel, California, run by Sean Heichel, a former member of the paramilitary mercenary group "Calton's Runners". A very fervent person, he believes in his work and runs the agency with a half-baked iron fist.
List of Members
- Overview
- Sean Heichel
- Bryanne Palmer
- Charles "Chad" Lukhurst
- Nicolas West
- Valente Oria
- Georgia Ellison
- May F. Waters
- Stephen Friedel
The AN-SO consists of three internal divisions, all contributing to a greater goal. Each member is unique in their own make. Each member is one step closer to filling in all the holes.
Name: Sean Heichel
Position: Administrator
Description: The public face of AN-SO, Sean Heichel (36) is the stolid figurehead of the group. While maintaining some authoritative control due to his ruthless mercenary past, in private Sean acts like a college student with a bad temper. Sean mostly calls all the big shots, such as pursuing leads or making administrative changes. Friendly to his staff and treated as such, he uses his large connections to help make things go his way.
After the "hat incident" at his former workplace, he discovered the world of the anomalous and firmly believes this world should be available to the public. And he may or may not be trying to have more than a work relationship with Bryanne. But who knows?
Work History: Former "Carlton's Runners" mercenary, ret.
Current Ringtone: "Danger Zone" - Kenny Loggins
Name: Bryanne Palmer
Position: Vice-Administrator
Description: For what Sean lacks in authoritative control, Bryanne Palmer (34) more than makes up for it with her unshakeable voice and cold presence. She manages many of the inner workings of An-SO, including but not limited to acquiring funding, directing division meetings, editing The Weekly Exposé newsletter, and assisting Sean in public addresses. Where Sean will converse with most any employee or potential ally of An-SO, Bryanne limits her talk to those that hold influence, namely the division heads. She recognizes the importance of her position and means to hold herself to a certain standard.
Although Bryanne and Sean share a similar sentiment in exposing the hidden world of the anomalous, Bryanne doesn't necessarily view it all with the same fear and paranoia. And while he keeps such things as far away as possible, she doesn't mind keeping a secret from him if it could be useful in the future.
Work History: Former Curator for Manna Charitable Foundation
Current Ringtone: "Red Right Hand" - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Name: Charles Lukhurst ("Chad")
Position: Field Reporter
Description: Chad is An-SO's star reporter, having worked as one of their journalists for almost as long as it has been around. With an inability to beat-around-the-bush, he is bold, straightforward, and (at times) invasive. He may not be on the same level of cleverness as the rest of the staff, but he operates just as well with his blunt questions and head-on approach.
Chad is well-liked by most of the An-SO operatives. Sean likes him because he brings in the news. Bryanne appreciates him for his usefulness in keeping Sean passive. May aspires to be as successful as him.
Work History: Private Investigator (Currently Accepting Work)
Current Ringtone: "My Prayer" - The Platters
Name: Nicolas West
Position: Intel Head
Description: TBA
History: Nicolas West
Name: Valente Oria
Position: Security Head
Description: TBA
History: TBA
Name: Georgia Ellison
Position: Field Head
Description: TBA
History: TBA
Name: May Friday Waters
Position: Photographer/Journalist
Description: May is a self-proclaimed 'intrepid, on-the-scene, always trendy, and constantly buzzing social media sensation', though she might be straying from the facts with most of these points. She is highly energetic and enthusiastic in everything she does and highly determined to become a popular and identifiable reporter by any means necessary.
Due to her overzealous personality, May isn't always well-liked around the AN-SO office and is frequently the first person sent on coffee, food, and material runs just so she may be out of their hair for a while. Despite this, most of her peers are aware she has good intentions and is among the most loyal members of AN-SO.
History: Fascinated by stories of fairies, bigfoot, and aliens throughout her childhood, May always desperately wanted the world to be as weird as she thought it to be and revealed in investigating Roswell, Barney and Betty Hill's alien abduction claims, and the mysteries of Stonehenge. She was a college drop-out when she first discovered The Weekly Exposé and joined the organization by falsifying a Journalism degree and experience working at a local news network.
Name: Stephen Friedel
Position: Armorer
Description: TBA
Work History: Former sniper for the mercenary group "Carlton's Runners". Left after the "Hat Man" incident in 2009, joined AN-SO shortly after.
Current Ringtone:
Drafts
— RockTeethMothEyes:
The following is an audio transcript of a video uploaded onto a public-access website titled "Filling In The Blanks". The single individual appearing in the video has been identified as PoI-449 (Sean Heichel), the self-proclaimed leader of GoI-1221 (AN-SO). The video was located by Foundation web crawlers within fourteen minutes of its completed upload and promptly removed.
<BEGIN LOG>
"Hrm-hm. Is this on? … It is? … Good. Alright."
"Salutations, world. Err, whichever countries this isn't going to be blocked in, anyway. You don't know me, but we're going to get acquainted real fast. We're going to be talking about some serious shit — I mean, some real serious shit. And you aren't going to want to hear it."
"It doesn't matter if you want to hear it. You have to hear it. This is for our own good. For Humanity."
"I'll start with something you might be familiar with: Holes. Not, like, physical holes. Think abstract. Is there someone missing from your life? A name you can't quite place? Maybe an empty spot on your wall that looks like it needs a photo. Was there a time that you were out getting coffee, but you came back empty-handed? How did you get back home?"
"Those are holes. In your lives. In your memories. Empty spaces that are relatively shaped like a chunk of time or a person. Sure they could happen naturally. People disappear all the time, you know, and days blur together."
"I'm here to tell you that those holes were made by someone. A few someones. They think you'll live better with holes in your life. They think you, and everyone you hold close to your heart in this world should live in the dark. Like a worm."
"This gross misuse of power must come to an end. There is more to this world — and yeah, even outside of it — than you have been allowed to know about. There is some incredibly horrific shit out there that you may just want to know about so you can plan to rise above it. Like magic — that's right! Real. Ass. Magic, my friends. Have you ever seen someone grow fucking bones over their god damn eyes? I have. It's just as pretty as it sounds."
"Look closely at the holes, friends. Look along the walls and put the pieces together. Those were put there by someone a lot scarier than eye-bones. Here at AN-SO, we're going to make them put it back. We're going to make them fess up, you're going to get to know what happened to your friend that disappeared a year ago, and you're going to say, 'Thank you, Mr. Heichel. When can I start?'"
"Stay safe, my fellow leuchten. We'll be in touch soon."
"… I went off track again? … Yeah, it's fine, just put it up. You know that got their attention."
<END LOG>
The following is an audio transcript of a video uploaded onto a public-access website titled "Filling In The Blanks Part 2". The single individual appearing in the video has been identified as PoI-449 (Sean Heichel), the self-proclaimed leader of GoI-1221 (AN-SO). The video was located by Foundation web crawlers within ten minutes of its completed upload and promptly removed. An investigation into the integrity of Site-39's secure information database is currently in progress.
<BEGIN LOG>
"Hello, friends. It's me again. I told you we'd see each other soon enough and here we are. I follow through on my promises, you know."
"And some of you might just now be learning about me. As for those of you who already know about us, you'll also know that the last video was deleted. Just poof. Gone like dust in the wind. I don't think I need to tell you who is responsible for that. I'll let you fill that one in yourselves."
"That being said, we definitely got someone's attention. There's no denying that someone is out there, suppressing our movement with all they got, keeping all their secrets to themselves. Well, secrets don't keep friends. And friends don't keep secrets…"
"As you folks at home can see, I have in my hand a sheet of paper. This is not the script to this video, but a secret that's been kept from all of you. And it. Is. A. BIG one. Did you know that we had more than 45 presidents? Did you ever hear about President Lambley in your schools? How about President Bridge? No? Really? Well, this here paper tells you all about them. See, Truman couldn't handle what he did to Hiroshima, so he offed himself. The U.S. government didn't want to lose the potential influence Truman had, and he wasn't as dead as he ought to be, so they slipped some glasses on him, waited for him to die, and moved along."
"Then, they put those same glasses on Mr. Bridge, and WOAH he looks JUST LIKE TRUMAN! What?! THIS IS THE MAGIC I WAS TALKING ABOUT! This is it! You should know about this — hell, the world should know about this. And this is just one of so many things that they are hiding from you."
"This is just the beginning, friends. We're going to make global knowledge nice and smooth by filling in all of these holes. And these papers are just one small shovel."
"… What do you mean that sounded dumb? … Ah, cut me some slack. It's a good analo—"
<END LOG>
The following is an audio transcript of a video uploaded onto a public-access website titled "For Your Eyes Only". The single individual appearing in the video has been identified as PoI-449 (Sean Heichel), the self-proclaimed leader of GoI-1221 (AN-SO). The video was located by Foundation web crawlers within six minutes of its completed upload and promptly removed. Authorization for an active search for PoI-449 and the dissolution of GoI-1221 has been cleared.
<BEGIN LOG>
"Hello. You already know who I am. I know you're getting better at this, so I'll keep this between you and me."
"I'll cut to the chase: This is fucked up. Since the dawn of man, we have lived in the dark. We felt it's cold creep over our naked backs and suffered for whoever knows how long. And then… fire. Light. Warmth. And we carried that fire of knowledge with us all the way to the year of our Lord 2016."
"And you want to force us back into the cold. To die without fire. To push us into a deep pit where the walls can't be seen or held onto."
"You think you're worthy of the light? Fine. But when you're heating your palms and face with its embers, I want you to think of something. I want you to think of the lives without loved ones. I want you to think about those people that you took away. I want you to think about those people that will never have answers."
"Because those are the ones I'm fighting for. And I'm going to make you give it all back."
"… Shut up, I'm not in the mood."
<END LOG>
—
"What the hell, Sean? You didn't read off the script I gave you," said Bryanne Palmer to her Administrator.
"Shut up, I'm not in the mood," replied Sean Heichel to his second-in-command. He stood up from his seat and moved toward the door, dropping the loose papers he'd been gripping onto, each sheet only being held together by creases made by a tight fist.
Bryanne rolled her eyes and quickly placed herself at Sean's side, matching his pace. "Yeah, if I'd gotten that fired up in front of a camera, I think I'd be embarrassed, too."
Sean kept his stare at the door. "I'm not embarrassed. I'm mad."
"You sound like a child. What was that, Sean? You can't expect me to put that on—"
"I can and I do, Palmer. It's not going to stick around long enough for anyone to see it. Haven't you paid attention to the last few vids we put up? They have our number now. This is one for them." Sean turned left down the hallway, deadset on reaching his office. There was a stress ball he had a date with stashed in his desk.
Bryanne scowled at her superior. She could probably get away with not uploading the video. He was right about them getting faster on takedowns. He might not even notice.
And then she remembered the kind of person Sean is. She was willing to bet money that he was going to sit at his desk, laptop open, slapping F5 until the video popped up.
A bubble of frustration popped in her brain and she turned back to the studio to get her camera.
Bryanne Palmer was sprawled out on her couch in her living room. Her coffee table's surface could not be identified due to a laptop, a camera, four coffee mugs, two unused coasters, a bowl that once held a tasty alfredo pasta, and a mess of wires obscuring it. The progress bar on her laptop screen marked at 21%. I should get started on dishes, she thought.
Fifteen minutes later, the progress bar had moved to 78%. Bryanne had not.
He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a gu-ru. You're one microscopic c—
She silenced her cell phone and squinted at the screen. It was Sean. She let out a rough exhale and pressed "accept".
"Bryanne speaking."
"What's taking you so long?"
"It takes a couple minutes to render. I told you this."
"Bullshit. The thing is barely two minutes long, if that. What's taking so long?"
Another sigh. "It takes. A couple minutes. To render."
"Buuull. Shiiiit."
Bryanne sat upright on the sofa. "Look, I was hungry. I made dinner and I got started uploading your rant. It's like…" She turned to the laptop, the screen burning her eyes for a brief moment. "It's almost done. Give it another ten minutes." She put her glasses back on and looked back at the phone screen. "Wait, you're calling me from your office phone. Why are you still at HQ? We didn't have anything else planned for today."
"That's exactly why I'm still here. We have to get an early start on our next big score. Chad said he had a lead somewhere in Burbank; a Halloween store in Magnolia Park reported a loss of inventory, but no signs of robbery. Could be something big, right?"
Bryanne pinched the bridge of her nose, stifling the incoming exasperated sigh. "Yeah, sure. I'd be more confident about that if it were more than just "Chad". Why do we even call him that? His name is Charles for God's sake."
A brief silence. The servos of the laptop whirr laboriously as the video reaches its finality. It is the only sound that can be heard in the one-bedroom apartment, aside from footsteps traveling along the ceiling.
"He likes it," Sean replies matter-of-factly.
"That's fair, I guess."
"I wanted a head start on the next leak, Palmer, so I stayed in the office to plan out a dispatch, outline special protocols, stuff like that. People aren't going to buy into classified documents without some concrete proof. If we can beat these people to the next magic-monster or whatever, then we have a chance of some real change. We can get new recruits! Think about how much easier things would be if you had an intern, Palmer!"
Bryanne let the thought sit in her mind. She looked at her coffee table, the surface only a distant memory of when she had time and energy to clean. She looked up at the clock on her wall. She couldn't tell what time it was. Only that it was night. It felt like her eyes were receding into her skull every moment she was doing something that wasn't sleeping. An assistant would do wonders for her health.
But deep inside, she knows how this kind of thing works out. There are no assistants that would willingly do her job. There are no interns that would stare into the face of the unknown so they could "get the next big scoop in anoma-news". There was real danger to consider, and to be blind to it is to accept a death sentence.
They have our number now. The thought pulses in her head as the sweat on her cheek sticks to her phone.
"Sean, go home. I'll help you out with a plan. Tomorrow."
"But—"
"Shut up. I'll help you with a plan tomorrow, but you got to rest. Yeah, an intern sounds nice, but I'm not the one that needs an assistant right now. You are. Thankfully, you already have me."
"Palmer—"
"Go home, Sean. I'll call Georgia in the morning," she asserted, punctuating her command by pressing "End Call". Bryanne laid herself down on the couch and set her phone down.
The next morning, she woke up to her preset alarm, the sun shining through her windows, and her iPhone 8+ in a bowl of leftover alfredo pasta.
—
This is was intended to be my entry into the 4k contest, but I couldn't find enough crit to make me confident enough to post this. Furthermore, this SCP article is connected to my previous tale, "AN-SO Demands The Public Be Informed". It's not technically an AN-SO product, but I think it fits here.
Item #: SCP-4XXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-4XXX is kept in a standard containment safe in Site-39. Testing is strictly prohibited in experiments that may result in the death of the wearer or damage of SCP-4XXX. Information concerning SCP-4XXX and its history may only be known to those with Level 4 or higher security clearance.
Description: SCP-4XXX is a pair of C-bridge style pince-nez eyeglasses whose original owner was the 26th President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt. Scratches can be seen in both lenses, but they are otherwise undamaged despite their age.
When an individual puts on SCP-4XXX, they are perceived by others to be the last person who died while wearing the object (henceforth referred to as SCP-4XXX-1). As of the acquisition of the object on 06/05/2004, the current SCP-4XXX-1 is the 40th President of the United States, Ronald Reagan.
The illusory effect of SCP-4XXX extends only to visual and auditory perception. Physical contact with the wearer may result in minor disruption of the effect due to differences in height and figure. While SCP-4XXX cannot be seen when active, it is still possible for it to be removed by normal means. Doing so will deactivate it and the wearer will appear as they were before putting it on.
Discovery: SCP-4XXX's anomalous effects were alluded to on 05/20/2004 during one of SCP-1867's recollections of its time with President Roosevelt. It had remarked that it visited President Roosevelt two weeks after his attempted assassination on October 14th, 19121, mentioning that Roosevelt did not remember any of their past meetings in addition to changes in behavior. Despite the validity of SCP-1867's claims, a general consensus among site staff led to a request for an in-depth investigation of the American government and past cabinet officials. The request was approved with implanted agents being notified on 05/24/2004.
On 06/05/2004, Agent Mallory, an embedded agent in the White House security staff, witnessed the exchange of an eyeglass case between an unknown individual and Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill. Mallory followed Secretary O'Neill as he placed the case containing SCP-4XXX into a lockbox kept under his desk. Later, Mallory returned to the lockbox and recovered the object from it as well as an accompanying document (See Document 4XXX-I).
Document 4XXX-I: The following document was recovered along with SCP-4XXX.
All acting replacements are required to sign this document at the moment of receiving their duties and must return the property in question (the eyeglasses) to the acting Secretary of the Treasury. Failure to do so is a direct violation of their duty and will be met with severe punishment. Replacements may be called upon again for future public addresses.
Theodore Roosevelt Jr. - Death by a gunshot wound, October 14, 1912. Acting replacement is Herman Morrison, age 41. Instructed to return the glasses should Roosevelt lose the 1912 Election or should he be able to complete a presidential term.
John Calvin Coolidge Jr. - Death by pneumonia, November 30th, 1924. Acting replacement is Charles Lambley, age 38. Instructed to return the glasses should he fail to be re-elected or after his second term.
Harry S. Truman - Death by a self-inflicted gunshot wound, August 29th, 1945. Acting replacement is Samuel Bridge, age 48. Instructed to return the glasses should he fail to be re-elected or after his second term.
Richard Milhous Nixon - Death by a gunshot wound, August 7th, 1974. Acting replacement is Fredrick Thomas, age 37. Instructed to return the glasses after delivering an address of resignation to the American public.
Ronald Wilson Reagan - Death by a gunshot wound, March 30th, 1981. Acting replacement is Lawrence Mayford, age 45. Instructed to return the glasses should he fail to be re-elected or after his second term.
Interview 4XXX.4: For the purposes of clarifying the circumstances of Nixon's death and the actions taken by his replacement, a former federal agent (Harold Terring) assigned to guard service of Presidents Lyndon B. Johnson and Richard Nixon was brought in for an interview. Terring was both confirmed to have been involved in SCP-4XXX's use and easily reached for an interview. It was conducted on 08/18/2004 by Agent Mallory.
<Begin Log>
Mallory: First, I'd like to thank you for your service, Mr. Terring.
Terring: Oh, err, you're welcome.
Mallory: I'd like to speak to you about your personal experiences with the glasses. In the document we recovered with them, President Nixon is mentioned and we'd like you to shed some light on their use.
Terring: Teddy's glasses. Right. I've only seen them used once. From what I understand, most people only see them put on once, if ever. Otherwise, they were kept away, even from us in the secret service.
Mallory: When did you see them? The glasses, I mean.
Terring: [brief pause] It was during Watergate. A lot of politicians were in deep, you know. Nixon was one of them. I remember being in the room when they sat him down. Agnew and Will Simon were the only ones I recognized. I was told to guard the door.
Mallory: Sat him down?
Terring: Yes, that's right. They sat him down to talk. They tried to convince him to resign. Things were getting out of hand and they knew that Nixon was involved, no one could deny that. He did this to himself, and they wanted him to give it up. He'd already lost his influence with the Republicans.
Mallory: What did Nixon say?
Terring: He refused. He swore he could dissolve the whole thing, falsify it. He thought he had the power to lie to America and they would eat it up. The cabinet wasn't having it. So Mr. Simon got out the glasses. If they couldn't get him to do what they wanted, they'd find someone who would.
<End Log>
Closing Notes: Nixon is believed to be the only president treated in this manner. However, this cannot be clarified for presidents preceding Nixon, as all listed replacements are confirmed to be deceased, with the exception of Lawrence Mayford. A formal request has been submitted for the arrest and interrogation of Mayford as a result.
Interview 4XXX.6: Below is an excerpt from an interview with Lawrence Mayford, the listed replacement for former President Ronald Reagan. The interview was conducted on 09/30/2004, two days after the detainment of May due to his initial resistance to comply, with Agent Mallory leading the discussion.
<Begin Log>
Mallory: Hello, again, May. Security staff informed me that you were more willing to tell us something.
Mayford: That'd be right.
Mallory: Good. The sooner you answer some questions, the—
Mayford: Sooner I get released, yeah yeah, I get it. God, you're a broken record. [brief pause] Sorry. I just get a little stir crazy. I don't do well with staring at the same walls, you know?
Mallory: I understand. Let's agree to make this brief then. Now, what happened to Reagan?
Mayford: You already know what happened to Reagan. He was shot and killed by that one guy. Hinckley. Thankfully, he didn't bite it right away, so they slipped the glasses on him and allowed him to pass.2 They picked me to replace him. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to be the next president.
Mallory: I can imagine. It's an entertaining thought to be able to have that much influence over a country.
Mayford: [chuckles] You'd think so, but that wasn't the plan for me. No, I was just meant to echo the Congress. They'd plan out the rest of my term and I'd have to go along with it.
Mallory: Why wouldn't they allow the vice to accept the position, then? Surely they'd get just as much done that way.
Mayford: Sure, but the vice president wasn't specifically selec— [coughs]
[brief silence]
Mallory: Mr. Mayford, I thought we had an understanding. Tell us what you know, and you'll be allowed to leave. Anything you say here is confidential and can only be reviewed by Foundation staff.
May: [sighs] Right. It's a reflex. They make it perfectly clear that this can't get out. [deep breath, followed by a long exhale] I, like all the others, were specifically picked by certain members of Congress. Those members of Congress are the only ones that know about the glasses. You know about the Dinner Table Bargain, right?
Mallory: I'm familiar.
Mayford: It's a lot like that. They3 get together in secret, discuss what actions they are going to take, and then plant the ideas into the other government officials to push it forward. The rest is up to me to make sure it goes through.
Mallory: Do you know what things they've compromised on?
Mayford: Hell, could be all of my actions in a term, could be none of them. I don't know what they do behind closed doors. Kind of the point, don't you think?
Mallory: Seems that way. Have they ever made it clear as to what "severe punishment" refers to? We saw in the document you signed.
Mayford: I honestly don't know. But I'll tell you one thing: I wasn't eager to find out, and I doubt any of the others were, either.
<End Log>
Closing Notes: An investigation into Mayford's history has shown that he has never held any formal position in a government agency or military branch, making him considerably underqualified for any political position with a widespread influence. However, an archived criminal record was recovered listing several major felonies.
Addendum 1: Investigations made into the other replacements noted in Document 4XXX-I have yielded similar results to Lawrence Mayford's background. Morrison, Lambley, Bridge, and Thomas were all confirmed to have no prior government experience and a hidden criminal record. It is possible that GoI-1115 selects these individuals with the promise of pardoning them and burying their criminal history, though there is no clear evidence that directly supports this case.
—
FROM: t.connors@finecompanyCom
TO: bpalmer115@exposeBiz
SUBJECT: Re: Grant Request For Funding The Weekly Exposé
TIMESTAMP: 12:07 PM, August 17, 2018Hello, Ms. Palmer.
First, thank you for considering The Fine Company for funding your not-for-profit organization. We are flattered that we were your first choice when you submitted your request and hope that you can recommend us in the future.
That being said, I'm afraid that we cannot formally accept your request and will not be sending you additional funds for your business. After a review of your publications, we don't understand why you require the amount you requested ($50,000) and are hesitant to be associated with you. From what I understand, the costs of maintaining an independent newsletter is inexpensive when funded by your viewership. Furthermore, the content of your publications is similar to that of the National Inquirer, and for The Fine Company to be associated with a questionable news source would put us in a negative light.
We hope you understand our decision and wish you well in the future.
Tim Connors
Bryanne Palmer stared blankly at her computer screen. This was the second denial she had read this afternoon and it was barely two o'clock. This, of course, coming after a mission briefing among Sean and the division heads of An-SO, a meeting that got so unnecessarily heated that Chad managed to put down his phone and participate. Nic demanded higher quality gear for his squad after the last infiltration attempt. Valente requested an update to the An-SO main server to prevent another trace from the FBI. Sean said, "Sure, you can get new toys… when you all get me a story this month!"
The tension was high today, and it was going to take something extraordinary to bring things back to an equilibrium.
Ding!
A text message. Bryanne took out her phone from the desk drawer and looked it over.
"Charles 'Chad' Lukhurst: Have a minute?"
Bryanne put the phone back in the drawer. She did not have a minute, much less one for Chad. He basically reports to Sean anyway. Why was he bothering to check on something with her? It was a mystery that she would get to probably never, and so she returned her attention back to her inbox.
FROM: cameron.marquez@selcorpCom
TO: bpalmer115@exposeBiz
SUBJECT: Re: Request For Investment The Weekly Exposé
TIMESTAMP: 12:48 PM, August 17, 2018Hello, Bryanne.
We received your request for a partnership a week ago and I regret to inform you that we have chosen to deny it. In fact, I was initially against responding in the first place, as I can't wrap my head around why a weekly newsletter about urban legends would need so much money. You do realize that $50,000 would be enough to not only keep a press company afloat for several years but also arm each member of staff with a riot shield?
Excuse my tone, but I cannot take this offer seriously. Please do not reach out to us again.
Cameron Marquez
There was no denying that these pleas for money were outright crazy. No one in their right mind would give up fifty grand to keep some freelance journalists in the business, but telling them they were also a militia against a hidden world of abominable nature wasn't about to change their minds.
An-SO needed this money not only to survive as a business but to survive when they got to the big stuff. Georgia and Nic have been planning an infiltration on a Foundation site for months and they simply can't do it without substantial funding. Bryanne leaned back in her chair, face pointed up the ceiling. Maybe this is hopeless. Maybe asking big names to invest in our cause is hopeless. Maybe this isn't what I should be doing, she thought to herself, eyes closed. Maybe we just need to steal it.
Ding!
The incoming text shifts her back into reality. She takes out her phone and reads the text.
"Charles 'Chad' Lukhurst: I know you're reading these. I have an iPhone too you know."
She scowled at her phone as if doing so would cause Chad to get the hint without having to actually respond. After tossing the phone back in her desk drawer, she sits still for a moment. Deep inhale. One, two, three, four, five, six, and exhale. She repeats this two more times. With herself now centered and calm, she returns to her e-mails.
FROM: gordoncampbell@mesoCom
TO: bpalmer115@exposeBiz
SUBJECT: Re: Proposal For Investment in The Weekly Exposé
TIMESTAMP: 1:15 PM, August 17, 2018Ms. Palmer,
We are denying your proposal. Simply put, we at Meso Corp viewed your newsletter after reading the email you sent us and can't find justification to send you any amount of money, as this clearly is some sort of joke.
Good luck.
I'm just going to steal it…
FROM: robok9182@hotmailCom
TO: bpalmer115@exposeBiz
SUBJECT: Re: I have a job for you
TIMESTAMP: 2:30 PM, August 17, 2018Is this a cop? You legally have to tell me if your a cop.
Also no.
"Damn it all!" Bryanne slammed her fist on the arm of her chair, the resulting thud resonating in the walls of her office. She laid her head down on her desk. Her eyes were burning from staring at her desktop monitor for so long. She really needed to go the eye doctor someday soon. Maybe they'd have some advice on maintaining eye health. The dark started working its relief until a knock and a Ding! sounded off simultaneously. She reached for her phone.
"Charles 'Chad' Lukhurst: I'm at your office but you locked the door."
The fire returned to Bryanne's eyes as she stood up from her desk, fiddled with the lock on her door, and swung it open. "What. Is it. Chad?" she growled with a ferocity that would make Cerberus whimper.
Chad beamed his winning smile back to Bryanne. "Finally! So I think I have a lead on so—"
"Look. I'm busy. I have far more important things to worry about than whatever it is you are about to sell me on. I have spent every minute after that catfight of a meeting trying to get money for some better gear, so this better be really really good. So, I'll say it again. What is it?"
"Oh. Well, I think I found a haunted house."
"…and this couldn't go to Sean because why?"
"He said he was busy."
Bryanne narrowed her eyes at Chad. "That's impossible. He's never busy."
"He is. He went out to grab coffee."
Bryanne slammed the door. She went back to her desk and grabbed her phone. Sean wasn't about to get off that easily and she would let him know it.
"Me: Large, hazelnut creamer, no paybacks, forget it and you're dead."
Ding!
"Sean Heichel 20: Tell Chad to go fuck himself."
— PrototypeToaster:
BONER
The following is an audio transcript of a video uploaded onto a public-access website titled "Routine Traffic Stop? As If!. Foundation agent pulling over a a member of the society caught on camera." The single individual appearing in the video has been identified as Arizona resident Paul Hall. The video was located by Foundation web crawlers within 32 minutes of its completed upload and promptly removed.
<Begin Log>
Obscured view at the beginning. Hall then picks up his phone revealing his face and the interior of his car. He begins to speak.
Hall: Ok so, an undercover Foundation officer has just pulled me over and is trying to get as much info on AN-SO from me as possible. But I am going to use some reverse psychology on him and get some Foundation info on him.
Hall sets his phone down on to the car's dash while the officer arrives. When the officer arrives, Hall picks the phone back up and points it at the officers face.
Officer: License and registration, please
Hall: Yours first, skipper.
Officer: I'm sorry what?
Hall: Tell me who you are and who you work for right now.
Officer: My name is Officer Craig Coleman of the Gilbert Police Department. I gave you my name, now give me yours.
Hall: So you can put my name in a Foundation database and then make the rest of the Society disappear? As if!
Officer: As long as whatever your "society" is doing is legal, then we have no reason to arrest you or anyone else.
Hall: Your mind games won't work on me! You got some amnestics in your car? Is this gonna be another "gas leak"?
Officer: Sir-
Hall: I bet you got two vans full of Mobile Task Forces around the corner. All just to get one guy?
Officer: I don't have any-
Hall: Liar!
Officer: Ok, let's go back to square one. I pulled you over because you had no seatbelt on and you were doing fifty-eight in a thirty. That's almost double the speed limit.
Hall: The Foundation has tech that goes faster than that.
Officer: I…
The officer puts his hands on his face and doesn't speak for two minutes. During this time, Hall directs the camera towards his face and speaks in a low voice
Hall: Looks like I've got him where I want him. Everytime I bring up anything related to the Foundation, the spiesser redirects the conversation. I think it's because he knows about everything. Now, I'm going to bring up several Foundation incidents and squeeze a bit more info out of him.
Hall directs the camera back towards the officer.
Hall: OK spiesser, riddle me this. On October 17th, 2010, a sinkhole appeared in the Russian village of Mirny. Hours later, there was a "gasleak" explosion occuring that killed at least 27 people. However, recorded phone calls report a winged creature doing all the work. How does that add up?
Officer: Ok, so, two things. One; You've been watching too much TV. Two; I still need your license and registration. You don't wanna be here any longer, and I don't wanna be here either. So just give me your license, I'll scan it, and you can go home and watch those crazy shows you love.
Hall: And where will you go? Back to snatching up anomalies? A lot of which don't even hurt people, might I add.
Officer: Alright sir, now you're just pushing it. So I will say this once. If you do not give me your license, I will have to use lethal force. I don't want this, you don't want this, but you are just testing your luck and my patience.
Hall: I knew it! You Foundation types are always quick to using violence against us hapless members of the society! Once I upload this, the world shall know of your evils!
The officer let's out a deep sigh before pulling out a nightstick and smashing the vehicles window, and opening the door.
Hall: Assault! Assault! Help! The Foundation is gonna kill me!
The officer drags Hall out of his car
Hall: Everybody will know about the Foundation before the end of this year! We are a group of peoples; the defenders of Earth! We Discover! We Captivate! We are AN-SO!
Hall is shoved against the officer's squad car and tazed before being shoved in to the car.
Officer: Ah, some quietness. A rare find these days.
The squad car drives off in the opposite direction of Hall's sedan.
<End Log>
— JackalRelated:
The country-side villa was a bright, yet sultry place of residence for the men who comprised of Calton's Runners. The view was splendid, the plain fields and trees dotted around as far as the eye could see was only interrupted by the lone dirt road leading into the compound. A pointman, Markus Karlsen, stood by the window looking out at the expanse. Markus was contemplating a defense plan for the villa, something that could be useful. But really, he was bored, as work hadn't been plentiful, and he wanted a little excitement. And that excitement was only one phone call away.
Hiiiiiighway to the danger zone! I'll take you riiiiiiding into the danger zone!
"Markus! Get the phone!" cried out Sean, a good friend of mine.
"Yeah, I got it." I responded. I headed over to the phone, picked it up, and waited a second before answering.
"Hello?"
"Hello?" the voice on the other side asked.
"This is Carlton's Athletics, how may I help you?" I always thought the "Carlton's Athletics" front was a real bore. We didn't even have a website; no one would call our number on accident.
"Uhh, yes, um, do you have any services available?"
"We've got training programs, athletic equipment, sporting goods, you name it. What are you looking for?"
"Yeah. I'm looking for something good, a real hit." A pause. That was the keyword. I grabbed a pen and clipboard from the nearby table and started to collect some information.
"When and where?" I queried.
"In the warehouse on the corner of Sixth and Alameda, downtown. In two hours."
"You know you're not giving us much of a timeframe, right? If we're rushed we might not do a goo-"
"Yeah, yeah. That's fine."
"Alright then-" I wrote the intel on a slip of paper. "Who's the target?"
"I can't give you much details."
I paused, looked incredulously at the phone, then responded. "I'm sorry, but if you can't give us any details we can't do a very good job of making sure we're getting the right guy. Ya understand?"
"Yeah. Well, I can tell you one thing. It's a man in a yellow hat. Very dea-"
"Wait. Let me make sure I heard that correctly. A man. In a yellow hat."
"Yes, that's what I said."
"Like the goddamn monkey cartoon?"
"Curious George, yes, I'm familiar."
I wasn't sure if it was a joke or not. But work had been slow lately and frankly, I would take any work over sitting in the jacuzzi.
"What's the payment?"
"Fifty thousand dollars, in incrementing serial numbers, paid to any bank account anywhere, or drop-off. We mean business."
"I can see that. Let me tell you the contact information."
I finished up the conversation with our new client, whose apparent name was Vic Danton, and gave the info to Sean. He was the head of Yellow Team, and a very capable crackshot and pointman. He scrutinized the intel sheet before handing it back to me. He pointed his finger in the air and twirled his finger.
"Let's get going!"
13:43 — Red Team Transport Van
Headed to the corner of Sixth and Alameda
McEron looked at his MP5-K in his hands. He had felt a connection when he selected it for training. This machine had smoothly got him from training to pointman. All it had to do now was get him through this new mission. He heard someone turn around behind him.
"I’m stuck with damn 12 gauge here. I get to take out all my anger on door handles. Goddamn door handles." the operator behind him, Phelps, commented.
Kittrige shoved his 1911-A1 in his vest as McEron tapped the bolt on his MP5-K. Kittrige mentioned something to McEron, but he was tuned out, contemplating the operation. There was no learning curve for mercenaries. It was life or death. He felt a punch on his right shoulder. It was Karlsen.
"Hey, McEron. I know you’re nervous, it’s your first mission. I want to give you some advice. When you do this shit, remember: bang, bang. No philosophical shit, no hesitation, no misled ethics. We're here to do a job. It's killed better-trained guys than you. Don’t freeze. Got that?" Karlsen smiled in the dim light of the van.
"Yeah. Thanks, Karlsen." McEron replied with a curt nod. Karlsen was an experienced mercenary and the fact he was on McEron's team reassured him a bit.
"We're almost there. Get all your gear. We're going on foot this last stretch and we'll meet up with Red Team. Again, good luck."
14:00 — Teufel, California
Warehouse #7, corner of Sixth and Alameda
A crackle of static followed by a sharp silence came out over the radio.
"Blue Team in position. Waiting for Red Team go."
Gareth motioned for her team to lock their rappels in place.
"Red Team in position. Waiting for Yellow Team go."
Heichel looked back at his men, who all nodded in synchronization.
"Yellow Team in position. Waiting for Orange Team go."
Friedel adjusted the knobs on his scope as Savalas flipped off his binocular covers.
"Orange Team in position. Start the clock."
Heichel and Gareth heard the shot from Karlsen's gun. They noted the time.
14:01 and 3 seconds.
Karlsen ordered Phelps to shoot the door down.
Gareth sent out the command to Red Team. "We're going in!"
Heichel kicked in the back door to the warehouse.
Friedel took a deep breath.
The assault was on.
~~~
McEron was relieved. Everything had been going according to plan. Blue Team had nearly cleared out the office floor and already several hostages were out of harm's way. However, as per the info, Red Team was to breach the room where the man in the hat was supposed to be. He stacked up on the left side of the door, intending to take the left inner corner.
"Charges set."
Karlsen signaled the countdown.
"Three." Walter extended the stock on his rifle.
"Two." Kittridge flicked his selector switch to semi-automatic.
"One." McEron shifted a bit, and raised his MP5-K.
"Zero." A click. A powerful thump swept the room as the double doors shattered into a fine mist of wood chippings.
"GO GO GO!" The team quickly entered the room. McEron, through training, started identifying threats.
Nothing. The room was empty.
The team let up their weapons, surprised at the room.
"Be careful. Intel said he should have here." whispered Karlsen. McEron and Phelps looked around for more rooms as the other three went to help out Yellow Team.
McEron had been searching the walls when he found the slightly ajar wood panel.
"Hey, Phelps, what do you think of this?"
Phelps came over and examined the panel. He gave it a little push and it swang inwards.
"Door. You take right, I'll take left." said Phelps.
"Gotcha." McEron replied.
"Now!"
McEron and Phelps charged into the room. The former started to identify threats again.
Wallpaper. Table. Chair.
Heichel.
The two men ran over to the downed leader. Heichel momentarily confused, before raising to fire his gun.
"Heyeyeyeyeyey, it's just us, Sean. What happened?"
"Hat man… ruthless… Yellow Team… gone."
"Gone? Did the guy take them out?"
"He's crazy… bullets do nothing. Nothing… nothing at all."
Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupted upstairs. A message erupted on Phelps's radio.
"THIS IS BLUE TEAM REPEAT THIS IS BLUE TEAM WE NEED HELP URGEAAUAHAGGUH-"
~~~
Friedel fidgeted nervously as he heard the chatter. Both Savalas and he could see the flashes of light go out one-by-one, just like a broken string of Christmas lights.
Savalas pressed the PTT button on his radio.
"Hello? Hello? Is any team there? Repeat? Hello? HELLO?"
A line of static was the only response to his query.
"That's fucking it. I'm going in. I feel useless here by myself."
"How would you describe your encounter with the, uh…"
Victor re-examined the file clutched in his fingers. "The anomaly?"
For all the memories that then flooded Martin's mind, words had unfortunately failed him; for a good few seconds, at least. Time enough that he could hear the soft clicking of a typewriter in another room, almost certainly hammering out the phrase "Martin pauses." At the very least, the noise had provided slight relief from the horrific recollections that befell him. He figured he may as well break the silence, however, and began his account.
"Well, I… I was on the field, just doing my job. My- uh… the job… we had to go deal with-"
"I'm familiar with the terms, yes."
"… okay, so, um… the warehouse. I was on, uh, I was there. We…we all were. It was a simple job, take care of one guy, right? That's what we thought, just one goddamn-"
"Please refrain from discussing extraneous matters." Victor wasn't even looking at Martin now, instead nervously glancing at the one-way glass on his right, for reasons Martin was curious to know.
"I, uhh…what the hell do you want from me, then? He was a fucking monster. Built like a god damn tank, seven feet tall, and… the fucking bloodlust, you could see it in his eyes, none of our bullets could-"
"Perfect! You know what, I would love to continue talking about the, uh, the anomaly, but I think we have all the information we need." Victor got up, and moved towards the door. Martin sat deadly still.
As soon as he put his hand on the doorknob, however, he had remembered that there was still work to do. Sighing, he returned to his seat, noting that Martin was still, well, still. "By the way, we will be required to dose you with Chemical 108 following this interview."
"… what? What the hell is that?"
"It's an amne… amnest-, uh…"
Victor paused for a good few seconds. Time enough that Victor could hear the soft clicking of a typewriter in another room before he shot another violent glare at the one-way glass and mouthed at it to quit the goddamn noise. "It's an amnesiac compound, for the erasure of memories."
"Wait, you can do that?"
"Yes, we can. In many cases to aid in the treatment of traumatic memories. A medical professional will be here soon to administer the compound." With that, Victor got up from his chair, left to the door, mentally reviewed the interviewing procedure in his head, mentally reviewed the interviewing procedure in his head again, and then left.
Waiting for him on the other side was stenographer, report writer, and assistant to Victor, Frederick Masley. "Alright, Vic, I can edit the document all day and night, but there is no way in hell I am getting away with changing an interview log. It's bad enough that we had to get outside help, but this? We'll have the higher-ups on our asses so fast-"
"Listen. Buddy. Here's a little gift from me. Use it well." Victor produce a small, yet surprisingly weighty black highlighter, and threw it for Frederick, who followed Victor's expectations in failing to even touch it. By the time Frederick had made his way to the highlighter, which had rolled quite a ways away, Victor had already left the vicinity.
"Fuckin' documents are digital anyways…"
Interview with Witness-03.
DANTON: How would you describe your encounter with the, uh… the anomaly?
(Martin pauses.)
WITNESS: Well, I… I was on the field, just doing my ███. My- uh… ███ ███… we had to go ████ ████-
DANTON: I'm familiar with the terms, yes.
WITNESS: … okay, so, um… the warehouse. I was ██, uh, I was there. We…we all were. It was a ██████ ███, ████ ████ ██ ███ ███, █████? That's what we thought, ████ ███ goddamn-
DANTON: Please refrain from discussing extraneous matters.
WITNESS: I, uhh…what the hell do you want from me, then? He was a fucking monster. Built like a god damn tank, seven feet tall, and… the fucking bloodlust, you could see it in his eyes, none of our ███████ could-
DANTON: Perfect. You know what, I would love to continue talking about the, uh, the anomaly, but I think we have all the information we need. By the way, we will be required to dose you with Chemical 108 following this interview.
WITNESS: … what? What the hell is that?
DANTON: It's an ████… ██████, ██… It's an amnes██c compound, for the erasure of memories.
WITNESS: Wait, you can do that?
DANTON: Yes, we can. In many cases to aid in the treatment of traumatic memories. A medical professional will be here soon to administer the compound.
—
—
Overview: Originally founded in 1939, the original "AnSO" (Anomalous Special Operations) was an allied black operations group formed to use and retrieve anomalous items from regions under Axis control during WWII. After the war, the group had a split from the government and tried to notify the public about their activities. This venture was unsuccessful and the group officially disbanded in 1951.
The current form of the group (AN-SO) came to the Foundation's attention in early 2012, with the group publishing a newsletter detailing many anomalous entities and events. The group is widely considered to be a "conspiracy theorist" group by the public, however they appear to harbour a dedicated following. Even so, AN-SO's structure appears to be well formed, and various shipments of items - including firearms - have been traced to their headquarters in Teufel, California. Their official mission statement, included on their public-access website, reads: "AN-SO: Recording, Revealing, & Reinstating The Dangers of Our World". The Foundation is currently monitoring AN-SO for any in-depth knowledge of Foundation personnel, procedure, or containment. Until these suspicions can be confirmed, however, the Foundation considers AN-SO a low-threat Group of Interest.
To see all documents tagged with an-so, click here.
— Sir Baubius:
— FloppyPhoenix:
Benjamin Cost trained his voice at a whisper as he leaned in. The cheap computer chair he sat upon squealed, disturbing all sense of subtlety along with it. "A little birdy told me that the Spiessers use drug money to fund their containment operation."
Georgia Ellison, the field's forewoman, skewered the air with her shock. "You can't be serious! Who told you that?"
"Eh, the tech guys scrubbed this info and more from a top-secret database last night. Something called SKiPNOT? Chad's going to run a story on it. He says this is our big break on these guys."
"Hasn't he said that about every story he's run in the past four months?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, he's Chad, what do you expect?"
"What do I expect from Chad? Do you really wanna know? Because I'll tell you right now, it ain't much."
"I'm saying — what do you expect, the guy's a monster! Whenever Chad foots the bill, he does such a great job at filling the holes. He practically yanks down the speissers whole to fill them for him!"
"Do you have any leads for me that don't involve Chad? Specifically, any involving the raid we're doing on the Suits next month?"
"Well…"
"You know, the one that's super important? And a week behind schedule? And five men short?"
Ben blinked, stuttered a few times, and then leaned back with clenched teeth. He didn't have any other leads.
"Thought so." Georgia rotated in her chair, refreshing her browser. "Hold the phone. Denver just sent me an email. You know, all he had to do was take ten steps down the hall and to the right and he could speak to me without this bullshit charade." Georgia shuffled up from her seat and peeked her head out the office door. "Denver? Denver! I'm right here, you lazy sack of—"
Ben mustered up a long drawn-out yawn. He looked at his watch. It was 9:21; still the start of the workday. And yet, by now, it seemed like everyone was already covered in the dirt they had dug up on the Speissers, the division heads, and one another. It was shaping up to be a long day indeed.
— Uncle Nicolini:
—
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