10 AUG 1995

Thursday, August 10, 1995. New York City.

Over the course of the day, each of you have been contacted through various means by the Group - at least, that's what you've been calling it. If it has an official name, it remains unknown to you. The means of contact are typical of the Group's methods. An FBI agent receives a phone call from his secretary, indicating a pre-planned meetup with a Mr. Green that didn't previously exist in his calendar. A historian is bumped by a stranger in the street as she rushes to give a presentation, causing her to drop all her papers; when she reaches her destination and begins to sort through them, she finds a note mixed in, marked with a small green triangle. A former military operator has a FedEx envelope returned to him, which appears as if he filled it out himself and sent it to an obviously false address; it's wiped clean of prints, the handwriting is not his own, and a strange invitation is contained within. A British expat hears a knock on his door; answering it, there is a courier with a letter indicating the return of a lost wallet (which is strange, because the Brit's wallet is currently in his back pocket), and a designated meeting time and place.

4:45 p.m. Washington Square Park. Today. No further details listed.

All four of you are savvy enough to pick up on the signals, whether you're a seasoned vet or new member of the conspiracy. K Cell is being activated for a Night at the Opera.

The weather is perfect as you arrive at the designated time and place - 77 degrees Fahrenheit, sunny, with just enough breeze to keep the sweat from collecting. The park is absolutely filled with people, musicians, clowns and jugglers, as well as hundreds of tourists, all getting as much out of the final weeks of summer as they can.

Stanton Reed was never late if he could help it, and this meeting was no exception. It was summer, but that was no excuse to dress shabbily. Three years here and Stanton still hadn't gotten used to the casual attire of these Americans. He cut a statuesque figure in his beige linen suit and panama hat, a dignified tourist out for a stroll in the park. He paused at an ice cream stand to pick up a cone, and made his slow way towards the Washington Square park arch and the central fountain; his casual air belied his keen eyes as he moved confidently towards the rendevous point, senses alert for the other cell members and their handler.

Dr. MacCaith drives her 1982 Mercedes Benz 380sl coupe like it was stolen. Her black driving gloves fit sleekly, and her round dark blue tinted John Lennon style sunglasses peek out from a mess of red hair. Despite her attempt at looking like a serious driver, traffic grinds to a halt. Rush hour. She slams a hand into the top of her steering wheel impatiently, checking the dash clock against her silver wrist watch. Absently, she snatches a file from the passenger seat and begins reading. A honk tells her to inch ahead.

When she arrives at the park barely on time, she parks crookedly and darts out of the vehicle, walking quickly purposefully to the square. She looks around the fountain and chooses a place to lean. Form fitting tan cloth pants, a white airy blouse tucked in, and a men's tie roguishly loose around her collar, she ties her hair back and surreptitiously looks around, moving only her eyes behind her shades as she looks for the signs.

As Reed stands in front of the arch, scanning the crowd for any of his contacts, he hears a voice in his ear, speaking from behind him.

"Washington Square Arch. Dedicated in 1895, modeled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Financed by New York businessman William Rhinelander Stewart, designed by architect Stanford White. During the excavations for the eastern pier, human remains, a coffin, and a gravestone dated 1803 were uncovered 10 feet below ground level. The sculpture on the western pier is called George Washington as President, Accompanied by Wisdom and Justice. You can see Washington flanked by the figures of Justice on the right and Wisdom on the left. The book that Wisdom is holding is inscribed with the Latin phrase Exitus Acta Probat."

Turning around, you see a thin, greasy looking man with blonde hair and a patchy goatee. He smiles at you as he pulls a pack of Kool cigarettes out, tamps them down in his palm, and then puts one to his lips and lights it.

"That means 'the end justifies the deed'. Seems apropos to our line of work, wouldn't you say? What's good, King? I'm Marcus. Glad you could join the tour today. Let's go find the rest of the group."

With that, he turns on his heels and weaves through the crowd without doing much to make sure King is following him.

It isn't long before King, following Marcus, sees the familiar face of Agent Kylie come in to focus in the midst of the bustling park.

Marcus strides up to her with a grin and calls out as he approaches. "Kylie! Hey! Glad we found you. C'mon, tour's about to start, and we're still waiting on a couple."

He heads back out into the throng of tourists, keeping the two agents closer this time, and speaking now in a hushed tone, though still with a casual, offhanded exterior.

"So, you two have any problems getting here today?"

"Whose bright idea was it to meet inside rush hour?" She laughs, in part because so many avoid those perils by using the subway system.

Cutting an average figure, at average height and average build, Jack McKinley arrives at Washington Park Square in the average suit of a New York City mid-level executive or other corporate drone. There are probably hundreds of them within a block. Despite his casual strolling pace, he manages to look harried: just a little rumpled around the jacket, a little tired around the eyes, a bit confused, as though he doesn't quite find himself where he expected to be.

He meanders through the crowd with confidence though, eyes up and moving over faces and people with a trained eye. A boy, probably 6 or 7, walks hand-in-hand with his mother nearby and eats on an ice cream cone without getting too much vanilla on his face. Jack's mouth twists in a faint smile as the boy looks up at him, and he gives the kid a quick wink before he continues through the crowd toward the famous Arch.

Marcus chuckles and nods, taking a drag on his cigarette.

"Wish I knew. Someone with a higher security clearance than me, I can tell you that much. Unfortunately, the shit we're dealing with don't got no respect for peak-hour MTA traffic."

Suddenly, his eyes light up and he beelines through the crowd, leading the two agents with him straight to their colleague, Agent Karl.

His eyes flit across the crowd, and he speaks in a louder, more performatively public voice.

"There you are, Karl. I’m Marcus. We've been looking for you. You know, the area that Washington Square Park sits on was originally granted to freed Angolan slaves to settle on? The Dutch gave it to 'em 'cause they wanted, like, a buffer zone between them and the natives. Savages, and all. But that's not even the most fucked up thing. Not only did the freemen have to pay a cut of what they made to the Dutch to keep using their land, their children were born as slaves, even though the parents were technically free. Can you believe that shit, man?"

He shakes his head, eyes wide with incredulity at this historical tidbit. Then his demeanor collapses back into secrecy and he speaks again in a low voice.

"But seriously. Didn't have any issues? No one followed you here or anything?"

Jack nods once. "Marcus," he acknowledges. "If they did, they're good. I got lost seven times on the way here. I hate New York." His unmistakable Chicago accent betrays his Large American City allegiance.

Marcus nods, and blows a waft of menthol smoke right in Karl’s face, before flicking the filter to the ground, and immediately lighting another. As he reaches under his coat for his cigarettes, all three agents notice a wear in his belt from where some sort of badge or ID would likely sit.
"Seven times? Damn, man. You should try walking. That's what I do. Streets are numbered and shit."

He never maintains eye contact with you for more than a few split seconds at a time, constantly returning his attention to the crowd. He suddenly moves about 10 or 12 feet, gesturing for the group to follow, for no clear reason.

"Now where the fuck is Kirby?"

"I've always figured there were secrets buried under that arch. That's what monuments are for, to hide things." Reed followed Marcus as he led the way to their destination. He nodded at agents Kylie and Karl, as they joined up. Now they were a little more conspicuous, and Reed picked up the anxiety in Marcus' question about being followed, and his last darting movement. Reed instinctively scanned the crowd.

Sebastian arrives early getting a seat on the bench with his newspaper.
Rubbing his hands on the denim jeans and fiddling with the buttons on his newly acquired Yankees button up. Every few minutes he would flip the page. Not even reading it, instead looking over the crowd with what seems to be never blinking eyes. He pulls his ball cap down to help his eyes from the suns rays.. Glancing at his watch he notices it's about the time for the meeting.

As he stands, a small jingle could be heard. Adjusting his belt he folds the newspaper as he continuously scans the crowd for any that would wish to tail his teammates. Brushing his dirty blond hair he makes his way for the arc, where he last saw agent king and a strange man.

Marcus smiles and gestures with his head. "There he is," he says to the three agents standing around him as Kirby approaches, newspaper folded under his arm.

"Alright, you made it. Good. Let's walk and talk. There's not much to say, and we've already been standing around together for too long." He stuffs hishands into his pockets as he hustles around the park, winding an indeterminate and circuitous path across the walkways.

"You've all been been granted official FBI clearance to assist in the collection and typing of evidence from a location of interest in an interstate missing persons case. Missing Person is Abigail Wright, 27 year old Caucausian female. Her dad reported her missing a couple months ago, and I guess they found some freaky-ass shit in her apartment. NYPD and FBI have both investigated and hit dead ends. FBI investigation is technically still ongoing, but stalled. A Friendly with the New York FBI contacted me a few days ago about a symbol she saw in photographs of the apartment which is associated with 'demonology and the occult'", he says, putting air quotes around the final phrase.

"I ran it up to leadership, and they determined it warrants investigation. We need you to get in there and do your jobs. Figure out if there's anything unnatural behind her disappearance. If there is, stop it."

He reaches into his jacket (which he is wearing, in spite of the summer weather) and pulls out a sealed manila envelope and a flip phone. He shoves them both into Karl's arms.

"The police and FBI files are in there. They have more information on the case than I do. You also have your IDs, keys to the apartment, and a couple other goodies. If you need to contact me, use the phone. Number's in there."

Without so much as a goodbye, he turns and starts to leave, before wheeling around for a final thought.

"But, like, try not to call me. You know?"

With that, he lights up another cigarette, gives you a nod, and walks off, allowing himself to be swallowed up by the crowd.

Your watches show 4:51. The whole meetup barely lasted 5 minutes, front to back.

"Well." Agent Kirby says firmly looking at the envelope. His face still pretty stoic. He fumes the illusion of the strong silent type.

"Never going to get used to that," Jack/Karl says under his breath. "Anybody know a good place nearby to sit down and look this stuff over in private?"

He looks from face to face, already weighing features and expressions. It seems an unconscious sort of habit, something he falls into by default.

"There's a Jewish deli just up the way with a space. Good place to study when I was working on my master's thesis." Kylie desperately wants to hold the folder, but says nothing. Instead she puts her hand behind her back. "Good?"