PRELUDE

Stale bourbon, a hint of steel, and the worn-out smell of aged book leather wafted through the small office. Smooth, oak bookshelves lined the walls of the office, with a large television built into the wall. A rectangular, brown area rug resided in the absolute center of the room, sitting somewhat beneath a wooden desk. A dim desk lamp is the only illumination in the room, despite overhead lights apparently inset into the ceiling. The dull, pale light is highlighting the several objects spread across the table's surface: a manila folder, a glass of (what can be assumed to be) bourbon, and a thick, green journal. Low concert music is streaming through a wireless speaker from some blackened corner of the room, now that anyone in the base would ever know, nor hear it. Despite a cozy feel of the room due to the décor, the entire rectangular space was made of solid, sound-proof steel. No secrets escaped this room, and no one came in here…with the exception of one man. A large, calloused hand wraps around the spine of the green journal. In faded, scribbled ink, it reads: "Most People Will Simply Exist". The stocky man sits down at a desk in a darkened room. The only illumination is from a desk light beside him. Underneath the label of the spiral notepad reads: "Amulet Research". The man flips open the book to reveal sprawling lettering covering every square inch of the pad. He begins to read the notes.

"I have been ordered by the Department of Defense to assist the small government subsidiary known as SANCtUM in the research and development of items, henceforth known as amulets. Very little is known about these objects of great power, however, what we do know is simply extraordinary! The sad truth is that most people will never be anything more. They will simply exist. It is the cold, harsh truth of reality, and yet, something so insignificant as a screw, or a brick, can create induced evolution.

The first documented case of an amulet appearance was during the American-Indian wars, in the year 1926. A group of soldiers were huddled behind a makeshift building, their muskets standing tall beside them. A dark thunderstorm boomed above, ready to release its wrath. They had just finished doing maintenance on the weaponry when a sound rang out sharp from the nearby forest that made their blood run cold…a Native American war cry. One of them chronicled the events that occurred. Suddenly, the sky roared, and released the tidal wave of pouring rain, reaching out with arches of violent electricity. The ground became muddy and chaotic, with the men now sloshing around in dirt and filth. Supplies were scarce, so the men were weakened and frail, entirely unprepared for what was about to occur.

The truth is, just as most people will never be anything more, such is the same with objects. Once they are forged, they will be used, thrown out, and then forgotten. It is the sad fate of all things, living or not. However, once in a blue moon, an object will be forged, with a mind of its own. This object will be given sentience, "born" so to speak with a mind, and take on the attributes of an amulet. It may take days, months, years, decades, or centuries, but the amulet will forever search for its one true host.

With the floodgate finally unleashed…the forest parted, and a horde of Native American warriors charged forth at the encampment, their echoing war cries tearing through the storm itself, as if it were their own weapon. The men aimed their weapons, firing desperately at the oncoming attackers as the Indians approached, raising their tomahawks high. The muskets emptied, and the men lowered their bayonets, screamed, and charged forth to meet the oppressors on the field. The rain was coming down hard, and the men could barely see…barely speak…barely know where the enemy was. The man who wrote the chronicle was hiding, deep in cover behind a tent when he heard the rustle of leaves behind him. He turned around slowly, only to see war painted covered eyes, a tribal, dreamcatcher necklace, and a raised tomahawk above his head. He leapt forward, dodging the swipe of the attack, and the native man leapt on top of the soldier. The two began grappling, desperately attempting to gain control of the tomahawk. Suddenly, the soldier gets his arm underneath the native's neck, throwing him off and gaining control of the attack simultaneously. He raised the weapon high above the Native's head…and then saw something impossible. Here is the final passage from his writings.

"The Native spoke words in his tongue, and suddenly, the carving around his neck shone, as if it were the sun. His eyes…they were not human anymore. His skin became like iron, covered in hide. I only heard two words, as if they were in my head: Midnight Dreamcatcher. I brought down the tomahawk, but it broke in two upon the Native's head. I quickly pulled my sidearm and fired, but the bullet simply rebounded off the man. The Native spoke, and smoke flew from his hands. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see. I grabbed the bullet that landed beside me, so that I would never forget as I ran back to the camp, but the Native followed me, spraying smoke where he walked, as if coals were beneath his feet. Then he simply left. We were left confused…until the plague set in. One by one, men started to develop rashes, bumps, blisters, and scabs. One by one, they succumbed. I am one of the last, but I fear my time is short. My skin is covered in blisters, and I find it harder to breathe daily. We won't survive this. We are all going to die."

The official report from the encampment states that they were overcome by a plague of smallpox…which, while not untrue, is only half of the story. This Midnight Dreamcatcher appears to be the first recorded amulet wielder. A Native American warrior, one who represented the same ideals as its own, revealed itself, forming a bond with the host, to become so much more."

The man closes the journal, then exhales a long sigh while rubbing his temples.

"How did things go so wrong…?"