Disclaimer: I don't own any of the X-COM or Mass Effect games, nor any other games, books or movies that might be mentioned or served as an inspiration of this story. It is not for sale or rent. I make no money of it.

The X-COM Files

=X=

Prologue

=X=

21 February 1997

Iceland

Freezing northern wind howled over steep rocky shores carrying fat snow flakes. Down below the dark sea smashed into freezing foam, yet the ground was warm due to local geothermal pools. The effect of the clashing elements was spectacular, especially where hills broke the incoming wind. Fog oozed all over the area, from hot and oppressing in the centre, where steam rose from bubbling pools of water, to just wet enough to make feeling the cold that much worse on the edge.

It was there, where in the middle of the night a purple glow illuminated the shore and made the steamy air look as if on fire. The air itself cracked with unseen power and the water drops in it began to shine with the same energy that lit up the area. A thump echoed through the fog, a sound of metal hitting stone.

"You exceeded my expectations for a third time, human." A raspy voice that held a tremendous amount of power echoed throughout the fog. "You were meant to give your people a chance, to buy them the time they dearly needed. It was expected that you would die in the process. You had no training after all and while you do have the gift, it wasn't anything to write home about as your kind tends to say."

Deep inside the fog, nearly at the centre of the bubbling hot spring, a purple rift in reality twisted and turned in ways the human mind couldn't comprehend. In front of it a tall, spindly figure floated. It possessed two pairs of thin, bony arms, though the rich red robes and the dark armour they covered did an excellent job of hiding how frail the being appeared to be.

At its feet, another figure laid in a heap. It was a man clad in dented and cracked black armour. Its paint was burned and peeling, leaving just a faded hint of a logo and intelligible shoulder patch.

"Three times you exceeded my expectations." The floating figure continued after examining the one of the rocky ground for a few moments. "Do you know what's the traditional reward for a job well done among my people?" It inquired in a tone that hinted it might actually like some input instead of simply monologuing.

A painted grunt answered it.

"Curiously enough, it tends to be the same, a new and harder job." An arm pointed at the fallen man and four thin, long fingers stretched towards it as offering a helpful hand. "Here and now, your people face a hint of the real enemy. My people in this reality will come visit sooner rather than later and when that happens, humanity better be ready. I found your potentially useful allies. Do prove me right or this world will suffer the consequences."

The floating figure crossed his hands in his people's farewell gesture, turned around and moved through the pulsating crack in reality. It closed with a snap right behind and thus the purple glow vanished as if it was never there. However, it took time for the energy in the air to dissipate and the fog continued to glow, if dimer and dimmer over the next few hours.

The light-show was enough to garner interest from the closest village and a soon people were out and about despite the ever increasing snowfall. They got to the hot spring just in time to find and recover a wounded stranger in a need of immediate medical attention.

=X=

5 May 1996

Project Insight HQ

Munich

Germany

Strange happenesances, legends, horror stories, conspiracies and simply the not yet explained. Since the dawn of the century, all of those had increased across the world in a frankly concerning fashion. The two world wars and the following cold one that on multiple occasions nearly became hot, were a fertile ground for all kinds of things that should have been left slumbering or simply never pursued got disturbed and the consequences, they were becoming more and more overt as the years passed.

It all began almost innocently; too low key for people to really pay it any particular attention. An increase of crime here, strange behaviour over there. Ancient forces began to awaken, others made impotent for millennia got their powers back a tiny bit by tiny bit. A gruesome murder in New Orleans, a charismatic cult leader gaining popularity Arizona, a string of kidnappings in Europe... On the face of it, there was no connection. There were many explanations of the rising instability, crime rate and cases of people getting insane, good ones at that. Plausible, even. Politicians all over the globe vowed to be harder on crime, increased financing of their law enforcement agencies and said all the correct sounding things on TV and radio.

It was all business as usual at least until early '94. It was then that a series of events across the continental United States and Europe made certain people in governmental circles stop and take notice.

Jerome Brown, knew that very well. Couple of years ago, he was an up and coming detective in New York who was just getting to grips with his time spent in the military during Desert Storm. For him, the first taste of the unusual came during that short conflict, though it was easily dismissed as a hallucination caused by spilled chemicals. The death of two of his people written off as a tragic accident caused by that exposure.

He believed that narrative; he wanted to believe it. It was certainly more plausible having a fatal run in with a desert Jinn.

What happened back home however, well it brought everything back. That case put him on the path that led here, to Germany and the establishing of Project Insight...

=X=

17 September 1995

Shinning Path Compound

Arizona

Ruby Ridge, Waco and now this. It hasn't been a good time for the FBI lately. No one really wanted yet another siege, yet here they were again. State Police had the perimeter locked down tight along with National Guard elements, multiple FIB special units, including the famous HRT were in place along with SWAT groups from the nearby city and an ever increasing army of reporters and protesters were nearby causing problems for everyone.

Horatio Davis had the unenviable position of being the agent in charge of the whole circus, which meant that when everything went to hell, it would be his head on the chopping block. He was bound by conflicting orders and agendas, trying to juggle too many balls at the same time and just to make everything better, considering the kind of people the FBI suspected the Shining Path to be, he would rather be accused of Waco's fallout and would gladly take the blame for that fiasco in exchange of not having to deal with this.

In the tent behind him people from the Governor's office, a representative of the Director, the local government and all the agencies taking part in the circus argued. The dry heat wasn't helping tempers and he was just glad that this wasn't happening in Florida – even lower temperatures there were much harder to handle thanks to the infernal humidity there. On the other hand, if this mess happened in that state, then it wouldn't have landed in his lap, or perhaps that was wishful thinking.

Horatio rubbed his receding brown hair and sighed. The people he was supposed to work with were busy having yet another shouting match and nary any of them noticed he stepped out for a moment to gather his thoughts and calm down before he lost his temper and thus made the situation even worse if at all possible. His grey eyes scanned the Path's compound in the distance. The place was well lit up – they hadn't cut off electricity or water yet to avoid escalation. At least officially. Unofficially, doing so would be of a marginal help at best. The compound was a far cry of what the FBI had to siege in the past. Neil Kole, the cult leader and top current contender for biggest pain in Davis' ass, was loaded, both from an inheritance and help from wealthy suckers, some of whom were locked tight along with him – just another issue that made the situation even more politically tenuous than such a siege would otherwise be. That meant the compound was the closest to self-sufficient you could find in this part of the US. There were damn expensive solar panels on the roofs combined with a few wind mills for power generation, not to mention a ridiculously large fuel tank for generators, something that was enough by itself to summon nightmares of a nasty fire and a second Waco in the making. The cultists were rumoured to be excellently stocked with food too and they had a large and nasty arsenal of the best small arms money could buy. It was an open question how many of them knew what to do with those weapons, however considering that the compound was built like a modern day Alamo, just a few could be enough to ruin his day.

As if all that wasn't enough, there was something in the air today. It was some kind of nervous energy that made everyone on edge and frayed their patience even worse than usual.

A commotion coming from the road leading towards the compound and the main law enforcement camp in the area got his attention. Multiple black SUVs were making their way towards him – he could count at least ten but there could be more, he wasn't in a position to see the end of the convoy, just that it was large enough

"Great, now that?" Horatio spat a couple of colourful curses before regaining control of his irritation and surprise. "Perez, Jansen, who are our new friends?" He shouted to his liaisons with the other agencies.

Davis' tone was sharp enough to cut through the still ongoing argument and the people inside the tent piled out just in time to see the convoy arrive.

"I've got nothing, sir." Monica Perez admitted. "No one should be bringing this many people or equipment. We certainly didn't request such assistance, whatever it is."

"I'm at a loss, too boss." Wendell Jensen reluctantly admitted.

"Ideas, anyone?" Horatio grumbled. At least no one had decided to sent in the military, which was a small miracle. There were loons calling for it on the news believing that the army could deal with the issue faster and with fewer casualties when the FBI inevitably fucked up by the numbers.

That estimation took a huge hit when the cars stopped and the passengers waited for a few moments so the dust raised by their arrival could settle or at least partially disperse before they got out.

The people who got out of the SUVs looked like they meant business and made Horatio's heart sink as well as stroked his building anger. They were decked in tactical kit in desert camouflage and looked like army special forces. They were certainly armoured and armed heavily enough to pass for Delta or something.

"What the hell?!" It was Jensen who voiced Horatio' thoughts.

=X=

8 January 1994

New York

In an office building just a few streets over from the famous New York Stock exchange, Detective Jerome Brown did his absolute best not to spill his breakfast and two coffees on the crime scene. He had seen a number of the horrors people could do to each other during Desert Storm. A field containing the still burning remains of a whole Iraqi regiment of the Republican Guard that got caught in the open, with their pants down, by Allied air power was the only thing that came close. There were hundreds of wrecked vehicles and the torn pieces of a few thousand people. Some poor bastards were maimed, burned and still alive when Brown's unit got there. Others, well, what was left of them was still prominent in his nightmares.

This crime scene was a comparable slaughterhouse, minus the smell of cooked flesh, which was a small silver lining he would be forever grateful for. Instead, here the walls and even the ceiling were painted red. When he thought of a slaughterhouse, by the looks of it, this was a literal one. Whoever did this atrocity, for there was no lesser word to use, was blade happy. There were sliced and cut off pieces all over the place and if the gruesome shrine in the centre of the office space was anything to go by, this was the same bastard Jerome had been after since the beginning of the week. He was already investigating two murders, single persons fortunately, nothing like this, where the sick bastard responsible had built a similar, if much smaller and less sophisticated shrine with parts of the poor bastards he slaughtered.

Brown averted his gaze from the sick mockery of an altar, which had a bunch of forensic techs busying around.

=X=

Chapter 1

=X=

Part 1

=X=

2 January 1994

New York

An irritating, insistent ringing brought him back to the world of the living. Jerome Brown groaned under his soft, warm covers, before habits trained by years in the military kicked in and he groggily got up. Once he slid out of bed, the brisk air of his bedroom was enough to awake him in a hurry. The central heating in his flat was acting up again, it seemed. Jerome sighed and headed for the bathroom for his morning rituals, something he interrupted to go put the kettle on to make himself a hot cup of coffee – just what the doctor prescribed. A scalding shower helped him feel more like a real human being and the heater in the kitchen did wonders for his muscles and joints, which did cause him some problems, especially in the winter after years of abusing them in the military.

Brown checked the time, concluding he had more than enough time for his morning shift even if the city was still partly buried by snow after last night. He switched the radio in the kitchen on, not wanting to do the same to the TV in the living room, which would require leaving the doors open and thus letting all the sweet heat go away to the rest of the flat – a big no-no at this time of the year when the central heating was down. There was some catchy rock song on he wasn't familiar with, with the news and weather forecast about to follow and he was up just long enough to catch them while he got a breakfast ready.

While cooking, Jerome rubbed his shaved head – which was in need of trimming up. Ever since that nasty accident back in the desert, he has been losing hair and soon decided to get rid of the rest of the hair instead of fighting a futile holding action. At least he looked decent with a shaved head, something that not everyone could claim. At least in his distinguished opinion anyway. With no spouse or stable relationship on the horizon, that left his opinion on the matter as the one that mattered.

He got the eggs and bacon out of the frying pan and into a plate. He knew very well that such a breakfast was far from healthy – his six pack was slowly going away, though he wasn't sure if it was the diet of junk food he enjoyed half the time nowadays or the comparative lack of exercise in contrast to what he subjected himself to back in the army. Eh, come spring he would do something about it. Being a bloody civilian did have its benefits – no runs in the cold unless he absolutely had to, like when chasing a suspect. Besides, his joints did thank him for the reduced activity lately.

Jerome finished his breakfast paying half-ear to the news anchor. He heard nothing noteworthy or new until the weather forecast.

Once he was done eating, cleaning after himself and making sure he was dry and warm, Brown got his work suite on, complete with his badge, gun, cuffs and all other little things that he often found useful to carry around. Just in time too, because when he looked out of the window, his partner just parked outside. He got his coat and headed out. It was time to see how the New Yorkers decided to kill each other at the start of the new year.

"Jerry, get in and close the door!" Greg Vargas, his partner waved him to hurry up when he got to the car. Jerome couldn't blame him either – the temperature outside was way south of freezing but at least it wasn't snowing any more.

Gregory was a small man of a mixed Mexican descent, who hated cold weather with a passion. He was hard to see, hidden behind layers of clothes he had on to keep the chill out was funny, though Brown wasn't one to really mention it. The bloody cold made his knees and left elbow stiff despite the warm clothes he had on too. At least the car's AC was up and running merrily, making it pleasantly warm.

"How was the vacation, Greg?" Jerome asked.

"Fiona and the kids loved it." Greg flashed him a brief grin. "I just wish it was long enough for the city to warm up."

"Don't we all."

"We've got a case." Greg's good mood was suddenly gone as he continued to speak. "They just called us in while you were coming down. It's something ugly by the sound of it."

"No rest for the wicked I guess."

Greg switched the sirens on and they were on their way.

=X=

Thanks to the traffic, which was worse than normal due to the weather, despite being just January the second, a trip that should have taken twenty minutes or so took nearly an hour. At one juncture, while stuck short of an intersection, Jerome managed even to run to a nearby open shop and get them cups of hot coffee and was in and out before Greg could move the car. After last night's heavy snowfall, despite clearing machines being out in strength, there were still many streets that were yet to be opened, bottling up a lot of the city. The time at least gave the partners a bit of time to catch up after Greg's long overdue vacation. Soon enough, they did get to their destination, one of the many resident buildings in the area, marked by a small car-park of police vehicles parked in front.

Even for a bad murder, which by all accounts this was, that was excessive. This was the real world, not a police drama on the TV.

Paramedics, the coroner and forensics were in place in strength, which when all was said and done was a good thing. The pale and drawn faces of what might have been the first responders, not so much. Brown knew them – Ronny and Frank. Good, experienced cops both, with over twenty years in the service between them. They've seen some nasty shit in their time and the way they looked didn't hearten him.

"Boys." Jerome nodded at his colleagues. "What are we looking at."

Ronny looked green at recalling whatever waited inside.

"It's bad, Jerry." The Irish cop grimaced. "I've never seen something like this before and it won't be too long I see such a thing before I retire again. It's a pure butchery. Someone sick did this."

"It's like walking into a slaughterhouse in there." Frank added. "A neighbour smelled it first and when he got out in the corridor he saw a bit of blood leaking under the front door, which was when he called us."

"Lucky us." Greg muttered. "Shall we?"

They walked inside and soon found themselves on the fifth floor. A group of cops held back the neighbours, whose reaction was typical – from the expected shock to curiosity and fear along with the inevitable trouble maker or two who wanted to see what was what or just cause troubles for troubles sake.

When they approached their destination, the first thing Jerome noticed was the familiar coppery smell of blood and lot of it. The source was obvious as soon as they reached the door. It was in the corridor leading deeper into the flat, which explained how the blood got outside in the first place. There was a rug on the floor, which had absorbed some of it, slowing the spread a bit and buying the murderer a bit of time to get away. Jerome was thinking that, while his eyes refused to look at said source. He had to force his gaze upon it, at which point he blanched too. There was a twisted... thing made of bloody flesh. It looked like a demented Christmas tree decorated with the internal organs of at least one person; it was wrong and not just because someone got butchered in order to make this. It's very shape, once Jerome got a good look at it, well, it was utterly wrong. Something in the back of his head wanted him to shy from it, bringing atavistic sense of horror into his heart.

"Sweet Mother of God!" Greg mumbled beside him, thus bringing Davis out of his daze. He shook his head, looked away from the sick monument and finally took in the rest of the flat. There were forensic specialists scouring the place and Jerome didn't envy them having to carefully pass around the trophy to get in there.

"We need to find this bastard, Jerry!" Greg hissed and crossed himself.

"We will, buddy. Preferably before he can do this to someone else. Let's get to work."

=X=

That afternoon, the two of them were stuck in the LT's office and they had precious little to show for their efforts. The weather last night, not to mention that this was the time just after New Year, ensured that a lot of people were home, recovering from their celebrations or simply keeping warm. No one saw on heard a thing – which was plausible, especially if the victim had been murdered first and drawn and quartered second – something that the coroner would enlighten them about once they were done gathering up and mopping all the pieces anyway.

"So you have, nothing." Lieutenant Barnes sighed. "The Commissioner has the Mayor on his neck ever since he heard what a mess we've got on our hands. That means that I've had the Commissioner and the Captain both breathing at my neck for results. If we don't get something soon, the Mayor might do his best to involve the Feds, too. It's going to be a complete circus soon. Please tell, me I understood you wrong."

The Detectives looked at each other. Until forensics and the coroner were done, there wasn't much more they could do. Due to the nature of the murder and the identity of the victim – a perfectly ordinary fellow who had no connection with the criminal world or any enemies anyone knew of, they were fast to exhaust their available options. There were a lot of uniformed cops scouring the place looking for witnesses, Silvester Parks had no family left and his colleagues had and neighbours both had only good things to say about him. What angles they had to look at with what they knew and currently had not been promising. Unless forensics found something it wasn't looking too good. On the other hand, it was likely that kind of sick man who did the deed made a mistake or two, it was just a matter of finding it. They had people looking at all mentally disturbed people living in the area and they would be looking into them too.

Unfortunately, besides the gruesome nature of the murder, there was nothing to go by at this point. Nothing, besides the obvious was out-of-place in the flat, no obvious clues so far. They fortunately hadn't heard about other such cases happening, though that was something they would be looking at too, not that they were back at the station.

"Nothing then." The Lieutenant grumbled when he didn't get a satisfactory answer. "Go find something then! Anything you need, within reason, you've got it. Find whoever did this before he could do it again!"

They went.

=X=

That evening, they were at the coroner's office with nothing to show for a day of hard work. Lately there had been an upswing in violent and bizarre crimes all across the country, whoever if there was a case similar to theirs, no one had reported it anywhere they could easily access it in the time available. Checking with Parks' work and colleagues so far gave them nothing. No obvious suspects, nor motive. Questioning the neighbourhood was a flop as well – a lot of false signals that led nowhere, even if one of them might hold a hint of truth. There were a few people noticed on the streets in the area last night, all wrapped from head to toe in winter clothes making identifying them from description all but impossible. The crime scenes got swept for everything of use – like prints, hairs, etc... The later appeared to come exclusively from the victim, while without a suspect, the prints were of no much use, though once processed they would be checked against what law enforcement database existed, but that would take time.

The visit to the coroner wasn't of much help. An extremely sharp blades were used and a small mercy, Parks was already dead by the time he was taken apart. The perpetrator must have had experience with either butchery as a doctor or both. Possibly a butcher, surgeon or even a coroner – that at least was more than they had previously.

Unfortunately, by the time, The Butcher, as the media soon dubbed him, struck again, they were no closer to figuring out who he was or why he did it, besides obviously being crazy.

=X=

Part 2

=X=

5 January 1994

New York

When Brown and Vargas got to the next crime scene, the place was already surrounded by a small and rowdy army of reporters and curious bystanders. The falling temperature in the evening did little to deter them. It was a struggle to go to the police cordon and all the way, reporters and ordinary citizens alike shouted questions or demanded that the police got off their assess and found the killer.

Jerome didn't really like the feel of the crowd – it appeared on edge needing just a spark to riot and that was to be avoided at all costs, especially as long his parter and he were in the middle of it. They did get to the cordon, eventually, yet the short trip strained both their nerves. The demands for answers and results got louder and angrier, people sullenly moved out of their way and glared at them, some even looked like they just wanted the tiniest of excused to do more.

"That was different." Greg muttered once they were in relative safety surrounded by their colleagues.

"They want results, can't blame them for that." Jerome whispered. He, however, could blame them for how they showed it. If they didn't get a break in the case soon, things could get even uglier. One would think that the cold would cool the tempers but obviously it wasn't working. At least this wasn't happening at the height of summer – the heat might have been enough to push the sullen crowd into outright rioting and then everyone would have more immediate issues than the insane murderer running around.

At least they didn't face any more excitement until they got to the lobby. The place was quite high class and rather tasteful. Jerome wasn't a specialist or anything, but even he could appreciate the old, warm feeling the furniture and wall panelling induced

"There are cameras in here." Greg pointed out.

"There's security too and not just an old fellow making a list." And there were cops already interrogating said security. "Go talk with them and find the tapes. With a bit of luck we would have the murderer's face by the end of the day." They just had to wait for the coroner to give them an estimated time of death for their victim to help nail when they should be looking. That might very well be the break they were looking for.

Thee crime scene was at the top of the building, where there was an enclosed warmed pool, perfectly usable even at the height of winter. Jerome guessed that the folks living here didn't have to worry about acting up heating. The place crawled with uniforms, the coroner's people and forensics techs running all over the place and this time around they actually had something useful to work with.

The pool was painted crimson, marking it as their crime scene. They did indeed had at least a bit of evidence to work with. There was bloody water splashed near the ladder leading out of the pool, complete with a place where the murderer had cleaned up himself. While there were no bloody towels or rags and thus an easy way to recover DNA, there had to be some in the pool, along with a lot of the victims. Besides, there were bloody markings of the murderers bare feet on the pale tiles surrounding the pool and that by itself could tell them a thing or two for him, perhaps help identify him once they had a suspect. Speaking about that, there was a forensics techs all over said evidence. With a bit of luck, they might recover DNA from the perpetrator's feet and considering the high profile case, Brown was sure that the Commissioner and the Mayor would help lit up a fire under the lab.

The one other thing Jerome noticed was that everyone but the coroner's people and a couple of the forensics guys did their best not to look at the pool. He couldn't really blame them. There was another... exhibit in there, at least as bad as the last one. This time, a large chunk of the victim was rigged to float over the water, displayed for everyone to see. Brown really hopped that the poor bastard was dead like the previous one before this was done to him.

"What do we have here, Smith?" Jerome asked the lead forensics tech.

"Evidence." The man gruffly deadpanned. He was a young – couldn't have been older than twenty five, and possibly the most tech savy of the whole bunch. He already had a baldness problem too, something Jerome could sympathise with. Smith waved a gloved hand at the bloody water splashed near the ladder. "There should be viable DNA there, though I can't promise you how fast the lab could process it. They're supposed to be expanded soon because nationwide everyone's getting swamped with samples waiting to be processed. We might get priority, I will ask, though it's out of my hands, really." He added something like not having contacts over there, but that was whispered so quietly, Jerome wasn't sure he heard it right. "Walk with me, Detective." Smith waved at him with his left hand, which thoughtfully wasn't covered with blood.

The forensics' tech led him past where his colleagues were busy fishing for viable DNA samples and up to the pool itself. "While the water is chlorinated, which isn't good for DNA, we will likely have something useful from where he cleaned up himself. If we can find whatever he used, we're golden. Now, for this mess." Smith waved at the pool. "I'm sure you've looked for similar cases, and while there has been an odd upswing of ritualistic murders lately, nothing quite this..." He struggled to find the right word, "Let's call it sickly fascinating, shall we? I've got a few of my guys back at the lab buried in every database we have, however as you might now, not everything is properly filed on computers and logged anywhere we can access." The tech grumbled. "Don't you Neanderthals know how much easier computers make our job!?" Smith shook his head in disgust. "Whatever." He grumbled. "As I was saying, I haven't heart of anything this sophisticated. By the way, good call on keeping the details quiet, the last thing we need is copycats trying to top up this shit."

"My thought exactly, though it was the LT and the Commissioner's call." Brown pointed out.

"I don't care as long as we don't have many more places like this to process." Smith looked at the floating thing created by the murderer and shuddered. "Anyway, I'm sure the coroner told you, this wasn't done by an amateur. Whoever it is, he has experience with both blades and expertly carving up meat. We're looking at ritualistic murders, at least the more sophisticated ones and trying to backtrack a trend. I personally don't buy that this was the second time our sick bastard struck, but its slow going. So far we don't have anything of use." Smith cursed quietly. "Do you have any bloody idea how many ritualistic murders we got just last year? It's at least as much as in the last decade alone!" He shook his head in disgust and continued droning on and one.

Jerome knew the man well enough to know not to interrupt. Sometimes, when he got this way, Smith got a eureka moment and the Detective could use one, anything really to get the murderer before he could strike again.

=X=

Early next morning, they were all gathered in the LT's office – Vargas and Brown, the coroner, Smith and one of his people along with Sergeant Quin, who oversaw the uniforms gathering information at both crime scenes.

"Tell me we got a break!" The LT pleaded.

"We think so." Brown began. He offered the folder he held to his boss, whose hands snaked out, snatched it out and he was browsing it a moment later.

"Tall bastard, ain't he?" The LT asked. He was looking at the picture of their possible murderer, who was wrapped from head to toe in clothes. A large black trench coat covered most of his body, his hand had leather gloves and he was carrying a normal sized briefcase. Between a shawl, hat and glasses, the only thing visible of his face was a thin strip of skin just below the shades, which in itself was unusual, but not entirely unremarkable, considering that it was actually sunny during the days after the snowstorm that did its best to bury New York on the first. It was still way below freezing, which meant that the sun shining on the snow could be practically blinding in places and there were people out with shades in the last few days. That would make someone remembering their potential murderer harder – there was nothing really standing out with him besides the height, he was just over two metres tall and that was going to help a bit.

"Quin, did we get a mention for any big strapping lads seen around our first crime scene?" The LT asked.

"Indeed, at least a couple, who were possibly the same man. That was one of the reasons we believe this to be our guy. Unfortunately, he was wrapped up like a mummy there too so no real description besides tall and build like line breaker."

"Pity that. Smith?"

"We think we have some viable DNA and sent it to the lab. Further, my people are looking for any disturbed butchers or people with the relevant medical experience that are this large. We'll inform you the moment we find something. I mentioned it to Brown yesterday, our two cases might be just the newest two hits of our bastard. While we did have our own string of ritual murders in NY, as far as I know they're all solved so we might be looking at someone new to the city or who just got back after refining his particular 'skills' elsewhere."

"We're looking at that. More manpower could help with going over all kinds of records." Brown suggested.

"And we're getting it. Have we identified our new victim?" The LT asked.

"Not yet. There was no trace of an ID and a lot of the residents are supposed to be all over the country or even abroad for either work or pleasure. It might even be a guest." Vargas answered. "We've got people checking all the apartments just in case we have another murder on our hands. There have been surprisingly little protest so far, however, once more of the residents come back, you can expect some howling."

"Can't we helped. If there is another victim in that building we won't find out about it when it becomes rank." The LT declared. "Now, on another note, we'll have a press-conference at noon, when we'll disclose what little of our man's description we have. It will hopefully calm the people a bit once they know what they should be looking for. We'll have to say something positive, because as you might have noticed, it's getting ugly outside. The Mayor certainly did and he ain't happy. Is there anything else I need to know?"

"Not directly related, but one of my assistants had a mental breakdown after he helped gather and process the second body." The coroner reluctantly admitted. "To be frank, all my people are on edge. The way he butchered these people..." The old man shuddered. "I've never seen something like that."

"Let's hope we won't see it again." Greg muttered.

"Then go find the bastard!" The LT ordered.

=X=

Part 3

=X=

7 January 1994

Task Force Dagger HQ

Fort Bragg

Certain elements within the United States government and military had been aware that there was more to the world than most people believed. They learned that uncomfortable fact the hard way. It was always amusing when breaking a new batch of people to the secret.

"Gentlemen, Lady." Colonel Bernstein's scarred face twisted in a horrifying smile.

He looked at his newest victims. There were ten of them – all decorated and experienced special forces soldiers. Six from Delta, two Seals, one Ranger and one from a black outfit that was already read into what TF Dagger dealt with. Then there was the sole woman in the group – supposedly a brilliant young scientist, the brat of a general no less. They sat on uncomfortable chairs in the small briefing room looking at the raised dais where the Colonel stood. There were a whiteboard and a large monitor on the wall behind him and only the latter was going to be useful for this meeting.

"For decades, various unnatural accidents were dismissed as battle fatigue and later PTSD or simply delusions thanks to the effects of chemicals, no matter if deployed by enemy or friendly forces or perhaps even something the soldiers themselves had taken. All three excuses were liberally used in Vietnam. Considering the state of the US military back then, that was all too plausible for everyone concerned. It wasn't like anyone really returned with proof of their tall tales." The Colonel began. He pressed a button on his stand and the monitor came to life. It showed footage taken by the units sent to investigate the first accident that couldn't really be dismissed.

"Cold, hard evidence. It could make all the difference." Bernstein continued. "It was the reason why two accidents in Latin and South America respectively, opened the eyes of a lot of people. One was a rescue mission gone terribly wrong, with all but one soldier of the team sent to extract the hostages being hunted down by something. An explosion levelled a large part of the jungle and coincidentally ended that confrontation was hard to dismiss. You might have heard of it. Officially it was a freak incident – a relatively small meteor hitting the exactly wrong place at the wrong time and wiping out the special forces unit." The Delta operators whispered to themselves. Two of their unit were part of that team and didn't make it. While officially Delta Force as a whole accepted the explanation, there had been consistent rumours among their members that something very fishy went on in that jungle. At least one of the guys looked terribly pleased with that theory being proven right. The Doctor on the other hand looked pissed off at the cover up. She might need even closer watching than the Colonel anticipated.

"Unofficially, the sole survivor had a harrowing tale to tell and even if some had doubts about his mental stability after what he had been through, there was the unexplained explosion. It was in the kiloton range, not nuclear. Further, what he described being done to his team while they were hunted, well it rang bells of what American forces all over the world sometimes ran into – bodies sliced and mutilated in a chillingly familiar manner, almost exclusively in warm places during extraordinary heat waves. I know for a fact that at least a few of you had run into something like that." He nodded at the Deltas again. Bernstein had carefully read all their evaluations and as importantly, their debriefings over any mission they went on.

"Panama, '91." The most senior of the small group stated flatly.

"Indeed. We'll brief you about that later, when said survivor is available. He's working with us nowadays. The second accident, one that brought more physical proof, if of different kind, came from a Green Beret unit. They were busy training Columbian soldiers to better handle their cartel problem as a quiet part of the War on Drugs. On the face of it, what happened there was merely unlikely, not the strangeness Task Force Dagger got built to deal with. However, as you'll soon figure out, the rise of certain kind of accidents in the past two years changed that train of thought."

He pressed the button again and the screen switched to footage from other helicopters – Blackhawks this time, responding to a distress call from the unit in Columbia. What the Beret's reported was enough to scramble a unit built to deal with the same shit that happened in Latin America in '86. While they did find a target in Columbia, it was a very different one. The footage showed a clearing in the forest, where the training camp was. It was obvious from far away that something was wrong – the smoke and fires the helicopter crews saw and caught on camera were proof enough. To make things more difficult, there was some kind of interference that scrambled communications in the area after the Berets sent their distress call. That was one of the reason why what happened lit such a fire over TF Dagger's precursor unit.

When the unit arrived, they found a slaughterhouse. Most of the Columbian platoon had been already slaughtered along with more than half the US advisers. It was just that the enemy was different from accepted. Instead of the hunter they were after, the opposition was some kind of nasty, predators, never seen or heard before outside folk tales. It was smart, the size and weight of a large dog and not only fiendishly fast but had claws and teeth that could cut through flesh and to an extent bone with ridiculous ease. There was a large pack of them, too many to remain unnoticed until they ran into the soldiers and decided they were good enough to eat.

The new meat looked enthralled at the helicopters video. The Gunships and Blackhawks opened fire at the red figures dashing around the camp after they saw them swarm and tear apart a soldier who ran out of one of the more intact building and shouted for help.

"It looks like just some nasty unknown animal, right?" Bernstein grinned nastily and pressed the button again, this time showing carefully chosen parts of autopsy reports.

It was the scientist who got it first. "That's impossible!" She jumped up and exclaimed.

"Isn't it just?" The Colonel agreed. "That's what we're dealing with. Someone made those things and then field tested them against the Columbian and our boys. Someone, or should I say, something, hunted a group of our best soldiers for sport and it was as much luck as skill and tenacity that allowed one of them to survive to tell the tale. After those two instances, we began combing through all kinds of reports we already had with fresh eyes as well as sending teams to investigate anything particularly strange. What we found is most concerning and the reason Task Force Dagger exists."

=X=

After giving some food for thought to the new people and releasing them in the tender care of the highest ranking NCO in the unit, the Colonel went to see the morning briefing. He went into the operation's room, where his XO and Intelligence officer sat nursing steaming cups of coffee. If TF Dagger had a weakness, it was figuring that there was an accident under-way and responding in a timely fashion. More often than not, by the time they got anywhere, everything was over but the screaming and they were stuck with clearing up the aftermath and figuring out a plausible explanation for the public at large. Necessary job, granted, just not their primary one.

His XO, the good man he was, had a cup of coffee ready for Bernstein.

"What is trying to ruin our day this nice morning?" He asked.

Charles McClain, his XO, tapped an open folder. "The latest from No Such Agency, the Christians in Actions and our friendly Fibies."

It was a day for mocking the various agencies then. Sooner rather than later, everyone working in Dagger had to find some preferably harmless way to handle the stress. Charlie's one was to mock every member of the alphabetical soup that was the US various agencies at every given opportunity. Compared to what the shooters came with on regular basis, the XO was practically harmless, so to speak. He was a trained and experienced commando too and even the knee injury that relegated him to desk work didn't make him any less dangerous.

"What's the bitter pill then?"

"We've got an upswing of Cult activity across the board complete with even more ritual murders. What happened in New York on the second and then the fifth is most notable." Matthew Koen, the Intelligence Officer, handed the Colonel a sealed folder. "It's just like in Brazil last summer."

Bernstein scowled at that, braced himself and unsealed the folder. The pictures of the two crime scenes didn't lie. He had seen a lot of nasty things since he became a soldier and most of that tended to pale in comparison to what Dagger had to deal with. This however, well, it rubbed him wrong for very good reasons. The images didn't lie. The way just looking at them felt wrong, well, that was a dead give away. Dragon Altars. Right here, on our own soil. God, that mess in the Amazon was bad enough." He turned to this XO. "Charlie, please tell me you got the ball rolling."

"The moment Matthew gave me heads up. I've sent the warning and request to authorise deployment in New York up the chain of command and just got here. I knew you were already on the way so I didn't bother sending someone to fetch you, sir."

"Good man. I'll make the same just in case." A few calls to certain friends in the Pentagon too.