The Traitor Game: Under the Sea

[Tommy]

The history of the world is the history of the warfare between secret societies.
--Ishmael Reed, Mumbo-Jumbo

Table of Contents


Resurrection

Crisis on Fernando Poo: Part 1

The Death of Magic

Crisis on Fernando Poo: Part 2

Agent 00005: Part 1

Pretenders to the Throne

Agent 00005: Part 2

Crisis on Fernando Poo: Part 3

Agent 00005: Part 3

Crisis on Fernando Poo: Part 4

Planet Earth Turns Slowly

The Great Game

Yuggoth

Tales of the Illuminati: Part 1

Signs and Portents

Atlantis

Stuff Happens

Tales of the Illuminati: Part 2

Helen: Part 1

Round One

[Tommy]

Resurrection

The pentagon was drawn in the sandy floor of the courtyard, with each of the petitioners standing upon one of its sides. They wore long, hooded white robes that completely obscured their features. A sense of tension and fear pervaded them. It had no doubt to do just as much with the place they stood as the act they were about to preform.



Remote in the desert of Saudi Arabia lies the nameless city, crumbling and inarticulate, its low walls nearly hidden by the sands of uncounted ages. It stood in ruins, walls falling over, blackened by fire before the first stone of Memphis was laid, before the bricks of Babylon were cooked. It was a dark, horrifying place, whose architecture was designed for no human. The buildings lay squat upon the ground, low enough that no human could stand inside them. Indeed, whatever creature they were designed for slithered upon the dirty ground like a snake.

“I dislike this place,” said Sister Theda Theodora. “We should have sought someplace we could control better.” She was an Illuminatus Primus, the highest rank any human could ever attain. It made her one of the five most powerful people on the planet.

“Sister,” began Brother Marcus Marconi, “You know as well as I do that the walls between worlds have been quite impermeable since 1945 when the Gate was closed.”

Her incredulity was evident in the spite of her response, “There have been many crossings between the worlds, the Exiles...”

“We are not attempting a mere crossing, Sister,” interrupted Brother Gracchus Graud, “we are attempting to summon a being who could be, quite literally, anywhere in many universes.”

“Such an act can only take place in very certain locations, locations which are few in number,” continued Marconi.

“We can not preform the ritual in R'lyeh, we dare not go past the mountains of Antarctica, Sentinel Hill is quite dead, and Rue d'Auseil seems to have vanished in its entirety. This is vital if we are to immanentize the eschaton,” said Brother Otto Ogatai.

“What do you say?” Sister Theodora asked the fifth and most formidable Primus, Brother Henry Hastur, the only one who would have the gull to name himself after an lloigor.

“It is written,” he said, “that the universe is a practical joke by the general at the expense of the particular. Do not be so quick to laugh or weep if you believe this saying. All I can say is that there is a serious threat to all your plans. I warn you. You have been warned. You may all die. Are you afraid of death? You need not answer—I know that you are. That, in itself may be a mistake. I have tried to explain to you about not fearing death, but you will not listen, all your other problems flow from that.”

The other four Illuminati Primi listened in cold, disdainful silence and did not reply.

“If all are One,” the fifth Illuminatus added significantly, “Then all violence is masochism.”

“If all are One,” Brother Otto replied nastily, “then all sex is masturbation. Let us have no more talk of philosophy here.” He removed the ancient leather bound book from his ropes. The Necronomican. Gingerly he opened it and began reciting words in a language no human throat was meant to reproduce. Inside the pentagon a crack of light appeared, then another, and another until the center was burning with a radiance not unlike a sun, and the Primi were thankful for their hoods covering their eyes. From beneath their feet they heard screams unlike anything in existence. The creatures who built this city were supposed to be extinct, however, apparently they were of a stubborn sort and hadn't gone quietly into the night.

And then it was over. The hideous light was gone, and in its place stood a man of fierce countenance. His eyes glowed red from having seen what no human was meant to see. His hair was long and black. And even though he was naked, standing in his presence the Primi felt as if they had been striped of clothes, flesh, bone until their very souls stood exposed to him.

And so the Illuminati resurrected Abdul Alhazred, the most knowledgeable demonologist that had ever lived.

[Tommy]

Crisis on Fernando Poo: Part 1

Along the Western coast of Africa sits Equitorial Guinea. Just north of it, where the Atlantic Ocean curves inward and becomes the Bight of Biafra, sit a few lonely islands. The largest and most populated of them is Fernando Poo. There, in the capital city of Santa Isobel, durring the early 2009, Captain Ernesto Tequilla y Mota carefully read and reread Edward Luttwak's Coup d'Etate: A Practical Handbook, and placidly went about following Luttwak's formula for a perfect coup d'etat in Santa Isobel. He set up a timetable, make his first converts amoung other officers, formed a clique, and began the slow process of aranging things so that officers likely to be loyal to Equatorial Guinea would be on assignment at least forty-eight hours away from the capital city when the coup occurred.

He drafted the first proclamation to be issued by his new government; it took the best slogans of the most powerful left-wing and right-wing groups on the island and embedded them firmly in a tapiocalike context of bland liberal-conservatism. It fit Luttwak's prescription excellently, giving everybody on the island some small hope that his own interests and beliefs would be advanced by the new regime. And, after three years of planning, he struck: the key officals of the old regime were quickly, bloodlessly, placed under house arrest; troops under the command of officers in the cabal occupied the power stations and newspaper offices; the inoffensively fascist-conservative-liberal-communist proclamation of the new People's Republic of Fernando Poo went forth to the world over the TV station in Santa Isobel. Ernesto Tequilla y Mota had achived his ambition—promotion from captain to generalissimo in one step. Now, at last, he began wondering about how one went about governing a country. He would probably have to read a new book, and he hoped there was one as good as Luttwak's treatise on seizing a country.

The next day, the very name of Fernando Poo was unknown to every member of the House of Representatives, every senator, every officer of the Cabinet, and all but one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In fact, the president's first reaction, when the CIA report landed on his desk that afternoon, was to ask his secretary, “where the hell is Fernando Poo?”

[Tommy]

The Death of Magic

Dr. Stephen Strange levitated a few feet above the floor of his study, his legs crossed into the lotus position. He had sat this way for three days without break. Something was terribly wrong. The mystical equivalent of a magnitude ten earthquake on the Richter scale had happened somewhere in Saudi Arabia, and he was only beginning to assess the damage.

But the cause remained troublingly opaque to his inquires. Neither man nor god nor demon seemed aware of what happened, just that whatever it was, it was big. He stood up, and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. It was then that he heard them. The sound of locusts and the patter of a thousand feet. Strange inhaled a breath, and hoped the spells of protection upon his Sanctum Sanctorum would hold against what he believed to be outside.

He felt a cold trickle slip through reality, and knew that, even as he stood in his living room, he was no longer on Earth. He crossed to his window, and and saw that the Sanctum floated, unearthed, in empty space. A space unlike any that could exist in his reality, he noted this space was in the final stages of heat death and had become totally degraded. Neither the laws of physics or magic applied.

As he shifted his view, he noted that his home was in orbit of something. A thing vast and black, an amorphous blight that seemed to neither begin nor end. And somehow across the vast distance the sound of flutes entered his ears. He looked closer and could see tiny pricks of blasphemous, hellish beings dancing upon it, worshiping it with their flutes.

“The blind-idiot God-king of all creation,” he whispered, “Azathoth.” He was in a far worse hell than any imagined by Mephesto.



Upon the ancient bridge of Bifrost stood Heimdall, the all seeing. Although lately that ability had been failing him. It seemed that Midgard had dimmed in his eyes, as if a shadow had passed over it. He misliked the implications. And so, with total concentration he starred, trying to peer through the veil. He blinked once, quick as could possibly be, and he saw, for but a moment, the great red eye peering back at him, and heard the gnashing of teeth. And then it was gone.

Midgard vanished into an inky abyss as if it had never existed. It was like someone had taken scissors to the universe itself. He turned, intent upon running to Odin, warning him that a fate worse than Ragnarok might doom them all, when he felt it.

It was as if someone tore open reality. Bifrost stretched and shook, and buckled. It shattered beneath his feet, and he fell. Only his speed saved him. His hand reaching out, and grabbing a hold of the last jutting fragment of Bifrost. As he pulled himself up, he thought about Midgard, and how its people were now truly alone. He prayed for them.




Dracula stood over a small town in Walachia as the moon rose behind him. He felt the hunger rise upon him. He was well aware of the abnormality in Saudi Arabia, and didn't care. Whatever it was, it was of no concern to him. Only the hunger mattered. He rose into the air, and that's when he noticed it. At first it passed for a shadow cast by the moon crawling towards him, but it darted and flowed like living water. It had no shape of its own. Just eyes. Thousands of eyes, each of which looked at him with a burning alien intelligence.

Dracula was not particularly used to fleeing from combat. But this thing, whatever it was, sent a scream of terror up from whatever small, shriveled dead lump of his humanity still existed buried within him. It was as if the billions of generations of life that had produced Vald Dracul recognized that this thing was the most ancient enemy.

But it was fast, faster than anything had a right to be. It was on him, enveloping him in its slimy liquidity. And then he was elsewhere. He was not on earth, of that much he knew, there were two moons in the sky. But he was in a forest. A black, dead forest of black, dead trees. They bore no leaves, merely twisted and disturbed branches. He could also feel eyes upon him. He quickly came to the conclusion the forest was alive, alive with creatures possessing such hatred of him that he had never seen in his long existence.

Then he noticed the moon was moving closer. And it possessed thousands of tentacles and jaws lined with pointed teeth, and eyes, oh the hideous eyes.



It was raining in New York and Wanda Maximoff was glad for her hooded cape. The effect occasionally made her look like an eighteenth century aristocrat attending a party, but it came in useful often enough. She was purchasing a corndog from a street vender that had his cart parked under a building's awning. She hadn't eaten much in the last few days, deeply troubled as she was about what had happened in Saudi Arabia.

Dr. Strange had contacted her previous night, asking her if she had any information, but alas she had none. Even with the considerable resources of the Avengers at her disposal, she had been unable to locate even the most tentative rumor. She took a bite of her corndog, and then she heard it. The sound of a thousand locusts beating their wings.

She ran, knowing the things were after her, and not the vender. She turned into one of those small, local parks that was little more than a basketball court. She stopped and confronted them. There were two of them. They were an obscenity. They had no eyes upon their domed heads, merely antenna. Their six long arms ended upon hideous claws. Two large, and yet delicate bat-like wings grew from their backs, a thin membrane of some alien nature connecting it together. And it was as red as spilled blood.

Wanda reached into herself, and conjured her personal power, a mixture of the mystical and the mutant, into two focused hex bolts.

[Tommy]

Crisis on Fernando Poo: Part 2

It was several weeks earlier when the president asked, “What the hell is this Desert Door project?” while he scrutinized congress's proposed budget.

“Germ warfare,” and aide explained helpfully. “They started with something called Anthrax Delta and now they've worked their way up to something called Anthrax Mu and...”

His voice was drowned out by the rumble of paper shredders in the next room. The president recognized the characteristic sound of the “cesspool cleaners” hard at work. “Never mind,” he said, “Those things make me nervous.” He scribbled a quick “OK” next to the item and went onto “Deprived Children,” which made him feel better. “Here,” he said, “this is waste we can cut.”

He forgot everything about Desert Door until the Fernando Poo crisis. Diligent CIA analysts had complied massive reports on the history of Fernando Poo, its current economic and political situation, and the personal history and profile of Ernesto Tequilla y Mota himself. They sent these reports to their superiors who read them and then wrote their own reports, who condensed and excised virtually half the information in their own reports to the director to the CIA. The director of the CIA's report was three pages long and sitting in front of the president who was repressing the urge to mark “TL;DR” on it, and sending it back.

“Suppose, just suppose,” he asked the joint chiefs of staff in their meeting on the appropriate reaction to the Fernando Poo incident, “I go on TV and threaten all out thermonuclear war, and the other side doesn't blink. Have we got something that will scare them even more?”

There was a murmur that shifted across the joint chiefs. Their intelligence was absolutely certain that the Russians and the Chinese were responsible in some sort of joint venture for some unknown reason.

One of them spoke tentatively, “Out near Las Vegas,” he said, “we have this Desert Door project that seems to be way ahead of the Russians and the Chinese in biological weapons.”

The president frowned, “What have we got specifically that will curdle their blood?”

“Well, there's Anthrax-Leprosy-Mu... it's neither anthrax, nor leprosy, but an entirely new kind of disease, and more deadly than than anything else. As a matter of fact,” the general who was speaking smiled grimly at the thought. “Our evaluation suggests that with death being so quick, the psychological demoralization of the survivors—if there are any survivors—will be even worse than in thermonuclear exchange with maximum 'dirty' fallout.”

“We won't use that out in the open. My speech will just talk 'bomb,' but leak it to the world-wide inteligence community that we've got this anthrax gimmick in cold storage, too. You just wait and see them back down.” He stood up, decisive, firm, the image he always projected on television. “I'm going to see my speechwriters right now. Meanwhile, arrange that the brain responsible for this Anthrax-Pi gets a raise, what's his name?” he asked over his should as he was going out the door.

“Moncenigo. Dr. Charles Mocenigo.”

“A raise for Dr. Charles Mocenigo,” the president called from the hallway. He was harassed, but he still spoke with authority. He was, in fact, characteristic of the best type of dominate male in the world. He was fifty-five years old, tough, shrewd, unburdened by the complicated ethical ambiguities which puzzle intellectuals, and had long ago decided the world was a mean son-of-a-bitch in which only the most cunning and ruthless can survive. He was also as kind as possible for one holding that ultra-Darwinian philosophy; and he genuinely loved children and dogs, unless they were on the site of something that had to be bombed in the National Interest. He still retained some sense of humor, despite the burdens of his almost godly office. He took amphetamine pep pills to keep going on his grueling twenty-hour day, with the result that his vision of the world was somewhat skewed in a paranoid direction, and he took tranquilizers to keep from worrying too much, with the result that his detachment sometimes bordered on the schizophrenic; but most of the time his innate shrewdness gave him a fingernail grip on reality. In short, he was much like the rulers of Russia and China.

[Tommy]

Agent 00005: Part 1

Agent 00005 was summoned to meet W. in the headquarters of a certain branch of British Intelligence.

“The Yanks,” W. said crisply, “are developing evidence that the Russians or the Chinese are behind this Tequilla y Moto swine. Of course even if that were true, it wouldn't matter a damn to Her Majesty's government; what do we care if a speck of an island that size is a haven for pirates, or terrorists, or communists or whatever that lunatic in the White House thinks? But you know the Yanks, 00005—they're ready to go to war over it.”

“My mission,” Agent 00005 asked, the faint lines of cruelty about his mouth turning into a most engaging smile, “it to hop down to Fernando Poo and find out the real politics of this Tequilla y Mota bloke and if he is a communist or fascist overthrow him before the Yanks blow up the world?”

“That's the assignment. We can't have a bloody nuclear war just when the balance of payments is almost straightened out and the Common Market is finally starting to work. So, hop to it, straightaway. Naturally if you're captured, Her Majesty's government will have to disavow any knowledge of your actions.”

“It always works out that way,” 0005 said ironically. I wish for once you'd give me a mission where Her Majesty's bleeding government would stand behind me in a tight spot.”

But Agent 00005, of course, was merely being witty; as a loyal subject, he would follow orders under any circumstances, even if it required the death of every soul on Fernando Poo and himself as well. He rose, in his characteristic debonair fashion, and headed for his own office where he began his preparations for the Fernando Poo mission. His first step was to check his personal worldwide travel notebook, seeking the bar in Santa Isobel which came closest to serving a suitable martini and the restaurant most likely to prepare an endurable lobster Newburg. To his horror , there was no such bar, and no such restaurant. Santa Isobel was bereft of social graces.

“I say,” 00005 muttered, “this is going to be a bit thick.”

But he cheered up quickly, for he knew that Fernando Poo would be equipped at least with a bey of tawny skinned or coffee-colored females. Besides, he had already formed his own theory about Fernando Poo: he was convinced that B.U.G.G.E.R.--Blowhard's Unreformed Gangsters, Goons, and Espionage Renegades, an international conspiracy of criminals and double agents, led by the infamous and mysterious Eric “the Red” Blowhard—was behind it all. 00005 had never heard of the Illuminati.

In fact, Agent 00005, despite his dark hair combed straight back, his piercing eyes, his cruel and handsome face, his trim athlete's body, and his capacity to penetrate any number of females and defenestrate any number of males in the course of duty, was not really an ideal intelligence agent. He was a paranoid schizophrenic suffering from several intense delusions, including grandeur. Perhaps because God looks after fools, he hadn't managed to get himself killed in any of the increasingly bizarre missions to which he was assigned. The missions were all weird, at first because no one took them seriously—they were all based on wild rumors that had to be checked out just in case there be some truth in them—but later it was realized that 00005's peculiar schizophrenia was well suited to certain real problems. Of course, nobody at any time took B.U.G.G.E.R. Seriously, and, behind his back, Agent 00005's obsession with this organization was the subject of much interdepartmental humor.

[Tommy]

Pretenders to the Throne

Hidden in the south of France is a series of magnificent mansions, known as Imperial Grove. Most of the year these mansions are lightly staffed, but annually the most important people on Earth gather there. They are the secret monarchy of the world. Some are legitimate aristocracy, some are politicians and businessmen. And every year they gather in Imperial Grove for a weekend of debauchery and politics.

In between deciding everything from which technologies to suppress to what the next number one pop song is going to be, they cavort with deaf prostitutes and dine on the finest wines and caviar. For them it is a good life, for they are truly in control of the entire world, or so they believe.

Miss Misery, representing Tao, was alone for the first time at this particular event. She simply smiled and listened to those members who came to her asking for a favor. She gave them pleasant banalities assuring each of them that they were Tao's first priority. Never telling them that somehow Tao had been shot in the head and killed earlier that week.

She noted this particular meeting was odd for a number of reasons. One of which was that several important members had opted to stay home, Atlanta Hope for example, which was odd as nothing short of death could keep most people from Imperial Grove. It was only a handful, but enough to be noticeable. Secondly it seemed more contentious than usual. Certainly the secret monarchy had never been this divided in what they considered their best interests since 1905. In fact, she had actually seen on member of the monarchy flip a table over during the negotiations over the situation in Fernando Poo. The two facts were obviously linked, as the actual aristocracy was too fat, lazy and stupid to bother understanding anything they were discussing, and so relied upon people like Atlanta Hope to explain what was in their best interest. And the most key people in those positions were missing.

It unsettled her. Enough that even Miss Misery felt something was going to happen. In the middle of a meeting she lied, which made her feel great, and hastily exited the grounds, not even waiting for a helicopter, running as fast as she could. She had run several miles, when she felt the heat first, then heard the boom. She turned around to see the massive mushroom cloud form over Imperial Grove, and smiled.



Elsewhere the Allfather of the Grail gorged himself upon the vast banquet arranged in front of him. The food was sumptuous, roast pig, cranberry pie, rack of lamb, chocolate mousse. All of it poured down his throat with absolute delight. His bulk was so great that he could not move except for his retainers to carry him.

It was a deadly mistake to think that his enormous appetites had lead to a diminishment of his mental capabilities. No, he was as shrewd and lethal as any man on the planet, barking orders in between the incessant eating. He laughed with childish glee when he heard that the secret monarchy had been utterly eliminated. He believed they only existed at his sufferance (something that was equally believed about him and the grail by them), and this just made his life easier.

For almost two thousand years the Grail had protected the believed offspring of Jesus Christ as they had consolidated power across the world. The Allfather actually had every president, king, prime minister or other leader call him on the phone and thank him personally for their position. Of course that chap in Fernando Poo hadn't yet, and if he didn't soon, the Allfather would order America to drop a nuke on his pathetic little island.

It was two in the afternoon when the reports started coming in. The Grail's agents were being slaughtered in mass. All over the world, simultaneously, they were being killed. It was as if someone was working from the base up. The Allfather placed his food down and red-faced and screaming demanded to know who would have the brazen audacity to do actually attack them.

It was three in the afternoon when he smelled the smoke. Then he noticed the fire licking across their stronghold. He tried to get up from his table, tried to run, but at last he could only scream for help. Until the screams stopped.

In their stronghold in the Himalayas, Sister Theda Theodora addressed her fellow Illuminati Primi with more than a little smug satisfaction. “It is done,” she said, “all pretenders to the throne have been eliminated.”

“Should have been done centuries ago,” replied Brother Henry Hastur. "Too bad you couldn't get the ELF or LDD..."

[Tommy]

Agent 00005: Part 2

Agent 00005 concluded a shortwave transmission to a British submarine lying 17 miles off the coast of the island with, “The Yanks have gone absolutely bonkers, I'm afraid. I am absolutely certain there isn't one Russian pr Chinese agent in any way involved with Generalissimo Tequilla y Mot, nor are there any troops of either of those governments hiding anywhere in the jungles. However, B.U.G.G.E.R is definitely running a heroin smuggling ring here, and I would like permission to investigate that.”

The permission was denied; old W. back at Inteligence HQ in London knew that Agent 00005 was a bit bonkers and claimed every mission that B.U.G.G.E.R was involved.

Agent 00005 turned off his shortwave, and returned to Hotel Durrutti in Santa Isobel where, upon entering his room, he saw a young woman named Concepcion Galore lying nude on his bed. “It's a lloiger,” she said, her thick accent was intoxicating.

“What's a lloiger?” he asked. The room was a luxury suite of the Hotel Durrutti which meant that it was decorated in abominable Spanish-Moorish decor, the sheets were changed daily (to a less luxurious suite), the cockroaches minimal, and the plumbing sometimes worked. Concepcion contemplated the sculpture on the opposite wall, some monstrous thing that resembled a goat mixed with a fish, and said thoughtfully, “Oh, an lloigor is a god of the black people. The natives. A very bad god.”

“Looks vaguely like Tlaloc in Mexico City crossed with one of those Polynesian tikis.”

“The Starry Wisdom people are very interested in these statues,” Concepcion said, just to be making conversation.

“Indeed?” he said, equally bored. “Who are the Starry Wisdom people?”

“A church. Down on Tequilla y Mota Street. What used to be Lumumba Street and was Franco Street. Funny church.” The girl frowned, thinking about them. “When I worked in the mail office, I was always seeing their letters. All in code, and never to another church. Always to banks all over Europe and North America.”

“You don't say,” drawled Agent 00005, no longer bored but trying to sound casual. “Why are they interested in these statues?” He was thinking that statues, properly hollowed out, could transport heroin; he was already sure that Starry Wisdom was a front for B.U.G.G.E.R. And so he made his way back to the beach where he was summarily told that HQ was not interested in either heroin or B.U.G.G.E.R. Storming he charged back to his bedroom. I'll just get dressed, he thought furiously, including my smoke bombs, and Luger, and laser ray, and toddle over to this Starry Wisdom church and see what I can nose out. But when he tore open the bedroom door he stopped, momentarily stunned. Concepcion still lay on the bed, but she was no longer sleeping. Her throat was neatly cut and a curious dagger with a flame design on it stuck into the pillow beside her.

“Damn, blast and thunder!” cried Agent 00005. “Now that absolutely does tear it. Every time I find someone I like, you assholes at B.U.G.G.E.R. come along and shaft her!"

[Tommy]

Crisis on Fernando Poo: Part 3

The president's television broadcast was transmitted to the world at 10:30 p.m. e.s.t. Two days after the coup in Fernando Poo. The Russians and the Chinese were given twenty-four hours to get out of Fernando Poo of the skies over Santa Isobel would begin raining nuclear missiles: “this is very serious,” the Chief Executive said, “We stand in capitalist solidarity with the freedom loving people of Fernando Poo, and we won't shirk our responsibility to protect them.” The broadcast concluded at 11:00 p.m. e.s.t. and within two minutes the people attempting to get reservations on trains, planes, and buses to Canada had virtually every telephone wire in the country over loaded, and somehow managed to crash the internet in 50% of the nation.

In Moscow where it was ten the next morning the president of Russia called a conference and said crisply, “That character in Washington is a mental lunatic, and he means it. Get our men out of Fernando Poo right away, then find out who authorized sending them in there in the first place and transfer him to be supervisor of a hydroelectric works in Outer Mongolia.”

“We don't have an men in Fernando Poo,” a commissioner said mournfully, “The Americans are imagining things again.”

“Well, how the hell can we withdraw men if we don't have them there in the first place?” the president demanded.

“I don't know. We've got twenty-four hours to figure that out or--” the commissioner quoted an old Russian proverb which means, roughly, that when the polar bear excrement interferes with the fan belts, the machinery overheats.

“Suppose we just announce that our troops are coming out?” another commissioner suggested. “They can't say we're lying if they don't find any of our troops there afterward.”

“No, they never believe anything we say. They want to be shown,” the president said thoughtfully. “We'll have to infiltrate some troops surreptitiously and then withdraw them with a lot of fanfare and publicity. That should do it.”

“I'm afraid that won't end the problem,” anouther commissioner said funereally, “Our inteligence indicates there are Chinese troops there. Unless Bejing backs down, we're going to be caught in the middle when the bombs start flying, and--” he quoted the proverb about the man in the intersection when two manure trucks collide.

“Damn,” the president said, “what do the Chinese want with Fernando Poo?” He was harassed, but he still spoke with authority. He was, in fact, characteristic of the best type of dominate male in the world. He was fifty-five years old, tough, shrewd, unburdened by the complicated ethical ambiguities which puzzle intellectuals, and had long ago decided the world was a mean son-of-a-bitch in which only the most cunning and ruthless can survive. He was also as kind as possible for one holding that ultra-Darwinian philosophy; and he genuinely loved children and dogs, unless they were on the site of something that had to be bombed in the National Interest. He still retained some sense of humor, despite the burdens of his almost godly office. He took amphetamine pep pills to keep going on his grueling twenty-hour day, with the result that his vision of the world was somewhat skewed in a paranoid direction, and he took tranquilizers to keep from worrying too much, with the result that his detachment sometimes bordered on the schizophrenic; but most of the time his innate shrewdness gave him a fingernail grip on reality. In short, he was much like the rulers of America and China.

Two hours later he was in front of Russian television cameras giving his response. “The Russian people stand by their freedom-loving brothers in Fernando Poo. We will not shirk our responsibility to protect them.”

[Tommy]

Agent 00005: Part 3

The Starry Wisdom Church was not 00005's idea of proper ecclesiastical shop by any means. The architecture was a shade too Gothic, the designs on the stained-glass windows a bit unpleasantly suggestive for a holy atmosphere, and when he opened the door, the altar was lacking a proper crucifix. In fact, where the crucifix should have been he found instead a design that was more than suggestive. It was, in his opinion, downright tasteless.

Not high church at all, Agent 00005 decided.

He advanced cautiously, although the building appeared to be deserted. The pews seemed designed for bloody reptiles, so low to the ground with back sloping forward, he observed—a church, of course, should be uncomfortable, that was good for the soul, but this was, well, gross. They probably advertise in the kink newspapers, he reflected with distaste. The first stained-glass window was worse from the inside that outside; he didn't know who Saint Toad was, but if that mosaic with his name on it gave any idea of Saint Toad's appearance, hideous, bulging eyes, long webbed arms and a vast mouth lined with sharp fangs, and his predilections, then, by God, no self-respecting Christian congregation would ever think of sanctifying him. The next feller, Shoggoth, was even less appetizing; at least they had the good sense not to canonize him.

A rat scurried out from between two pews and ran across the center aisle, right before his feet. Fair got on one's nerves, this place did.

He approached the pulpit and glanced up at the Bible. That was, at least, one civilized touch. Curious as to what text might have been preached last in this den of horrors, he scrambled up into pulpit and scanned the open pages. To his consternation, it wasn't the Bible at all. A lot of bragging about some Yog-Sothoth, who was both some Gate, and some Guardian of the Gate. Absolute rubbish, Agent 00005 hefted the enormous volume and turned it so he could read the spine, Necronomicon, eh? If his University Latin could be trusted, that was something like, “the book of the names of the dead.” Morbid, like the whole building.

He approached the altar, refusing to look at the abominable design above it. Rust—now what could one say of brute who let their altar get rusty? He scrapped with his thumbnail. The altar was marble, and marble doesn't rust. A decidedly unpleasant suspicion crossed his mind, and he tasted what his nail had lifted. Blood. Fairly fresh blood.

Not High Church at all.

Agent 00005 approched the vestry, and walked into a web. “Damn,” he muttered, hacking at it with his flashligh—and something fell on his shoulder. He brushed it off quickly and turned the light to the floor. It started to run up his trouser leg and he brushed it off again, beginning to breathe heavily, and stepped on it hard. There was a satisfactory snapping sound and stomped again to be sure. When he removed his shoe and turned the light down again, it was dead.

A damned ugly brute of a spider. Demon Gods, Saint Toads, rats, mysterious and heathenish capitalized Gates, that nasty-looking Shoggoth character, and now spiders. A tarantula it looked like, in fact. Next Count Dracula, he thought grimly, testing the vestry door. It slid open smoothly, and he stepped back out of the visible range, waiting a moment.

“Hello Mr. Chips,” croaked a voice in the darkness, “Hello, Fission Chips.”

“Oh, God, no!” Agent 00005 said, “No, God, No!”

“Good-bye, Mr. Chips,” said Saint Toad, reaching out one of his long, webbed hands for Agent 00005's throat. When Fission Chips, known to the Intelligence Community as Agent 00005 of Her Majesty's Service, simply vanished.

[Tommy]

Crisis in Fernando Poo: Part 4

“We'll just get our troops out of Fernando Poo,” the Chairman of the Chinese Communist party said to his staff. “A place that size isn't worth world war.”

“But we don't have any troops there,” an aide told him, “it's the Russians who do.”

“Oh?” the Chairman quoted a proverb to the effect that there was urine in the rosewater. “What do the Russians want with Fernando Poo?” he added thoughtfully. He was harassed, but he still spoke with authority. He was, in fact, characteristic of the best type of dominate male in the world. He was fifty-five years old, tough, shrewd, unburdened by the complicated ethical ambiguities which puzzle intellectuals, and had long ago decided the world was a mean son-of-a-bitch in which only the most cunning and ruthless can survive. He was also as kind as possible for one holding that ultra-Darwinian philosophy; and he genuinely loved children and dogs, unless they were on the site of something that had to be bombed in the National Interest. He still retained some sense of humor, despite the burdens of his almost godly office. He took amphetamine pep pills to keep going on his grueling twenty-hour day, with the result that his vision of the world was somewhat skewed in a paranoid direction, and he took tranquilizers to keep from worrying too much, with the result that his detachment sometimes bordered on the schizophrenic; but most of the time his innate shrewdness gave him a fingernail grip on reality. In short, he was much like the rulers of Russia and America.

Within an hour he was giving an address live on TV. “China stands in communist solidarity with the freedom-loving people of Fernando Poo, and we will not shirk our responsibility to protect them.”

By this point Generalissimo Tequilla y Mota finally found the book he was looking for, the one that was as precise and pragmatic about running a country as Luttwak's Coup d'Etat had been about seizing one. It was called The Prince and its author was a subtle Italian named Machiavelli; it told the Generalissimo everything he wanted to know—except how to handle American hydrogen bombs, which, unfortunately, Machiavelli had lived too soon to foresee.

“Fernando Poo,” the President of the United States said to his press conference, “will not become another Vietnam or Iraq...” He had the worst headache, like someone was stabbing pins into his skull.

[Tommy]

Planet Earth Turns Slowly

Yet for all the upheavals, both political and mystical, most of the world simply carried on with its business, neither knowing nor caring about secret orders, alien deities, or vanishing magicians.


In Nairobi, Kenya, Nkrumah Fuller's sleep had been ruined by by the whole situation in Fernando Poo. As a Kikuyu shaman moderately adjusted to city life, he believed in witchcraft, lacking the folly to deny his own senses. Unbeknownst to him, Nkrumah Fuller was the third most powerful sorcerer left on the plant.

In his sleep deprived state he decided to construct dolls of the rulers of America, Russia, and China, intending to stick pins into their heads every night for a month. In fact, the President of the United States had severe migraines during the following weeks; but the atheist rulers of Moscow and Beijing were less susceptible to magic. They never reported a twinge.


In the middle of the Atlantic a porpoise swam. His name was unpronounceable with human speech, but he was known as Howard. He twisted and turned throughout the ruins of old Atlantis, glad that there wasn't too much pollution about. He sang a satirical song about sharks to himself.


Miskatonic Unitveristy, in Arkham, Massachusetts is not a well known campus by any means, and the few scholarly visitors who come there are an odd lot, drawn, usually, by the strange collection of occult books given to Miskatonic Library by the late Harry Armitage. Mrs. Doris Horus, the librarian, had never seen such a strange visitor as this professor Hirsi Cario who claimed to be from Dayton, Ohio but spoke with some sort of vaguely European accent. Considering his furtiveness it came as no surprise he spent the whole day pouring over Dr. John Dee's translation of The Necronomican of Abdul Alhazred.

Doris didn't like The Necronomican, although she considered herself an emancipated free-thinking young woman. There was something sinister, or to be downright honest, perverted about the book—not in a nice, exciting way, but in a sick and frightening way. All those strange illustrations, always with five sided boarders, like the Pentagon in Washington. It was Doris's opinion that Alhazred had been smoking some pretty bad grass when he dreamed up those things. Or maybe something stronger than grass; she remembered one sentence from the text: “Onlie those who who have eaten a certain alkaliod herb, whose name it were not wise to disclose to the unilluminated, maye in the fleshe see a Shoggothe.” I wonder what a “Shoggothe” is, Doris thought idly.

She was glad when Cario finally left and she could return The Necronomican to its position on the closed shelves. She remembered the brief biography of crazy old Alhazred that Dr. Armitage had written and given to the library: “spent seven years in the desert and claimed to have visited Irem, the city forbidden in the Koran, which Alhazred asserted was of pre-human origin...” Silly! Who was around to build cities before humans? Those Shoggothes? “An indifferent Moslem he worshiped beings he called Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu.” And that insidious line: “According to contemporary historians Alhazred's death was both tragic and bizarre, since it was asserted that he was eaten alive by an invisible monster in a crowded market-place.” Dr. Armitage was generally regarded as having gone somewhat bananas after devoting too many years puzzling out the obscene metaphyisics of the Necronomican. She felt Miskatonic should rid itself of that damned book (emphasis on “damned book”) for once and for all by presenting it to Harvard.


Atlanta Hope addressed a rally of her followers in Chicago. She walked back and forth across the stage yelling, “And we should drop a nuclear bomb on that Communist hell hole Fernando Poo. And after that, drop some more on Moscow and Beijing.” The crowd cheered.


The lead vocalist of Clark Kent and the Superman sang a particularly melodic version of “Camptown Races” to a crowded club in Oregon. That was their unique hook, techno-rock-pop versions of public domain classics. In front of him stood an endless sea of black glasses worn for effect rather than need, and garish looking suspenders. His eye caught a blond girl wearing a cowboy hat with such affected irony that wound up being sincere. He attempted to seduce her with his eyes, and hoped she was not like a majority of people in the club, simply waiting for him to finish so they could listen to the main act, The American Medical Association.


In New Jersey, Smilin' Jim, famed evangelist, addressed a crowed, ten million dollar megachurch located deep in the heart of gated suburbia. The crowd itself was made up mostly elderly white folks whose average income was over $100,000. With a smile on his face, and a bible in his hand, Smilin' Jim told them how they were oppressed and persecuted to rousing choruses of “AMEN!”


In Central Park in Manhattan, a squirrel sleeping in his tree woke to the sound of a car honking loudly as it passed. Muttering angrily, the squirrel leaped to another tree and fell back asleep.

[Tommy]

The Great Game

The players appeared in Atlantis's great hall, a vast, golden room that was used to opulence and ceremony, and yet it was a somber place now. Half the room was filled with water, but it wasn't the lower half, rather it was the western half. The water just hung there, not dripping, not spilling, as if it was being held back by an invisible wall, and there was nothing there. A person could place their hand into the water as easily as sticking their hand into a tank. The players were divided by where they would be the most comfortable, air or water.



At the head of the room, conspicuously half in the water, and half out, sat Namor, Lord of Atlantis. He lacked the pompousness and arrogance that seemed to be his very defining nature. Instead he seemed tired and drained.

He rose from his golden throne, nodded ever so slightly and then addressed the assembled. “Greetings my friends and companions. It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that we have all been coerced into partaking in an unthinkable nightmare.”

“Ever so dramatic, Atlantian,” said a thickly accented voice that seemed to come from nowhere. Gradually a figure materialized across the room from Namor. He wore bright white robes, and a white scarf covered his black hair. He looked at them with cruel, red eyes. “You are all here to die.” At his feet, a hideous, protoplasmic blob twisted and turned constantly forming and discharging eyes, a shoggoth. Beside him floating in the water portion of the room was his great general Uxia. She appeared to be a young girl, but had cold eyes filled with malice and rage. She was dressed entirely in gold, and where her legs should be, tapered into two monstrous tentacles.



“I am Abdul Alhazred,” he continued, “We are about to preform the Dark Ritual of Dysis Set. And three people in this room, excluding myself, Uxia and Namor of course, have, deep within their brains microscopic shoggoths. Immaterial, ethereal, impossible to detect, and going to take control of them. They will kill one of the people in this room. And the you have the ability to vote for who you think the killers are. Fail to eliminate them, and it starts all over. The souls of the dead shall go to feed Dread Cthulhu who sleeps in deep R'lyeh, who will soon awaken to take his rightful place as lord of creation.”

“Monster,” hissed Namor. “As you have been asked to sacrifice so much, all the wonders and beauties of Atlantis are yours to cherish. Try our delicious buffet, visit our beautiful gardens, you shall have the finest accommodations on this planet, and you are free to travel wherever you like. Except for the ruins of Old Atlantis and the tiny, little, insignificant portion of Atlantis that survived its sinking. An island known to surface dwellers as Fernando Poo.”

[Tommy]

HOW TO PLAY:

ROLES
Roles are assigned by the host after the Sign-Up Thread is closed, but before the first kill.

Traitor--A character working to kill off members of the larger group. When more than one Traitor is included, each one works with the other to determine who dies and by what means.

Agent--A person in this role is allowed one guess per round to determine who is a Traitor. This is done by PMing the host of the current game. The results of their guess (whether they guessed correctly or not) are revealed in-thread. There will be two agents working independently of each other.

Vigilante--A force for the side of Good, the person in this role works to kill who they think is a Traitor. Every few rounds, the person in this role kills instead of the Traitor(s).

Inquisitor--This role has existed since the third game. A non-player appears and has the players he or she suspects plead their innocence.

GUIDELINES
NPCs--Non-player characters (or NPCs) should be limited. An NPC is any character included in the game that is not on the list of players. There are plenty of characters with which to interact, so NPCs aren't really needed for that purpose. NPCs can also be disruptive, depending on what they do. If you want to use an NPC, make sure it's for a good purpose. If you're unsure whether or not to use one, PM the game's host.

God-Moding--No god-moding. Can the host really enforce that? Not really. But people will complain and you might be held in contempt. It is definitely not recommended to go against this guideline.

Communication--If you suspect you know the identities of Traitors or Agents, do not contact them privately for any reason. If you are an Agent, please do not reveal classified information after death or via any means but openly in the game thread. In general, anyone can talk to other anyone else for purposes of coordinating stories or story elements or even to discuss the game.

Quoting--Some people have complained in the past regarding people quoting whole posts when responding to just a portion of it. It unnecessarily clutters up the page and sometimes makes it difficult to follow your train of thought.

The Rounds

1. Each round will start with a kill, followed by voting. All Players must Vote each and every round after an elimination. Players must vote at least once per round for who they think are "Traitors". "Traitors" of course vote for whomever they want and voting for other "Traitors" is allowed. Players who do not vote for two (2) concurrent rounds will be eliminated from the game. After one round of not voting, Players will be labeled as "Inactive" regardless whether the Player has posted or not. Following the close of the subsequent voting round, any "Inactive" Player who does not vote, again regardless of posting, will be eliminated from the game. Players must vote.

2. The player with the most votes will be banished. They will be sent upon a sort of side quest, where they will have plenty of freedom to role play.
3. The Rounds will go:

1. Traitor Kill/ Agent guess
2. Traitor kill/ Agent guess
3. Vigilante kill/ Agent guess

And then continue in that cycle. If a traitor or vigilante is late with their kill submission, the other team will have an opportunity to steal the kill.

Traitor Game: Under the Sea
Starring:

Redem as... Vic Fontaine from Star Trek : DS9
vycesyn as... Sami Heartstone from the Invisibles
Josh M as... Madison Jeffries from Alpha Flight
Indigo Al as... Paul Marsh from Dagon
Cthulhudrew as... Elijah Snow from Planetary
Quinzel as... Jar Jar Binks from Star Wars
Schornforce as... Dory from Finding Nemo
Jeremi as... Boa Hancock from One Piece
Akibahara as... Mark and Cindy Meltzer from BioShock
Overmaster as... Orca from Batman
TangentMan as... Aphrodite
moonknight11 as... The Doctor from Doctor Who
Joe Acro as... Tim Drake from Batman
Yun Lao as... Waka from Okam
mailedbypostman1 as... Cthulhu from Cthulhu Saves the World
He who fights monsters as... Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
KevinDWolf93 as... Flynn the Blue Ranger from Power Rangers
Nicker as... Jason Vorhees and Ghostface
Bobisbeast as... Surprise Character
xT e a__x as... Emma Coolidge from Heroes
technoman as... Sailor Mercury
Chris Lang as... Arisia of Graxos
Deadpooligan as... Arno Stark

Go ahead and post!

[Schornforce]

A small Blue Tang fish seemed to go through a gamut of emotions as the figures talked. First she seemed politely amused, then shocked, then upset, then she just sort of spaced out for a bit...



...a few seconds later, she just seemed to hum cheerily to herself while staring off into nothingness.