This Has Nothing to Do with Beat Drops

Story collaboration by NeonMechanist and SanchaySquirrel

Thysle Mauta, October twentieth, twenty fourteen.

Almiya is gone. Recent incidents have shown his mental and emotional stability to be decaying at a rapid rate, forcing me to negotiate some tyme off in his favor.

We’ve recently begun recruiting humans with unusually potent destinies. Those most likely to be drawn deep, deep into our world… And those fated to die before their tyme. For some, this has gone well. Though their lives have changed, they’ve survived. Others were not so fortunate.

The family is in my hands now. There will be changes, but before that… I’ve broken the family members living in the compound down to myself and the giant. I feel myself slipping.

I cannot become my father.


Roland Logan had been in DC following a strange string of murders when he received an email on his phone claiming urgency in Virginia Beach.


Almost immediately afterward, a forwarded email made its way into his inbox, this time from the agency, also marked urgent, but with a different subject: “Why are you being such an asshole?”

Was he supposed to take this seriously?

Silently praying it wasn’t a virus that had affected their machines, he proceeded to open the document.

“Congratulations!” the header proclaimed, displaying an acid green, script font on a black background. What sort of eccentricity was this? “You’ve been chosen as one of the top in your field of work, and have received an all-inclusive flight to the Mauta compound, courtesy of yours truly. Pack your shit and come with me, because you’re in for a wild ride. See you soon. ~Thysle”

Attached was a verified e-ticket to fly first-class… in two hours? Was this person insane?? His phone dinged again, this time with a subject line of “Probably.”

And somehow, he had managed to pack a week’s worth of essentials, authorize transport of his firearms, and even buy lunch before the two hours were over, and before long, he was touching down at the Norfolk airport as the sky was just starting to turn orange.

Almost like clockwork, his phone buzzed again. He was supposed to meet with a “tall, creepy-looking mofo” and get in his car. Could Thysle have at least not worded it like it was a kidnapping?

His stress levels, already heightened from this nonsense, shot through the roof when he heard an all-too-familiar sound. A series of clicks, which he immediately recognized as the high-pitched echolocation of certain supernaturals he had been trained to engage. He instinctively reached for his revolvers, only to realize too late that he was still in transit and completely helpless. He pivoted toward the source, only to see a tall, bald man sporting modern styled sunglasses, wearing the sort of tan which politely explained they'd never served their function, and maintaining a clawed grip on a sign stating “Mauta” in bold lettering.

The gaunt gentleman offered a polite incline of his head, a gesture which skewed to one side as he tracked the sound of the detective's breathing, and threw in a grin which seemed meant to be friendly, but only served to call more readily a comparison to the face of death, “I fear time is of the essence. Please, come along.”