February 8th, 2018 is yet another ordinary day in the isolated residence of Pearl Manor. Everything's been sailing smoothly in the supernatural household...well, until a wounded stranger comes knocking on the front door.
Set in the fictional countr...
How did they find out about the Cyan Project? The President of Henwrich muses as she straightens her sleeves, viewing the empty conference room before her. The screens, on the far end of the spacious room, display a progressing loading bar.
SYNC COMPLETE: 78%
She relaxes her furrowed brows. Right, the interiors of Pearl Manor. She glances at her watch, it's hands skewed in the south-east direction. The middle-aged President takes in a deep breath, recollecting the swift actions in the preceding hour.
After the call was disconnected, the anonymous caller's phone was immediately traced to a local park in Salsberry, heart of the Audson province; an hour's drive from the Emerald House. Exactly five minutes later, a group of officers, hand-picked by special agent Banks, were at the scene.
Veronica taps her right shoe against the leg of the long oak table. She glances through the doorway on her left, at her moonlit office. What is happening in Pearl Manor?
She flits her gaze to the array of papers arranged on the table, each showing a resident profile. "They hid Carrie to protect themselves," she mutters, eyes riveted on the document titled Resident # 10: Anthony Banks. "But the last imperium was detected there." She lifts her head to glance at the screens, the loading bar stuck at 79%. The chair moans a squeak as its user gets up. "Why wouldn't Tom disclose this information about Carrie?"
President Clarke flinches in her stance, when she sees the Chief of Informatics rush in through the doorway on her far right, their eyes locked on their laptop placed on the table. "Did you find the caller?" she asks.
"Yes, ma'am," The Chief of Staff enters, marching into the room, her haggard visage gleaming under the soft LED lights. Veronica darts her gaze to the screen, which changes its display to an image; a thirty-five year old man laying on a bench. "This is Locke Cummings," Sanders apprises. They glance at the President, "Our officers found him dead upon arrival. His Blackberry was in his coat pocket."
They tap a key on their laptop, the image changing to a zoomed in version of the caller's left wrist. Veronica straightens when she views a small, black tattoo.
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A triquetra. She realizes, slowly taking her seat. The gang's trademark... "From the informant's database, we've confirmed that Cummings has been in the Xenos gang for twenty years." Sanders says. The President leans back in her seat and lets out a sigh, "Good we're prepared this time."
Her subordinates flash a small grin while glancing at the screen. The onset of tropical storm Raven was the perfect cover for the nationwide lock-down, which commenced seven hours ago. Preventing another plausible attack, and at the same time, not stirring panic in the nation. Veronica muses, tapping her slender fingers on the oak.
