Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

I check for civilians before pushing a button disguised as a brick. A manhole lifts out of the sidewalk revealing a high-tech door beneath. I step into the elevator and scan my badge, hand, and retina. The door seals, and the lift begins its descent. 

Eight stories below-ground the elevator stops. I step out into a small, brightly lit room. 

“Hey Jerry,” I say, greeting the man behind the desk.

“We got an upgraded water tunnel system!” He says excitedly pointing at three tunnels leading to different parts of the massive base under the Atlantic Ocean.

“That’s great Jerry, how long will the trip take now?”

“Less than 10 minutes!”

“Massive improvement from the hour it took when I was in the field,” I say stepping into one of the upgraded fast-pods.

“Have a great day Atlas!” 

“You too, Jerry.”

He presses a blue button. The pod window seals. He presses another button and straps slide over my legs, arms, and chest locking me in place.

He gives one final wave and presses a third button, the pod lurches forward and a hatch slams shut behind me. Water fills the space around the pod and a motor starts whirring. I’m launched forward at Mach speed and my head is flung back. 

A screen flicks on. “Agent Adams, I’ve got reports from homeland security that you gave a classified business card to an investigator.”

“I did sir, I believed she had immense talent and intelligence, she showed a willingness to care for others. I also deduced in the field that her reaction time was far too quick for a human.”

“What are you insinuating Atlas?”

“I believe she has some type of precognition. Her eyes flickered purple, Cronus.”

“That’s very convincing isn’t it. Wait for her to make contact. Make your report at base. You should know your way around.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

The base is 30 miles off the coast of Montauk. Middle of the ocean. S.E.A’s bases stretch all along the americas, from Greenland to south chile. The New-York base was always massive. Never this big. Its walls span kilometres under and on the ocean floor. Small tunnels sprawl out in all directions. 

My pod opens up and I step out into a spray down buffer room. The job exposes us to extra-terrestrial organisms so it’s best we don’t track any diseases, viruses or organisms the human body isn’t used to. The buffer room takes three minutes of cleaning every inch of my body. “Jesus guys, I didn’t realise shooting an Atlantean required antibiotics,” I groan, staring at the camera.

“You’ve been a desk-jockey at Base-Pacifica for too long Adams, a lot has changed here,” the intercom replies to me.

“You know, back in the 50s we took down a little Alien that shot goo at us, we never had to do any of this. We’d just fill out the paperwork and head back out.”

“We get it, you’re like 150 years old, stop reminiscing.”

“What’s your name kid, I don’t recognise your voice.”

“I’m Coeus Carson”

“Titan god of intelligence, makes sense for an I.T guy.”

“Atlas, the fact I have a titan rank should show you I’m more than an I.T guy.”

“Well, Agent Carson, it's great to meet you.”

The sealed doors crack open sending waves of pressurised air rushing out. My arrival is greeted by bold words: SUPERNATURAL . ENFORCEMENT . AGENCY. 

The small entrance room opens up to a huge foyer. The walls around me are made of thick glass, showing the Atlantic’s cold beauty. Above a small desk are regal bronze statues built to honour the founders — Me and my friends. 

I breathe in the pumped oxygen and walk up to the reception desk, decorated with fake foliage. “Excuse me, are there any free offices I could use to make a report on a case?” I ask as politely as I can.

“What is your name?” The young lady behind the desk replies, peering down to her sheet, then back to me.

“SFA Atlas Adams.”

“Yep,” she looks down and scans the page, “you have an office reserved for you. Upstairs, level 3, office number 4.”

“Thank you.”

The walls become increasingly more like a steel nuclear bunker as I move further down the hall. Old paint on doors tell stories and the halls feel like they remember everything I don’t. Pictures of the founders appear abruptly on the walls.

I stop at a large information board, it rambles on and on, it’s all bullshit. They really think they’re telling what we were actually thinking. We weren’t the heroes in this story. We built S.E.A after the war. Our squadron experienced something science couldn’t explain. Something paranormal. Something without fear. Without limits.

After World War Two ended, we didn’t go home. Not completely. We were still connected to what attacked us. We came together and created a mission; to understand what could not be understood, and exterminate or control what we could not understand. 

We opened our own office. Named it the Paranormal Investigation and Extermination Group (P.I.E.G). We were underfunded and underprepared. We weren’t ready to battle monsters. Definitely weren’t ready to deals with demons.

But for a while… We made a difference. 

Then the American government made us an unrefusable offer. 

We were forced to change our mission statement. Change our values. They cut the end. Made it more noble than it was. 

I stop at a picture. Carl ‘Coeus’ Carson. A caption beneath his photo reads: a man so desperate to prove his theories he was driven past the brink of insanity. 

I was his friend. 

He was never insane. He was a genius. 

He didn’t come out of his lab very often but he was always open to talk. Not many people spoke to him. He was soft-spoken. Kind, in a way most people wouldn’t acknowledge. But kindness doesn’t survive rumours.

His theories shaped almost everything this institution believes . He had 227 theories about the paranormal — 220 of them have been proven correct, the other 7 have yet to be observed. He and his wife, Vivian, created the ranking system. Twelve founders. Twelve Titans.

My friends were always smart. Smarter than me at least. I was always the jump in head first guy. Never methodical. My ways were, and are, a head scratcher to most. 

I enter the code to the elevator and step in. 

As it rises I stare into the polished steel. My face stares back. A reflection. My death timer shows glitched stats and random symbols. I force myself to look toward the carpeted floor. Those symbols, I don’t recognise them anywhere else. Except for my head. When I described them to anyone they called me crazy. When I wrote them down, I was forced to go to a psychologist. That was years ago. The world’s growing. Becoming more open minded and accepting of my existence. A few more years.

The doors slide open. A brightly lit hallway stretches on for what seems like forever. Luckily, I was given an office close to the entrance. I step into the office; the space is huge — More than I need to make a small report. I slide my hands across the brown mahogany desk. The ceiling above me is glass, looking up into the cold Atlantic Ocean. I notice a lone striped bass swimming above me. It looks almost as lonely as me before…

My father and I would go fishing together; a striped bass as big as that one would make his smile bigger than everything. He was a black man from South Florida. We were forced to move. 

I sit in the leather chair and put pen to paper. 

‘UVEULA BECANANE

I knew he was going to die in one minute and 30 seconds due to my ability. He was a danger to all in the diner as he had a gun. He attempted to shoot. I shot back.

Before he attempted to run and shoot, I noticed a homeland security agent — Agent Investigator Violet Garcia’s eyes flash a shade of purple. According to proven Carson theory 163, the theory of innate precognition: Eyes flashing purple means one is able to see a near future. I observed her glance at her gun then look back up in horror. When I shot she sprang into action and immediately took control of the situation. 

I gave my card to her in the hope that she would call, I believe she would make an excellent agent of S.E.A and her familial ties with the organisation would make her an exceptional fit. 

Signed, Special Founding Agent Atlas Adams.’

Familial ties.