RAISA FILE: Group of Interest [DEFUNCT]
GoI-001: Chicago Spirit
FILE CREATED: c. 1933
FILE LAST REVISED BY GOI: July 1933
FILE RECOVERED: July 1933
[TEXT REPRODUCED BELOW]1
Carroll 022: The Last Stand
Aftermath of one of the raids, right near the Manor. Turned out shockingly well for us and it. Not so much for the Gray Guns.2
Where It Is
Wherever the Grey Guns are — which nowadays means wherever the fuck I3 am. I'd say wherever the fuck we are, but ever since they got Micky… it's been maybe twenty of us, thirty tops, all barricaded up in the Manor, no contact with the outside whatsoever. Whenever the hills light up aflame, this is where you should be looking for it — it'll show up sooner or later, of that you can be certain. After the show clears, it'll be gone — but wait long enough for the Guns to come back out again, and it'll sure as hell be there to tear them a new one.
Who Knows About It
Us and the Grey Guns, mostly. I'm sure that some of the people of Chicago have noticed it — it's hard not to — but most of 'em don't go anywhere near the Manor. We've made it clear we don't want any visitors years ago. First time in my life I'm starting to rethink that decision.
How We Got It
Honestly? I've no fucking clue. If I were a godly man, I'd say it's some sign from up there. Don't think the word 'got' is right, either — it's more like it got us.
Picture the year of our Lord 1933. Ever since the Grey Coats4 took over the Factory and threw Rollander back to hell back in '08, things have been tough. Real tough. They looked up in the Factory's files and saw everything they needed on us — names, addresses, deals, you name it. And the Coats don't like us. Not one bit. Our business means trouble to their precious Veil — but without our business, we are nothing. So we don't bend the knee and keep on fightin'. The Coats don't like that neither.
Decade after decade, they get more of our guys than we could ever hope to recruit back into the fold. We're smart and we're fast, but with Darke's treacherous ass no longer supporting us ever since the Factory, we can't fight on forever. The Coats know all of our hideouts and they know all of our secrets — they somehow figure 'em out even when we try moving things around, too. For years, things aren't lookin' good for us, but we somehow manage — and then 1933 comes, and everything goes to shit.
The Coats decide they're sick and tired of our guerilla ops, so they send in the heavy hitters — the fasc fucks they like to call the Red Right Hand. Not to say I like the rest of the Coats, but the Guns are something special. You know me, I'm not a clean man — but fascists? Fuck 'em. Don't wanna hear 'em, don't wanna see 'em — anywhere else than in the grave, that is. And those little shits are just that. All guns and armor, they don't just do their job — they live for it. They don't even want the money, either — they just enjoy the kill. So when they're sent after us, we fall in just months. Until the Manor and the people in it are all that's left, myself included.
We think we're fucked for good, the day the Guns come for the Manor proper. We've not enough guys and we've not enough weapons — and ever since my confrontation with that old faerie fuck in '29, my own powers and eyes haven't been the same. So like I said — we think we're done. Until it comes around.
Seven feet tall, easily five hundred pounds of living weight. All hair with a fedora on its head and a fag between its lips, it mauls through those fucks like butter through a knife. I call it 'it' and not 'he' because I've seen men fight all my life — and the way that thing used its hands and legs to tear the Guns apart is unlike anything I've ever seen. It moves faster than bullets, too — you can barely see it blur around until it's gone. It rips 'em all apart until all of them are either dead or have escaped.
The guys also don't really want to call it anything else but a thing, either. In the few moments you can look at it right, it looks like one of those nightwalkers we keep hearing about. That, and your eyes get weird when you get near it. You no longer see any colors — it's all black and white, just like the pictures, until you get far enough away to get normal again.
Before we can ask it any questions, though, it disappears.
Ever since, it's been showing up whenever the Guns decide it's time to try and launch another assault — that is to say, pretty damn frequently. Every time, it's the exact same — the Guns come, the thing appears, rips 'em all apart, and walks right into the mist. The Guns tried many things on it, too — flamethrowers, grenade launchers, guns, you name it. It resisted all of 'em. It just keeps on coming, ever so eager to kill a few more fascists.
What We Use It For
Again, don't think the word 'use' is correct. We can't control it. Don't think anyone can.
Still, whenever the Guns come around, hoping to take us out — it also comes around. It kills fascists is what it does, and not one thing beyond it. Like I said, we tried talkin' to it over and over, hoping we could get its hands on our deck, but… well. It don't look like it has any interest in brewing moonshine or smuggling goods. But hey, not that I'm complainin' — as long as it keeps on doing its job, I am more than satisfied with the job. Especially since it doesn't seem to want want no money for it, either.
FILE APPENDIX: CONVERSATION TRANSCRIPTS
UPDATE CREATED: July 1933
UPDATE RECOVERED: July 1933
[TEXT REPRODUCED BELOW]
FILE APPENDIX: LETTER TO RICHARD CHAPPELL
UPDATE CREATED: July 1933
UPDATE RECOVERED: July 1933
[TEXT REPRODUCED BELOW]
|| Carroll #022: The Last Stand || Fret Not, Dear Heart, Let Not Them Hear »
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