Thursday, January 5th, 2090. 11:40 PM. Senior apartments. Pittham, Utah.
Amid a chilling darkness of the moonlit night, the alleys of Pittham Apartments are pierced by the flashing lights of police cars. Pittham police officers are responding to a distress call made from outside an apartment building.
Armed with his pistol, a caller's voice quivers over a 911 call, describing his doorknob was ripped from its hinges when he returned home.
A different call is received by the man’s neighbor, following his concerning shouts that broke the silence of the night.
Officers ascend to his floor to inspect the break-in as depicted, only to find the man dead in a puddle of his blood. However, the brutality of the intrusion is eclipsed by the discovery awaiting them.
The lifeless body of the caller lies in a pool of crimson. His head bears marks of unimaginable horror: sunken eyes, mangled brain tissue, and a haunting spectacle of bodily fluids seeping like a fountain from every orifice.
The dim loft is veiled thin with strays of moonlight that peek through the large windows. The air hangs heavy, tainted with the nodes of sewage as the department expects to find remnants of a struggle.
The crime scene reveals little information besides what took place in his skull. The victim’s body has no other signs of strain. It’s as if someone installed a blender in his skull and hit chop.
The officers determine this is the work of something supernatural and have no choice but to call in an expert.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Stepping into this nightmare is Detective Douglas Watcher, freshly dispatched from Brisbane. Having overseen a similar case, Watcher strides onto the scene after tearing through the caution tape.
His eyes, a piercing azure, sweep across the sparse surroundings of Pittham's fourth recent murder. As he crosses an item off his fraying notepad, his younger partner, junior detective Lance Archer arrives.
“Nice of you to join me, sir,” Lance greets with a restrained smile to the celebrity.
“Bloody freezing in here, even with the windows shut tight,” Watcher complains in a husked voice, without acknowledging pleasantries.
Lance's expression turns somber as he imparts the victim's identity. “The victim’s name was Harold Mercer.”
The lead detective’s sights are on the palm tree smudging the window and reaching for the moon’s rays.
“He was in witness protection under the name Michael Tucker,” Lance continues his briefing. “He’s one of the four scientists killed with ties to the Brunswick Project, sir. I think it’s safe to determine these aren’t accidents.”
As if by Lance’s solemn tone, the muscles at the base of Watcher’s jaw clench. He tilts his head back, taking a breath before speaking. “You come to that conclusion all on your own, little minger?” His words carry an annoyed edge, causing the younger officer to still.
Watcher's gaze shifts from the palm tree outside, reaching toward the moon's light, to the crime scene before him. “Why waste my time explaining what we know?” He gestures at the corpse soiling the floor. “Contact this bastard’s next of kin and get me a list of everyone having anything to do with that fucking lab!”
“Yes, sir,” Lance replies, gritting his teeth before jetting out of the unit. The other officers and forensics experts follow suit, leaving Watcher with only the lifeless form for company.
Watcher's accusing eyes bore down at the body. He clenches his jaw, his upper lip curling in a defiant sneer.
On Mercer’s face, he sees someone trying to live out the rest of their life after teaming up with depraved scientists.
A relentless inner gnawing causes his hands to tremble, which he puts to rest in his pockets. Watcher inhales a mouthful of frosted air, allowing his inner demons to settle.
Taking a knee, he faces the mangled body. “If you ask me,” he breathes a private scoff, taunting the victim’s ghost. “You deserved worse.”