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Somewhere, in the darkness of the Northern Sea, a storm was tearing its way a small, sparsely-populated rock that was sugercoated as Draymouth Isle. Inhabitants of aforementioned rock were estimated at 200 (and possibly exaggerated). Although the whole island was getting the blunt of the the storm, it seemed to be enjoying ruining a small stretch of land along it.

Buckets of rain slammed into the ground, shearing through the air. Piercingly cold winds whipped the rain into a solid formation along '12, the only road outside of town on the small island. The dark highway was turned into a tunnel of pure imagination- one could wonder what lay beyond. One could also pity any driver making his way along that road.

A certain Mr. Dreyfuss Parker had the luck to be that poor driver. It was midnight, and he was driving back from the supermarket. Where he was driving to would be decided by his will and his will alone. Nothing could stop him from reaching his destination-

The engine sputtered, and died.

The certain Mr. Dreyfuss Parker uttered some very uncouth phrases before leaving his car. Before he did, he checked the dashboard. He was out of gas. Typical. And, due to this particular dilemma, Mr. Parker decided to set off on an exodus to find the legendary land of Nearest Gas Station. He bundled himself in his coat, sighed, and reluctantly began to walk, leaving his Dodge Caliber behind him to suffer in silence.

He had been walking for about ten miles or more when he decided to take a left. Not for any particular reason other than for the fact that-

Suddenly, a strobe light pulsed through the wall of trees in front of him.

Parker pulled the limbs of the trees aside, and clambered through the thicket. He slammed into the ground, and removed his flashlight from his pocket as he stood. An enormous gate stood in front of him, the source of the light flashing dully above it. His breath caught, and he began to pant and whimper as memories overtook him-

-please enter the-

-all be fine, just needs to fix-

-subject D-233023, enter the containment-

-shhhh, you're away from the bad men now, they can't hurt you-

Dreyfuss stumbled, and broke into a sprint in the opposite direction. Whispers swirled through his head. Searing white light grazed across his vision as he looked back involuntarily-

-fuck, get in the van-

-he's strong-

-run for your life-

Somebody shouted, and bullets sliced past him.


-tell me, when did you-

-just don't-

As he collapsed into his vehicle, he realized it had moved to him without a driver. He moaned. It was going back to what it was. He couldn't suppress the demons within him anymore. Tears flew from his eye sockets and swirled through the air, forming shapes. Dreyfuss closed his hands tightly, and the aberrant forms erupted into thin air, collapsing like the deep nebulae that filled his night terrors.

Mr. Dreyfuss Parker fell to the ground. His eyes closed and opened rapidly as his memories returned. That one terrible phrase that haunted and consumed him-


Parker slammed his hands against his Caliber as he repeated the word again. Yet the phrase still came. It always returned. That beastly falsehood, that acronym, that lie. Dreyfuss's eyes glowed red and black, then switched back to their normal brown as he uttered the phrase which stalked him incessantly:

"Secure, Contain, Protect."

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