3

Not a damn thing. Granted, you're not a computer person, but Podge absolutely is, and after several days of work, he returns two publicity photographs (neither in New England), a dozen mentions of their existence (not their activities) on private military contractor forums, and a single mention on a blog insisting that they're a hoax.

"That journalist knows something though," Podge says as you sit on the steps of your cabin, searching away. "I'm contacting Nomi."

An email arrives less than ten minutes later.

They're ghost wizard assassins or something. I managed to dig up a "team roster" from a right-wing occult site who got their domain seized so I can't vouch for it but

E. Troy, Head of Operations

L. Barry

T. Eggars

A. Hone-Parez

C. Merrit

V. Beschloss

A. Thiberault

"Wait, I've seen some of these names before," Podge says.

"That log book," you say. You can't remember the details, but Podge runs up stairs, then back down with the little leather-bound book.

"Merrit 0930. I think he was at Everlite."

"Did we kill him?" you ask.

"Not unless he pulled a triple shift," Podge says. "And that assumes this is the same Merrit. It's possible, right?"

"It's possible," you admit.

That's some thin gruel, though. You're searching other names even as you talk with Podge. Nothing and everything—hundreds of "E. Troys," thousands of "A. Thiberaults." Nothing to get a grip on.

Podge thanks Nomi and asks them to contact him if anything about Neo Albion ever comes up.

"Maybe our curiosity is gonna expose us, I dunno," Podge says. "But this is driving me crazy. We need to learn more."

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