detwiller

INNSMOUTH COLOR MAP

Someone asked for the Innsmouth map I made for OPERATIONAL HISTORY but without the color desaturation and print-look; here it is!

This map was created using Lovecraft's hand-drawn map of Innsmouth and complies with his vision of the layout and size of the town.

Enjoy! (Or destroy!)

COLD FLESH (A REQUEST)

Someone requested a post on info regarding Dr. Javier Muñoz's scientific method of extending life (as seen in H.P. Lovecraft's COOL AIR) in the world of Delta Green...

In Delta Green, Agents often find that any clear delineation between life and death appears to be nothing more than a wholly arbitrary line drawn by man. Various methods, sciences and dark magics have found ways around the normal processes, and in doing so, have transformed humans from fragile, mortal beings into something else, sometimes something more.

Invariably, however, this darkness always consumes them. Even player’s Agents might find themselves restored (some might say “afflicted”) with the power of life over death. Here we examine one technique of resurrection, as well as its in-game effects: the Muñoz Method.

TALES FROM THE MAJESTIC-12

After the crash of an apparent alien vehicle in the deserts of New Mexico in 1947, MAJESTIC-12 grew like a malignant tumor out of the ruins of American intelligence until it subsumed the entire government.

By 1979, it was unopposed and the levers and controls it had on the government were total. Even President Reagan, when brought in on the "truth" of the Greys and their agenda was little more than a spectator on the sidelines.

MAJESTIC lasted in such a position of power until the coup and collapse of 2001. For 54 years, it stood supreme, doling out knowledge and technology in exchange for pursestrings and power.

But what remains today, and how do modern agents find their way in?

MAJESTIC AND MODERN DELTA GREEN

MAJESTIC has shaped nearly all agencies in American intelligence that deal with the unnatural; most importantly, Delta Green (the official conspiracy) itself. The methods of MAJESTIC have found root and have grown in Delta Green, which resembles the old MAJESTIC conspiracy more and more. Personnel, technology, methods and investigations — as well as the price paid for secrecy — mimic MAJESTIC at its height.

Could more than a remnant remain? Could Delta Green itself today be nothing more than MAJESTIC reborn? Almost certainly. A rich vein to mine might be the ultimate corruption of modern official Delta Green by still-living MAJESTIC operatives who somehow have leverage to pull the strings. What's worse than MAJESTIC? Serving MAJESTIC unwittingly...

MARCH TECHNOLOGIES

March Technologies is one of the nameless military think-tank/developers that hover about the capital, but it is far more than that. It was a bargain struck in the new order of unnatural intelligence in the U.S. post-2001.

Those survivors of MAJESTIC with enough power to keep their heads demanded their own lucrative seat at the table, and March Technologies is it. There, these people ply the government with contracts for their vast list of subsidiaries, who each produce some offshoot of the unnatural, focusing it into some seemingly mundane technology.

Dozens of projects investigating unnatural concepts discovered over the lifetime of MAJESTIC — more than enough to power such projects for a century or more — are ongoing. Any one of them might accidentally spill out into the public eye, leaving a mess that Delta Green (official or unofficial), must clean up...

THE MAJESTIC DIASPORA

Many MAJESTIC researchers — among the most brilliant minds in the world — saw the writing on the wall before the 2001 collapse. Not a few squirreled away resources, anonymously filed patents, traded and collected on information gleaned from between the lines in reports filed from unnatural means.

Many escaped; forged new identities with the money they had made, and a few kept on their tasks, researching their own, isolated thread of MAJESTIC in private. Many more now are approaching the ends of their lives. Who then, might have a pique of guilt and seek to relieve their conscience? Perhaps a file dump to the New York Times is in order. After all, UAPs are often in the news these days, suddenly...or...wait a minute.

(Some fun documents to drop to Agents below. Are they real? Good question.)

NEW ART FOR DELTA GREEN: MILLENNIUM

Some new infectious art for your eyes. Don't look away! Embrace the evil.

OPERATIONAL HISTORY PREVIEW: ASHPILE, TOPSOIL, ADVANCE MAN AND GDANSK/NORTHWAY

THE LIMESTONE AIR FORCE BASE INCIDENT (1949)

In 1948, artifacts recovered by U.S. Air Force personnel from a suspected UFO landing site in Greenland during operation ASHPILE were moved to Limestone Air Force Base (later Loring AFB), Maine. There they remained undisturbed in storage for ten months, waiting to be collected and cataloged by the recently reformed and wildly backlogged Delta Green.

Before Delta Green could recover the items, an incident occurred. On the night of 5 NOV 1949, something woke from these artifacts and went on a rampage through the partially constructed base. This being, nearly 21 feet tall, was described as a "giant naked human that glowed blue green".

AFTER/MATH v2

Ever wonder what happens after Delta Green loses? Here's a new, play tested version of my End Times game, AFTER/MATH. Give it a spin, and let me know what you think.

Listen...The parties started sometime in the last five years, though it's hard to remember when I first heard about them. Small at first. Mini-Burning Mans, sprouting up at the edges of towns and cities. People drunk and drinking and later fucking, and then shooting. And then the police.

Later, the army.

It was a puff-piece. Something on the news, and then, on some cable program. People chatting in front of a sea of drunks. People would just up and leave their lives. Some went to see what it was like, and didn't come back. You got sucked in, somehow...

Then one day, you woke up and they were a thing. Revels. On the news. Police blotters. SWAT team plans. Riot police moving in and spraying down 10,000 people outside Akron, Ohio, with tear gas and rubber bullets. The count topped 21,136 dead by the time they stopped doing the news. No one cared. It was over, somehow. There was no struggle.

The world abandoned itself.

They stopped everything, the revels. It just took some time. It needed to get up to speed. The strange thing was that the revels weren't about young people. The young people, for the most part, stayed away, at least at first. It was the old people. Sometimes the really old people. Out there in the dark around a bonfire, nearly naked, holding a .38 pistol and calling someone a motherfucker. I was there. I saw one up close.

We had to pass through it to get here, to get north and away. Boston burned, and by that point, I had shot someone, but law was no longer my main concern. We drifted through the party that ate up I-93. Cars on fire. People walking around, drunk, stumbling. Shooting. I saw two men in their fifties, with beer guts, struggle and grunt on the ground, and I couldn't tell if they were fighting or fucking, in the dark.

I lost my group there, as the crowd closed in. We had quit Manhattan University seven days before, and marched north, to make it to my family's summer house in Vermont. My dad called me nine days before that, and shot my mom, and then himself, on the phone, while I listened. Did I say that already? Am I repeating myself? I'm sorry.

The old woman grabbed me, and pulled me close to the fire, and I almost fell in. It stank of plastic and ruin, the burning car, and I stumbled at its edge before catching my balance. She smiled at me, and her teeth glowed green-blue in the light. The debris in the fire clicked and clacked at my feet and kicked up sparks as I wobbled forward.

They were bones. Children's bones. Black and ash covered, in the fire. Oh, I ran. I ran away. I didn't look back. And here I am, now, at the end of the world. A revel for all time. One last rager before the party's over, forever.

Stay with me? There's a fire.

Deep Apologies

The channel has been quiet, and that's my fault. The only excuse I can really offer is two-fold, but I generally don't like to complain.

My wife has been dealing with some serious health issues, suddenly (which are still ongoing, but appear to be heading in the directions needed — we'll know more in a month), and life, never overlooking a chance to pile on gave us another issue: our beloved dog Huckleberry very suddenly began falling apart about a month ago, and we ended up losing him to heart failure a week or so ago. He was 11.

As can be imagined, this has been very rough on the family (and especially the kids). As such, we tried to get away for a few days and regroup. Hence, the down time here.

I'll be back on track shortly. Keep an eye out for more missives from beyond.

(And spare a thought for the good boy).

COOTER MCGEE FROM A NIGHT ON OWLSHEAD MOUNTAIN

Over the past sixty years McGee’s body has advanced far beyond the scope of human evolution. His skin can deflect low-caliber bullets and his metabolism is nearly so efficient as to be self-contained. He occasionally needs water but little else, and in the last three years he has even stopped breathing. After his lobotomy in 1956, the Ubbo-Sathla spawn in his body replaced the destroyed material in his brain with a new sensing organ. This organ can detect movement at great distances, and was created by the spawn to prevent McGee from being captured again. So far, it has proven most effective.

ART FOR HOLY WAR

When I ran the original "FATE" campaign, it was for my high school RPG group. Belial (the black suited man) and Johannes Kneiper (the grinning man) became legendary thorns in their sides.

NEW ART FOR ARTIFACT ZERO

New art for the upcoming Delta Green Operation ARTIFACT ZERO.

THE DELTA GREEN HUMBLE BUNDLE GOES LIVE — TODAY, MAR 20, 11AM PDT

A DELTA GREEN HUMBLE BUNDLE goes live today at 11am PDT

The bundle will launch Thursday, 3/20 at 11am Pacific and end on Thursday, 4/10 at 11am Pacific PDT.

https://www.humblebundle.com/books/delta-green-rpg-vtt-fiction-collection-books

It will have EVERYTHING from the modern game in ZIP and PDF. All fiction books (including The Annotated King in Yellow and the King in Yellow Tarot). All asset packs, and all VTT resources. 

58 items for $40.

Its purpose is two fold:

-To raise a war-chest so Arc Dream can side-step these stupid fucking tariffs and not charge more.

-To raise money (again) for Direct Relief Ukraine, because FUCK Trump and Putin.

Join the conspiracy.

NEW FROM OPERATIONAL HISTORY (THE START OF STATIC)

DELTA GREEN: OPERATIONAL HISTORY has permitted me to return to the well of madness that is IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPES. It will include detail write-ups of all the secret maneuvering of Delta Green in the 1950s in smashing out the infection of the King In Yellow.

NEW FROM OPERATIONAL HISTORY (THE K'N-Y'ANI)

DISINFORMATION: THE SMITHSONIAN OSSUARY

As reports of giant human bones dug up in various excavations began to ripple through local newspapers in mid-19th century America, an inadvertent cover-up was set in motion behind the stately facade of America’s premier museum; the Smithsonian. Regarded as a bastion of scientific inquiry, the Smithsonian became headquarters to an ongoing (almost accidental) operation to keep anomalous remains from the public.

 It began in the late 1840s (about the same time as the opening of the Smithsonian) and had all but played out by the early 1920s, but for nearly 70 years, a group operated in the basements of the Smithsonian, securing, cataloguing and hiding the huge bones Americans sometimes dug from the Earth in the relentless expansion west.

 On March 3, 1848, the Philadelphia Inquirer stunned its readership with an article headlined “Colossal Remains Found in Appalachian Mounds.” Laborers digging in the Appalachian foothills had unearthed bones of an unimaginable scale; with huge skulls and bones nearly four times the size of a normal man. The public, enamored with the mystery of the mounds of the American midwest like Ohio's Snake Mound, found its imagination ignited. The bones were seized by officials in New York State for the "public good" and sent to the Smithsonian Institution Building in 1849 for study.

 There, the nations best scientists could not account for them. The Smithsonian's first director, Joseph Henry, whose interests were clearly focused on physics and not archaeology or anthropology, saw the bone collection (which grew from 1849 onwards) as a dangerous distraction to the mandate of the Smithsonian, "for the increase and diffusion of knowledge". Henry was a well-known pragmatist, whose policies were sober-minded, focused on earth science and physics, and obsessed with efficiency, order and reason.

 "Who cares one sot for old bones? Our focus must be on the natural wonders of science and nature," Henry declared in a private letter to staff, accidentally setting policy for the next 70 years. The bones were isolated in the basement below the principal lecture room at the Smithsonian castle, in an area eventually called the Ossuary. Dr. Herman Maggot (1822-1899), a Smithsonian antiquarian, was the unofficial head of "that department", and spent all of his yearly acquisition stipend purchasing "giants" from locals all over the country.

 By the turn of the century, the Ossuary had fifty full skeletons of the "giants", and thousands of singular, human-shaped, odd-sized bones. In addition, gold and jade jewels and pottery that did not match the known American Indian cultures were also recovered and stored here. These bones were huge — much bigger than any recorded human — but appeared human. One male skeleton stood nearly 18 feet tall, had two sets of teeth, and was estimated to have weighed almost 1250 lbs when alive.

 Maggot's treatise on the subject, completed in 1888 and filed publicly in the annals of the Smithsonian, was called On the Magnitude of Ancient Human Remains, and it does nothing to hide the bones, their apparent sources, or what he believes to be their origins (he accounts them as the biblical Nephilim — giants). The document is still there, and is wholly downloadable in PDF form from the Smithsonian website, for those who know what to look for.

 By 1880, it was well known in nearly every state of the union that the Smithsonian paid good money for anomalous giant bones. Even after Maggot's death, a hodge-podge of personnel accepted the dwindling number of giant bones sent to the Smithsonian and dutifully stored them in the Ossuary. By 1925 or so, such reports and bones ceased turning up.

 Today, the Ossuary remains, though few know much about it, and the doors leading to it have been opened only four times since 1925 — all for maintenance, wiring or plumbing tasks. Little thought is given to the hundreds of carefully packed crates filled with the bones of giants, all now long forgotten.

THREAT: THE K'n-Y'ani

"they what live forever young as they like and you cant tell if they are really men or just gostes—and what they do cant be spoke about and this is only 1 entrance—you cant tell how big the whole thing is—after what we seen I dont want to live aney more France was nothing besides this..."

-The Testimony of Ed Clay, 1920

Long before the invasion of European colonists, many indigenous American traditions speak of giants in North America. The Iroquois’ oldest tales mention the Ge-no’sgwa, giants with stone skin who only appeared at night and could vanish in a cloud of insects. The Choctaw have legends of the Tso’ne, enormous beings with “white faces” who devoured men and resided within the Earth. The Cherokee, Delaware, and Shawnee’s oldest tradition speaks of the Wesa Usgwani Tsudatasdi, “the Moon-Faced People,” giants who ruled the Ohio valley, enslaving men for food and sport.

 These tales all culminate in a similar pattern: tribes (or a hero and his companions) unite against the giants, ultimately defeating or forcing them to retreat westward. In 1955, Delta Green uncovered evidence suggesting that these beings and the legends of their downfall were real.

 Sometimes referred to as “the old people” or “they who dwell below,” these beings are called the Xinaiáns (or the K’n-Y’ani) in two notable works written by individuals who directly encountered them. Despite the uprising against them leading to the fragmentation of the settlement-based Adena culture, the native American tribes of North America flourished for hundreds of years afterward in relative peace (until the Europeans arrived).

 Delta Green’s evidence indicates that the K’n-Y’ani were not the builders of the earthen mound outposts scattered across North America known as the Adena culture, but rather its conquerors. The Adena mound culture, a thriving pre-Columbian civilization dating back nearly 5,000 years, appears to have been captured and enslaved by a small group of K’n-Y’ani sometime around 800 AD, long after its establishment. These K’n-Y’ani lords ruled over humans for an unknown period of time, extracting labor and vitality to meet the insatiable needs of their culture.

 The K’n-Y’ani are an ancient, subterranean, humanoid species that physically resemble humanity, but clearly perceive humans as a distinct and inferior species. Extensive testing on recovered K’n-Y’ani bodies has only deepened the mystery. While scientific intelligence suggests they have the ability to breed with humans and manipulate the human genome at will, biological samples indicate the K'n-Y'ani are not human at all.

 Their scientific knowledge surpasses humans, evident in their unnatural abilities that, to them, are inherent. When they emerge from the depths, usually during dawn, night, or dusk, they transform into giants, towering between 18 and 25 feet tall. Their physical form shifts at will, becoming solid or immaterial as they desire. They possess telepathy, telekinesis, and many other powers.

 Strange disappearances throughout North America, first noted by the indigenous population, and later by colonists, appear to indicate the K'n-Y'ani have some sort of ongoing project involving humanity. These areas, once designated as cursed by native populations, later became isolated, and, in time, many became parks and national parks. Today, strange disappearances still occur in such places, in fact, they are known to the National Park Service, and certain U.S. agencies — who keep them quiet.

 By the late 1960s, despite no advancement in its knowledge of the species and few encounters, Delta Green determined the K'n-Y'ani, if they still existed at all, represented a tiny population of individuals isolated to a few sparsely inhabited areas of North America. As such, the group surmised, they represented no real threat. Later, many in the organization would come to disagree with this assessment.

NEUSCHWABENLAND

New art for DELTA GREEN: OPERATIONAL HISTORY.

THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: PROCESSING

People think they know their limits, but they don’t. Not really. You don’t know how far you’ll go. You just can’t. No one can know, man.

BING, BING, BING. 

I turn the car off, and then a few second later, the engine rattles to a stop and the car shakes with a final lurch. I float in the black for a few minutes there, my breath coming in plumes that catch what little light there is. 

Then, outside in the dark. 

It’s okay, I’m not afraid anymore. I’m past that now. When the worst has happened everything else doesn’t seem like much. Everything else doesn’t seem bad at all, really. The field is black, and there’s a lot more moving around and searching than I thought there would be, finding numbers and counting out rows. I drop the shovel with a clang. We’re more than a mile from anyone and I’m past the point of caring. If they find me, I think, 3 hots and a cot, am I right? Maybe even community service considering who it is. Doesn’t seem so bad. But then no one comes and I get to work. 

Fuck it. You never can know, man.

∆

Later, I’m back at the farm and the sunlight is coming up and I’m in the kitchen drinking coffee and then she comes down and doesn’t say anything. We both drink coffee in silence at the table as the sun creeps across it. Then she goes back upstairs and I hear the TV running some show I might know if I cared to puzzle it out. Some shit show we used to watch together. We haven’t spoken in nine days. I don’t suppose we’ll speak anytime soon. 

She blames me for a lot of it, and just so you know, she isn’t entirely wrong. 

Danny would have said, guys, quit this, you love each other. Guys, come on. But Danny isn’t here right now. She’s right because my work got in the way. I threw myself into my work, and not because I loved it, but because I was terrified of it. Of what it meant. And Danny and Em, I couldn’t tell them anything about it. But I threw myself into my work because of them, you know? To protect them. I…It’s stupid now, to think of it. The fear and the lies and the horrors and the deaths and to think: I was helping. It’s dumb. I’m dumb. I didn’t do shit, and I’ll never explain it away to anyone in my family: why I wasn’t there, why I seemed like I was gone all the time. Why I was gone more and more, over time. 

Fuck.

Out in the barn in the work room, and well, I get to work. Chainsaw first — not unusual here on the farm — and then…other things. I was a physicist, so this is all alien work to me, but I find it helps to think of it as processing. To separate it, and the desired result into steps. THIS must be done to get to THAT. Processing. Soon, I’m generating a pile just like the one we saw in Warsaw. I flip through the print outs with surgical gloves and consider there steps to make certain I have done nothing wrong, as if I have not memorized them all. As if they’ll change when I look away. 

Five and a half hours and it feels like I’ve accomplished very little. I cover it up. The hammer I have won’t do. I need a mallet. 

I go back to the house. “Em, I’m going in to Baker, you need anything?”

A laugh track from upstairs. 

“Emma?”

The TV goes off.

Silence spins out.

“Em?”

I leave.

∆

At Home Depot and a man who is disturbingly red is talking at me. He has a vest with a name tag that says CLAUDE. CLAUDE shows me the mallets. Suddenly, I’m back in my car with a bag, startled into the present by my phone ringing. It’s a 442 number. Local. I pick it up.

“Mr. Embry?”

“Yeah. Um. Yes.”

“This is Elliot Tardrew from Island Outfitters, and I’m just calling to follow up on…”

“The suit.”

“Yes. Payment for the…um Joseph Abboud slim fit teen suit separates…”

“How much?”

“The balance outstanding is…um…$42- oh, no, I see you paid half upfront. So, um…$238.98.”

“Ok.”

“Would you like to take care of that now, sir?” Considering what I just did with that suit, I can’t believe I’m taking care of this right now, but I am.

∆

Back at the farm. In the kitchen, Em has already eaten, and the plates are piled on the counter. I eat standing at the refrigerator, holding the Home Depot bag, listening for Em upstairs, but there’s nothing. I run one hand under the tap and wipe my mustache and face and then look out the window. At the barn, the door is open.

Em’s gumboots are gone from the side door. 

I run out there.

∆

When it’s over. When I’m done, the mallet is clotted with hair and scalp and some bone. There’s blood everywhere, and my ears are ringing from Em’s screaming. The room still hums with it. She’s on the dirt floor, her face a wash of crimson and caved in, like a falling-down-barn. But I can’t see her features because her face is black from the blood and for a minute, I smile and then realize I’m smiling and then stop. 

Danny’s body — nothing more than his head, a torso and much of the right arm now, lay revealed and mute on the work table, the tarp cast aside. The Salina Essentialis processed for the ritual are still in their bronze container, as per the instructions and thank god for that. I stand there for a long time, and then get a jar of water and soak the mallet — I would need all the material on it, after all. 

First Danny, and then Em, I guess. And when they were back I would explain why I did what I did to them. Why everything I did, I did for them. And why it was all worth it because we could all be together again. 

And I say it out loud in a room with my family as if they could hear me: People think they know their limits, but they don’t. Not really. You don’t know how far you’ll go. You just can’t. No one can know, man, and though it comes from my mouth involuntarily, it sounds like a prayer. 

MORE OPERATIONAL HISTORY!

I am working through DELTA GREEN: OPERATIONAL HISTORY, which is turning out to be a huge project. It's so large and complex, it's been split into two books: DELTA GREEN OPERATIONAL HISTORY PART I:1928-1960 and PART II: 1961-2025

Here's the inter-war years leading up to WWII, along with LIFEGUARD, the first real Delta Green operation. (Keep in mind, this is unedited, raw text — we're not really looking for grammar or spelling mistake notes on it...YET!)

DOWNLOAD DELTA GREEN: OPERATIONAL HISTORY PREVIEW 2 NOW...

DYER AND DANFORTH

New art for OPERATIONAL HISTORY.

EXPLORATION (26 JAN 1931): Dyer and Danforth enter a giant, dark tunnel that descends into the alien city. Hundreds of strange passages wind off from the entrance, and seem to exhibit an optical illusion effect. Tunnels split, dive, and curve at impossible angles. The two men come upon carvings depicting the Elder Thing culture, their creation of the Shoggoths, and various ancient wars wrought by their civilization. Photographs are taken. Evidence of something living in the tunnels is located — huge, slug-like tracks — and echoing hoots and piping are heard. The men become nervous, but push onward. In a vaulted room, they come upon long-dead Elder Things clearly smashed and destroyed by some horrible force. Danforth sees something monstrous moving down a darkened tunnel, and after lighting it with his electric torch, loses his grip on sanity. The two men flee for the aircraft.     

INNSMOUTH MAPS

As promised, the after-action maps for the Innsmouth raid. (Along with a labeled and unlabeled version of the map, true to Lovecraft's sketches and notes).

INNSMOUTH MAP, IN PROGRESS

I'm working on the P4 late 1930's after action report map of Innsmouth (which, when finished, will show the Marine raid on Innsmouth in detail — with troop movements and everything). Here's the first half of the map in progress. Please note:

• This is based on Lovecraft's original hand-drawn map of Innsmouth
• But it supposes that previous fan maps have been wildly overpopulated with buildings — though Innsmouth was once larger, by 1928, the population was only from 400 to 500 individuals. Most of these were families, so we're looking at perhaps 250 buildings occupied, up to 300 or so, max.
• The south side of Innsmouth across the Manuxet (on this map left is north and right is south), the town has a congestion of buildings (as described in SHADOW).

More to come!

INNSMOUTH SPY SHOTS

Working on OPERATIONAL HISTORY, busy illustrating it. I wanted to capture the horrors of Innsmouth as seen by the Office of Naval Intelligence members that infiltrated and secretly photographed the town...

INFILTRATION AND FILMING INNSMOUTH (27 SEP – 3 OCT 1927): ONI officers enter Innsmouth and use hidden cameras in briefcases to photograph and film its residents. Though no agent stays more than a few hours, and none after dark, they capture horrific deformities and some residents’ inhuman nature. They film inexplicable things.

INNSMOUTH, 2:51 AM, 28 FEB 1928

I wanted to paint the Innsmouth explosion for OPERATIONAL HISTORY (as seen in ONCE MORE FROM THE TOP, and OPERATIONAL HISTORY) that gave birth to what would become DELTA GREEN.

"THE EXPLOSION (2:51 AM): An explosion heard almost 20 miles away rocks the town, and cracks windows as far away as Essex. Marines from the Second Company, desperate, having fallen back to the Esoteric Order of Dagon, detonate a heavy truck full of TNT and phosphorous grenades next to the church, leveling it, and killing dozens of Deep Ones in the process. The only T-Man killed in the operation, agent Timothy Graham, dies in the conflagration. He is identified by his dental work."

 

NEW ART: ARTHUR HUNT

The mysterious millionaire Arthur Hunt died in 1952, but the horrors and wonders he uncovered — as well as his greatest secret — remain active even today...

Here's a first look at the (deceased) star of DELTA GREEN: FUTURE/PERFECT.

This is just to say I'm working on an expanded version of DELTA GREEN: FUTURE/PERFECT with a completely new chapter and new tie-ins to the Great Race of Yith, which will go as a full mini-campaign in the back of DELTA GREEN: THOSE WHO COME AFTER, the Great Race sourcebook, with all new art, maps, handouts and more.

THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: COLD BLOODED

“Hey Carl, how’s it going?”

“Pretty solid, Danny. No complaints,” I say, and we shoot the breeze. I hung my hat in this trailer park when Bush (not Junior) was failing to secure his second term, and I guess it’s worked out. Danny has been here since that Arkansas fucker left after his second term, so it’s safe to say we’re just about the oldest residents here.

Still, that doesn’t make us the same. For one, he looks much older than me. Second, he don't know war. Not real war.

Danny was a veteran of the Gulf War—the first one—and that was more like target practice. I’m a veteran too, but I try not to talk about it much because of all the questions. Danny knows, though, I think. Just mannerisms and slang. I’ve never said anything to him, but that stuff bleeds through. Danny just chalks it up to plain old reluctance to talk about war, I suppose.

But that isn’t it.

I cashed out of the Army in the summer of 1977 and spent three glorious years in Port St. Lucie working the docks. Every night an orange sky, with beer, cigarettes, and girls. Perfect. I guess it’s what drew me back here after… it.

Here’s the thing: my war was Korea, and then some Vietnam as a chaser. When I hauled myself out of that hole of a country, I was done, I said. No more Army. No more war. No more death. Now, I know you’re doing the math and looking at me funny, thinking I’m lying.

But I’m not.

On December 12, 1981, I got called up again. By then, my life had become a string of beer, fights, and going nowhere, and I missed the order of the Army. Only this wasn’t the Army. They were from the Air Force—or so they said. Later, I found out that wasn’t true either.

Anyway, two years humping it doing things I don’t want to talk about for the National Reconnaissance Office, and the less you know about that, the better. So, I did it. I served my country—or the thing running my country. I saw things, a lot of things that…

Well, forget it. This isn’t about that. In 1984, the word came down—I had the big C. Probably from all that stuff they bathed us in during Vietnam trying to burn off the jungle, they said. Sorry, they said. They cashed me out, and I was on my way to find a hole to crawl in and die when a guy I knew from the NRO gave me a number to a firm in Delaware: GENOMIC. Some fancy genetics outfit associated with the program. Anyway, he knew a guy, and then I knew a guy, and I guess no one at the NRO was too sour on it because they let it happen. And nothing happens there that they don’t want to happen.

Inside three weeks, I was getting shots and feeling pretty fine. They hooked me up with the doc, a phone number, and a case officer. Saved my life. Remission, they said. But it wasn’t remission. That stuff was gone. Anyway, did three more years then, fit as a fiddle. Didn’t know what they put in me, and honestly, I didn’t care.

Then I cashed out and came here, and I’ve been here since. Only one time have I ever regretted what they did, and that was in 2001 when the doc vanished, the case officer turned up dead, and the number they gave me rang and rang. I spent two years just laying low, hoping I didn’t have to go to the hospital—they put me in fear of hospitals and doctors, you see. The stuff they gave me, well, let’s just say it wasn’t ready for prime time.

Then one day, the program rang me up again like nothing had ever happened and set me up with a whole new set of contacts, and that was fine. That was when I was… 70? It’s gone on and on since then. I try to keep busy. First, I would hike and bow-hunt. Later, I’d just run like an idiot, up and down the highway in the dark with reflectors on my ass so I wouldn’t get run down.

Can you believe the things the world makes you do these days?

Truth is, I don’t feel much different from when I got those shots in 1984, and I’m starting to think nothing is ever going to change. Can you retire forever? How long until someone notices? So far, no one has, or if they have, they took it to their graves. I’ve watched a lot of people put into the ground. When I get anxious about it sometimes, I sit in my above-ground pool. I pull myself under, exhale all my air, and sink to the bottom.

There, in the blue, I click my timer watch and settle in. In the water, you can hear it beep every minute. After a while, I see the wavering face of my neighbor on the surface—Danny.

I pop up and click the watch, and Danny says, “Hey Carl, how’s it going?”

“Pretty solid, Danny. No complaints.”

I glance at my watch; it stopped at 28:15:55.

But that ain't even close to my record.

THE FRENCH EDITION OF DELTA GREEN IS LIVE

The French edition of Delta Green from Éditions AKILEOS is up for crowdfunding now!

If you’re a native French speaker that loves Delta Green and wants to see more translated, get in there now!

OUT OF THE DEAD LAND...A NEW CAMPAIGN FOR DELTA GREEN

I'm working on many things, but in the back of my mind (and now, on the page) are the first inklings of a new Delta Green campaign: OUT OF THE DEAD LAND.

I purposely have set out to make this campaign less controversial than GOD'S TEETH, and less bizarre than IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPES. 

OUT OF THE DEAD LAND concerns an entire town, Bethel, Delaware, infected by otherworldly horror, and Delta Green's reaction to it as the rumours there find a home online at first, and then, later the NBC Nightly News... Can the agents unravel a mystery at the heart of an entire town, as it becomes possessed?

NEW ART FOR MILLENNIUM

A glimpse at the Keepers of the Faith and Project Arc Dream for DELTA GREEN: THE MILLENNIUM.

And to our American Agents...get out and vote, people!

PROOF THE UPDATED HANDLER'S SCREEN!

You asked for it. You demanded it. You threatened and cajoled, begged and extorted. You prayed and sacrificed and wailed to the heedless moon.

Sometimes, eventually, that works.

The Delta Green Handler's Screen will soon go back into print. If you have a chance, please take a look at these low-res exports of the updated interior panels. If you spot any typos or rules errors, please email them to shane@arcdream.com by October 24th.

Download the images in one ZIP file here.

HELP PROOF 'GOD'S LAW'

Delta Green: God's Law by Caleb Stokes goes to press next week and will be available in paperback and PDF in November. Between now and next Wednesday, October 17, we need your help checking for typos. Please email suggestions to shane@arcdream.com with "God's Law typos" as the subject. Thanks!

DOWNLOAD A PRIVATE PROOF OF GOD'S LAW HERE.

A few months after its paperback release, God's Law will be included in the collection Delta Green: God's Hunt in PDF and hardback.

THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: ARREARS

When I get the call, I have no fucking idea who it is. The number is from New Haven, and I answer it on a whim. I don’t usually answer my phone anymore. Not in years. I haven't been back since? 2003? Don't plan to go back.

No one I want to talk to is ever on the phone.

“Yeah,” I say, and the guy is looking at me. I put the bill down in the security opening and point at the American Spirit pack, tapping on the plexiglass when his hand sweeps over it.

“Is um…Deanie there?” The voice is a woman, small and overly polite, but confused. Telemarketer? 

Wait. Deanie? What the fuck. How the fuck does she know about Deanie?

The guy’s holding my cigarettes for a long time while I scrunch up my face and turn around. Hunching down on the phone.

“Who…” I reach back and grab the cigarettes, “is this?”

“Am I speaking to…is Deanie there?” 

Change clatters, I crook the phone in my neck and scrape it out with both hands.

“This is not Deanie.”

She starts into a speech and I almost hang up, “hello, well, I am calling from New Horizons psychiatric in New Haven and I’m looking for um…Deanie… I’m sorry. Just Deanie, that’s all it says here and that’s well, that’s just really…” she trails off.

Jumpcut. I’m outside. What?

“This isn’t Deanie.” 

“That’s just really unusual,” she says, almost to herself.

Is this a panic attack? Is this what a panic attack feels like? This is what a panic attack feels like.

“Yes. Well, um, I’m at a loss. I called the emergency contact number on his…um…intake sheet and I talked to a mister Strego, at…” she’s checking something, “New Haven Muffler, and he said that someone at this number could put me in contact with Deanie?”

I don’t want to talk to Deanie. Jesus. Okay. Best to just crush this dead, here and now. I sound like I just ran up ten flights of steps. I’m sweating. Where did I put those cigarettes? Fuck. My voice emerges from my mouth like someone was pulling on a string that ran down my throat. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. 

“OK. Well, she’s my wife. What’s this about?” 

I haven’t seen Deanie in 8 years. We were never married. Fuck, I don’t even know her real name. I have no idea why I said that. 

“I’m very sorry, but Michael Kurtz’s bill appears to be in arrears? For the last year, two bills for $17,650 have…” 

Hammering. Thumping. Slamming noises. It’s my heart in my ears. My sight unfocuses on the blue sky. Cars — muted — rush by on the highway. 

Kurtz? Don’t know a Kurtz. But then I get a bad feeling. Something…Something.

The last time I saw Deanie, it had been some weeks since she got rid of the kid, and she was already in a bad way. Drinking and smoking too much. Getting fucked up on pills. No way for a cop to be. But I should fucking talk, right. Me too. 

Everyone with a substance abuse problem raise your hands and then your feet because you don’t have enough hands to raise. 

Kurtz. Something. There’s something... 

The last op before the group blew up, 2001 was it? Before the world blew up too, I guess. 

That kid. That fucking five year old kid who could make you do things. Don’t remember his name. Mike something? He could look in your head and make you think the way he wanted. But Deanie figured it out. Deanie put some fucking magic on him or something, and then she took him to the marshland at the end of the river to get rid of him.

Fuck her, it was her turn. I had done the wife.

“Mister…um…Deanie?” the voice on the phone says, clearly embarrassed.  An uncomfortable laugh. 

Kurtz. End of the river. She took Kurtz to the end of the river. Where Kurtz...waited.

Arrears. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. I’ll uh…tell her. How, um…”

Attentive silence.

Deanie fucked me. Deanie fucked me.  

“How, um…old is Michael?”

Please don’t say 13. Please don’t say 13. Please don’t say 13...

'DEAD LETTER' 1997 PLAYTEST

It took months to track down and decode these transcripts. It was one of the earliest playtests of Adam Scott Glancy’s "Dead Letter,” which would first appear in Delta Green: Countdown in 1999. An updated version is available for Delta Green: The Role-Playing Game. Glancy ran "Dead Letter” in AOL chatrooms in late 1997 for Shane Ivey, Keith Potter, and Pat Grindle. Delta Green had just been published. What would become the RPG classic Countdown was still coming together. Glancy continues to write for Delta Green.

DOWNLOAD THE DEAD LETTER TRANSCRIPTS IN PDF.

DOWNLOAD THE DEAD LETTER TRANSCRIPTS IN EPUB.