Title: ReVolution 236 RP
Featuring: Violence Jack
Date: Someday
Location: Somewhere

File ID: BH-0931G735

Title: A Brief and Informal Summary of "The Shanahan Scare"

Other Notes: Please refer to File ID BH-0938S626 for official report; file to be used for briefing of incoming officers assigned to cases concerning Shanahan, Bruce


It was in late 2009 that Bruce Shanahan, mastermind of the insidious Sect of Black Wisdom cult, hatched his most threatening schemes to date in regards to Earth, mankind, and quite possibly the great equilibrium itself. Shanahan, once an ally of the Coalition and now one of its most vile and capable adversaries, has long been a powerful mortal vassal of the beings we know as the Great Old Ones, and though the Coalition and its allies were aware of this fact, never had it been dreamed he'd come to possess the knowledge to initiate the chain of events that were to transpire from 2009 up through early 2010. This time period would encompass what will be historically referred to as "The Shanahan Scare".

The GTT7 wrestling tournament was the staging ground for his plans. How long Shanahan's designs had been laid out, and how long they even progressed to reach that point of fruition, remains unknown at the time of the report. Intelligence operatives working for the Blackhelm Coalition advised that Shanahan, who had long been silent and immobile at that juncture in time, had begun to move again. He'd swiftly begun to amass resources and allies, summoning terrible powers to his beck and call. The Sect of Black Wisdom was fully mobilized and ready to carry out some terrible purpose. The Blackhelm Coalition and its allies followed suit in an effort to stifle his plans before they could unfurl. Even exercising the full extent of our collective capabilities, we had no idea the scale that Shanahan had in mind. It wasn't until the energies began to compile, when reality began to fracture and the world was further and further consumed in turmoil, that his terrible agenda was revealed.

Bruce Shanahan endeavored to muster the energies that would open the gates and bring the Old Ones back to our world, thus condemning humanity to destruction. The energies he gathered were channeled to sow chaos across the Earth, rupturing the land and inciting violence and madness while slowly awakening the dormant ones from their ancient slumber. It would provide a distraction for governments and the more conventional investigative arms of humanity to deal with; no one would guess that the energies came from the very people that would witness Shanahan's rise in the tournament, and by giving him that attention, nearly dooming us all.

It is yet unknown how the cult leader was capable of absorbing and conducting said energies. It's been theorized that the primary key lies hidden in the Sathlattas among the Sect's vast occult library but research yields no results at this time. But as the world's awareness grew, and thus the madman's possible connection to the logic-defying events sweeping across the planet, the volume of power amplified exponentially. It now seems that simple knowledge by the masses of the gospel Shanahan preached acted as some sort of catalyst.

The planet was nearly torn asunder by the energies unleashed come the time the finale was set into motion. Nations across the world had seen astronomical increases in psychopathic behavior, acute mental illness ands harrowing acts of senseless violence. Natural laws seemed to break under the strain, conforming to the reigning chaos. Even the nightmare city of R'lyeh finally broke the surface, resting above the waves for several terrifying hours. All seemed lost as Shanahan walked into the final match at his pinnacle.

It was only by a titanic effort on the parts of both eventual winner Desade and runner-up Garbage Bag Johnny that Shanahan met with defeat. The energy links were broken and the world returned to normal again. Desade was a champion, and to this day may not realize she is actually a great savior as well.

Victory came at a price. Coalition losses were great. Covert informants were killed, even the Coalition's more 'esoteric agents' not finding themselves outside the reach of the infernal forces the Sect sought to loose on the world. Major Marcus Stryker, then commander of the elite Alpha Strike team, was felled in combat by Luther Ridley, commander of the Crying Seraph mercenary team working for hire under Shanahan. Randal Craven, then regional supervising officer for the Coalition based in Philadelphia, resigned before vanishing to the east on a personal quest. Maury Dawson, executive officer of operations during the Shanahan conflict, also resigned his post out of despair. In official capacity, Dawson remains an outside advisor to the organization. In truth he offers very little in that role; Dawson burdens himself with the near-collapse of the Coalition and specifically the death of Major Stryker.

The Sect of Black Wisdom splintered in the aftermath. Three of Shanahan's top lieutenants broke away to form their own cult, the Brotherhood of the Great Ascension, an organization as voracious and ruthless as their parent cult. Perhaps it should be considered a great boon that even his own kind consider Shanahan an enemy and a monster...

A smile of smoke dispersed over his head, for a moment appearing almost as a false halo. Fitting for a man who had been an angel of death to many so far in his life yet was so far from saintly.

Jennings didn't want to appear too entranced by the new guy. Well, 'new' as in recently converted to Blackhelm, he repeated to himself yet again. The man was far from a combat rookie. It wasn't often that the organization's militant arm, the soldiers and mercenaries, gained new blood worth talking about even before they'd ever carried out an assignment. Among Blackhelm's military cadre, reputation always came through action. Not for Ramsay Bennett. It had been nigh inconceivable that a champion of the special ops community would voluntarily venture into their ghastly world.

There were no complications for Bennett, however. At least not those like Jennings thought must be swirling in the head of such a man, a top echelon mercenary considered a tactical adept.

The world was overly PC, full of those afraid of embodying the stereotypes and caricatures painted across popular culture. But he wasn't concerned with sleek image or avoiding generalization; he welcomed the image of an outlaw in a modern world, a grizzled vet donned for war. His reality was no place for Ivory Tower idealism or liberal correctness. The warzones he'd seen were dark and bleak, the pits where virtue went to die. He was under no illusions that parts of his soul lay scattered across the world, broken and irretrievable.

Just more reasons he's wanted this assignment: the dress code, or lack thereof. He didn't want medals or spotlights. He wanted justice. He wanted blood. He wanted the scalps of the world's most monstrous, and this is where you came to get them. Blackhelm operated outside of the restrictions of standard war and special operations, beyond the Geneva Convention. Only the underground waged war the way it was meant to be waged.

"So he's returned."

Jennings nodded. He was intimidated but managed to mask it well. "We've asked the more prestigious professional wrestling leagues to inform us if he reappears. He has it seems. In PRIME, one of his old stomping grounds. Just in time for a big tournament."

"Figures," the veteran muttered, chewing briskly on the end of his cigar. "That his M.O., right?"

"It appears so. His schemes are at their zenith for wrestling tournaments. GTT6, GTT7, and now this Jewel in the Crown. We don't know why, but given his psychological profile..."

"He may not be as complicated as you boys make him out to be," Bennett replied, cutting him off. "He craves the spotlight and needs the attention for his power to work in his favor. This is his world, it's where's he's trained and where he has a reputation. And he gets to hurt people."

The younge rman shifted uneasily. "Of course. But the Bruce Shanahan that leads the Sect of Black Wisdom is a far removed figure from the one that grew up on the Boston streets, suffered through poverty, made a name for himself as a thug in the wrestling community. He's not even the same man."

Bennett paused, removing the cigar as acrid smoke danced around him like an aura. "Go on."

Jennings removed another file from a short stack of folders, removing a paperclip and thumbing through it. It held reports, psychological documentation from numerous professionals, all resonating with theories as to Shanahan and his ambitions. "Studying Shanahan has become almost a field in and of itself. Some tried to make a career of it and failed. Dr. Rourke was an example. He was the man's personal overseer at Weirsburg Institution For the Criminally Insane before succumbing himself to madness. After early studies his initial theory was that what inhabits Shanahan's mind is, in a nutshell, a hodge-podge of corrupted memories. Twisted and bent, almost like parodies of reality. But something made its way in and warped them, almost like a parasite or genetic mutation. He's a husk of what he once was. Almost like true possession, but with a more scientific slant."

Bennett seemed surprisingly intrigued. He reached for the folder and Jennings obliged him. "And Rourke presented these ideas to the community?"

Jennings answered with a shake of the head. "No. The ideas were pretty basic. Early stage of the hypothesis. Before he expanded on his idea and wrote more scientifically, his thoughts became erratic. Then they simply became unhinged, dsiturbed, and degenerated until no scientific basis remained. He seemed to abandon the ideas relating to parasites and genetics and claimed that devils truly did reside in Shanahan. Sentiments that the old Shanahan was dead and something far worse inhabits his body, sustaining an illusion only via memories."

"And do you believe that?"

"No. I'm a man of science. I put stock in the rational world, not in spirits and demons." He crossed to another table and uncorked a bottle, pouring something into a glass. The container was unmarked but Ramsay could recognize the look and smell of whiskey.

"Never been out in the field have you, Mister Jennings?" Bennett seemed bothered as he perused more of the reports, noticing its increasingly irrational patterns. It didn't take a trained eye to pick up on Rourke's disintegrating mental state. "Seen what your men do, suppressed the kinds of things they have?"

"I haven't. Only reports, captain."

His reply elicited a crooked smile from Ramsay. Another man fortified in the Ivory Tower, hiding behind books and reports. He was lucky. Jennings didn't have to see the things that he had seen out there.

"Aren't even going to offer your guest any?" Bennett chided jokingly.

Jennings chuckled as he poured another, offering it to the new captain. "I've heard tale of you, sir," he responded. "I was under the impression that you'd turned on the stuff."

"Turn on the stuff?" He threw it back, wincing as it slid down his gullet. It was strong vintage, just how he liked it. "Why would I do that? It saved my life."

A grin. Jennings wondered just how much of the stories were true. Obviously that part was. It could be difficult to dicern fact from fiction in the crazy, legend-rife world they knew. Bennett set the glass down and turned to go, grabbing his beret and dossier.

"How shall I address you, sir?" Jennings called, halting him for a moment.

"However you want, son. Name, rank, don't matter none to me."

"Is your nickname acceptable from time to time? I find it interesting."

The veteran smiled, his hard facial features engulfed in cigar smoke. "Sure, kid, knock yourself out." Bennett shut the door.

An aide watched him go before approaching Jennings. He gestured with a nod of the head toward the door.

"Was that him?"

A nod. "The War-Hound."

A sigh from the other. "He has big shoes to fill. Marcus won't be easy to replace."

Jennings looked down, drawing out another folder. The tab simply read WHITE LIONS. He smile as he glanced through it, running through the statistics, familiarizing himself with the new faces.

"I wouldn't worry. Even with Stryker gone, I'd say Alpha is about to become stronger than ever."



* * *



Blake Ender marvelled at the hatred of the people. They'd scorned him from the moment he entered the village, glowering at him as they anticipated watching another infidel American passing through. Likely a Christian here to sow the seeds of heresy among the faithful followers of Islam.

That was how he'd wanted it. It was easier to carry out his goal with a people that already hated his guts than to turn a neutral population to hostility.

Even through a torn lip he could barely contain a smile at the memory of what had happened only ten minutes earlier. Approached by a mob of ill-willed villagers, the local imam at the head of the pack. He was the alpha male of this community and he'd smelled blood in the outsider. When they'd confronted Blake, ranting about the will of Allah to damn infidels, he'd laughed in their faces.

"Fuck you, and fuck your child-rapist of a prophet," he'd said almost giddily. "Mohammed was vermin. If there's a Hell, he's there now."

Another shot from his interrogator rattled his jaw, snapping him from his reverie. Ender never so much as frowned, his face carved from granite, stoic and unyielding to their violence. They wouldn't have the satisfaction. The crowd snarled and roared at him, uncouth animals in a backwards region of a medievial world, vehement in their thirst for his blood. To them it was justice, for no one insulted the prophet.

"You embrace horror," he said quietly to his attacker, detecting the coppery taste of blood on his tongue. "You've made a friend of it. In most ways you people are fools, the lowest form of uncivilized scum. But you're no strangers to using violence for strength. How do you do it?"

Zasir al-Yarqawi was a village anomaly; he was familiar with some English, just enough to know the American was insulting him. It only served to fuel his righteous anger and strike the bastard harder.

The imam gloated over the outsider's punishment. This was how heresy was supposed to be dealt with by the laws of the Qu'ran and the infidel American was going to pay for his heresy. The men around him, his personal group of armed guards, joined him in reveling in the beating.

There was a brisk gust of wind, a breeze that seemed far too chill for this area of the world under the burning sun. Sand began to blow in from the surrounding landscape, blinding them. As it did, the bloodied American began to cackle hysterically.

The dust storm subsided as quickly as it had begun. But with had come a new presence, another outsider garbed in a simply black robe. A hood masked his visage in shadows

One of the villagers, a bearded member of the imam's retinue, reached into his clothing, pulling out his own AK-47. He aimed it at at the robed outsider and shouted a warning in Arabic. The psychotic American never flinched.

"It's jammed, you cretin," he proclaimed. "Insects like you won't stop me. Not today.."

Still yelling threats and curses in his native tongue, the armed man pulled the trigger. There was nothing but a click. Only puzzled looks from the imam's personal militia as the new arrival lowered his hood and cracked a diabolic smile.

"Luther?"

A man in desert battle fatigues stepped out from behind a cart. In one hand was his sidearm, glimmering steel leveled directly at the imam. A serious of clicks and ringing of metal followed his appearance, resonating from the dark alleys as a legion of shadow-veiled phantoms surrounded them. Watching the panic wash over the faces of the violent imam and his followers, even as they drew out their guns, the evil mastermind expressed victory in ther form of a triumphant smirk.

"I've survived attacks by the most well-trained assassins and soldiers the world has to offer. Pests like you aren't even worth the time. Attempting to enlighten you will only end in more denial. You're a lost cause, and I have more important matters to attend to. Luther..."

More seemed to materialize among them out of air as the guards fumbled with their weapons. Armed with serrated swords and knives, tools of agony to accompany death, Luther Ridley's men struck.

Some died instantaneously, beheaded or gunned down in silence by the Crying Seraph. Others could only stare in horror as their gun-wielding hands were lopped off by the phantoms moving among them, paralyzed at the sight of the bloody stumps before falling to writhe and clutch at where their hands used to be. From rooftops and darkened alleys, shooters turned the gun-toting Islamic militia into Swiss cheese. A ballet of streaking slugs and visceral carnage taking shape around him, Shanahan watched his enemies die.

Blood turned the dust to mud. Women and children scattered, shrieking as their men were cut down by the killers in black. It seemed an eternal horror to the imam, the last man standing, until the last body fell, an unfired machine gun clattering to the ground beside him. There was a whistle and a thunk.

A curved blade was firmly embedded in his throat. He gurgled and struggled vainly to rip it out, feeling his own muscles failing. It was no use, and he could only watch in horror as his murderer bent down to finish him.

"Fucking barbarian," Ender seethed as he gripped the handle of the knife. The imam's eyes widened as they met the stone-cold gaze of his killer. "I'll see you in oblivion, fool. And once I'm there, I'll kill you again." He twisted the handle, showering himself with the other's blood as muscle and tissue were sheared. He yanked upwards, parting the flesh of the elder's face in a near-perfect symmetry.

Blake Ender was no Ethan Knight; he simply considered himself a living tool, an instrument of death unswayed by leadership ambitions or politics. Whereas Knight had been Father Shanahan's top killer for his skills alone, Ender's strengths were different. Disregard for his own well-being, his capacity to finish the job without adherence to certain rituals or implements.

In the end, like Knight before him, it was his kinship with death that granted him that intangible quality which Shanahan wanted. That and the uncompromising approach to maintaining it. He'd kill for the order or die trying. A model disciple.

Al-Yarqawi had managed to slither away in the chaos. His heart thundered in his chest and he prayed to Allah that its crescendo wouldn't alert the maniacs that had massacred the imam and his guards. He closed his eyes for a moment and uttered a silent prayer, petitioning Heaven to strike down the Americans with Allah's divine fury.

His eyes fluttered open. He stared into the eyes of fury, but they were not the eyes of Allah. They were the eyes of the devil. The man in black who had come with the storm.

"Jihad? Fear?" The maniac's eyes thinned as he slowly drew out the syllables, his tone growing increasingly menacing until it was thick with hellish intent. "What do you know of such things, worm? What does a goat-herder really know about the depths of fear?"

From his cloak he drew a machete. The other's eyes widened as he tried to measure the brutal intentions of the American in the black cloak, dreadfully realizing he was probably mistaken. Even here, in this remote place where most of imperial America and its ways were a mystery, he knew the monster that leaned over him with blade in hand. A man that even the radical imams spoke of in hushed whispers about was one to be feared.

Though he knew not why he was here, he recognized Bruce Shanahan. And he knew death wasn't far behind. He was only thankful it would be quick, and paradise would await soon. He'd done his part for it.

Then he heard the pigs, and their high-pitched death squeals. In that moment he felt a terror like he never knew was possible. Paradise, bliss eternal, being denied.

"Allah...Allah..." he prayed through clenched eyes.

"He isn't here today, desert rat," the other whispered. As he spoke he smeared pig's blood down the blade, watching as a stream of it stained the dust beside al-Yarqawi. More of the villagers screamed as they were herded to the square to share in his fate, and to know damnation. He could see the Muslim was horrified and couldn't suppress a smile. "Welcome to Hell."



* * *



Murray Strouse watched from atop a crag through binoculars as the carnage continued. Dust stung his eyes and blasted his face, burning. He cringed and pulled his cloak closer as the desert howled and attacked him, seemingly as enraged as the radicals had been below. Or perhaps just desperate to protect its secrets. That was always a possibility in places like this, remote and primal.

The others did likewise as the storm surged around them, threatening to break sight to what happened in the distance. Father Shanahan had warned of the fury of the Earth and how it would be rekindled with their arrival in these hallowed lands. Ever since he'd nearly opened the gates, storms unceasingly followed the Bringer of the Black Gospel. It was as if even nature recognized him as an enemy, a potential destroyer. It wouldn't forget how the man had threatened to tear it apart almost a year ago.

Screams and shots ascended from the valley below. There would be no witnesses. The history of what happened here would be penned by the conquerers, by the damned and the followers of the void, and it would read however they decided it would.

"The gatekeepers are neutralized," Strouse calmly proclaimed.

"Brother Strouse?" It was Samson Cain from inside the cave. He sounded excited. "We've found it."
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