Present Time

Chris came into his apartment and tossed his mail on the table. He'd spent the night down at the pub, and just felt like lying down and sleeping. He moved to his bed, coated in research materials and his laptop. The laptop was placed on his bedside table, but the papers were quick to learn that Chris wasn't in the mood for organizing as he fell down right on top of them. A book on Incan cultures found its new home under his bed, unlikely to see the light of day for weeks. Chris, callously uncaring for his research, drifted to sleep.



Light streamed in through the window on to Chris's face. It is to this he opened his eyes, fully able to experience the pounding headache from his night out drinking. He immediately put his hand up to shield from the outside, groaned and slowly rolled out of bed. He moved to his window and closed it. No need to make his head any worse. He slowly stumbled his way to the kitchen, only to find his laptop sitting open on the table. He turned it on and found that a full act had been added to his most recent project.

I don't remember doing that... he thought, noting that he needed to go back and check the work he'd done in his booze-haze. He closed the laptop and moved toward his fridge for some semblance of breakfast.

Eventually he sat down with a coffee and some toast and started to read through his alcohol-induced frenzy. He was affronted by the complete lack of grammar and spelling, but otherwise the story seemed to be in good shape. He saved the new version and moved on to his mail. Bills, bills... an advertisement for the 'Adult Superstore'.... That went straight to the trash. And a letter--Who sends letters anymore? he thought--with no return address. Intrigued, he opened it.

A blue keycard fell out on to the table. Chris picked it up and examined it. There was a fingerprint on the side with the magnetic scanner, and on the other some kind of blue logo designed around an image of the globe. There were no discernible features, other than a message telling him to call customer service. He put it down next to his computer and started reading the letter.



Chris put the letter down, suppressing laughter. Clearly someone with his address had thought it would be hilarious to wind him up a little. Either that, or some nutbag was sending these letters out to everyone who'd ever posted anything in a conspiracy chat room. Chris swore he hadn't ever used his real information in one of those places, but you never know. Some people-especially people who were obsessed with 'uncovering' secret agents, were good about that stuff. He tossed the letter in the trash and went back to his writing.

After ten minutes of staring at the blinking line, continuing to taunt him, he found his hand twirling the blue card which had been left on the table. He looked more closely at it, about to send it to join its letter friend in the trash, but still curious as to what it meant. He looked at his page, waiting for any last-minute ideas to strike him before he went off on one of his crazy people-research binges.

None came. He sighed, knowing what he was about to start doing to himself, and opened up Google. Several variations of "blue earth" "world logo" and "earth fingerprint logo" he finally got a match to what he saw on his card. The fourth result for "blue earth logo fingerprint" in images led him to the information page of a private intelligence agency, DI ACT1.

Time to test the legitimacy of his letter. After trawling through the website for a few more minutes, he found a customer service number. With the letter in hand (having recently grabbed it from his trash bin), Chris checked the time. 7:30. 16 hours... the mail arrived at his house around 5... Assuming that's when the stranger was counting from, he had another hour and a half to make his decision.

Chris dialed the number, and received an automated service. After twenty minutes of go-around, he put down the phone and gave up. He picked up the letter again. It was hard to focus on--his hangover was not making it easy to think straight. The words kept blurring as his eyes tried adjusting to the light of the room. For this reason, he didn't notice for another ten minutes that the date was written incorrectly.

Well, he needed a phone number. Chris dialed. "The number you have reached is not currently available. Please try again." "Apparently not..." He went back to staring at the letter. He could have sworn he was on to something. An idea suddenly occurred to him. He picked up the phone again. 00-1*-303-180-8201. US area code for Denver... He listened for the ring.

He once again received none. He scanned through the letter one last time, before realizing something. He added in the extra numbers from the letter-1316-and redialed. 00-1-808-201-1316. He waited for the ring, Googling this new area code. Hawaii?

The phone rang seven times before the automated voice answered, “Aloha! You are either lucky or incredibly smart, my yet unknown friend. Surely, you find yourself perplexed, the way one is after learning such information, by the unreality of the situation, the impossibility it presents to the mind. I feel I must apologize to you for the unfortunate danger I’ve placed you. In time you will understand. Also, please forgive the impersonal, electronic voice of the IVM system...it seemed the most practical method of communicating with everyone.

Your journey begins at DIA. You are aware of the conspiracy theories surrounding Denver Airport, the murals, the NOW time capsule, and the underground military base. What has been said is not all true and not to far off from the truth. There is more to DIA than meets the eye, obviously, which you will soon witness yourself. When you arrive at DIA show the keycard, I sent you, to the security guard whit the same world logo on the left sleeve of his uniform. He will be by the westside carousels ten-to-nineteen. Ask him where you can catch the train. Follow his instructions. Unfortunately I cannot meet you, but you will meet the others.” The conversation ended and the line went dead.

Chris redialled the number two more times, transcribing the automated message. Once he was sure he had it, he read through the information given and returned to the internet. Wikipedia time, he thought, looking through the article. There was a video on it as well--clearly this person believed that there was some kind of base beneath the airport. Still, it was an interesting opportunity, and there was certainly a market for conspiracy stories at the moment.

Chris began to book a flight out to the DIA. He could get a start on the flight.



Chris arrived at the airport three days later, and once his passport was settled he began searching for the security guard mentioned on the phone. After searching for half an hour, he sat down in the baggage area and pulled out his laptop, ready to start his video diary.

"I've just arrived at DIA, the Denver International Airport, to go on some crazy conspiracy hunt set up by this 'Historian.'. I did some research on the plane, and whatever this thing is, he believes it goes all the way back to Egyptian mythology. How it all ties together is unclear, and it's hard to get a glimpse of how this guy thinks without meeting him in person. I'm assuming it does all tie together, of course, and that he's not just seeing things that aren't there. I have yet to see a security guard fitting the description I was given, and if I don't see one soonI'm going to catch a train up to my cousin in Washington. Linx out."

He closed the diary and looked up to see the crowd from his flight had thinned out and left it easier to see the guard across the room. He reached into his pocket and walked over, showing the guard the keycard. "Excuse me, but where can I catch the train?"

Matt fumbled around for his keys in the dark outside his friend's home. He had been staying there ever since the fire. When he finally managed to get the correct key and get it in the lock, he pushed on the door a little too hard and fell to the floor on the other side. By the time he managed to stand, the lights were flipped on and Thomas was standing in the hallway with a bat. He sighed in relief at the sight of his drunken friend. "Damn man!" Thomas shouted. "You scared the shit out of me, Matt!"

Matt blinked several times, adjusting to the light. "Sorry, man," he mumbled. "I had a few jrinks an' a libble troutle wif da door." He grabbed the door trying not to lose his balance. Before he knew it he fell to the floor unconscious.

Matt awoke several hours later. He had been moved to his bed and was still dressed the same clothes as last night. The sun hardly came into his room through his dark curtains. It was nice. He could barely see a thing. It helped to keep him calm, what with the loss of his wife and daughter only two weeks ago. He reached to his side and turned on the light. He swung his legs off the bed and stepped onto the floor. Crouching down, he opened the drawer of his bedside table. As he opened, he started to reach a hand in, but he paused. His bottle of whiskey was gone. It was a good thing he had stopped getting hangovers since the first time he got blackout drunk, or else, he would be more than extremely annoyed right now.

Annoyed, he stood back up and walked to his closet. He opened it up, and his mini-fridge was gone. "Damn it, Thomas!" He opened his door and made his way to the kitchen. He saw all of his bottles next to the sink, empty. He walked over and a note caught his eye. The note read:

Matt, you need to quit the drinking. I did this for you, buddy. We'll talk some when I get home from work.

Matt just looked at the empty bottles and walked over to the table to sit down. An envelope caught his eye. It was addressed to him. A little confused, he picked it up to examine it. "No return address..." Out of pure curiosity he opened it. Anything to distract him from the situation. Reaching in, he pulled out a letter and a card. It had some sort of world logo on one side and a fingerprint on the other. It said to call customer service. "Hmm... No number."

Tossing the card onto the table, Matt took a look at the letter. After reading through the letter, he sat in thought for a moment. His first thought was that someone on /b/ had managed to get his address and name. However, for the sake of a distraction, he made his way to the computer. After looking up various phrases, mostly from the last paragraph, he gathered that whoever had sent this letter was just another end of the world nut.

Despite this, Matt felt like he was missing something. He looked through the letter once more. His mind then wandered back to the card. There had been no number for customer service. His eyes went to the top of the letter to see the date. There was something wrong. It was missing a single digit in the year. It seemed to leave it with seven numbers. Pulling out his cell, he dialed 180-8201. He got nothing. Hanging up the phone, he scanned the letter for more. 13 and 16 caught his eye. With those numbers added, it left a full number, area code and all. Searching the area code, it came up as a Hawaiian number. "Alright, maybe this will be interesting. Probably some troll." He dialed in 1-808-201-1316.

Matt listened to the recording over the phone. He didn't know why, but he felt drawn. He felt like he should actually go to to Denver. There it was. His curiosity and sense of adventure. It was what made him want to be a cop. The only thing that had stopped him from joining the Army was his daughter. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a coin. "Well...I am on leave," he said to himself. "Alright. Tails, I go, heads, I stay." He flipped the coin into the air. Catching it, he immediately slapped i onto his left hand. Lifting his right to see the results, it came up tails. "Looks like I'm going on a vacation."

Pushing his chair away from the computer, Matt stood up. He heard the front door open. "Must be Thomas," he concluded. He walked out into the kitchen. Thomas was standing next to the table holding the card which Matt had left.

"The hell is this thing?" Thomas inquired. "Some sort of credit card?"

"No clue, man. It was in the mail for me. And before you say anything, I understand why you did it. I shouldn't torture myself. I'll just be digging my way to an early grave. Not that that wouldn't be nice at this point."

Thomas smirked back at Matt. "Well, I'm glad you aren't pissed. I was expecting you to punch me right in the face as soon as ya saw me." He paused for a moment. "Ya know what you need to do, man. You should go on a vacation. Get your mind off of everything."

Matt couldn't stop himself from laughing. "Actually, I was about to tell you that I was going to do exactly that. Don't know where, but I'll figure that out when I get to the Airport. I really hate to say this, but I do have plenty of cash from the insurance company." He stopped, holding back a few tears. "I guess it would be a way for them to think I'm happy. I know that's what they would want. And, Tom. If you ever need anything, just ask. You've been a huge help for me."

For the next hour or so, Matt just packed his bags and talked to Thomas. Eventually, everything was ready and Thomas drove him out to the Airport. Upon arrival, Matt managed to get a a seat on the next flight to Denver. Unfortunately, he had to buy a first class ticket. Coach was packed.

By the time Matt reached Denver International, it was getting late. By the time he got off the plane, it was eight thirty. "Damn it," he said under his breath as he walked around the airport looking for the security guard. "Where the hell is he?" The guard's shift was almost up by the time he found him. Matt tried not to look very awkward as he approached the man. "Hey, man! Could you tell me where I can catch the train?" He tried not to make things seem too formal as he showed off his card.

Roy had just spend two hours in a local tea house with some colleagues and he was more than ready to relax. He liked the tea house, as it was the epitome of Turkish culture, but discussing the reliability of dating methods and the meanings of some recently discovered inscriptions in Egypt could be very tiring. Although he loved his job, he lately couldn’t help thinking that he needed a break from all of it. Maybe it was a good time to visit his parents and oldest sister in London. Or he could go to his other sister in Germany, who had married the mayor of a small village near the Alps. Contemplating the possibility of a small vacation, he opened the front door of the building he was currently living in.

He was greeted in the hallway by the landlady, a frail looking woman, but one that didn’t take no for an answer. “Good evening Mrs. Polat”. He was about to go upstairs, when the woman grabbed him by the coat. “You wait,” she said to him in broken English. She walked towards a small table and picked up a couple of envelopes. After mumbling to herself a bit, she took the third one and placed the rest back on the table. She showed him the envelope and looked rather unhappy. Roy could see it was addressed to him. Pointing towards it, she said “Man came. I paying. You pay me.” He then noticed the stamp in the right corner. The man must have been some kind of special courier, which means the delivery service wasn’t free. After paying Mrs. Polat the money, though Roy was sure she asked for more than she had originally paid, he took the envelope and went to his apartment.

After pouring himself a cold drink, he opened the envelope. Inside were a plastic keycard and a letter. The card itself was already strange, as it had no logo of a company (or at least one that he knew off) and on one side there was the depiction of a fingerprint. This was, however, nothing compared to the strangeness of the letter. Roy couldn’t really make sense of it. It had a Dan Brown-like feel to it, though much darker. The meaning of the eye in the pyramid was very obvious and some Hindu gods were mentioned, but how all of that was connected, or why it should matter to him, he didn’t know. He was about to throw the letter away, when he realised he had to pay for the damn thing.

Ow well, I could at least see what it’s about.

He picked up the phone in order to dial the number on the key card. Only then he realized that there was no number mentioned, only that it can be found. Roy took another look at the letter. He had already noticed that the date was wrong, but discarded it as a typo earlier. Those seven numbers aren’t enough though. He read the letter again and laughed when he saw the other two numbers. Dialling 18082011316.

Roy listened to the message, perplexed. Denver? He listened to the message once again, then threw the phone away. No way he was going to Denver. He stood up and took off his clothes in order to take a shower. When the hot water fell down on his body, he felt completely at peace for a moment. Then the letter and the phone message got back into his thoughts. It all sounded so crazy, so unreal. And yet he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was worth checking out.

In a moment of unexplainable impulsiveness, although nobody would hear him, he said: “Roy, you were planning on going away for a while anyway, so why not go to Denver?” He always wanted to go the Colorado. Or was it Nebraska?

------------------------

After a long flight, including a transfer in Chicago, Roy finally arrived at Denver International. While he was waiting for his luggage, the same backpack that he always took with him for the last ten years, he caught himself checking if his passport was still in his pocket for the sixth time. I must be quite nervous. He was already regretting his decision to come to this place. On the plane he had done some research into both the airport as the things mentioned in the letter, and he became more and more convinced that he had fallen victim to some elaborate joke.

He reached the westside carousels, however, before he could change his mind. Seeing the world logo on one of the sleeves of a security guard, Roy was surprised the man actually existed. “Excuse me,” he said to the guard, unsure what to do, “my name is Roy Halliday. Uhm... Are you the one that I’m supposed to talk to? About the train?” He fumbled around in his pockets and showed the man his keycard. “You know where I can catch the train?”

The guard identified himself as an assistant. Roy assumed he meant the assistant of this mysterious Historian, whoever the hell he was. He wanted to ask the guard all kinds of questions, but the tired look in the man’s eyes made him decide otherwise. Instead, he followed the man, under the impression that he was taken to the train station. While they were walking, Roy considered the possibility of identifying himself as the Archaeologist.

After walking through a number of doors, Roy had lost count, the guard had escorted him inside a room. “Wait here,” the guard said and left before Roy could say anything. He looked around the room in surprise. It was small, had a glass window to one side and the only furniture was a table and two chairs. The room resembled one of those stereotype interrogation rooms on television. As he put down his backpack and said in one of the chairs, Roy’s first thought was that he was being arrested for something. That’s not possible. The guard wouldn’t have me freely following him if that was the case. Then he thought that he had to fill out some documents, all for the sake of bureaucracy, but he found it very unlikely that something like that had to happen in a room like this.

The Historian. This must be his next stage, the part where I’m supposed to meet these ‘others’.

Knowing that this was the most likely scenario, Roy relaxed. It wasn’t what he had expected, but there was probably a good reason behind it. Now all he had to do was to wait. He took out the letter from the inside of his jacket, and starting reading it again for the, figuratively speaking, hundredth time.