Director Thompson, a man whose career had been built on navigating the labyrinthine corridors of power, slowly lowered his phone onto the polished surface of his desk. His usually composed features were etched with a blend of disbelief and mounting frustration. To think. To truly comprehend that nestled within the very agency he now led, there existed a department dedicated entirely to paranormal activities. And only now, in the midst of a public relations catastrophe involving a literal alien, had they chosen to make their presence known.
As the newly appointed Director, the fact that he hadn't been informed of their existence prior was a profound, unsettling mystery, a gaping hole in his meticulously crafted understanding of the CIA. But, he grudgingly admitted, it was better late than never.
He leaned back in his leather chair, running a hand over his bald head. The initial briefing file was a stark contrast to the agency's typical meticulous records. These agents, this department, had no discernible record on any conventional CIA file. They operated with an almost alarming degree of semi-independence, moving through the agency's ecosystem like ghosts.
And then there was the most extraordinary detail: they possessed psychic abilities. Thompson let out a low whistle. He'd always dismissed the conspiracy theories about the CIA's mind-bending experiments as exaggerated Cold War folklore. Now, presented with irrefutable, internal documentation, he had to admit: those CIA mind experiments, projects like Project MKUltra and Stargate, really had yielded some results.
His gaze returned to the file, his fingers fumbling slightly as he flipped to a section ominously marked 'Internal Threats.' The revelations continued to assault his carefully constructed worldview, each page a fresh crack in the foundation of his reality. There was mention of splinter Esper groups, rogue psychics who had broken away from the sanctioned department, now operating in the shadows, fueled by the seemingly bottomless coffers of an unknown party.
But the bizarre didn't stop there. The file detailed clandestine cults worshiping ancient, nameless gods, performing rituals in forgotten corners of the American wilderness. It spoke of Skinwalkers, entities eerily similar to the 'alien' incident in New York—beings that could shed and wear human guises, prowling the desolate expanses of the Southwest. There were references to localized Hell Gates, tears in the fabric of reality through which unspeakable things occasionally bled into the mundane world.
The scope widened, reaching beyond the US borders. The document hinted at ancient Wizard and Knight Orders still operating in Europe, maintaining a centuries-old vigilance against magical threats. It spoke of a powerful Lich, a being of immense necromantic power, somehow still clinging to unlife and currently sealed in Russia. There were even fleeting, almost poetic mentions of a mysterious 'Garden', an anomalous zone of impossible flora and fauna in the Amazon. And a brief dossier on Yokai from Japan, indigenous supernatural entities now confirmed to be strangely very active of late.
Thompson slammed the file shut, the thud echoing in the sudden silence of his office. His mind reeled. His entire career had been built on tangible threats, on geopolitical chess games, on intelligence gathered through satellites and human assets. Now, he was being told that reality was a thin veneer over a teeming, hidden world of psychics, ancient evils, shapeshifters, and literal magic. The alien in the Bronx was just the tip of an iceberg, or perhaps, a single, horrifying scale of some leviathan he was now expected to deal with. He had inherited far more than just the Director's chair; he'd inherited a Pandora's Box he never knew existed.
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A few days had passed since the global chaos erupted from The President's alien tweet, and Director Thompson was, against all odds, starting to get used to the headache. The latest crisis, however, was of their own making. Another leak, carefully orchestrated this time, was designed to be a blinding flash of distraction. Military plans for a full invasion of Canada, Greenland, and Panama – a 'joke' by The President, now accompanied by suspiciously authentic-looking documentation – had been released to the press. Naturally, the targeted nations and the liberal factions within the United States were at an uproar, their outrage echoing across international airwaves. But Director Thompson, his priorities fundamentally shifted in the last seventy-two hours, frankly couldn't care less about them.
His focus was entirely consumed by the thin file that lay open on his desk, and chilling briefing he'd just received from an agent from the CIA's newly revealed Paranormal Department. The Agent spoke with unnerving calm about threats that Thompson, just a week ago, would have dismissed as psychotic delusions.
They had thoroughly investigated the alien discovered in New York. And what they found was far more disturbing than a simple rogue extraterrestrial. This was another shapeshifter entity, distinct in both its disguise and intelligence from the 'Skinwalkers' mentioned in his initial briefing. These beings had deeply blended into the population, not just mimicking, but seemingly learning and evolving with terrifying speed. The primary affected area was heavily concentrated in New York, but the infection had already begun to spread to nearby states like New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Vermont. However, their numbers there were still small and, for now, had been brought under control, making New York the immediate epicenter.
Unlike the individual Skinwalkers, these creatures seemed more numerous and possessed the horrifying ability to assimilate their hosts, much like a parasite. The method of infection remained unknown. However, the Paranormal Department had identified a crucial weakness: fire and high temperatures.
The Agent request was direct. "Director, we can deal with this problem," she stated, "but our numbers are currently allocated on containing the Hell Gates. Resolving this current alien issue quickly, before it spreads further, will take more time than we have if we remain at current staffing. We require additional assets, specifically those capable of rapid deployment and large-scale thermal application."
Thompson leaned back, a grim, humorless smile touching his lips. He looked at the file, then back at the impassive agent. The irony was bitter, almost poetic. His country was tearing itself apart over fictional invasions and real immigration, while an invisible, parasitic threat grew in its most populous city. He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Well," he quipped, the absurdity of the situation briefly overriding his dread, "instead of ICE, it looks like we need FIRE."