Location: United States; Detroit, Michigan; 48242; Detroit Metropolitan Airport

Source: Camouflaged microphone audio provided by Foundation Internal Security.

Background: Descriptions and photos of POI-95172 were distributed to agents stationed in transit hubs as part of a broader seek-and-snag operation. FIS agent Christopher Arundel approached an individual believed to be POI-95172 within a restaurant located near Gate 93 of the airport's McNamara Terminal.

Playing audio file now…

There's less for your mind to build on this time, trained and talented though it is. Just sounds. Just rustling napkins, clinking travel mugs, and the rumble of tired conversation. You sink in anyway. Toes, and ankles, and legs. You hold your breath as it washes over. Subsuming, then drowning. Breaths catch and freeze. Heartbeats race and slip. You look across the table at a person with far too much blood on her hands.

She looks exhausted. Hungover, maybe, if you had any confidence that wasn't an act. Subdued blue eyes don't fit the description you were given, and long blonde hair doesn't match the still frame you saw, but it feels right. Feelings are never amiss. Failure only stems from reactions, and your stilled face shows none.

"Where're you off to?" you ask before sipping from an overly-hot, overly-strong cup of coffee. Falling into character is easy, familiar, and comfortable.

"Mexico," she says before sighing and rubbing the palm of one hand against a red-rimmed eye. "I was supposed to be hiking with my friends, but there's this whole thing, and now I'd rather just sleep the whole time."

"Run into some trouble with your friends? That's always rough."

"Something like that, yeah."

She sips from her own cup, and your fingers curl around the panic button sewn into your jacket's lining. Feelings are never amiss, but they can mislead. Any sign of latent injuries will make things clear. A glance under those long bangs. A hint of bandages along the ribs. Help would arrive in minutes, and you would be wined, lauded, and promoted.

"Want to talk it out? Having a second set of ears never hurts."

"Sure, why not?" She yawns, covering a wide mouth with a hand covered in scrapes, scabs, and bruises. You stare a second longer than necessary to commit everything to memory. "Oh, but does the black moon howl?"

If you show any reaction at all, it's subdued. An eyebrow twitched, maybe, or an ear. Perhaps your eyes drifted away for a second, or your breath hitched. Whatever it is, it's enough. Her eyes harden. Her hand falls. Everything stills, as if in witness to what would transpire. Your fingers still too. Years of imagining what circumstances might require pressing that button fall short. They utterly fail to capture the creature sitting before you.

"Funny how everyone thinks those words are magic, isn't it?" she chirps, fingers tightening around a plastic fork. "Funny how ingrained they get. Put your hands on the table, alright? Or I'll have to pop your eyes out. Neither of us wants that."

Your hand lingers a second longer, then moves away. Button unpressed, sweat beading, you spread your fingers on the crumb-covered table. A hundred-pound advantage isn't enough to breed confidence when faced with such malignancy. Maybe two-hundred wouldn't be either. As if reading your doubts, a thin smile creeps across her face. Thin, gnarled, vile. It belongs on an aged war criminal content in old atrocities, not a twenty-something sitting in an airport Chipotle.

"What do you want?" you ask.

"I want you to swallow this." She produces a pill from one of her coat's many pockets. It's small, unmarked, and bright pink.

"What is it?"

"Think of it like an amnestic. We take them all the time."

"But what is it? Poison would make me forget too."

She just smiles. Shivers run up your spine, then down it. Sweat drenches your undershirt, then your shirt too. She toys with the fork's dull tongs, thumb pressing against each in turn. You blink. Acknowledging the very presence of your eyes feels awful, but more pressing thoughts fill your mind. If a quiet suicide is being requested, shouldn't you force a commotion at least? Don't you have that duty despite being abandoned in a dead-end post?

"A lot of people are going to die if you don't take it," she says cheerfully. "First, you. Then, everybody else who tries to stop me. Airport security. Police. Your backup. Whichever other traitors the Foundation sends after me. People caught in the crossfire. People who see me by mistake. People who have things I need. That's a lot, isn't it? Do you want that on your conscience? Just take the pill. You'll wake up in a few days, and there won't be any blood on your hands."

"You'll do worse things if I do."

She only smiles again. It's a bloody oath in shape, and a dreadful vow in spirit. You slowly move, reaching again for the panic button. Your shaking fingers wrap around the pill instead. It tastes like nothing at all, and feels like chalk going down your throat. Tears well up deep in their ducts. Across the table, a monster stares as your vision blurs and darkness encroaches. Uncaring faces of fellow patrons melt and drip. Lights swirl and burn. Atop her head sits a giant blue bird, and its tiny black eyes are the most hateful by far.

More chirps are recorded even after your consciousness has faded in full. Each is vibrant and violent. "You'll see soon, assholes. I'll show you what happens when you stab someone in the back. You aren't the only ones with teeth to spare."

When you're yourself again, each breath feels like sandpaper. Throat arid, tongue fossilized, all you can do is cough.

