[The Secret World] Kingsmouth - Interview with Sheriff Helen Bannerman

Venue: The Secret World
Created by: Funcom
Location: Sheriff's Office, Kingsmouth, Solomon Island, Maine

Interview with Sheriff Helen Bannerman

1 November 2013

Immediately after the start of 
the Solomon Island blockade incident

Sheriff Helen Bannerman is a resident of Kingsmouth and the primary contact for what little remains of the population. Fairly pragmatic about her situation she had us help with a number of tasks for a willing pair of hands, especially if they were armed.

Me: Sheriff we are here to help.

Helen: Heck if I know where you folks keep coming from. But anyone who walks through that door alive pretty much gets my amnesty. Something in your past colors you sourly to a badge, I'd ask you to call it quits in return. We agreeable?  

Me: Yes Ma'am.

Helen: Well then. I'm Sheriff Bannerman. And this down-home little state of emergency is what's left of my jurisdiction.  Sure we tried to hold as much of the town as we could, at first. More out of nostalgia than any civil defense plan. I won't tell you Kingsmouth was a slice of heaven in a snow globe... but it was ours. Now it ain't.

There was always something running under in this town, maybe what's spilled out now.  If that's how it works, I couldn't say hand on heart we didn't have it coming.  But that fog, and the things in it, they didn't pick and choose when they came in. Most folks didn't stand a chance.

Now, I can see you're armed, I won't kick up and fuss about that.  Straight truth is you'll need to be. Just don't go thinking that means you're deputized or such.  Heaven knows, if there was ever a time and place for the right to bear 'em, you're looking at it.  Henry has his Word of God, that Roget woman has her crystal ball and Norma out on the point's got a 12-gauge.  My money's on Norma.

Me: How are you holding up Sheriff?

Helen: Well, I don’t mind telling you, this makes no damn sense to me. And I hate to be the one drawing a blank on Final Jeopardy. But right now, folks just need me to look like I’ve got all the answers. The questions, they come later, along with the grieving. Then after a little time, folks’ll lose their hankering for the questions. Fact is, a few of ‘em in high places get downright evasive about it. I never do quit. It’s a bad habit. I’m just a sheriff after all, not some forensic detective like on that CSI. Thought I had it the worst when the ravens came around, years ago. Was an ugly time for Kingsmouth, not the kind that makes it to the news. The kind we keep inside. Now I see those ravens are all back in town. They with you, or should I be bringing them in for questioning?

Me: No, we don't have anything to do with those but its probably connected to what's going on.  What about the rest of Solomon Island?

Helen: If you’re planning on striking out of town, Kingsmouth hospitality dictates I gotta set you right. And I need you to keep this on the down-low, but there’s worse out there than our undead problem. Worse than anything that shuffles on two legs, that’s for sure. I’m about as pleased as can be that I didn’t catch a better look. Could be the kinda thing that gives a nightmare nightmares. You want to stay in the light, keep out of the trees, out of the fog. We’ve got a few folks left holding out across the island. Well…there was last time I could check, and I’m an optimist. Pays to see the donut, not the hole. Red’s shack at Tolba Bay, the Innsmouth Academy, the Wabanaki Indian grounds – they should still be safe. Could be the others like you, that Wolf fella, have set up camp out there. Toasting marshmallows and such. And steer clear of the pumpkin patch, hey? Just a feeling.

Me: We will have to keep an eye out for survivors and see about shoring up their defenses.  How did you survive when the Fog rolled in?

Helen: Guess you could say I got lucky. Around the time this mess kicked off, I was up at the old lighthouse, checkin’ in on Sam Krieg. Maine’s best-selling export. Oh sure, we do that fancy book-learnin’ round these parts too. Never much cared for horror stories, or the man himself. Wavin’ a rifle around in a dressing-gown, juiced up, heck of a disturbance of the peace. Well, turns out that was the last of the peace. “I gotta write this down, Sheriff, this is goddamn manna from heaven,” he says to me when the fog let go. I left him magnuming that opus and high-tailed it back to town. Tried to bring Ellie Franklin with me, but kingdom coming couldn’t pry her from that mansion. Real-monster house in the west island, you can’t miss it. I’d appreciate you letting them know we’re still here, for when they’re done playing survivalists.

Me: Will do. Deputy Gardener made it sound like there has been a little bit of strange business over the last century on Solomon Island.  How has your term as sheriff been before now? (Beginning of Mission: Supply Run)

Helen: Ain't this a heck of a thing. Three years without firing a shot, other than putting down some animal got itself hit by a truck. These past nights we've gone through bullets like candy at Halloween. I used a jail cell to dry out old paperwork, mostly, or Bill Dexter when he'd had a bad one. Now I've got all these good folks good as locked in here, and no sleeping it off for the morning either. The way things are headed, I'm seeing us outlasting our supplies. Not by much, if it comes to that. Andy finds what he can, but with the cruisers stuck propping up the barricade...So I'm obliged to anyone who'll poke around town apiece, bring in the essentials. We can call it requisitioning. I don't think the store owners will be writing this one off as an act of God.

Helen: The survivors and what's left of my police force at the station are running out of supplies. Could you go around to the stores and businesses of Kingsmouth and look for food and other things we might need?

Me: Sure, we will get started.  Is there anything else we can do to help? (Beginning of Mission: Horror Show)

Helen: Well. Sure wasn't in our yearly budget to put the town under martial law. No, the good old boys on the council were all about thrifty spending – at least above the table. So I squirrelled away where I could for some surveillance equipment. Police business, sure, let's call it “civic awareness.” I'm talking your web cams, your motion sensors- Aw, don't look so surprised. Kingsmouth might be out in the sticks, but we have electricity and everything. Running water in tourist season. Come back when this whole damn mess has blown over, I'll give you the tour far as the old lighthouse. But to get to the point of it. Seems to me we should bring the gear out of the mothballs and get it hooked up around town. Gives me some early warning, and the others a break from my collection of Jeopardy reruns.

Helen: So, I believe that mounting that surveillance equipment near the police station could provide advance warning of any impending attacks. We needs help to find useful equipment around town.

Me: You got it.  One last question Sheriff, did you know any of this was real before now?

Helen: You sure you want to be talkin’ to me about all this stuff? I mean, I’m probably flattered that you think I’m in on it all. Truth is, I’m always the last to be invited to the midnight meetings at Town Hall. Reckon I must be all thumbs when it comes to secret handshakes. I know this island’s cut from a different cloth, a damn weird cloth. Sure as there’s a difference between being homely and being plain stupid. Take it from me, no one round these parts is a dope, not all the time. Everybody knows, or knows someone who knows. Salem’s got nothin’ on us, we had an episode with torches and pitchforks only..pfff twenty-five years ago now? But my job, I gotta do it wearin’ this police jacket, not a robe and wizard hat.

Mission "Supply Run" Faction After Action Reports

FROM: The Dragon
TO: Dante Zelas (D17) of the Shadowfang
SUBJECT: Supply Run
Your report offers insight into the landscape of Kingsmouth. Further mapping of the town will be essential going further.
Do not be fooled by the stubbornness of local law enforcement. The sheriff's battle with the dead is the equivalent of a clumsy shogi game - one in which neither player can see more than one move ahead.
Chaos is the only authority in the region.


The Labyrinth (The Illuminati)
TO: Casstiel (Mastigos) of the Five Horsemen
SUBJECT: Supply Run
The efforts of local law enforcement are symbolic at best. You're there to contain the situation and find out what happened, not be the gofer for a lost cause.
However, your data on Kingsmouth's layout is useful and we want more. We need to know as much as possible about hotspots of activity in order to form an action plan.
Fun fact: the town's population is 1,547 and we're estimating a 98% conversion rate.
Ciao-ciao


FROM: Temple Hall
TO: Eos (M-Eos) of Malleus Maleficarum
SUBJECT: Supply Run
Aiding the locals in the face of the inevitable – your tenacity is admirable, though perhaps a bit blue-eyed.
On a positive note, you have provided us with some useful data of Kingsmouth Town. We have a clearer picture of the situation at hand… and it doesn’t look good, at least for the unfortunate civilian population. But we still have a decent chance of containing the threat, and that’s what you’re there for.

R. Sonnac

Mission "Horror Show" Faction After Action Reports

FROM: The Dragon
TO: Dante Zelas (D17) of the Shadowfang
SUBJECT: Horror Show
Very well,
Data from these cameras is being transferred to important monitors. Eyes will be assigned to watch these monitors at all times. Now the Dragon will see our enemies in Kingsmouth, as well as the enemies of our enemies - the Templars and the Illuminati.
The cleaning man - he showed symptoms of a very rare, very old disease. He was not like the living, and not like the dead. Tentacles do not come from the head without reasons.
Please provide more information about reasons.


FROM: The Labyrinth (The Illuminati)
TO: Casstiel (Mastigos) of the Five Horsemen
SUBJECT: Horror Show
Good news,
Data from your surveillance system is now feeding into our server. This means we have visual contact with the enemy and can make more detailed assessments of the situation. It also means I can keep tabs on you.
The janitor in the basement showed signs of a strange tentacular mutation. Disgusting, frankly. It's not clear if he boobytrapped his surroundings to protect himself or to try and protect others. Regardless, it was clever, and that's not something we like to see from our enemies.
Keep me posted on all tentacle-related phenomena.
KG


FROM: Temple Hall
TO: Eos (M-Eos) of Malleus Maleficarum
SUBJECT: Horror Show
Good news,
The camera system you've installed is up and running on our end as well. It is tactically useful for the local officers to see incoming threats. However, we are particularly keen to analyse visual data of the enemy from an R&D perspective.
The janitor you encountered showed symptoms of an unfamiliar infection. There were signs of humanity in the midst of his tentacular mutation. We hesitate to classify him without more data.

R. Sonnac

FROM THE BUZZING:  (Lore: The Lady Margaret)

Our wisdow flows so sweet. Taste and see.

TRANSMIT - initiate New England signal - RECEIVE - initiate the Caledfwlch frequency - THE WEATHER STARTED GETTING ROUGH, THE TINY SHIP WAS TOSSED - initiate echinoderm syntax - WITNESS - Lady Margaret.

 Entry 1 - Caledfwlch is the Welsh name for the sword Excalibur
 Entry 1 - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Echinoderm Echinoderm] is a Phylum of animals that include starfish, sea urchin, and sea cucumbers

There is a horror story bobbing in Kingsmouth's harbour. Its name is Lady Margaret. Listen.
Eee-ah! Eee-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

The story is encoded in seagull cries. The seagulls eat the bloated bodies, and in the alchemy of their bellies those dead secrets fuse to the essence of the birds.

Owah! Owah-ow-ow-owah!

Can you decipher it, sweetling? No? Those vestigial bits have not fully developed yet - your skull is in its pupa stage - but they spasm when you hear the ranting of the gulls. We can decipher. The gory story drips into the tides, one part per million, and still we can taste it. We will regurgitate it to you - feed you as a mama bird does.

Initiate the seagull scream cadence.

They thought the fishing boat lost. Then it returned to port weeks overdue. It brought no relief. It brought no comfort. It only brought the fog.

Eee-ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-owah!

A great storm caught the crew of the Lady Margaret - twisting clouds and waves as tall as houses washing over the deck. Prayers were said, the final kind. The tempest beat the boat, and the crew scrambled to save their cargo. In their toil, a sudden swell washed a mate overboard. The rest watched helplessly as their fellow's head rose twice with the waves. There was no third time.
The waters calmed, and the Lady Margaret remained. A thick fog crept in like a cancer. Mechanical madness. None of the instruments worked. The crew tried to maneuver the craft, but there were no bearings, no direction, no mercy from the sea.

Time passes, first in hours, then in days.

The fog parted as a freak show curtain, revealing a graveyard of ships. Rusty steel, ancient wood Dhows, Viking long-boats, modern frigates, oil tankers, and luxury cruise liners - they all dipped and bobbed in the same water - vessels from all times, all cultures, all covered in red.

What happened next, sweetling? Seagulls are compulsive liars. Let us say an object was found, floating on a driftwood raft. Let us say that a man, designation Joe Slater, dove in and brought it up. Let us say that at that moment, the fog closed on the Lady Margaret with the purpose of a vampire squid's mantle.

Perhaps the boat rotated, caught in the beginnings of a maelstrom. Perhaps the men looked upon the rotting hulks and saw the glistening movement of lean, slimy bodies writhing in red seaweed like undead otters cracking open skulls for their fruit. Perhaps the fog and the dark conspired to play tricks.
There are fragments of older tales embedded in the seagull screams - mariners' tales of things birthed in dead bodies and dark water. Putrid souls, stippled with eel holes, these unquiet dead, these hungry dead, with their milk-cataract stare. A few seagulls even remember the name. Draug-draug-draug-draug!

We can suppose the Lady Margaret fled both maelstrom and monsters. The engine came back to life. Some instruments found lucidity. The boat made it's way back to Kingsmouth. The fishermen kept the strange object they found to themselves. Some argued to sell it on the Internet. Others said it should be brought to Innsmouth Academy for identification. They decided to bring it to the esoteric school.
The next day brought the fog. Time passes, first in screams and then in moans.

Joe Slater is the only one left. One by one, his fellows, went away, like the deceptively vicious plot of a children's rhyme. Each is a tiny story in the belly of a different gull. And then there was Joe. But he is just barely Joe. Perhaps it was the object, or the primordial soup he swam through to get it, that passed on the fish-oil leprosy.

It started with stomach spasms that felt like writhing lamprey nests hatching in his belly. Then Joe could hear the hag-fish singing in the crushing depths, even when he pretended he could not, even with the Q-tips snapped in half is his bloody ears. Madness bubbled in his brain like the bends. Then pale flesh. Then barnacle sores and wriggling growths and sea cucumber discharges. Now Joe feels the itch and burn as different species of coral battle for primacy of his chest, splitting up their digestive enzymes in time-lapse warfare. Something scuttles out of one body cavity to be eat by something hiding in another.


And though the seagulls scream a hundred thousand stories, all Joe can hear is, "Draug-draug-draug-draug-draug!"