Second Sun

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You know, if past cannot be changed then how it is possible to return from a trip forward in time? From the point of view of someone living in 2700 those travelers from 70s taking back ship designs changed history, and that should not be possible.

You are correct, and this will be explained soon-ish.

Oh, that's not good.
Don't suppose by some miracle we have a tool available to check for HUPs?
It's probably just something done by the suspect, but if HUPs are here we need to let HQ know.
If not, well.
Begin careful approach to house, safeties off.

>Those look like HUPs induced crucifixions, Hanged Men.
>Keaton somehow knows of the Hanged Men and has been spreading word of the Demarcation

The Demarcation, you think. Whoever did this knows the Demarcation.

You follow Whicker up the front walk to the house, a series of stone slabs half sunk in mud. You turn your safety off. A slew of rodents' bones sit near the front door - mostly groundhogs and squirrels. Deer skeletons are laid out in the grass to dry in the sun.

"You think he's here?" you say.

"I don't know. The truck's here," says Whicker. "He could be taking a walk."

"What's with all the bones?"

Whicker laughs nervously. "Hell, I don't know-"

The death stench gets even more powerful at the door. Nicole, you think. The front door is a flimsy screen over a sheet of plywood, the wood warped and crawling with flies that leap buzzing as you push through. The smell is heavy, seems to weigh down on you - coats your tongue, your sinuses, seems to expand in your mouth like a sponge. Wet fur, shit, death. Your eyes water.

"Nicole?" you call out.

The air is alive, humming - flies bump against you, Whicker with you. A dim front room. A carpet of animal pelts covers the walls, striped raccoon hides, grey squirrels, brown groundhogs - the realization hits you that you're looking at a mural made of fur, hollows and valleys, the skin of white rabbits as snow-capped peaks. Mountains - a mural of mountains, made of fur.

"Nicole?" you call again, the rot-infused air pouring into your lungs as you breathe. A fly crawls across your lips and you flinch, blowing it aside. You fear them, fear what the flies might mean - fear finding Nicole's body. Not here, not here-

"RCMP," Whicker says. "Federal agents."

You move through into an adjoining room, gun leveled - a larger room with a corner kitchen and a television with foil-wrapped rabbit ears. Family Feud. Nazi flags adorn the walls and are stapled to the ceiling. Black flags, SS streaking them in white bolts. Emerald flags with white stag heads, antlers cradling swastikas. Psycho, you think - but you're scared, like you've found the gateway to Hell. Mountain Dew and Pabst empties litter the floor, writhing with black ants.

"Here," says Whicker. "Over here."

A hall extends to the back rooms of the house, a hall lined with mismatched mirrors hung in a random scatter. Something on the hall floor is wrapped in garbage bags, a body, the plastic so thick with slivers of white maggots and flies that it looks like the bag is crawling. Whicker wraps his hand in his sleeve, pulls at the plastic - you expect Nicole's pale face, but the face is covered in black fur, toothless red gums, eyes like black marbles.

"Jesus," says Whicker, jumping back. "Is that a fucking bear?"

You continue down the mirrored hall, your image a multitude of reflections. What is this place? On some level, though, you understand the design. Recognition blooms. The mirrors in the hall, your reflections... something about this place tugs at your memory, and you think of snowy climes, hiking through drifts in your orange space suit, so cold the wind is sharded with ice. You pass a bathroom, then a bedroom - a mattress on the floor, a duffel bag at the foot of the bed. You follow the mirrors to the back bedroom, the master, and when you look inside, you hear yourself scream.

Leon Resnick has hanged himself from a tree made of bones - a sculpture of a tree, bones and iron and copper wire, the walls and ceiling of the room paneled with mirrors so the hanged man's reflection is an endless recursion. He dangles from skeletal branches, his face bloated, his tongue a purple bulge. Obese, his great white body wriggling with flies. You step closer, your weapon leveled but your hands shaking, and see yourself reflected along with the dead man. This place is a representation. You're overwhelmed by a sensation of returning. The mirrored hall and the bone tree in this mirrored room is uncovering memories you've worked to diminish over the years, the memory of your crucifixion, the roar of the black river below you. These rooms, though, are like a prodding finger. You remember ice, remember the air shimmering around you like a congregation of mirrors. You saw the tree when you were in the Demarcation, a tree the color of bleached bones, infinitely repeated. Resnick reconstructed the scene as if he pulled the landscape from your mind.

"Let's go," says Whicker, putting his hands on your shoulders, trying to lead you away. "Nicole's not here. Let's go."

What do you do?