Prologue
“And before the throne there was as it were a sea of glass, like crystal. And around the throne, on each side of the throne, are four living creatures, full of eyes in front and behind: the first living creature like a lion, the second living creature like an ox, the third living creature with the face of a man, and the fourth living creature like an eagle in flight. And the four living creatures, each of them with six wings, are full of eyes all around and within, and day and night they never cease to say, “Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!”
Revelation 4:6-8
JANUARY 02, 2022
Jason’s Note (Transcribed)
Nya, my sweet rose. If you’re reading this I am so sorry. There are so many things I want to explain to you. So much I want to tell you. I hope that you didn’t have to find me. If you did - I’m even more sorry. Please forgive me, even if I don’t deserve it. You are my cosmos. There are so many things I wish I could explain to you. I simply can’t. I can’t. Can’t.
The world is not what we think it is, Nya. It never was. In Antarctica, we uncovered miracles. Revelations the world is yet to understand. We found the truth. We shouldn’t have. Just know that I love you. I love you so much. Believe it or not, I’m doing this for us. For you. Please take my research and burn it. Everything else, throw it away. I need you to forget about me. Like I never existed. One day maybe you’ll understand. I hope to God you never do.
Their eyes are everywhere, Nya. They are always watching. They always have been.
***
Their red, brick house shivered. Dripping and wet. The Victorian-style building rose two stories tall atop a wooden foundation coated in layers of battered white. In front of the home laid a mixture of snow and rain that covered the lawn. Slick sheets of ice overtook the black and dried tar. The pavement was shoveled half-assed with lines across it like a square of metal. Rows of five-by-five concrete tiles lead to their home in the shape of one long and gentle brush stroke. Icicles hung from their gutters in a single file line. Ready to fall.
“Fuck.”
Nya let loose as she swung her arms like pinwheels. Her sheepskin boots failed and turned to rollerblades.
Nya’s gray peacoat was covered in snowflakes and gaining weight as frozen droplets crept inside the wool. Her black boots created small footprints behind her. Her slick black hair shone under the moonlight. Her skin was half olive half light coffee roast. Nya gently stomped the excess snow off her boots and onto the mat. On said mat read, in light brown stitching, Bitch, Don’t Wear No Shoes In My House.
She puffed warm air into her mittens. A cloud of white vapor turned to fog in her hands.
***
It was warm inside. The type of warm bugs hide under. It smelt like burning candles and pine trees. Accentuated by gentle hints of pumpkin. Nya could hear crackles from the fireplace faintly pop from within the living room. Over the creaking lumber and bursting embers, gentle singing echoed down the hallway. Spiraling off their TV. Muffled. On that TV, a woman with a satin voice sang. Serenading an audience to an orchestral cover of La Vie En Rose. Her voice tremored softly. Accompanied by saxophones and brass mastery. Rows of string players twisted their bows with phenomenal noise—all in unison.
Nya laid her keys upon a light, wooden dresser. She sighed.
“Jesus, I’m freezing.”
Nya slipped off her puffy jacket and hung it from metal hooks nailed to a blackboard. It had writing in chalk over it. Jupiter was here.
“Jason, I’m back! Those steaks better be defrosted - otherwise, we’re eating beans and sweet corn tonight.”
Nya turned and went straight for the refrigerator. The kitchen was eerily suburban. Unimpressive and small. On the table sat a porcelain bowl full of assorted fruits, a half-finished apple, and a newspaper. The newspaper had a headline in bold letters reading, “Mystery drones seen over Ohio.” As Nya reached for the fridge’s handle she took a glance behind her. She stood on the tips of her toes and twiddled her fingertips across its ceiling. Feeling for different liquor bottles. Sleek and glassy. She shifted through liquors: Jameson, Henny, Remmy Martin, Jim Beam. The usuals. Until, at last, Nya felt a bottle that seemed to have been hit with a shrink ray. She brought it to her nose. It smelt like poison. On it were big, blue letters that all together spelled out Svedka. Nya twisted the bottle in counter rotations and then threw her head back like a mule. She gulped the alcohol down in one swallow as her lips pursed. Her belly turned into an oven and if she had a lighter she could spit fire.
“Shit.”
She gingerly placed the bottle back atop the fridge like a genie to an oil lamp. As if nothing happened, she swung the stainless-steel twin doors open. The room was filled with light. The handles were frozen to the touch. Nya shook her head and laughed. Her eyes darted to a threesome of beer bottles, rightways to old fruits, down to dry lunch meat, and over upon crusty, frozen papers. She growled. She bent at the hip and slid the bottom drawer open. When Nya looked down she saw a pile of raw meats and packaged foods and dairy treats with a set of steaks laid atop like lovers on a hill. Frozen to solid bricks and covered in freezer burn.
She sighed aloud. It rose from deep within her. She turned the doors together and made her way quickly through the kitchen with her arms crossed and connected. Music rang before her. Leaking down the hallway. The angelic woman on the TV said her thanks to an applauding audience collectively losing their minds. They screamed from their chest to their lips and some wept in joy. A thunderous barrage of clapping hands ricochetted left and right along the beige walls.
Hooray. Hooray. Hooray.
When Nya entered the living room a feeling so vile and evil and cruel dispersed within her that she thought she might vomit. Her eyes wedged open wide as they would go. The pulsating rhythm of her heartbeat throbbed in her earlobes.
The living room: ⅓ covered by a gray L-shaped couch, stitched with suede. A round glass table at the center. A fat TV and paintings of oceanic landscapes and enormous icebergs hung from the walls. It is a complete and total disaster. The sheets covering the furniture had been taken off and cut to shreds. Printer papers were scattered around it. There were broken pencils and smashed-up pens. All bleeding ink. Dark stains in the shape of handprints were smeared across walls like cave paintings. Nya held her trembling hand up to her quivering mouth.
She tottered through the deranged scene of a living room as she picked up strange papers with strange drawings and even stranger words. They all had different images on them, all an amalgamation of weird shapes and symbols. They were chicken scratch. Ominous. Some were scrunched up and torn from pen pressure. One paper, in particular, caught her attention. On the wrinkled paper were the words, I’m sorry. Over and over again. Until, eventually, the letter I had malformed into a sketchily drawn eyeball. Those sketchy, hellish eyes were followed by deep, black letters saying sorry. On the bottom of the paper was a pool of dried blood.
“Jason!”
Before Nya realized it, her legs were competing with each other towards the stairs. She could feel her chest fluttering with steaming blood. Her head was light and her stomach was churning. It felt like her esophagus had collapsed. One stair was behind her. Then three more. She made her way halfway up the first flight when - suddenly - a loud clanging. A bang. Feet stomped. Men surrounded the house shouting.
“Police!”
The mahogany front door was flown off the hinges. Dust and iron and splintered bits of wood covered in years of mold turned to sprayed debris. Through the shattered doorway, a group of vested officers stomped on her rug. Several policemen rushed in one after another. Shadowing each other’s boots in close formation. Their captain, a pot-bellied ticket writer with a sweaty bald head, shouted at Nya.
“Where is his room?”
Nya, stunned, stood limp with her pupils locked. Her wheels were stuck in the mud. Her neck ached and her brain sizzled. She tried to answer. She couldn’t muster a word. It felt like a nightmare. One where you scream and nothing comes out. Wake up. Fucking wake up.
“Your husband? Where is his room?”
A tall man dressed in an all-black suit with all-black glasses pushed the ticket writer aside. His hair was silver and his tie was darker than an Alaskan forest. Behind his lenses were wrinkles that told stories with age spots to go along with them as witnesses. His manner was more serious. He took off his glasses and his pale, hazel eyes latched themselves onto hers for what felt like minutes. Nya’s hand shook. She pointed, index wobbling.
“Upstairs- to the right.”
The cops all rushed past her. Boots thumbing on steps. She tried to run with them but when she did she felt a firm hand wrap around her forearm. The tall man with the black suit and the black glasses encased his meaty hands around her wrist and told her to keep her still. He quickly rotated her clockwise. Towards him. His skin was flush and pink. Beads of sweat dripped down his brick-like head.
“You don’t want to do that. It’s better if you stay down here.”
Nya twisted and pulled and stretched until she could feel herself almost at the top of the stairway. She looked back at the Tall Man’s clammy hand extended out to her. His face twisted.
“Grab her!”
Nya sprinted down the hallway. Her veins were sticking out from her skin. Her hair was erect. Beads of salty water trickled down her coffee-colored forehead and slammed onto the floorboards. Her chest burned, it steamed all the way up to her nose.
“Jason!”
Nya reached the end of the hallway and pushed through a group of police standing dead still by an open door. Light covered their faces. All of them wore expressions of disgust and pity and regret and shock. Nya pushed the cop at the entrance of the room and fell inside. One of the police threw up. Nya’s jaw dropped inhumanly low. Like it had taken itself apart and unhinged.
She saw Jason hanging from the neck. Still as an old rock. Attached to a ceiling fan tied by a leather belt. Schizophrenic colorings filled every square inch of the walls. His drawings were all connected. They were a thick, black shape, depicting some type of infinite wing or a never-ending set of indefinitely stretching, connecting eyes. Hundreds of shredded drawings were laid in puzzle pieces around the floor and from his sockets extended two broken pencils. They looked like tree branches peeking out from a root. Bedclothes, blankets, and comforters were cut up and made into bizarre shapes that resembled humanoid creatures. Some looked like they were praying. The carpet was torn. Candles lay around an old, faded Polaroid picture. In it, Jason stood before a massive, hulking research vessel. He was grinning with white teeth and wearing an even whiter, fluffy parka. Standing side by side with a group of men and women dressed in scientist-cheque. Nya let out the loudest scream her body could manage. She screamed so hard her abdomen convulsed and her eyes poked out of her head.
She screamed until she couldn’t scream anymore. Outside, the snow continued to fall.
JASON’S JOURNAL (P. 7, E. #8)
Pentagon Report On Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon, “UAPs”
June 25, 2021
This preliminary report is provided by the Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI) in response to the provision in Senate Report 116-233, accompanying the Intelligence Authorization Act (IAA) for Fiscal Year 2021, that the DNI, in consultation with the Secretary of Defense (SECDEF), is to submit an intelligence assessment of the threat posed by unidentified aerial phenomena (UAP) and the progress the Department of Defense Unidentified Aerial Phenomena Task Force (UAPTF) has made in understanding this threat. This report provides an overview for policymakers of the challenges associated with characterizing the potential threat posed by UAP while also providing a means to develop relevant processes, policies, technologies, and training for the U.S. military and other U.S. Government (USG) personnel if and when they encounter UAP, so as to enhance the Intelligence Community’s (IC) ability to understand the threat.
The Director, UAPTF, is the accountable official for ensuring the timely collection and consolidation of data on UAP. The dataset described in this report is currently limited primarily to U.S. Government reporting of incidents occurring from November 2004 to March 2021. Data continues to be collected and analyzed.
***
In 18 incidents, described in 21 reports, observers reported unusual UAP movement patterns or flight characteristics. Some UAP appeared to remain stationary in winds aloft, move against the wind, maneuver abruptly, or move at considerable speed, without discernible means of propulsion. In a small number of cases, military aircraft systems processed radio frequency (RF) energy associated with UAP sightings. The UAPTF holds a small amount of data that appear to show UAP demonstrating acceleration or a degree of signature management. Additional rigorous analysis are necessary by multiple teams or groups of technical experts to determine the nature and validity of these data. We are conducting further analysis to determine if breakthrough technologies were demonstrated.
***
The UAP documented in this limited dataset demonstrates an array of aerial behaviors, reinforcing the possibility there are multiple types of UAP requiring different explanations. Our analysis of the data supports the construct that if and when individual UAP incidents are resolved they will fall into one of five potential explanatory categories: airborne clutter, natural atmospheric phenomena, USG or industry developmental programs, foreign adversary systems, and a catchall “other” bin. With the exception of the one instance where we determined with high confidence that the reported UAP was airborne clutter, specifically a deflating balloon, we currently lack sufficient information in our dataset to attribute incidents to specific explanations.