For the past month, the curious and mostly empty signs appeared throughout the area.  "Resistance Meeting", "Humans Only", and other such phrases appeared to be the norm as they were scant on details; simply a place and time to meet.  Was it a joke?  Some sort of trap?  There was really only one way for any certainty to such questions be answered.

Some came early to scope the place out while others arrived late to watch and see if anything untowards was occurring.  It seemed a rather odd choice of venue, to state the obvious.  "Mike's" was not anything the title would suggest.  The exterior of the building was slightly suggestive of a log cabin, but had been glossed over with a myriad of colors and wood works that were definitely not part of the original design.  Any who dared inquire, either within the restaurant or around the local area, would quickly learn that the name was a holdover from the previous establishment.  Before you now stood a small shrine to opulent dining.  The parking lot was a list of (very) expensive toys...Mercedes, Jaguar, Ferrari...and from the windows one could easily tell this was not your average burger shack or greasy spoon.  Was this really the place you were meant to have this meeting?  It certainly didn't seem right, like some sort of joke played on the weary and paranoid.

Milling about in their cars or simply pacing, it was obvious to tell who was there for something other than a high class meal.  While several people eventually left in frustration, or perhaps confusion, a few brave (or crazed) souls dared approach the maitre d'.  His gaze confirmed that you are certainly not the usual type of customer yet, without so much as a word of acknowledgement, he would snap his fingers towards his staff and, after whispering something within their ear, would have them lead you back outside towards the back end of the restaurant.  "The staff entrance?" was all any of you could think of, as if the gentleman at the door thought you were perhaps new cooks?

The waiter would ultimately lead you through several turns (the building had a very strange layout; clearly it had never been remodeled, simply covered over) back from the kitchen.  When he finally signals your arrival, before you sits much more of what you had expected to find.  The room itself was simple, 4 walls, perhaps 10x or 15x in size but the decor would be the most astounding.  Just a few feet from the name brand dresses and diamond-covered wrist watches of the patrons dining sat what looked like an old hunting lodge.  The walls were made of actual logs, not that faux relief stuff, and were festooned with the heads of various animals.  Mounted fish adorned other sections and implements of past survival were squeezed in to fill any remaining gaps.  This must have been one of the original sections of "Mike's" and had purposefully been left as is.  Thankfully, they took the time to dust.

Of the small group gathered, no one seemed to be in the know.  Everyone had the same expression of confusion and wonder as they sat or paced about nervously.  In the middle of the room sat a large conference table made from what appeared to be a single slice from a large tree.  To one side, a much smaller table rested against the wall with a few pots of coffee, some bottled water and a few small snacks (chips, light sandwiches, etc.).  As each arrival was lead in, they were afforded only one statement..."someone will be along shortly".  Any further questioning of the waiter would bring the same response or a simple "I do not know".

After an eternity of waiting, as some are becoming anxious and nervous, a lone figure enters the room and gazes around at you all.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for waiting and thank you for coming.  My name is Dr. Ben Taylor and I'm the one who arranged this little meeting.  Please, please, help yourselves to something and take a seat.  We will begin shortly."

He then proceeds to walk over to the craft table himself, pours a cup of coffee, and turns to take a place at the main table.

Dean couldn't tell you why he had decided to come that evening. His father might have called it a "wild hare" moment, while some might chalk it up to him just being a single guy in his twenties, reckless in a way, adventurous in others. He had no love for the Visitors and had joked with those he trusted about "When the revolution comes...". But they had always been jokes.

A contributing factor was that he was actually really hungry by the time the meeting rolled around, so there was that.

A model 69' Ford Bronco pulled carefully into the lot next to a silver BMW and a red Mercedes,it was kind of a blue green with an off white top, dirty and mud flecked with big knobby tires and maybe a patch of Bondo here and there. It idled there uncertainly for a time before the driver killed the engine and stepped out.

The driver was big and wholesome looking, handsome if the covers of cheap romance novels we're to be believed. In brown cowboy boots, some worn blue jeans, a gray t-shirt and a weather stained Carhartt jacket he stood apart from most of the clientele and looked unsure and more than a little conspicuous as he lingered about wondering if he was in the wrong place.

But in time he was led into the back where he looked far more at home. He helped himself to a few sandwich's and a cup of black coffee, then took a seat at the big round table to tuck into his meal.

In contrast the driver of the truck cab parked across the street was also big but not quite as wholesome looking. The years had taken their toll on Martin Roux - where he might have once been considered quite good looking, stress lines and sleep deprivation had rendered him "okay, in a rough kinda way." A single eye glinted out from under his trucker's cap, the patch he wore over the other shrouded in darkness.

He didn't touch the food, didn't touch the drink, didn't ask questions, didn't volunteer anything about himself, just stood in the back of the room, arms folded, waiting to see if this meeting was as big a waste of time as others had been in his past, long before the Visitors came.

In reply to Martin Roux (msg # 3):

Natasha had come in alone. Perhaps some would know, but she did not want to expose her son to this...risk. An attractive woman, her clothes were certainly not name brands. She had found out about this place through a secretive chat, and now began to wonder about some of those on the chat site. But something had to be done, and to do nothing was becoming a greater risk.

As she stayed up the back and looked around, she did not see any unfamiliar faces. She had showered today especially for this meeting, and she hoped it would be worth it. The cowboy, the trucker, they seemed normal enough. The Dr, that was a good sign...they were not treated at all well by the V's, as they were usually smart enough to know when something was wrong.

She looked longingly at the food, but waited. That could come after trust, and that was yet to be earned...

Kick grabs a sandwich and chips and sits at the big table.  He eats fast, just like dad used to before a late shift.

As he eats, he notices the others not eating and wonders what their problem is.  Do they think Lay's is conspiring with the Visitors?  Although he supposes they have a point... you never know these days.  Still, he enjoys the taste of grease and salt, so he keeps eating.  They'd probably all be dead soon anyway, so why not?

He looks from the faces of his peers to the trophies mounted on the wall.  It's easy to imagine trading places with them.  The entire earth has become a clubhouse for the alien worms who took over almost effortlessly.  Someone or something would always be on top.  His dad had been a realist, and so was he.

But before he dies, he wants to get him a piece of the Visitors.  He finishes his sandwich, even though the mustard is thick.  He licks his tough, calloused fingers.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:54, Thu 18 Apr 2019.

Frank was one of the last to arrive, having parked his old pickup truck up the street and walked the last bit to Mike's. On entering the restaurant he presumed that he'd got the information about the meeting wrong until the head waiter, or whatever he was titled, had sent him round to the staff entrance with a quick whisper. A couple, the man in a smart grey suit and the woman in a flowing green dress, that Frank guessed was probably very fashionable, passed him as he exited the main entrance, confusion on their faces as to what he was doing inside Mike's. The old hunting lodge, in contrast, was both welcoming and impressive and he took a few moments to admire some of the trophies displayed on the walls, showing a degree of professional interest in them.

He made it just in time to listen to the introduction and, at the mention of the food, he made his way over to the side table, found a bin nearby and spat a piece of chewing tobacco into it. In his mind they were always rubbish bins rather than trash cans, a legacy of his early childhood in England. Having disposed of his tobacco he then took a drink from one of the bottles of water to clean out his mouth and then helped himself to four sandwiches. They were better than the PBJs he'd been eating for the last couple of days.

Clothing wise, Frank appears to be following a style from the film First Blood, wearing heavy black work boots, blue jeans and an OD green combat jacket in a look rather reminiscent of the character John Rambo. That is the only comparison however as Frank is much smaller physically and nothing like as imposing a figure, standing well under six foot and looking quite skinny in his baggy jacket. Also whereas Rambo exuded self confidence, Frank seemed rather jumpy, possibly even nervous in a crowd of this size.

Glancing round the room he recognised a face, a lady from the same trailer park he lived in. Nat or Natasha or something like that and without her kid for once. He gave her a nod of greeting but didn't approach her, picking a spot of his own on the wall instead where he could lean and see most of the people in the room. He didn't like having people behind him as it made him jumpy.

"I see you've noticed the decor.  This restaurant once belonged to my grandfather, a very proud, some would say arrogant man, who believed in using ones own hands to survive.  He loved the outdoors...hunting, fishing, trapping..."

He pauses with a look of contemplation etched into his face.  The sadness he hid behind his eyes was obvious.

"...he was a man of simple tastes.  A good man."

His words trail off as he focuses on his coffee.

"Are you the guy?" Roux asks, Louisiana heavy in his voice. "Can we get this thing started?"

Dean had finished his sandwiches, leaving just a few crumbs on his plate and had been about half way through his cup of coffee when the man the would come to know as Dr. Taylor spoke up.

Dean had been listening, seeming to sense to beginnings of a story maybe as he say back in his chair with one leg crossed over a knee, but Roo's questions caught his attention immediately. Here was a man that did not screw around by the looks of things.

Trish had arrived early but sat so long in her car that she’d entered late. It was quite a decision, exiting the old green pinto; kermit as it was affectionately known. She didn’t trust the Visitors, never had, but losing a friend to a conspiracy, to lies that made no sense, galvanised her to action. At least it had made her serious enough about action to come to the meeting.

More than once on the circuitous journal inside she almost changed her mind. The whole thing felt dangerous and she was unsure.

Upon entering she made her way to the coffee and made herself a strong, black, cupful before settling near the wall to survey the others there. She was an attractive woman, early thirties, with a striking face and fatigue written on her features. She hadn’t long come off shift and her professional attire, black trousers, blue blouse, were a little rumpled, her curly hair a little frizzy.

The coffee gave Trish something to do with her hands, helped prevent any nervous fidgeting. Not that she looked overly nervous, she hid that behind a somewhat cool air that was all for show. She listened without comment.

"A man of action not words I see.  Yes yes, very well.  From the looks of things, this is probably all we're going to get."

Standing up, he slowly walks toward the coffee pot, downing the remainder of his current cup.

"First, let me assure all of you that you are perfectly safe here.  The man who runs this establishment was a dear friend of my grandfather... and he owes me his life."

Having refilled his cup, he makes his way back to his seat.  Taking a long sip, he pauses, staring at each person in turn.  It would be several tense, quiet seconds before he spoke again.

"So let's get straight to the point then.  There is something definitely wrong with our alien friends.  Everyday damn day it's something or someone new.  I've been working with one of the universities in the city.  Last month, those damn Visitors, with a police escort of course, raided our entire department!  And our lead researcher?!  Arrested!  Seditious acts and conspiracy their warrant said...and it's pure garbage.  I've known that man nearly 20 years.  Seditious acts?  The very idea!  The man was a brilliant surgeon and even better researcher."

His anger was palpable.  Raw emotion streaked across his face.  The more he spoke, the more resonant his voice became.  If he was acting to gain your trust, he was a damn gifted thespian.

“Perfectly safe, are we?  Let me tell you something, pal: there isn’t a safe place anywhere on this planet, and there won’t be until every one of those things is gone.  We should all think of ourselves as dead already... because we are.  The only question is how much punishment we can inflict before they get to us.”

Kick closes his left hand around his right fist and squeezes until a knuckle cracks.

“We know they’re the enemy.  The question is what are we going to do about it.”

Once it seemed that everybody who was going to arrive had, Dean took another moment to look over the kind of people who would show up to such a potentially risky meeting.

The Trucker looked like a no-nonsense kind of guy, tired, kind of worn out. The eye patch was kind of intimidating in a way, but also a little sad in others. Must be a hell of a thing being blind, he thought to himself, and this guy was already half way there.

Along the same lines, the guy in the camo jacket looked pretty much like what he might picture for this kind of thing, maybe guys in the woods with military surplus, planning for "the day" and digging bunkers in their spare time. Being able to pack in four sandwiches in a sitting was no small feat either, so he wondered if much like himself, the promise of food had been a contributing factor.

The first woman to arrive, the one that kept standing, he felt like he knew her type, probably like she knew his. K-Mart blue light specials, yard sales, and maybe a broken down car on the front yard. He had close family that lived like that, and while he had the advantage of living on other peoples property most of the time, he knew that he was probably in the same boat if he was being honest. But why come here?

The guy with the curly hair had big city written all over him, brash, dramatic, probably watched way too many movies. But for all that he looked like he could handle himself in a scrap, so, who knew what he had going on?

And finally the late comer, the nurse? Doctor? maybe an office worker? He knew that look all too well, like a seventeen hour day around harvest season, and the bitter bite of the coffee she was drinking. Dressed real nice though for having worn them all day, probably made easily twice what he did he figured...

A good looking batch of folks over all he decided, you could cast them all for a daytime drama and do a hell of a whole lot worse. And as for their host, well, he seemed to be used to a little more genteel crowd.

"Sorry to hear about your friend Doctor" Dean added in a warm voice, a slight "country" accent noticeable at once. "I've heard of them takin folks, rumors mostly, but I've never heard why exactly" it was phrased like a question, like he wanted the man to continue.

In reply to Dr. Ben Taylor (msg # 11):

"Been a lot of good smart folks disappearing. So, why is there something we can do about this one?"

She stayed otherwise quiet, watching the others closely, not sure about trusting any of them.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:07, Sun 21 Apr 2019.

"I understand your concern, even if we may disagree on the scope of what's going on.  Let me clarify, we are completely safe here, tonight.  I have arranged several lookouts and many of the staff here are still quite loyal to my family.  Besides, we haven't done anything wrong.  Nobody here has conspired to do anything illegal so they have no authority here for any reason."

As the doctor spoke, his voice began to rise.  Clearly, he had been restraining some deep emotions around the subject.  He paused, realizing that his calm had been compromised.  Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, returning to a more relaxed position as he had risen from his seat slightly with the timbre of his voice.  Turning towards Dean...

"Many of these rumors are based, largely, in fact.  Many people have been detained by the Visitors for questioning, and quite a lot never return home.  Whole families have disappeared in some cases.  Where are these people going, is the question?  As for why?  They keep saying the same damn thing, over and over, conspiracy, conspiracy, conspiracy.  This plot, that plot.  I'm telling you, it's a targeted movement, I just can't figure out why."

Trish didn’t feel safe, the assurances of the other doctor couldn’t grant her that; the young man with the high testosterone levels didn’t help. Much of the reason she was there was certainty that her friend had done nothing wrong, and yet there had been a confession, and now her friend was gone.

“How could you?” Trish asked after a moment, deciding that if she was going to be there she wasn’t going to hide in the corner all night. For a long time she had doubts about the Visitors, anger and suspicion, but she’d kept silent, there had been no one safe to share them with. Now the words poured out, she couldn’t stay silent any longer.

“We don’t know anything about them. Not where they’re from, if they feel the same emotions as us, how they procreate. Nothing about their social, familial, or political structures.” Trish didn’t look so tired now, a flush coloured her pale skin and the passion she normally reserved for medicine shone through.

“If an emaciated person steals a loaf of bread we can guess that he probably did that because he was hungry, we understand,” she emphasised the word, her voice was at the deeper end of feminine and husky. “but we don’t even know if they eat. We might be able to guess what they’re doing from their actions but we can’t know why. It’s not an accident they know everything about us and we know nothing about them.”

“I came here to kick some alien heads in, not to philosophize.  If that’s what you people are here for, thank you very much for the sandwich, but count me out.”

He looks at the doctor, saying with his face all that must be said.  Safe?  Really?
This message was last edited by the player at 08:13, Sun 21 Apr 2019.

"Ain't nobody forced to be here," Roux spoke up. "Only thing that's gon' have any chance of success is unity of purpose. Y'all done heard the Doc's pitch. That's it, that's the show, that's the deal. Buy your ticket or move on down the boardwalk to the next barker, maybe they sellin' somethin' that does it for you."

In reply to Martin Roux (msg # 18):

"I seemed to miss something in the pitch. Ok, folks are missing, but what do you propose to do about it?"

"I would imagine he ain't done sayin' his piece yet. Some folks are like that, they like to circle around a point before they jump on in." He settled back, waiting for the Doc to continue his spiel.

The corner of Dean's mouth quirked just slightly. "Well...I mean it is a conspiracy, to be fair. That's why we're here right? We're not alright with what's been goin on and we're hopin to do somethin about it."

Natasha's own question seemed to mirror what he was talking about. "I don't want good people hauled away for no reason. Don't think many people would, but I'm not real sure what I can do about it honestly. That's kind of what I was hopin to find out tonight."

Orlando had been quiet, real quiet. These disappearances had been affecting his clientele, and his paranoia had begun to get the best of him. He took gentle sips of a glass of water and listened.

He was quite interested in what more the doctor had to say.

"Why did they target your friend then, if the charges were baseless? And do you have a method of resistance to keep them from continuing to kidnap people or other more nasty plans our guests have?"

Despite the clamor of questions and responses, Ben stayed calm, at least outwardly.  He listened intently as each spoke, concern running across his forehead as he took each statement in.  Once more he paused.  Leaning back in his chair, folding his fingers in front of his mouth, he looked more a man in devoted prayer.

"I can see emotions are high here.  Now that's a good thing."

His voice had suddenly changed from the smooth, cool sound you would expect from a surgeon into something a tad more...down to earth.

"And I can also see most of you are at the end of your ropes.  Again, now that's a good thing.  Cause you see, our governments are now theirs.  Our armies are now theirs.  Our police...are now theirs.  And all we have left...is us.  But as you see, we're a rather small group.  We brave few.  People are scared.  They're too afraid to face these things...and meanwhile, we slowly disappear, one by one.  What we need is something.  Anything.  We need to find out what they're doing...really doing.  We need to know everything, and I mean everything about these creatures."

By this point he has risen from his chair.  He brings his fists down onto the table, not punching, but with force, resting into them.  Again the calm demeanor blankets his face.  When he speaks again, his voice has returned to it's calmer tone.

"What I propose...is we be the ones who do something about it."

Dean was not quite sure what he had been expecting. A fundraising pitch maybe? Some kind of political movement or petition? But it sounded to him like this guy was talking about actual boots on the ground kind of fighting back, and if he was honest with himself, he did not exactly know what that would look like.

Had it been tried before? If so where? And was there any other country that had the right mix of aggressiveness, rugged individualism and an abundance of personally owned firearms?

Dean let a few moments pass after Doctor Taylor had made his point. The man had a gift for conveying passion, but he was still short on details.

"It sounds like your kinda preachin to the choir Doctor. And I like what you're sayin, I do, I wanna help." He said sincerely.  "But like you said, they have the government, the military and the cops. Where would we even start?"