The Unseen That Lurks

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text="My name is Dr. Dan, greatest cryptid hunter in the state of South Dakota."]]
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= [[size 120%]]**Fort Pierre National Grassland**[[/size]]
= **South Dakota**

Night.

The wind howled through the tall grass of the prairie. Little could be seen in the pitch-black darkness, save for silent shadows that crept across the brush. With nothing but the dim light of the crescent moon to illuminate the landscape, there was no doubt that all sorts of horrors would be out prowling the grasslands.

When the biting winds died down, the only sound left that could be heard was of footsteps. Boots crunched on the late autumn foliage -- boots belonging to a hunter by the name of Dr. Dan. An ex-military cryptozoologist, nothing had ever escaped Dan's hawk-like sights -- and the cryptid he was hunting today was no exception.

//The Unseen That Lurks.//

Every so often, a hiker in the grasslands of South Dakota would go missing without a trace. The residents said it was because of a local cryptid -- eight foot frame, pale gray skin, grotesquely long arms, and a blood-curdling scream. No photos of it existed, supposedly all covered up by the FBI. But that wouldn't stop Dan. He had spent the last twenty years searching for The Unseen That Lurks, but he knew today was the day he'd find it -- and put an end to its terror.

A bush rustled. A lesser hunter would have overlooked such a minute detail, but Dan's fine-tuned instincts alerted him to the noise instantly. Donning his state-of-the-art SCRAMBLE Visor, Dan scanned the landscape up and down for signs of his target. He carefully unholstered his scoped Blaser R93, cradling the heavy sniper rifle in his arms.

In the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. The hunt was on.

Dan moved methodically, a shadow among shadows. He made no sound, creeping through the brush as he stalked his prey. Even the slightest motion, the slightest scent, would alert him. He crouched low in the grass, heart hammering harder than the time he fought apex predators in the Amazon. Each breath was slow and deliberate, fogging in the biting cold. His eyes, narrowed beneath the visor, scanned the horizon, mentally marking each feature of the landscape.

Then he saw it. Just beyond the edge of a dried cornfield, about five hundred feet away. //Tall. Lanky. Eight feet tall, skin like gray leather.// Dan's eyes narrowed, and a smile grew on his face. //Visual acquired. That's my target.//

He flicked the safety off. Raised the rifle. Scoped in.

The figure didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

//It's toying with me.//

Dan hesitated. His breath stilled. Something in his gut tightened.

He pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot echoed throughout the hills, alerting all of his victory. Without even a moment to scream, the target fell over sideways, landing in the grass.

...

A sense of triumph filled Dan's heart and mind. After two decades of relentless pursuit, he, Dr. Dan, had finally brought an end to to the ceaseless struggle between man and cryptid. Long thought to be nothing more than an urban myth, he had now proven to all that The Unseen That Lurks had always been there -- at least, until the brave hunter had brought it to a swift end.

With trembling hands, Dan removed his visor, and gripped the rifle with which he had shot the creature. Uncrouching from his position to his full height, he approached the fallen target carefully. //Every sleepless night,// he thought, //every goddamn mile I trekked, every **fucking** time I thought I had the beast, only to lose it at the last moment. It wasn't all for nothing.// He began to cackle as he crept toward the culmination of twenty years of sweat and tears, knowing his prize was waiting.

But as Dan approached the body, illuminating it with his flashlight, the laughter died in his throat. The body was wearing ripped flannel and jeans. The smell was not of animal musk, but of dirt, grime, and time.

His mouth went dry. He lowered the rifle, hands trembling slightly now.

"God," he breathed. "Oh, god."

His eyes scanned the limbs. One arm was twisted beneath the body. The head was tilted at an unnatural angle, but not unnatural enough.

//That’s a fucking person.//

The thought hit him like a blow to the chest. His knees buckled. He staggered back a step, mouth ajar, heart pounding.

//No. No no no no.// He looked around, eyes wide in panic. //He shouldn’t have been out here. Why would -- why would anyone be dressed like that?//

A low panic started bubbling in his chest. "Are you kidding me?!" he yelled at the man, who was mortally wounded if not already dead.

All of Dan's muscles tensed up. He felt a feeling he hadn't felt since a hodag scratched his arm down in the town of Sloth's Pit. He felt rage. //I thought I had my target, but it turns out it was some dumbfuck standing around at night!//

//No.// Dan froze. //I need to think logically.// Dan surveyed the area, eyes lingering at every swaying stalk of corn reaching just barely below his head. //I have the instincts of a bloodhound and the mind of Socrates.// He crept toward the fallen man, approaching his limp body, cloaked amidst the corn stalks. //Now is the time when I must ignore the former and follow the latter.// He grasped his rifle in a white-knuckle grip. //And my logical mind says...//

//Leave no witnesses.//

Dan positioned himself so that neither could see the other's head. He aimed his rifle for a second shot. //The Unseen That Lurks **is** my life.// His finger flush against the trigger, Dan gritted his teeth, his heart racing and sweat pooling within his camo clothing. //So what's one life for another?//

A second shot rang out. A grin crept up onto Dan's face. If it weren't for the fact that he'd just killed a man he'd be cackling, swimming in his own single-minded determination like a snallygaster through its hoard of treasure. Shoving aside stalks of corn in his way, he strutted up to his quarry, equal parts delighted and horrified to see the fatal blow he had inflicted upon it.

Only to find a man made of straw.

A third sound reverberated through the area -- the howls of the great cryptid hunter, Dr. Dan.

-----

Dr. Dan’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his Jeep’s steering wheel. He stared blankly into the nothingness of the prairie night, engine idling as the second shot still echoed in his head.

//A scarecrow.//

//A **motherfucking** scarecrow.//

He slammed his fist on the dashboard. The glove box popped open. He ignored it.

He'd been fooled.

Again.

Dan had planned this hunt for weeks. Days mapping out the terrain, consulting wind charts, compiling decades of local folklore into a single spiral-bound notebook -- one he was now scrawling into pathetically. //Target uses misidentification tactics to evade capture.//

He snapped the book shut.

Enough was enough.

------

[[=]]
**Two Days Later**
[[/=]]

Dr. Dan sat hunched on a folding chair in front of a map duct-taped to the inside of his three-person tent. Strings -- some yarn, some twine, some made from whatever fibers he could pull from the Jeep’s upholstery -- connected pins that marked "Likely Lurking Zones," "Possible Hideouts," and “Suspicious Crop Patterns.”

All of it pointed to here.

So he would force The Unseen to make a move.

Dan had spent the past two days preparing the prairie with traps: tripwires, snares, and hidden pits. The grasslands were no longer a safe place for anything foolish enough to take a step. And to make sure nothing could escape undetected, Dan set up a costly, but foolproof series of trail cameras -- every inch of the area was covered in surveillance. If that thing made a move, he would know. If The Unseen That Lurks took so much as a single breath, Dan would catch it.

Each trap was more elaborate than the last. He had spent a full two days laying them out in concentric rings around his tent, muttering equations to himself. When it was done, he limped back to his chair, bone-tired and shivering.

Dr. Dan sat in his tent, scribbling into the crumpled notebook. He munched his half-eaten hot dog, the stale meaty taste rotating the well-oiled cogs of his mind. He had vanquished every cryptid in North America, from the common jackalope to the elusive Loveland frogman, and they all followed a pattern. His time in the Congo, the Jersey Pine Barrens, even that regrettable week at Bradshaw Ranch -- it always started with a sighting.

Cryptids act out when exposed. When their face is seen.

He stared out into the dry grass as it rustled to and fro in the light winds.

//What I need… is a photo.//

-----

= [[size 120%]]**Pierre**[[/size]]
= **South Dakota**

Dan exited the Jeep and beelined toward the nearest convenience store. The bell above the door jingled weakly as he entered, sweat-soaked and grimy. He rushed toward the rack of newspapers, grabbing every one in sight.

The cashier stared at him. "You gonna pay for those?"

Dan stared back, and threw his last ten dollars on the counter. "Knowledge has no price," he muttered.

He crouched behind a shelf in the back, dropped his pile, and began to sift. With his hunter's gaze, he scanned the pages up and down for anything that could be of use. //Hell, even a few fucking pixels will do it.//

Missing hiker. No photo.

Weird footprints. No photo.

UFO sightings. Not relevant.

He was about to give up when something strange caught his eye — an ad, tucked between listings for pest control and psychic readings.

"SCP Foundation," it read, "Cleanliness Guaranteed!*"

Beneath the ad was a black-and-white photo of a crudely-made, peanut-shaped sculpture, with the floor beneath it covered in what looked like viscous liquid shit. //Gross,// he thought, //but serviceable.// The ad said something about a federal contract. The logo struck a chord, too -- three inward-facing arrows, a code scrawled faintly in the center.

[[=image https://scp-sandbox-3.wdfiles.com/local--files/collab:cleanliness-guaranteed-hub/logo.png width="100px"]]

Dan’s eyes widened. Cryptid code. He leapt to his feet, nearly overturning the booth. His chair slammed against the wall. The cashier blinked. Dan pointed to the photo.

“This is it,” he whispered.

Dan dashed out of the store and climbed into his Jeep. Wrenching the keys into the ignition switch, he slammed his foot on the accelerator. The battered vehicle sputtered to life.

-----

Not long after, Dr. Dan pulled into the parking lot of 1630 Lowell Avenue, Pierre, South Dakota -- referred to in the ad as "[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/site-19-dossier Site 19]." //How many facilities does this company have, anyway?// The building was unremarkable on the outside, with various trailers parked in its sizable lot, as well as a howitzer for some reason. //If they have more than nineteen locations, and each building is this size... I could be out of my league here -- if that's even possible.//

Dan climbed out of his Jeep, gritted his teeth, and walked slowly toward the nearest entrance, pausing for a moment.

He breathed in. He breathed out. As he had done several times in the past sixty seconds, he stared menacingly at the laminated sheet of paper taped above the double doors, "SAFE CLEANUP PROFESSIONALS FOUNDATION" printed in bold font. Dan squinted at the secret message placed upon the logo of three inward-facing arrows. Barely visible, the silhouette nonetheless lit up his eyes. //Now what could 'AWCY? STOCK' mean?// Cryptids have, in the past, been known for leaving secret messages, and since a hunter must think like his prey, an experienced cryptid hunter must leave secret messages //as well//. Clearly, these were //professionals//.

Dan readied his fist. He calibrated the amount of strength he would project onto the front door of the establishment. Enough to create a commanding presence, enough to show that he meant //business//, enough to demonstrate to this rival organization that Dr. Dan was currently the top cryptid hunter in the entirety of Pierre, South Dakota, and that he would get //answers// goddammit. He accelerated his fist toward the door in the same motion one might stab an assailant, spittle flying as he clenched his jaw. By the end of it all, the Foundation would know his name.

The door opened at just the right moment for him to punch the air.

"Hello?" a man with scruffy brown hair and a fedora replied, standing tall in the middle of the now-open doorway. Dan grunted, wiping the dust from his 'borrowed' clothing. A smile crept back onto his face as he stood tall, a full head above the man standing in front of him. The corner of his face twitched.

"My name is Dr. Dan, greatest cryptid hunter in the state of South Dakota," he replied, enunciating each syllable with the force of a '50 caliber round. A twinge of doubt racked his eyes, as he debated internally whether he should have expanded the scope of his superlative to encompass the entire continental United States. He held out a hand to shake, to which the man in the fedora obliged. The man sucked in air as Dan's vice-like grip turned his palm a bony white before rattling his arm two and fro like a chew toy in the jaws of the Michigan Dogman.

The man in the fedora exhaled with relief as Dan released him, shaking his hand. Something clicked. "Oh, hey, you're the guy that called earlier!" he exclaimed, beckoning him to enter the establishment. Dan steeled himself as he crossed the front desk into the building proper.

"I'm the Administrator. But people here just call me Fritz." He grinned as he led Dan through Site 19. "I suppose you don't need to introduce yourself -- I mean, top cryptid hunter in the state, right?"

Dan responded with only a grunt. His attention was on the building itself -- his analytical mind was already calculating where and how he might uncover his next clue to The Unseen That Lurks.

"You called cuz' you wanted to see our collection of cryptids? Well, we're no stranger to anomalies here!"

The musty warehouse that surrounded Dan sent a tingle down his spine. He had seen shacks. He had seen log cabins. He'd seen a storage unit a rival of his rented out because his wife didn't want the jackalope skull in the living room. //Serves him right. The damn thing's just a rabbit with deer antlers glued to it//. He'd seen apartments and he'd seen McMansions and he'd seen local businesses adorned with the paraphernalia and the spoils of his trade. And he'd catalogued all his findings in his head, in his mental ledger, in his strict, objective ranking of all the hunters across the world whom thus far had had the displeasure to host him.

But a cryptid //warehouse//?

//Never// had he seen a //warehouse//.

As Fritz led him down a corridor, passing various offices and whatnot, Dan's predatory eyes scanned across the Safe Cleanup Professionals' abode in a full 360 degrees. The hair on the back of Fritz's neck stood on end as the image of Inspector Cimmerian flashed through his head, superimposed on top of the stone-faced man now standing in front of him.

Dan's gaze flitted back and forth as they entered the storage area. The air smelled vaguely of coffee and beer. Mops and brooms and buckets were piled in a corner. Cardboard boxes were strewn about the floor. Industrial-size barrels of concentrated bleach lay stacked in a pattern resembling a stone-age ruin. A pile of orange slime was festering in the corner, emanating a scent of deodorant. Most impressively, an entire fallen-over forklift with both windows broken was plopped at the far side of the room like the carcass of a megafaunal creature.

//Phew. They're just janitors, in over their heads. Their skills must pale in comparison to my complete mastery of the art of the hunt.//

Dan maintained his stone face. He would have to betray no emotion, lest he intimidate these feeble custodians.

"Alright, Fritz. Show me where you keep the good stuff. Who knows -- I might take interest in, ah, //endowing// your operations."

Fritz inhaled quickly, nodding. "Of... of course. Let's get started." He led Dan down the corridor to the other side of the building. To their left and right were four rooms, each furnished with a heavy door.

Fritz motioned to the first one on the left. "We'll start with the one that put us on the map. Plug your nose."

He opened the door to reveal one of their storage rooms. The air was filled with a putrid scent that assaulted Dan's nostrils. Inside, a shipping container sat in the middle of the room, the bulkhead open. Viscous brown sludge poured out of the opening, coating the floor. The source of the foul substance was the statue from the newspaper ad -- now clearly visibly made of pale brown concrete and pieces of rebar.

"Here's our first -- I mean, one-hundred-and-seventy-third cleanup," Fritz said proudly. "[[[biweekly|SCP-173]]], The Sculpture, The Peanut -- it goes by many names. I'd make it a local attraction if it weren't for the feds, hah."

He squinted. "It’s not moving." //A cheap parlor trick.//

"It only moves when you’re not looking," Fritz said with a forced chuckle. "If we both blink at the same time we can -- actually, that's probably not a good idea. Right! On to the next!"

Fritz quickly ushered him out through the door, slamming it behind them. Fritz darted across the hall as Dan followed, boots echoing on concrete.

"Behold -- cleanup number six-eighty-two! [[[the-lake-oahe-monster|The Lake Oahe Monster!]]]" Fritz threw open a second door. An industrial-size vat, seven feet tall or so, sat squarely in the center of the room.

Dan peered in. "That’s a dead alligator."

"It’s molting," Fritz grumbled, flicking a switch. Bubbles filled the vat. The decomposing creature within sloshed about lazily in the tank.

“It’s still not doing anything." //Charlatans. I've bagged creatures bigger than this.//

"Hmm. Must be a little shy today." Fritz shut the door faster this time. "Oh wait -- that's it!"

A smirk bled through Dan's emotionless face as Fritz scampered off down the hall like the timid Sasquatch. //And I thought my position was under threat//, he mused while Fritz accelerated to a jog. Dan kept up near effortlessly with his sweeping strides. //Though this likely means they'll have no useful intel about The Unseen That Lurks. Oh well. I'll build my rapport and ask when the time comes.//

"GERALD, STOP THE TRUCK!" Fritz shouted as the two neared the loading bay, barely cutting above the deafening sound of the semi-truck's engine. The sound abruptly halted.

"Geez Louise!" came from the driver's seat. "Scared the fuckin' daylights outta me, Big Willie! Whatcha got here?" A six-foot man in a tank top exited the vehicle.

"Stay here for just a moment," Fritz said to Dan with his signature toothy grin. He stormed toward the truck driver.

"//Gerald//," Fritz whispered, "First thing, don't call me 'Big Willie.' Second--" He pointed at the truck. "Is this thing awake?"

Gerald recoiled from Fritz's coffee breath. "It's moping in the corner, but if you rattle the cage I'm sure it'll--"

"This is //serious//, Gerald," Fritz interrupted, shaking the Foundation's driver like a ragdoll. He stared him in the eyes. "That man is the //top cryptid hunter in the state//. If we want him to put in a good word for us //we need our anomalies to be//... well... //anomalous//! Can you //guarantee// that --"

"Look, Fritz," Gerald replied. "That //thing// reminds me of me back in seventh grade. It hates people and'll happily do anything to avoid the attention. If that means playing dead or--"

"I know that Dan guy is a hardass but--"

"Fritz, you moron, I'm talkin' about the thing in the truck!"

"Fuck it," Fritz said, sprinting back towards Dan. "Sorry to keep ya waiting!"

Fritz frantically messed with the locks of the trailer's door, Dan's gaze a baleful scourge upon his back. "C'mon," he muttered, undoing the both of them.

//Once again//, thought Dan as Fritz floundered around like a hapless chupacabra with one of its legs stuck in a bear trap, the doors of the truck stuck on a deadbolt he had yet to open. //Once again my opponents prove themselves mere amateurs, dabbling in things far exceeding their understanding, desperately attempting to convince the world that their hubris does not exceed their sham discoveries. I am a true pioneer -- a true explorer -- a true hunter -- the only one with the grit to venture beyond that which humanity considers 'normal.' It's a damn shame that there aren't others like me, that there aren't others willing to seek answers in the unknown. It's almost disappointing, dare I say. It's quite--//

The doors to the truck slammed open.

Within a cage sat a pale, gangly, roughly human-shaped creature with a paper bag over its head, butt naked, huddling in the corner. It whimpered like a child with the sunlight shining on its body. Dan eyes widened as he examined the beast, the gears in his mind turning through the multitude of possibilities by which it could be considered to be less impressive than the most outrageous of his //own// hunts. But as the trickle of possibilities ran dry and as he finished matching the physical characteristics of the beast to his mental database of cryptid lore, the answer dawned upon him, sending bile into his throat.

//[[[SCP-096|The Unseen That Lurks.]]]//

...

"H- how-- how did you acquire the...?" Dan stammered, his words falling over themselves like the legs of a freshly-shot buck.

"Oh, we didn't //acquire// it," Fritz replied nonchalantly. "We //caught// it. Don't know what it is other than that the feds didn't want it in Pierre."

Dan attempted to match the potential cryptid capturer to the faces he had seen within the past ten minutes. "W- wh- who- who did--"

"Oh, just the intern. Kid's got a knack for it," Fritz said.

Dan fell to his knees.

"One of our easier jobs, to be honest. Can't even break out of a zip tie."

Moisture welled up in his eyes.

"We're dropping it off somewhere in Minnesota. Controls the deer population and all."

His stomach wrung itself like a wet towel.

"Twenty years." Dan whimpered. A tear dripped from each of his eyes. "Twenty //fucking// years. All for nothing."

"You doing alright?" Fritz said, nervously approaching the distraught Dr. Dan.

Dan did not move from his position.

"Hello? Earth to Dan? Earth to Dr. Daniels? Earth to the top cryptid hunter in South D--"

"In //America//," Dan snapped, standing up as straight as a pole. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

//No.// Dan thought, surveying the surroundings with his eagle eyes. //Not like this.// He took a deep breath. //Think. Think logically. These people were simply lucky. They were at the right place at the right time.//

"Riiight," Fritz trailed off. "Can I get you a tissue? You seem a tad... congested."

//They didn't put in the work. They didn't put in the effort. They're simply a group of amateurs who stumbled across it when it was weak and exhausted from the twenty years it's spent running from **me**.//

"No," Dan replied.

"A-- are you sure?" Fritz asked. He adjusted his hat and his shirt. "It's really no problem at all, we have some antihistamines that--"

"The creature in the truck," Dan blurted out.

"Wh- what about it?" Fritz replied, averting his eyes from Dan's piercing gaze.
"I mean. You've clearly spent... a //great deal// of effort attempting to catch this creature, have you not?"
Fritz forced a chuckle. "Well, I don't mean to toot my own horn, but it really wasn't //that// hard." Dan flinched. He took a deep breath.
"Well," Dan added, the corners of his mouth twitching as he resisted the shit-eating grin spreading across his face, "As a show of goodwill toward your organization, would you be open to... //me//... taking it off your hands?" Dan gestured to the truck.
"Wait just a moment right there, buddy," Gerald growled from behind Fritz, "I ain't lettin' my gig get replaced by an upstart like //you//."

Dan silently pulled his credit card out of his wallet. "Compensation can be arranged."

"Gerald, shut it. We're discussing business," Fritz replied.

"I see how it is," Gerald barked, "I'm gonna go ask the cops if this is even legal." The man stormed off into the loading bay.

"Sorry about him," Fritz chuckled.

"So..." Dan said, swallowing his sobs.

"Okay. Right," Fritz said, "Oh-ninety-six. Listen, we're honored to have the best cryptid hunter in America interested in one of our cleanups, but, you see..."
"Explain," Dan growled.
"We, uh, can't just hand it off to anyone. We wish we could! And I don't mean to imply that you're just any old cryptid hunter. I mean, if we were able to hand it off, we'd hand it off to //you//, but--"

"What?" Dan barked. "So what's stopping you from handing it over?" He loomed over Fritz's meek figure.
"I- I mean, we can't just put oh-ninety-six //anywhere//. There's laws we have to follow here. The feds only gave us authorization to send it off to Minnesota, and, on the off chance that you--"
Dan forced a chuckle from his trembling throat, which came out more like a wheeze. "I fully intend on taking it to, ah, Minnesota."

"But," Fritz replied, "If you //don't//, then //we're// getting in trouble. And while I respect the highly courageous approach you take to the business of cryptid hunting... we, unfortunately, need to keep our contract with the FBI. That we get 90% of our revenue from."

"You misunderstand," Dan replied coldly. He clenched his fists in his pockets. "Cryptozoological law is of utmost importance to me." He forced a smile, his yellowed teeth showing. "So hand over the creature."

Fritz sighed. "Out of curiosity, why do you want oh-ninety-six so much in particular? I don't mean to question your taste in cryptids, it's just-- we have a lot of //other// ones you could have, so, why this one? This one's not that interesting--"
"Not. That. Interesting?" Dan said through gritted teeth. "The //Holy Grail// of cryptids is //not that interesting?//"
"Wait, wait, wait," Fritz faltered, "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to hit a nerve. But... are you saying this thing's actually worth something?"
"No, no, no, no, no," Dan stammered. "I jest. I mean, it's like you said. It's worthless. It's weak. It's. //Easy.// To capture. Really, it'll just look tacky in your collection of--"
"In that case..." Fritz said. Dan's heart pounded with anticipation. "...why do you want it so much if it's worthless?"

Neither Fritz nor Dan said a word for the next few moments. A tension filled the air. It was as if tripwires surrounded the two of them, and any move could spring hundreds at once.

"Can I have it?" Dan said. His eyes darted back and forth. //Something.//

"Unfortunately, I can't think of a way to make it happen," Fritz replied, sighing. "I wish I could, but--"

"But I //need// it!" Dan exclaimed, restraining himself from shouting. //Anything.//

"I hate to say it," Fritz replied, "But this isn't something we can do. I realize your time is valuable, and I don't want to keep you here for longer."

Dan swallowed. He inhaled deeply.

"Fine," he spat. "If you’re content to check the boxes and toss it in a forest, be my guest. But some of us… like to do something worth remembering."

Fritz's mouth opened, then closed. "I-- I don't know if--" He exhaled slowly.

"Okay. You... can have it."

"I-- can?" Dan enunciated, hunter instincts on the alert for any surprises.

"Yeah," Fritz sighed, "oh-ninety-six is yours." He looked over his shoulder toward Gerald, two police officers from the dock flanking him. He leaned in, lowering his volume. "Just-- as far as the cops are concerned, it ended up in Minnesota."

"Thank you," Dan said, grinning widely. //The hunt is back on.//

"I'll put in a good word for your organization at the next cryptid conference. What was your company called again? I--"

"Hold it," a voice sounded from behind him. There stood Gerald, accompanied by two policemen.

"What's the problem, officer?" Dan hissed. His heart pounded.

"Fritz, what's Dan doin' by the truck?" Gerald barked. "I thought ya said you weren't lettin' 'im have it!"

"Oh, I changed my mind! He can have it." Fritz said.

"Fritz, we don't even know this guy!" Gerald shouted. "You're withholdin' my pay //and// givin' away a potentially dangerous animal to some rando you never met? I'm not givin' him the keys!" He turned to the cops. "There's gotta be somethin' illegal 'bout this!"

"Legally, you're all in the clear," one officer said, a clipboard and pen in his hands. "As long as he has a valid driver's license -- and I don't see why he //wouldn't// -- we don't care who drives the animal to Minnesota. S'long as it gets there."

"Gerald, he's the top cryptid hunter in the US!" Fritz said. "And he said he'd compensate us for the effort. Give Dan the keys, Gerald."

"Okay, fine," he grumbled. He rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a keychain. "It's the silver one. Just don't total the damn thing. Rental company's already on my ass about it."

"Glad we're all on the same page," Fritz sighed.

//Finally,// Dan thought, as Gerald reached out his arm, the keychain nearly within his grip. //Finally, The Unseen That Lurks is in my grasp. The culmination of twenty years of effort. The sum total of my life's work, a demonstration of my razor-sharp wit, honed to perfection. And, really, I wouldn't have it any other way than this. Because the best professionals become **leaders**. And the best leaders don't **do.** They **delegate**. And delegate I have done. With my silver tongue I have lured The Unseen That Lurks directly into Pierre, where I tricked a group of amateurs into capturing it **for** me. I am truly the ringleader of a cryptid empire, and the 'Safe Cleanup Professionals' are naught but puppets hanging from--//

"Actually, just so we don't get one of y'all whinin' 'bout it later," one of the officers said, gesturing towards Dan, "how 'bout we check your ID first?"

"Sounds alright with me," Fritz chimed in.

Dan leered at Fritz, before sighing and retracting his arm. He pulled out his driver's license from his wallet. The officer squinted at the plastic card.

"From Florida, male, name is... Daniel Daniels?"

"That sounds fake."

"Indeed it does. No way in //hell// is that real."

The first cop turned the license over in his hands. "Expired, too. Says here you’re 70? You don’t look a day over 55."

"I try to live healthy," Dan said through his teeth.

The cop didn’t smile. "Hm. You know, I think I saw a bulletin come through last night -- something about a guy in camo and sunglasses, six-five, seen laying illegal traps off Highway 14."

"Big dude," the second cop added. “Sound familiar to you?”

"Nope," Dan said. "Could’ve been anyone. Lotta tall cryptid hunters around these parts."

"With barbed caltrops?" the first officer asked, nodding to the pouch on Dan’s belt.

"That’s a collector’s item."

The cop raised an eyebrow. "It’s also illegal as hell. Especially outside city limits."

Dan took a step back. "Now, hold on. I’m trying to help. You don’t understand the importance of what’s inside that truck."

"No," the officer replied, hand resting on his cuffs. "I do understand. I just don’t trust you with it."

Dan swallowed.
"I understand that you both do an important public service."

"Now, don't try an' butter us up, that ain't gonna--"

He pulled out his wallet. "And a public service needs proper compensation."

The two officers glanced at one another, and then back at Dan's wallet. They both nodded. "Well," one of them said after a brief pause, "I //suppose// we could let you off with a warning."

"That'd be //wonderful//," Dan said, grinning. He opened the wallet.

Only to find it devoid of cash.

His smile faltered. He began to rummage through the wallet's many folds of leather, sifting through long-expired gift cards and random memorabilia and photos of his most prized kills.

He pulled out two coins.

"These are antique, limited edition..." Dan finally proclaimed, squinting at the coins...

"2006 quarters."

The cops' expressions narrowed.

...

"Come with us, bud."

Decades of cryptid hunting had gotten Dr. Daniel Daniels into numerous altercations -- twenty outstanding warrants in fifteen counties, a laundry list of enemies, and several scars, only about a third of which were from wild animals.

"You're..."

His grief was replaced by a surge of adrenaline. //No. Not like this.//

"under..."

He dug the tips of his combat boots into the gravel...

"arrest."

...and bolted.

"HEY!"

Dan sprinted through the Site 19 parking lot, making a beeline for his Jeep. His decades of experience trekking through the woods more than outmactched the minimal exercise his pair of pursuers had undertaken. He leapt into the driver's seat and jammed in the key, the engine coughing and wheezing as the vehicle roared to life, splattering droplets of oil all over his parking spot. Feeling his lunch slosh around in his stomach, he twisted his jeep around the parking lot and out onto the main road, performing the left turn that Fritz always hated with near-perfect precision.

Dan floored the gas as alternating flashes of red and blue filled his rear- and side-view mirrors like dots on a night-vision scope. Several curses exited his mouth in rapid succession. //Oh well//, he thought, clenching his jaws as he weaved between sluggish seventy mile-per-hour traffic. //The hunt isn't over. As soon as those pompous garbagemen deliver The Unseen, I'll be there waiting.//

"M I N N E S O T A," he typed into the GPS receiver, vibrating on his dash.

{{TURN LEFT.}} The blood rushed to the right side of his head. His heart pumped louder.

{{TURN RIGHT.}} Five seconds later the cops followed suit, struggling to match Dan's precision. He snickered, glancing at the county line on the GPS. Their jurisdiction only extended so far.

A sharp //pop-pop-pop// rattled from beneath the Jeep's tires. Dan's eyes turned wide. He nearly bit his cheek, as his vehicle jerked to a slow with an audible hiss. All over the asphalt were caltrops -- //his// caltrops, placed to prevent The Unseen from escaping. Now, of course, they worked perfectly -- on him.

With his margin more than cut in half, Dan slammed his full weight on the accelerator. The Jeep jerked and shuddered as it barreled down the road. As he wrenched vigorously for control over the vehicle, his eyes darted back and forth between the road and the GPS display, mentally crossing off each unpaved service road one after the next. Sweat pooled in his armpits. //Too short. Too hilly. This one's flooded. This one's gated. This one's--//

A star-shaped icon appeared on the map, a campfire placed within it.

A gasp left Dan's mouth.

He twisted the steering wheel to the right in one sharp motion, kicking up enough gravel to furnish an aquarium for the Loch Ness Monster. //Should've done this in the first place,// Dan thought, //Police cars can't handle this terrain.// He chuckled as the red-and-blue strobe dimmed from a piercing flash to a comfortable glow. Several forks in the road littered the GPS readout, as Dan barreled toward the oncoming ditch. //Perfect//.

Wait.

//Ditch?//

The Jeep lurched downwards, sending Dan careening into the steering wheel. The metallic twinge of blood spattered across his tongue. The sound of the vehicle's chassis crumpling echoed beneath him with a sickening //crunch//. It was his ditch, dug two summers ago to catch The Unseen That Lurks -- and forgotten afterwards.

Dan gathered himself, and kicked the door open, his rifle in tow. He scampered out the door and into the prairie, abandoning the Jeep. His hair stood on end as he heard the sound of rubber screeching behind him. Six car doors slammed shut. Foliage rattled.

Dan trampled through the thick vegetation. His stomach churned. His eyes were bloodshot. His heart pumped faster than it had any right to be at his age. Slimy strands of saliva dripped from his mouth like a rabid dog as he pushed onward, dragged along only by the yoke of certain freedom. A triumphant sneer took shape on Dan's face as his boots clomped along the... unstable soil. Soil that gave way to his two-hundred-eighty pounds of body weight.

His stomach dropped.

His ankle crunched.

The rest of his body hit the ground, ten feet below the surface of a false blanket of fallen leaves and sediment.

If the loud //thump// hadn't already alerted the cops, his ensuing howl of pain made his presence known to every living thing within a mile.

He clawed his way up one hand at a time, his fingers gripping into the soil, his already-injured right ankle throbbing with enough pain to just barely poke through the surge of adrenaline running through him. Barely managing to scale over the edge, he galloped forward on all fours before stumbling into a pathetic limp, hopping on one foot while a man clad in a deep blue uniform emerged from the bushes, five more in hot pursuit.

Before the cop had the chance to say "FREEZE," Dan's forty-year-old muscle memory had already activated. He'd pulled the trigger on his rifle, which he'd squarely placed at the precise angle for a headshot.

The sight would've been more gruesome if he'd had any ammunition to load it with.

Dan dropped the rifle. Six standard-issue pistols stared him down.

"Wait! Don't shoot! -- You'll blow the proximity mines!"

The cops went silent, eyes darting around in panic.

Dan broke out into a hacking cackle. "Just kidding," he choked. "I forgot where I buried them."

"Looks like you're comin' with us," grumbled the same officer from before. "You're under arrest."

-----

Dr. Daniel Daniels sat handcuffed to a cheap plastic chair, his eyes glazed over as the half-dead fluorescent bulb flickered overhead. Another chair sat opposite to him on an equally cheap table. His eyes darted around. A knife. A pencil. A paperclip. Anything. //Anything//. He grunted as he pushed himself against the chair, scooting around in no direction in particular like a beached megalodon flopping about on land.

A tired, middle-aged man stamped into the room, rubbing his temples. "I'm giving Williams an earful after this," he muttered. Dan squinted his eyes. //Senior Inspector Jeremiah Cimmerian//, his nametag read, //FBI Unusual Incidents Unit.// The agent plopped himself into the unoccupied chair.

"Daniel... Daniels, was it?"

"That's //Doctor// Daniel Daniels," Dan muttered under his breath.

"You got a PhD, son?"

"In cryptozoological studies."

Cimmerian raised an eyebrow, folding his hands on the table. "Explains a lot."

He slid a manila envelope across the table.

"Open this."

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