Gryphens.com ~ The Attack is Coming...

DAY 1,529 OF INCARCERATION
Med Bay 5, Bunker 18-B, Groom Lake Facility
37°15'04" N, 115°49'26"W – Elev. 4,284 feet (178 feet below ground)

The room is stark, sterile. Row upon row of 4-inch white tiles cover each wall, stretching from floor to ceiling. The floor itself is waxed to a high shine. Medical machines line the periphery, beeping, whirring, blinking, and an analog clock reads 10:27. Everything is white.

The patient perches at the center of the room.

Stock-still, sitting on the very edge of the small bed, the patient stares at the floor... then explodes into motion.

Immediately, alarms begin blaring. The small figure rips a device from the wall, pauses, then drops it before speeding towards the entrance in an ungainly lope. Throwing up spindly arms, the patient crashes into the door at speed and bursts through into the hallway beyond.

The alarms continue, unabated.

The patient yells, incoherent. One long white hallway leads to another, and a sharp right turn reveals still another. But this hallway is occupied.

Two burly forms collide with the fleeing figure, clamping hands around arms to prevent struggle. But struggle persists as the patient is marched back to that stark, sterile room. Struggle continues even as the small form is ultimately strapped to the bed with wide leather cuffs.

Then all falls motionless as the patient espies the needle: a long silvery hypodermic joined to a glass syringe, brimming with some cloudy substance. The contents of that syringe spell death.

The patient's effort intensifies then, head jerking back and forth, even as the needle is forcibly injected. Slowly but surely, the effects become obvious. Eyelids droop, motions become jerky. But with one final, monumental exertion, the creature rips one arm free of the band encircling it.

Pausing just out of reach, the attendant leans over the supine form, momentarily transfixed by startling blue eyes set in an ashen face. Even as those lids tremble, the piercing eye contact is maintained, and the patient manages to raise a three-fingered hand.

"The Nymph." The words come out as a croak, barely decipherable. "Tell him it's the Nymph." Then the eyes roll up, and the fingers slacken. A wadded ball of paper drops from their grip. The doctor arrives, and the procedure begins under the observation of two military officers. Twenty minutes later, the one known as KLINE stops breathing.

Standing to the side in that stark, sterile room, the older of the two uniformed figures smoothes out the wadded paper... and nearly stops breathing as well.

This paper contains the key to everything.