Field Team 42: Paranormal Responders의 모든 챕터: 챕터 61 - 챕터 70

It was just past the smoking husk of the burned-out diner that we saw them.Two men, standing on the corner like they were waiting for a bus that wasn’t coming. One wore a neatly pressed white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a leather-bound Bible under his arm. The other was tall, almost inhumanly so, and draped in a cloak of vines and moss that swayed gently even though there was no wind.The Green Man.And Pastor Elijah Brooks.We stopped in our tracks.The town was still swirling in red dust and Dirt-born madness. The air hissed with static. Somewhere behind us, a skeletal bride twirled slowly in the intersection, her empty eye sockets facing no one, her veil torn and flicking through the air like seaweed in water. A patch of green sludge burbled against a brick wall nearby, leaving a trail that steamed and sizzled.But these two just stood there. Talking. Like they were discussing sports scores.Pastor Brooks saw us first. He smiled and gave a small wave."Hey there," he call

Dust Bowl felt like a town dissolving. Not burning. Not falling. Just fading, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.The Dirt was everywhere now. Not just dust and haze, but pressure. It pushed into your ears, your lungs, your memory. It made you forget what blue skies used to look like, what dry air felt like in your throat. It made you remember things you'd sworn you never would.We walked single file down Main Street, flanked by buildings that looked hollowed out by grief. Windows were boarded, doors hung half-open, but no one stepped out. Not anymore. The people of Dust Bowl were ghosts in their own homes."You sure this is the way?" Liz-1 asked."As sure as anything right now," Mont said. His voice didn’t shake, but it had gone quiet. Measured.He was out front again, like always, one hand on the weapon slung over his shoulder, the other balled into a fist so tight his knuckles had gone white. Every time I looked at him, I felt a ripple in my gut. Something was differen

The Giant of Kandahar moved like a collapsing building, slow, inevitable, every step cracking the earth beneath it. When it roared, the sky trembled. The storm above responded, winds howling louder, Dirt curling into tornadoes of memory and malice.Mont didn’t flinch. He stood there, shoulders squared, rifle slung across his back like it was just another tool, not his lifeline. Beside him, the Green Man shimmered, not with light, but with presence. Like a thousand leaves stirring at once, he felt ancient, rooted to the world and beyond it.“Now,” Mont said.And they charged.The Giant swung first. Its arm, thick as a truck axle, slammed into the town square, shattering concrete and throwing debris like shrapnel. Mont rolled under it, came up firing. The shots sparked off the thing’s skin, but they got its attention.The Green Man moved like a whip of vines, wrapping one of the Giant’s legs in glowing green tendrils. The earth itself seemed to groan with the strain.From the rooftop of

If Underdenver was a pressure cooker sealed with paranoia, Tenochtitlán was a cathedral of quiet. Not the reverent kind, but the hollow, echoing kind that made your boots sound too loud and your thoughts feel too exposed.It took me less than five minutes on foot to decide I liked it here.The first thing that struck me was the space. Underdenver was cramped by design, every inch optimized to house a swelling subterranean population. But Tenochtitlán, despite being built for similar capacity, was underpopulated. Vast plazas stretched in all directions, eerily clean, eerily silent. It was built for a million. Maybe two. But no more than a quarter of that lived here.It showed.No shouting vendors. No endless clatter of foot traffic. No mechanical thrum from delivery drones or tramcars. Just dust on polished obsidian walkways and the occasional bird that had wandered in from aboveground and hadn’t figured out how to leave."It feels haunted," J said beside me."That's because it is."H

It started with J.He was seated at a terminal that wasn’t supposed to be operational, fingers dancing across dusty keys with the casual confidence of someone who learned to read code the way most kids learned to ride a bike. I didn’t question it. At this point, I’d given up trying to stop him. The kid was faster than half our techs and twice as precise. He didn’t just navigate systems, he conversed with them."Carl," he said, eyes narrowing at the display. "I think we have a problem."I stepped over. The screen showed a cascade of encrypted packets flowing into a hidden directory, one I didn’t recognize. J traced the data path, and I watched in silence as he unwrapped layers of misdirection like peeling back the skin on something that wasn’t meant to be exposed."This terminal isn't just passive," he said. "Someone's been sending data. Regular pulses. All routed through multiple proxies... but the destination is marked as a Control black site. The compromised kind."I felt the cold k