Most Grimrunners never ask where the contracts come from. Sensible, really. You take the money, kill the horror, and try to ignore the nightmares that come after.
Now and then, however, one of you curious little darlings starts tugging at loose threads. It’s a well-established fact that something larger lurks behind the tidy face of Brineheart Solutions, after all. Terribly difficult to keep anything secret nowadays. But inevitably, someone starts to wonder how deep that rabbit hole really goes. And what is the shape of the thing at the bottom?
So gather your little clues. We encourage it. A sigil here, a case file there. Grimoire pages clutched in a tattooed hand. Note it all down, and form your theories about the organization behind it. Does it write the tomes and hold the keys? Does it have its hand upon a sleeping power, waiting to wield it? Or is it all nothing but smoke?
A charming instinct, curiosity. Usually fatal, of course.
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“Stop talking.”
“No, man, listen. I traced twenty-three shell corps off one Brineheart holding company alone. Twenty-three. And that’s just the first layer. Thing’s pan-continental, I mean, Beijing, Óbismo, Cairo…”
“Global economics. Riveting.”
“One of the parent firms had ties with some eighteenth century Caribbean merchant company. I found a record for a lost crate containing a Grimspawn, thing was redacted to hell—”
“This a history lesson now?”
“I’m saying Brineheart’s always been sketchy. A long, sketchy chain that never dies. Names change, companies fold, and boom, a new one pops back up in its place. Same coin, man. Old money pinging back and forth across borders. Like a web. You know? Planet-wide web, and some big, rich spider’s sitting at the center, pulling silk.”
“Uh huh.”
“Family of spiders. Whole goddamn nest of spiders.”
“You hear yourself when you talk?”
“Everyone thinks Brineheart’s hot shit, you know? Man, Brineheart’s just reception. Working for the spiders who really decide what stays quiet, and what contracts hit the boards.”
“Yeah, yeah. Someone else is steering the boat. Everyone knows that.”
“No, fuck the boat. I’m saying they own the ocean.”
“Okay. They own the ocean.”
“Like I’ve barely scratched the surface, and these guys go all the way down. They’re everywhere, man. They might be watching us right now. Listening.”
“I doubt that.”
“But we only see them when they let us. Like in Manila, before I started running, there was this suit at the cafe across the street. Weird tattoos, burn scars all up his hands. Saw him again in Tokyo, right before Brineheart found me. Bet you have a story like that.”
“Yeah. Minsk in ‘09. Hotel bar. Three bodies upstairs, Grimspawn still loose. Lady sat there drinking tea while the city burned.”
“And?”
“And by morning, the thing was dead.”
“That’s what freaks me out. They always know exactly how bad to let it get.”
“You think too hard, kid.”
“How do you not? We don’t know anything. They just point us at the blood and hand us the tithe.”
“I know enough.”
“What’s ‘enough’ to you?”
“I know they’re old and quiet, and they run clean. Cleaner than Grimrunners. And I know they’re human, which means we’re in the same corner.”
“Right, yeah. Goddamn fellowship of man up in here. You going to their Christmas party this year?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“We’re just tools to them! Out here dying for their cause, whatever it is, and we barely know their name.”
“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Of course it goddamn bothers me.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Yeah. Because every time I think I’ll walk away, something worse crawls out of the dark. And somehow, the Hallow already know its name.”
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Stay vigilant, Grimrunners,
— Studio Ellipsis Team