.Up MPCS Paranumbers Para Genetics ChampHistory Fenris .

Setting History
Note from Prototype:

I am not a paranormal. However, I have been witness to the debacle of justice that has haunted the paranormal community for a number of years. US Citizens are being denied basic rights and freedoms, based on an accident of genetics. The so-called cures and measures taken by the PRA are tantamount to fascism, all in the name of protecting non-paranormals. I have no idea how long I will be able to keep writing and trying to be a force for fair treatment of these people. However, I’m not ready to quit writing just yet. I hope someone out there will take what I’ve written and act on it—hopefully, a paranormal with the same convictions I have. The PRA, Merck, and PAUS are killing paranormals without any due process or attention to the law. I don’t think Prometheus attacked a building full of innocent civilians. I don’t think all the second generation of paranormals are dead yet. Someone needs to act. Now. Before it’s too late.
Introduction: A Historical Retrospective of the Past Decade
    In 1996, the Owens-Parr Act became into federal law, with bipartisan support. Most states, with the exception of Oregon and Vermont, passed similar laws to cover any gaps. Simply put, the Act outlawed any paranormal involvement in law enforcement and criminal justice. The laws deemed that paranormals acting independently were vigilantes, subject to both federal and state prosecution under the Act.
    The large exception to the Owens-Parr Act and similar laws was the federal government’s own covert paranormal force, PAUS (Paranormal Alliance of the United States). The existence of PAUS was a quiet affair, known only to certain congressional officials, members of the executive branch, and the justices of the Supreme Court. If PAUS civilian ops identified a paranormal at large, the government’s own swooped in and solved the problem, often permanently. PAUS had carte blanche authority to deem whether or not termination of a suspect was necessary, and the Senate oversight committee usually had little to say about the elimination of such dangerous elements from the general population. What problem could they have with honest, dedicated paranormals working for the government saving the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of citizens from such a dire threat as a single vigilante with superpowers?
     Immediately after passage of the Owens-Parr Act, dozens of paranormals went underground. Those who had seen the coming of dark times had planned ahead, developed other lives, and stashed away funds for a rainy day. A few missed the boat and found themselves publicly identified by the Paranormal Regulatory Agency (PRA) and ostracized by the public, finally to be offered a choice of permanently losing their paranormal abilities or else forced to wear monitoring chips that could not be removed. Still fewer accepted the whispered offers from clandestine government officials, donned uniforms, and became members of PAUS. Yet the rarest were those paranormals who managed to elude the government entirely, keeping their true identities secret while continuing to use their powers, some for good, some for ill. As time passed, PAUS captured or killed many of their number. Others still remain at large. Among the paranormal community, PAUS is an ill-kept secret; most paranormals, no matter what their political stance or views on using their abilities, know of a shadow organization in the government that seeks to capture or kill paranormals. Logic dictates that only a force of equal or greater power could defeat some of the more powerful paranormals at large—a force comprised of paranormals itself, in other words.
     Ten years have passed, and some members of Congress have protested the Owens-Parr Act as unconstitutional. Most have no knowledge of PAUS and the real threat against paranormals. Instead, they argue that all persons having claims of US citizenship have basic rights, inclusive of distinct ethnic traits and cultures and disabilities. How, ask these few, are citizens who have different abilities any better (or worse) than anyone else? Legal specialists, scientists, and all manner of expert witnesses have testified for both sides, and no consensus has emerged. One of the most debatable points is the use of the Hyche vaccine, a one-time “antidote” to having paranormal powers. Developed by unnamed PRA scientists, and approved on the FDA fast track in 2005, one dose is sufficient to completely rewrite the RNA gene sequence, much like anti-viral medications, that enables paranormal abilities…permanently. The PRA offers this as one “final solution” to paranormals; the vaccine in theory guarantees the elimination of paranormality and allows the individual to lead a normal life. Those who refuse to take the vaccine must be implanted with a monitoring chip, the attempted removal of which delivers a high dose of tranquilizer, immobilizing the paranormal. These choices, say Congressional delegates sympathetic to paranormals, are not based in love of freedom, but pervasive fear of those who are different. How, they ask, are these options any different from those proposed by some of history’s most ruthless and evil figures, namely Hitler? Others say that the dangers paranormal pose demand harsh methods, for the greater good of all citizens.
     What is clear is that some paranormals have emerged from their hiding places, consequences be damned. Some are perhaps original “heroes” from the days before Owens-Parr. Others may well be second or third generation paranormals. Vigilantism is on the rise, as is paranormal crime. PAUS may be on the verge of becoming a public entity of the federal government. The world is changing, and whether for the better remains to be seen.
The Atomic Age
     The history of paranormals, in all likelihood, begins with the Manhattan Project. Some paranormal physiologists speculate that so-called superpowers made their debut into the human genome far earlier in history, but no empirical evidence supports this theory. Oak Ridge and Los Alamos were the top secret centers of atomic research leading into the Manhattan Project (1939-1946). Only long after the fact did the public hear about the experiments at Stagg Field in Chicago, site of the first US controlled nuclear reaction in 1942. But even more secret was the Duke University Center for Nuclear Incubation. There, in 1928, a small group of maverick scientists in the new field of nuclear physics built an atomic reactor. Within two years, they had achieved some degree of success, never reaching the ultimate goal of a controlled reaction, but coming extremely close on a number of occasions. What they also did, quite unwittingly, was release bursts of radioactive matter into the local atmosphere. No one noticed anything for some years. Then, around 1934, a perceptive scientist named J.B. Rhine, who had been conducting experiments in parapsychology out of the Duke department of psychology since 1927, noticed a statistical spike in both the number of people reporting parapsychological incidents and the magnitude of said events.
     Rhine, a botanist, was a respected member of the scientific community. He was methodical, skeptical, and relied solely on evidence to support his claims. Rhine became interested in parapsychology after attending a lecture by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on the matter, and as a Duke academic, had help and support from his colleagues, including his wife Louisa, psychology chair William McDougall, and another professor, Karl Ziner. Rhine had considerable piles of creditable research on parapsychology already. When he showed McDougall data corroborating the increase in parapsychological phenomena, the chair helped open purse strings, and the Duke University Parapsychological Lab opened in 1935. Rhine coined the term “ESP,” and Ziner developed the famous series of cards designed to test participants for parapsychological ability. Of course, Rhine had no idea about the missing piece to his puzzle—the fact that the bursts of radioactive matter from the local reactor had, in fact, altered the brains, endocrine systems, and DNA of many of his so-called psychics. The abilities he observed were for the most part telepathic, telekinetic, and precognitive in nature. Few people approached Rhine with stories about unusual strength, the ability to manipulate energy, and more “physical” as opposed to “psychic” powers. The Lab eventually moved off campus and became the Rhine Research Center in 1995, only a year before the passage of the Owens-Parr act. The Center remains open, but only as an archive and center for historical research at present.
Out of the Bag
     No one knew who he was. In the chaos of Pearl Harbor and declaration of war on Japan, few Americans stopped to ask where he came from. But with Howard Cohen’s weekly broadcasts, no one didn’t know who Liberty was.
     Anyone with at least a simple working knowledge of history would have realized that Liberty was an odd name for a man. After all, France had Marianne, the Republic, symbolizing liberté, égalité, and fraternité, while the U.S.A. had Lady Liberty welcoming poor, tired, and hungry immigrants to the Promised Land. Yet, America’s first known superhero was not a daintily draped woman, but a stout, strong fellow.
     He emerged during the chaos of Pearl Harbor, complete with red, white, and blue form-fitting underwear. Liberty plucked dozens of drowning sailors from the whirlpools of steel, blood, and oil. He lifted mass tonnage and even smashed a Zero to the ground when it ventured too close. Liberty, the symbol of American heroism, gave his first radio interview to Cohen on December 10, 1941. Carefully coached or naturally creative, Liberty’s words played on every American sentiment ever uttered. He dragged Manifest Destiny, Providence, and Independence into the mix with ease. The public loved him. He’d saved lives, had the good sense to laud the real heroes of America as the brave soldiers who’d defended Uncle Sam’s soil (never mind Hawai’ian sovereignty), and looked good to boot. Liberty posed for a number of publicity photos and donated much of the proceeds to the USO. He could do no wrong.
     No reporter or investigator ever discovered Liberty’s true identity, nor did he ever make an appearance without his full costume, or uniform, as he preferred to call his longjohns. His radio broadcasts with Cohen and others continued through 1946 and the earliest hints of the coming Cold War. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, Liberty vanished. Did he see the bitter years ahead? Did he sense that after a brief golden age, times would never again be as good for a well known superhero? Neither Liberty nor his confidants have ever stepped forward to offer explanation.
     With the apparent departure of the All American Hero, though, numerous others appeared to take his place. Leopard, the first female American hero, lacked Liberty’s super strength, but she made up for it with amazing feats of dexterity. Maestro had an intriguing combination of sleight of hand, disappearing, and clairvoyance abilities. Commando possessed a dizzying array of weaponry and although not on Liberty’s level, he was by all accounts a tough guy. Superheroes had leapt, flown, and blasted their way onto the world stage, and by the end of the 1950s, everyone knew they were here to stay.
Gifted Schools
     Joseph McCarthy made a weak stab at exposing commies in the hero community during the second Red Scare, but it flopped, especially after he went after stalwart researcher Rhine and his team at Duke. Rhine had been around far too long and had way too many supporters and fans in Congress for McCarthy’s accusations to carry much weight. Local police the growing “Research Triangle” even stated they’d refuse to serve any warrants, which deflated the witch hunt. Others in academe were not so lucky, of course, and superheroes in general tended to lay low during the first few years of the 1950s.
    The later years of the decade saw more new faces…and more and more new faces, all with strange powers and an apparent desire to help make the world a better place. Odd as it may seem in retrospect, costumed “villains” did not appear until the late 1950s; the early years of the decade reflected within the paranormal community the external sentiments of the baby boomer generation, namely a seeming optimism and sense of hope. Every conceivable preternatural power made its appearance during this time. Various reports made the first estimates of how many heroes emerged from the woodwork—approximately one per 100,000. The data, of course, were flawed in that they did not reflect statistics from other nations, most of which were eager to conceal their heroic strengths and weaknesses, so to speak.
     The journalistic world, as a bastion of public information, faced a nomenclature dilemma. What were these “superheroes” supposed to be called? Was “hero” sufficient? What about “superpowers,” which even in the 50s sounded a bit on the hokey side. This didn’t seem a likely choice when the first “villainess,” Vector, emerged. Her powers, encompassing ghostlike movements and manipulation of gravity fields, were extremely complex. Her motive, greed, was a simple one. She liked robbing banks, and not unlike Bonnie and Clyde, she killed to do it and still managed to obtain a sort of unusual (and erroneous) folk hero status. Oddly enough, another woman stopped her in her tracks, a figure who would become an icon for the next decade. Psychryst had diverse powers of the mind, overwhelming ones at that. Donned in a cleverly designed purple leotard and protective hood, she methodically tracked down Vector, who was engaged in yet another lucrative and carnage-strewn bank robbery, dissected her brain from the inside out, and turned over the breathing but otherwise useless body to authorities. At the press conference, reporters called Psychryst on her decision, stating that her method of apprehending Vector destroyed evidence. The young woman dismissed their claims, repeating that “Justice has been served, and the people kept safe. What citizen of this nation would not pull the trigger if the life of innocents were at stake?” She then shocked the world by announcing her retirement and, in a novel move, revealing her true name, Professor Annabelle Meiers, a psychologist not at Duke, but at Stamford University in Palo Alto, California. Meiers was, however, quick to point out the assistance and mentoring she’d received from Rhine and others at Duke. Now, she explained, she was eager to return the favor to young paranormals. She announced the opening of the first of the so-called “gifted schools” for children with unusual aptitudes and abilities, located on the Stamford campus.
     The public was in love with the idea, and the government, already pushing study of math, science, and foreign language in an effort to stay on top in the Space Race, liked the idea of a potentially well trained force of superheroes, loyal to the U.S.A. Meiers was likeable and presented a positive face for all paranormals, a term she preferred over the rather loaded “superhero” or “supervillain.” The first year the Stamford Paranormal Research Center opened, Meiers had to quadruple her testing staff, just to accommodate the piles of applications. Following Rhine’s model, the Stamford Center operated under the most rigorous scientific and ethical principles possible. Students ranged in age from seven to 21, and Stamford generously offered various scholarships to assist youth who couldn’t pay for training. The original class of 1962 “graduated” 12 young paranormals, including Visionary, a precog who would later work for the Kennedy and Johnson administrations; Padaiea, a walking encyclopedia and polyglot who became a trainer at Stamford; and Atlas, a strong man whose physical abilities may even have exceeded those of Liberty. Only Meiers and limited members of her staff knew the “private” identities of each of the pupils, and she continued to serve as a confidant for graduates after they moved on to other jobs, many in the government and private programs related to paranormal activity. Several training facilities like the one at Stamford, sprang up around the country, but none quite achieved the stellar reputation of Meiers’s school.
     Originally in an effort to oversee the Stamford Center, Congress created the PRA, the Paranormal Regulatory Agency, in 1958. The PRA had a strong early history of cooperating with Stamford and the Duke Lab, agreeing that scientific study of paranormals, training, and a certain level of pro-American indoctrination were positive outcomes. While they eventually became little more than a Gestapo-like agency, the early years of the PRA were generally geared towards helping the paranormal community. The PRA kept its own files on paranormals, identifying them by appearance and powers and pseudonym only, respecting the privacy of individuals. Only in the last couple of years before the Owen-Parrs Act did the PRA start recording legal names of paranormals, if known. The PRA’s registry, in fact, has served as a “search and destroy” list for PAUS over the past decade and the basis for identifying paranormals to be scheduled for vaccination or implantation.
A Litigious Society
     From the appearance of Liberty though the turbulent 1960s and 70s, various judicial bodies in America stayed fairly silent on paranormal issues. This isn’t to say suits against paranormals didn’t occur, but they tended to be less in number than one might think. By 1970, the courts had a system in place to protect the rights and privacy of paranormals, regardless if they fell into the “hero” or “villain” categories, largely as a result of one of the few cases to reach the Supreme Court, Connors vs. Astra (1969). Stemming from this case, in any subsequent court case involving a paranormal, three representatives were present: one for the plaintiff, one for the defense, and one for the court (amica curia), a paid expert who almost always worked for one of the paranormal training institutes or for the PRA itself. Only the amica curia was required to know the private identity of the paranormal in question, and releasing, publicizing, or otherwise telling the identity of the paranormal in any manner was a felony. As an officer of the court, the amica curia had to show appropriate discretion and wisdom or else face dire consequences. Because the PRA screened candidates carefully, no leakage of private identities occurred during this period.
     Two events from 1987-1989 unfortunately swung society’s and the courts’ views on paranormals in a different direction. The first incident was the Prometheus tragedy, in Richmond VA, June 1987. A criminal with the paranormal abilities to set and control fires destroyed a city block and killed over 200 people with numerous witnesses. The case People of the Commonwealth of Virginia vs. Prometheus (1988) applied the usual standards for judicial matters involving paranormals, and with all due process measures in place, the jury found Prometheus guilty and recommended the death sentence, reinstated in Virginia in 1982. The judge, Fred T. Lavers, concurred. The Panel of 4th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals upheld the decision, as did the Full 4th Circuit court. The U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear the case, and thus, the 4th Circuit Court’s decision stood. Prometheus died via electrocution, still wearing his silver cotton face mask, on August 7, 1991. Paranormals and normals alike had understandably mixed feelings on the results. On one hand, a known killer came to justice. On the other hand, the death penalty stirs up emotions even in clear cut cases. Public sentiment generally held that Prometheus got what he deserved. Paranormals generally agreed, but they also worried that this meant worse things to come even for law abiding and innocent paranormals. Moreover, questions about the case remained unanswered. Prometheus was a relative unknown; he’d been suspected of assaulting members of the local police force, but with no serious injuries to the law enforcement officers. He attacked a building, in broad daylight, with countless witnesses, committing the crime that bought him the death penalty. And yet, when caught red handed, Prometheus didn’t fight back. He never offered any resistance, even until the end of his life, and he also refused to offer any sort of explanation in court. Nor did Prometheus make a final statement. He died leaving not only a disturbed public, but also an intriguing mystery.
     The second incident took place at the Stamford Center, and was more of a tragedy for the paranormal community, in most observers’ eyes, than the fate of Prometheus. William Schoenburgh, aka Nowudont, was a student at the Center, 15 years old, with above average intelligence (approximately 132 on the Stanford-Binet, 134 on the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children). Most of the teachers and staff at the Center were concerned about Schoenburgh, who had anti-social tendencies, anger management issues, and age-inappropriate displays of emotion. He had no close friends and did only mediocre work; school officials kept an eye on him, but Schoenburgh kept his plans quiet. On January 14, 1992, he brought three weapons from off-campus: a Ruger P85 9mm handgun, a Heckler and Koch G41 rifle, and a Colt 2000 9mm handgun. Later evidence showed that he ordered these weapons through third parties off the Internet, using stolen credit cards and IDs from three innocent “bystanders” who just happened to have lax computer security. Schoenburgh used his paranormal movement powers to teleport around the school, shooting students who had somehow offended him or, to his perception, bullied him. Ten students died that day, and 21 more were wounded before Padaiea, at the behest of Meiers, was able to talk the young man into stopping and listening to her plea for the killings to end. Alas, she was unable to prevent Schoenburgh from killing himself. Pending a full investigation, the Stamford Center was closed indefinitely, and the students returned home to their parents, many of them frightened, confused, and unsure about using their abilities. Meiers retired and went into seclusion, as did, apparently, Padaiea. Within a year, most of the other training centers closed as well. Early investigations did not reveal anything untoward about the Stamford Center, actually indicating that the teachers worked supremely hard to help the students adjust to the responsibility of having paranormal powers both physically and emotionally; Schoenburgh would have likely committed his crimes even if he were not a paranormal youth. But the damage was done.
     The Department of Education urged that state education agencies try “mainstreaming” paranormal youth into regular classrooms. This proved in most cases to be an absolute disaster, as already overloaded classroom teachers had no training or preparation to tackle a group of highly gifted youngsters, especially in such a vacuum. The PRA released figures that showed a slow, steady growth of paranormals emergent in the greater society, about 1 per 100,000. Thus, in an average American city, only about one or two paranormal students showed up at any given time. The effort to bring these youths into the typical school fold flopped, and most parents of paranormals ended up homeschooling or else moving around to avoid accusations of truancy. Needless to say, this disrupted so-called “normal” life for many of these young people.
     The larger effects were more severe. Numerous members of Congress fought hard for the PRA to gain “registration powers” to test and document every known paranormal, and this precursor to the Owens-Parr Act passed by 1994. An official file, accessible by local, state, and federal law enforcement, was made available on every known paranormal, even minors. At first, the paranormals’ names were kept off the files, but these began to be added by 1995. By 1996, Robert Owens and Lindsey Parr had drafted the first outline of their infamous legislation to spell out the fate of this segment of the population—stating that all known paranormals must first be registered, with all names used as part of the record, then tested, and monitored. Any use of paranormal powers would be considered a felony. The legislation passed in June 1996, and the testing programs began en masse, supervised by the PRA. At first, reporting for testing was voluntary; later, it became a part of every child’s entry process into school and finally, a requirement for obtaining basic legal documents such as a passport and driver’s license. Only the canniest paranormals managed to evade PRA’s nets. The numbers predicted by the PRA held true; approximately one in every 100,000 Americans tested was revealed to have paranormal abilities of one kind or another.
Turncoat Science
     By 1997, other members of Congress were taking issue with the Owens-Parr legislation, stating that it denied American citizens of basic human rights. Two initiatives came out of the office of Health and Human Services to try and counteract these claims, which actually ended up causing even more dissention and controversy. One was the tracking implant. The HHS proposed that every paranormal be implanted with a state of the art tracking device, allowing law enforcement agencies to keep tabs on their whereabouts, thus having no restrictions on movements or activities. It would be no different, they explained, than similar chips placed in expensive show dogs to prevent kidnapping. The PRA took this measure one step further. They wanted to encode in each tracking device a trigger that could be pulled by a PRA operative to immobilize the paranormal through a high dose of non-lethal tranquilizer in the implant. The trigger could be activated manually by the PRA operative, or it would be automatically tripped if anyone attempted to remove the device; a PRA operative could also choose to turn off the trigger, if a suitable reason presented itself. Congress authorized the tracking chips after a year of testing, and the first implants took place in 1999.
     The new century brought even more new technology to limit paranormal rights. In 2002, Merck Pharmaceuticals unveiled a prototype RNA vaccine that would rewrite the genetic sequence responsible for paranormal abilities. One dose of the Hyche vaccine, named after the key project researcher, was sufficient, with a 92% success rate. In 7.99% of the trials, no effect occurred. In .01% of the trials, participants suffered adverse reactions. The PRA backing of the drug testing swept the memos and information about the adverse effects under the carpet, and the drug received preliminary FDA approval in 2004. About 25% of registered paranormals came forth to take the vaccine, and permanently lost their abilities—but they also had their tracking devices removed, and many went on to lead more or less regular lives. Another 50% refused the vaccine and kept wearing tracking devices, more or less used to the restrictions on their activities. About 25% of all registered paranormals simply vanished. Some seemed to show up later as vigilantes. Others disappeared entirely. Speculation is all we have to consider. Some may have willingly gone to work for PAUS, an arm of the PRA. Others may have succumbed to the adverse effects of the vaccine.
Where Do We Go From Here?
     Paranormals walk a dangerous line between two enemies. On one side are the ordinary citizens, frightened by the media, scared of being victims when they could be allies. On the other side is a government presumably by and for the people, intended to protect civil liberties overall, even at a small cost of personal freedoms. Paranormals may be able to work within the system to change it…or, the brave few who have refused to wear tracking implants and take the vaccine may be able to enforce change from the outside. You are not alone. Many people who have no paranormal abilities believe in you. We are here when you need us.

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