I kept my own separate notes during the investigation, and from 1979 to 1983 I would imagine the man I called the Witch of November. This was not the man who took Donna; he was Christopher Nance, and he had an extensive history. Veteran of Korea, long-time resident of NYC, roving working man. Publicly, the authorities assumed he took Donna out of some twisted desire for revenge or to make a point. He made for a perfect scapegoat, too easy an answer.

Privately, when I autopsied him and involved myself in the investigation, the authorities had screwed up and knew it. They assumed he took Donna into the woods. We should have thought to look to the bay. I had been expanding my horizons, becoming more cultural and worldly as a student is wont to do, and was struck by this failure and the grim truth that the sea never gives up her dead. His body had been put on display with markings and cuttings. And Nance had been found before Thanksgiving.

Hence, the Witch of November. Though I never said it aloud to them.

What a strange, sad hope I had at the time. I didn't try to get my parents on board, I kept it all to myself. All I had was the work, my studies, music and the desperate fear I might never recognize Donna if she had been alive all these years.

In May of 1983 I put her memory to rest for good, along with three bullets in the head of the Witch of November, his body in the bay, and everything he owned in a locker. He was in no state to answer my questions. I had to do my own research.

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In retrospect it was a power play. They wanted to humiliate me and force me to back down. I probably should have listened. But what's done is done.
The two of them invited me back to her house, made me dinner, opened wine, lovely evening until it wasn't. I really thought I was being propositioned by the two of them and pillow talk would be folk tales and history books. They brought me to the library after dinner and told me to tell them everything and I did. That's likely what saved my life.
It was 2009. I was working on my senior thesis, history major, lit minor, and the East Coast is steeped in so much unrecognized history. It saturates everything and it just becomes normalized or forgotten. I'd heard about the Chimera from a niche corner of New England historians who were convinced it was the unsung inspiration of Innsmouth. There was too much different, but I gambled and researched and read the Testament and that got me hooked. I dug deeper and here I was, full of veal parmigiana and good wine and grand ideas.
They got quiet and shared a look and that's when the questions began. Who knew I was here? How close was I to other people? Do I have my thesis on me, do my teachers know, etc. etc. Not subtle in the slightest. I felt the sobriety crest inside of me and I braced myself in my chair and managed to find my voice and I said...I wanted to know more. I could keep quiet, I could change my paper, but I needed to know more. They were a doctor and an advocate; a humanities perspective couldn't hurt. And if I followed the breadcrumbs, and they felt this strongly, maybe someone else did.
They smiled. Sure? Why not. Let's keep a secret between us girls (I hate this is what endeared me to them so much). See if you can't be useful.

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We left Kaserne that afternoon and went down into Wiesbaden-Erbenheim. They'd made the mistake of paying us that weekend, we were sick and tired of drinks on the base, and enough of us knew how to solve for X. Climbed into the back of a passing motorist's truck and within a half hour we were trying Old World lager for the first time. Funny enough? I don't have a taste for it.
O'Malley must've seen the way I was looking at the bartender. When the conversation was quiet enough, and he found his courage, he asked the whole table if they thought I was "a queer". Phrased it like that. Fuckhead. He saw the way I paused a little too long and gave me this grin. So downed the rest of my beer and said "Of course I am, your mom kisses your forehead with the same mouth she uses to lick my lips". That got him real pissed, especially when Fieldman accused me of fucking goats, on account of the lineage of O'Malley's mother. But god bless him he saved my ass with that and we all laughed and carried on like the grand ol' finest of the U.S.A.
About a week later I crept up on O'Malley, pulled a bag over his head and whipped his ass until he begged me to stop. Didn't see me coming, off the cameras, wore gloves, whole nine yards. Shame he took it out on Fieldman with the military police. Meant I had to hit him again until he rescinded the incident.

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Mr. Isaacs got a radio with a satellite dish and everything and Roger asked if I wanted to see it. Said he had something cool to show me. Didn't sound like it was cool. Daddy said Roger's a good-for-nothing like his old man but what does he know, all he does is sit by the TV and listen to the pastor and agree with him. Momma says I gotta think for myself so I did and I went over to Roger's house and he showed me how you can make pictures out of radio waves, it's like how bats can see in the dark.
And it was so beautiful.
And Roger was so scared.
I don't know why he was scared, seeing a thing like that, but he started crying. Mr. Isaacs didn't believe him, he showed him the picture and everything, but he talked to Dougie Montgomery and Markie Shipman and Betsy West and they all understood, they all saw it too. What're we gonna do, what're we gonna do, it's the end of the world. How's the bunker under Forest Glen gonna stop that, daddy doesn't have big enough guns. Blah blah boo hoo.
Maybe the world ends. Maybe it doesn't. It's all just a game. All I know is that Roger Isaacs' radio showed me something amazing and real and true and if Momma and Daddy don't believe me, then heck with them, maybe I can do something about it.

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They recovered what they could from her backpack. It was torn to ribbons, everything inside ruined by water. They kept it all as evidence, but we knew it was useless. She'd disappeared into the hills around the bay with that man and I knew we'd never see her again.

Not like I didn't mourn. We all did. A traditional burial. Mom wanted an urn for the churchyard but Grandpa was firm. We held the funeral on the third day after they found the backpack, people came. No eulogy for Donna. It's tradition. I said something quiet under my breath and that was that.

She would've been 33 by the time I entered medical school. Fifteen years without my sister. Funny how you get used to it. We just didn't talk about her anymore.

And then suddenly we did again. When that man turned up dead and they found him on the trail where they lost her. When they pulled me aside and asked if I knew anything. And when I asked if I could help and they said yes.

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Refusal to change is a powerful motivator. When the people of the INZ were denied a chance at defining themselves, it made the relationship between the nation and the UCC crystal clear. There are whispers in the streets of Walltown, there are meetings in the back rooms of warehouses in Tower Hill, the shows of Ticketton are leaning more and more political, strangers local and international move through the Underground and Westanchor. Tensions are rising in the INZ. Only time will tell if the pot settles or boils over. But there will come a resolution to the question of occupation or independence.

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Decades after the collapse of Icarus and the ensuing wars, the Icaran Neutral Zone is occupied by its neighboring nations. One part colonial military government, one part philanthropic action, one part economic experiment, the INZ is a nation of people who do not control their borders, their laws and their enforcement, their industry. That does not mean the country is dead and buried; far from it. The brushes of other nations, the paint of the INZ, the colors of its people, all of these will paint a different picture. Something that wants to be self-sufficient, something new, something built on the bones of old history, national grudges, wars, theology and long-neglected magic. Change is hard, but can start with a single spark.

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The arc of history is longer than you think, its weight heavier than you ever expect. Icarus will never be the Empire that birthed it; its ambitions run contrary to its dead progenitor's, its intent safer, its people working for all and accepting of its neighbors. Something good is not good forever. There must be maintenance done to ensure it endures. Icarus is what happens when the work of prevention is put off for too long, when the traditions run too deep, when you reach such wondrous heights and forget the foundations beneath you. Icarus will fall. See where it lands.

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About a decade after the events of The Student Body and The Daughter of the Knife, the Empire finds itself in a conundrum. The war on the Eastern Front continues apace with production of zauberpanzers, monstrous weapons and soldier mages, their industry of magic and terror unmatched, unthreatened. But a new enemy has coalesced to the south, the margins of logistics too thin to redirect anything towards them, and many fronts is how an empire falls. Five high-ranking officers of the Experimental Weapons Division are given carte blanche to create a new weapon to push back the southern soldiers, secure the border and further the grasp of the nation. They don't realize their choices will echo into consequences and history they could never anticipate in the war to come and years beyond.

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The crew assembles to talk about 3:16 and Follow one last time! We discuss behind-the-scenes details, character arcs, inspirations and the experience of playing a game about genocide and fascism in 2024.

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