After the disappearance of the Morrison kids, the federal government took a serious look into the situation in Rosmire. Rural disappearances are common enough, though tragic. Runaways, murders, kidnappings, accidents; anything that can happen in a city can happen in a small town. As harsh as it may sound, the government simply doesn’t have time to deal with little things like that.
Panic though, that is something the government takes very seriously. With the recent influx in tourists to the town, and the leaking rumors of the obelisks involvement in the disappearances, there was a real chance of a serious national incident. Paranoia can grow out of the smallest seeds, gossip and rumors can cross the world in moments now, spread by man made webs and whispers.
The last thing a government already wrapped up in two wars and multiple other international efforts was some panic about supernatural towers claiming the lives of kids. There are procedures for situations like this; hazards not so much in the object or person themselves, but in the publics reaction to it. Mob mentality can kill hundreds, cause millions in damage. True national panic is even more costly.
So less than a day after Twilling’s confession she was taken away by federal agents, and Fred Aster’s farm was quarantined, the entire thing wrapped in yellow tape and crawling with men with big guns. The best way to sooth the publics worry is to show that it’s being taken seriously.
Security theatre, they call it. Getting on an airplane and having your tweezers confiscated, needing six types of identification to cross a border, we’ve all dealt with it. The fear of horrible events that happened to someone else happening to us…well, the government is quick to make sure you think they are dealing with it, and swiftly.
In most of these cases the theater is all there is to it; it’s rare that it actually changes anything. The first woman to enter the catacombs willingly changed that. Rosmire is no longer a small town, lost in an ocean of wheat. Area X2291: Rosmire, is a black site. There are road blocks, fences, and regular patrols 50 miles out from what used to be the Obelisk. The old inn holds the military big wigs, the homes retrofitted into barracks and storage areas. A training facility grew within and finally out and around the old community center. I learned to shoot a gun in what used to be a hockey rink.
Rosmire was once a quiet town where a boy disappeared. Now, it’s a living graveyard, full of people waiting to walk right into the gaping maw of death.