Delta Green

PARALLAX, Session 3: The Bag

Session 3 of the campaign PARALLAX for Delta Green, where Lawrence makes a choice.

vonblubba

31 Mar 2026 — 3 min read

Scene setup

Expectations: Lawrence will think about what just happened, evaluating his options. Jo will be back shortly, he will have to make a decision by then.

Expected scene test roll
[D10]: [5] => altered scene

Scene adjustment roll: Add an object
Element meaning objects roll: Container + Hard
My interpretation: if I decide to agree to Pariah's request, I will need to put every remaining track of Baptiste and the autopsy (e.g. the towel with my blood, clean the gurney, etc) in some kind of container that will be hard to hide from Jo and then destroy.

I stand in the center of the morgue, shaken. Part of me still refuses to believe any of this is real. But that woman... she mentioned my grandfather.

Fate Question (Likely modifier): Is Lawrence aware of his grandfather’s involvement with the unnatural?
Answer: Yes!

Grandpa Lorenzo had always been an enigma. In his final years, he’d ramble for hours, spinning impossible tales of subterranean cults worshipping ancient Roman gods and "things from the depths." He’d been an antiquarian his whole life; we all just assumed his mind was crumbling under the weight of too many old stories. We called it senility. But now? Now I’m not so sure.

I glance at the clock: 11:46. Jo will be back for lunch any minute. I have to make a choice, and I have to make it now.

Option one: Tell Jo everything. The shifting tattoo, the powerhouse named Pariah, the theft of the body. It’s the safe play. I could hide behind the badge, go back to my life, and try to forget. But I know myself. I’ll never rest until I have a clinical explanation for what happened to my eyes and my head. Not knowing isn't an option I can live with.

That leaves option two. I look around the room. Baptiste’s body is gone, but the gurney is stained with residue, and the floor is littered with towels soaked in my own blood. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I grab a gallon of bleach and start scrubbing the gurney with a frantic, rhythmic intensity. I shove every blood-stained towel into a biohazard bag and scan the room. To a casual observer, there’s no sign Frankie Baptiste was ever here.

Now, the bag. If I walk out the main door with this, the staff will notice. I look toward the window. Outside, there’s a patch of overgrown, neglected shrubs. I toss the bag into the thicket, planning to recover it under the cover of darkness. I make it back to my office just as the door swings open.

Jo: "Lunchtime! Let’s go, Law. Drop the report on my desk on the way out."

I look her straight in the eye, my heart hammering.

Lawrence: "What report? The body hasn't even arrived yet."

Jo: "The hell are you talking about? The paramedics dropped him off right after I left."

Lawrence: "They sure didn't. There’s no body in the morgue, Jo."

Jo doesn't hesitate. She pushes past me into the morgue, her eyes scanning the empty tables.

Jo: "What. The. Fuck."

Fate Question: Does she smell the bleach?
Answer: Yes.

Jo (wrinkling her nose): "Did you just deep-clean this place?"

Lawrence: "Of course I did. I wanted it spotless before the intake arrived."

She stares at me, her detective’s intuition clearly screaming that something is off, but she doesn't press. Not yet.

Jo: "Well, somebody definitely screwed the pooch on this one. And it wasn't me."

Lawrence: "Well, don't look at me."

Jo: "Shit. Say goodbye to lunch. I’ve got to go report this to the Chief."

The "shitstorm" that follows is massive. The paramedics swear the body was delivered; they even produced a receipt signed by the morgue security guard. Conveniently, the guard claims he "must have dozed off" shortly after. Pariah’s handiwork is everywhere. There’s no security footage of the body entering or leaving—a "scheduled maintenance cycle" had the cameras down all morning.

What kind of organization has the reach to pull off a disappearance like this inside a police facility?

It occurs to me then that they didn't really need my help to cover this up. This was a test. A loyalty check. Did I pass? I don't know. All I know is that for the first time in my career, there's a black mark on my impeccable record.

Late that evening, I recover the bag from the bushes. I walk several blocks to the river, the weight of the secret feeling heavier than the plastic in my hand. I hurl it into the dark water.

I’ve made my choice. I just hope to God it was the right one.