The Story thus Far
When the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre didn’t happen, an agent in 1929 Chicago reported it. Murdoch indisposed, the rest of the team investigated only to discover that the North Side Irish were slaughtered by a wild beast on Saint Patrick’s Day, and that beast was never caught.
Al Capone never lost favor with the common citizens of Chicago, and thus, was never imprisoned on charges of tax evasion. He moved on to become the most power, dangerous, and corrupt mayor Chicago had ever elected. The repercussions of Mayor Al Capone were catastrophic.
The agents discovered that he had come into possession of a chronal weapon: a device that could summon Big Foot. This put many suppositions into play, including that Big Foot really does exist, and that Big Foot is actually a genetically altered creature from a different time period. And there’s more than one Big Foot.
The best way to solve the error in time was to ensure that Al Capone was instead implicated in the Saint Patrick’s Day Massacre, as an interdiction device prevented the team from correcting history to keep the “Big Foot Beam” from Al Capone before Saint Valentine’s Day.
Saint Patrick’s Day, 1929
The lights in the warehouse went out as quickly as Al Capone pulled the trigger on what the team coined as the “Big Foot Beam.” The rage of the beast echoed off the cement walls of the warehouse where the lieutenants of the North Side Irish were toasting to their beloved Saint Patrick.
“Saint Patrick got all the snakes out of Ireland,” Capone shouted from across the warehouse. “I’m kicking them all out of Chicago!”
As Vicki, once known as 3417, diverted her power cells into her tether, Doctor Hirsch cracked open crate and lit a bottle of rum. He threw it toward the screams, illuminating a panorama of silhouettes being rent limb from limb by an enraged Sasquatch.
Mattix knelt on the ground next to him with his elephant gun. Go big or go home, as the saying goes. The slug staggered the beast as it tore the head from an Irishman, and threw the head hurtling over the flames of the Molotov cocktail.
“Damn thing sure can take a hit!” he commented and squeezed the trigger again. Wounding the beast only got it more pissed at its current victims.
“Capone is falling for our trap,” said Vicki, tracking him on her tether.
There was a cacophony of gunfire as Capone’s goons laid waste to more Irish, fearing they’d slay the beast before it could finish its grisly duty to their capo. Big Foot flew at the last Irishman, raking at him with its bloody claws.
Before they busted into the warehouse and interrupted the massacre, the agents used a disintegrator pistol to dig a hole outside of the warehouse. Hirsch scienced a force field generator that would not only keep Capone trapped in the pit, but also camouflage the pit like it was part of the street.
“Captured,” said Vicki when Capone fell into their trap. She timed the arrival of her other friends perfectly. She had spent a few years in Chicago’s police department, and her fellow officers arrived in time to drive Capone’s confused entourage back into the warehouse.
To their surprise, the last surviving member of the North Side Irish blasted a hole clean through Big Foot’s head, slaying the beast.
“Do you think him being alive is problematic?” asked Mattix to his teammate.
Hirsch replied, “We don’t need him talking about Big Foot, or what transpired here. In true history, they all died.”
With that, the doctor pulled out his Tommy gun and sprayed a volley of bullets in the horrified gangster’s direction.
He strolled up to the corpses, and pressed a MEM-tag into the Big Foot. As it faded from existence he couldn’t help feeling giddy at the prospect of performing an autopsy on the creature.
They clocked out, and as soon as the police were done, they’d release Capone and steal the weapon for study.