Special Project Administration Files
The S P A Files
The world has crashed, or so it seems. It wasn’t a war and there’s no obvious scapegoat. Everything just fell apart. Banks have no money. Workers have no jobs. Farms have no food. Let’s take a look at the world in which the average SPA agent lives and works. One thing’s for certain – in the depths of the Great Depression, there’s plenty of work for an agency hunting the supernatural. What follows is a run-through of the main case load for the task forces covering what they know, what they think they know, and what they know they don’t know. With a little context thrown in for good measure - the economic and political backstory to help fit it all together in your own mind.
The winters are rough, but the summers got enough green to get you through here in Colorado. Except the fields and forests around Boulder kept disappearin’ last year. Yeah, it makes no sense till you see it. The plants were just gone. Nobody knew why, till Mr. Farrow put a call through to the Sheriff. His house, his farm, and the man his self were all gone by the time we got there. All we found was a few metal... grasshoppers, I guess you’d say. That’s when a team of gentlemen from the SPA showed up. They stayed in town for the night, and headed out in the morning. Polite, I’d sum them up as polite. There were some strange noises from the mountains that day, and some claim they heard explosions ‘round about sunset. We didn’t see the boys again, but the metal bugs didn’t come back either. I think they made it, but I don’t think the likes of me will ever know for sure.
Many point to the stock market crash of 1929 as the depression’s author. But it took more than numbers on ticker tape to drag us all down. Citizens rushed to the bank in a panic, pulling out their savings. In turn, industry lost its capital, and wages dropped. People had even less money to invest, and wages dropped more.
Then the winds kicked up, and the rain stopped falling. Green fields shriveled, crumbled to dust and blew away. The price of staple foods has rocketed, and cut off the working man’s income right at the knees. It’s slim pickings, tough times, a lean and mean era of ‘tighten your belt’ living. Better yet, sell your belt if anyone is fool enough to buy it. As we trudge along into the year 1934, we can only hope that we’ve hit rock bottom.