About
Operation Watchtower is a podcast rooted in Kult: Divinity Lost, set in the wake of 9/11. Follow Agent Nicholas Grayson, a haunted fed; Belle Flower, a runaway from a family of circus freaks; and Senator Bryce Wexley, a man replaced by a better version of himself. What begins as investigation becomes revelation. What is known cannot be unmade. Released biweekly. There is no safety in knowledge. Only the sound of wings behind the sun.
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Operation Watchtower clawed its way out of a Kult: Divinity Lost campaign, dice rattling like teeth in a charnel cup. The players demanded that our setting be San Diego in the early 2000s: black sites squatting behind stucco facades, the Pacific wind spiked with salt, gun oil, and something coppery on the tongue. It was inevitable that the game would open on September 11, 2001, when the air itself turned sour. The occult machinery of American power shuddered awake, fusing paranoia to ritual in a single, unbroken nightmare.
We set out to build a serialized investigation that moved like a fever hallucination, half redacted intelligence file, half séance transcript. We swore off the embalmed clichés of the “government conspiracy” genre. No cartoon men in black. No tired alien autopsies. We rooted our story in real places already blackened by history: Alpine and Chula Vista, where the concrete sweats secrets; the liturgies of national security; the hidden vestibules where power is married to ruin.
We built the show not as audio, but as an incantation, engineered to slip past the rational mind and burrow deep. A latticework of cut-up espionage scraps, dead-channel intercepts, and transcripts scorched into illegibility. Symbols folding back on themselves. Narratives collapsing into dream-logic. Soundscapes stitched from field recordings, wire hum, and ceremonial invocations that taste of rust.
We smuggled in the classics: possession, intrusion, black-site confessions, orchestrated mass hysteria, ritual slaughter. Not as homage, but as weapons, recast for an America where the surveillance state has become a priesthood in service to something older and far less merciful.
Always there, the Enochian angel-speech murmurs in the static, promising that the ending is already behind you, and that time is not moving forward at all. It is folding inward, hungry, patient, and very nearly shut.