The Agency - Main Thread

1

the first step involves your death.

unlike what billions of beings have thought over the course of their existences, death isn't some noble, grandiose thing. as far as we're aware, after you die, you don't get some long-winded flashback of all of your life. if anything, dying is like letting out a long fart in public. have you ever done that? the feeling of release in the middle of a bunch of people. if you manage to die in your sleep, it's kinda like doing that but no one notices. it feels very good.

oh well, you're dead anyway. no need to get all offended.

2

the second step involves the man dressed as a woman.

come now, that's a bit offensive. why do you gotta call her that? her name is mr. smith. i mean, you know that now, but back then you didn't. after you died, remember? back then she was just a man dressed as a woman. the kind of man with a square face and a personality that could only come from someone who's never had to deal with any problems during his entire life.

sorry, the kind of woman.

anyway, ms. smith approaches you. she probably messed with her hair. she does that a lot. so she asked you if you were happy with the fact you're now dead. no matter your answer, that's when she made the offer. "come work for us", she said in that sing song voice of hers. "your job is to protect the multiverse. do the things the universe is too afraid to do."

she didn't specify what did she mean by that, but you knew.

3

the third step involved signing the contract.

it had a few rules.

it was either that or never-ending blackness. real talk, can you picture what it's like after you die? not that heaven/hell/ghost bullshit. actual death. can you picture not having a conscience? not being aware of what's going on around you? not... being there? it's such an inhuman concept even the most able of wordsmiths have problems in writing about it.

i think we know why you signed it

4

the fourth step involved the actual agency.

that was when ms. smith gave you her full name... ms. smith. she introduced you to the place. it's big, in the way words can't quite describe. you're not sure you've ever seen the ceiling of the expansive granite and marble lobby, a stone statue of a flower in the middle of a dark and rather expensive fountain. the flower always looked wrong. for one, it looked more like a dna strand than an actual flower. and it always seemed like it was breathing.

which is weird, because flowers don't breathe. right?

the agency is really big. you often get to places via the elevators. they have everything someone could want there. a cafeteria run by a lunch lady who literally has no face. no joking there. they say if you try to look at her face you go catatonic. no one's ever tried it.

(if you look at her face you'll just feel the huge need to go to the bathroom. the whole 'catatonic' thing is just a really mean rumor)

there's the gym. it's the most normal place in the agency. and the windows there open up to brick walls.

the entertainment room is the place most people usually stay at when they're not at their rooms or at the cafeteria. it's got a lot of games you can play with your hands, from skipping rope to a pool table. it also has a lot of movies you can watch. unfortunately the movies have to be approved by high command before you can watch it. the most recent movie they have in there is 12 angry men. the bad tv remake.

there's the rooms, but we don't talk about them, because most people use them to sleep, and sleep is where you start questioning things about the agency. either that or they use the rooms for the kind of stuff you'd see at a bacchanal. ms. smith's rule regarding those things is 'if i don't see it, it didn't happen'.

5

the fifth step involves number two.

at some point, after you signed the contract, you were called by ms. smith to number two's office. it was in the highest floor of the agency. the office looked like a jazz club, down to the dense fog near the ceiling. it even had a cool waiting room, with a desk for ms. smith.

number two was a person. he usually wore sharp, angular clothes. bright colors and nothing else. they stuck to his skin, made every movement of his seem more like a badly controlled puppet than a human being. his pale white skin looked fake, but then his long fingers wrapped around a cup of water and you didn't hear the sound of fake skin stretching. his hair was ginger. he never blinked.

sometimes you could swear his face was melting, but that was just the fog.

he welcomed you to the agency and gave you a mission. sometimes it was something simple. sometimes it was something big. but that was when you realized what kind of things the agency was going to ask of you.

you're the invisible hand of the universe. coincidences aren't real, they're the products of your work. a fateful meet cute, an accidental explosion, all you. the agency says its for the good of the universe. 'to provide motivation for great people to do great things' is the usual excuse.

is it true?

don't ask me.

6

the sixth step involves today.

you woke up at the sound of the alarm (or not). and you went to have your breakfast (or not). then you went on to perform your daily routine (or not). you saw ms. smith for the first time in three days. whenever ms. smith is around, that can only mean one thing: a mission is coming.

she left a message with you before disappearing. meet me at number two's office at 1300 sharp.

its 1245. where are you?

edited 15th Nov '15 1:16:27 PM by Stratofarius

About time. This was the best way to sum up my thoughts as I walked down the hallway. For several weeks now I have been stuck in this place, this MIA Agency. I have already written about how I came to be here, about how I had died, only to be provided an offer. I won't bother pointlessly recounting what I have already talked about. There is no use dwelling on the past, after all.

I continued forward, making my way for the office of the being known as "Number 2". I say being because I am sure that whatever he is, he is not human. My limited time seeing him was more then enough to confirm this. Not that I had spent a great deal of time in his company so far. After I had completed what they referred to as "Basic Training" and I recall referring to privately as "A waste of my time" (Or I may have said that out loud, it is quite possible), these people seemed to have seen fit to leave me to my own ends.

This was fine with me, of course. I had spent a great deal of time in the library they had here, reviewing information on Demons, monsters, and other such beings. For obvious reasons, this had always been an area of some interest to me. However, there was an ulterior motive behind my actions. These fools seemed to have weakened me greatly when they brought me here. I no longer have access to a number of my powers, and what powers I do have seem to have been reduced somewhat. They claimed ignorance, said it was a side effect of the resurrection process. That may indeed be the case, of course. But I was never the type of person to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. I suspect that I was intentionally weakened by these MIA fools, perhaps so that they could control me. Naturally, I was not about to sit quietly and accept this.

This leads into my research, for research is what it was. I was searching for any mention of artifacts, tomes, weapons, anything I may be able to use in order to expand my demonic power. It was not hard to find mention of many possibilities, of course. But it was one thing to know about them, and another completely to be able to go and get them.

Perhaps, then, I will find a chance to do that today, I thought. I was under no illusions as to why I was being summoned at last. Clearly they had some form of "mission" for me to do. So perhaps this mission would take me to a location containing an artifact of some form of power. With this thought in mind, I continued down the hallway, my sword Yamato clutched in my hand, still sheathed. Of course, it was a long hallway, and I kept an ear out just in case some other fool decided they wanted to attempt to sneak up behind me. Even in this supposedly safe location, I was not about to let my guard down.

The life of Seija at this point in her history wasn't the most exciting one. The routine set by the MIA had become...well, a routine. Something that happened every day, something entirely predictable. Something, Seija felt, that was entirely what she didn't want. The alarm clock, bolted to the wall in her quarters (that she hadn't figured out how to turn off) was probably the thing she didn't want the most. The alarm's barely-rhythmic buzzing was what woke her, and it somehow got stuck in her head as she navigated the rest of her day.

Seija had assumed that any day now, the monotony would break and she would be called up to do what she was reborn to do. The excitement, initially like that of a kid expecting a package in the mail, had steadily been worn down to a barely noticeable sensation. It would pay off today, as she would find out

Lunch for the amanojaku highlighted another issue she had with the place: how alien everything feels. What ended up on her plate was something they called makaroni en chiiz, a soft and yellow dish which was yet another flavor Seija had tasted for the first time. Back in her home, she rarely had anything that wasn't roasted meat. The one time so far that she had recognized anything on the menu was the teriyaki beef dinner from last weekend, and that garbage was barely recognizable taste wise. They also never provided alcohol with their meals, usually just recommending some vile concoction known as kafi in its place. Sure, she could get a special order instead of what they had pre-cooked, but the faceless one they had serving everything was enough of a deterrent to Seija that she was hesitant to do anything but point at what she wanted. The clothes she was wearing, a leisure outfit provided by the Agency and consisting of a matching set of dull-blue polyester get up, was another thing that made her feel out of place. Just about everyone in Gensokyo had some fashion sense, most of them with a taste for the extravagant, and the sheer blandness of the suits everyone was wearing was almost unbearable.

She was about a gulp of water away from finishing her meal and beginning her mid-day exercise when one of her superiors, Smith-san^* Seija was only warming up to English honorifics at this point, and considering who she was talking to the gender-neutral -san was the best bet, appeared over her table. She handed a note to her subordinate, and promptly walked away. meet me at number two's office at 1300 sharp, a brief note but undoubtedly a command. The staff she had worked with rarely dealt with things like suggestions or friendly advice. The note also represented the likelihood of what she wanted: action. It was 12:45, so there was plenty of time to get into her nice, familiar dress and make her way up to the enigmatic man's office.

Up was another sore spot for her, as unlike the open forests and plains of her homeland she was forced to use stairs and elevators instead of flight to get anywhere. Eventually, Seija's path changed from the small corridors to one large one, grandiose in size and covered in the marble that the architects must've adored. The hallway only had one occupant: a tall man, who from this distance seemed much more vibrantly-clothed than the rest of the staff. His spiky, snow-white hair sparked her memory: though the picture was grainy and barely the size of her thumbnail, it reminded her of one of her future teammates.

Since this revelation all-but confirmed that this was indeed the day she got to do something, she barely could control her excitement. Floating above the ground at his shoulder level, as silent as a falling leaf, she tried to initiate something that she had been training very hard at. This was the art of nice, non-duplicitous and simple conversation. Being terrible with names, she of course forgot whatever his was. How to start this? she thought. Greetings were one of the more variable things she had been taught, so the possibilities flooded through her head. How ya' doing? What's happening? Howdy? She whittled it down to the simplest, quickest and least insidious of them all, and delivered.

"Hey," she said.

edited 15th Nov '15 8:54:53 PM by wikkit

It was at that moment that my attention was drawn to the first of what would become my new...teammates was not the right word, I do not think. Pawns? Tools? Annoyances? I admit to being partial to the last of those, as I would find it applied to many of them. This one was a female, dressed in clothing that looked highly impractical for battle, and did not appear to be a day over 18. And then of course there was the red eyes and horns that indicated she was not a human. Of course, even the stupidest of people quickly learn here that appearances mean nothing. She had been brought here, and so she had to have some form of skill that meant the MIA felt she was an asset.

This of course did not mean I had to like her.

Seeing as how she was floating along next to me with no trouble, I did not bother stopping or even slowing down as I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She was clearly attempting to start some form of small talk. Normally I would respond to such efforts by ignoring the presence of the one speaking until they went away. But seeing as she was in this hallway, and the hallway only went to one place, it became clear she was also headed for the office. Deciding I would rather not have this girl whining in my ear for the next hour, I decided to indulge her a little.

"You too?" I asked her.

So far, so good. As the man turned to face her, Seija noticed his rather half-assed attempt to conceal his annoyance with her. Seija understood being annoyed quite well, but this guy was pissed just from her one word alone. She quickly concluded that either he was a true-blue Amanojaku who was very good at covering his horns, or generally an unpleasant person. Alternatively, she may have just interrupted a bad day of his, but like that would ever happen. She did notice the sword, which worried her a smidge. He was on her side though, so she was confident he wouldn't stab her with it just yet.

"Number Two's at Thirteen Hundred, right? You must be part of this new unit." Flawless execution on her part, she confided, but he obviously wasn't up to play ball. She gave a quick bow, just the slightest hint of politeness, and pointed at herself. "Seija, but they insist on calling me Shiftman. Tell me your name and I'll let you walk in peace."

edited 15th Nov '15 10:56:06 PM by wikkit

"You need not his name, girl! Rather, say mine - for I am the only King in this Heaven and Earth! This place is filled with my glory!"

The voice rang with authority, like a pealing bell. It sounded the proclamation; high, angelic, filled with dulcet majesty. The figure strode down the hall, wreathed in the sun, and the very light seemed to quail at his presence.

"I mean, just kidding. I'm pretty sure you know my name. Right?"

The boy gave Vergil a wide, innocent smile. His golden hair fell in a loose fringe, fine as down. His skin was inhumanly fair. He seemed spotless, impossibly perfect - a god-child, standing in a loose blue t-shirt and beige cargo pants.

"You're Yokai, the demon. And you're Shiftman, ma'am."

He nodded politely to each in turn, walking backwards, but when he straightened there was a gleam in his crimson eyes. They were too bright to be human. They shone with a keen, piercing intelligence, one highly amused at the current turn of events. And yet the spark seemed less malicious and more wryly playful. Something genuine, the wide-open goodwill of a child, was softening it at the edges. Like he played at being human, and found it enjoyable, in a pleasant roundabout way.

"Anyway, they call me the Rich Kid, but you can call me Gil. It's short for Gilgamesh. I'm a King, you know. The only King in this Heaven and Earth."

He said it with airy sagacity, as if it was nothing but a schoolboy nickname, or something you won at marbles, or a deep and immutable truth of life. Like the existence of cooties.

edited 16th Nov '15 4:57:48 AM by troydenite

Before I could respond to the girl's question about my name, another person spoke, who made a rather poor first impression when he dared to declare himself superior to me. Quickly I learned this fool boy apparently believed himself to be none other then Gilgamesh himself. While human literature was not my strong point, I had heard of that particular tale. I do not, however, recall any of the retellings of it stating he was a child. It was clear that he too was not human, a simple glance at the eyes told me that. Even so, I was sure he had to be under some form of delusion.

"Aren't you a little young to be a king? Let alone a "King of Heaven and Earth?"" I asked in that sort of condescending tone that I reserved for when I was speaking to someone particularly foolish. "And even if you are, your titles mean nothing to me. Unless you would also claim dominion over the Demon World, in which case you may have a few contenders for the title of Demon King to deal with first."

I then turned to the girl. "Vergil." I said in response to her.

"Hang on!" That was Rewind, pushing his way through the crowd. "I'm late! 'Scuse me, whoops, sorry, excuse me, excuse me!" Rewind slowed down to a light jog as he approached the door... then stopped as he realized that he wasn't late, and that the growing knot of people in the hallway were in the same situation as he was. "Oh! So you're the new guys, huh?" he asked, smiling ^note  the fact that he didn't have a visible mouth made this emotion a little hard to discern for the initiated and waving awkwardly at the group.

"I don't want to... you know... take the wind out of your sails or whatever, but what about all those other human kings?" asked Rewind innocently a few seconds after Gilgamesh had made his grandiose proclamation. "The kings of England, or France, or Spain.... what about The King? The guy with the sunglasses and white jumpsuit? (Elvis was a member of the monarchy, wasn't he?)" Rewind tapped the side of his head by way of demonstration; the wall on the opposite side of the room lit up with a picture of Elvis before scrolling through a massive library of photographs, hundreds of factoids every moment.

"Oh!" he added after a moment. "And a lot of other species- some 37% of all known civilizations- are still governed by one or more monarchies! I mean, even we had the Thirteen Tribes way back when; which were basically what you'd call a 'monarchy'- particularly Solus Prime and her Way of Flame- if the records we've excavated from Nuon City are to be believed..." Rewind trailed off as he realized that he was starting to ramble. He paused and self-consciously rubbed the back of his head. "... uh. Sorry. I'm Rewind, by the way. Or do you already know that?"

edited 16th Nov '15 12:44:46 PM by Locoman

It took Stitch exactly seven seconds to finish his lunch after he received the message from the weird crossdressing person. He didn't even munch the food; he just put everything into his mouth, as if he was a walking garbage bin. Luckily the tray was spared; the cutlery, not so much.

After his meal, he quickly proceeded to head to number 2's office. Naturally, the hallways were crowded, but that was never a problem for him. He just climbed all the way up to the ceiling, and simply kept moving, ignoring almost everything that happened below. Well, almost everything. If there was something he couldn't simply ignore, it was the Elvis Presley picture that suddenly lit up on a wall.

"Oohhhh!" the four-armed alien exclaimed, before the pictured suddenly disappeared from the wall. "Awwww."

And that was when he noticed the people below him. Other agents, most of them human-looking. Except for one, which looked like either a robot or a human in very odd armor. In an effort to be polite, he crawled through the wall back to the floor, and promptly... stared at them in complete silence, mildly curious as to what they were talking about.

He sat on his bed, as he always did. Most of his time here was spent sitting silently, peering through his own memories. Well, not his memories. Other people's memories. Things he'd never actually experienced himself. Yet he always remembered them so vividly. A thousand dead men, screaming as he took their lives. It didn't even bother him anymore. He wasn't sure if it ever truly had.

When he received the message, he did not give any indication he had heard it. He didn't move, didn't breathe, just kept looking at the screaming dead men. It wasn't until Ms. Smith left that he stood up and began walking.

Alex Mercer strode up and began walking alongside his new... teammates, he supposed? Though he seemed to be completely ignoring them, he kept pace with them and listened to their conversations.

Sevral more people came out of the woodwork, so to speak, the hallway having no wood whatsoever. The first was some form of robot who came running up to also criticize the boy in a different way, he simply cited different examples of other kings from Earth. I had a rather good idea how the boy would respond to that. However, the robot made one grave misunderstanding that I decided to take a moment to correct him on.

"That is not a king, fool." I said as I pointed at the picture of Elvis. "That is just a nickname, not his job title. He is a human entertainer, nothing more."

Then off of the ceiling sprang a strange thing. It was small, about the size of a small dog, skin completely blue, and appeared capable of standing on two legs. Also it did not appear capable of speech, as what it said consisted of basic noises and grunts. So I choose to ignore him after raising my eyebrow an inch or so.

I also noted a man standing behind me. He, unlike everyone else here, appeared to be human in all respects, having an average build, with the only notable feature being a hooded coat that he kept extended on his head. But as I said, no one here is necessarily as they seem. For now he seemed content to remain silent, and I was more then happy to ignore him if he, unlike everyone else here, was content not to make a nuisance of himself.

Vergil, his irritated state matching Seija's as the kid decided to make himself the new asshole in the room, appeared to the amanojaku as one of the closest things to a like-minded individual she could see. He was both called "Youkai" and a demon, according to the "king". If this was true, he might as well be the closest thing to kin she had here. She made a mental note to ask him about this when they had the time.

She made a note of the rest, and tried to keep their names in her head. The little prick, the long name she had been told would probably go out the other ear in a minute. "King" was probably the best bet, as Seija figured that he'd reference his title every time he got the chance. Rewind was a term that she had grown familiar with, it was one of the functions on the rec-room's VCR player. Considering the features of this metal man, "Rewind" would stick in her head well enough. She hadn't even noticed the latest member of the group, his appearance so mundane as to not even register as a teammate.

The intense last few seconds of mental cataloging over, she turned her head to the little midget, whose appearance reminded her of many animals but like no specific one. "You, furry guy. Do you have a name?" she asked it as she ignored the conversation on some human bard.

edited 16th Nov '15 1:09:41 PM by wikkit

For the first time since I was brought to the place of mine new employ, the Lady Smith sought me out. I could not even inquire as to her purpose, so curt were her words and so hasty her departure. All she told me was that I was to attend a meeting, and that mine fellow agents and I would begin our first mission shortly.

As this was likely purely instructional, I opted not to don my armor. Instead, I dressed myself in what I was assured shortly after my arrival was proper attire: A 'suit', I believe they called it. Neutral black, with a white shirt beneath a matching black coat; surprisingly sparse on layers, compared to what I am used to, but I must confess that I do not miss the extras.

The matter of my attire settled, Sif and I set out from our dormitory and headed the office of Number Two. I'd yet to meet this man, if a man he truly was, but what I'd already learned was that reliable information was rarer than gold in this place. Most of the staff had nothing to say to me, and the ones that did spoke in riddles and vague orders, answering questions with inquiries of their own, or veiled doubts in my credentials as an 'agent'.

I suppose I should feel some pride in knowing they still recognize me as being so unlike them.

I spent a great deal of time advancing through the agency's labyrinthine corridors and snaking side passages. Even Sif could not make sense of its architecture, and if she was blind then I was truly lost. After what felt like an age, I was deposited - and I think that truly is the only word for it - precisely where my companion and I were needed; and we had not been the first to arrive.

A tall man in a coat, armed with a sword styled as those from the East; a horned girl, moody and with two-colored hair; a boistrous, golden-haired boy who claimed he was king; a hooded man, well-muscled and well-scarred; a golem that could speak and project illusions; and a diminutive, rabbit-like creature.

"Well met." I began, my hands having already found my pockets. It was comfortable, having something to do with them whilst addressing a group.

"I take it we are all here for the same purpose? I am Artorias, and this is Sif." I said, my companion proudly barking her greeting.

"Might I trouble you for another introduction? I'm afraid I've arrived rather later than the rest of you." I requested.

edited 16th Nov '15 4:54:04 PM by DoctorThunder

When the call had come, the important one, Bester had already known his options.

The Psi Corps, an organisation in which ethics were for the plebeian classes and any eyes could be averted, was a place of many convenient allowances. For the distinguished operative to better understand himself, what he was inside and what that represented for the species, it took only the right question to the right man. There wasn't even any paperwork. The Corps was mother, and the Corps was father. Every parent wants to help their child. That was, after all, the whole idea.

So Bester, then a much younger man, had gone out on a journey of self-discovery. There were certain hospitals you could go to for it, where you could say the right name or flash your badge to the right person. It was all very hush-hush, very off-the-record, theoretically for some scientific purpose, but everyone involved knew better. Every parent makes allowances.

In every certain hospital, there would be a certain patient. Or two. Maybe more, depending on fortune and the local nightlife. There was nothing special about them, nothing unifying, save a particular state of fragility. The only value they had was, with the greasing of the right palms, their utter lack of value.

With the right understanding, the fragile could be broken. The machine would be switched off, perhaps, a drip incorrectly administered or a pillow held down just right. Every parent would kill for their child.

The patient would struggle weakly, perhaps undergo a last-minute seizure, some kind of vague defiance. Sometimes they'd go with no drama whatsoever. The important part was, they all departed. Their feet ran out of mortal coil, and they passed to their final destination.

The other important part was: when they did, their minds were not their own. They didn't go alone. Trailing behind them, along for the ride through simple observation, the telepath would follow.

Bester had followed particularly closely, and found nothing in the afterlife but the sense of a forgotten name. A memory just out of reach, something on the tip of his tongue, on the precipice but utterly unreachable. It had clawed at him for a time, his being a man who could never stand to leave things unfinished, until he'd gouged out the necessary arrangements to go back. He found nothing for a second time.

It took until the eighth try for him to remember that forgotten name. Afterwards, once the medics had resuscitated him, he understood. He never went back again. The job was finished. He was that kind of man.

It was the window in front of a pitch-black night, an emptiness reflecting anything in its presence. It was a camera pointed at its own feed, blankness repeating ad infinitum. Emptiness reflecting emptiness.

It had brought him no real catharsis, but when he thought about it rationally, it was much more comforting than it should have been.

Still. It wasn't for him.

At 12:45, Bester is finishing a formal but concise complaint about the camera along the eighth floor lobby, which have a blind spot the size of a small sofa and aren't watched by whoever's on shift Tuesday through Thursday. He can tell. He can tell very well.

This isn't so much an issue of security as it is of principle, not least because he's not sure attacking this place is even possible. The point is, someone's slacking on the job. There's no real problem with that, especially when that job is security for a place nobody would dare steal from and nobody could ever break into, but an agreement has been violated. When you slack off, you enter into an unwritten contract; if I can do this without getting caught, I win. If you catch me, my ass is on the line.

Someone's been careless, and now their balls are showing. As a professional, it's his duty to plant a knee in them.

By 12:50, the report is finished to be filed at a later date. Bester's sweater (grey, turtle-necked, his being old enough to get away with it) has been meticulously unruffled, his pants (black, cotton, cheap) double-checked to ensure the crease was still fresh. There's a delicate balance to be observed, neat enough to be presentable, but not so much as to appear obsessive. A knife-edge crease, but a very blunt knife.

His shoes, meanwhile, are shined to the point you could gaze into them and suddenly know infinity. His gloves, black leather, are completely spotless. That goes without saying.

Bester's room is next to an elevator, a convenience he appreciates, so it's only a little past 12:50 when he arrives in the corridor leading up to Number Two's office. Having never been briefed in person he's not entirely familiar with this part of the facility, passing through only as part of orientation and on his way to the library. Immediately before the office, the deep shag-pile of the carpeting gives way to a tastefully polished mahogany, off of which his heels clack smartly. This is another convenience he deeply appreciates.

"Vergil," He says, nodding cordially, still walking clack clack clack. "Ms. Kijin. Mr. Mercer. Art, Sif. Good afternoon. Great weather up here, huh?"

His head pivots down, then up again, and then down a little further, and he's struck with the feeling he has almost exactly the right height to make this as godawful as possible. He extends his hand, his working hand, for them to shake, and the glove creaks in the way high-quality leather always does.

"Sorry, you three, I don't think we've met. I'm Bester."

At 12:45, Johnny Cage was still in his barrack, looking at himself in the mirror. What felt wrong here? It wasn't the music playing; he'd put on a mix CD of all the main themes to the movies he'd starred in, and the one playing right now, the theme to that first Mortal Kombat movie, was his favorite at the moment. That couldn't be what was wrong.

Was it the tuxedo? No, it couldn't be. He'd known how to rock the hell out of a classic black-tie tuxedo since the first time he'd ever worn one at his junior prom. Man, that had been a good night.

Was it the hair? Hell no. After he'd gotten the message from Ms. Smith, he'd come up here and spent an hour getting it perfect. Where it parted, how it flowed, what amount of product to use to get it to stay in place without looking like he'd spent more than two minutes on it...yeah, he had this down to a science by now.

So what could it...of course! The shades! He had to wear some shades. They were his trademark. He'd practically defined them for the early '90's. Even afterwards, he'd always taken a certain satisfaction in debuting a new pair at a red carpet event and then seeing how many guys around LA were copying him afterwards. But which ones to wear? He did what he usually did: reach out to the rack of them, stacked with so many pairs he could have opened his own store at the mall, and keep picking at random until he found a pair that worked.

Blue-framed wraparounds? Classic Cage, but not quite the impression he wanted to make for his first assignment.

Green-tinted square shades? Too Matrix-y.

Gold aviators? Too ostentatious.

Red shutter sh—oh, hell no, never. Not in a million years. He had no idea how he got them, but the only reason he never threw them out was because he was too lazy.

But when he pulled on a pair of black-framed wraparounds, he flashed that smile, that confident Hollywood grin, back at his reflection. Perfect. He looked like a bonafide American James Bond, and he'd be there in time for...12:55?! Oh, sure, now his watch shows up. He bolted out of his barrack for the elevator, praying he wouldn't be late—and, more importantly, that he wouldn't mess up the tux.

When the clock had struck 12:45, Dr. Stephen Strange still had plenty of time. Deep in meditation, he sat crosslegged on a prayer mat in his room, seeking attunement with this in-between realm on the crossroads of the multiverse and harvesting its ambient energy into enchantments of convenience. Time flowed slowly for him as he gently persuaded the mystical energies that pervaded even such a secluded dimension such as this, and formed these aethereal fragments into shapes of power. They danced unseen around his corporeal self, before nothing remained but the spell's intention given substance.

There were ten minutes left, so Dr. Strange gathered his belongings and prepared for his departure. He travelled lightly, for there was little he could bring that would be more effective than using native ingredients for his rituals. In truth, there was much he could accomplish with the Eye of Agamotto and his trusty cloak alone, but he assumed that such tasks were beneath the scope of the MIA.

Such thoughts should not be interpreted as if to say that the Sorcerer Supreme was nervous about the assignment. Indeed, after all he had seen in living and beyond, there was no fear of the unknown in him. But there was a wariness, an inner voice advising carefulness and warning against overconfidence. And so, as he approached his new team of allies, he was prepared.

A team...Dr. Strange could not help but recall the early days of the Defenders, as the loose alliance between the Prince of Atlantis, Dr. Bruce Banner and himself had grown into a proud team of keepers of the threshold of his old home dimension. Indeed, these were not incomparable circumstances, yet he found himself dismissing these nostalgic waxings. It would be unfair to demand of his new allies the powers of the mutant Atlantean, the incredible Hulk or to say the least the power cosmic of the Silver Surfer. They had their own skills and powers, and he had great interest in seeing what they brought to the alliance.

Some aspects, however, he had already researched or otherwise identified.

In what seemed to be the order of appearance, he quickly recognized Agent Youkai, a demonic warrior bearing powerful armaments. Strange had seen him in the library several times, as they seemed to share an interest in creatures fantastical, demonic and infernal. Similarly, there was Agent Shiftman, who as far as Strange could tell was a descendant of an Asian clan of demons, yet different from any strain he'd ever observed and with a curious set of abilities.

Then there was Agent Rich Kid, who proclaimed himself to be god-king Gilgamesh of Uruk. In Strange's homeworld, the legendary Gilgamesh had been an Eternal later known as The Forgotten One, and needless to say, there were certain differences between the two. Truly, Gilgamesh was one Strange was very interested in working together with, if only to learn what legendary powers this rather diminutive version of the great warrior commanded.

Agents Rewind and Stitch, perhaps the two Dr. Strange had been able to learn the least about. Briefly, they could be summarized as an android and an alien, but in a setting such as this, such labels were more useless than usual. The humanoid robot was undoubtedly a great repository of various knowledge, while the blue alien was a product of advanced genetic engineering and possessed a number of powers and abilities both practical and destructive.

Agent Plaguebearer...a curious case. Despite appearances, the living viral organism was equipped with offensive mutations to the point of being a living weapon. In truth, of all the members of the team, he was the one Strange was the most nervous about working with, though that did not say much considering the Sorcerer Supreme's confidence.

Agent Rook, or Artorias. The Abysswalker was an engimatic being, like so many of them, but somehow Strange found a curious comfort in the knight's polite and calm demeanour, and he did not doubt that the armored knight was a great martial asset to their team.

Arriving almost at the same time as himself was Agent Psi, a professional expert telepath. Strange had not worked with him thus far, but he had heard good things about Agent Psi's track record...and his impressive telepathic abilities.

Shortly thereafter arrived Agent...Idiot. While some might mutter under their breath that the codename was not undeserved, the martial artist's presence was welcome in Strange's eyes. While his ego could be aggravating at times, the extent of which he reminded Dr. Strange of certain heroes from his homeworld was astounding. And none could refute the fact that Mr. Cage commanded impressive proficiency in martial arts and an astounding physical durability and tenacity.

Some were already conversing and making introductions when Dr. Strange arrived. While such procedures often proved themselves tiresome to him, he decided it was most convenient to introduce himself now to those who did not already know him, rather than have some take offence by his demeanour before they'd even left for the mission.

"My greetings to you all," he spoke in a calm tone. "I am Dr. Strange."

Gil put a hand on his chin, nodding along to Vergil.

"Hmm. Ahh. Oh, I see. Yes. Wow, that's smart."

He folded his arms, closed his eyes, hummed, opened his eyes, crinkled his brow, puffed his cheeks, uncrinkled his brow, and finally put the hand back to his chin.

"See," he mused, fist moving with his mouth, "I don't think I'm that young, Mr. Yokai. I may be ten, but I'm also five thousand years old. And the last time I was ten, like, really ten, I was still a King. Five thousand."

He made a great show of counting his fingers.

"Yup, that's a lot of years. Actually, can I tell you what I rule? It's quite simple. You too, Mr. Rewind. Ahem."

He proffered his hand, as if waiting for an imaginary butler. As if on cue, the air shimmered gold. A lone liquid ripple, and from it fell a crown.

To be precise, the Imperial State Crown of Queen Victoria, first revealed 1838 - as became apparent (or not, depending on one's knowledge of history) when the boy started spinning it on his finger like a very shiny cap.

"It's the world, actually. I rule the world. In my age, I brought humanity under me, and then I collected every treasure there was. I guess I wanted to, well, explore my demesne. Take my stuff back so I could look at it later."

The Crown landed ignominiously on the floor, with a heart-stopping kroink from the Black Prince's Ruby. It was promptly followed by the Crown of Alfonso XII, the Crown of Charlemagne, the Great Imperial Crown, the Crown of Louis XV, and like a scatter of exclamation points, every single one of Elvis' original vinyl pressings.

"Turns out I own everything in history now, because everything came from something or other in my treasury. Crowns mean you're royal, right? Well, if I own all the crowns, that makes me the true King. The world's my garden until the end of time. Everyone else is a subject. That, or a big fat liar. Or a hedge trimming."

Gil leaned out from behind the horrendously valuable mess and smiled sweetly.

"So, in case you missed it, I'm Gilgamesh, King of Heroes. And Uruk, and this Heaven and Earth, if you want the really long title. But you can call me Gil, if you want. Oh, and I guess the demons are mine, too."

edited 17th Nov '15 5:47:29 AM by troydenite

More people continued to arrive in the increasingly crowded hallway. To my eyes, all of these appeared to be humans. A man in a suit, who appeared to have a dog like companion with him. Another balding man who extended his hand to shake, which I promptly ignored. A human in a cape who I recall seeing in the library several times during my demonic research. And last, but most certainly least, a human with sunglasses on, who I knew the second I laid eyes on him I would hate.

Then the fool "King" continued his foolishness as he began yanking crowns out of some form of pocket dimension, in a misguided attempt to make a point about his claims of being "King of Heaven and Earth" Once he finished by offhandedly assuming he was also king of the demons, I could not help myself. I laughed. Then I approached the giant pile of items he had assembled in front of him, and with a swing of my sword sheath, send them all clattering away like the useless chaff they were, fixing my stare on the self proclaimed king.

"Foolish boy." I said to him. "You believe wealth alone gives you the right to rule? You are clearly highly deluded, attempting to claim ownership of the demon world when you have not even laid eyes on it. If you had, you would know that your concept of "Ownership" and "Right to rule" mean nothing to the demons within. Even in the human world, wealth only gets you so much. In the demon world, the only thing demons respect, the only thing they will ever accept as anything approaching "Right to rule" is power. Without power, personal power that is, not power others hold for you, you cannot ever hope to rule anything. What use will your crowns and albums be if, say, I was to do this?"

At this point I moved to draw my sword and point it directly at the child's throat, hovering the point about an inch from his jugular. I did not intend to kill the boy. Annoying as he was, I had standards. Killing children is beneath me. However, I was attempting to make a point to this fool of a "king".

edited 17th Nov '15 6:20:25 AM by Meanken

"Five thousand years old?! My God, you're adorable!" Rewind knelt down and tousled the boy's hair playfully. "I wasn't half as grown-up as you were when I was five thousand years old," he said, sounding less like a dignified data expert and more like an excitable aunt commenting on a particularly precocious relative. "You sound like one of the other members of my proto-batch; he was always in such a hurry to grow up." Internally, Rewind still wasn't sure of the boy's claim that he was the sole ruler of Earth, no matter how many times the boy said he was; according to his internal database alone there were at least 3.6 million articles, factoids, and images that claimed otherwise. Still, if they were going to work together he'd have to humour him every so often, just like he used to humour...

... no. Not now. Not in front of everybody. Do the mission, then go back to your apartment and grieve.

"Nice trick, too," added Rewind after a few seconds, picking up one of the vinyl records and experimentally spinning it around on his finger. "So... do you generate every kind of valuable item?" he asked, cocking his head to one side. "Or are you just limited to valuable items from Earth? Could you, say... generate a copy of... say..." He tapped his finger against his mouthplate as he thought.

Before he could complete his request, Vergil suddenly has his sword up against the boy's throat, in response to some earlier jibe. "Hey!" Rewind tried to grab the sword out of the demon's hand with two fingers. "We're all on the same side here! If we're going to start going for one another's throats before we even get our mission, we're not going to get very far!" He looked nervously around at the other members of the group- the blue creature, the bearded man in strange clothes, an armoured medieval warrior, and... some other human in a suit- as if looking for confirmation. "Right?"

Another nervous twitch of his internal hydraulics as he tried to keep both Vergil and Gilgamesh from doing anything reckless. "Right...?"

"Stitch," the little blue alien introduced himself, taking the time to shake Bester's hand. "My name is Stitch."

It was at that point that Gilgamesh, self-proclaimed king of Heroes and Uruk and Heaven and Earth, unloaded a whole bunch of crowns out of nowhere, as well as... Elvis Presley vinyl records. These immediately caught Stitch's attention, and he quickly approached them to take a closer look. Too bad there weren't any gramophones nearby to play those babies. Although...

Without wasting a second, and using Virgil and his sword as an awfully convenient distraction, the small blue alien picked up the first vinyl record he could get his hands on, carefully placed it on one of his claws in the upper left arm, and used two other arms to spin it around, with his jaws wide open and a single claw of his upper right arm descending onto the album to act as a needle. And the second it made contact...

Long Live the King of Rock and Roll.

He turned to Bester for a moment and glared, his eyes impossibly cold.

"Alex." He corrected, practically growling. "My name is Alex. Don't call me Mercer."

The name brought back too many bad memories. His own memories, for once. It reminded him that he wasn't Alex Mercer, wasn't even human, that his sister - Mercer's sister - Dana, wasn't really his sister. And he'd never see her again.

He kept walking, turning away from his compatriots once more, determined to ignore their collective insanity.

As the hallway got even more crowded, Seija's attention remained fixated on the thing that made her the most irate, as an amanojaku is wont to do. King's attempts to prove his, well, kingliness really didn't endear him to her. The whole crown business was just insulting to her, really. Hats are for chumps in the first place, but if choice of hat was the criteria for royalty he'd be dead last with his poor taste.

She was about ready to vocalize her support of Vergil's position, as she really didn't want to be considered a vassal to someone else. She really didn't expect him to draw his sword and threaten to kill him, however. Seija's mindset switched to "defusal" mode, something she had also been training on in the last month. Chances were that her superiors in the Agency were watching this mess unfold, so it was time for her to shine.

Flipping the White-Blue's sword wouldn't do much to help, all it would do is make it awkward to hold for a moment. Flipping White-Blue himself could do the trick, but Seija really didn't want to be on the business end of that sword after he landed headfirst on solid marble. She wracked her mind briefly, before coming up with another perfect plan. Levitating backwards in the most inconspicuous way possible (and stealthily picking up a very expensive looking crown◊ that had been scattered at her feet), she made her way to the old mundane man, Agent Psi as she remembered. "Psi, try to-" was what she managed to whisper before surprisingly loud rock'n'roll music filled the hallway, the acoustic architecture echoing the King's crooning endlessly. In a much clearer and louder voice, she said "Turtleneck guy, can you just control them and stop this shitshow from starting?"

The robot then attempted to interfere, daring to attempt to grab my sword. I resisted the urge to turn it on him directly. I opted, rather, to knock his hand aside as it reached for the blade, my demonic strength likely catching the robot off guard unless it had some form of sensors that could detect demonic energy, which I doubted.

"Do not interfere, machine." I said to him, my eyes never looking away from the "King's" eyes.

It was then that it happened. Every so often, something happens that you never expect, something that catches you completely off guard. Something that just cannot be explained. This was the case here, as the blue rodant, who suddenly displayed the ability to speak after all, picked up one of the fallen albums and somehow started playing it by placing a claw on it while spinning it and opening his mouth to use as a speaker of sorts, playing the music with perfect clarity.

Later I would reflect on how impossible this should have been, but at the time I took no notice as I stared down the "King". Out of the corner of my eye I spied the hooded human, apparently named Alex, leaving the scene in disgust, a reaction I could not blame him for. I likely would have reacted in much the same way had the situation been reversed. Anything else that may have been happening behind me escaped my notice.

"Enough, Vergil." I could not hold my tongue; not while a boy was held at sword point. I had heard fragments of hints regarding my allies' behaviors and...'quirks', I believe the Lady Smith called them. However, I had not been told how eager Vergil was to start a fight.

"You would draw your sword so readily at one of your allies?" I questioned, tersely. "And before we've even a chance to begin our mission? Of what are you concerned? What does his claim of kingship matter to you?"

Even Sif growled softly, though she did not leave my side.

"Bester, and...you must be Dr. Strange." I said, addressing the two most recent additions to the hallway. I had heard little of the doctor; only that he was both wise and powerful. He was one of the agents I'd heard more often complimented than ridiculed amongst the more senior staff. More voices of reason were a welcome sight indeed at such a tense time. I knew they could be relied upon to help halt this conflict, should it further escalate.

"Vergil, let it lie. Friends are rarely made at either end of a sword."

These mornings were finally starting to become familiar enough to be considered normal. Woken by a blaring alarm, at least on those nights when sleep came easy, Librom had no real daily schedule set in place yet. Somedays he would go to the library to read what he could on whatever he could find. This concept of a multiverse was still a fresh one, so learning about other worlds was still a novel idea. It at least helped pass the time. He found he really had too much free time on his hands when he was not off on some mission for these people. Back home he was always fighting, always killing some monster for a mission. Now he felt trapped in a cage known as downtime.

This morning had been spent poking at what Librom had been assured to be breakfast. He was a little suspicious of such claims, but he figured the worst it would do is just kill him. Ignoring whatever stares his attire and bandages got him, Librom forced down the meal. It was then that the being known as Ms. Smith appeared. He refused to believe that thing to be human, despite appearances. Ms. Smith informed the sorcerer that he needed to report to Two's office at 1300 before leaving to do whatever it was that it did for this Agency.

With a sigh, Librom pushed his tray away and stood up, fork still in hand. He figured he had time before the meeting, but not much to do in the mean time. He might as well just go there now and wait. The sorcerer left the cafeteria with little purpose in his steps. He was in no rush, so he just allowed his mind to wander as he followed halls that he probably wouldn't have understood in he had tried anyways. Librom might have passed the same ficus four times on his way to Number Two's office.

When he got to the hallways leading just outside of the office, he came across quiet the crowd. Various agents that he had seen at one point or another in his stay here, but never bothered to attach names to. He hadn't cared to get to know them. There wast he white-haired man pointing his sword at a blond kid. The horned girl, machine man, and a man in a suit trying to break them up. Strange blue monster making some horrible music, Librom had to resist his instinct to believe it to be some sort of attack.

Ultimately, he did feel like any of this was his concern though. He didn't know these people and their bickering was not his concern. He just needed to wait for whatever he was called here for, not stop a man from killing a child. Librom just stood in the back of the hallway, twirling the fork he still had in his right hand.