Another figure entered the corridor, and watched the ongoing squabble impassively as he approached. This newcomer was an old man, his hair and beard white streaked with grey and only a trace of the original black. Despite his age he was immensely tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his body heavy with muscle and his skin crisscrossed with scar tissue. He wore black leather clothing fitted with silvery steel plating, and across his back was strapped a massive, double headed battleaxe.

Since the man called Druss had arrived in this place he had kept to himself and only rarely left his own room, catching little more than glimpses of the others who shared this bizarre fate. What little he'd seen hadn't exactly inspired him to make time for their company, and looking upon them now he was filled with curiosity, if not with confidence. Still, first impressions could be misleading, and from what he understood, he had a lot more time to get the measure of them.

In a way he felt relieved by their strangeness, and by the egos on display. None of them were likely to know who he was or care in the slightest, a thought he found oddly pleasing. Within his own world he was Druss the Legend, a warrior of fable and song, a man with a reputation and all the burdens and expectations that came with it. Here he was no-one, and that suited him fine. There was a certain liberation that came with a blank slate, and he was looking forward to carving out a new story for himself. Druss stood before the others with arms folded, a faint smile on his weathered face as he took in the features of each unusual figure present.

edited 17th Nov '15 2:59:35 PM by Vox

Bester, a man whose toupee is quite convincing thank you Vergil, tactfully retracts an ignored hand and makes a slow tactical retreat, eyes flitting carefully between the sword and Mercer's offended back. This is not an unfamiliar situation. In the few scant months he's worked there, he's learned a fundamental secret about the MIA: it attracts ego like bees to honey, or maybe flies to hot shit. Depends on the temperament, really.

Point is, with that many big names in such space, big names who don't know, don't care, and take offence to both those things, friction is inevitable. These incidents happen. They happen more often than anyone would like, less often than many people fear, and can't be stopped by any force in any possible universe.

On the plus side, once you're out of range, they make for a great show.

When Seija catches up he's not quite into his preferred safe zone, and as a basic reflex his hand finds her shoulder, pulling her along with him at the exact moment the music starts.

"Not without breaching my contract, no," he says, cutting through the King of Rock and Roll with deceptive ease, "but if it were up to me I'd have everyone here under an Asimov. It's not up to me, so this is the third time this month. First one right outside Number Two's office, though, but I guess that's the royal prerogative."

He flashes her a smile, the knowing kind. Precognition was never one of his talents, but it doesn't take a psychic to know what lies in Vergil's immediate future.

"Probably better for us if we stay just a little further back, though. Art and our friend with the axe there should be able to handle it if things get rough, but, well. As you've probably noticed, they're very big guys."

edited 17th Nov '15 5:48:17 PM by OG-Sama

Alan and Alice hardly spoke to each other; what could words say that their love did not? Even after tasting that forbidden void, the light they nourished together never left them blind. Not even when Alan asked to remove the night-light Alice kept by the bed.

"It's the first night we've been together since Cauldron Lake. I promise, it'll only be for tonight."

She allowed it; whether it was against her better judgement, she didn't say. Alan was back, and almost literally back from the dead. Pure darkness was a worthy price—just for one night.

She laid on the bed to embrace him...

"No, wait."

Her arms reached forth, eager for his embrace...

"That's not right either."

Alice fell on the bed and hungered for her husband's embrace...

"Dammit, why is this so hard?!"

The more Mr. Scratch bled his eyes on the words, the more his blood boiled. He wasn't even at the stabbing part (not even the sexual sort!) and he was already hitting a road block! Why is it always so hard to write exposition? Even for murder porn! The rest would just follow as nature demands, but that first step never failed to trip him up!

"God DAMMIT! That's it, I'm done. That's all folks! Goodbye!"

He slammed the bulky typewriter to the floor, knocking whatever notes and scribbles he had gathered along with it. Everything from Alice's hair style to the way their bed creaked to a note from Ms. Smith he'd neglected plummeted to the shaggy Cold War carpet. He even tossed the lamp on the floor, even though it was on the opposite end of the desk. Just out of spite.

Mr. Scratch stormed out of the little room that branched off the library. He was only slightly curious why the doctor and the albino swordsman weren't huddled reading in a corner somewhere. Was it a holiday? Did this place even have holidays? Then a memory came to mind: a recent one. Maybe from this morning, but he was a bit too drunk from last night to have listened intently; on another note, that faceless lunch lady could really hold her liquor.

He glanced at his pocket watch: 12:55 p.m. For some reason, 1:00 p.m. seemed to ring a bell. Lunch wasn't scheduled for that time, and there wasn't anything worth watching he hadn't already seen (besides, he had stashed the VCR remote in his room three weeks ago when no one was looking) so why did that time stand out?

"Oh. Wow. DUH!" he laughed. It was time to meet the Boss Man! Mr. Sunshine! Numero Dos! Scratch seemed sure the Boss wouldn't mind if he got to the meeting a few minutes late.

After all, nobody said anything about being there at 1:00 p.m. sharp!

edited 17th Nov '15 7:14:32 PM by TheodoreHastings

Seija's eyes furrowed in his direction for a moment, annoyed with the older man's decision to just carry her off like a kid, but quickly widened in realization. She sought him out because he was a psychic in the first place! He probably could sense that something big was going down, something that neither of them could deal with. What better person to listen to than the man who can listen to everything?

"Fine, your call," she said over the din of the music, and made a point to pull herself from his grasp before following him to a safe distance anyway. Deciding to finally land and use her own two feet like a normal person, she stood and watched the two, hoping that their actions wouldn't end up getting her in trouble somehow. This place made little sense to Seija as is, the human resources department couldn't be any better.

Johnny Cage, meanwhile, actually stayed quiet for once after he arrived at the hallway. He didn't really know any of these agents; he'd spent the days since he finished basic training using the gym and exploring the building, but not really socializing, since he needed time to adjust to the reality of his new situation.

The guy with the blue coat and spiky hair seemed to take himself a bit too seriously. It didn't take him threatening Gilgamesh to see that. It was something you could read if you'd met those types before, and Johnny had run into far more than he could list, from Shao Kahn all the way down to pretentious extras who tried to overanalyze roles where they got one line of dialogue, ten seconds on camera, and nothing else for the rest of the movie. As for Gil himself, he made Johnny a bit uneasy with all his boasting of ruling the world, but he didn't know for certain if the kid was as megalomaniacal as the types of people Cage was used to fighting.

Stitch, on the other hand, instantly made a good first impression. Johnny didn't know what Stitch was, exactly—the closest approximation was a really weird dog—but anything that could be a record player by itself had to be good. He walked over, unbuttoned his jacket—didn't want to wrinkle it after a close brush with ruination, after all—and squatted so he wasn't towering over Stitch.

"You have good taste," said the actor. "The name's Cage. Johnny Cage. Pleasure to meet you, Stitch." He extended a handshake. "Got a free hand?"

"Aw, shucks. Hey, that tickles!"

Gil squirmed and giggled as Rewind ruffled his hair, looking for all the world like he was being eaten by a giant mechanical pitcher's mitt.

"Actually," he managed, wriggling out of the Autobot's grip, "it just has to - hee - pass through my garden to become mine. Everything of value is mine, if I say it is. Finders keepers, losers weepers. And I never lose."

Then Vergil's scabbard smashed through the pile of records and regalia, and the Yamato glinted, pale silver against his fair neck.

The boy didn't even look. He sighed, opened his eyes, and directed his attention to a spot just beside Vergil's left ear. His childish pupils coalesced into hard, bored rubies.

"Do you want to die, mongrel?"

It was a simple question, perfectly calm, like the half-demon was a stick figure and his sword a limp straw.

"You scattered nothing but the dregs of my treasury, trash worth less than the hair on my head. Yet I appraise you, white-furred cur, and find you even paltrier than these trinkets. Were I not in a flippant mood, you would be dead before your hand even left your side."

The walls and ceiling melted into a sea of gold. Like some fairy-tale forest came the blades, rising as if from a sun-streaked lake. Row upon row of gilt weapons; swords, scythes, spears - some filigreed, some marked, some inlaid with runes, some bare and yet brimming with craftsmanship. Each worth a country's ransom, each as storied as Vergil's own blade. Majesty wove around them in an aureate keen.

"Crowns and records, you say?" crowed the boy. "Yes, yes, mere trifles. Lo, my Noble Phantasms! The true marks of my Kingship, the measure of my majesty! Behold your betters, mongrel, and weep that you have lived to see them. You could not purchase one of these weapons, not with all your warrior's pride. Nay, not even with your life - for I take no beasts as barter!"

The blaze passed. The weapons receded. The Crown of Denmark melted into motes of gold, then fell on Seija's head with a resounding clonk. Gil propped Rewind's arm up and stepped calmly past Vergil.

"I defied the very gods, demon whelp," he said quietly. "I gave immortality to the snake, and my only equal in this Heaven and Earth has slept in the dust these five thousand years. What have I to fear from you?"

Then he grinned, a child again, and rubbed Stitch's ears.

"You can keep the crown," he called, waving at the back of Seija's head. "I'm loaning it to you. It's not like it's worth that much anyway, so I'll take something small as security. Got any crayons?"

Almost as an aside, he plucked Jailhouse Rock out of the air and sent it sailing across the hallway.

edited 19th Nov '15 5:57:33 PM by troydenite

As I continued to hold my blade to the boy's throat, one of the newcomers spoke, telling me to put away my weapon. I do not know which one it was. The hallway was very full now, and it was becoming somewhat more of a chore to keep up with who was speaking then I could be bothered with. So they, whoever they were, were ignored.

Then the boy spoke in answer, responding in just as arrogant a manner as I should have expected. But my attempt to cow the boy did yield one useful benefit, as the boy revealed some of his "power". I say this in quotation marks because his power consisted of summoning rows and rows of intricate, powerful looking swords to surround me. These swords were apparently what he referred to earlier. As the boy walked past and commented on how the girl who had been the first to arrive along with me could keep a crown, I sheathed my sword. This crowded hallway was not the time nor the place to get into a fight with the boy, and some of the fools around us would no doubt attempt to stop us.

"You claim power based on your possession of these swords, yet I doubt you have the first idea how to properly use any of them." I said. I could not very well let the boy walk away without a word, least his ego grow so large his head explode. "I care not what you call yourself. Just stay out of my way." With that warning delivered, I turned and continued walking to the office, moving anyone still in my path out of the way by pushing them with my sword sheath.

edited 19th Nov '15 5:40:32 PM by Meanken

Robin's Room

There was a certain phrase that was sticking in Robin's mind today. I can sleep when I'm dead. She once spoke those words to her allies, fussing at her to get some sleep. And yet here she was, dead and worrying over even more things than in life. She had sat around in her room, and paper in hand, doing her best to at least attempt to document her experience so far, while making contingency plans for worst case scenarios. What did she have so far? Absolutely jack. No matter how she spun it, it was either enslave herself to The Agency or give up any hope of seeing her friends again. The activity at least kept her brain working on something.

When the alarm came, she wasn't surprised. She was rather expecting it, hoping for it even. It meant something she could do, a goal she could grasp, something beyond this endless lonelines. She put her jacket on, did her hair up in her signature high pigtails, and stepped outside where she was met with a....peculiar, yet highly expectwed site. It was Gilgamesh and Veril attempting to wave their swords about. She could probably jus walk around them but that would have been rude wouldn't it? Instead she waved to the two of them. "Hello there boys. Having fun this morning?"

edited 19th Nov '15 5:30:32 PM by Azure

Thinking later about the incident, Seija was entirely sure that Gilgamesh knew exactly what would happen when six pounds of solid gold landed on someone's head. This thought didn't occur to her originally, as the sudden impact only allowed one thought to manifest: OW.

She furiously bit her lip, her sharp teeth almost drawing blood, as she tried to hold back an incredible and unending flow of the most vile insults she could imagine. The throbbing pain on the top her head was not assuaged by her putting pressure on it, so she could barely think about what to do next. She was only a hair's breadth away from walking over to the kid and beating the shit out of him, her desire to not be reprieved of duty and finding out what happens after that the only thing holding her back.

King then made the decision to ask for payment for the offending lump of metal. Sure, Seija had stolen it, but the little bastard said it was nothing but pocket change, and then acted like nothing had happened when it had impacted her skull. She hefted the lump above her head, and tried to come up with a particularly scathing insult that would leave him with a fourth-degree burn. Unfortunately, her blind anger and the pain in her head didn't allow her to come up with anything witty. "KEEP YOUR SHITTY GOLD", she shouted as she ineffectually spiked the chunk of metal at Gilgamesh's feet. Quickly turning herself in the opposite direction, she stormed off in Vergil's wake and ignored the inevitable stares from the rest of the group.

edited 19th Nov '15 2:48:36 PM by wikkit

The clack clack of high heels echoed down the halls, the vague silhouette of Ms. Smith forming at the left end of the group collecting in front of the elevator. Her face was just barely visible in the intermittent lights spread along the ceiling, a briefcase in her hand and the same neutral smile on her face. She stumbled a little, stopping to glance down at her shoes with a brief cuss...

... before suddenly appearing right behind the group.

"Good afternoon." She said kindly, looking at the group with the same glass-eyed stare she gave everyone, her smile plastered like a crappy pop art painting hanging on the wall of a couple who just needs to fill some space in their new home, ignoring the fact they bought it with the money the husband made from his shady business, which will most likely be his downfall in a thrilling story we will never see. "I'm so glad you are all here."

Ms. Smith motioned towards the elevator. "It's almost 1300. Shall we go in?" The two steel doors parted open to reveal the glass elevator that always seemed to change sizes depending on the number of people going up. "Hello, Stitch." She idly added to the blue furry animal as she walked in, grip on the briefcase strenghtening. "Please. Let's all come in. Did I miss anything interesting?" Ms. Smith asked, her head suddenly snapping towards Vergil, similar to a hawk spotting the perfect prey.

Hallway

"Ih!"^Translation "Yes!"

Once the song was over, Stitch readily put down the record he'd been playing and grabbed the hand Johnny Cage offered him, shaking it enthusiastically. He also seemed to like the pat in the head that Gilgamesh gave him, but made no particular comment on it.

It didn't take long until Ms. Smith arrived, with the same expression she usually had. The small blue alien greeted her with a soft bow, then proceeded to calmly walk into the elevator and wait for the ride down, just like a normal person would.

edited 20th Nov '15 9:38:07 AM by Katarsus

Johnny Cage smiled, pleased someone other than a fan was actually glad to meet him. Then, when Ms. Smith arrived and revealed the elevator, he stood back up, buttoned his jacket, made sure his bowtie wasn't tilted, and casually walked in.

Druss entered the elevator, still slightly uneasy about the level of technology on display despite the briefings he'd received; he'd never seen anything like it, and didn't entirely trust it.

Seija took her hand off her head upon sighting Smith-san, and hurriedly made her way to the elevator. She tried her best to make it seem like nothing had happened, but a few angry mumbles still made their way out of her mouth.

She placed herself in the corner, resting on the handrails. This happened to be her favorite spot to ride these machines, but for what reason evades even her. Safely behind her supervisor's field of vision, she shot Gilgamesh a death glare, almost daring him to try and take a place near her in the elevator.

"Aw. But I was going to give back your crayons."

Gil rubbed the back of his head, looking disappointed. He snapped his fingers and the Crown of Denmark dissolved. Then he perked up.

"Oh, well. It was mine, anyway, so I'm definitely keeping it. You really shouldn't say bad words, Ms. Shiftman."

This was accompanied with a strangely parental finger-wag. Then the boy turned his attention to Ms. Smith.

"Ah, my lady-in-waiting. The King accepts your request."

Without waiting for a praising paean (he thought this rather nice of himself) or an adulating prostration (he thought this very kind of himself) or even a deferential curtsy (he thought this impossibly magnanimous of himself), Gil slipped into the elevator. He sidled in-between Vergil and Seija, smiling his wide-open grin. Did anything happen? his woman wanted to know.

"Nope. Absolutely nothing of note, Ms. Smith. Nothing at all."

edited 24th Nov '15 5:28:01 AM by troydenite

"You missed blabbering." Alex growled. He'd gotten onto the elevator at some point, and surely some of the people there had seen him, but he was capable of moving disturbingly quietly for something of his mass. That he didn't breathe only made him quieter. "Honestly I'm not sure how some of these people are going to work in anything resembling a cohesive unit."

At the phrase 'some of these people' he'd turned to glare at Rich Kid.

"I love blabbering." Ms. Smith added with a sickly smile as all of the agents made their way inside. All of them. Even those standing outside felt an uneasy force pushing them inside the elevator, their legs moving by themselves. Some would call this an act of god, a miracle, or some ghosts screwing around. But the real reason behind all of this is that the elevator just looked very very comfortable.

The elevator ride was very very uncomfortable.

Once they got to the highest floor in the building, the first thing the agents saw was the smoke drifting in from Number Two's office and into the ceiling of the elevator. But just the ceiling. It never got any lower. First they had to go past Ms. Smith's office, which was literally just a cubicle with a desk and an old typewriter.

Oddly enough, Ms. Smith had a laptop she often carried around in her briefcase. So no one really understood the point of the typewriter. Especially because it didn't have any paper in it. It never had any paper. Ms. Smith never bought paper for the typewriter because she loved the trees. Why would she buy paper when she had a laptop? Don't be silly. Forget about the typewriter.    FORGET ABOUT THE TYPEWRITER.   

First they had to go past Ms. Smith's office, which was literally just a cubicle with a desk. After that came Number Two's office. The jazz club smoke got denser as the walls became the velvety red that looked as good as it felt. It was very fluffy, or at least that's the feeling you got before the walls tried to eat you. Oh, yeah, that's not just a way of saying, we're not being cute and acting like the walls are so soft they pull you in. The walls are literally trying to eat you.

Pop quiz: what is in Ms. Smith's cubicle? A desk. Did you say a desk? Good. Here it comes again.

Then they had to go past Ms. Smith's office, which was literally just a cubicle with a desk and a new typewriter. After that came Number Two's office. Behind all the smoke and the sofas lazily scattered around rested a window that displayed an eternal loop of sunshine and birds happily chirping. Number Two, of course, pulled down some typewriter-themed curtains over the window, to keep all the fun from leaking in.

He wasn't at his chair. Ms. Smith stopped in front of the desk as a terrifying sound came in through the ceiling: that of an excellently manufactured faux 60's hit song.

Tom Hanks delivers quite an underrated performance in that one, by the way.

After getting past Ms. Smith's cubicle, which was just a desk and two typewriters (one old, one new, and one on the ceiling), they found Number Two happily dancing along to the sounds of That Thing You Do. We call it dancing, but due to Number Two's skeletal form, skin tight clothing and plastic-like skin, it seemed more like he was flinging around his own body in the hopes of building up enough momentum so he could jump out of the window.

"Agents," He exclaimed, like a child who's just learning about the world. The song got louder and louder before it ended. "Welcome." He sat in his chair, leaning back. "Ms. Smith," He reached into his desk and pulled out a typewriter. "I got you a new typewriter."

"Thank you." Ms. Smith said, smiling. She stared dumbfounded at the typewriter. What a fascinating new object that she had never seen before!

"Agents. Pay attention to me." Number Two stood up. "Are you ready? We have a mission for all of you. Today, you will be sent to a faraway land. Most precisely, England in the nineteenth century. The people of England will be running from a threat you will never be able to defeat. Your objective is to build a refugee camp. Provide them food, shelter, hope. Defend them from whatever threats knock at your door. It is imperative that they all survive."

"The threat is of an alien nature. To be more precise, Martians. They are equipped with weapons of mass destruction that dwarf the technology of your mission's location." Number Two sniffed. "It is, truly, a saddening sight. To watch as countless rows of humans are murdered at the hands of a malicious weapon. It is your objective to bring hope to these hu— people. Give them a light at the end of the tunnel."

"That's not how the metaph..." Ms. Smith began, but she quickly trailed off. "Any questions?" She added.

Number Two's nature puzzled Seija, as she halfheartedly listened to the briefing. Sure, there were plenty of odd-looking people where she came from, and the being in front of her seemed less alien than many of the Youkai. The issue that was bothering her was something that she had only noticed now: his movement was entirely unnatural. Even the old human farmer who had thrown out his back had hobbled back home with some innate sense of how to do so, the way he was spasming right now made it seem if he was the kind of being that had only learned how to physically move second-hand. The amanojaku postured that maybe this was the case, as all of their other meetings had had him sitting or standing perfectly, unerringly still.

She shook her head and decided that she really needed to be paying attention to the meeting, so she just looked away at something else...like the pattern on the curtains. They reminded her of something, but she couldn't place what.

The brief briefing over, she looked at Smith-san. She asked with enough volume to overcome yet another pop-music record, "Yes, I do. What is a mar-shin?"

I stood on the elevator in silence, content to ignore everyone else around me as I waited to arrive at our destination. The first area we passed was unremakable in every sense of the word, a simple desk with walls like you would find in any human office building. The office of the other man, the one I had come here to see, on the other hand, was not so unremarkable. White smoke covered much of the room, which looked very much like some lounge I imagine I would find my fool brother sitting in on any given day of the week. If I had retained any doubt as to the inhuman nature of our "employer", what I saw when I entered put that to rest, as he moved in ways no human should have been able to.

He then sat and told us of the mission. We were to go to 19th century England, and protect a group of humans from what sounded to be some form of alien invasion. A month ago I would have laughed at the idea of an alien invasion. But my time here had given me new prospective.

"Martians are what humans refer to as aliens." I informed one of the members of our group, who did not appear to know of what a martian was. "They originate from the planet mars, the 4th planet in the solar system. Earth, the human world, is the 3rd. Common human portrayals that I know of are inconstant, however. What is the capabilities of our foe? What should we expect to see? And why are we protecting them in the first place? If they are too weak to stand against these invaders, then they should be allowed to die. That is the natural order of things."

edited 25th Nov '15 2:57:52 PM by Meanken

"You could always try sneezing on them," says Bester, whose sweater seems to be made out of exactly the same material lining the walls. "I think I might have read this one."

Transitioning from an atmosphere of austere refinement to the suspicious humidity of the upper floor's jazz lounge, his outfit's begun to synthesise in strange and uncomfortable ways with the hip new Zeitgeist. He can feel the connotations peeling away from him layer by layer, transforming bureaucratic leisure to washed-up underachiever with no effort whatsoever. The walls here eat you, it's true. They eat the only parts that really count.

This always happens. He knew he should have changed, thrown on a jacket, at least something. The sixties might have come and gone over a century before he was born, but that's no defence against the good vibrations.

He doesn't even like jazz.

"You're... new to this line of work, aren't you Vergil?"

edited 25th Nov '15 3:50:43 PM by OG-Sama

"I'm sure he is." a newcomer answered Bester.

Out of Number Two's office doors strutted a man in a pristine three-piece suit. Slicked back coal black hair, snow white collared shirt, and the only lustre in the gold pocket watch tucked in his vest. The stranger didn't seem to enjoy the light he just passed through.

"Sorry I'm late, Boss." the man winced—out of blindness, not out of guilt. He popped out his watch and stared at it. "My watch must be slow!"

It wasn't.

The newcomer didn't waste time to find the nearest guest chair and lounge in it.

"So. Do we get any Agency toys to play with?"

Johnny couldn't help smiling and nodding his head in approval when he heard "That Thing You Do!" playing. If everyone here had such good taste, this was going to be a fun job. Of course, the shades were helpful for hiding how weirded out Number Two's dancing was. But he managed to look away after a moment and take a seat.

The mission seemed straightforward enough—but Vergil's remarks sounded flat-out wrong. That was the mentality Cage was used to hearing from the villains in his movies, not his coworkers. He looked over at him.

"Didn't you hear the briefing? The Martians are going to be far more powerful than us. So that means, if you ever get in a fight with them, the 'natural order of things'"—cue the mocking air-quotes from Cage—"will be for us to just let them use their weapons of mass destruction to blow you up and then go 'Martians win. Flawless victory. Fatality.'" He said the last part in his best Shao Kahn voice. He knew most people probably wouldn't get that part—it was just burned into his brain from hearing it so many times.

He cleared his throat and looked back to Number Two. "Yeah, I have a question. Did you get that gift I sent you?"

edited 25th Nov '15 9:20:21 PM by NitrousThunder

So their task was not to fight the invaders, but to bring aid to the survivors? Druss would have preferred the direct nature of a simple fight, but helping people rebuild lives destroyed by war was a worthy task in itself. He cast a scornful look in Vergil's direction when he began his already familiar screed about how only the strong should be allowed to survive.

"Spoken like a true snake. Any man who needs a reason to defend the weak from the strong is no man at all."

He shook his head in disgust, and turned away to address Ms Smith.

"I have a question. What resources are you giving us to take to this place?"

I had many questions; my plight was choosing which one to start with. I'd given up questioning the agency's architecture, though the lift's stability had caught my attention. What it lacked in spectacle, it made up for in functionality and safety. Assuming I would see Anor Londo again, I foresaw a petition for guard railings in my fair city's future.

Good fortune saw to my allies asking many of the questions I'd had, so I chose to voice the one they had not.

"Lady Smith, Number Two, if I may." I began, addressing them as I hoped they would prefer. The enigma called Smith seemed to prefer a feminine moniker, but Number Two was much more casual, from what I saw. This was not necessarily unusual. I'd seen newly-promoted lieutenants grow lax in speaking to those in lower stations, and even I have am sometimes guilty of that. The two we stood before were doubtlessly my superiors, however.

"For how long are we to hold these Martians at bay? What is our objective once the line has been successfully held? Are we to await reinforcements and launch a counteroffensive? Or will we be escorting the refugees to safety once the encampment is overrun?" Surely we were not going to just leave them to die. That would be an utterly pointless exercise, not to mention needlessly cruel.

"Yes, I did. You will notice the trash is unusually large this day." Number Two told Cage, replying to his question with an equally smarmy smile, although in his face it looked more like someone had cut out the teeth from another drawing and plastered them over the blase looks of the Mona Lisa. "As for your... line of questioning, Agent Yokai... you will protect these humans because I told you to do it. Respect the orders that were given to you. Isn't that what we agreed upon when I brought you back from certain death?"

"As for your ultimate objective..." Number Two spun around in his chair a little, trailing off into unnecessary humming. "You will protect these beings for an indeterminate amount of days. Your mission consists of several steps: locating resources to construct the shelter, finding water, food, that kind of stuff, redirecting survivors to your shelter, managing resources and people, making sure they can survive from day to day, protecting them from any eventual attacks and ensuring that chaos doesn't take hold of the shelter."

He smiled again. "And once the time comes, you will leave. I'm not sure what said time is myself. We'll see. What is essential is that the humans survive once you're all gone."

"In regards to the gadgets," Ms. Smith spoke up. "You will all be meeting the Artisan for the first time. He'll be providing the necessary equipment. In fact, unless there are more questions, we can go right ahead and meet them." She said, lazily pointing to a door that wasn't there before.

On the other side of the door was a giant, incredibly messy warehouse.◊ Scattered around the floor were metal contraptions of varying shapes and sizes, mannequins wearing different kinds of armors, and even full-on vehicles, some still intact, whilst others were in the middle of being dismantled. On the distance, the corridors seemed to go on forever, and one could even see a giant UFO saucer stuck halfway through the floor.

Sitting on a small chair with wheels was a man with grey, almost silver-like hair, wearing a pompous suit and wielding the most unusual of weapons: an accurate recreation of a Muppet, whom he was in the middle of having a rather engaging conversation with.

"Why, don't you think that's odd?" The man asked the Muppet, who began nodding. "Not as odd as your face!" He replied in a falsetto, moving the puppet's mouth along with the words. When the first Agent stepped through the door, the man promptly stood up, head snapping towards the door. "Ah, Agents!" He said, moving the Muppet's head as if it was a living, breathing being.

"Welcome to my workshop. I am the Artisan." He announced, before pointing at a mannequin. "Don't touch that. I'm pretty sure that one wants to wear human skin. Or is it human chins?"