The Agency - Main Thread

Seija took the Artisan's warning at face value, as she had personally met a dangerous living mannequin once before. It was years ago and she never caught her name, to be honest, but when you meet an oddity like that you just don't forget it.

She hummed for a moment, awkwardly looking around the expanses of the warehouse. The almost-mountainous piles of random crap laid before her bewildered her. Not a single bit of it, from this vantage point, looked like it would be any bit useful for making a refuge camp. She turned to him, and asked point blank, "So, do you have any construction equipment? 'Cause that's what we need."

"That we do, but what of food and water? That should be our concern first and foremost. We'll need to bring a reserve until we can establish proper supply lines."

My question was brushed off as meaningless, which in hindsight I suppose I should have expected. Still, it was not completely wasted. The question revealed that several of the people I was now stuck with were fools who denied the way the world worked. Numerous people gave idiotic voice to their objections, and as each opened their mouth, my opinion of them dropped like a meteor. All of them I ignored. I was not about to respond to their foolishness.

We were then taken into another room. This room could only be described as a room of clutter, for that is what littered the room from floor to ceiling. All forms of objects, including what appeared to be part of a flying saucer, which I can only assume was placed there as some sick form of irony. I stepped to the side as we entered. I had no interest in anything this man offered, not in commenting on his growing insanity as he spoke to an inanimate puppet. I already possessed the tools that I required. The only thing I took note of was a mannequin, which the man claimed wanted to wear human skin. Most would brush it off as the ramblings of a madmen, but some demons from my world had been known to take such a form before. I looked over at the thing, curious if that was the case here or not.

Dr. Strange was a patient man, and one of few words when he realized that his input was not necessary. Of course, there were very few instances where his wide-spanning knowledge of all things mystical, astral, inter-dimensional and ethereal matters was not necessary. But the short briefing with Number Two and the questions of Strange's new allies were not of such a nature that they required his input. Thus he was satisfied with staying silent, pondering what spells might be best suited for the mission at hand. There were over 300 that he could immediately think of that would help solve the mission, but most of them took too long time to be what one might call "practical". Dr. Strange was hardly the man to be concerned about practicality, but the aspect of time was forever one to be watchful over where mortal lives were in jeopardy.

A refugee camp. Of course, the obvious solutions presented themselves. Pocket dimensions, temporary relocations to sanctuaries on other astral planes, large-scale magical subjective invisibility spells...but considering the time they were going back to, it might be ill-received. People from the nineteenth century were sure to voice objections. So, did that mean going with building the whole thing from local materials with local technology? Now that was truly impractical. Such processes could easily be helped along with magic, to the point of almost eliminating the workload.

Yet, Strange could not help but think that his supreme grasp of the art of magic was not better utilized on more important things. Processing fresh water? Conjuring sustenance? Eliminate diseases? Or was it better to go for defences against the alien invaders? Strange was well acquainted with both the planet, and various aliens that had at odd times inhabited the planet. Likely, that knowledge was of little use in the world they were heading to. However, he could conjure up all-purpose defences or obfuscate the invaders various ways of finding them. But that was a very passive move, and again, his powers could have better uses.

In the meanwhile, they were being introduced to the Artisan. Strange listened only with one ear. While he saw the use of technological aid, particularly in such a resource-intensive situation, there was little that this man could offer that would rival what Strange could conjure for himself. Again, he let his new teammates lead in this meeting, as his mind was otherwise occupied on more important deliberations.

"Hello, Mr. Artisan," chirped the little monarch. "I'm just the Only King in This Heaven and Earth, so don't mind me - but I guess you can call me Gil!"

With that plain and simple introduction (after all, he hadn't even given his actual name [which was another feather in his <very humble> humility hat]), Gil pulled a gilded kendama from the air, gave it a few taps, flubbed the landing, failed miserably at catching the swinging ball, and finally shoved the whole thing back into its ripple.

Supplies, food, equipment. The earthly concerns of the un-endowed, of those who had not earned all the treasures in the world. The words washed over him, breaking on his wispy brow. For a while, he smiled at nothing in particular, eyes closed. Then his red irises flickered and, in an elaborately bored manner, slid across to Dr. Strange.

"I see no reason to be here, and neither do you. Come, Magician. I would speak with you."

It was a command, lightly spoken, phrased in that royal manner which made even compliance seem like grace.

edited 4th Dec '15 9:37:11 PM by troydenite

Stitch listened carefully to the entire description of the mission and in complete silence, ignoring Vergil's comment like it wasn't important or significant in any way (which he really thought it wasn't, seeing that their mission was to protect humans and they would have to do it whether they wanted or not... although Stitch honestly wanted to do it).

After opting not to ask a question that may or may not have had to do with typewriters (even though he didn't really opt because he wasn't even considering asking any sort of possibly-typewriter-related question), he followed the group to meet the Artisan, this time walking on two legs like any normal koala-like blue person.

Once there, his eyes immediately set on the gigantic UFO stuck on the floor, as well as the other vehicles available. However, and even though he really wanted to take some of them for a spin, he kept calm and limited himself to just walking around and taking a quick look at what was lying around, thinking that he'd be able to improvise something once they were there should he not find something of his liking.

Dr. Strange drifted out of his ponderings, pausing his thoughts to address Gilgamesh' request.

"Certainly," Strange replied, and moved aside a little so that their conversation would not be of impediment to the others' procurement.

The boy stepped back, hands in his pockets. He looked straight ahead, as if seeing right through the dust and the mess and everyone present. He did not look at Strange.

"I will speak either as the child I have become, Magician, or as my true self. You will decide which. There will be a slight overlap, but in any case it will be negligible, and at any rate I do not intend to let it obstruct my thoughts. My existence is immutable."

The boy paused.

"I am granting you a great boon, Magician," he said pointedly. "You understand that, do you not?"

"Indeed."

Strange's response was sincere, for he did indeed wish to have a lengthier conversation with Gilgamesh, for Gilgamesh's very essence of being was truly quite interesting. He was a supernatural being in a mortal body, furthermore he was confined to a child's body. As he said himself, his existence was immutable, not simply meant to wander the Earth as a mere mortal. Even so, he was still here in the realm beyond death and seemingly locked in what could be described as an impractical shape. Not that it seemed to chafe the godking any, indeed, he seemed quite comfortable. Were Dr. Strange a scientist, he would have wished to examine him, possibly even run experiments. But Strange was the Sorcerer Supreme. A good conversation was all he needed.

"And how may I be of help?"

edited 6th Dec '15 2:12:35 PM by Lemurian

Mr. Scratch strolled into the Artisan's warehouse and was immediately delighted. Everything about this whole damn agency felt so familiar, like a second home. If the place weren't regularly lit, he'd think death had just returned him to The Dark Place.

"Pleasure!" he grinned and went to shake his hand. Not the Artisan's, the muppet's.

"Name's Mr. —"

The noise that emminated from Mr. Scratch's mouth wasn't human. It was loud and bizarre, almost resembling the static feed of an old television, and no matter how many syllables the well-dressed man uttered the sound never changed.

Then he returned to English. "But that doesn't really roll off the tongue, so most just call me Mr. Scratch."

Aside from Becker, Mr. Scratch had yet to address any of the other agents directly. They were diverse, true, but so far they failed to catch his interest. The only one he seemed to acknowledge was the boy, and even then all he did was actively avoid looking at him, as if his very aura (or more precisely, the light he radiated) disgusted him.

Silence was golden. Alex didn't speak, didn't nod, didn't give any confirmation that he'd been listening at all. He simply stared, thinking. So these martians were too powerful to fight? He doubted that. They were supposed to stay to the mission, protect the humans. But if he happened to consume one of the invaders, swipe some of their tech, well, it would be fine as long as he used it to defend rather than attack. Stay on the defensive.

As they stood in the room full of clutter, however, Alex's curiosity was peaked. This Agency had to have tools and weapons far more advanced than the militaries of his own universe. The question was, how advanced? Twenty years into the future, or outright soft science fiction?

"So," He spoke up, eager to get to business, "What gear are we working with on this mission?"

"Ah, Agent, of course I do!"

The Artisan suddenly disappeared behind a pile of scrap, before coming back out with a heavy looking device with an orange glow emanating off it.◊ "This is the Zero Point Energy Manipulator, orrrr the gravity gun. Should help all of you with picking stuff up, considering you'll be spending most of this mission building things."

"Which reminds me: there'll be other things to do! Resource gathering, hunting, finding people... I'm afraid I can't help you on the hunting part, but," The Artisan pulled out a long, weathered scroll depicting the area of the mission. "You'll be landing on this patch of land here, right on top of the cliff. There are a bunch of towns surrounding your landing spot, so I suggest going after survivors in those locations."

The Artisan snapped his fingers. "Oh yeah! You'll need to keep their spirits up, so focus on moral, religion, that kind of stuff." He walked back into a pile of scrap and came out with five copies of the King James' translation of the Bible, plus a book of old English folk songs. "You folks are gonna need these, but they're just for starters."

"And this, well, this here is my favorite." The Artisan reached into the pile and pulled out a single golden record. "Now the folks down there don't exactly have record players available in every house. I'm pretty sure they haven't even come up with it. But here's the thing: you play this record the straightforward way and it'll be a perfect replica of the Martians' war cry. Their way of saying 'this area's ours, no need to get here', so consider it a we need to drive them away right now! But think before you use it, because you play it once, and it won't work again."

He spun the record around, grinning. "By the way, play it backwards and the opposite happens. You'll be attracting all the nice Martians to your shelter. Don't know why you'd need this but it doesn't hurt to have it around. Now, Agents! Do you have any last requests?"

Looking over the papers and books, Seija felt a bit of bewilderment once more. She figured that the group, being the diverse cast they were, wouldn't even try to be covert about this. Though she knew little about what Britain was like, she guessed they weren't friendly to people with horns and red eyes, or magicians, or giant metal men, or little rabbit monsters, for that matter.

"Give me a disguise and wish me luck, and I'll be ready," she said before looking back at the others. "Maybe disguises for the rest of them, if you think we'll need them. You can do that, right Mr. Artisan?"

"Screw that!" Scratch laughed at Seija's request for disguises.

"You think the little green men'll be doing covert ops? Why should we? Let's go full out on this! Prove we're the badasses we are; well I am, at least. Least that way the Brits know who to flock to."

He turned from the Artisan off into space, his hands raised to express his vision.

"It'll be like a superhero flick: London's in peril and there's no one to save the people from destruction: no army, no Queen, no God" he gestured condescendingly at the stack of Bibles, "but just when the last grain of hope vanishes—dun dun dudaaaah!—the Agency arrives! We get the people what they need, and give 'em a show they deserve! Aww damn, I'm getting giddy just thinking of it!"

"And I'm getting worried that they're all holed up, with whatever weapons they can find, and ready to shoot the first thing that comes through their front door," Seija said indignantly, staring down the writer. "We can take all the glory we want from this, but maybe we can wait until after they've dropped their swords?" She looked down, as if remembering something. "Wait, dropped their guns..." she mumbled.

"I have no requests for you, just put us to work. I'm not getting any younger here."

Before

Johnny Cage looked at Number Two for a second, his sunglasses hiding a puzzled expression. Did Number Two mean that the trash can was fuller, or that it was really stretchy? Of course, the moment he thought that, he realized it was something he'd never live down if he said it out loud, so he just got up and followed everybody out of the office.

Now

"Yeah," said Johnny to the Artisan, "do you have, like, a top hat that works as a weapon when you throw it? Or, y'know, any other type of hat that wouldn't look out of place for where we're headed? Because I don't know if they had sunglasses back then."

"Disguises! Of course!" The Artisan exclaimed loudly, slapping himself in the forehead. "How could I forget about disguises? And I was about to throw all of you people in the middle of 19th century Britain without disguises!" He chuckled, walking around. "Oh, shucks. I haven't finished developing my new Automatic Disguise machine, which means..."

He walked into a scrap pile, walking out with an entire rack of vintage clothes fit for the time period. "We're going to have to do this old school!" The Artisan snapped his fingers, grabbing a corset and dress before shoving them in Seija's hands. "Here we go. Put these on, and nobody will notice how different you look. And for the horns..." He grabbed a top hat. "... just put this one on too!"

"For everyone who's ready," The Artisan waved his hand, and the door that had taken from Number Two's office now led to somewhere completely different...

The first thing the Agents would feel after stepping through the door would be the wet soil underneath their feet. The second thing would be the breathtaking countryside view in the distance◊, although the usually happy feelings it inspired on sightseers were brought down by the grey tint coloring the entire area. Storm clouds were gathering everywhere, and in the distance, one could easily see columns of smoke billowing from distant towns...

The empty area they were standing on gave them the perfect place to watch as the madness unfolded in the distance, vague, looming forms moving slowly through the horizon. And apart from the occasional tweeting bird and passing wind, the only sounds reaching the Agents' ears were the deafening silence of war, punctuated by the occasional explosion.

Like the Artisan had said, they had been given a privileged location: from atop that hill they could see everything around them, whilst also being surrounded by lush forests which would logically provide them with all the wood and food they needed. But the real resource they needed to find was people: harmless, squishy, scared human beings who would populate their shelter. And down the hill, not that far away, was a quaint little British village, apparently untouched by the Martian attacks.

The village of Chobham wasn't the most sought after destination in Surrey. You usually had to pass through it when heading to London, but most of the time, it just became part of the scenery. Not now. Not after the Martian attack in London. When they arrived, people first tried hiding in their homes, but when their rooftops couldn't handle the power of the Martian's heat rays, flocks upon flocks of distressed citizens ran for the exit, taking everything they could with them and making their way to the countryside.

The logic wasn't that bad. Countryside equals less people. Less people equals less reasons to be attacked by the Martian. Right?

Partly right. The first few groups found a safe place to stay in Chobham. But now, it had become as full as a London neighborhood. People littered the streets in search of supplies, clothes, or drivers who could take them to other villages. The inns were full of either drunken men crying about their losses or even more people trying to get a bed for the night. You couldn't walk five steps without hearing a baby crying or a fight breaking out over a loaf of bread.

And in the middle of this mess, a hooded figure would have his attention drawn towards the hill south to the town, the faint sound of lightning calling to him...

Dio wasn't exactly the most inconspicuous of men in this town, even if it was the closest to the time period of his youth.◊ This strange little town was so full of blood, full of minions to serve him. Perhaps he could even get a suitable challenge to his power from these "martians".

My attention was drawn when discuses were brought out. Apparently the members of this Agency thought just throwing human clothing onto some of these people would be enough to avert suspicion. A doomed course of action is what that was. It would only take a gust of wind to blow that hat off and leave the devil's horns exposed, for instance. As for me, I required nothing out of this pile. My own coat, while admittedly a little flashy for 19th century standards, would work well enough for my purposes. The people of this world would be far too busy trying not to die to look at my coat too closely. And so I turned and left the room.

Stepping out of the door, I found myself in an empty field. The sky was gray, and it appeared that storm clouds were gathering. Whenever that was due to our enemy or just odd timing, I could not say. Far in the distance, I saw shapes moving. Whenever they were humans or the enemy, I also could not say. It was clear from what I saw that this whole area was a war zone. It likely would have looked much worse if the humans had not been stomped into the dirt like the weaklings they were.

In the distance in front of me I saw a human town, which appeared to still be somewhat intact. I assumed that this was the area we had been told to protect. I was never one to stand around and wait when things were to be done, and I had no wish whatsoever to wait for the rest of the "Team" to arrive. So I clutched my sheathed sword and moved forward. Nearby, I saw I was not the only one to begin moving already. A blonde haired man, who I had not noticed until that moment, and who despite having taken the style of the locals still stood out badly. I noticed nothing at the time that suggested he was not a human, but, as I have stressed numerous times already, nothing is as it seems when it comes to these people. On close inspection, the man could have passed for what the fool boy king might have looked like as an adult. This did little to endear him to me, and so I attempted to ignore him as I advanced, hoping that he would not decide to approach me and begin asking inane questions.

edited 15th Dec '15 6:01:07 PM by Meanken

Right, disguises. They all needed disguises if they didn't want to draw unwanted attention. Which they obviously didn't. Luckily, Stitch didn't need any disguises. Just a little accessory and a bit of work on his appearance.

He immediately dropped the pile of artifacts he had picked up, headed towards the pile of clothes, picked up a single dog collar and put it around his neck. Then he just... changed. The spikes on his back folded back on themselves, the antennae on his head retracted, and the two lower arms just... got sucked into his body with a particularly unpleasant noise. In a matter of moments, the blue alien had turned into a dog. An odd-looking blue dog, but a dog nonetheless.

The acting part was easier: he just had to get on all fours and bark.

"Wow," the alien barked, taking a quick pause afterwards to clear his throat. "Bow wow."

Once everything was set, he just nonchalantly walked to the door, continuing to practice his barking... although he instantly went silent the moment he found himself in the field.

"Ooooohhhh!" Stitch exclaimed, but immediately corrected himself afterwards. "I mean 'bow wow.' Bow woooooow."

edited 16th Dec '15 10:19:45 AM by Katarsus

His attire held twofold purpose. Aside from being fashion-savvy for the times and an attempt to blend in, the high collar and feathers hid the scars where he'd had his head sewn onto the body of his nemesis, Jonathan Joestar. He towered over the weeping, huddled, wretched masses like a colossus, striding amongst them like the god he truly...

Was that a blue dog? Perhaps there was more than just the Martians that were different.

Dio looked about the overpacked town and started taking stock of everyone he saw. The ugly and the wretched, the weak the the sick. They would be his food. But the strong and the healthy, the beautiful and the wicked. Those he would give the gift of life eternal. Those would be his thrall.

Druss didn't bother with choosing a disguise, simply pulling his cloak around himself to conceal his armour. Stepping through the door he was glad to find himself breathing fresh air under an open sky, but less so at the chaos he saw enveloping this land. He shook his head, sighed, and headed down the hill towards the village.

The crowded space was a sight like many he had seen before. Such was the way of things when cities and towns were sacked, whether by humans or monsters. People fled, and packed themselves like rats into any place that could offer even the illusions of safety, of order and sanity. Exhausted, hungry, and terrified... they would huddle together against their enemies for as long as they could, clinging to whatever they could take with them of their old lives. Revitalizing this place against the invaders would be no small task. Such work was difficult enough in a fortress full of fighting men, let alone a defenseless village full of women and children. He doubted there were any soldiers to be found, but those who didn't run would have to take up the sword. Or "gun". That particular notion was still strange to him.

The town smelled. It smelled bad, powerfully bad, unendingly and overwhelmingly bad. Gensokyo smelled like wilderness, wheat or brimstone depending on where you went. The Agency smelled uniformly of stale air. This place smelled thickly of sweat, urine, manure and blood. It had only gotten worse as they advanced toward the center of town, making Seija deeply consider inventing the gas mask a few years early. She resisted the urge to cover her mouth, partially because it would attract attention and because she only had the edge of her skirt to use.

She still stuck out a bit, though. She carried the Gravity Gun in a rough sack, the size and material clashing with the rather elegant black and white dress she had been supplied with. She also was quick to notice, her experience with hats lending her a critical eye, that she was the only woman in the entire makeshift refugee-town wearing a top hat. Keeping it on was preferable to the alternative, so on it stayed.

The chaos and disorder presented the obvious first challenge. They had been sent to move this mass of people away from here, and the small group of them herding this whole mob away was going to probably be the hardest part. Seija, ever the crafty and well educated amanojaku, had an idea well in advance. She knew the structure of the average English country town well enough to know they had a leader called a mayor. If there was anyone that could rally this mob, it would be their duly-elected representative. Seija figured that the mayor, or someone who knew him, would be the most nicely and extravagantly dressed person in sight, similar to the power structure back home.

The one that stood out, against the ash and rain covered crowds, was a tall blonde fellow wearing a purely fabulous purple get-up. No time better than the present, Seija walked right on over and grabbed his hand to vigorously shake. "Hello, sir! We're from the Queen's Majesty's Government, and we're here to start building a refugee camp a bit south," she said over the din, in the most sincere tone she could manage at such a rapid speed, "We're gonna need someone to talk to all these people, if you could point us in the right direction of the Mayor or other rightful ruler, me and my associates," she continued without pausing, pointing towards her motley group, "will be right on the way and we can start getting you to safety!"

It took all of Dio's resolve not to rip the girl's throat out for touching him without permission. But as she spoke, a plan formed in Dio's cunning mind. A way to corral all his meat into one place.

"The mayor?" Dio asked before affixing an effite smile and kissing her hand. "That would be I, Dio... Brando." He had not said his last name in so long that it had felt strange upon his lips. "Whatever you need, I am only too happy to help!"

There was just one flaw in Dio's perfect plan. He lacked a pulse.