"Alleb," Jesse said plaintively, for the fifth time. "I look ridiculous."

"No, you do not," Alleb said, not even bothering to turn to look at him as they walked down the grey corridors. "A moonrascal is a perfectly acceptable costume."

"Doesn't feel acceptable," the cowboy grumbled, swiping at the quills that kept brushing his neck. "How come you get to be the whatzit?"

"Whoosel," Alleb corrected. She spun the end of her long red tail, which she had to hold to keep from brushing the ground.

"Whoosel," Jesse repeated, resigned to the fact that Alleb would always be able to pull more weird words and facts out of her head, just when he thought she had expelled them all. "Why do you get to be the whoosel?"

"Because I asked you, and you said you wanted to be the moonrascal."

"I don't remember that!"

"You were drunk. It is not my fault that you cannot control your urge to excel your limits."

Jesse spluttered. "I don't have an urge to--to do whatever you just said!" He planted his fists on his hips, then immediately yelped as he was pricked by the innumerable quills the eccentric swordmaiden had sewn onto his coat. "I want to leave already," he grumbled.

Alleb, who still hadn't turned to face him, held up a finger. "There will be copious amounts of alcohol," she said, a knowing smile on her face, though Jesse couldn't see it.

Jesse paused in the hallways, watching Alleb walk forward without stopping, then cursed under his breath and walked faster to catch up. "Women shouldn't be clever and women," he grumbled. "That's at least two more advantages than us men have."

Alleb smirked. "How could women be clever but not be women?" she asked lightly. "That seems rather contradictory."

"With skill," Jesse said cantankerously, knowing he didn't make any sense but refusing to accept defeat.

Alleb chuckled. Then, suddenly, she swerved left. "Here we are, at last!" she said exuberantly. Jesse sighed, but she paid him no mind. "Come!" she said, hurrying through the door and into the low hum of conversation. The smell of food was drawing her--she was, after all, a teenager--and she hadn't had a decent conversation with anyone but Jesse in what felt like days.

"Yay," Jesse said, in a flat, unhappy voice.

And so the two entered the party: Alleb dressed as something like a red fox, complete with painted whiskers, and Jesse looking like a sour porcupine. It was going to be an interesting time.

((Woot woot, RPs! Love RPs. Thanks for putting this on, Dawn! Anyone who wants to, feel free to throw your agents at mine and see what happens! Also, random note, Agent Alleb and I are not the same age.))

((-Alleb))

Once he had collected himself after his latest mission, he had felt the need of wandering a little in HQ. And seeing if he could find a MP3 player to replace the one Marina had hexed when he had met her for the first time. The poor thing was now prone to glithes in the midst of songs, and his ears could only bear so much screeching.

He heard some noise coming from a door nearby. Something like a party. Curious to know what was happening, he entered in the room.

I'm a little late for the party, but I suppose I shall try to squeeze in.
Yes, these are my absolutely absurd agent concepts. One of them is a rather spacey Avox, and the other is a unicorn originating from a story I'm working on.


Donovan trotted down the nameless halls of HQ, trying not to think of where he was going, or what he was doing. Fortunately he was failing utterly. After walking past a corridor he thought he had passed several times-no, at least ten times- he sat down with a huff. This was ridiculous. How was he supposed to not think about going to a party when parties were so pleasurable?! He scowled, an interesting facial expression for a unicorn about the size of a dog.

Then for a moment, he thought he heard footsteps.

'Heddle?'
The steps quickened, and the unicorn soon found himself looking at a young woman dressed like a corncob.
'Heddle, you can't be serious.' Donovan rolled his eyes. 'No one disguises themselves like that!'
She shrugged and began walking away. Muttering angrily to himself the unicorn followed her.

Finch and Bingle were different in many ways, but today they were both united in their mutual pride in their outfits.

Finch was dressed as an old 21st century vending machine. This wasn’t a particularly glorious achievement, because Finch was essentially disguising himself as one of his grandparents.
He was a little thicker than most vending machines, the outlines of his four currently docked arms were conspicuous on his front and sides, and a very visible hole had been cut around the front of the costume to allow his single ocular to see, but, otherwise, he was a perfectly average hovering vending machine.

Bingle was dressed as a Man In Black.
This wasn’t a particularly glorious achievement, because Bingle was technically already one. He had a tall, sharp frame, dead pasty skin that was cold to the touch, grey, stringy hair retreating from the centre of his bald head, and a wooden nose.
He hung around that confusing area between alive and dead, and did it with the flippant carelessness of either a professional, or somebody too stupid to care.
He was very fond of the sunglasses, and found himself wishing that he could find more excuses to wear the things indoors.

‘Which one was Esther, then?’ Finch asked, in a soulless, steel voice that was unsuited to, among other things, discussing family holidays.

Bingle considered this, stroking his chin.
‘I believe she rescued the Israelites from the Egyptians.’

Finch shook his ocular in disapproval. Even the whirring its servomotors released had an air of disappointment to it.

‘That was Moses.’

‘Oh, drat. I knew that. She was the one who wandered in the desert for forty years,’ Bingle, taking his hand from his chin and nodding, certain that he was correct.

‘That was Moses, too.’

‘Oh, dear. I knew that. She was an Egyptian prince, born of a Jewish mother.’

‘What? That was Moses, too, you nob.’

Bingle was getting desperate, now. ‘Did she cross the Red Sea?’

‘You-ve ruined this holiday, Bingle.’

‘Was that Moses, too?’

‘That was Moses, too,’ Finch confirmed.

‘Good heavens. Awfully talented, wasn’t he?’

‘They had to be,’ Finch agreed, recalling all he had learnt of old earth history. It must have taken the Israelites some tenacity to fend off against the wild dinosaurs that roamed Europe in those days.

Ambient noises crawled in from the distance as they travelled along the hallway. Talking, laughing, shouting, dropping food and scooting away in an attempt to not come off as suspicious.

‘Are you calculating our deaths again, Finch?’ Bingle asked, picking up the increased whirring of Finch’s fans, as they desperately cooled his warming brainchip.

‘How many agents-ll be there, do you think?’ Finch said, fans continuing to pick up in speed.

‘This terror you have for agents is absurd, Finch,’ Bingle said, messy eyebrow rising.

‘All of my bloody terrors are absurd,’ Finch mumbled bitterly.

‘Can you imagine the trouble they’d find themselves in if they even touched us, Finch? The Flowers would positively shred them to pieces! Negatively!’ Bingle thought about his wording. ‘Positively!’

‘Just because it-s not meant to happen doesn-t mean it won-t,’ Finch argued. ‘The ceiling wasn-t meant to fall in, and look what happened to Castor!’

‘What happened to Castor was nothing more than an unfortunate accident,’ Bingle said, sniffing, a very hollow and windy sound through his wooden nose.

‘An unfortunate accident that happened. It happened, and now look at them. They-re dead!’

‘They are not dead.’

‘Looked bloody dead to me.’

‘Oh,’ Bingle said, shrugging. ‘They’ve had worse in medical.’

‘Their head was pushed right into their chest,’ Finch said, glancing at Bingle with slight suspicion.

‘They’ll be up in less than three weeks.’

‘Unless the ceiling falls on them again.’

Bingle sighed. ‘Finch, there is no chance that the ceiling will fall on us.’

‘That-s not my problem!'

‘Then why do you keep whining about it?!’ Bingle asked, stunned.

‘My problem is with the agents!’

‘The agents are just as likely to harm you as the ceiling is to fall on you.’

‘That-s my problem!’

‘The ceiling won’t fall on you.’

‘It bloody fell on Castor!’

‘I am willing to wager-‘

‘Thirty dollars,’ Finch growled, now facing Bingle.

‘Forty.’

‘And fifty cents.’

‘Seventy-five cents.’

Finch’s ocular narrowed.
‘Seventy.’

‘Is that a deal, then?’

‘If a single agent does anything that might be dangerous to me,’

‘I will pay you forty dollars and seventy-five cents.’

‘Seventy cents,’ Finch hissed.

‘Seventy cents,’ Bingle agreed. ‘The party awaits,’ He said, grinning and hastening his step.

‘So do our deaths,’ Finch mumbled, following.

‘And my payment!’

‘My payment.’

‘Forty dollars and seventy-five cents!’

‘Seventy.’



- So these are the fellows I've been working on for a while. Des told me I ought to bounce them around here, or something like that, so bouncing they are. I hope there're no expensive vases in here.
Suppose this is a perfect chance for you folks to tell me they're rubbish, then, too. So go ahead. Assuming they are rubbish.
I certainly hope they're not.



*Did I say seventy-five? I meant seventy.

shadowed Miss MacKinnon at a distance.

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Fox was trailing far behind the other two, only keeping up at this point to avoid getting lost in HQ. He glanced down every entryway and open door they passed, eyes wide and one hand keeping his hair away from his eyes.

"Absolutely! I mean, why not?" Laquisha was moving forward with a marching stride, keeping pace with MacKinnon up ahead without letting the Nursery worker realize she was being followed. "It's a party! There's going to be food, and we might see all kinds of agents and stuff that we've read mission reports about, and . . . yeah, food!"

"It's just . . ." Fox trailed off for a moment as they passed an RC that seemed to be producing an electric sparking noise from inside. "I've heard a lot of agents can be dangerous, and I don't—"

"That's just a saying!" Laquisha ducked as a mini-Reaper spiraled through the air over their heads. "Agents aren't really crazy. They just have crappy jobs. But they're totally cool!"

"Yeah, no worries," spoke up Marty. He was keeping up with Laquisha, despite going at a more leisurely pace, and took in his surroundings with an easy air. "It'll be cool to meet some agents."

Fox, who had pressed against the wall as the mini passed, gave a burst of speed to catch up to his companions. "It's just, we weren't invited, and we aren't really supposed to wander outside the Nursery alone, and—"

"Chill." Marty half-turned and laid a hand on Fox's shoulder. "We're all right."

Fox shook himself slightly. "Sorry."

"Okay, you guys," said Laquisha. "MacKinnon just went inside. We'll wait a bit to let her get away from the doors, then head in!"

~—~

Testing out some of the Nursery kids who'll eventually be in Mollie and Ollie's class when hell freezes over I get back to writing. Prepare for awkwardness, 'cause I don't have much experience writing young characters. >_>

Since I'm awful at describing characters in narration, have a cheat sheet:
-Laquisha is black with curly black hair, tall but skinny, probably in shorts and denim jacket, twelve years old
-Fox is Hispanic, black hair with matted-down bangs, slightly shortish with a bigger build, wearing jeans and an "I ♥ Empire City" t-shirt, eleven years old
-Marty is white with blonde hair, average height/build, wearing a collared, button-down shirt and denim shorts, ten years old

DawnFire: I actually have last year's Purim RP saved in a Word document. I . . . think it's in a reasonable order? At least, to my brain. Would you like me to send it to you? (I need an email.)

—doctorlit realizes this is the most he's typed in a long time . . .

[RP happens after some 5 or so stories within my spinoff]

"Tell me again why we're doing this?" Ajax said. He was clad in his PAD-standard.

"Because I'm bored and hungry," his partner, Matthew said. He was also costumed, going as an old timey Blacksmith garb, "also because I want to see what one of these looks like."

"Why should we care? I mean 2 of us— ACK."

It was his former partner, Levy. Arriving with the two, she was pinching Ajax's cheek.

"Don't be such a sourpuss," she said, also dressed in her PAD-standard. "We came here to have fun, not angst."

Both Matthew and Nickul, Levy's Dragonborn partner, where snickering at Ajax's blush.

Speaking of Nickul, who is of an original canon, his costume consisted was a set of fake wings, given dragonborns of his ancestry, that is of a sea serpent, did not have wings.

"Yeah Ajax," the drake's posh voice came between sniggers, "we came to observe and learn about these... what did you call them, Jews?" Matthew nodded. "Yes Jews, and their culture, specifically why they chose this date to slay-"

Matthew interupted the self-proclaimed Book Wyrm "Well if we're gonna learn about them, then let's learn," he was still amazed at how much the three didn't know about human culture.

DCCCV finds himself in a gray hallway, with only a few claw marks to distinguish the walls from the ceiling. After getting his bearings, he looks around for any clues as to how he is going to get out of here. He hears some talking.

"Dangit, this is the PPC HQ," he thinks. "Better try to find a plothole home."

He hears some talking, and for lack of better judgement, decides to ask for directions.

Let's see where this takes me, shall we?