Subject: Fox started a bit, and backed up against the table.
Author:
Posted on: 2016-05-01 21:09:00 UTC
"'She?'" Fox looked incredulously at the Guardsman, then back to the quarian woman. "It looks like one of the First Sons!"
Laquisha arched an eyebrow, and glanced at the woman herself. "Nah, no way, dude. The Flowers wouldn't recruit a First Son, they're nuts. I mean, really nuts, not HQ nuts."
—Just in time for Passover! Oh, well.
Yes, today is Passover Eve, or, as I've always known it, Erev Pesach (which means the same thing. No, really, it does--the word Pesach, or Pesakh with the transliteration Des prefers, comes from the word pasach, which means...to pass over. The name comes from when the Israelites' houses were passed over during the tenth plague in Egypt, just before the exodus from Egypt, which is what Jews are going to be celebrating starting tonight--freedom from slavery and the eventual formation of a nation.)
However, this RP is about a different holiday, one which you've encountered through the past two years' Purim RPs if you've been here and felt like participating at the time. Normally, I've been able to get it started while it's actually still Purim; this year, I...haven't. But it's here now, almost a month later, because, well, better late than never!
Purim is a pretty cool holiday, and could probably be termed a kids' favorite without too much worry of inaccuracy. Traditions involve dressing up in costumes (which can be characters from the Purim story or anything else you can dream up--I went as my Plort self this year, while the winners of the costume contest at my synagogue were a girl dressed as a present and a man who'd dressed up as the phase of the moon on the day before Purim), eating triangular cookies called hamantaschen (meaning 'Haman's pockets' in Yiddish; in Hebrew they're called oznei haman, Haman's ears, while we teach our children that he, that is the villain of the story, really had a triangular hat; who knows?), and drinking until you can't tell the villain of the story (Haman) from one of the heroes (Mordechai) (this is, of course, optional, and most definitely not required or encouraged for children). Actual commandments for the holiday include giving gifts to the poor, giving gifts of food and/or drink to friends, and hearing the Scroll of Esther (or Megillat Esther) read. There's also either a tradition or a commandment (it currently escapes me which one) to have a festive meal.
Speaking of hamantaschen, did you know they come in many, many, many different flavors? And no, I don't just mean poppy seed, and chocolate, and jam; I mean pecan pie, and triple chocolate, and red velvet. And that's not even getting into taco hamantaschen and egg roll hamantaschen!
...no, I'm not kidding. Here, have a Buzzfeed article, which presents 36 different (and, for the most part, unusual) types of hamantaschen.
(Isn't this an RP? you ask. Why, yes! I'm just getting to that.)
As you may remember from last year and the year before, the premise of the Purim RP is this:
Someone, somewhere in the PPC, is throwing a Purim party. Everyone is invited: costumes are preferred, hamantaschen and drinks and many other things will be served, someone will attempt to read the Megillah (that is, the account of the Purim story), and there will probably be a good deal of chaos. And fun. And chaos.
The Rules/guidelines are the same as the past two years:
-Everyone is welcome. That means new agents, old agents, reluctant agents, enthusiastic agents, agents who wandered in by mistake…everyone. It also means minis, kids, and possibly pets. Free-To-Use Agents are also good.
-This is newbie-inclusive! While I know some newbies (often depending on just how new they are) have agents they’re thinking about, many other newbies don’t–and, well, this is Purim. It’s a party. Everyone should be able to come! So…everyone includes Boarders, with the condition that you’re incognito! Pretend to be your costumes, pretend to be newly-recruited agents, whatever you like–as long as you remember that the vast majority of PPC HQ’s inhabitants don’t know the Board exists (and would forget if they found out). Of course, this isn’t just for newbies; if you’re not a newbie and you really, really want to, write yourself in! The same rules apply, though. (This doesn't always happen, but you're certainly welcome to go for it--as I recall, there was only one instance of it in the first year, and a whole lot of it last year. Whatever you choose, it's certainly open!)
-On canon-compliance: this one is up to you. For my part, I take most of what my agents get up to in this RP as canon, to the point of working the occasional reference into various works in progress. Referencing relatively vague details that didn't make it to the RP but are headcanoned by the author(s) of the characters is probably also something I'll end up doing eventually--such as, "Did you ever manage to get that song right?" "Which song?" "You know, the...the song. You heard it." "Oh, yeah, no--I gave up on it around the point when someone dressed like a Dalek rolled into me and refused to apologize." "Ouch." "Yeah. Rolled over my toes on the way out..." …Anyway, you can call this canon or not (or anything in between) for your agents as you wish! It’s entirely up to you.
-Have fun! It is Purim, after all, and Purim is a time for celebration. So let’s celebrate!
*Note: This Purim RP, while RL-wise taking place basically on Passover, is in-universe happening at the appropriate time. (Boarders inside the RP can mention time-travel if you like, though.)
Anyway, enough chitchat. Let’s have a party!
~DF
—
PS: Look out for a subthread which will pop up at some point! More on that later :)
—
PPS: If you want to take a look at the previous two opening posts, they are currently archived both here and on the Board Archives. Neither thread is currently available on the actual Board anymore, although, amusingly, the 2015 Purim RP was available as recently as March 31st of this year. And, on that note, thank you so much to everyone maintaining and contributing to the Board Archives! This post would be very different without you.
—
PPPS: And so it begins!
“And then Queen Esther tells Achashverosh that it's Haman! who did all this, and he gets mad, and they take him away and I know something cool about how you sing it, because Aunty Em told me--”
Owain looked up blue eyes bright in his pudgy little face. “Singing?”
“Uh-huh! It goes all twisty or something.” Owain's older sister Ruby plopped down onto a beanbag chair. Her dark hair, in two braids, swung with the motion. She tugged at the strings of the bonnet that hung down her back, pulling the knot away from her neck. “Because it's very dramatic, and Charvona's a hero, so he gets the heroic music!”
“Oh,” said Owain. “But he isn't the hero, he's…”
“He is,” Ruby insisted with a five-year-old’s conviction. “He tells King Achashverosh that Haman wanted to hurt Mordechai.”
“No,” four-year-old Owain insisted, “Esther did that! I'm not stupid.”
“He did so,” Ruby said. “Ask Mama. She'll tell you I'm right, and then you'll see.”
Owain opened his mouth, but didn't manage more than a word before Seren, the third Sato sibling, ran up to them. “Ruby, did you see my pink hat? “
“You don't need a pink hat,” Owain protested. “K-9 doesn't wear any kind of hat!”
Seren crossed her arms and glared at her brother. “Well, I do! So too bad. Where's my hat?”
Owain shrugged both shoulders. “I dunno. Maybe Leyuu ate it!”
“Leyuu doesn't eat hats,” Ruby said derisively. “No one eats hats.”
“Maybe some people do!” Owain's chin jutted outwards. “I bet you dragons do!”
“No one eats hats,” Ruby repeated. “Eating hats is gross.”
“Is not!”
Seren stomped her foot. “Where’s my hat?”
At that point, Miss MacKinnon came over. “Come, children,” she said, “we’re going to the party now. Seren, I believe you’re missing your hat?” She held it out.
“My hat!” Seren snatched it, and then hugged Miss MacKinnon tightly around the waist. “Where was it?”
“It fell behind one of the chairs,” the Nursery worker replied. “Come, we need to go--Owain, aren’t you missing a hat as well?”
“Nuh-uh!” Owain shook his head vigorously. “I’m not Captain Jack Sparrow, I’m just a pirate! He walks funny.”
“So he does.” Miss MacKinnon turned, guiding the three towards the door as she began to walk. “I think we’re ready. Ruby, do you have everything?”
“Uh-huh!” Ruby grinned, skipping along next to the others. “And it’s going to be amazing!”
—
((Leyuu is mentioned due to them knowing him Ten Years Hence. He is written by Voyd. Miss MacKinnon is both pretty cool and a Free To Use character rescued from a badfic by doctorlit. Her character here is based on her rescue by doctorlit and her appearance in a mission conclusion by Neshomeh.))
"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))
After a brief glance at their costumes she stopped mid-step, turned back, and faced them.
"Oh my! That is so adorable!" she squealed, in a very high-pitched, over-the-top sugary way. Moving towards Jesse, she gently pet his fake quills. "Yeesh, so spiky!"
She then moved over to Alleb, and examined her face up close. "And these whiskers are so cuuuuuuute!"
"VJ, stop bothering other people." A second voice said, and a man appeared right next to the girl.
The girl looked at him and sent a sweet smile. "Sorry, puddin'!"
"And you're too much in-character, love," the man said. He then looked at Alleb and Jesse. "Sorry 'bout her."
((Yes, in case it wasn't obvious, VJ is having way too much fun as Harley Quinn, and Will realizes his secret dreams of being a Jedi Knight.))
((I'm hoping for this to be a recurring thing. So far, it's in its third year! :D
Also, if anyone's looking, the subthread will hopefully go up next week.
~DF))
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.
Agent Hop was dashing around the room, a tray in her hand, trying to collect as many different types of triangular cookies that were everywhere. So far, the flavours she collected were: baklava, cookies n' cream, BBQ pulled pork, and even Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans!
"'Scuse me! Dessert Police on the case!" She said as she darted next to the entrace, almost crashing into a tall, curly-haired man.
"Woohooo!"
"Hey, get back here!" Another girl was chasing Hop. She was also tall, but with shoulder-length platinum blonde hair, light brown tan, and blue eyes. Her shirt currently had a nasty stain, and the girl herself looked angry.
She sighed heavily, and looked at Richard. "Sorry, did she crash into you? Are you okay?"
He finished chasing cookiecrumbs from hs vest before continuing.
"To be honest, I'm more used to be the one crashing into people. I'm... not always paying attention when I should. But who are you, and who would be the 'Dessert Police'?"
"And Officer Glutton over there is my partner-slash-girlfriend, Hop." She pointed towards the sprinter from before, who was now examining the next buffet table.
Hip looked back at Richard. "You just found the party, huh? We too." She turned towards the crowd. "Apparently those who knew about it beforehand got their hands on some really cool costumes."
"Let alone a costumed one. I just needed to walk a bit after my last mission,and replacing my MP3, before hearing this from the corridor. Now, I wouldn't mind eating a bit. I have a pretty empty stmach for now."
A spark appeared in Hip's eyes. She bent slightly forward, and looked at the direction her partner currently was.
"Shadowspeed," she whispered. In an instant she turned into a dark blur and rushed towards Hop. After a second or two she was back, holding the tray her partner used to hold. In the other hand she had one of the triangular cookies.
"Here." She presented the tray to Hardric and nibbled on the treat she was holding.
He began to tae cookies from the tray, although he didn't stop to look at Hip.
"What did you exactly do? That was rather... interesting."
Hip blushed a little bit, and put the tray on the nearby table.
"I don't like to show it off, especially if you consider my background, but it comes in handy once in a while."
"Oi!" A new voice, with a clear Cockney accent, joined the conversation. "What was that about, love?"
Hop joined the two. She was taller than her partner, with short and tousled brown hair, and dark eyes hidden behind a pair of shades. She wasn't looking happy.
"Yeh don' steal another gal's food, yeh know?"
"Sorry, tesora. Won't happen again." She looked at Richard and winked at him.
"My name is Richard Legard. Sorry for not saying it sooner. Now, what is the continuum where this 'Seeker magic' comes from? And, if you don't mind the question, what's exactly your background?"
Hop grabbed a handful of cookies, and started munching on them in silence.
"Well, I'm a Seeker," said Hip. "And my homeworld is called Huntik. It's...um... I'm not sure how to describe it."
"Ishh life Hind—" Hop swallowed and wiped her mouth. "Sorry. What I meant to say was, it's like if Indiana Jones travelled the world an' was searchin' fer Pokemon."
"Hey!" Hip gave her partner a stare. She then looked back at Richard. "Well, that's kinda true, though. You see, us Seekers do go on missions - much like PPC agents - and we look for these things."
She pointed at the thing around her neck. A medallion of some sort.
"These amulets are keys to summon beings from another dimension called Titans," she said. "If a Seeker bonds with a Titan, they can call upon them to fight together."
"It's pretty neat to look at," added Hop.
However, he had stopped once he saw the medallion and heard Hip's explanation about Titans.
"So, you're using the powers of extra-dimensional creatures, creatures you can summon through some form of pact to fight for you?" He winced slightly. "That sounds awfully like Shin Megami Tensei for me. Isn't there potential problems with these things? The mortal kind?" He then looked at Hop, "Oh, and what's your story?"
Hip blinked and looked at her amulet. "No, I don't think so. Well, Bonds can be broken if a Seeker's personality changes drastically - that's what happened to me - and if a Seeker dies, his Titan can go mad, but as far as I know that happened only once."
When Richard looked at her, Hop perked up and beamed him a smile. "Me? Oh, I got 'ere about two years ago...I think. Jumpin' through Time can get yeh in strange places."
"The personality change thing makes me also think about Persona. I guess that Bonds broken doesn't mean berserk Titan trying to kill you, though?"
Richard also slowly blinked when he heard Hop's sentence. "Jumping through time? I guess this place is the only place in the multiverse where 'I answered an annoucement' is the weird way to arrive."
"What kinda announcements were yeh lookin' fer?"
"Ignore her." Hip gave her partner a shove. "But yes, as far as I know, falling through a plothole is the classic way to wind up here. Either that, or accidents while teleporting, or jumping though time. Speaking of, you didn't tell us your story, sir. What are you doing in the PPC?"
"I'm , or was I guess, a student and I needed a stage in order to complete my year of master. That was the first thing I managed to get, so I didn't think much about it. And once I was here... Well there is the opportunity to visit any world ever imagined,I can potentially go back pretty much at the moment I left, so I decided to remain here," He then faced Hop again. "Now, could you tell me more about you. Traveling through time is a thing, but that doesn't exactly tell me the world you come from, or anything else."
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.
"Where do you think those two came from?" he asked. He had somehow managed to get a pouch of kibi-dango and traditional samurai-ish clothes, and jumped at the chance to dress up as Momotaro.
"Your guess is as good as mine," said Violet. Chris had convinced each of the other three to dress as one of Momotaro's animal companions. Violet, as the pheasant, had on entirely too much red face paint, a shimmery blue and purple dress with a long train, and a green collar. "I think they might be from an original canon; I've never seen a zombie with male pattern baldness and a wooden nose before."
"I still say you should've let me go as Bond," Miguel grumbled. He was wearing brown clothes, black nail polish, and a fake tail. "Seriously, did it just, like, never occur to you that a black guy dressing as a monkey might have weird racist undertones?"
Ami, under an illusion to look like the dog, frowned. "Uh...no...?" she said. "I never had a reason to look up human societal mores, sorry."
"They're not pleasant. But hey, at least now I already have this year's Halloween costume in the bag." Miguel grinned.
The four moved farther into the room. "Hey, vending-machine guy!" Violet called. "Finch, right? Awesome job on that outfit. I think you just won the costume contest."
He froze.
Electrons diverted. Fans spun. Numbers tumbled clumsily through his brainchip, resulting in a series of numbers of symbols.
His ocular gazed off into the distance as he observed the statistics.
Sarcasm: 23.4%
Sincerity: 73.65%
Verisimilitude: 33.241%
Sixty-six: 66%
Chanceofbakesale: 2.05%
Chanceof_fatality: 88394%
Bingle ignored Finch’s antisocial behaviour (he kept telling him that calculating in the middle of a conversation was rude, but the fellow just didn’t know where to stop,) and grinned at the group.
Their costumes, he thought, were also quite good, though he couldn’t quite shake the odd sense of weird racist undertones coming from them.
Surely putting the young woman with wings in a bird costume was just strengthening stereotypes? Implying that winged people ought to stay as winged people?
Bingle was certain that he was just imagining it, however.
‘You should have seen his last costume. He went as a refrigerator.’
Finch awoke from his coma, blinking.
‘A freezer, actually.’
‘Welcome back, Finch.’
Finch stared directly at the eyes of the girl, briefly wondering if mind-control was possible through an artificial eye on an artificial brain.
At the very least, he had decided that she wasn’t insulting him, trying to kill him, trying to sell him, trying hack him, trying to mind-control him, or trying to sell disgustingly cheap baked goods to him.
‘Cheers. I really just stole a vending machine when no-one was looking, and stretched it out a bit,’ Finch admitted, glancing left to right.
‘Finch, you told me very specifically that you didn’t steal that.’
‘I didn-t tell you anything.’
‘That was the very first thing you said when you entered the centre wearing that,’ Bingle said, folding his arms. ‘I recall it perfectly: “Hey, Bingle. It looks like I stole this, but I didn-t, I swear.”’
‘Nice voice job.’
‘Thank you,’ Bingle said, turning his nose up.
Finch turned his attention back to the group he was embarrassing himself in front of.
‘What-re you all dressed as, anyway?’
Finch had his suspicions, but he felt that ‘samurai-veterinarian and patients’ was a tad too specific and anachronistic for a group theme.
‘I know this,’ Bingle said, prepared to gain his reputation back. ‘They are all wearing costumes inspired by the French myth-‘
‘They-re not, Bingle.’
Bingle turned his nose back up.
"According to the version Chris told us, an old couple found a giant peach floating down the river near their house. When they cut it open to eat it, they found a baby inside. Clearly he'd been sent from heaven, so the old couple gave him the name Momotaro, which means 'Peach Boy'."
"As an adult, Momotaro set out to defeat a band of demons on Onigashima," Chris continued. "He convinced a talking dog, a monkey, and a pheasant"--he pointed at Ami, Miguel, and Violet in turn--"to help him out, and together they forced the demons to surrender. They came back with all the treasure the demons had stolen, plus the leader as a captive."
"I just realized something," said Miguel. "Momotaro was totally the first Pokemon trainer."
Chris did a double take. "You know, I never thought of that...Anyway, allow me to properly introduce myself. I'm Chris, and my friends are Ami, Miguel, and Violet. Nice to meet you both."
Violet, meanwhile, was eyeing the man with the wooden nose, presumably Bingle. "Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my wings?"
He was fond of folklore of all kinds, from the Irish people going on about small men, to tinfoil hat wearing Bigfoot theorists going on about the government, and he took in the story with the focus of a man who was totally certain that it wouldn’t be lost in the spinning tornado that was his brain.
Finch, too, was enraptured, mainly because of the dog telling it.
Her mouthparts were clearly not designed for speaking English, leaving them to clumsily flap open and close, and causing her thick tongue to roll and loll all about. The human looked slightly less silly, but it only went so far.
Fleshy types always looked silly, flopping and jittering all over the place.
‘Bernhard Bingard Bingle. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘I-m S86FNC-11630.’
‘Building,’
‘Building maintenance,’
‘Maintenance, building maintenance,’ Bingle concluded.
‘Building maintenance,’ Finch agreed.
Finch looked sideways at Bingle ‘French myth?’
‘Oh, anyone could have made that mistake.’
‘Do they even have peaches in France?’
Finch and Bingle both paused and thought. This was a question, they both agreed, that required serious consideration.
‘I don’t think their peaches have babies in them, either way.’
‘I hope not. You can only put a knife near a baby so many times before something goes wrong.’
Bingle was stunned by Violet’s question.
He had been, indeed, looking at her wings, all the while having a miniature war within him on the implied racism they created.
It was his hubris that had brought him down, he knew.
The sunglasses made him feel invincible – he felt like he could have looked at anything, and nobody would have known.
But she did.
Bingle should have realised sooner. She flew – of course she had good eyesight!
How else did birds spot worms all the way on the ground?
Not that Bingle thought that she ate worms, of course, that would have been terribly rude of him.
‘Oh, looking? At you? Like that?’ He said, tilting his head.
‘Was I, Finch?’
‘Buggered if I know. You-ve sunglasses on.’
‘No offense was intended, of course,’ Bingle said, attempting to extend his grin. ‘Your wings are very, er, impressive. Fabulous job on the upkeep. Very smooth. Smooth feathers.’
‘Lovely wings,’ Finch agreed, catching Bingle’s drift.
‘Very pleasant arcing,’ He said, undocking one of his serving arms, and drawing the arc of one of her wings in the air.
‘Is this objectification?’ Bingle whispered. ‘Are we objectifying her?’
‘Ahem!’ Finch hissed, hitting Bingle in the stomach with his free arm. ‘So, Purim, right? What a bloody nice holiday it is to not get into a fight, isn-t it?’ Finch hit Bingle in the stomach again.
‘I am very excited to eat Haman’s wings,’ Bingle exclaimed, earning another hit. ‘Pockets, I meant pockets.’
"No offense taken. Thanks for the compliments! I hardly ever get to keep my wings on a mission, so it's kind of a miracle they look as nice as you say they do. Where are you and Finch from, anyway? I've never seen anybody quite like you before."
"Hey, Chris, can your Pokégear access the Internet?" asked Ami. "I've never heard the story of Purim, and I'd like to know what exactly we're celebrating here."
Chris shook his head. "Sorry, all it's got is a map, a phone, and a radio. None of which are exactly reliable in this place."
and smiled inwardly.
He would reach three-million, soon, and was already considering what he would do to celebrate.
Perhaps he would spend an entire day in the lap of safety – find a dark corner somewhere, shut himself off, and not come back on until Bingle hoists him over his head, carries him out and forces him on.
‘Oh, our continuum - continua aren’t officially recorded. They’re rather,’ Bingle searched for an inoffensive synonym. ‘Obscure.’
Finch narrowed his ocular, and glared at Bingle. ‘Obscure. You-ve two chapters, and I-ve a bunch of concepts. That-s obscure, alright, I-d use obscure for that!’
‘We don’t get many badfics, at least,’ Bingle noted.
‘Bit hard to ruin something when there-s nothing to ruin.’ Finch grumbled. ‘We-re no-one, is what we-re.’
‘No-two?’ Bingle asked.
‘We-re no-two, is what we-re.’
‘He-s a magus,’ Finch said, pointing at Bingle.
‘Certified and trained at the UnderLondon Esoteric University itself,’ Bingle said, standing straight with pride.
‘And I-m an autobar. Ever had ethanol in your joints?’ Finch said, leaning in. ‘You shouldn-t.’
‘Master’s in Anomalous Phenomena,’ Bingle continued, exuding the cheer of someone completely certain that everyone else in the room was very interested in what they were saying.
Finch, like all the sane people, ignored Bingle. He looked at Ami.
‘I-ve internet access, though with Bingle here, we don-t need it, do we?’
‘Purim is centered around the biblical story of Esther, Queen of Persia, who saved the Jews from Haman, vizier to King Artaxerxes, who attempted to kill them all. It is celebrated with feasting, charity, the exchanging of food, and a public recitation of the Scroll of Esther,’ Bingle said, folding his arms. ‘Costumes are worn, and alcohol is drunk.’
Finch had just reached the Wikipedia page.
‘I don-t get your brain, Bingle.’
‘It’s a bit like a river filled with furniture,’ Bingle explained. ‘Sometimes I reach out and take hold of a very nice Victorian era couch, and sometimes I reach out and take a trout.’
Finch processed this information. ‘I think I get it less, now.’
He looked to the group. ‘I could probably read more, if you-d want. I don-t trust Bingle to grab any more trout.’
‘Victorian era couches, Finch.’
‘I thought you liked trout?’
‘Not as much as I like Victorian era couches, Finch!’
[[School's in, so I'll probably be posting a tad slower.
Also, d'you have an email address, or anything like that?
I feel like we ought to be corresponding, is all.
I wouldn't know.]]
He decided to file away Bingle's strange (but somehow perfectly understandable) analogy for future use and not comment on it. "I'm gonna go get some food, anybody want anything?"
"Those triangular cookies, please," said Violet. "Maybe get one for each of us?"
As Chris left, Ami turned to Bingle with interest. "You're a magus, you said? What kinds of spells do you know? I've never heard of an Esoteric University; is that like Celestia's School?"
"I'm more interested in what the heck happened to London that it had to move underground," Miguel commented. "At least, I assume that's what happened. Is it?"
[[OOC: Thanks for the heads-up. Also, since you asked, I've made my username clickable. Shoot me a message any time you want to chat! :)]]
His pallid skin scrunched up in wrinkles, as his grin displayed his yellowing teeth to the world, perhaps mistaking them for gold, rather than signs of under-par hygiene.
‘Oh, spells,’ He said, with the air of an old soldier sat behind a bar, recalling glorious half-truths for his audience to not believe. ‘That’s hardly my area of expertise. Wizards handle those, and they’re terribly rare. One in fifty, you know. No, I’m a sorcerer. The layman can hardly be expected to play with the threads of existence without his tools, of course.’
The floodgates had now opened. The words raced out of his mouth, desperately carrying as much information as they could in such limited time.
‘UnderLondon is the world’s magic capital,’ He said, practically saluting in front of a flag.
‘Every magus seems to think that about their home,’ Finch noted.
‘They made it under old London, and as the years went by, it became something far, far greater,’ Bingle said, a step away from crying a single, crystalline tear of patriotic joy.
‘And where do I begin with the Esoteric University? The revolutionary redesign of the wand, the invention of economically viable golems, Ella Colbert, mother of the modern magus?!’
‘Sounds a very nice place, Bingle,’ Finch said, voice particularly steely, if that was possible.
Bingle ignored him.
‘But do tell me what this ‘Celestial School’ is. It is the nature of the magus to accrue knowledge, after all.’
(She was far too polite to say anything about Bingle's teeth.) "My canon hasn't talked about the school too much, but what's known is that at some point before the series started, Princess Celestia--the supreme ruler of Equestria--started an exclusive school in Canterlot for gifted unicorns." She focused briefly, and the dog illusion vanished. Then her horn lit up, and the exam's entrance hall, complete with filly Twilight and her family, materialized in front of her. Illusion!Twilight tried to cast a spell on the egg in front of her, with no success. "This is their entrance exam; magically hatching a dragon's egg," she narrated. "I don't know how anypony else did it, but in Twilight's case, a legendary sonic rainboom caused her magic to go haywire, and Princess Celestia herself accepted Twilight as a student after things had died down. Pretty impressive, huh? I sometimes wonder whether I would have been eligible if I had a cohesive backstory..." In the background, filly Twilight did a happy dance, and baby Spike sucked on his tail.
"I didn't know you could talk that much," said Violet, looking slightly dazed.
Ami dispelled the illusion, but didn't put her dog disguise back on. "The School would be an important part of pony history even if Princess Twilight hadn't gone," she said. "Of course I have a lot to say about it."
"Fair point," said Chris, arriving with a handful of hamantaschen. "What'd I miss?"
"Ami infodumping," Miguel joked, taking a cookie from Chris' hands. "Also, Bingle says he's a sorcerer, and his university invented golems."
Ami pawed at the ground sheepishly. "Uh...if it's not too much trouble, can I see how your kind of magic works?" she asked Bingle.
As Finch’s hoverplates shut down.
‘Oh, dear. Are you okay, Finch?’
Finch’s ocular had gained a life of its own, and darted and spun and twisted and blinked in wild panic.
‘Dog is pony is dog is pony, ERROR,’
‘Dog is not pony, pony is not dog unicorn ERROR not in database ERROR, unicorn is not pony is not dog pony does not have horn ERROR,’
‘Oh, heavens. I think his brain is overloading.’
‘Narwhal narwhal narwhanarwhalnarwhal ERROR dog does not equal pony dog does not equal unicorn dog equals narwhalnarwhalnarwhalwhalnarwhal,’
‘I-m sorry, but it seems that your robot is malfunctioning. Would you like to attempt a full reinitialisation?’
The voice now leaving Finch's speakers was high-pitched, female, and pleasant like a steel pillow.
Almost instantly, Finch’s ocular steadied itself. Its half tilted gaze that flew off somewhere into the distance like a poorly planned gunshot looked nothing short of mad.
‘Do NOT, unicorn ERROR dog, reinitialise me, I am perfectly narwhanarnar, functional,’
‘I-m sorry, could you please repeat that?’
‘Don’t reinitialise him,’ Bingle exclaimed, crouching and holding Finch.
‘Finch, are you okay?’
‘One-hundred percent fine.’
‘Your robot is an assumed 225% less functional than standard, would you like a full reinitialisation?’
‘Do not, this is – I order, I am ordering you, do not reinitialise him,’ Bingle said, pointing an accusing finger at Finch.
‘Error. Your robot is a mech-model, and does not possess gender pronouns. Are you certain that you are functioning correctly?’
Bingle stopped in his tracks, deeply considering this.
‘I’m quite certain that I’m not malfunctioning.’
‘When did you last check with your local roboticist?’
Bingle was horrified.
‘It’s true! I might be malfunctioning!’ He moaned, falling to his knees.
‘I haven’t seen a roboticist in my life!’
‘You too, Bingle!?’
‘Even humans can malfunction!’ Bingle wailed. ‘We all truly are the same beneath the skin!’
‘Gah, Bingle, just do something magic while I, narwhalnarwhalnarwhal, sort this out, right?’
‘Um, okay, of course,’ Bingle said, standing, wiping imaginary dust off his clothes, straightening his tie, turning and smiling at Ami once again.
Finch spasmed and swore in the background.
‘Well, I can’t do proper magic sans tools, and I might be completely broken right now, but I do remember – Finch, honestly, are you okay?’
‘I-m, ERROR unicorn, okay! Finch shouted, four arms now twisting and flailing like wheat in a wind tunnel.
‘Um. Do excuse him, he is a very, er, unfortunately designed model.’
Bingle ran a hand over his face. ‘I suppose I did some abnormal geometry in my younger days, if you’d prefer to see that? It does drive men insane. Eldritch secrets, and all.’
Ami smiled apologetically, took one of Chris' hamantaschen, and quickly put the dog illusion back up to save face.
"I think we owe you another explanation," said Chris. "In Friendship is Magic, where she's from, unicorns like her can channel magical energy through their horn. Every unicorn gets telekinesis and a couple spells related to their special talent. Ami's special talent is singing, though as you saw, she can also do illusion spells."
Miguel, trying not to laugh at the malfunctioning Finch, stuffed his cookie into his mouth.
"Abnormal geometry?" Violet echoed. "Cool! I'm down with that. Can't be any worse than Pandora's realm, right?"
"Vi, you're gonna regret saying that," said Miguel.
"Hey, I'm not technically human, therefore I won't go insane."
((OOC: You're hilarious! I never expected that Ami would cause Finch to malfunction! Though I suppose magic is hard for a computer to grasp...))
Bingle said, eyebrows attempting to shoot off his face and into the ceiling.
‘Good heavens. The University’s been working on that for decades!’
It was clear that this ‘Friendship is Magic’ place was years ahead of Bingle’s home. Now he knew how World One fellows felt when they encountered Finch.
Bingle didn’t even want to know what a unicorn horn was made of to perform such a complex, strenuous task without any breakages, reality or structural.
‘Right. I need,’ He muttered to himself, patting his pockets down.
‘Of course, pen,’ He mumbled, pulling one from his front pocket (he had put it there for that business-like look it gave him. To Bingle, it said ‘I’m ready to sign my signature, come rain or shine,’ and there was nothing more professional, Bingle knew, than signing signatures.)
‘Of course, our channel,’ He said, grabbing a nearby serviette.
‘Er. A ruler.’
He glanced around, grabbed a particularly rigid looking hamantaschen, and raised an eyebrow.
‘Or a straight object, I suppose.’
He slapped the tools down on a table, and wracked his brain for information.
Lines and angles ran through his skull, as he nibbled on a corner of the hamantaschen.
‘Right, okay,’ He murmured, getting to work. He would occasionally shoot a glance at Finch, who was, currently, it seemed, in a very deep and harsh debate with his own emergency malfunction ai.
This would be a fairly simple one. A ten by seven centimetre rectangle inside of a four by four centimetre square.
Easy.
Realistically, drawing a rectangle and a square would have taken eight strokes of a pen combined, which was exactly why things started to get strange when Bingle finally put his pen down at the nineteenth stroke.
He held it up and admired his handiwork.
Bingle gazed into the universe, and the universe gazed into him.
Rumbling moans and coughs crawled into his ears through seams in existence.
Sightless and brainless gelatinous monstrosities, swimming and devouring and groaning through the eternal nothingness regarded him with apathetic pseudopods.
For a split second, everything was dead.
The walls had crumbled into nothingness, flesh gave way to bones which gave way to dust, the Flowers wilted away into air.
Reality gave up and let entropy devour it.
It only took nineteen strokes to create such damage in existence.
Bingle wondered how much damage the aeons could create, then.
Even Bingle himself, who was immune to the ever tenacious rubber mallet of time that thwacked away at mortals until they gave in, would fall. Trip over a rock and brain himself, catch fire somewhere, get eaten by a tiger.
There would be nothing left but emptiness and moaning.
Bingle blinked, grinned, and ate the hamantaschen.
Mister Grandcocke would have given him an A+ for this one, he thought, chewing.
‘Here it is,’ He said cheerfully, extending it towards Violet, who seemed the most fascinated by it.
‘You might see something queer, but don’t dwell on it. It’s nothing.’
He leaned in.
‘The best way to go mad is to dwell on nothing, after all.’
Bingle’s smile was almost disgusting in its sincerity.
[[OOC: Oi, cheers. That means a lot.
Honestly, I'd probably react the same way. Dogs don't normally turn into unicorns where I'm from, but maybe I'm just narrow-minded.]]
"I could've lived my whole life without that gross-ass view of your teeth, mister," she said.
"Violet, please don't be rude," Ami scolded gently. She examined the vaguely square-shaped drawing Bingle had done. "Oh, wow, it's just like an optical illusion--holy mother of Celestia!" She shook her head rapidly and backed up. "I just saw right into Discord's brain and lived!"
Chris, sensitive to his partner's small freakouts, reached down and patted her head. "You're gonna be all right, Ami. Whatever it was you saw, it can't hurt you. We're right here with you. Okay?"
Ami nuzzled Chris' leg in return, then crammed her entire cookie into her mouth.
Miguel looked at the napkin briefly. "...I think I see why they built all the magical stuff underneath the city. What about those golems you mentioned earlier? Do they do anything cool?"
[[OOC: Have I told you yet that your analogies are amazing? Because they are. I might just steal that "rubber mallet of time" line for future use :P]]
Bingle said, apologising for the twin terrors of unholy horrors and unsuitable hygiene.
‘Horrid things back there,’ He continued, referencing both the eldritch monstrosities, and the calcium build-ups that dawdled behind his lips.
‘I think I-ve it fixed, now,’ Finch grumbled, hovering over.
There were a few cans and packets of lollies in his costume that had fallen and crumpled, but Finch had recovered successfully, otherwise.
‘There seems to be a grade B firmware intrusion, would you like-‘
Electricity hissed as the voice was cut off.
‘Bloody right, grade B. Stupid damn thing. What-d I miss?’
‘My teeth are gross-ass.’
‘Really? They seem bloody nice for a late two-hundred and seventy year old Victorian.’
‘Oh, I don’t exactly have much competition.’
‘The other late two-hundred and seventy year old Victorians are cowering in their booties, Bingle.’
Bingle pondered how the other two-hundred and seventy year old Victorians managed to fit themselves in their booties.
Bingle could barely fit himself through a doorway wearing a tall hat.
‘I will admit that golems,’ He started, turning to Miguel, ‘Aren’t nearly my area of expertise.’
‘Neither is dentistry,’ Finch commented.
‘I thought you were on my side?!’
‘They outnumber us six-to-one, Bingle.’
‘There’s three of them and two of us!’
‘I count for three of their points,’ Finch admitted.
Bingle took this betrayal with the same dignity he took the teeth attack, and marched resolutely forward like an armoured jogger.
‘They were restricted to specialist services before the Golemancy Revolution. Guarding kings and nobles,’
‘Dentists.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Did I say anything?’
Bingle shot a fast glare towards Finch before continuing.
‘They had existed for a while, having been invented somewhere about the Middle-East. Awful expensive, though. Old ones were made of metals, to be bend- malleable, but the new, hollowed ones could just be made cheaply out of stone. Less body to break, and all.’ Bingle paused, thinking.
‘They do jobs the humans won-t take. Dying, for instance.’
‘I’ve seen a few mining, dying, doing construction work, carrying,’ Bingle’s knowledge train was beginning to slow down. ‘Bricks? I suppose they’d do that.’
‘What about the big bloody grey lumps that stomp down the streets then, kicking hobos and glaring at people?’
‘Oh, yes, those. Golem street guards. Store guards. Escorts. Er.’
‘Golem birds.’
‘Ah, yes. Very, er. Decorative. Brass, and all. They fly.’
‘They crash, too.’
‘They do that, too.’
‘Where-re you from, then?’ Finch asked, looking at Miguel.
‘They tweet, also,’ Bingle murmured. Finch ignored him.
[[I was very proud of that one, I must say.
I'll just place it down here and turn around and whistle loudly, hoping that nobody takes it. Not in this society, no way.]]
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 . . .
((Wonder if anyone did this for the 2014 one...and kind of wishing I had. Oh well. But yeah! Send it along to dawnfire360(at)gmail(dot)com. I'll, uh...keep it until there's a wiki page, I guess? If there ever ends up being one? Or I can link to it from my profile, or something...?
Hm. Something to think about, and to ask about. Either way, having a copy of last year's sounds great, thanks!
~DF))
The Guardsman, dressed in a dirty and scorched Time Lord BDU complete with helmet, fell into step beside the three children. He gave a quick tug on his webbing's adjustment straps to stop his kit from clattering against his cuirass and looked down at the three children.
"So, what's this about luring people away from doors?" he asked casually. "Nothing sneaky-beaky going on here, I hope?"
- - -
((The Guardsman and small children. What could possibly go wrong?))
and scooted behind Marty. Over Marty's shoulder, Fox furtively glanced up and down the Guardsman's uniform.
Laquisha straightened her shoulders and looked the Guardsman in the eye. "Luring? No, no no, sir! We were just waiting for the entrance to clear out so we wouldn't be in anybody's way! We're just here for the party; nothing 'sneaky-beaky' at all!" She gave a grin.
Marty had worn a serene expression throughout his friends' reactions, oblivious to Fox's hands gripping his shoulders.
The Guardsman gave her a wry smile. "Look, I may currently have a mild case of tinnitus after this morning's mission but I can still mostly hear you, y'know. You guys were worried about wandering the corridors alone, eh?"
He looked over to the doorway at Miss MacKinnon then back at the children. "And what's the story with you guys? Got separated from the group or...?"
"Uh. No. I'll have you know, we're old enough to be in Professor Beans's agent prep classes? And that means we are so allowed to be out of the Nursery without a babysitter—despite the lame excuses certain someones may come up with." She gave a withering glare over her shoulder to Fox, who ducked further behind Marty.
Laquisha turned back to the Guardsman. "Anyhow. This party was open-invite, and if MacKinnon can bring a bunch of the rug rats, we're just as free to come as anyone. Am I right? Or am I right?" She stared at him expectantly.
"Well, you're certainly not leaving any room for negociation," he said. "All I have to say is that I'm really not trying to find fault in what you three are doing. I was just passing by and wondering why your friend there was nervous," he added, nodding towards Fox. He took off his helmet and clipped it to his belt by the chinstraps. "You all right there, son?"
"Fox is, um . . ."
"Fox grew up around super-powered gangs," Marty said.
Behind him, Fox blushed a bit and avoided the Guardsman's eyes.
Marty continued, "So he's scared of magic powers and stuff. I think he's worried by your armor." He shrugged. "That's all."
It was the Guardsman's turn to look away for a moment. "Yeah, I get you. Back home... well, let's say a lot of species didn't quite like the sight of this uniform either. But hey, I was on a mission and it was the logical disguise and I didn't have time to change so... well. Erm."
He cleared his throat nervously and said: "So, er... what are your names? I'm Emiran. You said you were all Nursery kids, right?"
"I'm Laquisha! I'm an HQ baby! Parents are longtime APD!"
"Marty. Ditto on HQ born."
Fox continued to stare at Emiran, waiting for anything weird to happen. He must have satisfied himself, because he finally said, "Fox."
"Sooooo." Laquisha leaned closer to Emiran and poked at his armored forearm. "Being on a mission means agent. What department are you?"
The Time Lord hesitated. Flat-out admitting that he was part of one of DIA never really worked out for him. Agents tended to shy away when they learnt that he was part of a Security Department; the spectre of DIS always hovered over any in-HQ security force. But then again, he felt that the little girl at his side wouldn't let it go until he gave her an honest answer. Furthermore, he was part of Special Response-- not really your average Internal Affairs officer, right?
"Well, 'mission' might be overstating it a little," he said carefully. "It's more of a call from DIA despatch. My partners and I usually lend a hand to agents who might've gotten themselves in a jam during one of their missions. It's a pretty okay job, actually. Someone needs to guard the guards, right?"
"Oh! I've never met someone from DIA before! Tell me about it! Tell me tell me tell me!"
Marty sighed. "If you were heading for the party, you might want to walk as you talk. She won't let you shut up anytime soon." He nudged Fox towards the auditorium door.
"Will there be food?" asked the Guardsman. "If so, sign me up. I'm starving!"
Looking down at Laquisha, he added: "DIA work is really nothing special. Sometimes some agents lose their RA or break a leg or get sick or what have you. We're the search-and-rescue part of DIA, so we make sure we bring them back safe and sound. We're also sometimes dealing with stuff around HQ too but... well, not that often."
Marty pointed to the doorway. "It's an Earth holiday, Purim. Food is major." He started nudging Fox onwards.
Laquisha rocked back and forth, alternately leaning her weight on one foot or the other. "Oh, man. You're like . . . you're like the backup agents for the other agents! When you rescue someone, do you get to finish their mission, then?"
"Don't have the canon knowledge, see?" said the Guardsman, following Marty and Fox towards the door. "All we do is make sure that everyone gets out in one piece." He rubbed his chin, thinking about what to discuss next.
"Say... which department d'you wanna join once you're all grown up?" he asked Laquisha. "APD like your folks or maybe something else? I hear Intelligence is trying to recruit more people..."
"I don't know, really. There isn't really a single canon I like, and . . . Idunno, there are so many cool people in HQ, I kinda feel like there's enough to do in HQ? So who needs missions, right?" She grinned again.
Marty shrugged. "Don't know. Wherever they need me, I guess."
"I want to be Finance," Fox stated, his voice wavering a little. "Or Personnel. That way I don't have to . . . be around Sues."
((Didn't realize until I sat down to type this that I happened to pick three kids with weird/indefinite goals. '~' ))
"Fair enough," he said. "Not everyone is cut out for front-line duty-- and besides, the Action Departments need to have people looking out for them, eh?"
He stopped at the door and waited for the three children to enter the room. "So what is this Purim holiday about exactly? I'm seeing lots of food and costumes in there. Anyone know?"
"It's." Fox squinted. "Um. Well, it's Jewish . . ."
"The . . ." Laquisha trailed off. "There was someone named Esther . . . who . . . stopped some bad guy . . . and it happened today! So, it's celebrating . . . that?"
After a moment, Marty added, "We got out of school today."
"Yeah!" Fox said. "That too."
"Oh, that's pretty cool," said the Guardsman. "Back when I was still in school we had days off too. Unfortunately with all of the stuff I was studying at the time I couldn't really take full advantage of the holidays. Consider yourselves lucky, kiddos. Bein' young and carefree is a good thing."
Inside, Fox hunched his shoulders as he began looking around at all the varied residents of HQ present. Without a word, Laquisha and Marty stepped in closer to him, and Marty took one of his hands. The group moved in farther so they and Emiran could get out of the way of door traffic.
Marty scanned the room, stopping when his eyes landed on a long table. He turned to Emiran. "Food?"
"Oh, absolutely. If it's sweet, it's going to end up on my plate. Shall we?"
He wandered over to the closest snack table and grabbed a handful of paper plates. He distributed them to the children before turning his attention to the buffet. "Is there anything you guys want? I can grab it for you."
Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the presence of another quarian agent. A pity Naya wasn't here— perhaps the two would've had something to talk about.
. . . so I'll get whatever you're grabbing."
"Um." Laquisha looked over the surface of the table. "Is that 'ham and toshin' stuff here? I kinda wanted to try it."
Fox didn't answer. He, too, had seen the quarian, and had gone completely still, staring with eyes wide.
"You got it," said the Guardsman, using some nearby tongs to carefully transfer the food into his little companions' plates. "Aaaaaand there. And now... er... Fox! I don't think you said anything. What would you like to get? Hm? Er... kid?"
The Guardsman followed the taciturn boy's gaze to the alien. "Do you know the lady, son? You've been staring at her for the past few seconds there."
"'She?'" Fox looked incredulously at the Guardsman, then back to the quarian woman. "It looks like one of the First Sons!"
Laquisha arched an eyebrow, and glanced at the woman herself. "Nah, no way, dude. The Flowers wouldn't recruit a First Son, they're nuts. I mean, really nuts, not HQ nuts."
He quickly putting two and two together— masked figure, "First Sons" sounding like a gang name, and mentions of this child's past in a 'verse with super-powered mutant crime groups... or something. He lowered his plate to Fox's level, giving it a little shake.
"Go on. Take something, son. So yep, a quarian," he said. "Her people come from the planet Rannoch, orbiting around a small star named Tikkun. It's a very nice place— no insects, very warm, and amazing vistas. In fact, I've been there once or twice on a fishing trip with my partner." He looked back at the quarian woman. "Her kind need to wear special suits to protect themselves from germs. They can get sick very easily, you see. It doesn't help that they lived in sterile spaceships for over three hundred years... er, am I rambling? Stop me if I am. I tend to do that."
. . . to block Fox's view of the quarian. "She's not a super-anything. In fact, she's worse than normal—bad germ resistance? That's like a . . . an underpower. You could knock her out with a sneeze, Fox!"
Fox frowned a bit at Laquisha's obvious patronizing, but some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to drift away. "All right," he said warily. A moment later, he reached out and grabbed a cookie off the Guardsman's plate. Over his shoulder, Laquisha mouthed to the Time Lord: "rambling good"
"Heh. They ain't slouches though— immune systems aside they're actually a bit tougher than your standard human. Ah, humans... you folk really like defining yourselves as the 'baseline' of all things, right? Well, I suppose that World One is the hub of all that exists... makes sense..."
His gaze wandered off into the distance for a few seconds before refocusing on the three children. "You... you're all human, right? Just checking."
[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.
The speaker was a man of indeterminate age, slightly stooped. He wore a long black monk's habit, coupled with a cowl that was decorated with crow feathers. The cowl's hood was pulled up, keeping much of his face in shadow, but there was no hiding the man's goatee; it was short, pointed and messy, mostly light-brown in colour but with ginger and blonde patches. "The story begins thus," said the man, clasping his hands near his chest. "In the days of yore, King Akhashverosh of Persia, also named Xerxes" — he pronounced the name 'Ksar-kses' — "by the Greeks, had thrown a banquet. Why? He was bored, maybe. Who knows." The man waved a hand and turned his head to look at his audience. "With me so far?"
Matthew didn't quite need to think that they were. Already Nickul was listening intently, and the mentioning of the Greeks pulled Ajax's and Levy's attention.
"To be completely honest, all I know about how Passover begins is with the story of Moses." Matthew said, "It'd be nice to hear another story."
The man nodded. "So the king and his stooges have been partying hard for a few days when the king tells his eunuchs, 'go fetch the queen, Vashti; I want to show her to the guests', but she refused." The man sneezed, covering his mouth with a hand. "Pardon me. Anyway, Akhasverosh goes ballistic, has Vasthi poisoned, and goes looking for another queen."
It was Nickul. While most of his reading consisted of encyclopedia and reference books, he did enjoy the occasional fantasy book.
"Was is normal or Mortal poison." Levy asked, perhaps in a joking manner, perhaps not. Ajax was not amused.
"Of course it was Mortal," Ajax said, "The king obviously died."
Matthew shushed them, "Sorry, they aren't that experienced with human culture."
Cue a chorus of "Heys!"
"Please continue."
The man sounded confused. "The king was hale and hearty. He had the queen poisoned. Or so I've read the Megillah, anyway." He cleared his throat, peering at Ajax and Levy from beneath his hood. "Story goes on: after a while, Mr King calms down and remembers that, oopsy, he has no queen now. So, after talking to his advisers, he rounds up any good-looking virgin in the kingdom." He smiled. "Fun, no? That's where the Jews come into the story. There was a Jewish man in the kingdom: Mordekhai son of Yair. He was taking care of his niece, Hadassah (also named Esther), since her parents were dead. So she gets rounded up with the rest of the virgins. Fast forward a few months, the king decides he likes her and makes her his new queen."
The man sighed. "Anybody know where the confectioneries are? And the water. Thirsty work, storytelling." He peered closely at his small audience. "Hmm?"
"Luckily, it's one of the many Old Testament stories I don't know, so this will be good." Matthew stated.
"I could get you some water if you want." Levy asked the hooded man.
He shook his head. "But I forget myself. May I have your names?"
"So this 'Heather' becomes queen," Ajax began, "then what?"
He sipped from the glass Levy brought him and wiped his moustache with a napkin he took out of a pocket. "Anyway," he said. "So meanwhile, Mordekhai sits before the gate of the palace. One day he hears two of the king's servants plotting to kill him, so he has Esther tell Akhashverosh of that. The servants are hanged and the event is written down in the annals."
David looked around, chuckling at a Qunari agent in an uncomfortable-looking three-piece suit, before continuing. "Anyway, politics are politics and the king starts to favour one minister by the name of Haman, son of Hamdata. Soon he's made top dog in the hierarchy and has everybody bow to him. Now, everybody who sits before the gate of the palace does so, except for Mordekhai." A pause. "After this goes on for a while, Haman gets really pissed off and, learning that Mordekhai is a Jew, decides to Kill All Jews." He tugged at his goatee and looked at his audience.
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?
[[Well, accept in those situations where it's stated.]]
Apollo fidgeted again as he tried to get comfortable in the slightly small Camp Half-Blood T-shirt he was wearing. "So you're sure we don't have a bigger one?" he asked.
"Not after the wardrobe fire last week..." Kelly, the other human in the current trio who lived in their RC, said glaring at the final part of the trio who managed to look as sheepish as she could behind her suit.
"It's not exactly my fault that tech went askew" Kaatah replied. "Besides..." Whatever she was going to say next was lost as she almost collided with another figure.
Noticing the rather lost look on the mans face, Apollo asked "You new around here? Where're you trying to get to?"
[[This takes place a few missions in, Kaatah is a Quarian agent I'm working on at the moment who'll probably end up in either DOGA or DMFF]]
DCCCV takes a few seconds to compose himself.
"Uh, yes, my name is......... Daniel*. Where are you trying to get to?"
He could only imagine the thoughts that these agents were having about him. "Dang, you need to concentrate to remember your own name?"
*Not my real name. I can't just go around giving names freely, can I?
This is modelled after a situation me and my brother had a few years back on a cruise ship. Good times.
