Séverine stirred the soup furiously, sloshing it over the sides of the pot. Ignoring the splashes of soup that were now burning into crusts on the stove top, she called, "Please hurry, Yoof! Lyn's team finished nearly ten minutes ago!" She gave a pained glance to the wheeled serving cart behind her, where a solid cubic meter of steaming lasagna stood imperiously on a tray in the center.

Yoof whined, "Hnnnnnn, I know, Séverine! It's almost ready to—" Then he gave a long, low moan.

Séverine's spirits crashed. "What has happened, Yoof?"

"Hnnnn . . . Séverine, I forgot to mix any yeast into this dough before I baked it! It's all short now."

Séverine let her breath out. "That is fine, Yoof! That just means that you have made flatbread."

Yoof's ears perked up. "I didn't even know I knew how to make flatbread! But now I know that I know it!"

"Indeed, Yoof, indeed." Séverine poured her finished soup into a serving tray that would fit in the salad bar.

Another agent skidded to a halt next to the cart, somehow keeping the pitcher she held from spilling. "Oh, crap!" she yelled. "I totally spaced and forgot to put any sugar in the lemonade! I've got to fix it or it'll be all bitter." She spun around, ready to head back to her work space.

"There is no time!" Séverine said, her voice high-pitched. "Just set it with the rest! If anyone complains, we can call it 'all-natural' or 'diet' or something. If they don't like it—"

"Don't read it!" Yoof chimed in, smiling.

"Something like that." Séverine lifted the tray of soup and quickly carried it over to the cart, letting it slam down next to the lasagna cube, and sloshing soup onto the cart and floor. The agent with the lemonade placed her pitcher on the other side.

A man sat in a chair nearby, playing Candy Crush on his phone. "Oh, right. I forgot I had a kitchen shift," he monotoned. "Consequently, I forgot to actually do anything involving food."

The other three cafeteria workers stared at him for several moments. Finally, Séverine said, "For God's sake, man. Even this division has some standards."

"Oh? Well, maybe you should try heating those up some time." He never looked up from the screen.

Séverine blinked. "'Standards' is not a kind of food, you imbecile."

He mumbled, "Maybe they will be if you heat them long enough."

"Ugh! Never mind him," Séverine said as Yoof stuck his flatbread loaf on top of the pitcher. "We have plenty of food to send out into the dining hall. Lyn's lasagna looks fine, and my soup is flawless. I did not forget anything." As she said this, she wheeled the cart through the big double doors and out of the kitchen.

And right into a mob of agents wielding pitchforks, torches, and furious glares.

"All right. I may have forgotten how dangerous a room filled with hungry agents can be."

—doctorlit note: Lyn's team belongs to Vixenmage.

Late evening in Response Center 1110. Chance of a new mission coming in: slight but not zero. Opportunities for extracurricular carousing: exhausted. Fellrazer and the minis: fed, watered, and settled into their corners. As for the agents . . .

Derik sat at the console desk, hand-writing their latest mission report. He was a hopelessly slow typist, and he appreciated the luxury of having paper freely available to write on with high-quality ink. Like anyone who had copied records under Master Archivist Arnor and not been kicked out, his handwriting was small and neat, and had become rather pretty with the freedom he now had to flourish.

Gall was cross-legged on the floor, sealing and labeling vials of the latest batch of Monstrous Nightmare Gel collected from Fellrazer. Selling the very useful commodity, which had started out simply as a means to keep the dragon fed without resorting to robbery, had turned into a serious enterprise. Gall had somewhat ingeniously expanded it by expanding her dragon at every opportunity, courtesy of the collar that normally kept him shrunk down to large-dog-size instead of large-horse-size: it worked in reverse, too. The bigger the dragon, the greater the volume of flammable saliva produced, the greater the profits. Some people might have questioned the physics of this, but such thoughts never crossed Gall's mind. It worked, because she wanted it to.

She had a habit of humming to herself while she worked, which Derik had grown to tolerate. Her voice wasn't bad, and she could carry a tune when she felt like it, but she often didn't bother with anything like a melody, just meandered aimlessly through pitches for which the notation he'd learned had no signs. He understood there were musical traditions that encouraged this sort of thing; he didn't think Gall's was actually one of them.

She stopped. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in an inquiry.

She had a quizzical look on her face, her mouth pursed to one side. "Do you ever get the feeling you forgot something, but you can't think what?"

"Sometimes I think I've forgotten more than I ever knew," Derik said. "Why?"

"I've got it now, and it's really annoying."

He turned in his chair to face her more fully. The report would keep. "Well, is it something you were supposed to do?"

She shook her head. "No way. We did the mission; I flew and fed and de-drooled Fellrazer; the minis got their bacon and bouillabaisse; if I polished my mace any more it might blind your other eye; I haven't even worn my armor lately, let alone needed to clean it." She rapped her knuckles impatiently against her thigh as she thought. "Seriously, the hell?"

"Laundry?"

"Your turn this week, dude."

Derik grimaced; it was, and he hated it. "Plans? Anything you should have told me about and haven't?"

"I don't think so." More rapping. "I told you I'm doing the thing with the kids again, right?"

"Yes; I think I expressed my feeling that I still can't believe they let you."

Gall grinned. "Hey, Fellrazer and me are totally ambassadors for our universe. It's educational."

"And obscenely dangerous."

"Whaaat? We strap them on, so the worst that can happen to them is they puke, which is totally outside my control. Not my fault if they keep shouting 'do a barrel-roll!' and he's so well-trained he just reacts like a pro." She snickered, and Fellrazer, having lifted his head at the sound of his name, joined in with the odd hollow chortling noise that was the Nightmare's laughter.

Derik's jaw dropped open a moment. "That's not what I was talking about—but good grief, tell me that did not really happen."

Gall's grin got wider. "Hey, don't worry! We have DOGA agents on standby for when we do the flame jacket demo."

"Self-admitted pyromaniacs. This does not inspire me with confidence. And you didn't answer me."

"If you're so concerned, you should come next time," Gall said, leaning back on her elbows. She managed to do this with her legs still crossed, which made for an unusual view. "You could do the whole boring health and safety thing, and then our butts would be covered and we could get on with the important part: having fun."

"I'm busy, and no, I will not be your liability waiver."

"Aw, come on, you gotta take a break from your boyfriend sometime." Gall used her most ingratiating tone, which was both transparently insincere and irritating. "Have I mentioned lately that that bullshit is bullshit?"

Derik grinned. He was going to win this game. "What, the part where you're jealous? Would it help if I gave you all the sordid details of what we get up to, locked away together in that exceedingly tiny response center for hours on end?"

"Ugh. You suck—no pun, because that would be interesting and you are so boring and lame." Gall flopped all the way down onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. "What were we even talking about?"

Chuckling to himself, Derik shrugged and turned back to his report. "I forget."

---

I tried to get Gall to talk to me and give me something to work with here, because I really need to develop her more, but she wasn't cooperating. So I took having no idea what she might have been forgetting and ran with it, and this is what happened. {= P

~Neshomeh

I had a great idea for a way
To update jokes in that soliloquy
In Náriel, a farce (in the Musée,
For Númenórë sank into the sea).
I'd ref'rences that many Agents know,
And might through laughter help them to unwind.
One Gabby/Capper lemon later, though
I found the Bleeprin drove them from my mind!
This is a lesson learned; I need to write
Ideas down while still fresh in my brain.
Or else, if I must bleach my brain, I might
Unable be to bring them up again.
I wish I could recall the gags and see
If they were funny as they seemed to be.

She walked up to the man slowly as he stood by the dressing table. He was barely more than a boy, really, but muscular in a lean kind of way, a swimmer's build. He had sleek dark hair and piercing silver eyes, gazing out from behind some fashionable - and, she knew, highly advanced - thick-rimmed black spectacles. He was wearing an excellently tailored suit that fit him very well indeed, emphasising his physique and teaming well with the long Japanese sword he wore at his waist. Everyone assumed it was an affectation, right up until he killed them with it, like he had that commoner during training.

"Agent Morgan," she said, cutting the primness with just a little suggestiveness - it was how he liked to be addressed.

"Well, hey there, Roxy." He turned and smiled, gleaming, white, perfect. "And I told you already, you don't need to call me what that meddling old coot Arthur does. The special people in my life call me Bandit, and the people I love?" He walked closer, running his hand over her back. "Well, they get to call me Storm."

"Yes - Storm - of, of course." The blonde shivered at Storm's touch, but then, so many women did. "I... I just came by to give you this." She held up a small box.

"Aw, thank you, Roxy! What's the occasion?" Storm was already unwrapping the box's sober navy paper and white ribbon and plucking out the bottle of aftershave.

"Just the occasion of us being... us, I suppose," she replied. "Or you being you."

"Heh, guess all that world-savin' is paying off a li'l, huh?" He smiled again, sleek and white and evenly spaced as a military cemetery. "Man, and here I was thinking I'd get British girls just with the accent." He quirked an eyebrow.

She blushed a little and giggled. "It helps, Morg- Storm. It certainly helps."

"Yeah?" Storm put the present down on his dresser and moved towards her. "Is it helpin' now, Roxy?"

"Yes and no," she said, smiling. "Yes, because I like an accent, and no because, well..." She stood up, tossed her hair back, and changed.

"Storm Valerian Gunner," said the short, mousy-haired brunette in front of him, "also known as Agent Morgan, also known as Callsign: Bandit, you are charged with bending the Kingsman canon into an n-dimensional pretzel, killing the series main character to take his place, being an American Kingsman agent, being a secret ninja lord Kingsman agent, getting all blood in my hair from when you decapitated all those people, turning Roxy Morton into a quivering damsel to be rescued and bonked by you, taking Merlin's job despite being a field agent and also impossibly dense, getting blood in my hair do you know how long it takes to wash that stuff out, and generally being a Gary Stu of the first order. Not the First Order first order, because this isn't a Star Wars crossover, thank God, but still. Your sentence is death. Any last words?"

"What?" Storm unsheathed his sword and brandished it at her. "Who are you, and what did you do with Roxy."

"Those'll do me," said Cassie Aubrey, and she sped out the room and slammed the door shut behind her.

Her partner sidled over as the Stu began hacking at the door with his katana. "Damn, girl, that stunt took some hella balls!"

"Em?"

"I mean, there's balls, and then there's balls, ya dig?"

"Em!"

"Because I totally get that you're not into them but hot damn, Cass, those are some huevos muchachos ya got-"

"EM!"

"What?"

"DETONATOR!"

"Whuh?" Three inches of sword blade appeared by Em's right shoulder. "Oh, yeah. Whoops!" She fumbled through her bag and pressed the button. Three beeps and a horrible ker-splutch later, the execution was complete. The agents walked down the stairs as the uncanonical room disappeared behind them, and they left the Kingsman tailors' shop soon after, another well-dressed couple on a day out in London.

"You know, we've got the run of the city for a bit - the real city, not the Stu's version with all terrorists in it," said Cassie. "Fancy lunch? I know this fantastic little pizza place in Euston-"

"You had me at lunch, hun. Girl's gotta eat!" Em ruffled her partner's hair and didn't stop, loving the feel of the soft, brown curls against her fingertips.

"I will too, Em. I did promise."

"Yes you did."

And arm in arm, they walked away.

“Thoth, how did you get your name?” Tom asked the question seemingly apropos of nothing.

Thoth sighed, not looking up from his book. His partner’s occasional and seemingly random enquiries resulted in discussions that were either mildly interesting or extremely irritating. This one seemed to be approaching tiresome. “‘Thoth’ was the name I took after my legion’s egress from the Imperium. It was the name of an ancient Terran god of knowledge, although many details regarding this god have been long forgotten. It is an arrogant name, perhaps, but it is better to appear pretentious then to show a lack of confidence. In most cases, at least.”

“You know, I’ve been reading about Thoth of late,” said Tom. “While it may be half-forgotten in your continuum, in World One knowledge of Egyptian mythology is still very much alive. It’s quite fascinating.”

Thoth looked up, at once intensely focused. “Might you provide me with such information?”

“Certainly!” Tom grinned, almost laughing. “Take the book. I’ve just been reading about Thoth’s origins, so that’s where the bookmark is.” He tossed a moderate-sized tome over to the Space Marine.

Thoth caught the book and began to read rapidly.

“Well?”

Thoth nodded. “Fascinating. I appreciate it.”

“You’re not going to—”

“No. The fact that you continue attempt to jab at me is more bothersome than the jabs themselves.”

Tom gave his most winning smile. “Well, I’m glad you enjoy the book at any rate, headchild.”

“Tom…” Thoth sighed. “Cease. It is pointless, and I am reading.”

Tom turned to his monitor. Sooner or later, he’d manage to get a reaction. And although he recognized this might be a bad idea, he found it amusing nonetheless.

--

This bit was prompted by a discussion on Discord. If you weren't there and don't study Egyptian mythology (I really don't know enough about the subject, given my name), you may be confused a bit as to what Tom's up to here.

Egyptian mythology is a confusing mess of entirely contradictory stories. However, one of the more popular versions of Thoth's origin is... extremely NSFW.

Tom continues to love jabbing Thoth with things, because He Is A Child.

RC 112358 echoed with the sound of a furious search. Drawers were being systematically opened, rummaged through, emptied, re-filled, closed, and then opened again several minutes later. Anything resembling a container in the room was checked and re-checked, including pockets. The beds and furniture were moved to check for the lost item. Peregrin even tried to move the console, which didn't budge, but it was worth a try. Throughout all this, muttered questions like "now where did I leave...?" and "where could I have put...?" could be heard, usually paired with Peregrin scratching his head or beard.

Peregrin scoured the room about two and a half times before coming to the conclusion that what he was looking for was likely not there. He stood around and tried to make a list of where he had been recently, and when he last remembered having this thing.

"I had it out on the mission ... and then I put in that bag over there..." he said, pointing at the bag and going to check it (which yielded no results) "and then when we returned I went to ... where did I go? Rudi's, I believe. Or was it... Hm... . Either way, I took it out there, and so I did not leave it on the mission. I think. So where...?"

Peregrin sat down on the floor, took some deep breaths, and tried to remember.

Right as he got to thinking, the RC's door opened. Taq walked in, looking as if he'd just finished practicing with his sword - for that was what he had been doing.

"Eh?" Peregrin said, looking around. "Oh, Taq! Would you happen to remember where our CAD is?" he asked. "I, ah," he looked down sheepishly, "seem to have misplaced it."

Taq took a step back, just to make sure he was out of easy striking range. "Sir, it exploded, sir. On th' mission, sir. Ya took th' bits t' DoSAT, sir."

Peregrin stood up with his memory thoroughly jogged. "Oh, yes, yes, it did. Right. Thank you for reminding me." He then walked over to a chalkboard that he'd managed to get installed on one wall, circled something, and told the air "So that experiment will need to be delayed to the arrival of a new CAD. So now ... oh, idea! What if the total flux through a stable plothole were non-zero. That would imply plotholes were directional, which is contradicted by, so no, unless... hold... it could be..." All of this mathematics was accompanied by occasional marks on the chalkboard, which made no sense to anyone else, and often didn't make much sense to Peregrin a few days later either.

Taq, meanwhile, shrugged and walked back out of the RC after setting down his sword. This human the Flowers had put him under was weird, even by their standards, and Taq was not needed when he was like this. So, he went to go get a drink, wondering how Peregrin had managed to get promoted to any sort of senior position to distract himself on the way there.

Faolan's head jerked off her chest and her cheeks pinked when Jessica snickered beside her. "Yes! Yes, sorry, what is it?"

"I asked you to pass your essay up," Professor Longbottom said gently.

"Right, yes, of course," Faolan stammered, scrambling for her bag and digging through it. There were her textbooks, and her Charms essay, and her star chart for Astronomy that night, but her essay over fanged geraniums was nowhere to be found. "Er." She looked up, face burning with embarrassment. "I think I forgot it in my dorm, Professor."

Professor Longbottom nodded as he collected the remaining essays. "Would you mind seeing me after class, Miss Saibhir?"

She nodded, keeping her eyes on the table in front of her. Jessica leaned over to Denise and whispered something, and the two girls giggled.

The bell rang and students rose from their seats, and Professor Longbottom had to raise his voice to be heard over the clamor. "Elspeth, ten points to Ravenclaw for answering all my questions correctly. Next week, we'll be starting on Screechsnaps, so don't come late!"

Faolan slowly approached Professor Longbottom's desk, stifling a yawn. She'd stayed up all night working on not just her essay, but Jessica's and Denise's and Alisha's. And tonight she had to do their manticore diagrams, and start on their Transfiguration homework—

She was jolted out of her thoughts when Professor Longbottom snapped his briefcase shut. "I didn't want to say something in class that would be seen as favoritism," he began, "but if you can run back to your dorm and bring me your essay before the end of lunch, I won't count you late."

Relief spread across Faolan's face and she nodded. "Thank you, Professor," she said. "I'll go get it right now—"

She turned to leave, but Professor Longbottom cleared his throat. "I hope you know you can talk to me if there's anything bothering you."

Faolan turned back, forcing a smile. "Nothing's bothering me, Professor," she said, internally cringing at the thought of what her dorm mates might do to her if she tattled. "But thank you for the offer."

Professor Longbottom studied her face, her gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes with their dark circles. He knew something most certainly was bothering the girl, but without seeing proof for himself, his hands were tied. "Alright," he finally said. "I'll see you later."

"Bye," Faolan said, and bolted for the door. She had to get to her essay before her dorm mates could.

She sprinted across the grounds, praying nobody could be bothered to look twice at her lurching gait—up the wide stone steps—across the entrance hall—up another flight of stairs—another—another—

"Doxy bites," she panted when she reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and it swung open. She scrambled through the portrait hole and drew on her last reserves of energy to run up the stairs to the girls' dorm, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that they hadn't decided to flatten on her today.

She was too late. Of course she was too late. Her bedside table was empty, and when she checked inside her trunk and under the bed, it was nowhere to be found.

Her dorm mates would be in the Great Hall now, she knew, and Caitlyn had taken to haunting the library in preparation for their O.W.L.s, so that refuge was no longer safe. Faolan trudged back down the stairs, resigned to spending another lunch period in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.