"But, Ginger," Alloy is saying, "you are not old enough!"

Ginger laughs. "And *I'm* the Hermione replacement? 'Sides, I'm old enough for a witch!"

"You are?" Alloy asks. She looks around. "Oh, my. We seem to be in a bar."

"Nice observation," Ginger says dryly. "Oh, hey! That girl over with all those people might have strawberries for hair, but she's pretty cute!"

"Ginger!" Alloy blushes -- she is, after all, from an anime continuumn -- and lightly smacks Ginger's shoulder. "Do not be rude!"

"It's not like I'm going up to her and saying 'Hi, I think you're cute!' She's already surrounded by people, anyway."

"That is no reason to be rude, Ginger."

Ginger shrugs. "Fine. Be all proper if you want. I'm gonna go introduce myself." She walks up to Rina's table and eyes the crowd. "Seems like half the bar is here." Eventually, she finds an opening. "Hey!" she shouts over the noise of the bar. "My name's Ginger! Who're you?"

Alloy starts towards the table herself, fearing what sort of trouble her more social partner might get into.

The older ghoul was obviously not happy with his sheepishly-grinning partner, who was wearing a tea cozy on his head...for some reason.

Gurgan rubbed his one good eye tiredly and desperately wished that he hadn't left his cigarettes back in the RC.

Sure, they hadn't done many - or any - missions for a while, but still Derwin managed to grey what little hair he had left.

Derwin took off his tea cozy and sat down at a booth. "Um...where are we, boss?" he asked, looking around.

Gurgan growled at his partner curtly and propped his boot-clad feet up onto the table, finally relaxing a bit. "Bar. You got off your pills and started up the Mini Poker Tournament again. I shoved your pills down your throat and dragged you here."

Derwin nodded cheerfully. "Oh!...How much did I win?" he asked before starting to pick his very large, very shiny sharp teeth with a switchblade he takes out from his pockets. "...And why is there a feather in my teeth?"

Gurgan sighed. "Trust me, you're better off not knowing." He turned his head to yell at the bartender. "Hey, smoothskin!" he barked. "Scotch. And lots of it. For him, decaff coffee." He jerked his thumb at Derwin, who was still pulling feathers out of his razor-sharp, solid-steel dentures.

"You know Shawn, most Agents go on a mission before getting drunk, not the other way around," Jack said as he pushed his way up to his partner at the bar.

"Wondered when you'd show up. Get tired of sitting at home all alone?" Shawn asked, downing a shot of he-didn't-know-what.

"What are you doing here? We're bound to get a mission any minute," Jack said.

"Relax kid, it's a party. Try socializing for once," Shawn said, turning to face his partner.

"I'm not a kid, Shawn. And do you even know why they're having a party?" Jack said, glaring at his partner.

"Somebody nearly died, didn't, and killed the nut responsible. Reminds me of Gotham," Shawn said, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye.

"That somebody also took out Rose Potter, one of the biggest, meanest legendary badfics out there. And if we don't get back, they might assign us something just as bad," Jack said, grabbing one of the many copies of the Multiverse Monitor that had been left on the bar.

"Neat. Whoever it is, we ought to send them a thank you card. Why don't I sit here, and think about what to write in it?" Shawn said, turning back to the bar.

"You're not leaving, are you?" Jack asked, sitting down next to Shawn.

"To deal with whatever nasty thing they throw our way first? Not a chance," Shawn said, scavenging for an unattended drink.

"Fine. I'm going to need to be drunk to deal with whatever this brings on our heads," Jack said.

"That's the spirit! Speaking of spirits, I'm going to find the barkeep. Poor guy must be up to his shoulders in drunken fools at this point.

…one of the two agents, a human female, asked nervously as they entered the building.

"Rudi's. A popular hangout for agents of all sorts of craziness, species, and departments. Or so the slogan says," her partner replied, smiling. "Relax, Emma. I've been here plenty of times. You'll be fine." Before she could ask, he produced a small rectangular object wrapped in aluminum foil from his pocket. "I remembered your chocolate. Here. Now don't just eat it - I brought you here to meet people."

Emma swallowed her mouthful of the chocolate, specially made so as to include Bleeeprin in the recipe. "Thanks, Asher. Want me to get you something?"

"A root beer would be good. Just go ask the people at the counter. Here's the money. Emma? Emma!"

She started, her attention suddenly diverted from her candy, which she had been nibbling in a very focused manner. "What? Oh, sorry, Asher. I'll try not to get too distracted by it again."

He gave a long sigh. "I hope so. Now get going. I'll find a table."

As she left, he let his eyes wander until a certain table, already occupied but with a few empty seats, caught his attention. He walked over, raising a hand in greeting. "Hi there."

(I do not have Permission with these agents.)

... Quickly followed by not-so-faint swearing. Indeed, Dom Irossi of the Department of Intelligence had failed to notice that the doors had closed right before he tried to enter the pub. He re-opened them and walked in.
He looked pretty much the same as when he went to Rudi's for the first time several months before, right down to his outfit. It should be noted, however, that he had slightly longer and messier hair, and was slightly paler... Though that might actually be related to the "I've seen things" look on his face.

The spy sat at a nearby table, took a quick look at the menu, and ordered a "I'll take a glass of Bleepolate milk with a straw, please." (Whoever made the menu assumed at least some of the Agents who needed that would be too traumatised to do anything but repeat what they were reading, and they decided it would be better if they were at least somewhat polite.)

Once his order had been taken, he silently stared into the distance while combing his hair with his fingers. A few hair strands fell on the ground, along with a small beige feather.

Klingons normally didn't slump, but Kozar felt he was entitled to a bit of slumping after completing two missions in a row and arguing with his partner over methods. He was nursing a pint of something that looked vaguely like Romulan Ale and tasted annoyingly like raspberries. He never could understand why aliens flavored their drinks so strangely.

His thoughts turned back to the argument, and he scowled. Let the Reader go try to assimilate into canon again if she wanted to so badly. She'd been talking about it more often than he'd like, considering she was his partner. He'd been getting used to her at last, and she wanted to leave? Well, then, let her. It wasn't like he cared what she did, so long as it included her job.

He missed Allison, was the problem. Why all his partners tended to be aliens, he had no idea, but Allison was the one he'd grown closest to, had trusted and respected far more than he did the Reader--not to mention the one before Allison, who had gone behind his back to acquire a parasite.

He grimaced at the thought of the tribble. Like any Klingon, he detested the creatures. Living with one in his RC had been horrible; the only thing that had stopped him from poisoning the creature was that Dawn had actually seemed prepared to protect it with the flamethrower she kept in one of the RC's corners. A knife he could handle; a flamethrower, however, was far more difficult to redirect, and he didn't really have a strong desire to find out how good her aim was with it. Better safe than sorry, and wasn't that an odd thought for a Klingon?

He took another swig of the raspberry-Romulan(ish) Ale, and grimaced. Glancing up prompted another grimace; it seemed he was about to have company.

Fantastic, he thought, and put the pint down. What was he about to be subjected to?

Well, he continued, that would probably depend on who it was who wanted to talk to him...

It had been a long day. As C.J. sat and waited to place an order, his thoughts turned to recent events - namely, the demise of a Legendary Badfic. This would normally be something to celebrate, but when C.J. heard the news and recognized the name of the injured agent, he felt he had to do something. He didn't know what, though - so he came to Rudi's in hope of inspiration. Perhaps he could find an answer or two at the bottom of a Wonka Fizzy Lifting Drink.

The only thing left in the place was the gentle hum of fridges with slightly dodgy wiring and the occasional flap of paper turning over. Why paper? Well, that was rather the fault of the woman in the corner, far away, where she felt she belonged. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.

The Notary was very thorough with her work. Everything was laid out to fit the entirety of the table as if with a set of dividers and a slide rule, which (handily for a narrator) was exactly what had happened. The table itself had been covered with a tarpaulin that smelled faintly of soap, so that no spills could occur. There was a potted bonsai tree that occasionally emitted blasts of acrid grey smoke in the corner, and a picture of two women in an extremely expensive frame that was rather at odds with the cheap, faded, beaten-up photo inside it.

The Notary reached a conclusion, her fountain pen delicately tracing patterns of geometric circles that contained her reasoning. If other people didn't speak High Gallifreyan, that was their problem, as far as she was concerned. She reached for the tumbler of amasec by the side of her desk and frowned upon realising it was a tumbler of air and slightly smudged dark lipstick. With a sigh, she rose gracefully to her feet and glided across the floor to the bar. It took her a few minutes to get another glass, mostly because the Notary was only able to pay by sorting out and refiling the establishment's library of order forms, but she was soon sated. The entire thing had taken place in complete silence. And so she worked, far away, out of sight, out of mind.

The barman only remembered she could speak after a few hours more work, so quiet he had to strain to hear it, as if she didn't even realise she was doing.

"I let you down," she said, punctuated with the occasional hitched breath. "I... I let everybody down, in the end."

Wonderful, thought the barman, another bloody maudlin drunk. Sensational. He prepared himself to use Mop #7 - for some reason it worked really well on tears.

"They hate me and they're right to," the Notary continued. "You probably do as well." She fished in her satchel for another file and tapped out something on an old-fashioned desktop calculator. "You're right to." The calculator beeped, and she swapped her fountain pen for one in red ink. "You're right to," she repeated, almost under her breath.

File. Drink. File. Drink. Cross-reference. File. Drink. Glide over to the bar like she's on castors and do a little more filing for the bar. Rinse and repeat. Stay in the background, like the aftermath of the Big Bang. Interference. Noise. Useless.

The barman had tried to engage her in conversation precisely once, and had received a look so venomous it had practically burned a hole in the wall behind his head. That was a lesson well learned.

It took several more iterations of the cycle before the Notary reached into her bag and found no more files, no more forms. The bar was still empty. She had run out of things to do. She folded the tarpaulin neatly into a perfect square (again with the aid of her slide rule), put the bonsai tree back in her bag, and went over to sit at the bar.

This was when the serious drinking started, as indicated by her just tapping the bar's order book as the barman put it on the square of blue tarp. Elaborate circles filled the book as it was reorganized to within an inch of its life, and as long as you could speak High Gallifreyan it really was more efficient. She drank, and drank, and kept going until she ran out of book. Then she turned to look blearily at the cheap old Polaroid in the beautiful white-gold frame.

She stared at it for some time, reaching out with a slightly tremulous finger to stroke one of the faces. Then she set the frame face down on the square, finished her drink, and took her stuff back over to the corner, whereupon she just seemed to shut down completely, like her off switch had been flipped.

In winter, it was staff policy to put a blanket on her. It was getting on for spring now, so the barman didn't risk it. Instead, he just sat behind the bar and waited for more normal people to come in.

(Note: this is written without Permission.)

And another tall young man stepped through them. The first noticeable difference with the previous one was his long blond hair, and his quilted jacket sporting a Department of Intelligence flash patch.

You'd usually expect a spy to be sneaky and quiet. Dom Irossi, however, most definitely wasn't.
He was currently talking --or rather, shouting-- to someone on the phone. Most of those who were around were unable to understand him, however, as he was speaking French.
Those who either spoke that language or had an universal translator, could understand this:

"I know that movie was terrible! But it's canon, and if you try to 'fix' it, we'll have to send someone to-- You want to do WHAT?"
Suddenly realising he had practically screamed the last word, he looked around with a worried look on his face, and said in a much more quiet voice:
"Uh, I'm getting weird looks here. I'll call you back later. No canon genocide in the mean time. Bye."

Dom hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. He then said in English:
"Uh, sorry... That was my brother. He really wants to help, but... Ah, forget it, it's not important."

He waited until everyone had diverted their attention from him; he then sat at an unoccupied table and ordered some tea.

Valon slipped away from Kala and Navare. He found a nice spot in the corner of the bar, sat down and continued reading his book.

"Too many people... I really don't do social." Somewhat unconsciously, he started singing as he read. "And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low..."

(OOC: Valon is acting exactly as I would. I never know what to do when there are a lot of people around, so I usually just hole up in my room or hide in a corner. I'd rather be alone than a mute decoration.)

"What is this place, brother?" Velociripper asked anxiously, stepping into the pub after Falchion.
"Rudi's pub," the Skarmory replied. "Rashida told me she visits this place every once in a while to unwind. I'm not sure why she'd come here, but I guess it's worth a try."
"If they sell Sue flesh, I'll definitely consider it."
"They don't, sadly. But I'm pretty sure they'll be happy to provide a hadrosaur steak or two if you ask politely."
The two of them were just about to look for a table when they noticed a brown-haired angel in a pink toga sitting at the bar. He was halfway through his goblet of dark red drink when he turned to see the two of them, his blue eyes widening in surprise.
"Shinseina tawagoto! IT'S A DINOSAUR!" he cried, immediately bolting for Ripper. "I'M GONNA *hic* WRASSLE IT!!!"
Before the Deinonychus could respond, he'd grabbed him by the neck and suplexed him. Ripper managed to roll over and try to throw him off, but Falchion was quicker.
The angel yelped as he felt a sharp peck in the backside, and his grip loosened just enough for the Skarmory to yank him off the raptor agent with one of his taloned feet.
"Sorry, kid, but we don't wrestle other agents around these parts," he clucked in a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.
"Oh, he's an agent too?" the angel half-slurred. "Sorry, I *hic* didn't know!"
"You wouldn't have," Falchion warbled cheekily.
"It appears that I'm not the only newcomer around here," Ripper snorted, detecting the faint scent of glitter from the angel who had just glomped him. "What is your name?"
"I'm Cupid!" the angel said cheerfully, before hiccuping yet again. "I just got recruited a little while ago, so I thought I'd make myself known!"
"Throwing another agent across the pub isn't exactly how I'd make a name for myself, honestly," Falchion laughed. "But y'know, no pressure. Anyway, why don't you bring your drinks over here and hang out with us?"
"What was that you were just drinking, anyway?" asked Ripper as the two paravian agents (the term coming from the group of dinosaurs more closely related to modern birds than Oviraptor) took a table and looked through the menu.
"Bleeport," Cupid replied cheerfully, picking up his goblet and bottle before heading over to their table. "Bleeprin-laced synthetic fortified wine!"
Falchion took one look at the angel, and warbled another laugh. "This explains so much..."

It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke, and Alex made sure to say so.

Zeb frowned. "I feel like I'm missing something."

"It's just a standard joke setup," Rina said, sliding into a booth. "You know, a hag, an ogre, and a troll walk into a bar? A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar?"

Zeb shook his head. "Never heard of that, sorry." He remained standing at the end of the table; the booths weren't really designed with Luxrays in mind.

Alex gave him an odd look. "Do they not have humor in Sinnoh?" He yelped when his sister kicked him under the table. "What was that for?" He tried to kick her back, but ended up hitting her seat instead.

"Don't be so rude, okay?" she said, looking over the menu. "Hmm, I think I'll just go for Polar Expresshot chocolate again."

"Ooh, they have that?" Alex asked, his eyes widening. "Sweet!"

"I'll probably just get some Poffins," Zeb said.

Once they'd gotten their food, they settled into a comfortable silence, though Alex started bouncing anxiously in his seat and looking interestedly at the other patrons.