Osbert had been about to answer Celinus' question, but when the trumpet sounded he instead turned on his heel, facing the players. Old reflexes and habits kicking into action, he found himself standing at attention, his arm snapping rigidly into a salute as Leas called for two minutes' silence. In his peripherals, he could see Langston struggle to his feet, almost falling but managing to stand and fire off his own salute even as he swayed drunkenly. Nobody said a word, total stillness befalling the Store as a spirit of reflection and remembrance took hold over the celebrations from before. In almost eighty years, he had seen several occasions like this, but he was sure that for many of the people inside, it was their first. By God, did that make him feel old...

You watching us up there, boys?

***

Troy had wrapped an arm around Cassie's waist to support her when she said she needed to sit down, and had been about to try to lead her to one of the empty RCs he had seen along the hallway, but was interrupted by the call for a moment's silence. Keeping his hold on the young woman to keep her from falling over, he took on a sombre expression, lowering his eyes to the ground. So many people dead, not all of them his friends but all of them comrades-in-arms, it was just terrible. He shuddered, thinking about how many people he almost lost, and did lose, especially as at the same time he wondered how Berger was holding up. His partner had been hit a lot harder by the Invasion than he had.

Shine on, ya crazy diamonds.

***

To Roy Berger's mind, it was almost as if the fighting had still been going on even as he half-heartedly drank and celebrated with the others. The call for silence had its intended effect, apparently, especially as his eyes moved to the floor and paused at the two mechanical fingers on his right hand. Prosthetics, of course, he'd lost the genuine articles in that damned Escher Room. Gunshots, metal swinging through the air, the screams of the dead and the damned, in the back of his head it was all as fresh as when it happened. Fifty Agents trying to hold off what had seemed to be hundreds of Sues...why had he been the one that made it?

Damn it, don't fool yourself...it's because you ran. Just left them to die while you high-tailed it. You Eru-damned coward! Damn it, Silas, Dixon, Carpenter, Harris, Reason, Silverman...they all deserved to make it out of that room more than you did. They were walking around with far worse than a couple missing fingers! You should've faced your fate with honour, dammit!

A hand placed itself on his shoulder, and he looked over just out of curiosity, having to redirect his glance downwards at the shorter man to his right. He didn't dare break the silence, but the look on his face communicated well enough.

***

To use a saying that had popped up long after he had supposedly "died" on the fields of Waterloo, Alois Bouchard had been given the short end of the stick. Being dragged off the field by what he had thought were either angels or looters in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Waterloo, delirious and nearly dead from three bullet wounds and having been stabbed with a bayonet, he'd been an Agent less than a month before the viruses hit. Still not fully recuperated from his wounds or the shock of Napoleon Bonaparte's fall and finding himself in totally alien surroundings, he'd had to fight for survival against gigantic, monstrous macroviruses that tore Agents apart by the hundreds. Even after that it hadn't been over, he'd had to face a literal army of Mary Sues.

He didn't know what it was, the hand of God, his own skill, or something else entirely, but somehow he'd made it through the ordeals and fighting far more hellish than what he'd seen in the Grande Armeé with not even a scratch. His partner hadn't been so lucky, she didn't even have a chance before the bugs ripped her apart.

In the silence of the Store, he could still hear Lee's screams and remember his own frenzied attempts to fight through the viruses to her. If it hadn't been for that strange blond-haired Norseman, he'd have likely met a similar fate to his first partner. Now, though, he stood here where there was no gunfire, no screams, no dying, just those who lived remembering those who had not. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he looked to his left at the Agent who stood by him. The man was a good bit taller than the 5'1 Alois, but even without looking at their face he could tell they were upset. In response, he found his hand reaching out, resting on the man's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

Am I the only one in this store with dry eyes?

***

Sandra Richardson placed down the mug once the request for silence was heard, the drinking contest she had so boisterously called for grinding to a halt as she looked to Leas, not even paying attention to the drunk man on the other side of the table whose gaze had now drifted to the front of her uniform. She'd been one of the ones lucky enough to escape HQ during the Macrovirus attack, and hadn't been very active in the Invasion's fighting, but she knew many people who had been. Most didn't make it, not even her best friends or partner. That unlucky bugger had caught a bullet with his head in the very last seconds of the fighting. It was a sobering thought, but it hadn't stopped her from coming to the party and trying to enjoy herself like she knew they'd have wanted her to. Her eyes started to water up, but she closed them and shook her head, trying to force any of those feelings down. She couldn't let her feelings or memories get in the way of the party. Eventually, everyone in the store would be dead, why get so worked up?

Oh, who the hell am I kidding?

***

Basilico Andretti had done a rather good job of blending into the crowd. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure if the majority even knew he was there. However, he was comfortable with this, as he was there just as much to keep an eye on potential troublemakers as to pay his respects to the dead. Of course, he still gave the bar a very wide berth, unlike many of the partygoers, especially since the one time he'd tried to go over one of the people there had given him a look so hateful he almost thought he'd drop dead on the spot. Still, as the moment of silence was called, he bowed his head in respect, even though he'd lost no friends in the fighting.

Lord, please watch our fallen comrades as we ourselves watched o'er them. Let them not be wanting, or troubled. For in Your kingdom, there is naught but peace, and respect for canon. Never shall they go unremembered or unloved, for the PPC still lives, and so does Your kingdom in Heaven. As the Word Worlds are in our care, so are their souls in Yours. In Nomine Patris, Et Fili, Et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.

Agent Shadowflame slipped in silently. She'd felt that it wasn't her place to come here. After all, she had not been here for the event being remembered.

She was a little surprised at the party atmosphere, but shrugged and reminded herself that everybody celebrated events differently. Finding a corner where it wouldn't be knocked over or set anyone on fire, she lit a single small candle, sticking it to the floor with its own wax.

She hadn't known those involved, but it was fitting at least to pay some small tribute.

Huddled inside her cloak, Rilwen turned to leave.

-and dived for cover. "Will someone tell whoever's doing that that this is not a good time for a re-enactment?" she yelled, to the room at large. (What, precisely, might be being re-enacted she left unsaid.)

"It's just fireworks," Leas said, watching them.

Deryn considered this, then retreated further under cover as the next lot went off. "It's not exactly an appropriate occasion for that, either! Lord. Next we'll someone'll've brought metal." She shook her head. "Least we shouldn't be able to turn this into a muddy field, an' that's not an invitation for anyone to do so!"

Krisp was excited again.
"There ain't enough for this guy," said South.
What' couldn't but agree. All three watched the fireworks.

"So many people we won't ever get to know..." said Krisp.

The Infernal Trio took roughly half the food before going to the bar to eat their stuff and have PG2B2s.
"Chocolate. Yummy," said Krisp.

The Infernal Trio was currently having PG2B2s too at the bar. Krisprolls's idea.
"That's Infernal Trio for you, people," Krisp said. "Well, doesn't matter. I see we're already famous. Good."
"Oh. My. Sporkin'. Glod. Krisp is doin' it again. Jokin' with random people."
"Don't be so worked up, South, it's just a party. We have plenty of time before we get serious again."
"If we ever do, you Vulcan."
"You too think I'm turning Vulcan too fast? Oh. My. Kriffing. Glod."

If Milask were to turn around, he'd pretty much instantly see who had spoken. While Montgomery Osbert III didn't leave Operations and his training area terribly often, the 79 year old man was still fairly easy to pick out of a crowd. Even if it weren't for his obvious age, and the fact that with Makes-Things' passing he was now the longest serving human Agent still active, his bearing, fairly simple attire, and the large red helmet he wore would have made him stand out. Like most of the others in the store, he was currently unarmed, and his hands occasionally fidgeted around as if he wasn't used to not carrying so much kit with him. Allowing himself to lean on the stereo a bit, he looked around the immediate area and the Agents that had started milling around.

"I'm surprised this store has enough foom for so many Agents," he said, adjusting his glasses. "Still, seems like there aren't terribly many of them in a festive mood. Can't say I blame them, can you? Hm...it's probably odd to ask, but I'm not sure if I saw you in the fighting, chaotic as it was. Were you there? Particularly during the fighting in Operations?" Perhaps it wasn't the best thing to ask on the anniversary of a fairly horrific event, but bluntness had always been Osbert's way. With his fairly advanced age, his memory could get a bit hazy at times, especially in events as chaotic as the Invasion, so he was trying to place if he had seen the other man before. Besides, it was better than awkward silence.

A small, mousy-haired teen stuck her head through the doorway, and her eyes lit up as she saw the stereo.

"It is 'Sgt. Pepper's'!" she cried gleefully to someone behind her. "C'mon, guys, it's 'The Beatles'! We gotta dance!"

The slender girl bounded into the room, dragging behind her three identical men, all in PPC black save for matching coonskin caps.

"But Bree, we were just going to the Cafeteria to--oh, don't give me that look," the protesting Danny groaned as the girl turned on him, brown eyes wide and pleading.

"C'mon, Krocket, pleeeeease?" she begged, and the misspelling manifested sighed.

"Oh, all right. But I get to be Ringo."

"Yay!" grinned Bree, and she dragged the three Dannys out onto the floor, where they proceeded to dance and sing rather questionable four-part harmony.

In the middle of it all, a short and fairly rotund Irishman made his way inside. Smoothing down hia hair with his hand, Gerald Murphy, best known by most as "Small Murphy" due to the fact that he was only about 5'4, looked around his competitor's store almost nervously. It was true that he had made a lot of money off of the Invasion, but he had still thought he should at least show some respect by attending the memorial, especially when his giant of a brother threatened to smack him upside the head if he didn't. As the 6'10 James Murphy (or "Big Murphy") squeezed through the doorway, the brothers nodded at each other, before Gerald pulled out a flask of whiskey. While they had each decided to make sure they were about as well-dressed as they could be without being out of uniform, Gerald had never been dissuaded from bringing his own drink.

"C'mon, James," he said in his thick Irish accent, looking up at his brother while taking down a swig. James really didn't look much like him, sometimes, it was almost as if they weren't really brothers. "Like you said, least we can do is pay our respects."

As the two Irish businessmen started to mingle with the crowd, Marcus made his entrance, followed by Zodfang. Instead of the usual banter, both were silent. In fact, the past week Marcus hadn't so much as said two words to anyone, even during missions, only really talking when he had to read out a charge list. The hulking Ork next to him had been trying to get Marcus fired up and talking again, but he was now silent, mostly because Marcus had quite bluntly told him that he'd blow Zodfang's head off if the Ork went about any of his usual antics. Nodding to his partner, Marcus went off into the crowd, looking for anyone he knew. He felt eyes upon him, and even if they didn't say it, he couldn't help but feel like they agreed with him; he hadn't been there, he hadn't been able to fight, so what right did he have to be here? If he hadn't been suspended, were there people who had fallen that'd be alive now? Reece, Dylan, Seth, Steven, Alex, Travis...could he have saved at least any of those men? Any others? He should have been able to fight. Agents moved wordlessly out of his way, as he made his way to a bar some Agent had set up in the corner of the General Store. Dropping himself onto one of the makeshift seats, he let out a sigh, looking up at the youngish man behind the bar, a nasty scar from the Invasion's fighting obvious on his face.

"Oh, hello," the man said, slightly surprised. "Didn't see ya come up. What can I do ya for?" He asked, looking at the stash of drinks he had stored under the bar. "Bleepka, I bet? Bleepsynthe?"

"Nah," Marcus said, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd say this, but just give me the real thing. Leave the bottle, don't wanna bother you by continually askin' you to fill up a glass." It didn't take long before the Agent set down a glass and a bottle of vodka in front of Marcus, who nodded in gratitude as he poured some of the bottle's contents into the glass. He had told himself he'd never touch alcohol again, when being drunk was what got him into the PPC, but there were extenuating circumstances, he supposed.

Meanwhile, in another part of the crowd, agent Vincent Cyrus looked around sombrely. The rest of his group were standing around him, but they didn't seem particularly talkative either. Though he, Einarr, Greg, and Yuri had all made it out alive, it had been a close call, and they each knew several people who hadn't, especially on that barricade they'd set up. Vince supposed it had been worth it though; that barricade in the middle of the corridor had stopped a lot of Sue reenforcements from making their way to Medical when the fighting there was at its hottest. "This ain't much a party," he said, almost mumbling to himself. "Feels more like a funeral."

"Over a thousand warriors paved their way to Valhalla with the bones of the Sue invaders," Einarr said, nodding to himself. The wiry Agent and his long blond hair didn't look quite as imposing without his spear and bullet-deflecting shield, but Vince knew that even unarmed the former Viking was always holding himself ready for a brawl, even while at a party commemorating the deaths of one thousand Agents. "The atmosphere is appropriate, I believe. Anything else would be disrespectful."

"Da, the Norseman is right," Yuri said, his left hand unconsciously moving up to touch part of his ear that had been blown off in the fighting. The Russian usually seemed fairly jovial, seeing everything as better compared to fighting Hitler's forces on the Eastern Front, but even he was sobered. "Many people died here, da? We should show our respects."

"Suppose y'all're right," Vince replied with a shrug, looking to Greg. The former Gear, whose skills with the Longshot sniper rifle had saved them many times over, remained silent as he sipped from his drink. He was even less talkative than usual, it seemed, so instead Vince looked around to see if there was anyone else he knew in the immediate area.

"Weird, the way we do this sort of thing, innit?" Deryn took a sip of her drink and grimaced. "No, thanks, think this is enough alcohol for me for now."

"I might have one, if that's all right," Leas said. "Cheers."

"YAY!" said Krisp. "We're here!"
The Infernal Trio approached and took a glass each. It wasn't time yet to borrow an entire bottle for them three. Just kidding.

"Bloody nag," he grumbled over his shoulder at his brightly grinning partner. He adjusted his glasses and smiled sheepishly at Cass and Nat.

"Hey there. It's, uh, it's been a while."

Meanwhile, the Infernal Trio tried to forget the incident by drowning in Bleepka, Bleepsinthe, Bleepnapps and Bleepquila. Krisp was busy socializing with everybody he could find, especially if they were female or if they were sitting alone in a corner.
South and Whatev mingled in the conversations. The Trio was enjoying itself. It was almost like the old days with the other tall ships.

Sorry! Anyway...

Being Genre Savvy, he didn't inquire about the cause of this fortunate turn of events. Best not to catch the Ironic Overpower's attention, he tought. He told himself to enjoy himself while he can, because like all things, it woudn't last for long. He began to wash the counter, humming to himself as he did so.

They're free,