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Leto, noticing that several Agents can't grieve on drink alone, brought some Sandwiches, Salads and Chocolate cake. At the same time, a portal suddenly opened and a box came out of it. On the Label, it said: This is a present from the heads of various OFU's to the Protectors of the Plot Continuum, in order to commemorate the valiant Agents that died in the defense of it's Headquarters last year. When Leto opened the box, he found out that it contained various foodstuffs, oviously untouched by Gandalf or any of the other OFU cooks.

"Looked like the strongest stuff 'e had," Marcus replied, placing the bottle on the opposite side of the glass from Sara. "'Sides, not that bad. Otherwise ya wouldn' be drinkin' it!" Snickering to himself, Marcus stared at the empty glass, half listening to the song and half losing himself in his alcohol-veiled thoughts. What the hell was it so important to her for, anyway? Couldn't a man just get plastered in peace?

Not too far from where Sara and Marcus were, Troy stared at the bar with a look of concern on his face. He had never known Marcus to act like how it looked he was acting. Part of him wanted to go over to the man he considered a friend, but at the same time, he was enjoying the music and Marcus had always preferred to take care of his problems personally. Adjusting his sunglasses, he moved onto the dance floor again, looking around for the bespectacled (and rather generously endowed, which was odd but not unheard of in the PPC) young Agent that had caught his eye a few seconds before. After all, wouldn't their dead comrades have wanted them to have fun?

Watching the slowly filling dance floor, Gerald Murphy shrugged a bit. "I can look into it later, should probably find Leto," he said to his brother. "You know how business is, bro. You go have some fun for us, aye?"

Chuckling a bit, James grinned at Gerald before heading onto the floor. "Aye, sure. Just don't try to pickpocket anyone, y'hear?"

"I want you to tell me why you're trying to drown your sorrows in the worst-tasting alcohol known to sentient life." She snatched the bottle back and took a swig, glaring over the rim at him and daring him to do something about it.

Adder fidgeted nervously. "Seriously, Deuce, I'm getting that mall feeling."

Her partner gave her a strange look. "'Mall feeling'? You consider that a bad thing? From what I've heard, most Real World girls have positive feelings concerning the mall."

Adder returned his look tenfold. Deuce grimaced. "Right. You're not most Real World girls. But what's your problem?"

"You know that feeling you get sometimes," said Adder, "when you're in some place and you have that unexplainable feeling that you do not belong there?"

Deuce grimaced again. "I know that feeling far more than you could possibly comprehend."

"Well, I get that feeling whenever I'm walking around in the mall. So I call it my mall feeling."

Deuce nimbly dodged a mini-Balrog that had made a grab for his daggers. "Why exactly are you getting that feeling now?"

"Because we had nothing to do with the Mary Sue Invasion, so therefore we reeeally don't belong here."

"Says who? A bunch of the newer recruits are here. See, there's that Abominable Trio I keep hearing about. Hey, they have Pan Galactic Gargle Bleeprin Blasters!"

Adder raised an eyebrow. "I didn't take you for a Hitchhikers Guide fan."

"Oh, please," Deuce rolled his eyes. "I had it shoved in my face during training. I'm completely familiar with it." Grabbing the drink, he took a sip. "Well, well. It really does feel like getting your brains smashed out with a slice of lemon wrapped around a gold brick. What was I saying?"

"That's the Bleeprin working," Adder muttered. "I don't drink. And Deuce, if you get so wasted that I have to carry you back to the RC, heads will roll. Mine will not be one of them."

"Point taken," said Deuce. "Don't worry, though. I can hold my liquor."

"That's what they all say."

However, the veteran wasn't on the attack. Instead, he merely snatched the bottle out of the woman's hand, filling up the glass again before downing it all in a couple swigs. The bottle and glass were placed back, the Agent letting out a sigh and giving his new companion a pointed, if lazy, look. Had he not already been at a rather decent level of intoxication, part of him would have realised how pathetic he looked, but right now he didn't care.

"The 'ell is it to you?" He asked, unable to hide the slight slur to his voice. "Everyone's drinkin'...Heh, the Bleeproducts...they just dun' do the trick, y'know?"

Taking another long drink, Marcus could hear the music starting to turn up, partygoers tentatively dancing to the stereo's choice of music as bit by bit some people attempted to liven the place up. Really though, he honestly couldn't care less. People had died, and he'd never been able to do anything but stand by helplessly and try to get some of the wounded out, but here people were almost celebrating it. He just didn't get it. "Well?" He asked, impatiently. "Wh-wha'd ya want?"

...but kept her thoughts to herself.

"Thanks, Zod."

The woman made her way to the bar, where she sat next to Marcus. Picking up his bottle, she sniffed the contents and took a tentative sip.

"Ugh. Never was a big fan of this stuff. Too strong for me. Didn't expect to see you drinkin', though. What's up?"

"Awful? Sounded like a right an' propa fight, t'me! Only bad ting wuz dat da Orkz wuzn't dere!" Zodfang, having a completely incompatible view of warfare from most humans, genuinely didn't see what everyone was worked up about. In fact, he thought it had been a party to celebrate a good, hard-won, fight until Marcus threatened to kill him. When the woman suddenly jerked up, asking him why Marcus was so worked up. "Zoggif I know. Ask 'im yerself," was all he managed to say, shrugging his massive shoulders as if he'd given up even trying to figure out what was up with his partner.

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.

I've already sent an email to you detailing some of my questions (and answered the application form in the LJ), but there's still one little thing that i've got to ask: Do the entries come at specific intervals?

Do you own mad.scientist.com? That is one of the niftiest domain names I've ever seen.

It's pretty much free reign with your own folks. Don't see any particular reason you wouldn't be able to have two individuals working with others.

I'd probably be free to poke, if you liked…?

"Yeah, I was there. Awful..." she was lost in reverie for a moment, then suddenly jerked and looked up at Zodfang, surprised.

"If I remember correctly, he wasn't here at the time. Why's he all worked up about it?"

Leas took the bottle and considered for a moment. "Let's see… if I remember correctly, it helps to hold it like this-" this being a forty-five degree angle- "and hold the cork instead…" Not that it seemed any easier to get the cork out that way, but at least he didn't lose it when it did come out. He poured a glass for Trojie first. "All right. Anyone else for champagne?"

Do you know anything about dungeons and dragons, or, specifically, the dragonlance campaign setting? the dragons in that continuum, or at least some kinds, are natural shapeshifters and magic users. I could use that to allow my more homicidal agent to be able to disguise himself without having to store all his weapons.

Milask was not in the best of moods. This party was not getting off it feet. He was hoping for more dancing, and stories of the fallen comrads. What it looked like was a bunch of beings drinking in small groups.

The sterio was an unusual object. It is slightly psychic and would not play certain songs, eventhough you asked for it a dozen times.

Milask pressed the play button. `The Beatles` seemed to be what the sterio wanted to play...

Fortunately, Trojie and I share a brain, and so she's remarkably good at differentiating between when I'm being serious and when I'm trying to make her giggle.

"Eh? Wotcha want?" He asked, upon noticing the female Agent behind him. When she asked what was up with Marcus, he took a few seconds, and then shrugged. "No bleedin' idea. 'Oomie's been like dis all week, fink it'z 'cuz o' dat big fight last year."

Depends on the OCs. What they're doing, and how they're doing it. You get some fics that are pretty much entirely descendants of canons, but the characters, while OCs, are well characterised, and their actions fit canon - there, we have no kill. Then we have fics where we recognise no names, it's all descendants, but they're all horribly WRONG, and they don't fit canon, and they warp the ideals, the standards and the laws of the canon. Then, even though they're all OCs, we can still kill. It's the spirit of the canon we have to maintain, after all.

Will you please not say the word rhubarb until it's in season? The stuff costs a bomb at the moment and you're giving me cravings.

You'd be talking a fairly massive malfunction - this is technology hundreds of agents use daily without mishap - and you'd need a reason why it couldn't reversed - Medical is damned good - and you'd need to make it for comedic effect too. If it's going to change your agent's species, and you'll give the change a nod then never mention it again, I'd advise against it. But if it's a plot point, and it aids the comedic telling of a mission, and serves a purpose, then by all means, go for it.

Unless the rhubarb sings and plays the lute.

Therefore, your computer is either stupid or mad (or both), and needs to be fixed. There's something very wrong with any intelligent being that is obsessed with cake but not with pie (especially cherry pie, or strawberry & rhubard pie).

Would there be an in-story reason for doing so?

Dragging her partner by his shirt, Sara entered the store and looked around.

"Is this really necessary?" the taller Agent grumbled, readjusting his skewed glasses.

"Yes. You need to socialize more," his partner nagged, pushing him towards Cassie and Nat and scanning the room for any other familiar faces. She noted Marcus at the bar, and raised an eyebrow as she read the label on his bottle of drink. Making her way through the crowd, she tapped Zod on the shoulder.

"Oi, Zod. What's up with your lump of a partner?"