Corruption.

[Toxic Variations]

Raphael was still kneeling and thus, he would stand and glance at Seraphim. Very well. He would follow. A sex crazed, wild woman, did not bother him. Khirti was obsessed with Seraphim, everyone knew it. The obsession was a sick one and you could well imagine the twisted scientist slept with pictures, of the dark haired fiend, plastered around her bed. That is, if she ever slept at all. Raphael wondered about that. Of course, he was loathed to step a foot inside the laboratory. And it wasn't just because of Khirtri, either. Something was amiss there? Ah, that wasn't unusual. Raphael swiped his ID card before the door and followed Seraphim inside. The air was filled with Venus' fragrance. The perfume could've enslaved any man, but not him. You can't influence the cold hearted? The woman dashed towards them, with scalpel in hand. Seraphim moved to restrain her and Raphael stepped back. For the love of Hell, the creature had no restraint. She might as well get on all fours and lick his shoes. A flash of anger, a surprise to see it, appeared in his eyes and he turned away. My my my, what was this sudden show of emotion? Mouth was set in a straight line, however, it did quiver. As soon as she spoke those lusty words, he was quite done with the situation. Raphael took a few steps away and said nothing.

As Seraphim handed him the papers, he would turn and take them. As he turned around to face Aphrodite, that usually stoic face was gifted with a sultry smirk. Did she honestly think she could handle the both of them? As if he'd ever touch her, ever. And yet, he saw the beauty in her - as he often did with women. They all walk in beauty and he could kill that beauty, he would, over and over again. Blood red eyes narrowed as he placed the blood sample down onto the counter, along with the paper. Raphael took a few steps towards her and he went so far as to push Seraphim out of the way . His pale face was turned down to the vixen, silverly hair cascading in soft threads against his smooth cheeks. His voice was soft and velvety - a seductive challenge.

" Lady. You do realize sexual relations, between Inner Party members, is frowned upon. Big Brother wises to wipe out the sex drive in the human animal. Ah, but you - you flaunt your lust wildly with disregard to the rules. Perhaps, I should take you into my possession and carve, into your head, my words. I would soo enjoy that moment. Slowly, gently, I'd open you up. "

Raphael raked his thumb across the woman's bottom lip. Silently he would turn his back to her and walk past Seraphim, who was probably surprised at this behavior. Surprised, indeed. Raphael would turn around and stand at his previous position

" Try it. "

Yes and see what happens. Was she brave enough to touch the cold flesh of these two demons and reap the consequences? As the replica of Seraphim was revealed - he was just as surprised! The young man had picked up the sample and the paper once more and he held it in his right hand, securely. A left hand would descend upon his surperior's shoulder - and he would shake his head, as if to say: Wait, listen to her explaination - even if it is to be a foolish one. Listen to it. Be calm and listen.

 

[Soul Saver]

"Yes, boss. Not that there are many still alive at all."
Spectre sheathed his ninjato, a magnificent blade which had been custom forged from Tungsten, and coated in Titanium, with a Diamond-tipped edge. Engraved were the words: Blood settles all affairs. Spectre had recieved it as a gift from a former friend, Sirius Galbenheim. Who had since turned against the government and become fraught with insanity.
Spectre had no qualms in killing anyone who would betray the state and rule of law. Even friends. The mental scars healed as quickly as flesh wounds.

The agent surveyed the hall. What a beautiful mess. The usual aftermath of a gunfight. As always, debris, shrapnel, projectile casings, and what was left of the combatants.
Battle, truly the ultimate form of art. So much pain, yet so much beauty.
Spectre wondered what had become of him.

I actually enjoy fighting, no doubt. It is a gift to be able to appreciate so much bloodshed. And yet I am a protector of the innocent, and an upholder of the law. I fight because it is my duty.

And so Spectre believed that he was in the right. That the rebels were the enemies of justice and the scum of the earth.

Only eight rebels appeared to be alive, three critically wounded.

"Clear this mess up. Take the survivors to holding cells, and burn the bodies after you have, of course, done an I.D check, stripped, and scanned them for evidence. You know the standard protocols. As for the severely wounded, shoot them." Spectre glanced at Captain Alice Chorley, a dirty blonde, full-figured, medium height woman in her late twenties. "Yes sir!" the officer saluted nervously, whilst trying to keep eye contact with Spectre.

Very appealing. You know the rules on personal relationships though, Spectre. Approach all aspects of personal life with caution.

The agent turned to face the personnel assembled in the crematorium. All of them looked pretty dazzled and worn out, but proud at what they had achieved.
"Everyone. You have done a fine job today. Big Brother is proud of you. If it were not for your hard efforts and the sacrifice of your dead comrades, the insurgent heretics would have cost us dearly. After you have done your duties, you are all free to go home and rest through tommorow." Nothing like a good motivational ploy.
Spectre raised his right hand in salute, the officers instantly responding with their own salutes in unison.

The black-suited man then turned to look at the vast car park.

Hmmm.

Activating the retinal zoom feature, Spectre could see that his car was pretty badly damaged, as well as most vehicles caught in the conflict.

"Grgh." Spectre turned to the now back online elevators.

 

[Dean Winchester]

Casting his doubts aside, Agent Saint went inside the elevator. The doors sealed before him as he pressed the button that take the elevator to the lower levels. He drew his gun, removed the magazine and checked how much ammunition he had left. 10 rounds out of 15, enough to take out a few more targets if necessary. As the elevator went down, Saint thought about all that had happened to him. How he lost all sense of cruelty and embraced a new found sense for justice. He was confused though, he couldn't tell for sure of Big Brother's rule was entirely justified. Nevertheless, he had never meet this Big Brother, and he knew that only him could enlighten him on this perilous path. The elevator finally reached the last level, the underground facility of the ministry where the laboratories and other administrative rooms were located. As the doors opened, Saint found himself alone, not a single soul could be seen in this area.

"If I am correct, the analysis room should be located to in the west area, passing by the prison and the test subject area."

Agent Saint sighed, he hasn't seen much action ever since he left Conference Room. This place was as silent as a graveyard, and perhaps this was what troubles him the most. As he walked slowly through the corridors, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the halls, Saint realized how wrong he was. For a man who committed many crimes through his whole career as a an agent, the loss of his two daughters was just the beginning of his punishment for a life of sin. He knew this were going to get worse. Finally, he reached the analysis room which was locked. A card slot could be seen next to the door. Agent Saint pulled out his ID Card and slided it in the card reader. The door was unlocked, and Agent Saint entered the room. The analysis room was full of high tech computers, the latest technology that could be placed under the use of the Ministry. Agent Saint searched the room for the blood samples he ordered to be analyzed before, and stumbled across a file and the results that he sure didn't expect. As the report says, the blood he found was of an Agent called "Jameson Gades", presumed lost in combat three months ago when the agent was sent to investigate rebel activity to the north. Though something was strange, the Agent Gades' blood was somehow genetically manipulated, showing signs of mutation. According to this, the mutation would grant enhanced strength, reflexes, speed and accuracy, but included amnesia and violent episodes as side effects. Agent Saint wasn't surprised, it wasn't the first time he heard rumors of these experiments, but he never had the chance to confirm any. In order to further investigate this, Agent Saint picked a briefcase he found on the desk and placed the files as well as the containers with the blood samples inside. He locked the briefcase with a simple lock mechanism that required a PIN Code for anyone to open it. Before leaving, Agent Saint remembered seeing other files he required at Dr Hawkins' office, which was next to the Infirmary. Agent Saint took the briefcase and headed towards the Infirmary, not knowing if he was going to stumble across one of the agents.

 

[Soul Saver]

Spectre paused. Saint. Where could he have gotten to? He knew the disillusioned agent was in the building.

Back to settle his affairs?

Agent Spectre attempted a direct comlink with Saint. Hopefully he'd respond and see reason.

"Agent Saint, this is Agent Spectre. Do you read me? Where are you now?"

Spectre ran into the elevator just as soon as three engineers spilled out, shouting to the Captain, "If you see Agent Saint, restrain him immediately!"
With that, he pressed "5", and the metal doors closed shut. As soon as it had begun, the ascension ended. Spectre ran out of the elevator, and towards the central security control room. It had cameras covering almost every single square inch of the corridors and rooms inside the building.

"This is Special Agent Spectre-
All agents, be on alert. Agent Saint may be attempting to infiltrate the facility."
Spectre entered the nerve centre of the ministry's security operations, a large multi-sectioned control room with many desks, which all had officers assigned to observe individual areas. "Be on the look out for Agent Saint. Any anomalies, lock down the offending floor, and send a rapid response squad." Spectre sat on a lounge chair next to the security
chief's desk.

 

[Dean Winchester]

Agent Saint heard his cellphone ringing, and answered the call. It was Agent Spectre. He knew that Agent Seraphim had already alerted the others about his behavior, this would make things harder for Saint. Of course, Saint knew very well how to get out of problems with simple words, this was somewhat one of his triumph cards.

"This is Agent Saint. I came answering the distress call I received moments ago. What in the hell has happened here? How did we allowed ourselves to be caught off guard by the rebels? Has anyone informed this to Big Brother yet?"

The situation was growing worse by the minute. With each second lost the rebels got closer and closer from discovering the passage leading to the underground facility. They have already secured the first 12 floors, the 13th was left unprotected meaning that rebels could easily infiltrate the lower areas by hacking the security, of course, it would take some time. Agent Saint was worried about losing the Ministry, after all it was one of the few places he could call "home". Now what troubled him the most was the whole report made about Agent Gades, not knowing if Seraphim was made aware of this.

"Agent Spectre, if you are still there, I have an important matter to discuss with you."

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

A swarm of relentless voices filled the dismal void in Agent Rover’s once preoccupied mind. His element was calling out to him, filling his veins with a sweet substance that at first seemed foreign and bemusing. It whispered in his ear, tickled the place where flesh met the waist of his trousers, and drew a tingling line down the base of his neck, remaining blissfully stagnant at the small of his back. It was not sexually arousing by any means, but it lit a fire within him that filled him with an insatiable warmth that filled his body and his soul. It ran along the muscle fibers in his arm, played with the nerves at the end of his fingertips, and made his bones melt happily. It was tempting to become an amorphous form and simply slip into the nearby vent that failed to keep this room cool or even remotely mild. However, before he could degenerate to such a stage, he identified the source of this ferocious lust.

Adrenaline.

Immediately Agent Rover went into action, firing blast after blast into the wide corridor that he stepped out into with every cock of his armament. Explosions tore away at the foundation of this goliath of a building, with withering ceiling tiles crashing onto the inflicted floor. The smell of burning flesh filled the nostrils of Rover, exciting him even more as the sounds of writhing agony made goosebumps jump out vivaciously without any warning. It seemed as if a bulk of the rebel group were at this single location, choking off the passageway and preventing any sort of bypassing. That wasn’t on Forrest’s mind anyway, as he heard Camo go into action as well, unleashing round after round into the stomachs, chests, and heads of the enemy. This two-man demolition crew showed no signs of faltering even in the least.

A single blast, and Forrest flew backwards.

As another frag grenade flew down the way and took out the rearguard of the rebel unit just ahead, a stray bullet found its way to his sternum, knocking him onto his back along with the recoil of Doomsday. Feeling himself land on his secondary weapon once more, Forrest growled and simply laid there, his crystalline orbs looking up towards the decrepit ceiling almost lethargically. This encounter wasn’t as fun as he thought it would be, for it seemed as if this particular group didn’t have many smarts to call their own. It wasn’t wise to catch Agent Rover off guard; he loved a good fight, but when those bastards were so lucky as to hit him with a wild and random shot, it infuriated him.

“Okay! Not cool! Definitely a new vest!” Forrest howled, immediately flipping himself up and eyeing the new hole in his puffy jacket. Underneath it laid the formidable bulletproof vest of the same color, his savior in many respects. “Camo! Cover me for ten!” he shouted out, and by some act of God the ogre of a man appeared before him, now sticking it to the advancing three groups with only dual handguns. It seemed inevitable that the pair would be surrounded immediately, but at once two more agents barrel rolled into the corridor, silently unleashing a bizarre amount of clips on the group of ten that were approaching from the east. Now, Agent Camo only had to concentrate on the North and West flanks, with the door to the stairwell at his back.

“That’s odd, I thought I packed the other kind of ammo,” Agent Rover said aloud, digging through all of the pouches on his vest and finding ammunition to guns that he didn’t even own. Growling, he went to his knees and attempted to grab his partner’s attention over the deafening gunfire. “Hey! Hey Camo! You wouldn’t happen to have any scattergun bullets, would you? I think I’m wearing the wrong vest and...”

The man who had the frame of an ox didn’t even reveal the slightest clue that he was paying attention to the seedy fetus of a man. It was at that moment that Rover noticed the substantial amount of heat on this floor, what with the walls beginning to glow red from the increased temperature. He glistened with his perspiration instead of becoming a giant splotchy mess like his current brick wall before him. In some other time at some other place, Agent Rover might have enjoyed this moment of being the debonair hero with a radiating aura about him, but at the moment he was rather perturbed by his lack of ammunition.

“Fine! I see how it is! Ignore me! Is that what I mean to you?!” Forrest shouted, ignoring the fact that this was only the second situation in which the pair had actually said more than four words to each other. Apparently keen on making this far more dramatic than need be, Rover pushed himself up off the ground and casually avoided more stray bullets, standing on his tippy-toes and sticking his tongue out at the rebels over Camo’s shoulder. Once he was satisfied in his childish mockery, he reached his hands behind him and with a pinked tongue peeking between parched lips, he searched for some sort of buckle behind him.

“Got it!” he squeaked, detaching the monstrous weapon that he had piggybacked eleven floors. It looked remarkably heavy and troublesome, but Forrest twirled it around easily enough and put one foot forward, lowering it to his side and holding it with calm, steadied hands. A wide and seemingly flawless smile painted the grim and strained features of one Forrest Collins, whose left thumb caressed a certain switch on the weapon, a switch that would change the fate of all those who dared to oppose him on this day of the Angels. Out of sheer frustration came this beast, a cold and gleaming chainsaw in a world that was fiery and dull. In some instances this revealed object would have been referred to as a savior of the times, but only four other people in this room would think of it as such as the switch was flicked, and the toothed chains started whirling fluently.

“Yeah! Now I can’t hear YOU! Take that!” he bellowed to Agent Camo, who was still busy plowing away at the rebels, even resorting to hand-to-hand combat with the blunt end of his pistols when needed. Some dolts were so blind enough to charge with all perseverance at the dynamic duo, only to get squashed under the unforgiving boot of the Ministry, as expected. Forrest would be one of these bold men to break away from the formed battle lines, armed not only with his whirling blades, but a disposition that implied all due confidence. At first it seemed as if he was going to advanced very slowly, taking his time and going almost at a sluggish pace. However, he soon stopped in the middle of the intersecting halls, and then winked.

And then he was gone.

The sounds of the chainsaw duplicated in volume as all of a sudden, Agent Rover appeared at the van of the western group of rebels, spinning on one toe and taking his weapon straight to the midriff of one faceless rebel. The blade cut messily through the torso, with blood splattering everywhere and coating the dark outfit of Agent Rover, but he seemed remarkably unfazed as the top half of the man’s body slid off, the waist and legs tumbling soon after whilst blood rushed out onto the thatched gray carpet. A high-pitched laugh erupted from Collins as he continued his rampage, practically skating through the ranks with the chainsaw held at his side, taking of limbs and plowing through chest and sternums as if he were slicing butter for a steaming plate of mashed potatoes.

One rebel started Agent Rover with his possession of some sort of sword, something that was ancient in its usage with London being a virtually futuristic environment. Forrest laughed and licked a bit of blood off of his now moisturized lips, then clashed weapons with the determined adversary. Cool blue eyes met fierce hazel ones as the two butted heads, though the cockiness and confidence in Agent Rover’s air ensured his victory from the get-go. Rover allowed for the man to swipe at him, cutting through the shoulder of his vest and drawing blood, but the former did not even feel it as he clashed weapons with the opponent once more, only this time with the blades. The chainsaw sent terrific vibrations down the double-edged blade, warping it and sending it across the hall as if it were backslapped thusly.

“Haha, well look at that! Someone should probably look to invest in a gatling gun or some shit, am I right or am I right?” asked the abettor with a cunning smile, and after he confirmed the swelling of fear in his victims eyes, he took the chainsaw to his neck. Instead of running it through, he simply let the teeth blitzkrieg across the skin, watching as veins burst and blood spurt out like a temperamental sprinkler. Gradually, Rover began driving the chainsaw into the neck, watching as tears of blood graced his coruscating cheeks almost poetically. With his eyes about to burst, he removed the chainsaw and watched as the head balanced on only half of a neck attached to the rest of the body, blood cascading down his garments as if it were a morose waterfall.

Rover turned as the body fell, the life ended simply enough with eyes still open, blood coming out of every possible orifice in the head to provide a messy cleanup job for the custodians. At least he was providing a bit of entertainment for them, right? It must have been boring to simply vacuum the floors, empty out trashcans, disinfect the windows... now they had true art to witness! Forrest Collins had always been a charitable soul, wanting to do all he could for those who were so honored to be graced by his presence. For the valorous rebel, an image of a devilishly attractive man was imprinted in his mind. For his weapon, the sweet taste of treacherous blood. For the inevitable custodian, a change in the monotony that was his or her life. Rover couldn’t have done any better.

Stepping over a decapitated body, Rover dragged his chainsaw behind him in an attempt to clean off the blade, but it only ended up getting caught on the corpse, dragging it along behind him like a little red wagon. Whining, Forrest turned and removed the device from the victim’s ribcage, kicking him aside and looking to Agent Camo and then the two other agents who had assisted him, with countless bodies piled atop each other in the adjacent corridors. It had been a long time since Agent Rover had the chance to cause a little bit of mayhem, so he felt very fulfilled as he patted Camo on the back with gusto.

“Score! That was a record time for me, how ‘bout you?” he asked, looking from his established partner to the other two with a smile. “Agent Carraway and Deadeye, have we? Thanks for the backup; I was afraid I’d have to re-oil ol’ Lucky here with how much I would have had to use it. It got a bit of exercise though, I think. NO THANKS TO YOU!” he screeched at the discarded shotgun back at the door to the stairwell, folding his arms and scoffing rigidly. “When we get back home, I'm going to have a word with you.”

Rover then stretched and remembered just how hot it was, removing his designer vest to reveal his trusty bulletproof one with now tattered underarmor underneath. He was bleeding in places, but didn’t seem to mind as he worked out the kinks in his neck, watching as the two guest agents nodded and promptly left, probably to go to the next floor to continue their work. Camo and Rover didn’t really let them get much action, seeing as how Rover had already called this floor a while back. They should have known he would have been greedy with the killing.

“Time to head back to the Conference Room, I think. It might’ve taken us a while, so no doubt mostly everyone else is on his or her way back, too. I’m starting to get annoyed by all of this heat, yanno.” Rover moved towards the open door and picked up his shotgun and unused ammo, strapping everything on and disposing of the loose items in their designated pockets. He even took the time to take his glasses off of his head and replace them in their spot to fix his hairdo, skin still glowing radiantly. A handful of other agents arrived on the scene, not even paying attention to the pair as they scattered in three directions, practically riding the air currents in order to cover the rest of the floor, if there were even any more insurgents left alive.

“Fine,” Camo finally said, removing his earplugs and putting his earpiece back in to stay alert for team messages. “Lead the way. It was hard enough shooting in the dark, but if I fall up the staircase, I know you wouldn’t let me live it down.”

Agent Rover laughed aloud, then traversed the doorway to the dark and malevolent staircase up. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
​

 

[Soul Saver]

Spectre silently exited the room.

"Saint. The situation is under control, all enemies have been annihilated. What you are doing now is not following orders. Go ahead. Explain yourself!" Spectre was prepared to hear his fellow agent out, though very suspicious.

 

[Dean Winchester]

"Fine, I'll tell you." Saint sighed deeply as he prepared to reveal what he found in the abandoned factory. Saint was walking towards the Infirmary as he continued his conversation with Spectre. He was holding a briefcase that contained all the reports, data collected as well as the blood samples.

"It all began with a call I got from one of our informants. Rumors about rebel activity were spread pointing towards an abandoned factory outside the city. I found it strange, so I decided to personally investigate this. After exploring the factory, regardless of not finding anyone I found out something worth the trip: a puddle of blood. But just not any blood, I also found an ID Card barely legible, so I sent the blood to be analyzed to the laboratory. Guess what I found?" Saint took a deep breath as he was about to reveal information that he was supposed to take to Seraphim first. "The blood sample belonged to an agent that was lost in action three months ago. I can't reveal his name just yet, but what I found is indeed serious. Someone has been performing experiments with that agent's blood, and I can't figure out why. Do you know anything concerning this incident?"

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

“You know what’s really weird?”
“... what?”
“How some people can skip steps and not fall over.”
“Huh.”
“I mean, I can do that too, but after a while I would just give up and fall, you know?”
“I see.”
“It’s like as if each step is taking you one step closer towards your destiny, but you don’t want to rush things. Sometimes you are eager to see what waits at the top so you skip a step or two, but it’s always nice to take your time, and enjoy the grooves in the railing and all that.”
“Thought provoking.”
“I know, right? It takes a lot longer to go up staircases than down them, too. It’s way harder to backtrack and correct that you’ve done than to just move on and live life.”
“How long have you been thinking about this?”
“Oh, for about thirty-six seconds. I was just getting bored and—OW!”

Agent Rover smacked himself in the ear, nearly causing him to tip over with the extra weight he was carrying around his shoulder and on his back. A high-pitched ringing that typically only dogs could hear sounded in his ear, and warped voices tuned in and out as if he were browsing through radio stations while going through a deep tunnel. He stopped for a moment and turned around to Agent Camo to see if he were the one making the sounds, but Rover thought better of himself, thinking the brute could reach such octaves with his voice alone. A mosquito or some passerby did not produce the intrepid sounds, but instead the communication device conveniently lodged in his ear.

“Something about Agent... Agent Saint? Infiltrating the facility? What the fark is THAT supposed to mean?” he asked, looking back to the gunman behind him. Camo as usual didn’t show what he was thinking, instead folding his arms and tapping his loaded pistol on his folded forearm. “I mean, he was just at the meeting a while back, and now he’s a suspect to be working with the rebels? Maybe I got the name wrong...”

“It does sound suspicious,” Camo related, fitting his glasses back over his eyes to catch the outline of Rover as he tapped his foot nervously. “Perhaps it would be best to simply keep an open eye. Whatever is happening, we need to return to the Conference Room to find out the details, so might as well keep on trucking so we can get there in time to get debriefed. This day is confusing enough as is.” He then took a few steps up, motioning for Rover to continue along lest they be ambushed by unwanted visitors from the door to the seventh floor that rested idly just twenty feet behind them.

“Right,” Agent Rover replied with a nod, then continued trudging up with a groan, obviously not liking to climb staircases in this particular instance. It was hard enough to get anything done as a low-ranking operative, but going up and down staircases? It would have been mental torture had Forrest not been trained to be a fortuitous agent. Still, it was daunting that they had to put forth this much effort just to go place to place. Agent Rover had an immense fear of elevators, however, especially during events like these. If he had to be stuck in a stalled elevator, he might have had to take his chainsaw to his own neck.

At times a little sprinkle of rebels would pop out from the most random of places, and Forrest simply didn’t have the energy to deal with them anymore. Apathy took hold of his disposition as he simply continued climbing, allowing Camo to work his magic to dispose of the little pests. The walls were melting, the stairs were thinning out, and eventually, the alarms dimmed away. Nothing seemed important anymore, now that his job was done for now, and realizing that he was stuck with this role as a grunt did not sit well in his stomach. He found his glasses descending onto the bridge of his nose once more, feathered hair cascading over his features once more, but he did not care. All he had to do was point at a certain location when he felt something, and Camo would fire away with outstanding accuracy. It required too much energy to say anything, so this silent relationship worked for him for the next six floors.

Agent Rover burst onto the thirteenth floor, and immediately his passion returned. The world returned to its shapely form, its defined ridges and secure foundations. Not liking to delay any longer, Rover practically skipped down the hallway with Agent Camo in tow, nearly missing the large double doors to the conference room, and skidding by comically. After a few seconds, his head popped around into the doorway, looking in to see a collection of agents who had already returned. They beat him to the punch, but then again, Forrest probably had more fun. What was that adage about the blondes, again?

“Agents Rover and Camo returning from securing the second floor. Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” he reported, then shifting his glance over to Agent Seraphim. “Sorry if I’m interrupting anything, but I heard a wire go out about something involving Agent Saint, and the infiltration. Is something wrong?” asked Rover, tapping his index finger on the barrel of his shotgun pensively. If there was something shifty in the works that he did not know about, he would get himself educated on it in due time.
​

 

[Ryvius]

Rill kept an ear out in case he needed to help the man, but it turned out there was no need. The drunken men were dispatched with even more ease than Rill would have expected. The last one tried to run, and was given a bloody face for his trouble. As soon as the fighting was over, the man started walking away. Rill almost laughed at the macho act. Of course, Rill was also quite thankful for it since it got him out of such a tight spot.
<o> </o>
“I can’t say I approve of your methods, but I still owe you one man.” Rill quickly walked up beside Gabriel with his trademark warm grin and extended a hand. “The name’s Rill, sometimes I’m Rilly when I’m buying the drinks. And to whom am I extending my most heartfelt thanks?” Rill said the last sentence in a way that it seemed more humorous than sophisticated, perhaps because it stood out so much amidst Rill’s generally casual speech.



((Gruuu...that's all you're getting. Maybe I'll edit it later.))

 

[Fatal Impurity]

Agent Oroboros made his way to Seraphim's office, in the deep velvet black. He knew lockdown protocol like the back of his hand, all lights except the emergency ones would go out and all non essentail areas would be sealed off by thick steel shutters. What was strange this time however was the unusual fact that even the emergency lights were switched off. Hiryu didnt mind, he was a creature of the darkness...in some ways he felt it was more his home than the light that birthed him. Hiryu was a master of darkness, even without sight he could still easily kill a man within 4 seconds, the night does not dull his blade...if anything it would be the light that was his enemy.

The twisty curved hallways of the ministry annoyed his sensibilities, he perferred clean cut, symmetrical structures...they are easy to remember plus much easier on the eye. Though Hiryu understands why its like this way...curved hallways make it harder to mount ambushes and harder to use the hallways as cover. The ministry seemed hotter than normal, to the point where Hiryu was panting in the slick humidity. Still he thought not much farther to go, before long he arrived at Seraphim's pristine and stylish office whereby he found nothing.

"Where could he be?" he whispered to himself in the bleak lonely darkness of the office.

Before he knew it the lights slowly flickered back to life causing Hiryu much concern.

"What the hell is going on!? This is not what protocol dictates!!" Hiryu then had a idea. He realised the only other place Seraphim could be was the medical bay where that crazy slut Khirtri resided. He quickly started to make his way there when he heard mysterious whispers from voices he did not recognise...

"Remember the plan, our target is Seraphim dont engage ANY other Agent understand? In order to corner that bastard we need to make sure the power is cut and that the armory is destroyed by the C4 we've brought with us."

Another much younger almost immature voice kicks in before long breaking the serene stillness of the ministry.

"So we cut the power, destroy thier source of munitions then seek out Seraphim before taking him hostage and returning to HQ right?"

"Keep your voice down! We've not got alot to rely on right now since they scewed the usefulness, of our heatvision devices by putting up the temperature of this craphouse. But one thing we do have left is stealth, even without the darkness that Ministry lockdown protocol dictates we dont want to be found. So the last thing we need is an 18 year old loudmouth blowing our cover with his voice thundering down the hallways!"

The youth replies with an almost indignant tone:

"Yes sir understood, I think it's best we relocate sir before Agents sweep this area"

Of course this conversation piqued Hiryu's interest, although following and/or engaging them without reporting to a senoir officer beforehand was pure against Ministry protocol. But Hiryu couldn't resist he had to trail them and keep an eye on thier movements. There was a Communications station on the floor above him nearby the armory, if only he could track them before reporting his finding's there, then he would be able to help bring down this invasion of the Big Brothers beloved Ministry.

He slinked against the wall before making his choice...this was his time, his choice was clear, he must do what he was born to do. He must help destroy the rebellion.

 

[Kenpachi]

OOC: Geez, so much for waiting, but at least its in the MinLuv

Silk understood the guerilla message and nodded towards one of the side doors.
"First on the left."
He looked Mamoru up and down before nodding and turning his attention back to the other man.
"Now my friend," he said in a deceptively calm voice, "this knife is coated in a very fast moving poison. Now tell me, or die, why did you come here? You aren't a rebel, or you would have signed the sign."
He looked the man up and down before sighing
"And you don't match any Rebel description I have of any Rebel, and I have files on everyone in this city and most of this country..."

 

[Nami]

Nimble hadn't given much thought to what a mansion may look like. She simply thought it was like a large house. However, when they were within view of Yukio's mansion, she thought that it surely was not a home. No one could live in such a place. She could not even recall the nobility in her native country with homes as grand as this. Even Jack was subdued by its beauty. Yukio’s place of residence appeared like something out of a dream. It even seemed as though the sun shown more brightly within the tall walls that surrounded this estate. The house was massive, antique in it’s architecture, which in and of itself was a fascinating fusion of Japanese and modern British architecture. There were large gardens that surrounded the entire residence, spotted with thin, sparkling streams and ponds. Flower gardens were also present, with several servants tending to its up-keeping. Nimble tried to make sense out of what lie in front of her eyes. Did she and Jack die? She had read about a place called "heaven". Is this where they were? Was Tokugawa Yukio actually an angel? Perhaps this was an illusion. The only thing that disturbed the illusion was the smoke that created an ominous cloud in the direction where the Ministry was fabled to be.

When they arrived at the gates, Nimble watched as Yukio spoke into a box embedded into the protective wall next to the gate. He seemed to issue orders, but Nimble did not have a clear view of his face. The gates opened and he walked on ahead. He motioned for the duo to follow. They reached another set of gates. When the first closed, the second opened. This happened with the third and final gate as well. The three walked along a paved trail that lead to Yukio's elaborate golden double doors. Servants opened the door for Yukio and he stepped inside. He invited the duo in. The two servants had stepped inside as well. There was a man who had been waiting for Yukio. Yukio nodded to each of the three, then signed “These ladies will take you to your guest room, where a bath and clean clothes will be waiting for you. When you are finished, come back to the first floor, I’ll wait for you two there. From there, I’ll see to it that you two are well fed. I bet you’re a pretty young lady beneath the dirt and rags,” Yukio said with a smile. Jack would normally have been impatient to eat, but he had been subdued ever since he stepped into this strange place. Nimble and Jack suddenly felt as if they had to be on their best behavior, lest they be cast out of this paradise. Nimble took off her tattered shoes and left them by the door.

The two servants took Nimble and Jack to the guest room. They motioned to where the bath and the clothes were. "Would you like any help?" one of the servants asked kindly. Nimble thought she misunderstood, but Jack translated for her. Nimble was astonished. Why would they ask me such a question? Are they not servants? I want to be a servant too, Nimble thought to herself. She dared not to reply with more words than necessary. She nodded her head. If Jack behaved like he normally did during baths, she did not want the servants to see. Nimble was determined to join their ranks. She would show Tokugawa Yukio what she could do. Jack looked somewhat apprehensively at the tub, but he refrained from making a fuss. The servants prepared the bath, then left the duo in peace. They had even set out shampoo. Nimble typically used other methods to cleanse her hair... she rarely got to use shampoo. Jack normally was lathered with bar soap. The tub water had already been run, complete with bubbles. Nimble had never taken a bubble bath before. Nimble went to the tub and tested the water with her foot. The water was perfect. She got in and lowered herself down slowly into the water and the bubbles. Jack, out of uncharacteristic awe, came near the tub.

"What are the bubbles for?" Jack mused.

Nimble rose up so that her upper torso was above the bubbles. "I don't know... but this water feels good." Nimble paused before asking, "Are you ready to jump in? Look, there is shampoo."

Jack hated baths. However, he felt he could endure anything in this place. He carefully positioned himself onto the edge of the tub. Then, as if he were sliding into a pool, he allowed himself to slip in. Nimble let him get used to the water, then she lathered him with shampoo. After Nimble had finished washing him, he jumped out and began to dry himself off. Nimble stayed in the tub and enjoyed the bath until there were no longer any bubbles and the water had become stone cold. Then she exited the tub and drained the water. She was embarrassed to find that the water had become extremely dirty. The tub was soiled.

Nimble didn't want to leave the tub as it was. She searched the guestroom for cleaning supplies. She found some underneath the sink. Using the supplies she found, she cleaned up the tub and cleaned the water from the floor. When everything was back to nearly the way she found it, she looked at the clothing that had been left behind. When she looked at them, she almost folded them back up neatly and put them away. The clothes were too fine for her to wear. What if she soiled them? Then she thought of a parable she once heard. She didn't understand the premise, but the parable made her think that if she put her original clothes back on and denied the goodness of the people who had shown her kindness, she would be cast out of paradise. She tried on the clothes. They were a bit snug and loose, but they would do.

Nimble went to seek out the servants. Jack trailed behind. It was unlike Nimble to be so docile. Nimble was going to let the servants know she was finished with the bath, but the servants were one step ahead of her. They took Nimble and Jack to the dining hall, where a spreadout of several different types of sandwiches along with some chips, dip, and salted french fries. The servants lead the pair to their seats. Nimble signed, "Is it ok to eat this food?" The servants looked perplexed. Nimble took out her notebook and wrote:

We can eat?

The servants nodded yes, of course. Nimble was relieved the servants could read. Nimble and Jack quickly ate everything that was laid out before them, save for a bit of dip.

Nimble had to see Tokugawa Yukio. When she had finished, she wrote several notes explaining her desire to clean up the remains of the dinner and to wash the dinner dishes. After some protest from the maids, the maids finally allowed her to do as she wished. They showed her all the necessities for her to finish her task. Jack brought the dishes to her and Nimble made dishwater and cleaned them. Both Jack and Nimble were tired, but content. Jack expressed a desire to go to bed. Nimble conveyed Jack's desire and her own desire to see Tokugawa Yukio. One of the servants whisked Jack to the guest room while the other took Nimble to the study, where Tokugawa Yukio was sitting. As soon as Yukio realized Nimble was there, Nimble proceeded to ask a range of questions, the first question being "Are you an angel?" She had not known the art of not saying what she meant directly, so she asked direct questions. "Do you work for the government? Can you tell me more about the Samurai Royal Family? Are they still here? Can I meet them? How is it that you know Sign? Do you have Deaf family? May I serve you right away?" and a slew of other questions during her course of conversation with Yukio. It was as if Nimble had let down some of her shields once she entered paradise.

 

[Donald Trump]

"Sign the sign, in a bar full of people i dont know, so very close to the ministry of love, with an attack about to happen? Oh yes my friend i am a rebel. You dont have me on your files, says more about you than it does me. You have a knife by my throat, does it really need to be poisonous? You have me at a disadvantage, where i come from people shake hands not threaten to slit people's throats. Now would you care to let me go, or do i have to kill you?"
He smiled sweetly as he waited for a response.

 

[Kenpachi]

Silk chuckled a tiny bit then stepped back, sheathing his knife.
"Kill me..." he laughed, shaking his head and indicating the man to move his seat back to the table, "now that's something that I've been threatened with many times in my life, and from people in worse situations than you were just in..."
He glanced at the man sideways for a moment before sighing.
"Pity Mamoru left," he muttered then spun around.
"Alright then," he said looking the man up and down for the first time, "if you didn't know the rebel sign its this," he made a fairly simple sign on the table then scrubbed it out, "the attack has already happen and it was foolish of you to not sign when the email," he narrowed his eyes momentarily, "said too. To not sign and after reading that email was frankly stupid, and I highly doubt that description fits you."

Sitting down himself he pulled out a small slip of paper, carefully selected and placed it in front of the man.
"This slip has information regarding the Ministry of Love, from a now deceased informant. And this slip," he put down a second one, "has a map on it with information on the first five floors."
He leaned back and nodded slightly. These slips had less information on them than the ones he had given Mamoru, but it would be foolish to overly trust this man yet. Some of the information was false, btu very little, and nothing important.
"Now my friend," he waved to the five other people in the bar, who holstered their weapons and went back to work, he signalled for two shots to be lain down, "what, may I ask is your name and how did you get my email? I certainly didn't send it to you."

 

[toyohisa]

"First to the left? Thanks."

Disappearing from sight, Mamoru had left the two alone to attend to his own business. Opening the restroom door, the young mercenary gave an awkward look around the bar, as if to make certain his privacy was indeed private, then closed the door behind himself and locked it. It was a decent little bathroom; more than enough for what he needed to do.

His attire was oversized and lightly baggy for a reason, after all. Lifting up the suit jacket that adorned his upper physique, a leather holster was brought back into his sight. Pulling a Beretta 90-TWO model from the leather instrument, he pulled back the slide and ejected the current clip to ascertain if his gun was fully loaded. It wasn't too often that he had to check his own gun, but being so close to the Ministry of Love was something that made him all too uncomfortable.

Sliding the Italian weapon back into the holster, the youth slid over to the sink, checking his appearance in the mirror. Even if he was of resistance alliance, that didn't mean he had to look overly suspicious or unattractive to the ladies, did it? Pulling raven strands over his visage, the man nodded in content as he stepped away and moved to the restroom entrance, but it felt as if he'd forgotten something. Oh, right; he forgot to actually USE the toilet. Silly man.

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

Even when death and destruction ensues in a place where stability and order is commonplace, the world around it remains still and unaffiliated. It seemed as though typically, the problems of the Government were carried down to the common man as well, but for now the citizens of London continued to enjoy their regulated solitude, that being the only experience they know of. The old homeless woman who pushed her decrepit and outdated shopping cart outside the coffeehouse at 10:39 every morning still passed by per usual, a malignant skeleton hiding behind a thin layer of flesh and wrinkles. Rogue snowflakes flew about wildly, clinging to the large paned window that looked out onto the busy street, a looking glass revealing the grim world that the fathers of the current ruling generation made for them. They, the inheritors, could only continue to live in this ‘utopia’, armed with a limited knowledge and a habit for remaining in subservience. That was their life.

“That’ll be $4.89. Out of $10...” the unwavering tone of one Caleb Whitaker related dryly, taking the bill in hand and dipping it into the cash register only to later reveal a five-dollar bill, one dime, and one penny as change. “Have a great day,” he added on, even though the rather cumbersome-looking woman had wandered off aimlessly without her change. Rolling his eyes in disgust, he slid the change down the rounded counter and informed the second shift worker that it was to be provided with the caramel latte at the pick-up counter. Sometimes, he felt like punching all of the customers in the face, but not today. Today was a day of patience and understanding, for he was given another day of grace for being ridiculously tardy. It was the least he could do, although he never saw the caffeine addicts do any favors for him.

“That’s odd,” a male teen by the name of Judiah would mention idly after passing along the change.
“What?”
“You’re normally cracking some sort of joke or being witty by now. I think you’re off schedule, huh?”
“Yeah,” Caleb replied dismally.
“I was a half-hour late.”
“You... were an hour late.”
“Yeah, but I’m usually only a half-hour late. So since I was an hour late, I was really a half-hour late.”

Jude simply nodded, looking to Caleb warily and then accidentally spilling a tall coffee that he was pouring, the dark liquid running over the smoothed edge of the counter and splattering on the floor unceremoniously. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, immediately ducking down and grabbing a rag from the cabinet to clean up the mess. Caleb groaned and shimmied around the squatting co-worker, grabbing a new cup from the stack and repouring the coffee, moving down the line to add in some Saigon cinnamon from the spice rack. He was disturbingly used to taking over for people while they went off to do other things, most of the time just slacking off or using the bathroom. It was in this manner that Caleb was a savior of sorts, sort of a veteran worker at this new joint after celebrating his 11-month anniversary there. Everyone else had only been working there for five months or less, with most of Whitaker’s generation quitting for some odd reason.

“That’s weird, we’re out of cream.”
“Out of cream?” Judiah echoed dumbly from Caleb’s shins. “Nu-uh! I totally refilled the thingamajig like, twenty minutes ago!” Caleb’s eyes moved over to the sugar container, swishing around its contents for a bit before pouring it into the steaming hot beverage.
“Ah, there we go. You put the cream in the sugar thing again.”
“Grah! I think that’s my eighth fuck-up today. I give up at life.”
“Well, let me have your paycheck, then. I’m lookin’ to buy another punching bag for the flat,” Caleb insisted in jest, knocking the ‘stableman’ over with the side of his foot. Jude would land in the diminishing puddle of coffee, rolling around in it sloppily as a pig would before throwing himself up. He had no words to offer the chortling higher-up, only a fierce glower radiating from his dark brown eyes. He cussed as much as a sailor did at his place of work, but he never would blow up in anyone’s face, lest he lose his only source of income. Any person in London who was thrown into the cell of unemployment found it hard to locate the key to release themselves.

It was in this way that the entirety of Oceania revolved around the principle of a hierarchy. Common filth like the lower class could not compare to the most exalted of Agents. In the agent world, the highest-ranking agents—those who communicated directly with Big Brother—were favored over the newly recruited men in the force, even if those below them had more talent or drive. The higher-ups could make their subordinates do anything, from shooting people of their own blood to dancing on the rim of a toilet seat. In the various rebel factions, the leaders and their ilk took precedence over the standard mercenary, the former using the latter as fodder in their numerous unsuccessful attacks. The rogues were expendable; if they were to fall, the leaders could always find more men to be their sword and shield. This was reflected in the workplace as well; the managers and owners fired and hired as often as an enchantress batted her eyelashes. If someone could not perform at the level the overseers wanted, they were simply thrown away and replaced in a heartbeat. That was the world they lived in.

Caleb slid the coffee down the polished marble, moving back to the register to find a ghost town before him. All of the patrons had taken flight to the outer wings of the coffeehouse, most likely perusing objects on their laptops. Thus, he was alone once more in this adamant and straightforward cosmos. He could not dwell on his distaste with his life what with the eyes of Big Brother following him and everyone else every place they went, so he had learned to erase all such thoughts from his cerebellum, instead pondering happy things like dandelions and sunshine.

Yet, as the door chime rang and a man that represented a walrus squeezed in through the entrance, Caleb wondered just how long he could keep this charade going.
​

 

[Contra Fates]

After the servants had seen to it that Nimble and Jack were taken care of, Yukio would head for his rather ornate study. The entire stretch of the house was spotless and beautifully decorated, the floors of a polished white marble, with gold flakes infused within the marble itself. The mansion was undoubtedly a residence build for the likes of royalty, a pity that only one spoiled brat would be the one to live in such a place. Though, surprisingly, he often offered his home to any Rebels he had associated with, yet they rarely ever come. Perhaps they don't trust him yet, or they're afraid of being seen as suspicious for approaching the royal palace, even if it was a place of immunity.

Yukio was currently looking over some of his financial records, a white fountain pen pressed to his lips as he idly bit down upon the end of it. The money at his disposal was so vast, it bordered on endless, and he wondered how long before the government would seek to take that money for themselves. Perhaps that was part of his reasoning for assisting the Rebels. If his money was going to go somewhere, he'd want it to go to a worthy cause...not line the pockets of malicious bastards.

He'd glance up from the number-ridden pages as he heard gentle footsteps, and lifted his head to see a much cleaner, and more-so innocent looking Nimble. They say that Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Perhaps there was some truth in the statement. He motioned for her to have a seat before his desk, instead of just standing in the doorway.

"Are you an angel?"
He looked rather surprised, and stared at her with quickly blinking eyes. ...An Angel? Maybe he was as beautiful as one, but, he was surely too flawed to be one. He began to motion with his hands, responding to her in slightly more correct sign language than his earlier attempts.
"No, but I am flattered. I am human, just like you."

"Do you work for the government?"
"No. I'm wealthy on my own, and do not need to work. I have none, and do not want any ties with the government."

"Can you tell me more about the Samurai Royal Family?"
"My family, the Tokugawa Samurai Royal Family, originated in Japan. They ruled Japan for over 200 years. Samurais were Japanese warriors, the Royal Families were just thought of royalty among the rest. Most of the Tokugawa Family died out in the late 19th century, but some of the family lived on."

Her next question elicited a brief twisting of his mouth, in obvious discomfort with the question. Nonetheless, he answered her honestly.
"Are they still here? Can I meet them? "
"No. My family was killed when I was a child. I live alone here. My servants are my only family now."

"How is it that you know Sign?"
"Ansell, the man you met earlier, made sure I was taught in many areas of study. Since I was very young, he taught me many different languages, saying that if I was to be a Noble Man, I had to be properly educated in everything possible. Sign Language was one of those languages."

"Do you have Deaf family?"
"No. My family was not hearing impaired, but people do lose use of their senses as they age, so learning Sign Language could become more useful down the road. I wouldn't be able to have this conversation with you if I didn't know it, so, it is already useful."

And of course, her final question floored him. His facial expression was enough to explain the reasoning behind his words.
"May I serve you right away?"
"What? Why would you want to do that? I didn't bring you here to be a servant. I told you there were no strings attacked to what I did for your and Jack."
Imagine how angry Yukio would have been if he had walked into the kitchen area to see that Nimble was washing the dishes and helping to clean, as a guest in his home! He sighed, leaning back in his chair, he'd give a subtle shake of his head, before signing to her once more.
"Anything else you want to ask me?"

Seraphim was a second away from pumping that bewildered face full of lead. If Raphael hadn't placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, he would have done it, and he would have shredded that face to pieces in a white-hot rage. He exhaled, shakily, before slowly rotating on a heel, and walking right up to Khitri with a malicious aura unlike any other. She took a step back, sea-green eyes widening as Seraphim struck her across the face with his pistol, before slipping it back into it's holster. She groaned in response to the blow, her hand flying to her stinging cheek. She was too stunned to be angry. ...He just pistol-whipped her!

"Khitri. If you do not give me one thorough explanation for this, I will rip out your ovaries with my own hands, right now. Do you understand me?"
"Y-Yes..! I-I...I wanted...to further O'Brien's work. I wanted to perfect it. The...Agent Process is not perfect, it's far from it. I thought, that if I could clone you, perfectly, I could better understand the exact process you had undergone that lead to your success. No other Agent has been created with an exact replica of your skills. ...I was doing it for science." 'And hopefully for some bedroom fun when no one was in the lab.' Seraphim heard that last thought, and stared at her with obvious dismay. This woman was hopeless. Absolutely. Hopeless.

"I want him dead. I don't have time for this...I'll deal with you later." Seraphim glanced to Raphael, motioning for him to follow him out of that blasted laboratory. Seraphim would be wise to hire more Scientists of a more sane and less wanton nature. With another shake of his head, he would exit the Laboratory, turning to Raphael with an upward curve of his lip. "I believe it's time to get back in touch with an old friend. If you would be so kind, please assist Spectre and the others with sorting out the living and the dead, and make sure the Room 101 clean-up crew doesn't rest until all of the dead are disposed of properly. I'll be in my office if you need me. ---Oh, and Raphael? If you see Saint, let me know. Although, I'm sure I could sense his traitorous stench from hundreds of feet away."

With that said, he would part his separate way from his loyal comrade, returning to the exclusively Agent-accessible elevator shaft. He would take the elevator up to the floor of his office, and promptly make his way there. After sliding his keycard, he would step inside, closing the door behind him. He was aware of the slim possibility that there may still be a traitor nearby, be it an Agent who recently discovered his conscience, or a Rebel who wished to capture him. For this reason, he would make use of some of the more old-fashioned instruments for security. Locks. He snapped all of the locks on that door, all six of them. If someone was planning to enter his room, he would first see their keycard presented on one of his monitors, and would then be glad to hear the angered rattling of the door. He'd have plenty of time to ready himself to take down the moron on the other side. Sometimes, the old ways, were the most effective ways.

Stepping behind his desk, he would take a seat, accessing one of the computer's government personnel databases, in order to pull up a phone number belonging to another equally important asset to the government. Or, at least...he would soon become important to them. Picking up the receiver of his phone, he would bring it to the side of his head, dialing the corresponding numbers. Once the caller picked up, Seraphim would waste little time in speaking. "It's been a long time, Brother."

Gabriel had paused in his steps, offering up a side-long glance to the pacifist he had saved earlier. He gave him a quick sweep of the eyes, He examined his appearance, noticed his height, and the fact that his clothes hid a rather obviously well-maintained athletic build. He could tell by just looking at him that the guy didn't need his help. He was surely capable of handling those goons on his own, yet he didn't. Gabriel arched a raven brow as the man mentioned that he didn't agree with his actions. Fair enough, but don't go drinking without being prepared to get roughed up somewhere down the line, especially in good ol' London these days.

The raven-haired youth would eventually shrug it off, extending a hand to the other with a forced smile. "Nice to meet ya, Rill. The name's Gabriel Daring. Fitting last name, don't you think?" Gabriel's grin grew a little wider, in response to his surprisingly suitable last name. Perhaps he was born to be some headstrong, fist-throwing, rebellious punk. It would surely explain his lack of reluctance back in the bar when it came to laying waste to those idiotic and drunk-off-their-ass- Thugs.

"It's hard to get by in this world without learning to defend yourself every now and then. There won't always be someone willing to step up to the role of bad ass mother fucker and save your ass, ya know?" Gabriel cocked a hip to the side, arms folded as he observed the other's facial expression. This guy would end up dead if he didn't grow a backbone. He was way too nice for his own good, and Gabriel could already tell just by looking at him.

​

 

[Amel]

"Family" Reunion. How positively... Divine.

"Listen up, men. Big Brother's sacrificed a lot of informants and resources in order to get us this information. This nest is one of the largest in our country. It represents the heart of the rebellion to Germans everywhere." The sound of the commander's voice rang through the close huddle of soldiers like an iridescent drop of water on a stagnant pond. While these words would not change this country... The actions tonight would send ripples throughout the German Resistance the likes of which would become waves of revolution. All in the name of the law...

"They've even sent their top agent, The Archangel Michael, to ensure that this mission is a success. I, for one, can feel the lives of these rebels squashed already. And once they die or are apprehended, so shall they be erased-- their blemish will no longer tarnish the thoughts of our society." Indeed, the entire congregation of soldiers began turning their heads one by one toward the back. Toward Michael.

The encampment of government soldiers rested atop a cliff a few clicks from the 'nest'. The Germans had took to dubbing these rebel encampments as such. Rodents that decidedly required extermination dwelled within the run down facilities lacking state of the art technological advancements. It was at the apex of this cliffside that Michael stood, locks of violet shimmering in the setting sun. Each strand billowed forward around his face, and the deep black of his trench coat fluttered forward around his armored arms and chest. Eyes that pierced with a scarlet fire looked down toward the target, variably assessing it from his vantage point. Just like any other nest.

"Gentlemen. For some of you, this may be the last sunset you ever see. Drink it in... when the moon's overhead... we charge." The men readied their weaponry. Kevlar, enhanced by years of government research and designed to withstand some rather heavy firepower, covered each chest. Many of these men were too young to fight a miniature war, which was what most nest raids had become. The German Resistance was some of the most potent, rivalled only by the resistance in London itself-- the heartland of Big Brother and his government paradise. Strangely, it was the ones that were too young who were generally the first to die. One such soldier, having been too excited to rest the hour or so they'd been given encampment, walked over to Michael with a look of hope intermingled by despair, "... Agent Michael, sir... Mr Archangel. With you here, everything'll be all right, right?"

"..." Michael squinted for a moment, his intuitive senses told him he should probably pat this guy on the back and send him off for a juice box. Unfortunately, Michael had the ability to consciously ignore and repress intuitive senses, just as much as he could call them up in situations where intuition usually remained in silent bafflment. "The enemy's encampment is heavily fortified. Their soldiers are trained in guerilla tactics and advanced warfare protocol. Our casualty rate should be no less than 70%. My being here just means that 70% casualty rate won't cost us the mission. I work better alone, to be honest. And if you get in my way... I'll kill you, too."

He never claimed to be a morale booster.

When the fighting did start, the moon was already highest in the sky. About 0100. The enemy, thankfully, didn't expect an early morning attack. That wasn't to say that it made Michael's 70% casualty prediction any less true. In fact, he was almost right on the money... off by 2%, for the worst unfortunately. Within the first three hours over half the men were wounded or dead. The cost, however, justified their progress. They'd already infiltrated and secured their way through two thirds of the enemy's stronghold. Each weypoint they created, they established a smaller encampment to tend to whatever minor wounds they could, and salvage any available munitions and supplies from the dead that they'd offer. It wasn't like they were going to use it anymore.

... Michael's combat prowess was as superb as it was grotesque. He spared no one, nor did he take any particular care to make their death quick and painless. Like a fluttering unpredictable bolt of lightning, Michael was there one moment, then a slight buzz in his legs and he'd propelled himself somewhere else with blinding speed. Reticules couldn't track him, most men felt their eyes played tricks on them. See, they recognized Michael as an agent. They believed that his being in one place, then another, then another, was a trick of that psychic business Agents used. They weren't too far off... He simply overpumped his muscles with bioelectric impulses, combined with small shots of adrenaline. When pinpointed in direct points of movement, he moved at lightning speed during the broadest margin of his motions. Then would 'slow' or 'become visible' for a brief second while he relaxed his adrenal glands and impulses. In this way, he didn't overload them. Unfortunately for the enemy, it gave him that ghost-like appearance. One might best equate it if they'd ever seen "The Ring"... Yeah, say hello to a Samara with cinder blocks for fists.

His strikes were rarely wasted. Typically it comprised of quickly assessing his opponent's combat style... Generally using cover to close the distance between them. Splintering their main weapon-arm at the elbow and wrist, kicking either knee in on itself, and removing their lower mandible to prevent any sort of scream other than a gargled "gregadgeg!" He hated when they screamed. Occasionally he'd break a neck, or punch someone's internal organs into a mesh of collided garbage into their spinal column, and on the rare occasion was forced to use his desert eagle. But for the most part, that's how it went.

During the final push, the final encampment, Michael sat with his backside to one of the concrete slabs once used by their enemies as cover, now used by them. His breath was only ever so slightly labored, and with a glance down to his watch he grinned. 0900. The battle'd taken eight hours. That was fair. Normal shift for him was generally a few hours longer than that. A glance to his right, and Michael noticed the kid that'd approached him in the beginning sat as well. Alive, still.

Good for you, kid.

But when Michael noticed the look in his eyes, a demeanor of disappointment and expectancy washed over him. He could feel it. The kid was petrified. Although he had slight reason to be: Their forces were down to a minimum, and the enemy still seemed like it had the advantage. But this was only because they were firing sporadically and unprofessionally... Or perhaps they were doing it just to spook rookies like him. It was working. The kid's eyes were like an animal trapped against the wall with only two options... Run away in gutteral humiliation, or die in beastial agony. This kid seemed like a sprinter.

Don't do it kid... You'll make it if you just hang on.

But he didn't. After screaming "I can't take this anymore!" The kid began crawling off in frantic attempts to escape the grim realities of his job. Michael's hand shot out, and the kid's foot was gripped. A tug backward had the boy in a headlock, and the cock of Michael's desert eagle at his forehead. If this kid ran... He would dishearten the other troops. If this kid ran... He would bolster the morale of the enemy. If this kid ran... It could jeapordize the mission they'd been sent on. The boy was squirming in The Archangel's grip, tears streamed down his face. The sullen rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, the yipes of the boy, and the shouts of the commander to distract the other troops from what was about to happen were interrupted...

.... By the Super Mario Brothers' Theme Song...

Laying the gun down, Michael lifted his cell-phone and snapped it open. It was always on... in case a mission ever needed updating.

"Agent Michael. Speak."

The voice on the other end of the line was one he hadn't heard in years. Seraphim, a brother in the darkness that was the O'Brien facility.

And just about that time did he shoulder the phone so his free hand could reacquiant itself with the .50 caliber gun. The barrel, placed upon the forehead of the boy, would release a loud resounding crack before his struggles were over. He'd never jeopardize another mission... nor would he ever have to see the terrors of war again. He'd have been tried and likely killed for dessertion anyway... This was better.

"... You're right. It has been a while."

 

[Nami]

Nimble thought about Yukio's responses. If he wasn't an angel, then why did he live in heaven? Nimble would muse about that on her own. She was still perplexed at a hearing person who would learn Sign. She had not met any Deaf people in that country, so the apparent similarity between the signed language of this country and that of her home country piqued her interest as well. Perhaps she should seek out the communities here... if they existed. "No. My family was not hearing impaired, but people do lose use of their senses as they age, so learning Sign Language could become more useful down the road. I wouldn't be able to have this conversation with you if I didn't know it, so, it is already useful." Yukio's reasoning for learning Sign caused Nimble to believe that Ansell was possibly a teacher or a minister at one point in time. Those were the only types of hearing people she knew that learned Sign without any knowledge of the culture.

"No. My family was killed when I was a child. I live alone here. My servants are my only family now." Yukio's family... had been killed. Nimble could not remember ever having family. She didn't quite have a full understanding of family ties, but she figured it was probably similar to the bond she had with Jack. Yukio must have had family ties. Nimble noted his pained expression when he answered her. Somehow she knew not to pry any further.

"What? Why would you want to do that? I didn't bring you here to be a servant. I told you there were no strings attacked to what I did for your and Jack." Nimble hid the panic that rose in her. Would she be cast from paradise? Would she lose the company of one of the only people in the entire country that could communicate directly with her? Nimble kept her composure as she asked, "Please let us serve you. Jack and I have many different talents. If you don't like my music, I can get new songs! We know of magic tricks!" Nimble wished she had brought her serinette instead of leaving it in the guest room. "We can cook, clean, and sew! I know about chemicals and Jack understands plants... we know how to make salves, healing potions, even weapons! Please... surely there's something we could do for you!" The plea was evident on her face, for facial expression was key for giving tone to her signs. "There isn't anyplace else we can work here."