Corruption.

[toyohisa]

"No no, my book is fine. After all, your health is more important than my dear friend Reborn-kun. I can simply buy another copy. . You are all right, correct?"

Zipping up the bag, Mamoru nodded toward the white dressed in gaudy white clothing; what was he hoping to achieve by flaunting his sense of "style" out in this area of the city? Shrugging, he slung the bag back over his shoulder and gave the surroundings a quick sweep; he didn't seem to see anything wrong with the surroundings. Of course, the sudden entrance of another male to the scene made the young man feel all the more uncomfortable. After all, what man would be comfortable hanging around with a bunch of guys he just met? It was too much of a sausage party. However, something that the newcomer said just so happened to strike his interest.

..why the fuck would he call him a wolf? Silly.

Gazing at the blond in the white outfit, Mamoru pointed toward the man and laughed cheerfully, rubbing the back of his head with the opposite hand. This guy? A wolf? That was just about as funny as meeting the woman of his dreams in this damned, rotten place. Pressing his back against the wall, his heel pressed against the toes of his opposite foot, gesturing to the man in white with his thumb.

"Wolf man? Are you kidding? Look at the guy! I've never seen a wolf that had a fashion sense that horrible; if anything, he's more like a Pin Striped Cow! Yeah, I'll call him Cow-kun from now on, just to commemorate his costume!"

Of course, he coincidentally threw out all mention of the Agent, his seemingly one track mind focused on the shotgun wielding male. The moment the man mentioned getting drinks from a nearby pub, Mamoru dropped the entire subject that the other had brought up; it had been a pretty slow day, and even though it was under the intention of talking, he had no clue about anything they could talk about. Tugging at the untucked dress shirt under the unbuttoned suit jacket, the youth nodded in response to the idea of getting free drinks.

"Well, Cow-kun can't be too bad if he's getting us drinks, right? I'm definitely up for it."

What a confusing fellow. . .

 

[Toxic Variations]

Raphael was an enigma, in every sense of the word. What lay behind the cader visage, so hideously detached from the world around him? No one would ever know. He stood in silence, his eyes fixated on the morning sky beyond the glass walls of Seraphim's office. The clouds were tinted with splashes of red, orange and the occasional purple. He usually didn't speak, unless it was absolutely neccessary. When he did speak, it was usually to those he was charged to bring in and torture. A quiet voice he possessed, silky, with no traces of youth in it. Why was he an Agent? Why did he choose to remain as he was? Why? Afterall all that had happened to him? Simply this: He loved killing, he thirsted after killing - the lust for ending life was bred into him with a skilled hand. And yet, it did not rule him. Perhaps, it wouldn't have been so, if fate decided a different path, but it did not. There were many reasons why he remained here. Complex, secretive - the reasons were as many as particles of sand upon a wind swept beach. Mind considered the body - a weapon and the weapon exists to be wielded by Big Brother. He said nothing as Seraphim spoke of Agent Saint - scoffing at his behavior. Slowly, he would turn away and gaze out of the window. There were a few grey clouds, off in the distance - alerting one, to the fact, rain might come down in a glistening shower. The Ministry was well protected from outside penetration. Barbed wire lined it's parimeter like a great shining thread of light. Men in uniform, guards, patrolled day in and day out. Why do you do what you do? What is the meaning of your existence? The question asked by so many. His heart and soul were a puzzle unsolved. In the end, maybe, he didn't know himself at all. All that was known was blood, obedience, and death.

" As you wish. "

Phone was flipped open and Agent Saint was contacted first.

" Agent Saint, your presence is required at the Ministry of Love - immediately. A meeting will take place in the Conference Room, thirteenth floor. "

The call would thus be ended and Spectre would be contacted next.

"Agent Spectre, your presence is required at the Ministry of Love - immediately. Proceed to the Conference Room on the thirteenth floor - a meeting will take place of great importance. "

Phone was closed and Raphael walked towards the door, stopping, as Seraphim moved past him.

" Indeed. Such is to be expected. "

Raphael would then make his way to the thirteenth floor. The Ministry was composed of many levels. It was much like a maze, designed, to be overly large and impossible to escape. Corridors often ended in a dead ends. Telescreens were even spaced out, along with cameras, to watch and record your every move. The main atrium, on the ground level, was a shrine to Big Brother. Look there: A grand mural was spread out across the wall : Big Brother was standing on the crumbling ruins of a city, looking towards a bright and hopeful horizon. The left hand, of the noble figure, was extended - beckoning, as if to say: Take my hand and I'll guide you into a future void of despair; have no fear, the world is changing for the better.

 

[Dean Winchester]

As soon as he got the message, Saint drove his car all the way to Headquarters. He parked his car near the entrance and walked angrily through the main lobby, took the elevator and stopped by 13th floor.

For Saint, time was an asset that should never be wasted. A man like him always lived by the edge of the knife, living every day as if it were the last. His arrogance made him sometimes behave obnoxiously towards others, even if they were agents. As he walked through the corridor, Saint stared coldly to the door before him: The Conference Room.

He thought of the day when he would be the one giving orders, not Big Brother. For him Big Brother was just his current benefactor, and another stepping stone on his quest for power. The rebels were just a mere setback, simple bugs that needed to be squashed under his heel. As he found himself face against the door, Saint inhaled and exhaled, soon after he reached the doorknobs and opened the double doors yet he found no one.

EDIT:

Perhaps they haven't arrived, he thought. Agent Saint knew they had a meeting, but a sudden call made him change his mind. He pull out his phone and answered the call, only to get the message about rebel activity nearby. Without hesitation, Saint went to the elevator and left the area. After leaving the building, Saint told one of the agents to tell Raphael and Seraphim that he had some "important issues" to settle. That being said, Saint got in his car and left towards an abandoned factory. As he got off his car, Saint drew his Desert Eagle and approached the door leading inside cautiously. While walking, he kept thinking about the reason of his existence, if he was truly born to do this. He thought of the girls he had adopted presently, perhaps to remove some of the stain tarnishing his already rotten soul. In this world of cruelty and pain, even a machine like him had learned to question his own life. Nevertheless, he was an agent, and a good one following orders. He knew that his thoughts about replacing Big Brother would get him in trouble as long as the others were able to read his mind. Talk about privacy, he had none. If he wanted to succeed, he required to shape his mind to avoid any of his ideas to put him in a bad situation. He knew that Raphael and Seraphim would betray him only to rank up and make Big Brother happy, and Saint would never give them that chance, he would rather burn the whole word and reduce it to ashes. I should watch my back more often, for the dogs are now praying on their own kind. Anyhow, he knew what he had to do so he removed those thoughts from his mind and hid them deep within his consciousness, where no one could find them. A clever trick for someone who recently learned how to walk by his own means, not as a simple puppet.

As he entered an explore the factory, Agent Saint found himself alone within the shadowy corridors of this abandoned building. Rats and other animals roamed the area, he could smell the stench in the air. The floor was covered in waste and putrid waters, the rust could be seen covering the walls. Something about this was really odd, maybe it was an ambush. Regardless, Saint kept exploring the area and he stumbled across a puddle of blood. He knelt down to take a sample of the blood and send it to the laboratories, something tells him that it was the best option he had. He hid the sample as he rose and left the building. Obviously the whole call was a catch to get him out of that meeting.

As if it were a burden, Saint entered his car and headed back towards the HQ. As he left his car near the entrance, Saint noticed little activity, perhaps too little. Something was wrong about this. Could it be that either Seraphim and Raphael already spoke more than it was needed, telling Big Brother about Saint's agenda? Nah, they didn't get the chance to read his mind, so he was safe for now. The ideas were locked and hidden within the deepest part of his brain, Saint had it all under control. He passed by the corridor and headed straight to the Conference Room. As soon as he arrived, he entered the room and awaited there.

 

[Nami]

The duo reached one of the places they had found where it was safe to pitch a tent. "Check," signed the girl. Jack nodded in understanding. Jack surveyed the campsite, then returned. He nodded twice, then scratched his earlobe. Shit, thought Nimble. This was going to be a long night. The government had placed new cameras in that particular haven. They had to go search another spot.

The duo entered the streets again. They pulled cloaks over their heads. However, given Jack's size, many people still knew who they were. Such was the case of the man who approached them with a leer. The man walked directly to Nimble and waved his hand in front of her face. "Hey! You're that organ grinder, huh?" Nimble sighed inwardly, then looked at the man directly into his face. The man's leer grew as he saw the girl's face. "I've got a better job for you. How about it? The hours are great. You wouldn't need to be on your feet all day. You can work laying down... or even on your knees." The man chuckled. Nimble's expression did not change. She stared at the man with a flat, unfriendly look. "Aw, why you gotta look at me that way? You don't have a choice, ya know." The man onehandedly picked up the girl and pinned her against the wall of a nearby building with his hand around her neck. Nimble dropped the serinette. Still, her expression didn't change. She continued to stare at the man with the same flat look. Jack slipped on some ear plugs that resembled hearing aids and he turned the serinette Nimble dropped right side up.

The man no longer seemed amused. "I don't like your attitude, little girl," the man hissed into Nimble's face. Nimble said nothing. The man reached into Nimble's already tattered pants. "I'm gonna make you work hard. No one likes an uppity bitch." The man felt areas with his fingers he ought not have felt. "Ha, you're still hairless," the man sneered. Even with this intrusion, Nimble's expression did not change. This annoyed the man. He proceeded to check if she had a hymen. Jack had been at the serinette all along. He had pressed a button... now he turned the crank steadily. The tune of Frère Jacques filled the air. The man paid no attention to the monkey. After the first strain, the man suddenly stopped. He drew his fingers out of the girl. After the second strain, the man swayed and withdrew his hand completely out of the girl's pants. After the third strain, he slacked his grip on the girl's neck. When the song finished, he doubled over and threw up.

Nimble gathered up her serinette. "I'm not through with you, little bitch. What did you do to me?" The man got up and lunged at the girl. The girl was ready. She sprayed something that looked like mace into the man's face. The man quickly learned that it certainly was not mace. He screamed in agony as his skin was being eaten away by acid. Nimble and Jack turned and walked away as if nothing had happened. Nimble's face was blank, while Jack's was an expression of worry (a look that only Nimble seemed to be able to read). When they were sure they had gotten a safe distance away from the man, Jack stopped the girl.

"Nimble... I'm sorry. I wasn't quick enough."

Nimble then did something she rarely did those days... she smiled. "Don't be ridiculous, Jack. That man wanted to do so much more. If he would've moved us away from the cameras, he would've died." Nimble sighed. "Sometimes it's hard not to kill them." The girl did not allow herself to convey any emotion. The two of them continued on to find a secure spot to sleep for the evening.

 

[DKnight]

“Glad to see you could join us, Demon.”
Daniel walked into the ill-lit room. There was a large, round table inside at which everyone sat. The image reminded him of the stories his wife would tell him of King Arthur and his knights, only less extravagant than he imagined. Everyone inside watched him as he took his seat by this groups particular group’s leader, Drake.
Daniel didn’t know a single group leader that went by their actual name. They usually went by names that sounded powerful. Most other rebels had normal names, but there were the few exceptions. Daniel was one of these exceptions.
“So now that we are all here,” Drake continued. “The briefing will begin. Today we will be raiding the Ministry of Love. We will be heading out at eleven hundred hours into the city. Our goal is to save those who have been arrested for believing in their personal freedom. We have to be careful because there are agents all over and some may be posing as prisoners.”
Drake unrolled a large map of the target building onto the table. There were little marks on very specific parts of the map.
“As you can see, I have marked every possible entrance and exit. We will be split into two groups. One will be led by Shadow Demon, and the other by myself. Demon will take his men through this spot here,” Drake began to point at the mark on the south side of the building. “You will taking these cells here and head toward the central exit which leads to the sewers. Everyone not with Demon will go with me. We will meet back here when we are done. Now here are the teams…”
Daniel stopped listening at this point. He knew what he had to. The rest would follow him and any orders he gave.
The Briefing was soon over. It wasn’t much of a briefing, but that is what is to be expected. The resistance was still growing, and was not yet ready to be united as a whole under a true leader. If they were all brought together to soon they would be too anxious and attack before they were ready. They would lose. Daniel could never allow that.
Everyone began to stand and walk out of the room. Drake turned to Daniel and grabbed his hand.
“Good luck my friend. May we see each other when this is over.”
Daniel looked him in the eye before responding, “I guarantee it.”
He took his hood and threw it over his head. The shadow covered his eyes and he was no longer recognizable. He turned and began his walk to the Ministry.

 

[Kenpachi]

Malcolm, was worried.
He had been waiting for a call from his operative for nearly four hours now, the scheduled time had been ten o'clock.
It was now two am.
"Screw this," he said, ducking into one of his walk-in wardrobes and quickly shucking his regular clothes. Pulling on the black robe which changed him from Malcolm Ikichi and into the elite assassin known as Silk, he always felt elated. The change made him into a completely new person and he reveled in the feel.
"Now, to find that good-for-nothing kusogaki..." he muttered, pulling out a small grapple and walking to his window, four stories from the ground and three from the top of the building.

Whistling a faintly haunting tune while he worked, he leaned out and threw hard, listening for the thunk that the grapple made when it landed in place. However, he didn't hear the thunk, but a swish as the grapple fell back down. Cursing quietly, his hand darted out and snagged the grapple from the air and threw it straight back up again in one smooth motion.
This time, the thunk came.
Sliding out the window and shutting it behind him, he stepped out and began to climb up the wall, keeping one eye down at the street for lookers, although no-one would be able to see him in this darkness, dressed as he was, and the other on the wall for any unexpected pitfalls.
Reaching the top, he unhooked the grapple and dropped into a crouch, normal procedue for him, you never knew when an Agent would decide to patrol his particular rooftop.

This night it seemed, he was unlucky.
Walking in a pair, two tall, uniform Agents were walking around the roofs perimeter, looking down and around for any unwanted attention. Silk was frankly surprised they hadn't heard the grapple, but didn't want to leave them around to discover him now.
Skulking out into the shadows, he reached into his two sleeves and felt for the poisoned throwing knives hidden in there. As he quietly snuck around behind the two Agents, his sharp ears caught a snick behind him as a footfall stepped on a loose pebble.
Diving forward and throwing in one motion, he landed lightly as the third Agent he had missed, missed him and fell over. Pulling out a third dagger, Silk drove it into the base of the man's skull and up into his brain, before whirling and pulling out a second pair of knives, these ones, big and cruel-looking, the sort used for tortures, or for a particularly messy end.
He need not have worried though.
His initial throw had caught the two Agents off-guard, the fast-acting poison killing them within seconds. But then, seconds were all it took to kill an unwary man.
Sheathing the big knives and collecting the others from the bodies of the Agents, Silk slid off his rooftop, down a ladder to the next floor then crossed a board to the next rooftop.

He had plenty of these boards all throughout the city and they were useful for a quick getaway, or a quick entrance. Reaching the next rooftop, a story down, he continued to make his way like this until he was on the street, exactly outside his own building. Making his way via alleyways and backstreets, he made his way to the payphone where his operative was supposed to have called him.
When he reached there though, he found why he had received no such call.
The man was lying dead, with what looked like an entire clip of ammunition in his chest, and two Agents were standing there, looking down with disdain at the dead body.
"Bastard Rebel scum," one drawled, spitting on the dead man.
The other only grunted and peered around into the shadows, a pair of Desert Eagles in his hands, ready to let loose.
"Good thing we stopped him from making that call. The bosses will want to see this." The first one held up a small piece of white paper with a neat hand on it. Silk could just make out the words "Love" and "Torture" and he didn't want to know more.

Pressing his way quietly back into the shadows and making his way home, again via his boards and rooftops, Silk was worried. When he returned to his own rooftop though, he knew he had to dispose of the men he had killed.
Moving to the dead bodies of the Agents, he took their weapons and clothes, burning the clothes with a match in his utility pouch and throwing the burnt mess off the side into an alleyway.
The bodies he moved, dragging each of them, over a period of three hours, to various rooftops in the city and leaving a small knife in the stomach of each one.
When he finally made it back to his apartment, he got inside, took off his robes and other clothing and washed them, before sitting down at his computer and typing an email to one of his Rebel friends.
The informant had been calling about a mission into what was known as the Ministry of Love, a place the Rebels wanted to get into badly, and the word "Torture" would confirm all of their worst suspicions.
Finishing the email and sending it, Silk sat back and began to play with one of his knives, wondering what he would, or indeed could do about this disturbing turn of events.

 

[Donald Trump]

Paris heard, from people that knew people, that some rebels were planning an attack on the ministry of love. He laughed to himself, he must be pyschic. Would he join in? No, he did not know these people so he couldnt trust them.

He would watch from the shadows, he laughed again. Laughter comes before tears, so he would watch, help out even if they knew what they were doing. If not he could kill a few agents or government employees, without drawing the ire of BB. Well not to those living anyway.

He did not known when the attack would take place, so he would head to the MoL now. He would have to be inconspicuous he did not want to alert 'them'. He took some deep breaths, knowing he may need the oxygen later. He gleefully cracked his knuckles, hoping he would see some action soon. He stopped himself, regained control, and prepared to wait

 

[Soul Saver]

Spectre hung up after Seraphim's notification, and glanced at the now gloomy sky.

This must be important, to draw me away from my prey and blow my cover. No matter. I know enough.

The agent then started his Black saloon, grasped the wheel, and put his foot on the accelerator, cruising through the empty industrial district, in which every other building was boarded up, and pedestrians were scarce. This place was a haunt for criminals and other people who didn't want to be seen, and an overall nasty eyesore. This particular London district had fallen into a state of disrepair, and should have been replaced by housing long ago.
Various light to medium industrial plants were to be seen on both sides of the street as Spectre's car headed towards the South London carriageway. Twenty five minutes to get to the Ministry.
The following scenery was overall much more pleasant. The expressway first cut through suburbia, where many new high-tech houses had been built, as part of some government scheme. Such houses featured composite structures and solar panels. There were thousands visible as Spectre drove by.
Next up, was another industrial district, albeit a developed one this time. Many flourishing businesses littered the Blackwood Industrial Sector, one of the major small business areas in London, which spread for at least six square miles. Some niche specialist shops, some industrial plants. And in this area, vehicles and people were more abundant. Mostly blue-collar workers, people out for a good stroll, and of course people looking for specialist equipment, and so on.
Fifteen minutes later, Spectre had reached HQ, in Central London. The whole area was mostly skyscrapers, though the HQ complex stood out as a 15-storey building with secure concrete perimeter walls next to the River Thames. Spectre flashed his I.D at the guards on standby. Being one of the most decorated and well-known agents, they opened the black gates instantly.

Foolish. I could be an impostor. I'll have a word with HQ security about that.

Saint's car was already there, and Spectre parked his next to it. He walked through the modern automatic doors, into the atrium, where security was overall more tight. Spectre ran his I.D card through the meter, and put his fingers on the print scanner, to the result of:
Access Granted. Welcome back, Special Agent Spectre.

He nodded to the guard, and walked through the atrial lobby, which had classy glass windows at the front, and a high arched ceiling.
He walked up the marble steps to the west lift, pressed "call lift", and waited patiently, until the elevator reached ground level. He then entered and pushed "13".

Spectre liked agency meetings, as an opportunity to further plan against the rebels and increase his standing. But heck, there hadn't been an emergency meeting on such short notice for some time.
The agent walked through the short corridor, past briefing rooms one and two, and walked to his right at the junction. After this, right at the end of the corridor, past another junction and a stairwell, was the conference room. He walked through the double doors, and spoke to his agent comrade.
"Hello Saint", Spectre took his seat at the near end of the long table,
"do you know of the reason for this meeting?"

 

[Death Stalker]

(((OOC:correct me if im wrong but can my character be waiting for a call from Agent saint. Also if you are wondering why there using vincents code name its because they dont know if the room is bugged.)))

The faint sound of cracking knuckles could be heard as Black Rose and Odin where sitting in a small hotel room in a small secluded town on the east coast of the Uk, it was a change of scenery for Black Rose as she was used to seeing buildings rise high into the sky blocking out all natural light. They where sitting at a small oak table in the corner of the room next to a huge skylight window watching the tide slive its way back out onto the horizon. They where waiting to find out there next job from Agent Saint.
"Why couldnt we stay back in the city" Moans B.R as she sits in the chair nearest the window continually cracking her knuckles.
"We couldn't we were no longer needed back there, and can you stop cracking your knuckles" Odin Grunted a reply whilst he was sitting there cleaning his P99's of any excess gunpowder and grime.
The two of them sat there waiting for what seemed like hours just sitting there waiting for the phone call on the secure line, when Black Rose cut into the silence with "I'm going out, you coming" "take this with you just in case" Odin replies as he chucks the P99 he just finished cleaning at her,"and also this" as he chucks a spare magazine at her."I take that as a no then" Black Rose groaned at Odin."Naa you go have some fun,Sis" Odin replied kindly towards her with a smile.

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

An abandoned street, and a maligned crow.

The man’s plea would reverberate weakly off of the barren landscape, trampling any attempts for aid. Sighing, he lowered himself to the ground, back against the cold brick of the building as he dipped his head in-between his knees. Ten o’clock in the morning, and not a single life form out there to heed his call. It was a lonely world, a dark and morose existence in which he dwelled every calendar day. In the back of his mind, he kept a tally of how long he had lived on this dreary planet, as if he were an inmate in a prison whose restraining bars were made of the strongest steel. Day 6,731: only a bit longer until he could break free of his bonds. He could feel it in his veins, in his capillaries and in his nerves. Something out there was calling to him, but how could such be so if he were the last living thing on Earth?

The crow called down to him once more, in an incessant way that almost ejected him from his fetal position. Lifting his skull from its recumbent position, his honey-dipped eyes remained focused on the interjecting creature in moderate annoyance. In a world that he thought he was alone in, there existed a single soul that looked over him and his destination, and perhaps it was the only thing separating him from defining his existence. It looked down to him with impenetrable eyes, completely black as if they were the mirrors to the world he so longed to be a part of. Perhaps the fowl was mocking him, playing a little game and setting him up for a substantial loss.

He wouldn’t have it.

With a great start, the man pushed himself out of his cove and began searching the ground for any sort of blunt object. Surprisingly enough, a random weapon did not greet his searching eyes, and his efforts were to no avail. However, he found a singular grey rock established only a few inches from the base of the streetlight. With delight, he picked up the stone and tossed it up and down in his gloved hand for a few spare moments, eying the crow whilst doing so.

“It’s you and me now, bud,” informed the hunter with a sparkle in his eye, clutching the rock and feeling its smooth surface run across his exposed fingers. Without warning, he launched the device up at the bird, the projectile whizzing through the air wildly and just missing hitting the specimen in the wing. However, the bird took off while expelling a myriad of squawks and calls, enraged at his new role as a target for the lone ranger. A smile found its way onto the lips of the man, who promptly replaced his hands in his pockets and suddenly heard a faint jingle.

“Wahey!” he exclaimed as he extracted his keys from the cloth orifice, tossing it up and down in his hand as he did the stone just moments ago. Gleaming white teeth emerged from behind his veil of uncertainty, and with a replenished confident air about him, he replaced himself in his spot before the locked wooden portal. He stared it down as he did the black spectator, swinging the keychain around his able finger plaintively.

“I bet I’m really late now,” the victor mentioned aloud, finding his key and inserting it into the lock with satisfaction. The key slid in with protest, resisting as much as possible to turn and unlock the door, but its master overcame all resistance and heard a faint click as the door to another world was unlocked. Perhaps he would go down in the record books for this great feat, overcoming the Reaper and the Guardian as he conquered what everyone else could not. It was a glorious day, one that would surely not go without some sort of reward, for all heroes get their moment to shine at least once.

Weathered fingertips pushed open the door to reveal a bustling coffeehouse, orange and brown hues rushing around the room while the silhouettes of customers whizzed by. The clock ahead revealed the time to be 6:12:18 in the morning, and the second hand was skating over the marginal tick lines with fervor. Languidly, one Caleb Whitaker slipped into the shop under no particular watch, with the door swinging shut behind him with its primeval hydraulics. Phrases like ‘excuse me’ and ‘pardon me’ escaped his lips out of habit, for it was the same thing everyday, and he could probably continue on blindfolded with how concrete his path was through the lines and around the small, circular tables.

“You are LATE! Again! Do you even own a clock?”

Caleb’s eyes rose from the ground to see a rather robust woman in a stained white apron shaking a $20 bill at him from across the counter. The customer that was at the counter looked concerned that his money was being waved around threateningly, but he said nothing as this manager nearly peeled the paint away with the volume of her voice.

“Yeah. I think. Actually, I’m not sure. I have a biological clock,” Caleb replied simply, raising the hinged part of the counter and weaving behind it nonchalantly. He slipped off his pea coat to reveal a worker’s uniform consisting of an orange t-shirt and black pants. Quickly, he moved to find his apron on the rack.

“Funny. But not as funny as your face will be when I fire you!” the woman bellowed in response.
“Right, well let me know. I’d hate to come in late again only to find out I’m unemployed,” Caleb replied as he spun the rack around idly with a yawn.
“Is that a challenge?!”
“Challenge? No, I’m just—wahey!” the teen yelped as he found his apron, tying it around his lean middle as he turned to see the manager glowering at him from the register.
“I don’t believe you. I mean, I could just make you the afternoon shift, but you work best in the morning. If only you’d BE ON TIME.”
“I’m fashionably late, though. I mean, look how much commotion we cause in the morning. It’s good for business, a drink with a show!”

Caleb laughed while the manager scowled, he moving to replace her at the counter while a couple more employees emerged from the back, carrying all sorts of things to the area where the coffee was prepared. The manager bumped into an amber-haired girl and paid her no mind as she disappeared into the staff lounge, probably to take her prescribed medication.

“You’re testing her,” the redhead whispered to Caleb as she wiped off the counter quickly with a dampened washcloth.
“Eh, it’s how I roll. I can’t be assed to get here TOO early in the morning. I’m a slow starter. Sheesh, this part of town is so busy in the morning...”
“You’re telling me. The 5:00 rush was more insane than usual; I’ve never made so many White Thunders in ten minutes!”

It was at this moment that Caleb perhaps felt a tinge of guilt for always coming in over an hour late. Thanks to how shifts were set up, this put more work on the three others that worked with him, including the temperamental manager who seemed all too keen to guillotine him with a plastic butter knife every morning. This was his life now, and everyone was used to him slipping in ridiculously tardy, the brief argument between manager and employee, and the bankruptcy of essential coffee additives at timed intervals. A pattern of events made up the bulk of his life, anyway.

Five minutes passed, and already Caleb was bored. After breaking a $50 bill and debating with the customer whether or not he was given the correct amount of change, he found his gaze drifting up to a large flat-screen TV that occupied a tight corner in the café. Government-regulated television never got old, and today another bland news broadcast occupied the time slot for the morning, much to the delight of those who would care to watch. They were happy with this sort of programming, because it was all they ever knew or experienced.

“Another sunny day! Two Caramel Carnegies!” he shouted down the way, and a unanimous ‘wahey’ erupted from his fellow co-workers. Another eight-hour shift, and he was off for the day... but what was there to do, really? Caleb had never conjured any thoughts of doing anything particularly fun on this day, but perhaps he could go down to the bar and have a couple drinks... his life revolved around drinks really, so it wasn’t too strange to transition from a coffeehouse to a bar. It was kind of like going to a friend’s house, only without the friendly people or the cheery mother eager to provide an array of snacks to chow down on.

No matter. It wasn’t the right time or place to dwell on such things, for the line of customers never seemed to shrink. He had to put food on the table, and that he would do as he said, ‘good morning, what can I get for you?’ to the next paying patron.

Sane old, same old.

 

[Dean Winchester]

When Spectre had arrived, Agent Saint was sitting on his armchair next to a large round table waiting for the others. He had his black glasses on, his left elbow was resting on top of the table and he had his face leaned against the palm of his left hand, he looked bored. Having sent the blood sample to the laboratory, the results would arrive in several hours. He looked at his watch and noticed that the meeting was schedule to start in 30 minutes. Not sure if someone had contacted Black Rose and Odin and informed them about the reunion. To make sure they were full aware of the meeting, Agent Saint reached the cellphone in his pockets and sent a message to Agent Black Rose.

All agents has been summoned for an emergency meeting at HQ, in London. Contact us if by any reason you can't be here in time.
Agent Saint
​

As he noticed Spectre, Agent Saint rose from his chair to greet him. He took off his glasses and put them in a pocket in his jacket, the cold light of death cold be seen lingering within the irises of his eyes.

"I see you have arrived as schedule." Saint sighed and then smirked arrogantly as he redirected his sight to the chair that belonged to the leader of this organization. He wondered where the others might be, about the call reporting false rebel activity in that abandoned factory, of the blood sample he had retrieved and finally, of what Seraphim and Raphael have been doing. Having heard Spectre's question, Saint had no other choice but to give information about the purpose of this meeting.

"My office received a message from the HQ in Spain, an alarming one. It seemed that our efforts to suppress rebel activity have not been successful, as their numbers grow by the minute. They are planning on taking us out by destroying us one by one. We have guards and agents set in every corner yet they still elude our grasp..." Saint approached the table and slammed his fist against it. His disgust could be seen in his eyes. "Why? A simple answer for a complicated problem; Our efforts are not good enough. Big Brother will be greatly disappointed if by any reason we were to lose one of our many sites around the world. If Big Brother demands answers, I'll have to give them, and if he demands to know the person responsible for this, I'll be glad to report it. Anyhow, agents summoned for this meeting are to bring a full report of their current operations. We need to device a plan to counter the rebels."

 

[AddleBoy]

This was her favorite place in the city. She often came here when she just wanted to relax and kill some time.

Akiko was standing on the roof of one of the tallest buildings in the city. From up here she could see all four of its corners. There were only a few other buildings that could not be seen.

She stood with her arms resting on the short wall that outlined the top of the building, and peered down into the crowds of the bustling city below. From up here, the people down there looked like ants. Akiko often wondered if this was how God viewed people from heaven; if there ever was such a thing as God. That people were just ants living in an ant-farm/this world, working in their busy colony/this country, to appease their queen/Big Brother.

Akiko perfectly understood that she was no god. No matter how high she was, there was always someone higher. Big Brother was always watching. Even on top of this building, she felt that see could not escape their sight. Hell, she even doubted that if she were in heaven, itself, she would be unseen. Their sight probably extended to infinity, but she did not mind being watched. You can't exist if there's no one to watch you live, right? They could watch her all they wanted. She didn't think that her life was all that exciting anyway....

Her hands were starting to get cold, so she slipped them into her pants pockets. With her hands, she felt the usual junk she kept there against her skin. She felt an unfamiliar object amongst the others and took it out of her pocket for inspection.

.....a pen?

When did this get there?, she thought to herself. Oh, well. It doesn't really matter.

She dangled the pen over the edge of the rooftop. And, like a god casting their lightning bolt into the world of ants, she let the pen fall.

"I wonder if I hit someone...?"

 

[Death Stalker]

Black Rose was walking along the street when from atop a building a pen hit the ground just one step infront of her and shattered, what the hell is going on Black Rose thought to herself. She looked up to see a strange looking stranger looking over the top of the building and at the surrounding buildings, Black Rose could only see one person up there so she thought she would make her way up there to see if the stranger was ok. After fifteen minutes passed Black Rose emerged onto the roof and saw the stranger and shouted "Hey are you okay over there"

 

[Toxic Variations]

Raphael strode down the corridor leading to the chamber known as the Conference Room. The walls, on either side, were pure white and glistening. This world, in which they inhabited, was white and shining. The outside world, could be as such, if only the people would accept the inevitable. The reports of the recent surge of rebellious behavior, amongst the populace, did not phase him. It was nothing unusual and like usual, it would be crushed. Human beings are weak, fragile, creatures. Faced with loss, pain, death - they will, always, bend their knee to their master. Often he had seen it - the outcome was always the same. The weak, elderly woman, accused of thought crimes, begs for her own useless life as she is lead infront of the firing squad; the young woman, fresh and beautiful with her blush of youth, accuses her Mother, her Father, even her own baby sister of crimes against Big Brother, yes, all in order to escape the horror of imprisonment and torture. The soul is weak, without order, it soon collapses and the result is chaos. The people need not fear: The Ministry of Love was here to wipe away the insanity- there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, all former things shall pass away.

The young man would reach out with his left hand and open the door leading into the Conference Room. As he stepped in, Agent Saint would be in the process of slamming his fist against the well polished surface of the ornate seventeeth century work of art desk, saved from the fires, and used often for their meetings. A simple curl of the lips.

" Seraphim will join us, shortly, gentlemen. "

Raphael would glance away from the two men and proceed to his chair. He was an elegant creature, never one for angry outbursts. Carefully he would lower to sit and would place his arms upon the rests of his chair. Right hand, govered in a thick leather glove, would move to rest on the surface of the table before him. The long fingers, surely those of a skilled panist, stroked the surface and then flexed, up and down, up and down. Finally those eyes, darkened, would slowly move over the faces of his two comrades. To be a traitor to the Thought Police was not taken lightly. In the past, there had been traitors and in the future, there would be more. Let us all hope, no traitors would emerge.

 

[Dean Winchester]

(WAIT!!! I am editing this!! I accidently post it!!!*currently editing it*)
"Hmm...well Seraphim has 25 minutes, the clock is still ticking."

Agent Saint sat down on his armchair as he awaited for the others. Something about Raphael's eyes bothered him, as if he knew he wasn't trustworthy anymore. He thought of him as a carnivorous beast, waiting for its prey to make a wrong move and then.....game over. Agent Saint knew this whole meeting could turn into a death trap for him if he did any mistakes, so he made sure no one could tell his own personal agenda. Seraphim would arrive soon, as well as the others. Agent Saint knew Big Brother is most likely to not arrive to this meeting, for he had more important matters to attend. Agent Saint stared at the agents that arrived, suspecting of anyone. Seraphim, Spectre, Raphael, everyone was a possible traitor to his cause. Their blind loyalty to Big Brother was great enough to push them against each other, perhaps their greatest flaw.

 

[Soul Saver]

"Ah". Spectre followed suit in taking off his circular sunglasses, and put them into his suit pocket, then stared into Saint's eyes, slightly dismayed at the smirk and slamming of fists just as Rafael entered.

Nothing amiss. But only a fool is certain.

"Calm down. We will address the situation rationally and logically."

He then turned his glance to Rafael, Spectre's piercing green eyes shaded as ever from view.

The usual display.

The agent continuously inaudibly tapped his foot on the floor, a habit which he had never quite stopped ever since his teenage years, usually when he was waiting for something or excited.

 

[Contra Fates]

[I'll post Yukio's post later. And, keep in mind that I will be adding more to Seraphim's post later tonight, but I wanted to get the important things out of the way.]

The door that lead to the conference room would be opened, allowing that familiar, raven-haired form to step into the conference room. His clothing gave off a sense of newness, as his current attire was different from the one he had entered the building with. He was adjusting his white gloves and the cuffs of his formal blazer as he quietly made his way to the head of the table. Big Brother never graced anyone with his presence. Consequently, Seraphim was the highest ranking Agent here, and stood at the back of that chair, fingers trailing over the edges of the fine leather. His eyes peered across that antique conference table, expression as stoic and unreadable as ever. Was this what a lower ranking Agent could aspire to me? A seemingly emotionless man who followed orders with blind orders? Oh, they didn't know the half of what was hidden behind that well-crafted mask of ivory and ash.

"Spectre." Agent Spectre would find that Seraphim's blood-stained gaze was focused on him, intently. Strange, that he would address him before any others. "I believe you have a complaint about the current state of Security within this facility, correct?" Seraphim did not move to sit in that chair yet, he merely remained standing, tall and confident, the regal image of what Big Brother had wished for his greatest Agents to be. "You and I are in complete agreement." With that said, Seraphim would lean forward, a clump of raven strands spilling over his shoulder as his fingers danced over the telephone's keys before him.

"Security Department." "Officer Ramsey. This is Agent Seraphim. See to it that the Ministry of Love is put under lockdown. Anyone who enters this building that is not an Agent, I want to be immediately forced back. If any resist, throw them into one of the holding cells. Also, I wish to have some of the Security Officers placed within some of the holding cells, and armed. It will become apparent why this is necessary." "I-Is this necessary, Sir?" There was a strictness that arose in his voice, as the Officer dared to question his judgment. "That's an order, Officer." "Y-Yes, sir! I will alert the other Officers and personnel immediately." "Call me when the preparations have been made." -Click.-

Seraphim returned his gaze to Agent Spectre. ...Why had he done that? "Satisfied...?" Seraphim's lips remained in that thin, grim line. He was such a fortress! Unreadable, entirely! He took a step away from that leather chair, and began to walk around the conference table. "Gentlemen, I've gathered you here for several reasons. The first reason, was due to Saint's eager request." His eyes shifted over to Saint in that instant, and he began to slowly approach him. "You see, Agent Saint had decided today that he has graduated to a level that gives him the authority to call for Agent meetings." Uh-oh. "And not only that, but it would seem that there is a bit of...disloyal confusion running amuk within his mind."

As Seraphim had finished speaking those final words, Saint would find that his hair was grabbed, forcefully, as Seraphim yanked his head back in a quick motion. Not good. Seraphim held him down, his face looming above his own, eyes piercing and all-consuming. "...Agent Saint, you would be wise to rid yourself of whatever thoughts you dare to have against Big Brother." He held him there for a moment, eyes unblinking, unwavering. He would get the message across one way or another. "...I do realize you are a newer Agent than some, and as such, I wish to see you succeed. Compose yourself quickly, or you'll find yourself on the wrong side of a holding cell." With that said, Seraphim released him from his grip, and stepped aside, gazing at the surrounding Agents.

"Gentlemen. There is a planned Rebel invasion of this Ministry. I have gathered you here to see to it that each and every one of those mindless scum are properly detained. Take prisoners if you may, or end their lives based on your own judgment. The Thought Police were created for this very thing, to rid this country of the vermin that dare oppose the institution which it was founded upon."

​

 

[Soul Saver]

Spectre was unphased by Seraphim's gaze, out of all the agents, he had a great respect for the boss, not fear.
Upon the order to lock down the facility, he was satisfied.
"I think that satisfies our concerns, yes." Spectre sat straight in his chair, eyes following Seraphim. Upon the boss' first few sentences and direction at Saint, he knew something was up. But what?
Spectre was not too surprised by Seraphim's suspicions, but himself, he would never be so quick to suspect.
Spectre had always believed that there was much more to Seraphim than met the eye, and for a long time the evidence had just kept mounting up. And he had always been an indispensable asset to the organization.

How he reads people so easily, is a mystery, he thought to himself.

He smiled as the chief agent let go of Saint and spoke of the ensuing threat.

After Seraphim finished outlining the problem, Spectre glanced at his fellow agents one by one, and then at the screen, expecting some briefing presentation.

 

[Dean Winchester]

(Uh Oh! I sense the birth of a rivalry I feel like adding a really dramatic post. I can't believe I got a little emotional on this one.)

Saint's pride was cracked by Seraphim's obnoxiousness and sudden display of iron fist rule. He dared to touch him, no one ever dared to touch Saint and lived to tell the tail. System Failure, the core of his main operative system which was merged to his brain and internal system structure began to bolt with both anger and disgust. Yet, he kept control over his actions and halted from pulling his Desert Eagle and putting a bullet through Seraphim's cold blooded heart. Why he had this mixture of emotions? All this began when he adopted those two girls, thus starting to become soft and like one would say "human". However, he knew this display of emotions would give Seraphim that so desired chance to sent him on a first class ticket straight to hell, a chance he would never give him, not at the moment at least. Annoyed, he rose from his chair and fixed his suit, accommodating his neck tie and putting on his black glasses. His cold stare was fixed on Seraphim, a gaze that could melt rock and steel due to the mass of hatred he felt towards this persona. He closed his eyes and inhaled, exhaling slowly as he opened his eyes and unleashed the light of death upon them. All of them were on his Black List, the first name was Seraphim. On that moment were Seraphim humiliated him, Saint sworn by his life that he would never rest until he had their hearts beating their last on a silver plate, then he would feed them to the dogs. Although, he knew he was in disadvantage right now, if he were to attack Seraphim he would be most likely protected by his pack of dogs, ultimately ending in Saint's demise.

"I clearly understood my orders sir. I promise this situation will never.....repeat....again....you can bet your life on that."

A devilish grin was drawn on Agent Saint's face, his eyes shined with a malicious intent. Knowing he could not take his rage on Seraphim for he was stronger, Saint felt a sudden self pity and anger that consumed the darkest depths of his already tarnished, uncontrollable, fiendish soul. For the moment, he would swallow his pride whole, like the dog he also was. He knew that treason bore a price, but when he thought of fearing death, an ancient quote came to his mind: "Crudelius est quam mori semper timere mortem" (Seneca). It is more cruel to always fear death than to die. Much truth was spoken in these words, bold words marked on Saint's mind. Not being able to bear the shame anymore, Agent Saint felt the urge to abandon the building and carry on his assignment as soon as possible. He bowed formally, an full act of hypocrisy coming from his part, but necessary to preserve life.

"Pardon my departure gentlemen, but I must leave at once. I've been given my orders and they sent me to Russia. Again, to endure the cold winter. As if they didn't knew how much I hate winter. It makes me more aggressive....you wouldn't believe. Very well, I apologize for my sudden act of irrationality, it seems that treating with the pests had somehow poisoned my mind. I will soon full scan my body to see if any malfunctions are found, but only after I finish my assignment. That is all, may Big Brother watches over us with his justice, supremacy, and mightiness."

An expert deceiver, the best actor in these kind of situations, Agent Saint was a uncontrollable pawn, no one knew what new trick would he pull from under his sleeve. With an unyielding arrogance, Agent Saint left the Conference Room with death's shadow following him. As he left through west corridor, he used his ID Card on the elevator and went to the first floor. As he awaited to arrive there, Agent Saint left out some steam and punched the wall, cracking part of the marble decorating its walls. He then took a deep breath, somehow he wanted to keep his fury under control. He knew he was a failed experiment, he knew he was one of the "rejects" waiting for disposal, he knew that he wasn't one of Big Brother's favorites and he knew very well, who his enemies were. Given the choice, whether to stay as a mindless puppet, enduring constant humiliation or to challenge the fates for another throw, a better cast at one's destiny, what was someone like Saint to do? The tormented agent knew he had his cast at fate, the coin was still turning with his life hanging from its outcome. Finally he arrived, he left the elevator and walked outside through the main lobby. The guards stopped him to check his identity, so he pulled out his ID Card and pressed his finger on the scanner. All in check, he was allowed to leave.

He stared at his car, knowing it was the only thing he had along with those girls he has been taking care of. Emotions burst from within, Saint felt for the first time the guilt of being what he was; a ruthless murderer. The reflection he saw of himself on the car's surface was not of a proud agent, but of a demented butcherer. Having found the courage to break from the spell of his own consciousness, Saint went inside his car, pulled out his keys, turned on the engines and rushed out of the parking lot. Anyone who would have seen him would have said that he had seen the devil, a devil made by Seraphim and himself. Seraphim represented all his devotion to Big Brother's cause, and those girls were just the first signs of his new found humanity. He can't hate himself, anymore than he does for allowing himself to be so blind, so deeply deceived, so irrationally mislead. After a few hours, he arrived at his apartment but something was strange, it was too quite. Something was wrong. Jonathan Saint parked his car by the entrance and rushed upstairs in a sudden burst of worry.

And then it happened, what he feared the worst. He found the door wide open, the apartment was a mess. He searched and searched desperately for the two girls he was starting to love so much, the only thing HUMAN in his already spoiled life. "No...no...no...please God don't let it be what I am thinking...."Then he saw, blood, the message was on the wall written in human blood.

"TREASON BEARS A PRICE..."
​

"No....please God no....not them...not because of me..."
Of the girls there was no sign, so he couldn't tell if it was their blood. His eyes widened in despair, he felt guilty for bringing this misfortune to those innocent girls. Agent Saint's life collapsed in the blink on an eye, there he was, on his knees, bursting in a sudden rage of sorrow, tears shed like an uncontrollable will. His fists slamming continuously on the floor, wild screams fueled with his unmeasurable sadness.

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Why? WHY DAMN IT!? THOSE MISSERABLE SON OF A BI***ES!! HOW COULD THEY? DAMN WHY THEM AND NOT ME?"

Saint ceased to punch the floor, his hands were now covered by his own blood. "why...God....why? It was my fault....not theirs....not theirs....NOT THEIRS!!!!!!"

Saint kept crying like a human would do, letting his emotions run wild. He felt his soul cracked with sorrow, he blamed himself for this but more importantly, he blamed Seraphim. Suddenly his body could not take it any more, and he collapsed exhausted, fainting on a pool of innocent blood....
"You will all pay....dearly for this...I swear on my daughters' souls that I will not rest until I see everything reduced to ASHES!!!!" With these bold words, Agent Saint sealed his fate and his role on this story. Now fueled by a new found motivation, he would try to seek revenge and take this to the last consequences.

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

(Time to introduce Forrest!)
(If it's not okay to just be in the Conference, then let me know and I'll re-do my RP. )

With every timed word that Agent Seraphim word uttered came the rhythmic tapping of some object unbeknownst to the blood-eyed man. It was not a metronome or a countdown of any sorts, but rather a faint beat that the speaker could deliver his brief monologue to. Everything in life needed a backbeat or a theme song no less, and in this unlikely situation, one was earnestly provided. At first it was believed that some malfunction in the air vents above interrupted the bouts of silence in-between eloquent and motivating phrases, but alas no satisfaction could be seen when casting one’s gaze upwards. Instead, the sound was coming from a rather young agent sitting far down the right-hand side of the table, an agent who was rocking in his comfortable leather chair while letting the monotonous tone enter his system and fill the voids in his mind that he so desperately wished to occupy.

At the word ‘upon’, the pen stopped its repetitive motion, the weathered fingers of one Agent Rover halting completely. Chocolate bangs tickled the rims of impossibly large sunglasses that hugged the face of this man, whose slinky black scarf looked as if it were trying to suffocate him. Thin clothes worn for agility and mobility caressed every curve and ripple, and with every movement an indistinguishable clinking sound could be heard. Had this man possessed the motivation, perhaps he could have made a one-man band with how many random and abstract noises he could produce on a single whim. It was not his intention to be this distracting, but instead it was simply his nature to keep himself busy with such basic things, as surely nothing from the other end of the table could hold his interest for too long.

“Good day, Agent Saint,” he said in a husky and possibly seductive voice while the middle-aged man slipped out of the conference room. An inaudible sigh sneaked out of the percussionist as he leaned forward in his chair, turning his head down to see Agent Seraphim looking over the assembly expectantly. Perhaps he had said something of relative importance, and so Forrest tried to revisit the words that played backgammon on his eardrums just moments ago. Once he recalled a few key words, he lifted his sunglasses off of his face, pushing back a generous amount of hair as he set them on his head to reveal deep blue orbs with dilated pupils. A very odd man, he.

“Hm. Ahh... right then. Some more rebel bastards. I see,” Agent Rover echoed awkwardly, clearing his throat and squinting to try and read his leader’s demeanor. Easier said than done, as a matter of fact. “People aren’t very grateful these days, now are they? When is the invasion taking place, then? It’s been a while since I’ve played the part of the janitor and all that. Get it? It’s like cleaning house. Well, the Ministry isn’t really a house, so to speak. It’s more like a... a haven. That might not be the right word.”

Agent Rover looked to his comrades in a desperate attempt to find what he wanted to say or what his point even was, but the efforts were to no avail. “Selfish pricks. I’m ready. Well, not right now, exactly. Maybe after I eat a bit. But yeah, the Thought Police has it covered. Rebellious scum, they.”​