Corruption.

[toyohisa]

Stepping out of the bathroom, his physique began a slow walk for the front door of the establishment, nodding toward Silk and the man he currently had captive. He wasn't too interested in staying for a possible execution; if he was, he'd be into that snuff film urban legend shit that constantly had the internet communities in a state of both awe and disgust. Pushing against the door, Mamoru made his exit out onto the city streets, coughing into the palm of his hand before wandering off down the street.

His slow trek back to his shoddy apartment began with a calm and focused demeanor, but quickly ended when his own stomach began to growl in anger. Groaning, he desperately searched for a cheap place to get a bite to eat, but when it came down to it, all of his money had gone toward buying his manga. It seemed as if he'd just end up going without food tonight, too; unless he was lucky enough to still have a few pieces of bread left in the shelves somewhere.

Rounding the corner, green oculi shifted from the ground to the apartment complex he resided in. It looked pleasant enough on the outside, but when one actually dared to step inside is when it truly became hell. Grabbing his keys, he lazily unlocked the door and entered his "home." Shutting the door softly behind him, he tossed his bag onto messy bed and went through his pockets, eventually getting to the card that Cow-kun had given him and that other guy earlier in the day.

"I can't believe I'm going to risk my welfare on something a guy I don't even know said."

Grabbing his bag, he began to collect and put away his manga and valuables into the depths of the large creation. Dropping to a knee, he reached under his bed and pulled out a very special and valuable item: a Benelli Nova shotgun. Making sure to properly unload the gun, he stashed it and all available ammunition into his bag as well. Zipping it up and slinging it over his shoulder, he approached his refrigerator and pulled the door open, grabbing at the bottle of soda from the back.

Stepping back out of the apartment, he undid the cap and took a long drink of the delicious soda. It felt nice to get that taste of alcoholic equivalent of piss and ash off his tongue. With another long drink from the bottle, he made his way to the address stated on the card via shortcuts and side roads. Needless to say, his jaw dropped.

"..is this some kinda fucking joke or something? No way in HELL that guy could be living here."

Grinning sheepishly, Mamoru nervously approached the building, seeking out a way to actually get in touch with someone inside the place. He eventually came around to find a gate with a communications system.

He pushed the button. What else could he do?

 

[Contra Fates]

Perhaps it was a fortunate thing that Seraphim wasn't around to hear Agent Michael's...interesting choice of ring tone. He'd never let him live it down if he heard it. Though, from what he did hear, he could do nothing but grin. It seemed Michael had answered his call amidst some battlefield. Wasn't he the dedicated Agent? Seraphim arched an eyebrow as he could hear a nearby voice of some sobbing coward, begging and pleading and struggling---only to be silenced by a loud gunshot that Seraphim could distinctly make out. Unable to stop it, Seraphim released a hearty chuckle at Michael's swiftness, wondering if he had shot the kid to shut him up, or for other pressing reasons.

"It does sound like you're quite busy, but I'm afraid I have a more important proposition for you." Quite the arrogant one, wasn't he? To be tearing the great Archangel away from his violent duties. Of course, what Seraphim had in store for him would be much more suitable. "I need you to take a private plane to London, as soon as possible. I've already alerted the Military to stand down after you give them a proper greeting over a communication link." What was he getting at? "I've already wired 100,000 pounds into your bank account, as incentive. It's time to put your skills to better use. The position for ‘Head of Security,’ has just been made available today, and the only one who I will allow to fill the position is you. Now, do each of us a favor and get your arse back in England, where it belongs.”

His azure gaze widened in response to Nimble's rushed sign language and the pleading look in her eyes. Why did she look so afraid? And why did she want to be some servant for him so badly? It dawned on him, the possible reasoning behind it, and he rose up from his chair, stepping in front of his desk and leaning down to be more at level with the young girl. He smiled warmly, and began to sign.

"I told you, you are welcome to leave whenever you wish. That also means you can stay here as long as you wish. This house is far too large to be only inhabited by myself and my servants. I could house a small army in this home, with plenty of room to spare. You and Jack are welcome here. You're just a young girl, you should not need to work. But if you are so persistent in working here, you are welcome to, though it is not warranted. All right?" Yukio tilted his head to the side as he waited for her response, trying to figure this girl out. She rejects his money, and instead, begs him for a servant position. Yukio wondered what sort of Hell that duo had to go through, the poor things.

It was then that Ansell's voice would ring out over the intercom of the home. "Young Lord?" Yukio stood up, quirking a brow before he responded to Ansell. "Yes, Ansell?" "There's a young man standing by the gate. Is he one of the men you were expecting?" "If he's young with hair past his shoulders and looks like he can barely see past his bangs...then yes, that's him. Let him in. I'll meet you in the main hall." "Yes, Mi'Lord."

Mamoru would see the screen above the button he had pressed flicker, revealing the kindly face of the elder Ansell. "Sir, Master Tokugawa has given you permission to enter. Please be wary of the gates, they close rather quickly. We will meet you inside." With that said, the screen would flicker off, and the first gate would open, allowing the young rebel to venture further inside, and really get a look at the home of the rich, 'pin-striped cow.'

​

 

[Amel]

The Calling of god's commander.

"... Busy. I'm actually just finishing up." Michael'd been transferred to Germany from the main establishment in London. This was largely due to the fact that the scientists who worked with O'Brien, and the retrospect rediscovery of Michael and his questionable abilities, had created a bit of a stir. If the results of the experimentation could have ... loose-cannon effects like his, were they reliable? Fortunately for Project Seraphim, he was just... unique.

On the words of just finishing up, Michael set the phone down. Using his peripheral hearing, so to speak, the commander was giving the word for the final press. An audio show, one might say. Seraphim would be treated to hear the final charge and the final breaths of life of a resistance nest. The battle lasted only a few short moments... When everything was said and done, a handful of government soldiers remained. The nest, however, had been vaporized.

Coincidentally, Michael'd actually been sent on this mission for another reason. He did a momentary headcount. As he lifted his cell phone back to his ear and began to depart the remaining living soldiers, Michael lifted that watch on his wrist to his lips. "Agent Michael. Rebel nest vaporized. Potential soldier traitors... vaporized."

Several of the soldiers had been hand picked for this mission. Their thoughts had been measured... read. The soldiers handpicked for the mission were decidedly bordering betrayal. This was their last task. At least, that's what Michael'd been sent to ensure. Indeed, at every dark corridor Michael had assessed their remaining soldiers, and predicted what they would need. He would then take 'corrective measures' and silently, swiftly, and without anyone knowing... he would vaporize a few of their own soldiers who'd been deemed hazardous. The final push had taken care of the few that were left. That kid, he wasn't one of them. Just a bad soldier with his heart in the right place, but his mind too weak to file in.

"... All right, Seraphim. I'll be reporting in later tonight. Agent Michael out."

"... Oh, and by the way. I look forward to working with you."

Click.

Later that morning, still wiping the blood from his face and hands, Michael boarded the plane to London.

 

[Soul Saver]

Spectre responded to Saint.

"I am not aware of any such thing. I'm giving you thirty seconds to flee from this facility. Whose side are you on, Agent Saint?.........

Meet me at the Black Horse bar on Palisade Walk. It's a mile up the River Thames. Right next to a bridge on the river side. Be there in half an hour."

The agent hung up and headed to the elevator. Within six minutes, he had reached the nearest bus stop, which was admittedly further than usual due to the road outside the ministry being closed off by at least a hundred police.

Spectre looked to the well-dressed citizens next to him, all with surprised and worried looks on their faces. No wonder.

I'll hear him out.

((Sorry for not responding before. Server was too busy jerking off.))

 

[Nami]

Nimble saw the man called "Ansell" speak to Yukio. Nimble couldn't make out everything that was being said, but she was able to discern that Yukio had other matters to attend. Nimble left the study and set out to find the guest room. Nimble soon discovered that she did not know her way back. Fortunately, the servant that had escorted her earlier found her before she could get lost.

Nimble took out her notebook. She wrote

Can you show me how to get to my friend?

From there they wrote back and forth. Nimble actually hated to write, though she was proud that she had taught herself to read, write, and lipread. That was something no ordinary person could have done. Writing required her to use another language, however. She could only write in one language. There was no written form of her signed language. Through writing back and forth, Nimble had introduced herself and learned that the servant's name was Annabel. Annabel lead Nimble back to the guest room. Nimble wrote words of departure, then shut the door. She wanted to talk to Jack about her thoughts.

Nimble looked around. Jack was not there. Nimble called for him out loud. Still there was no sign of Jack. Damnit, he probably went to go pull a prank, Nimble thought to herself. Instead of tracking him down, Nimble decided that he would simply face her wrath when he returned. Nimble lied down on the soft bed. It was as if she was floating atop a pile of feathers.

"I told you, you are welcome to leave whenever you wish. That also means you can stay here as long as you wish. This house is far too large to be only inhabited by myself and my servants. I could house a small army in this home, with plenty of room to spare. You and Jack are welcome here. You're just a young girl, you should not need to work. But if you are so persistent in working here, you are welcome to, though it is not warranted. All right?" Nimble thought about these words. What did she have to offer that Yukio didn't already have? In order for her not to wear out her welcome, Nimble was determined to make herself useful to Yukio. Also, she was interested in Ansell. "My family was killed when I was a child. I live alone here. My servants are my only family now." Nimble had read about family. She had done a lot of reading while she was in captivity. Families intrigued her much in the same way a large diamond did. From what she understood, families were important. None of the books she read explained why families were important, though. She knew it had something to do with "love"... but "love" was yet another concept that was never fully explained. Nimble understood that she loved Jack. However, she also loved money and diamonds. Her love for Jack was different than her love of money and diamonds. How many kinds of love were there? Was family love different from her love of Jack, money, and diamonds?

Nimble also thought about how careless she had been since she had arrived at this place. It was as if this place coaxed her to drop her guard. However, the most dangerous part was that she couldn't bring herself to care. She didn't care that she had been foolish. This place had stirred in her unfamiliar emotions. Nimble was not accustomed to letting her emotions run wild. She was a myriad of fear, jealousy, remorse, contentment, discontent, peace, and a jumble of others. She didn't know how to deal with it all. She allowed her mind to run wild and it continued to be jumbled until she drifted off to sleep thinking of a way to please Tokugawa Yukio... and thinking of a fitting punishment for Jack.

 

[Toxic Variations]

" But of course. "

Raphael would nod his silvery head. Seraphim's orders, like always, were absolute. He would turn to glance at Khitri. A soft chuckle left pale throat. Well then, he should really get going. There were corpses to clean up. If Raphael was lucky, he would be able to harvest fresh organs to perserve and study in the future. Yes, he'd do his duty, and let the low level grunts clean up the shit and blood. They were born to roll in it, afterall. He opened his bag and placed, within it, the vial of blood and the wrinkled paper. Scarlet irises would move over to the startled face of the Seraphim clone as bag was closed. Now that was a piece of artwork and Raphael, above all others, could appreciate art. What thoughts lingered in the doll's mind? Perhaps, later, he'd find out. He had his own obsessions, afterall. Lips curled up into what you might call a tender smile - but, anything upon his face, was always chilled by the lack of humanity. He snatched up the scalpel, Khitri had dropped, and walked towards the clone.

" You have exquisite eyes. When you no longer want them - do let me know. "

He drug the metal underneath the flesh of the creation's right eye and then, with his naked hand, gave the flesh a pat. Raphael would finally leave the laboratory, silent as ever. His attire was blood stained, from his recent victims. Black blazer, dusty with the ash of the burned, flared around his narrow hips. Grey tie was loose and wrinkled as it swung from his slender neck. He immediately contacted Agent Spectre, as he was ordered to assist the man in cleaning up. No good. He couldn't get the other agent to come in. What a pity. Raphael stepped into the nearby elevator, rose up a few floors, and there he was - within the corridor leading to his office. It was a bare dwelling, much like a Monk's cell, with several telescreens lining the walls. Various floors were viewed, through the telescreen. It would seem the cleanup was a success - not much was left to do. It was just out of sheer luck he checked the infirmary wing and noticed, in the passing of a second, a familier face moving past the range of the camera. Why look at that: It was Agent Saint - come to play. A call would be made to Seraphim.

" It would seem Saint has returned. He is in the Infirmary wing . Enjoy. "

Raphael would stand and walk out of his office. Before going to the infirmary wing, he would retrieve his blade from the detention area. A secretive elevator ride would deposit him at the far end of the infirmary corridor - and he would walk towards Saint.

"Going somewhere? "

 

[toyohisa]

Idly tapping his foot against the pavement, a quick glance was given to the screen above the button he had just pushed. Mamoru honestly had little to no clue what he was doing; throughout his life, the most technologically advanced thing he had ever seen was a computer. Then again, when you had his kind of life, your best friend was nothing more than the M4 strapped to your back. Pulling yet another piece of the light blue licorice from his pocket, he bit down on the candy and waited patiently, mixing the soda with the sweet creation to create an oddly addictive taste.

When the screen on the communicator finally came to life, the mercenary was a bit shocked. Tapping the screen with his index finger, Mamoru was struck with awe; it was seriously something that amazed him. One day, he definitely needed to wander around and see how much of this "high-tech" stuff was around.

"Really? All right."

He'd step through the gates as they'd open and close; like hell he wanted to die some embarrassing death of getting crushed by a nobles gate. Tilting his head back, his face was truly visible for the first time, long strands of raven falling from his visage.

"Ho. Ly. Shit."

They said they'd meet him inside, right? Pulling his back closer to his physique, the mercenary quickly made his way to the front door to a place he would kindly refer to as a miniature Heaven. Approaching the front door, he'd kindly knock at the door before opening it and stepping inside.

"Whoa, maybe I shouldn't call him Cow-kun anymore. I know that a cow sure as hell doesn't live like this. . ."

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

The hand denominating the everlasting passing of seconds played field hockey with the minute hand. ‘Red rover, red rover, would you please send Mr. Loosey Goosey on over?’ the thick black device seemed to say to the thin red one, but there was no winning this game. The second hand seemed resilient and stubborn as ever while the hour hand watched from afar, chowing down on a bowl of unmarked ticks in all enjoyment of the show. It was a rare occurrence for the clock’s devices to engage in such a conflict with a wonderful crowd below them. However, none of them seemed as interested as the hour hand was in the tomfoolery, for perhaps they could not witness the skirmish that was taking place. After all, the customers of the café were far above partaking in the mischievous maladies of time, all happy with their frugal existence without concerning themselves with the passing of each minute, each hour, and each day. There was one diligent soul who concerned himself with these churlish banter, and that was Caleb Whitaker, who stood opposite the wooden platform that separated him from the world around him.

“Oh c’mon, it takes like a year for 2:00 to come around,” he whined aloud, fumbling with the small bowl of mints that rested idly beside his register. His chocolate eyes were locked on the clock near the ‘OPEN’ sign, and even his foot seemed eager to get some action, tapping wildly and without any defined meter. Caleb was devoid of all dimensions of patience now, for they had been used up in dealing with Judiah and the other lunkheads who shared his space behind the counter. The allocated time for luncheon had passed, and now even the afternoon was melting away, the edges of reality bleeding into the pores of fantasy without any sort of hesitance. These illusions filled the vacancy in his mind everyday, so of course it was only habit for him to obsess over the inescapable aspect of time day after day, not minding its passing but instead looking towards his escape from the four walls that surrounded him.

“Okay, I think a second passed now... good, good.” A customer faced him at the counter, waving money wildly in his face in an attempt to bring him back to the current moment, but not even the faces of Oceania’s past leaders could drag Caleb out of his daydream. Instead, waves of green and off-white flowed in and out of fantasia, flowing up and under his garments and tickling his conscience to the point where he almost felt like laughing. Each tick served as a vibration to please the center of the clerk’s soul, and he even had to bite his rotund bottom lip to prevent himself from squealing out loud in all of the anticipation. Loose dark bangs flitted across the thick rims of his fogged glasses, but he daren’t move now; time was testing his patience, and he intended to pass with flying colors at any cost.

“3... 2... 1... 1...” Caleb counted aloud, stopping on the last second as the clock tittered on the cusp of salvation once more. “Oh C’MON! ‘ey Jan, I think the clock out here is broken!” he roared, stomping his feet as if he were a batter at base. And for all practical purposes, he was a batter in the sense that he was waiting for the perfect timing for the perfect strike. One gallant leap over that counter, and he would be off like a bullet, penetrating the portal between desire and death and ricocheting off of the walls of destiny out into the pale light of day. Nothing would be able to stop him as he took to the skies, flying on gales of trepidation as uncertainty would take hold of his soul, grabbing his wings and catapulting him straight into the...

The shift leader promptly hurtled over the cash register, his foot catching on the edge of the furniture as he was catapulted straight into the ground. Listless feelings of regret poured into his system as his face kissed scratched floors, pain shooting through his facial features like a dolphin through the sea. Eventually he rolled onto his back, his pinked hands covering his face while he looked to the ceiling, one lens of his glasses cracked down the middle. It all happened so fast, no one knew what had happened as they looked around him or her, thinking that the thump was a dropped suitcase or a tumbling box. However, when a young woman came around and descended to her knees, Caleb had won the shop’s attention.

“Grah! Are you okay, Caleb? Hey!”
“Yeah, just tripped. I might be blind, but I’m still alive.”
“Oh yeah... take those off. You might get a shard in your eye or something.”

Hesitantly, the girl lurched forward and slowly removed the glasses from Caleb’s face, his world returning to its blurred and bewildering state that it was before he entered the establishment. It was in this manner that his existence teeter tottered back and forth between his illusionary world and the real world, with no defined boundary to allow him to differentiate between the two. Perhaps he would have been more downtrodden in another time and at another place, but now he was all too used to this kind of emotional treatment, and thus he was apathetic towards the entire situation as the girl helped him to his knees, Caleb standing on his own will, with his own force. Those in the café simply stared at him as he brushed himself off, his naked face absorbing the warm light offered by the stationary ceiling fans. Nothing awkward about it.

“Well, I’m leaving, then. My shift is over. OVER!” he squawked, shoving the broken glasses into the girl’s hands as he began making his arduous trek back to the portal that had carried him to his workplace for another seven hours. Had it really been that long, or had Caleb lost all favor in time’s eyes? The young Whitaker did not know, but as the fuzzy outline of the paned door came into view, he found his hand extending for the door handle, an icy slice of despair waiting just beyond the café’s business hours sign. He looked back to find his second home just a smear of brown and orange. Shaking his head, he thrust himself forward out into London with his stained apron still clinging to his puppet strings.​

 

[Dean Winchester]

"I can't tell you right now Spectre, but I am sure I'll find out who is responsible for this. I still have faith in Big Brother, and I am not sure he is made fully aware of these "unexplainable" situations. If they suspect I am the traitor, then let's say I have my own suspects too...."

Agent Saint ended his call and put the cellphone back inside one of the inner pockets of his jacket. Determined to bring this case to Big Brother himself, Saint made up his mind and headed towards the exit. Just before reaching the Infirmary,

"Just when I thought this day couldn't get worse..."

Agent Saint said with mockery, as he stopped when hearing Raphael's question. Agent Saint turned to face one of his tormentors. He rose his left eyebrow, the disgust he felt towards this man couldn't be avoided, after all Raphael was as arrogant as Seraphim, or worse. "Yes, I am leaving this hell hole and bringing a full report of this situation to higher authorities. The fact that I don't like you doesn't mean that I don't retain some respect for Big Brother, the person that gave me a life when I had nothing....I only want to be someone like him someday, if fate smiles upon me....Besides, the rebels will end up reaching this area soon enough because someone left the entrance leading to the emergency elevator unprotected...I am going back to make sure the entrance is clear from rebel activity..."

 

[Soul Saver]

The small number 18 bus arrived, red-coloured with yellow stripes on the side from front to rear.
Spectre flashed his I.D card to the driver, who nervously nodded.
The agent took a seat at the front of the not-too-cramped bus, and took out his Sadio X20i digital assistant- a small device for various tasks. Spectre browsed the internet, connecting to the official BBC News network. He noticed that other people on the bus were glued to their devices, wanting to be in the know.

As expected, today's events at the ministry made the evening headlines.
"The brave and determined officers of the Bureau of Public Security quelled a terrorist attack by an undisclosed anarchist cell. There was much criminal damage to the HQ building, but no civilians were hurt."

True. This shows the thought criminals to be worthless cowards.

Spectre stared out of the window, as the rather noisy bus headed along the riverside road. The half moon shone upon the River Thames, the glimmering water making a beautiful scene. On the other side, tall buildings with neon lights of all sorts of colours and patterns lined the waterfront. That area was London's foremost entertainment district. And not far from it, the Houses of Parliament, the State Committee's chief building.
Administrators went to one chamber, Commissars to the other. The two chambers had previously been the Houses of Commons and Lords. A memory from a bygone era of corruption and decadence. The building still served as an important political establishment. The same could not be said for Whitehall, which had been demolished due to structural instability.

 

[Dean Winchester]

"I can't tell you right now Spectre, but I am sure I'll find out who is responsible for this. I still have faith in Big Brother, and I am not sure he is made fully aware of these "unexplainable" situations. If they suspect I am the traitor, then let's say I have my own suspects too...."

Agent Saint ended his call and put the cellphone back inside one of the inner pockets of his jacket. Determined to bring this case to Big Brother himself, Saint made up his mind and headed towards the exit. Just before reaching the Infirmary,

"Just when I thought this day couldn't get worse..."

Agent Saint said with mockery, as he stopped when hearing Raphael's question. Agent Saint turned to face one of his tormentors. He rose his left eyebrow, the disgust he felt towards this man couldn't be avoided, after all Raphael was as arrogant as Seraphim, or worse. "Yes, I am leaving this hell hole and bringing a full report of this situation to higher authorities. The fact that I don't like you doesn't mean that I don't retain some respect for Big Brother, the person that gave me a life when I had nothing....I only want to be someone like him someday, if fate smiles upon me....Besides, the rebels will end up reaching this area soon enough because someone left the entrance leading to the emergency elevator unprotected...I am going back to make sure the entrance is clear from rebel activity..." Saint then stopped and sighed, placing the briefcase he had been carrying on the floor."You know, screw the report..give it to Seraphim you want..I am tired of not being able to do my job correctly . I quit this job...the hell with being an agent...I don't have what it takes to be one....heck I never had the skill....I am just a lame excuse of an agent, a reject, a failed experiment gone terribly wrong....I am of no use for this Ministry...I admit my failure and I shall leave to rid you of my nuisance.....so out of my damn way..."

Meanwhile another man entered this unpredictable dilemma, a man near being 40 years old and that somehow was caught in this web of treachery, murder and hatred. His name was Grant Jason Blacques Amshell, and he was enjoying a meal in one of the cafeterias nearby when the Ministry was suddenly attacked. He was carrying a briefcase containing part of his gear, as well as some information about reports on the rebels, the Ministry itself, and the criminal acts that are swallowing the city in an abyss of chaos and corruption. As he saw the flames devouring part of the Ministry, Grant readied his weapon (he had a black Desert Eagle) and stared at the inferno, the reddish orange fires reflected on the surface of his sunglasses. Having loaded his gun, Grant rose from the steel chair he was sitting, left some money on the table next to his bills for the meal, grabbed the briefcase with his left hand, weapon held by his right hand, and walked across the street towards the Ministry, hoping to find some information about these incidents. Hoping not to be mistaken by a rebel, Grant stopped by the entrance awaiting for being granted access.

"Hmm I wonder if the agents will cooperate. I would be glad to assist them as long as if it helps to end the criminality. Though I am not sure.....if I should try to apply for a position in there...."


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Agent Saint pulled out his ID Card and tossed on the floor, he then went past Raphael without waiting for any response, it is evident he wasn't in the mood of any more interrogations. The man just kept walking towards the stairs leading to the surface. His life was a mess, he had no purpose and the only thing that once meant something for him was no longer of his interest. Retiring and enjoying life suited him more, after all the rebels and their problems were non of his business anymore. As he went upstairs, he thought of all he had endured, and that all his job was for nothing, it lacked importance and besides a failure leaving the Ministry won't be missed, so he didn't cared much after all. Soon he reached the door leading outside, he was on the back entrance of the Ministry. Of what he had seen, it seems that the situation was already kept under control and the rebel attack was already suppressed. Jonathan Saint, now an Ex-Agent, headed to the parking lot and and went to his car. He pulled the keys and opened the door, thus entering the car and locking the door as he entered. Saint soon after started the engines and drove in reverse, then he went forward leaving the Ministry.

EDIT:

Unfortunately, fate did not smiled upon Saint this day, for the Ministry knew very well not to leave any loose ends. While driving home, someone had cut the breaks of his car thus not allowing him to stop the car. No matter how much he pressed the foot break pedal, the car did not stop. Saint lost control and ended up crashing against the border and falling of the bridge down to the river, the car engulfed with flames. Days later, Saint would be found with second grade burns over his left arm and left leg, his torso and suffering of amnesia in one of a nearby hospital. The doctors would say that his amnesic status would most likely last forever, so Saint would eventually stay in intensive care in one of the rooms of an hospital. The agents would find him and send him to an asylum, imprisoning him for daring to defy a ruthless monster such as Big Brother and his Ministry...

To be continued?

 

[Contra Fates]

Yukio would place a hand on the girl’s shoulder as he passed by her, perhaps a brief pat of reassurance to her. The real reason why he had so quickly invited the girl and her monkey-companion to his home, was because of the attack on the Ministry of Love. He knew that all hell would break loose, and that the only, truly safe haven that he could have urged the two to go to…was his own home. With the thick, tall walls and triple steel-gates, his home wouldn’t be touched by any rebels in the chaos. In fact, they didn’t even hear so much as a gunshot from inside the home. Yukio wasn’t quite sure, but he couldn’t just let the two of them fend for themselves out there, and in a moment of compassion and humility, he had invited them into his home.
<o></o>
As for the young man that stood outside of those gates…Yukio had a feeling that he would not be so willing to pull his own weight within the home. Yukio shrugged it off, and patted down his attire, always sure to appear as immaculate and pristine as ever. Although, he was only dressed in that form-fitting black turtleneck and black slacks. With Ansell at his side, and the servants already at the door to greet their next guest, Mamoru would find that those large, golden doors were opened, just as he stepped up to them.
<o></o>
Yukio folded his arms over his chest, examining the other’s expression…which seemed, quite impressed to say the least. Canting his head to the side, Yukio would give him a glance over, before motioning for him to walk inside. “Karina, take his belongings to one of the guest rooms on the east wing, and tell Rusk to prepare for another guest.” Yukio paused, glancing at Mamoru. “I assume you’re about as hungry as my other guests were. Feel free to ask one of the servants to lead you to the dining hall.” Another pause, before Yukio took a step closer to him. “And if you call me Cow-kun, or Lambo-kun, I will make sure that Rusk adds a secret ingredient to your food, understood?” His head was tipped forward, with an arching of his brows, a brightening of the eye. He wouldn’t be poked fun at within the confines of his own home, especially a home like this.

​

<o></o>
“…But..! He could be useful, I’m sure..!” Khitri looked rather distraught at Seraphim’s final decision to have that clone disposed of. After Seraphim had left, all Khitri could do was hang her head, hands balled into fists, testament to her maelstrom of emotions. Seraphim didn’t understand, what an asset those clones could be, especially if she were to ever create a perfect one!

As for the poor, artificial-soul who sat side-eyed on the examining table, he could do no more than stare up at that frightening image of silver and red. Raphael was a frightening image…because at first, his beauty was distracting, but his expression and those red eyes made him a figure to fear, more than anything else. Those ‘exquisite’ red eyes widened as Raphael came closer with that scalpel, and he trembled within his grip as the blade as drug over his pale flesh, causing blood to drip. His breathing had accelerated, and he could hear his heart pounding hard in his chest. Was he going to cut out his eye?! A heavy sigh of relief left him as that scalpel was drawn away, and as that maniacal Agent finally left his presence.

Though, it wasn’t long before an equally disturbing form walked into the room, a hand held behind her back as she approached him with a sad look in her eyes. She leaned against him, her fingers snaking themselves within the clone’s hair, as she brought her lips to his own in a rough kiss that spoke of nothing but the most carnal lust. She pulled back, only slightly, her breath felt hot against the clone’s lips, before he would feel a brief sting in his arm. “…It’s really such a shame. I was hoping to have a lot of fun with you.” She’d pull back, leaving the injected syringe in his arm. It was loaded with an anesthetic, of such a high dosage that his entire nervous system would shut down entirely, ending his artificial life.

“Splendid. Give me a ring and I’ll meet you at the entrance.” Seraphim paused, a slight grin forming as a result of Michael’s final words. “Likewise. I look forward to witnessing proof to back up those rumors, Archangel. I’m sure you won’t disappoint.” With that said, the phone would be placed on its receiver, before Seraphim would tip back in his chair and ponder over what Michael looked like these days. It had been many years since they last saw one another, for Michael had been cast away like some ‘failure,’ only to emerge once more, victorious. The stories of his triumphs in Germany, as well as other European countries, were as well known as his own stories. He looked forward to being reunited with his childhood ‘brother.’

​

<o></o>

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

The entrance to the Ministry, despite the ‘incidents’ occurring elsewhere, remained gray and drab as ever. Steel and hopeless dreams formed an alloy to construct the onerous walls, making the entire complex seem impenetrable despite the flames of attrition that rode on the seasonal winds. However, despite these happenings, Grant Amshell managed to approach this location with confidence. Rarely did an outsider approach the Ministry of Love, especially with their head held high. The fact that Grant could easily do so spoke volumes about his character, but perhaps his reception would not be as he could have expected. Although this was the Abode of the Authorities, it wasn’t all smiles and gallantry in this morose location. No, it would take quite the humorous occasion to bring light to a place where darkness has made its habitat.

Before these doors stood the standard detachment of agents to serve as escorts into the building should they be needed, or a security regiment otherwise. The unusual aspect of this situation was not the fact that these faceless men stood rigid between Grant and his desires, but the fact that a strange man who surely stood out amongst them laid recumbent on a crate not too far off. Sunglasses shielded glazed eyes from the world while chocolate hair fringed the edges of the wooden device. His thin lips parted to allow drool to escape via the corner of his mouth onto his locks while his arms laid splayed beside him, his back laying uncomfortable on some chunky weapon strapped to his hindquarters. He might have been imposing in his dark and sleek wardrobe, but alas there he was, sleeping peacefully as a baby would on the first day of spring.

Unbeknownst to those around him, this man actually was fully aware of the situation as it transpired, his mind’s eye showing him the world around him. Rivulets of gray and black and other dismal colors filled his conscience, tempting him out of his pretend slumber. He was far too ductile for that, though he kept an open ear as the footsteps stopped at the entrance. Perhaps it was time to do his job... he liked to slack off when necessary, but while the Ministry was trying to rebuild itself, it might not have been beneficial for him to slack right here and right now. A set of shoulders with no head to support was useless in any sense.

“’ey you. Scat,” the young agent said in Grant’s direction, sitting up on the box and stretching luxuriously, smacking his lips with a satisfied scratch of the tummy. “No pedestrians allowed inside, not now, and not ever. Unless you have proper authorization of course, but I think ya don’t. Buhbye!” Rover exclaimed, waving his hand in farewell and shooing the stranger off. He would continue to do so in a degrading manner until the built man left the premises completely, Rover moderately surprised that he didn’t have to flash his shotgun around to get what he wanted for once. Then again, his life was revolving around inaction and monotony lately, with the minor rebel invasion set aside. Eventually, Forrest stumbled over to the cold metallic doors and threw his back against it, sliding down to the ground and popping a bubble with his gum while he scanned the area before him, seemingly in grayscale.

“Wow, this is Yawncity. Who’da thunk that overseeing access security would be so... lame? Eh, you win some and lose some, I guess. I think I just need some conflict to get my adrenaline going,” he said, turning to the other men stationed there and eying them with a smile. “Hey, you two should have a gunfight or sommat. That sounds like fun, right?” asked Rover, looking between the two inquisitively. When the pair realized that it wasn’t a rhetorical question, the shorter of the two spoke up.

“No, that doesn’t sound like fun. Don’t try to make us act up.”
“I can’t make you do anything. Just trying to lighten the mood. Sure, bloodshed might have been involved with that, but what isn’t entertaining about a good ol’ deathmatch? Party poopers,” he replied hotly, folding his arms again and returning his icy gaze back out to the abandoned street. Not a single soul took to the sidewalks save for that ox of a man, and perhaps he was the key to brightening Rover’s day. No matter, there would always be more eggs to hatch.
​

 

[toyohisa]

Slim digits ran through long strands of raven hair, revealing the full extent of his facial features to the blond headed man for the first time. His attitude was light and cheery, but the glare in his eye was enough to kill a weak hearted man. If that didn't clue them in to the fact that he wasn't a normal person, well, what would, then? When the servants at the door were instructed to take his things to a guest room, he pulled his bag from around his shoulder and handed it to them, offering a slight smile.

"Please be careful with my stuff. There's some important junk in there, y'know."

Bringing that sheepish grin back to his features, Mamoru approached Yukio and Ansell, rubbing his stomach while the man spoke about the dining hall; whether or not he actually told Yukio whether or not his visit had been solely for the food was going to be kept to himself. The fact he couldn't call the pin-striped cow by his usual nickname was a bit disappointing, but when one was allowed to stay at a place like this, it didn't even matter.

"Huh? Of course I won't call you such a name, Yukio-kun. What makes you think I'd call you such a nasty name in the first place? Gosh, have a bit more faith in me, would'ja?"

Had he conveniently forgotten about the nickname he'd given the narcissist earlier? Probably.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you my name; so rude of me, right? My name is Kobayashi, Mamoru. Can't believe I forgot to tell you that earlier, man."

 

[Amel]

The Chariot of Fire... Sort of.

...

"Please make sure all seats are in the upright and locked positions."

Michael hated airplane rides. It was like being held in a box of vulnerability. There was nowhere to move, nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. In flight tele-casting showed the typical mind-easing programming. In case something terrible were to happen to the plane and its plethora of absent-minded tools called passengers, they'd go down right into a watery grave without so much as a doubtful snicker as to the glory of their government.

And why shouldn't they? It provided them with everything they needed. A crook and staff for the wayward sheep that called themselves humans, Big Brother and his government herded the stray insecurities and weaknesses of society and created a paradise by which they could exist in mindless, vacant bliss.

The Archangel sat, watching the clouds pass by beneath them from the window to his right. The stewardess, as attractive as she was, garnered little interesting from Michael. Normally, he might have considered wooing her into the common stall that the airplane offered for toiletry. However, his mind was far too preoccupied with thoughts of recent occurrences.

Why now? He'd been abroad for years, taking down various nests, limiting the percentage of rebels in comparison to the agency and Big Brother. Large "political" targets assassinated, hostile enemy bases completely vaporized. The Archangel had been treated more as a butchering soldier than an actual agent, but he preferred it that way anyway.

In London, the Agency had already been established, the Government already in place under Big Brother's watchful eye. In other countries, however, it was a transitioning phase adopted based on the policies created back at the source. For this, resistance operations were a bit larger and more potent. They required more than just door to door vaporizations. Indeed, thus he'd coined the word 'nest'. Michael's psychic prowess was not talented enough to warrant him an 'agent' that went around making sure everyone thought the way they were supposed to...

He was an exterminator.

The Archangel could only assume that the reason he'd been called... was because there was a growing problem with resistance at The Source. Had nests finally begun to rise in London? Were the rebels finally growing enough in number to pose a threat? He supposed he'd be briefed.

A few hours later, just as the sun began to set, the plane touched down. Black trench coat began sashaying as his steps carried him with purpose to that large building. The Ministry of Love, they called it. The thought of Seraphim being inside made him grin. Hand lifted, shoving the door open even as he lifted his watch to change the frequency of communication in order to match those in the surrounding area. He changed to a frequency he knew Seraphim would receive.

"Agent Seraphim, this is Agent Michael. Status report?"

 

[Soul Saver]

One hour, and Saint had not made an appearance. The bar was quiet, Spectre, the elderly landlord, and an apparently lesbian couple being the only ones in there. Ah.
Spectre had bided his time by watching the news and speaking with the landlord about the day's events. Just an ordinary joe with nothing to hide.

Spectre's mobile rang, showing Seraphim's I.D.
The agent picked up.

 

[Contra Fates]

Seraphim felt a growing pressure in his temple, and rose a gloved finger to massage the area gently. Something was wrong, and he could sense it. He would spin around in his large, leather chair, pulling himself to one of the computer consoles. He's hit a few keys and bring it to life, checking a few surveillance cameras along the nearing streets. He was following a sort of hunch.

And that hunch brought him to the crunched car of the now, likely unrecognizable Agent Saint. Seraphim gave a shake of his head in a disappointed manner. He had some hope for Saint, but it seemed right when he let that seedling of light blossum within his heart, he was a goner. "Out with one..."

And it was then that he heard that familiar voice through the speaker of his wristwatch communicator. Seraphim grinned. "...And in with another." Seraphim pressed a button on the edge of the communicator and spoke. "I'll be down to meet you in a moment, Michael."

With that said, he would bring his wrist down at his side, and head for that Agent-exclusive elevator shaft. His cell phone was slipped out of his pocket, and dialed Spectre's number. "I have bad news for you, Spectre. I'm afraid that Agent Saint has been injured in some freak car accident. Come back to the Ministry, I'm sure you'll be needed here." His ID card was slid over the reader, as he placed the cell back into his pocket, and stepped inside the elevator. He felt a slight pulse of excitement once he realized that he'd soon be reunited with his childhood friend. It was strange for him to have such a human thought, and he immediately chided himself for it. Once those double doors would open, he would promptly step outside, swiping his card over the reader in order to lock the elevator until he wished to use it.

His eyes scanned the hellish image of that destroyed lobby, red eyes looking for a familiar face, an unmistakable form, and he would find it. That violet hair was hard to miss, coupled with those blood-red eyes that seemed more vivid than from when he remembered him in child. Seraphim could sense his stength, for the aura around him was unable to be ignored. Seraphim had changed quite a bit over the years, if only to have been given a more stern, unwavering facade, with hair that licked at the back of his legs, instead of at his back like it was as a child. A gloved hand was extended, for a formal handshake with the other.

"How do you like the decorating job?" Seraphim grinned, a brief glance given to the chaos that was the lobby of the Ministry of Love.

 

[Soul Saver]

Spectre paused, as if time had frozen. Saint was a good agent.

Stay composed.

"... I see. Tragic. I understand, I'll be there as soon as possible." Spectre paid the old man a £10 tip, and left the bar.

Thirty minutes later, and the agent had reached the now heavily cordoned off and constantly patrolled HQ building. He headed for Seraphim's office. On the elevator, his phone rang, with a pager message from none other than the Supreme Security Directorate itself, reading:-

Confidential, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.

Agent Spectre,

Your consistent exceptional service record has not gone unnoticed. You have gained the interest of the supreme directorate several times.
As such, you are required for a new assignment of utmost importance. This mission will involve intelligence gathering, recon, and possibly termination.

Meet with Agents Jekyll and Hyde at the Central Berlin Aerodrome, tomorrow at 19:20 pm, Central European Time.

Yours benevolently, Big Brother.



Spectre entered Seraphim's office, making a surprised glance at the additional character sitting in the corner.

 

[Dean Winchester]

Salazar's Revenge

Grant left the entrance seeing no one answered his call. Suddenly, he heard his cell phone ringing within his pockets, the ID was of Mathias Salazar. Having being order to return to Salazar Corp, Grant rushed back to his car and left the area, heading towards the Salazar Corp. Building. Meanwhile Mathias Salazar awaited patiently in his study, a fine office he had filled with books, pieces of expensive art, and luxurious furniture. Salazar's desk was placed before a large bookshelf, and it had several items on it: an unfinished chess game with a Black Rook and a Bishop placing the White King on Check Mate, a photo of his sister and Jonathan Saint standing in front of the Salazar Mansion, a small statue of a knight riding on horseback, an old fashioned phone and a book Salazar had been reading during the last few days. Mathias Salazar, sitting on his large black armchair that resemblances a monarch's throne, has been awaiting for information concerning Saint's whereabouts. Suddenly, the phone on Salazar's office rang. Salazar picked the phone and answered the call, it was one of his contacts in the Ministry asking about the next shipment.

"No sir, your weapons will be delivered soon. I assure you they are the best pieces of equipment suited only for the best customers."

"Very well Mr. Salazar, your payment has been made. We've been very generous with this months payment."

"Oh, I see, then it seems my little toys had pleased your organization."

"Yes, indeed. We would like to ask you about the weapons that your corporation will deliver next month."

"Ah, the specialized semi-automatic weapon project we've been working? They will sent to you on the schedule date. Also my men will go and upgrade your security. I am aware of the incident the Ministry had endured, and I would like to investigate what was the problem with the system. I will enhance your motion sensors as well as your surveillance cameras."

"Good, then this conversation can be postponed for later. Your services will not remain unrewarded gentlemen. Farewell."

Salazar hung the phone and relaxed on his chair. He was pleased to see how much his fortune was growing, he had many bank accounts throughout the world, and had already bought a small island near Africa for weapon testing. Rich and powerful, his father's legacy has been increasing in both wealth and power, making Mathias a man you would never want as an enemy. Seeing that his business with the "The Party" and Big Brother had been improving, Mathias sent a message to his secretary in the Salazar Corp. Building in London, and told her to contact either Agent Spectre or Agent Seraphim, he needed to know about the "special" weapon request the government had asked Mathias to make.

Edit:

In the meantime, Salazar sent another message to one of his guards at the entrance of the mansion. Their orders were to allow Seraphim and Spectre free passage and to lead them to his presence. No one else was allowed to enter, and they were to terminate anyone who tried to break in. Salazar's personal army had the finest soldiers with the latest technology in weapons and protective gear, making them the perfect body guards. All of these precautions were taken as soon as Mathias was made aware of the Rebel Assault on The Ministry. Disappointed, most of their technology was made by his corporation. Salazar also had a few contacts in the Ministry of Truth, hence why he was informed of the situation as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, Saint's injuries were treated in an underground high tech facility buried deep within Salazar Corp. Building. Regardless of the efforts made by the scientists, it appears that Jonathan's mind suffered constant brainwashing, thus making him highly unstable, his true life was hidden deep within the mental labyrinth the Ministry had created deep inside Saint's mind. Per Salazar's request, the scientists were to rebuild what was left of Jonathan Saint, fixing his body with plastic surgery and genetically altering all his body structure, restoring him slowly. Still, Jonathan showed no signs of recovering consciousness, staying on a state of coma. On the other side, Grant was testing a new weapon that Salazar's engineers had developed.

 

[Reality.Fantasy]

The only word that could’ve described Caleb at that moment was ‘breathless’.

Pale blues and murky grays filled his retinas and swirled around the large nerves that weaved and spindled up to his mind, adjusting his mindset considerably. No longer was he in automaton in a modern world, but instead a mannequin that was led to believe that it held its own strings in its lifeless hands. The shape of the familiar streetlight before him was not so easily distinguishable as before, now that he had been robbed of one of his senses. It was no matter to him, for he followed the same path to and from this mystical location everyday. Thus, he started off down the barren sidewalk, subconsciously skipping over every crack simply out of habit. Somehow, he had managed to grab his pea coat during the hassle just moments before, and thus stuffed naked hands into the scratchy pockets, cringing his teeth some in discomfort.

It felt as if he was functioning without any lungs. Perhaps there was no need to breathe, no need to have a heartbeat or even shed a tear. Caleb was inwardly worried; he was starting to become devoid of many emotions and thoughts. He hardly remembered anything of his childhood, only had a handful of memories about his schooling, and sometimes forgot where he put his keys. He wasn’t too upset over the last part, for somehow they always managed to show up eventually. It’s as if someone out there was testing him daily, testing his strength as a poor inhabitant of the city of London. Ignorance is strength, no less.

Suddenly, as he moved to turn the corner onto the next street, the cashier noticed a small blur before him. At first he believed it to be a hydrant of some sort that was accidentally placed too far from the cracked tar, but when the gentle sound of breathing filled his ear, he knew it was alive. It had been so long since he last heard himself breathe.

“Hello mister.”
“... Hello.”

The whites of the child’s eyes disappeared every so often, and Caleb could only assume that he was blinking.
“A pretty day, idn’t it?”
“... Yes.”
“Are you going for a walk, mister?”

Caleb looked at the boy for a moment, then quickly turned and took off for his next destination, a street corner a few blocks away. One hundred seventy seven steps. The faint breathing sound eventually vanished as he left the child’s presence, and that point satisfied him to no extent. Caleb did not trust children. There was no reason to trust them, to look them in the eye or even to acknowledge their existence. Should something slip, and then he would be in a world of trouble. In these times, it was important to avoid such things. It would be hard enough to get out of those thatches without some mind prodding. Caleb liked his brain just how it was; untouched.

Silhouettes of strangers filled Caleb’s eyes as he tried as best he could to look down. But even as he moved his eyes to the cement, he felt the hot eyes of vagrants and the authorities on his back, watching every move without blinking. He was not spotlighted in London by any means, but should he even think the wrong thing, he just might be accentuated for any traitorous thoughts. The Whitakers were never able to think independently, so it wasn’t unusual in any sense for Caleb to have a one-tracked mind. However, he always thought... was there more to his own mind that he had not yet discovered? Here he was, finally an adult, yet he still felt as if he was an adolescent. He hadn’t grown at all, for he was not allowed.

Caleb halted his advance just outside a bar, feeling a strong mind pass him by. Not flinching in the slightest, he turned and looked up at the decomposing sign, watching as a crow flew onto the splintered corner and squawked angrily. Quickly, he looked away and noted the entrance, no activity evident from peering in through tinted windows. A prolonged sigh swam across his taste buds and with great lament, he threw himself onto a crate that rested outside the bleak ingress. It took so much energy to transport himself between the only two worlds he could remember and recognize... and now, he was beginning to feel lost in his own preoccupations. What was WRONG with him?

Caleb pressed the bases of his palms into his forehead, looking between his legs and trying as best he could to prevent himself from screaming out loud. No, he couldn’t draw any attention. No, Caleb was just another statistic, another misguided creature in the land of Oceania. For the first time in Caleb’s life, he felt as if he was melting. Melting like the world around him, losing all his shape and form while the choleric world around him retained its composition valiantly. He was battling against the waves, and he was LOSING.
​