In the Spacetime Continuum, temporally-based offences are considered especially heinous.
In New...
In New...
'Nautz: SBI
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Into and Agent Choice
- Location
- Between two worlds.
In the Spacetime Continuum, temporally-based offences are considered especially heinous.
In New Multiverse City, the dedicated agents who investigate these strange felonies
are members of an elite organisation known as the Spacetime Bureau of Investigation.
These are their stories . . .
In New Multiverse City, the dedicated agents who investigate these strange felonies
are members of an elite organisation known as the Spacetime Bureau of Investigation.
These are their stories . . .
[x] Special Temporal Activities Group
- - Wizards, interdimensional cults, rival intelligence agencies. You sure have your hands full as an agent of STAG. Whether it's Chronoids gone rogue, AIs hellbent on destroying organic life, or Ubernazis using their moonbase to establish another reich, no one can say that there is ever a truly boring day at work.
[x] SBI: VICE
- - Organised crime, with gangsters of every trope. The white-suit, flamingo pink-wearing Miami club owners who constantly blast Phil Collins, to the pinstripped suit wearing thugs of yore armed with tommy guns and bad attitudes. Are you ballsy enough to handle the Anti-Crime Task Force?
The Author of this Quest said:
Last edited:
- Location
- Between two worlds.
Check it out. Reserve post. Voting may commence!
Mission Choice
- Location
- Between two worlds.
"Alright! Alright! Get seated and shut up!" The Deputy Director of the FBI doesn't always leave his box, but when he does, his aim is to get back inside of it as soon as possible. Translation: Don't piss him off and listen carefully. The faster he finishes, the faster he gets back to his cave and the better chance you have of lasting until retirement.
You're Agent Mila Young, a native of New Multiverse City, the largest city in existence. Yup. It was once the City of the Multiverse, but stuff went down you guess and . . . now it's new. You've spent your career in the SBI pretty straightforward: show up, lie low, do your job, get the money, retire. You weren't really much for dramatics or spectacle, even if the nature of your job is, well, both of those and then some. No big deal. You shuffle into the room and plop yourself in a seat. No signs of your partner yet, but he'll show. He'll always show.
"Okay. I have better shit to do with my time. I'm not babysitting you pissants, so I went to the Top and got Vice Squad the best assignments I could find, or felt like finding. Maybe they aren't even the best assignments. Maybe you'll be shovelling shit for dinosaurs while you wait for STAG to show up and send them back to 75 million Before-Fuck, or whatever it's called. Now here -- take your damn folders and get to work."
"Well, he seems chipper", your partner chirps, sliding into an empty seat next to you. By now, most of the agents have started hand-molesting the stack of folders, you impose past him and head for the table. He follows. Of course he follows.
"What else is new, Fluffy?" You continue, not wanting him to chime in with a response and get you both into a tangent. "Help me peek through these files, would ya? I don't want a crap assignment." You don't wait for his response, instead opting to hand him a portion of the remaining stack. You both flip through your respective shares.
"Ding, ding, ding! Check it out, Young. Jackpot!"
"Calm down. What the hell did you find?" Peering over his shoulder, the file briefs show three missions. "Only three?", you ask flatly. "I'm not impressed. Are the Big 'Nautz sucking up all the action, or is the Bureau getting that retarded?"
"How about Choice C: A combo platter?" Fluffy waits for your response -- expecting laughter -- but gets an eye-roll. "Killjoy", he mutters.
The files read . . .
[x] Illegal Fighting Ring
The Timeboys have set up a temporal fighting ring, filled with kidnapped fighters throughout the timeline. This is obviously a huge no-no, as you can't have 14th Century knights fighting cyborgs in a multiversal city.
[x] Check Up on Big Tony
Word on the street is Big Ton' is running some kind of weird cross-dimensional protection racket, using some of history's most notorious gangs as his footmen and labourers. He's the "friend-but-criminal-enemy" trope to a 'T', and the Bureau is not any less aware of his existence -- he and it go way back. Time to pay him a monthly visit to make sure he's on the up and up.
[x] Clockface Sting Op
Chronocriminal Clockface is a budding crime boss looking to establish an empire that spans the Continuum. Right now he's fairly small-time, but needs a swift kick to the wevos to remind him of who's in charge of New Multiverse City.
You're Agent Mila Young, a native of New Multiverse City, the largest city in existence. Yup. It was once the City of the Multiverse, but stuff went down you guess and . . . now it's new. You've spent your career in the SBI pretty straightforward: show up, lie low, do your job, get the money, retire. You weren't really much for dramatics or spectacle, even if the nature of your job is, well, both of those and then some. No big deal. You shuffle into the room and plop yourself in a seat. No signs of your partner yet, but he'll show. He'll always show.
"Okay. I have better shit to do with my time. I'm not babysitting you pissants, so I went to the Top and got Vice Squad the best assignments I could find, or felt like finding. Maybe they aren't even the best assignments. Maybe you'll be shovelling shit for dinosaurs while you wait for STAG to show up and send them back to 75 million Before-Fuck, or whatever it's called. Now here -- take your damn folders and get to work."
"Well, he seems chipper", your partner chirps, sliding into an empty seat next to you. By now, most of the agents have started hand-molesting the stack of folders, you impose past him and head for the table. He follows. Of course he follows.
"What else is new, Fluffy?" You continue, not wanting him to chime in with a response and get you both into a tangent. "Help me peek through these files, would ya? I don't want a crap assignment." You don't wait for his response, instead opting to hand him a portion of the remaining stack. You both flip through your respective shares.
"Ding, ding, ding! Check it out, Young. Jackpot!"
"Calm down. What the hell did you find?" Peering over his shoulder, the file briefs show three missions. "Only three?", you ask flatly. "I'm not impressed. Are the Big 'Nautz sucking up all the action, or is the Bureau getting that retarded?"
"How about Choice C: A combo platter?" Fluffy waits for your response -- expecting laughter -- but gets an eye-roll. "Killjoy", he mutters.
The files read . . .
[x] Illegal Fighting Ring
The Timeboys have set up a temporal fighting ring, filled with kidnapped fighters throughout the timeline. This is obviously a huge no-no, as you can't have 14th Century knights fighting cyborgs in a multiversal city.
[x] Check Up on Big Tony
Word on the street is Big Ton' is running some kind of weird cross-dimensional protection racket, using some of history's most notorious gangs as his footmen and labourers. He's the "friend-but-criminal-enemy" trope to a 'T', and the Bureau is not any less aware of his existence -- he and it go way back. Time to pay him a monthly visit to make sure he's on the up and up.
[x] Clockface Sting Op
Chronocriminal Clockface is a budding crime boss looking to establish an empire that spans the Continuum. Right now he's fairly small-time, but needs a swift kick to the wevos to remind him of who's in charge of New Multiverse City.
Last edited:
- Location
- Canadia
[X] Illegal Fighting Ring
BIg Tony (Part 1)
- Location
- Between two worlds.
You make an unnecessary yawn while your eyes drift to the second folder. "Let's go say hi to Tony."
"Big Ton'. Eyyy! That loveable sunnuvabitch."
"Shut up. And quit using that fake accent."
"Aw, c'monnnnn, toots."
"Fluffy! Stop it!"
The two of you exit the inside of the building and head for the Bureau garage. It is filed with all kinds of service vehicles that you're all too familiar with. Mobile command centres, tactical team trucks, interceptors, and even a few air-land vehicles. Yours is an interceptor -- meant for high-speed pursuits, but for some reason has found itself in the service of Vice. You figure Top must be expecting gratuitous shootouts atop the roof of a dance club during sunset. You scoff, and so does Fluffy. As much as he gets on your nerves, you're not closer to anyone else in the Bureau. Sometimes, you're like brother and sister. But he hits on you every once in a while, so that makes the dynamic rather weird.
You jump inside of the interceptor while Fluffy does the same. It's surprisingly spacious for a small two-man craft. Something about fourth dimension whateverwhatsit. You don't care; you're just trying to get this mission over with ASAP.
You arrive outside of Big Tony's place, a club called 'Speakeasy'. You aren't sure why, but that name sounds oddly archaic. You wouldn't even know it if it weren't for the mission file and the tacky-ass glowing sign, with yellow neon assaulting your eyes reading "Speakeasy". You know this mission is perfect for Fluffy to start his usual antics, so you turn to him and give him a stern-yet-not-too-serious warning.
"Um, Fluffs. I'm going to need you to . . ."
[x] "keep it strictly professional. This guy may be loveable, but the Bureau wants him checked for a reason. He's not our friend, no matter how good of a mood he's in. Remember that."
[x] "not make so many jokes. I know you like to have fun, and that's great, but we're here as agents first, and fellow clowns-in-arms second."
[x] You pick, SV.
A/N: Yeah. Long-ass wait for this update due to me mulling over future ones. Back in it. Hope this makes up for it.
"Big Ton'. Eyyy! That loveable sunnuvabitch."
"Shut up. And quit using that fake accent."
"Aw, c'monnnnn, toots."
"Fluffy! Stop it!"
The two of you exit the inside of the building and head for the Bureau garage. It is filed with all kinds of service vehicles that you're all too familiar with. Mobile command centres, tactical team trucks, interceptors, and even a few air-land vehicles. Yours is an interceptor -- meant for high-speed pursuits, but for some reason has found itself in the service of Vice. You figure Top must be expecting gratuitous shootouts atop the roof of a dance club during sunset. You scoff, and so does Fluffy. As much as he gets on your nerves, you're not closer to anyone else in the Bureau. Sometimes, you're like brother and sister. But he hits on you every once in a while, so that makes the dynamic rather weird.
You jump inside of the interceptor while Fluffy does the same. It's surprisingly spacious for a small two-man craft. Something about fourth dimension whateverwhatsit. You don't care; you're just trying to get this mission over with ASAP.
You arrive outside of Big Tony's place, a club called 'Speakeasy'. You aren't sure why, but that name sounds oddly archaic. You wouldn't even know it if it weren't for the mission file and the tacky-ass glowing sign, with yellow neon assaulting your eyes reading "Speakeasy". You know this mission is perfect for Fluffy to start his usual antics, so you turn to him and give him a stern-yet-not-too-serious warning.
"Um, Fluffs. I'm going to need you to . . ."
[x] "keep it strictly professional. This guy may be loveable, but the Bureau wants him checked for a reason. He's not our friend, no matter how good of a mood he's in. Remember that."
[x] "not make so many jokes. I know you like to have fun, and that's great, but we're here as agents first, and fellow clowns-in-arms second."
[x] You pick, SV.
A/N: Yeah. Long-ass wait for this update due to me mulling over future ones. Back in it. Hope this makes up for it.
- Location
- Canadia
[x] "keep it strictly professional. This guy may be loveable, but the Bureau wants him checked for a reason. He's not our friend, no matter how good of a mood he's in. Remember that."
Big Tony (Part 2)
- Location
- Between two worlds.
"Not make so many jokes or turn the clowning up to its usual level. You like to have fun, and that's great, but we're here as agents first, and fellow clowns-in-arms second."
Fluffy shrugs, but you're sure he'll slip up at some point.
He always does.
Wasting not another second, you both enter Speakeasy. The Timeboys are familiar with the Bureau stopping by so they allow you to enter unmolested, with a simple grunt and hand wave. You know it's just for show; they think that by being pleasant -- almost careless -- that the Bureau will lose interest in them, as guilty people have nothing to hide. You know it's a load of bunk. Besides, they taught you in training that the best thing the innocent can do for themselves is to be calm and polite, but not necessarily compliant, and to say nothing. The guilty tend to appear overly friendly to--
"Heyyyy! Agent Young! Fluffy! You beautiful sunnuvabitches! Come ova' heeere!" You grit your teeth and, slowly, turn to your left. It's the man himself: Anthony Battaglia, commonly known as . . .
"Big Tonyyyy! Why don't you come over heeere!" He and Fluffy practically teleport towards each other before embracing each other Sopranos style. You know -- with the one hand behind the neck and the other grasping a hand? Yeah. That. You watch at the stout-yet-sturdy man jives his way to your partner, who is, of course, working on disregarding everything you said not even two minutes prior.
"Eyyy! Fluffman. Fluffster. Fluffy: Destroyah of Woilds. Ya lost weight, ya big lug! I told ya once you get on that dietary plan my mother-in-law got me on, you'll be set. I told ya, didn't I?"
"Well, I can't help eating sometimes. You know I'm a growing boy, you sunnuva--"
"Agent Fluffy!" you cry. He snaps to a position of having sense and clears his throat. Noticing the sudden change in mood, Big Tony begins to saunter his way over to you with a shit-eating grin on his face. The one he has painted on his face every time the Bureau shows up.
This guy is good. Not that good, but good.
Respond in a(n) . . .
[x] aggressive manner.
[x] passive manner.
[x] professional manner.
[x] Write in.
Fluffy shrugs, but you're sure he'll slip up at some point.
He always does.
Wasting not another second, you both enter Speakeasy. The Timeboys are familiar with the Bureau stopping by so they allow you to enter unmolested, with a simple grunt and hand wave. You know it's just for show; they think that by being pleasant -- almost careless -- that the Bureau will lose interest in them, as guilty people have nothing to hide. You know it's a load of bunk. Besides, they taught you in training that the best thing the innocent can do for themselves is to be calm and polite, but not necessarily compliant, and to say nothing. The guilty tend to appear overly friendly to--
"Heyyyy! Agent Young! Fluffy! You beautiful sunnuvabitches! Come ova' heeere!" You grit your teeth and, slowly, turn to your left. It's the man himself: Anthony Battaglia, commonly known as . . .
"Big Tonyyyy! Why don't you come over heeere!" He and Fluffy practically teleport towards each other before embracing each other Sopranos style. You know -- with the one hand behind the neck and the other grasping a hand? Yeah. That. You watch at the stout-yet-sturdy man jives his way to your partner, who is, of course, working on disregarding everything you said not even two minutes prior.
"Eyyy! Fluffman. Fluffster. Fluffy: Destroyah of Woilds. Ya lost weight, ya big lug! I told ya once you get on that dietary plan my mother-in-law got me on, you'll be set. I told ya, didn't I?"
"Well, I can't help eating sometimes. You know I'm a growing boy, you sunnuva--"
"Agent Fluffy!" you cry. He snaps to a position of having sense and clears his throat. Noticing the sudden change in mood, Big Tony begins to saunter his way over to you with a shit-eating grin on his face. The one he has painted on his face every time the Bureau shows up.
This guy is good. Not that good, but good.
Respond in a(n) . . .
[x] aggressive manner.
[x] passive manner.
[x] professional manner.
[x] Write in.
einargs
Verified Spiller of the Egg Yolk
- Location
- The Egg Yolk, Outer Layer
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Big Tony (Part 3)
- Location
- Between two worlds.
You respond in a professional manner, electing to begin the conversation with Bureau formalities. Mostly informing him of why you showed up.
"Mr. Battaglia. You know my partner and I already. We were tasked with conducting a brief inspection."
He locks to a halt. Your body language manages to convey that while you're not playing bad cop, you're not going to break Bureau protocols and demeanour just because he's being nice. This causes him to adjust himself and act (somewhat) like this is a serious investigation. "You kiddin' me?" You watch the short fellow stroll to a nearby (place where alcohol is kept), producing a bottle of wine from it in seconds. "You yahoos have tried rackin' me up with all kinds a' doit foreva'. Ya got nottin'. Want some? It's my muddah's specially-made grape wine. Won't find it anywhere else."
"Mr. Battaglia. You know as well as I do that you're on the Bureau's radar because of your...recreational activities. Matter of fact, can we go somewhere in this place that is actually private?"
"Sorry, toots. No can do. Fluffs, you want any a' dis?" He tosses the bottle to your partner, but you intercept it and, carefully, set it down on the table next to you.
"Mr. Battaglia. This is an official Bureau investigation. I suggest you cooperate."
"Or what? You'll arrest me? Sweetheart, don't embarass yaself. We both know how this'll go: You'll slap them bracelets on me, try to stick it to me like one of your low-class purse-snatching yahoos, I'll work my magic touch and walk, with a 'sincere apology' from the Bureau. Until the next dance, where I work my magic again. And again. 'Sides, kid," he slumps in his chair, "You ain't got a warrant. No warrant, no interview, no investigation. You wanna play hadbawl wid me? You don't wanna do dat."
"How's this for a warrant?" You flash your gun and badge, attached to your hip without more than a quick jerk of your torso. It seems he's admiring your figure more than your Bureau credentials. His goons reach for their hips for their own armaments. The non-affiliated Speakeasy patrons take no notice and continue dancing and drinking the day away. It's only noontime, after all. Perfect time to drink!
[x] "Do I have to get CAT in here? You know the protocol, I'm sure. Once an Agent calls for CAT, an immediate full-scrub investigation is conducted without the need for a formal warrant, due to the Barricade Suspect Provision and Agent Contingency Protocol."
[x] "You shoot me, you go down for a bunch of counts. One of which include "Premeditated Murder of an Agent of Spacetime". How does chronostasis sound?"
[x] Write in.
A/N: I've seen that torso-badge-gun move somewhere. NFS: Most Wanted, I think. It's a thing. Look it up if you don't believe me. CAT is this quests' version of SWAT, standing for Critical Assault Team.
"Mr. Battaglia. You know my partner and I already. We were tasked with conducting a brief inspection."
He locks to a halt. Your body language manages to convey that while you're not playing bad cop, you're not going to break Bureau protocols and demeanour just because he's being nice. This causes him to adjust himself and act (somewhat) like this is a serious investigation. "You kiddin' me?" You watch the short fellow stroll to a nearby (place where alcohol is kept), producing a bottle of wine from it in seconds. "You yahoos have tried rackin' me up with all kinds a' doit foreva'. Ya got nottin'. Want some? It's my muddah's specially-made grape wine. Won't find it anywhere else."
"Mr. Battaglia. You know as well as I do that you're on the Bureau's radar because of your...recreational activities. Matter of fact, can we go somewhere in this place that is actually private?"
"Sorry, toots. No can do. Fluffs, you want any a' dis?" He tosses the bottle to your partner, but you intercept it and, carefully, set it down on the table next to you.
"Mr. Battaglia. This is an official Bureau investigation. I suggest you cooperate."
"Or what? You'll arrest me? Sweetheart, don't embarass yaself. We both know how this'll go: You'll slap them bracelets on me, try to stick it to me like one of your low-class purse-snatching yahoos, I'll work my magic touch and walk, with a 'sincere apology' from the Bureau. Until the next dance, where I work my magic again. And again. 'Sides, kid," he slumps in his chair, "You ain't got a warrant. No warrant, no interview, no investigation. You wanna play hadbawl wid me? You don't wanna do dat."
"How's this for a warrant?" You flash your gun and badge, attached to your hip without more than a quick jerk of your torso. It seems he's admiring your figure more than your Bureau credentials. His goons reach for their hips for their own armaments. The non-affiliated Speakeasy patrons take no notice and continue dancing and drinking the day away. It's only noontime, after all. Perfect time to drink!
[x] "Do I have to get CAT in here? You know the protocol, I'm sure. Once an Agent calls for CAT, an immediate full-scrub investigation is conducted without the need for a formal warrant, due to the Barricade Suspect Provision and Agent Contingency Protocol."
[x] "You shoot me, you go down for a bunch of counts. One of which include "Premeditated Murder of an Agent of Spacetime". How does chronostasis sound?"
[x] Write in.
A/N: I've seen that torso-badge-gun move somewhere. NFS: Most Wanted, I think. It's a thing. Look it up if you don't believe me. CAT is this quests' version of SWAT, standing for Critical Assault Team.
Last edited:
- Location
- Canadia
[x] "You shoot me, you go down for a bunch of counts. One of which include "Premeditated Murder of an Agent of Spacetime". How does chronostasis sound?"
I like the idea that our good Agent isn't quite as by the book as she wants to appear.
I like the idea that our good Agent isn't quite as by the book as she wants to appear.
Big Tony (Part 4)
- Location
- Between two worlds.
"If you shoot me, you go down for a bunch of counts. One of which include "Premeditated Murder of a Spacetime Agent". How does a thousand years in chronostasis sound, Mr. Battaglia?"
The mobster shrugs. "Look, toots. Ya got spunk, and a nice shape to boot. I likes that. But I ain't against smokin' a goil, no mattah' how fit she is. You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down? The best part? I won't even go down fa' dis; my boys will. They ain't 'fraid a' no prison. You 'tink this is their first rodeo? Fluffs, talk some sense into your pahtnah there."
Agent Fluffy says nothing, merely lowering his head in...shame? No, something else.
"Aw, Fluffs. You kiddin' me?"
He continues to look at the ground.
"Fluffs! I'm talkin' ta' you ova hee'!"
"My partner has nothing to say to you, sir. Frankly, my patience is fuelled by its reserve tank at this moment. You can either comply with this investigation or-"
BLAM!
You almost don't want to believe it, but you think you've been shot. Oh, wait. You have been shot. It seems to be a fatal wound. Crimson blood pours from your chest before you collapse, meeting the cold, hard carpeted floor.
"Nice woik, Fluffs!" That's all you hear before the Speakeasy's music stops and its patrons begin to frantically run for any and every exit. The orderly sea of people now a raging oceanic storm. Everything is slowly fading, turning to black you decide to . . .
[x] hang on with every fibre of your being,
[x] surrender to nothingness,
whilst listening to the muffled sounds of those around you. You can barely make out the vocals thanks to the screaming.
"See boys. I told ya. It pays to have a friend in the Bureau. Ya did good, Fluffs. C'monnnnn! Turn dat frown upside down."
"Well boss, I'd feel a little flaky about smokin' a hawt babe too."
"Yeah yeah, ya big lug. Get dis timerat's body outta hee'! And go get dat collection fee down in Feytown. Those winged imps bettah pay up if they want us to keep the Idlewild Families off their backs."
A/N: Having a great deal of fun writing this quest! Don't forget to throw any questions you might have my way, though I will try to put worldbuilding info in spoilers since Chrononauts can get large in scope at times.
The mobster shrugs. "Look, toots. Ya got spunk, and a nice shape to boot. I likes that. But I ain't against smokin' a goil, no mattah' how fit she is. You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down? The best part? I won't even go down fa' dis; my boys will. They ain't 'fraid a' no prison. You 'tink this is their first rodeo? Fluffs, talk some sense into your pahtnah there."
Agent Fluffy says nothing, merely lowering his head in...shame? No, something else.
"Aw, Fluffs. You kiddin' me?"
He continues to look at the ground.
"Fluffs! I'm talkin' ta' you ova hee'!"
"My partner has nothing to say to you, sir. Frankly, my patience is fuelled by its reserve tank at this moment. You can either comply with this investigation or-"
BLAM!
You almost don't want to believe it, but you think you've been shot. Oh, wait. You have been shot. It seems to be a fatal wound. Crimson blood pours from your chest before you collapse, meeting the cold, hard carpeted floor.
"Nice woik, Fluffs!" That's all you hear before the Speakeasy's music stops and its patrons begin to frantically run for any and every exit. The orderly sea of people now a raging oceanic storm. Everything is slowly fading, turning to black you decide to . . .
[x] hang on with every fibre of your being,
[x] surrender to nothingness,
whilst listening to the muffled sounds of those around you. You can barely make out the vocals thanks to the screaming.
"See boys. I told ya. It pays to have a friend in the Bureau. Ya did good, Fluffs. C'monnnnn! Turn dat frown upside down."
"Well boss, I'd feel a little flaky about smokin' a hawt babe too."
"Yeah yeah, ya big lug. Get dis timerat's body outta hee'! And go get dat collection fee down in Feytown. Those winged imps bettah pay up if they want us to keep the Idlewild Families off their backs."
A/N: Having a great deal of fun writing this quest! Don't forget to throw any questions you might have my way, though I will try to put worldbuilding info in spoilers since Chrononauts can get large in scope at times.
Last edited:
- Location
- St. Petersburg
[x] hang on with every fibre of your being,
-[x] and try to enjoy the vocals while you are at it. People in your line of work don't get to die in luxurious places often.
Well, well, seems like Fluffster was a rat. How do you even call it, 'reverse stool pigeon'?
Edit: either that, or that was one hell of a combo on our part.
What are our chances someone is going to alter a timeline for us, I wonder?
-[x] and try to enjoy the vocals while you are at it. People in your line of work don't get to die in luxurious places often.
Well, well, seems like Fluffster was a rat. How do you even call it, 'reverse stool pigeon'?
Edit: either that, or that was one hell of a combo on our part.
What are our chances someone is going to alter a timeline for us, I wonder?
Last edited:
- Location
- Canadia
[x] hang on with every fibre of your being
If this ends with us digging our way out of our own grave and fighting a bear I swear...
If this ends with us digging our way out of our own grave and fighting a bear I swear...