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Usagi Quest (CK3/Princess Maker) (Sailor Moon)

Reader mode
To be fair, there aren't really a whole lot of ways you could make a food-themed master plan serious and child friendly...or at least, not something guaranteed to give the majority of your audience nightmares if they see it. Might as well go whole hog on the silliness if you're making a children's show, in my opinion.
 
I mean that is Geats. which is basically the Squid Game of Kamen Riders. So it can be very silly, particularly because that was at the mid point of that arc, so it was just a game of tag. Using bullets.
 
Iridesce said:
Wtf? Those are such Saturday morning cartoon villain schemes. They might as well be planning to turn the moon to cheese so they can be the greatest cheese suppliers in the world.
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As much as they are, as I've seen someone (sunt) point out, such schemes can be fucking terrifying in-universe. And that second one is nasty, because if you control all the food, you control everything.
 
In many ways it did have some more mature themes to it. Unfortunately, the lead writer, at least according to Lunaryon, was in a car accident and was recuperating so was unable to wrap up the season as strong as it had started.
 
Lunaryon said:
I mean that is Geats. which is basically the Squid Game of Kamen Riders. So it can be very silly, particularly because that was at the mid point of that arc, so it was just a game of tag. Using bullets.
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They are all bullet-resistant, so thats not as insane as it sounds.
 
ShiftingSandLand said:
But is that any justification for doing The Worm as an evasive maneuver?
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Oh, that's just because Chirami is a massive, over the top dork whose specialty is more in hamming it up for the sake of the viewers at home than it is in actually fighting. There's a reason that, out of all three people to hold the Glare Driver, he gets his ass kicked more than any of them.
 
...Silly random tangential thought:

Usagi's appetite and eating speed are due to the Galaxy Cauldron being, among other things, a supermassive black hole.
 
Razzocnor said:
...Silly random tangential thought:

Usagi's appetite and eating speed are due to the Galaxy Cauldron being, among other things, a supermassive black hole.
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Ami: I see you snacking all the time; how do you not gain weight?
Usagi: Well, I'm a growing girl, I get plenty of exercise, and you wouldn't believe the calorie expenditure it takes to heal up a hospital or raise the dead.
 
Silverking said:
Ami: I see you snacking all the time; how do you not gain weight?
Usagi: Well, I'm a growing girl, I get plenty of exercise, and you wouldn't believe the calorie expenditure it takes to heal up a hospital or raise the dead.
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Slightly more serious take: Having magic has proven to enhance general health, and we have at least one known case with a healing spell where we know a lack of magic in the recipient will directly convert fat stores and in extreme cases other body mass to make up the difference. What if one of the additional benefits is that, to at least some degree, "excess" calories are converted directly into magic? Perhaps not as efficiently as a Ki user's training conditions them to convert calories into Ki (Ranma 1/2, high level martial artists are more or less universally big eaters too), so "loading up" before a magical competition wouldn't necessarily provide a significant advantage, but still significant enough where people with an awakened core have a much higher threshold of overindulgence to become overweight.
 
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To Seek A Newer World
  • Sidestory
    • The Midnight Incident
    Interlude: To Seek A Newer World​

    9:55 p.m.

    Sir Frederick Evans grunts, emerging all the way from his concentration on the relay link, looking around his own hotel room, trying to calm his jangling nerves. He could feel the Japanese wizard on the edge of detecting the other end of the link for a few minutes there. Evans had tensed himself, ready to toss some soul-twister of a curse through the connection and hope for a better result than he expected. But now… nothing.

    This is turning out to be a humbling experience. To get picked up on that easily, followed by a very earnest attempt to doorstep him. Damn. Damn.

    In a big operation, just because some of the enemy's foot soldiers aren't at the top of their tradecraft, doesn't mean the enemy doesn't have someone who is. And, hell, Evans himself hasn't done anything quite like this in a long time. He's probably not at the top of his game either, in more ways than just the physical. Certainly not the physical, of course.

    Hopefully, hopefully, routing his spells through a fake location will fool the bastards. It seems to be working. It usually worked back in France in '43. The Imperial Ministry can't have gotten better at this than the SS used to be, can they? They weren't in '47. Damn. Damn.

    Again, as always, for sixty years, ever since the days of old schoolmasters in a timeworn old manor on the moors, remember. Inhale, exhale. What is it, that bestirs you so, boy? Inhale, exhale. You cannot see it or hear it. Inhale, exhale. You cannot taste or smell it. Inhale, exhale. You cannot touch it. It carries no twist of sorcery. Inhale, exhale. It is not real. Master yourself, boy.

    It's fear, but a man mustn't let himself weaken at a time like this. He should-

    No, no, he should not try his first serious thought, which is to carry on roughly as he was planning to, just a little more carefully. No, that would be a bad mistake, even if his decoy site hadn't been found out. Enough of this one-man war crap. Everything he's heard about MCAT since arriving in Japan has gone beyond his expectations, and there's at least a few familiar faces likely waiting for him there. Time to slow down and work through the system properly, as he's learned to do these past forty years, rather than skipping all those lessons just because he's back in Japan and it reminds him of the old days.

    The hard part, of course, is going to be getting past MCAT's perimeter without being taken for an Empty Face trying something clever. Still, soonest begun, soonest done.

    He whispers a few commands to the shades that give his suitcases strength, thanks God he's got everything important packed in them or on his person already, and makes his way to the hotel lobby. The desk clerk is obliging about calling a taxi for a small gratuity. Well, small as long as you fight down the momentary sticker shock and remember that that many yen is about two pounds, which is in turn about two shillings in proper old money.

    Evans spends the wait for the cab nervously watching every entrance to the lobby at once, muttering detection charms under his breath for all he's worth.

    His pair of suitcases fit into the trunk of the Cressida taxi for all the world as if they didn't probably outweigh the car's engine block between them. But then, the ghosts of the old mules have always borne the weight with only minimal complaint, and he has no doubt they'll go on doing it now. Come to think of it, there are enough explosives in the one bag to raise a lot of eyebrows, but damned if he's going to leave the stuff behind for the Imperial Ministry to find…


    Well, that had been a fun conversation.

    "Yes, sergeant, I absolutely agree that you should be very suspicious of me. I'm a very suspicious man, and it's late at night, but if you can have a man or two hold me at gunpoint and take me far enough back that we're probably not under immediate observation, I can show you a few things that I really, really wouldn't be letting you see if I wanted to sneak into the compound. Like what? Like all the bombs I brought with me in my invisible luggage. They're yours if you want them…"

    That got him held at gunpoint, all right.

    Knowing Lieutenant Meiou's name didn't reassure anyone, either. It's a pity; Evans had sort of hoped to meet the fellow again. He seemed alert and capable. A good soldier. Quite a striking individual, too; you don't see many Japanese who are six foot four and that broad across the shoulders, with or without the green hair. Something about him seems hauntingly familiar… but no matter.

    Instead, Evans has gotten to meet another fellow, with the uniform and insignia of an MCAT security trooper- no rank stripes. A fellow who's nearly as tall and if anything even broader across the shoulders than Lieutenant Meiou. A fellow who now has Evans slung over his back in a fireman's carry- uncomfortable, but what can you do? A fellow who's bringing him up a long stretch of sidewalk towards one of MCAT's office buildings.

    This particular fellow has caught Evans' interest, of course. Several of his professional interests at once, even. And it seldom hurts to talk shop with an ally, especially an ally who may be thinking unkind thoughts about oneself.

    "Pardon me, my good sir, but I can't shake the feeling that you're not precisely human."

    "Hah! So, you figured it out, huh?"

    "Oh, yes."

    "Hmmm… Is it the strength?" The probably-not-a-soldier carrying him sounds quite jovial, for someone whose racial name is likely often translated into English as 'devil.' Of course, Evans has met some very cheeky devils in his day, so what's one more?

    He shakes his head, not that the big fellow can see it. "Oh, not to deny it, but your strength wasn't the cause. Remember, I'm not a big man, and these old bones of mine hardly weigh anything at all. Not much of a challenge to lift, am I?"

    "Not hardly. Huh. So… what gave it away, then? Did you see through my magical disguise?"

    "Not really, no. Your shapeshifting- I imagine you're usually taller- and glamour's fairly solid journeyman work. And I fancy myself a good judge of such things; you're doing well. I certainly haven't been casting any spells to try and get past it. That would be rude, I should think, and particularly unwise under the circumstances."

    "You could say that."

    "By the way, what would you do if you caught me starting to cast spells?"

    "Rip you in half."

    "As I thought, as I thought."

    "Heheh. So what is it, then?"

    "Your breathing gave you away."

    The man- to stretch the term a little- sounds even more jovial than before, if possible. "I have stinky breath, huh?"

    "Oh no, not at all, really! But you see, oni have a very distinctive breathing rhythm when they're expecting trouble, I've found. You can't miss it when you've spent any real length of time fighting around them. I suppose not many humans know that, of course, so I can see why you'd think it was the other thing."

    "Huh. Well, I'll tell you one thing: I'm glad to hear you say all that stuff!"

    "Oh?"

    "See, now I know you're not a coward. And that you know about the breath thing. So you just might really be Oshima Kuroko, war chief of the old Circle Table Gang. If you are, I'm going to enjoy shaking your hand. But if, now that I've said that, it turns out you're an Empty Face up to some kind of trick, I'm going to enjoy pulling off your arms and legs even more than I thought I would! So either way, I win!"


    Things get a little better after that. The sergeant must have called ahead, because a familiar face is, as Evans had hoped, waiting for him by the door.

    Mills. Not a knight, but a good combat sorceress. When he was last in touch, she was running a security team down at the New Annex. But then, there would have been quite a few personnel shuffles with OLD NIGHT fended off and a lot of the badly injured returned to service.

    Two Japanese men flank her: one in the uniform of the MCAT security guards he'd seen along with the military MPs at the perimeter, and one in a civilian suit. The civilian almost certainly isn't a magician- probably a translator.

    But more important than the company Mills keeps is the thing she's holding.

    Knowing how difficult it was for Q Division's less formally institutional precursors to get ahold of the thing, Evans can't help but feel a twinge of discomfort at seeing the Un-Paddle here in Japan, especially in a location that's probably about to come under attack in the next couple of days. Still, it works marvelously on everything short of the Senshi glamour. By Mills' report, it even knocked that back on its heels a bit, at least for a moment. It'll certainly do for any illusion Evans, or any Japanese wizard of the past fifteen to twenty centuries that Evans has ever heard of, might cast.

    Perfect.

    The cheerfully rude ogre sets Evans down, keeping a light grip on his biceps with both hands. Evans knows from old experience that this grip could become a hundred times harder in about the time it would take him to blink, and that human flesh really isn't fit to stand up to such pressures without more warding than he's got up at the moment.

    Mills, with a sober face that's dangerous at cards, raises the device of black wood and inlaid brass. In a dazzling violet flash, the wryly smiling face of 'Kuroko Oshima,' suspected Onogoro spy who is temporarily being allowed to live until proven guilty, boils away. What remains is the similarly smiling, equally wrinkled and spotted, rather more mustachio'd face of Sir Frederick Evans, K. R. T.

    The grunt from behind him is much the same as the voice he'd come to expect, though the hands gripping his arms are now powder-blue and hairier around the knuckles than just about any normal man's.

    That is definitely an oni, and he has one very natural question.

    "So, is that him?"

    As Evans thought, the civilian's a translator, because he puts that question into English for Mills' benefit. She answers… ambivalently.

    "Wait a moment." The translator turns that into "she's not sure, Dwig"

    'Dwig' grunts again. "Well, if I can shapeshift smaller, maybe he can shapeshift uglier. You got a plan for that?" But the translator doesn't answer, because Mills has gestured him to silence and is giving Evans the usual sign-countersign.

    "Tinsnips, you know what to do. Scenario KIRIOTH." He can tell the woman's enjoying herself a little too much. She knows damn well it gives a knight of St. Ambrose a headache to go through this. But it gets the job done fairly well as a recognition sign, even if that's not what it's really for. And she's given the challenge directly enough that-

    Clarent's touch is no longer coiled in the back of his brain. She's got the right to ask, and he knows she does, and if there are exceptions to the rules then none of them apply right now. He's got to say it, and before too long. The witchlight in front of his eyes is dazzling and a steel bell won't stop ringing in Evans' head as his mind swirls around itself-

    "General files, scenario KIRIOTH..." And, ugh, this is going to ache with his sword- or what passes for one- back with his luggage. Probably best to do it as properly as he can or it'll be even more uncomfortable, how does it go in the original Latin, let's see, probably… "Tunc abiit unus de duodecim, qui dicitur Iudas Scarioth, ad principes sacerdotum et ait illis: 'Quid vultis mihi dare et ego vobis eum tradam?' At illi constituerunt ei triginta argenteos." Ow ow ow ouch but the effect's swirling through him and not eating at him, so it must be close enough to the wording Merlin took from the Vulgate Bible to serve as an answer.

    Mills smiles thinly. Evans sags in relief as the ringing of steel passes from his mind. Mills looks levelly past him at Dwig. "Now I know it's him."

    The oni must have worked out the meaning of those words from context without waiting for the translator to start talking. He's already releasing Evans from his grip. Evans turns slowly, raising his hand.

    Dwig, grinning like a fool and looking very much the ghastly-faced devil of legend with every one of the seventy-five inches he has in this shapeshifted form, reaches out to shake it.

    "Told you so."

    "You sure did."

    Ugh.


    Passing into the building's lobby, Evans feels a sudden flash from the coiled effects of Clarent's touch, still there at the back of his brain. That flash would make seeing a sister knight for the first time in nearly a month a profound relief, but Evans is fairly sure he'd feel the same way anyhow. No surprise that it's Dame Clarabelle, of course. She'd already been studying Japanese, and she's a damn quick study. And- oh.

    Usually, Clarabelle dresses the same every day, without a thought for her looks. Long hair all over the place, blouse and long coat that are in all fairness always at least clean. The girl doesn't think about clothes and doesn't like to think about them, and the only change of outfit he's ever seen her in is the warded obstacle jacket that serves the Order of St. Ambrose for battle armor these days.

    That stuff's not comfortable; she must be expecting trouble very soon.

    And here he's left his suit back in his luggage, with all that C4 that Coupe helped him brew up.

    No matter. He greets Dame Clarabelle- and then falls into Court Anglo-Norman, a language effectively no one outside Q Division and a handful of medieval historians bothers to speak these days. You have to get creative with the vocabulary to get certain ideas across, but some of the good spells are in it, and, well…

    English is English, but somehow, Evans never feels really at home until he can lapse back into archaic languages and be understood. The Division is the Division, he supposes.

    "Hail, fellow. "Are you on a quest?"

    "A small matter. Some villains claiming to serve the queen's library. This seemed more pressing. And you?"

    "My own orders are kin to errantry. I see you are full cased in armor. Do you expect battle?"

    "At a quarter-hour before midnight. 'Tis well that you have come."

    Evans grunts and falls back into English. "Well indeed."

    And then, true to form, Clarabelle pauses sheepishly, with a vague, lost expression, anticipating his next question. "But I'm not the one who knows the most about the security here.." She nods to Mills.

    "That's all right. Thank you. We should get going, though- is this building a command center?"

    Mills shrugs. "The bunker underneath it is. The place isn't built with spellcraft in mind, but it's well built."

    "Good, good. Lead the way. Though-"     he turns to Dwig. "Thank you for the lift. Would you mind going back to get my luggage? There's some important things in there."

    Dwig grins, showing a great many fangs now that his pretense of humanity is cast off. "I wouldn't mind, 'Oshima,' but I'm supposed to bring you back to the chief, one way or the other. After that, if she says I fetch a couple of suitcases after that, I fetch suitcases. Her call."

    "The chief… would that be Director Samui?"

    "Got it in one."

    "All right then, let's go."


    As their little band makes their way down a fluorescent-lit service tunnel with some of the freshest paint he's ever seen in such a place, Evans tries to take in Mills' summary at full speed, at a brisk walk. It's harder than it would have been twenty years ago, and quite a bit harder than it would have been forty years ago. But no one had accused him of being unable to concentrate when he had to for… well, for even longer than that.

    "...They've got plenty of men with Dr. Chiba's goggles, but about the only good those do is that they don't see people who aren't there."

    He'll ask who Dr. Chiba is another time. "Right. Wards?"

    "We've done what we could, sir, but there's not a lot of us and we can't get all this sewed up properly. They've got work from a fair number of the local priests and ex-Ministry renegades, too, but that stuff's a hodge-podge and I'm not sure we can trust everyone who's worked on it."

    "Best not to. Let's…"     pause for breath "...see, what's there to secure?"

    "Hm. Bomb shelters in the basement where a lot of the noncombatants run to when an alarm sounds."

    "Like the Monday attack?"

    "You've heard about that, sir?"

    Tempted to make a bit of a joke of it, but- no breath for it. "Yes. But besides that?"

    "Besides… oh. I see what you mean, sir. There's a couple of artifact storage sites, with one in particular they worry about- some kind of ancient Indian sacred lance. Dr. Sakurai's labs- she's their head of research. There's the prison block, there's here..."

    And then Evans thinks of something that stops him cold. He catches up on a few more breaths, then stares intensely at Mills, ignoring the other four people who are looking at him curiously.. "What about guard barracks, at this time of night?"

    "They've already thought of it and put people on it. Sailor Moon's one of them. You just missed her."

    Right. Well, that's no small favor, especially since it means one of the most obvious weaknesses isn't going to be easy for the Ministry to do anything with. "They're around?"

    "Trying to keep a low profile, I gather. I'm told Onogoro has some kind of set-piece ritual aimed at them…"     Mills glances at Clarabelle, who takes a moment to realize she's being asked a question.

    "That's right. A forced inauguratio to restrict the Senshi to a templum not of their choosing."

    Evans feels his brow wrinkle a little more as he tries to make sure he understood that. "Like an inside-out evocatio?"

    Mills nods. "I'm getting this about third-hand, and I don't think everyone in the chain understands the details very well, but I think so."

    "Well, I'm no expert, but somehow I don't think their inauguratio is going to perform quite to specifications. Spells crafted for the local pantheon probably won't work so well on reincarnated extraterrestrial sorceresses that are, so far as I know, technically still mortal women. Still, better safe than sorry, I suppose… hm. Lots of targets. Have you focused on active trapping, or alarms?"

    "Alarms. With all these yokai around, muscle isn't the problem; finding people is."

    "Good thinking. But then the trouble's going to be… hm. Hm. I need to ask a few questions when we get there…"

    Time to start walking again.


    It's become fairly obvious just from watching how the perimeter guards were behaving a little while ago that not everyone on the MCAT night shift specifically expects an attack. To be sure, he himself alerted the perimeter forces to expect trouble on Monday, and Lieutenant Meiou seemed to believe him. But the rank and file out there- probably including Dwig, unless he's got hard nerves even by oni standards- did not have the air of men who specifically knew they were sitting around at H-Hour minus rather less than two. They were only the usual sort of tense and alert.

    Quite frankly, if Evans had been so sure the balloon would go up tonight, he might not have been so quick to gamble on the perimeter force being cooperative. Ghastly thought. No matter now, though.

    The interior of the command bunker has hastily strung sets of wooden ofuda talismans all over the place, along with a few silver-wire wards in styles he recognizes better. Probably the work of Mills and her people. He frowns. Those should be bonded down thoroughly and not just hastily stapled onto wooden frames fixed to the concrete walls with masonry screws- he can still see the dust from where they were installed.

    Now he's sure this place wasn't built for defense against serious set-piece magic. If it was, then all that, or its equally functional oriental equivalent, would already be embedded in the walls and properly grounded. Still, Mills knows her business and he's sure she's doing her best. He doesn't make anything of it, though he can see that she walks a little stiffer, knowing that he can see.

    The door is open, but there are several guards and a few yokai watching it- some from both sides of the threshold. Hopefully, if this lot is giving proper thought to infiltration risks, this is the only entrance that isn't sealed up…

    Mills and Dame Clarabelle peel off to join the guards. The civilian interpreter asks him, in gracious Japanese, to come along into the next room to meet Director Samui, and Evans does- noting that Dwim and the human MCAT guard have fallen in behind him, giving the impression of a somewhat different kind of escort- for a visiting dignitary, rather than a prisoner. Huh.

    Still, when he actually lays eyes on Samui for the first time in over three weeks, he's relieved to see that she's not dangerously relieved to see him.

    The leader of Japan's answer to Q Division is conspicuously inhuman. Even in this age of every other child being born technicolor, that white-on-white skin and hair and those piercing, eerie golden eyes stand out impossibly. And that's for those who can't pick up on her chilling aura.

    But a spirit of winter can still walk the earth like a woman. And Director Samui has the body language and tone of one. She looks tense, not broken. That's a relief- back in '46 and '47 there were yokai, even some that Evans had thought were sound at first, who would start to come apart when they thought the Ministry was coming for them. Centuries under a secret police force can do that to you, he supposes- the Gestapo started to get to people the same way, and in far less time. But it's certainly good news that Onogoro hasn't gotten to Samui that hard, under the circumstances.

    She's got some good people, too. There's Kazanari, that giant redhead with the muscles who he met before, though this time he only catches a glimpse of the man's back at the moment. There's the fat man he never got the name of before, the one who looks like a desk secretary but obviously serves as some kind of senior private advisor-

    The civilian who escorted Evans in bows slightly to Samui- a little less than Evans expected, but his memories of local culture are out of date. "Director, the other members of the British delegation have confirmed Evans-dono's identity." Evans smiles and doesn't worry about the way the honorific doesn't quite meet the name the way it does in English; translating that kind of thing is difficult. There's a reason Judith's got the Sailor Senshi calling her "Carroll-sensei," especially given Minako's actual age…

    Not important. Samui took the moment Evans spent woolgathering to look him over. She nods slightly to herself and opens mildly. "It's good to see you again, Sir Frederick, especially with a battle coming up. I believe asking you where you've been all this time would fall under my remit."

    Well, he can answer most of that honestly enough. Most of it. "Since Dwim here seems familiar with my reputation during the rebellions forty-five years ago, I imagine that you've already learned of my activities then."

    "In broad outlines, yes. You recruited a number of yokai to help you avenge your own nation's grudge against the 'Silver Lightning' faction. Some of the veterans of the 'Circle Table Gang' have found their way to us." She volunteers nothing more. She's sharp, and at least a little suspicious of him. Good. His second-biggest worry, after being killed by the perimeter guards, had been that MCAT would turn out to have weak knees, as it were.

    He nods. "That summarizes it quite well, Director. I imagine that you've been briefed on the Pretty Cures of Kibougahana?"

    "Yes, but I don't see the connection."

    "During the time of the rebellions and my own pursuit of the Nazi expatriates you know as the Silver Lightning, I encountered the predecessor of those Pretty Cures by coincidence. She called herself Cure Flower, and we became allies. She was only a few years younger than me, and it occurred to me on my way to Japan that she might still live. Shortly after the Night Market raid, I took it upon myself to visit Kibougahana in hopes of calling upon her. I became involved in the activities of that group of Pretty Cures against their own enemy, the Desert Apostles. This has occupied most of my time, when combined with making sure my own government is aware of the potentially world-threatening activities."

    Samui's eyebrow rises. "...World-threatening."

    Evans blinks, feigning surprise. "Wait, have you not been briefed?"

    "So far, MCAT's only contact with the Kibougahana Pretty Cures was a single extended phone call picked up by an assistant in the Pretty Cure liaison office, on this Monday. We have a potential point of contact, but there hasn't been time to follow up. Matters have been hectic, so confirmation of exactly who these 'Desert Apostles' are and what they're capable of has been… less than a priority."

    Evans doesn't have to feign his grin. "Well, Director, if we both live through the night, I'll see what I can tell you. If not, well, I encourage you to follow up on any line of contact the girls would be likely to give you."

    "Very well… which, of course, brings us back to other matters. 'If we both live through the night.' I take it you consider yourself to be in some danger, too?"

    "If I weren't planning to fight the Ministry, would I have volunteered for an oni ride? It's not my usual idea of recreation."

    Samui's mouth quirks up. "I see. And precisely what do you intend to do, then?"

    "Advise. Assist. I have… no small experience in illusions, infiltration, and mental magic, you see." And there, it's out. Evans can imagine the thoughts ticking over in most of the yokai in the room, much as they ticked over in the minds of other yokai back in '46. That he plays more or less the same game, the same very literally damned game, sometimes, as the 'Empty Faces' they dread so.

    Samui, for her own part, just nods slowly. "And what advice do you have for us?"

    "Well, my first thought had been to warn you to secure your guard barracks at this hour. I'm told you've already done that, which is good."

    "Yes… and?"

    "The Imperial Ministry still doesn't think twice about catching up ordinary strangers in their battle plans, do they?"

    Samui lets out a single bark of bitter laughter. "Ha! They do not."

    "Lots of places they might go, and… hm. Hm. I'm going to suppose they have about the same number of Truth Makers as in the old days."

    A little slice of winter touches him, locks on him, in the heart of June. Not too big a slice to handle, but a slice, as Samui stares at him.

    "And how many do you think that is?"

    "They don't publicize it, but knowing what I've learned since, I get a sense for it from how I saw them behave during the war." His war, anyway, which didn't end until '47. "I'd estimate that during the rebellions then, there were somewhere between forty and eighty Empty Faces, total, counting the squires in training. They won't send everyone tonight, but they can probably spare a fair few juniors and still throw two or three strong teams of their best. Which means… huh. If I were them, and I had something I didn't have to time right with the start of the attack, I'd start by sending in lone Truth Makers leading false 'teams' of hypnotised people off the street. Use decoys to draw the response, then let the real teams get through to their objectives."

    Then the fat man hovering by Samui's right hand snaps his fingers. "Hey, you're right! That sounds kind of like the old shinobi tricks! Have some young idiot with delusions of grandeur throw dinky little knives at the warriors guarding the gate and toss a couple of smoke bombs around. Then while the guards are off chasing him through the underbrush, the real shinobi slips in dressed as a peasant with a mop and bucket!"

    Evans shoots the fat man a suspicious look, but this isn't the time to ask him just what he knows about 'old shinobi.' Evans' professional reflexes are playing him like a damn violin, come to think of it. At home you'd know who was and wasn't human and who might remember the days of Richard the Lionheart and who wouldn't. Here, well, pick a snow-nymph to run your agency and it stands to reason a lot of very strange sorts will take it as a license to look human.

    Which, back in dear old Blighty, would mean, sure as mud follows rain, the faeries playing games fit to curdle a man's blood. It's different here, the whole situation's just… different. Strange, but strange in a way with its own logic. Best to remember that, and not embarrass himself.

    Come to think of it, Samui's looking at him rather suspiciously. Evans turns to look back at her. "Is something wrong, Director?"

    "...You thought of that very quickly. Do they do things that way, back in England?"

    Ah. Well, to be fair, this particular nymph's got nearly as much cause to be suspicious of a man like Evans as Evans himself has to suspect things that shun iron, sip blood through fangs, or sieg heil. So that deserves an answer. And for all his sins, there's at least one answer he's earned the right to give, at least.

    "It would go against our operational manuals explaining how to treat the common man."

    "Manuals. Tell me, Sir Frederick, what do manuals mean to you, if there's a reason not to follow them?"

    Evans lets the twisted, tired smile spread across his face. "Those manuals, in particular? It would have to be an especially good reason. I missed some very good days because I was too busy writing a lot of them myself, after all. I'd hate for it to go to waste. Besides, I saw enough of that kind of thing in the war, before they taught me to type. My old comrades-in-arms from the, hah, Circle Table Gang will tell you I'm not a perfect knight. I've gotten no better since those days, and don't bother denying it. But…" He shrugs. "Director, maybe someday your kind and mine will finish counting up all the rights and wrongs of the past five or six centuries. That's going to be a long job. I suppose you'll still be your glittering, ever-youthful self when you see the day when all things are reckoned, but I expect to be many years dead by then, of old age if nothing else. So all I can say to what's happened is that we have to start somewhere. For now, how about letting one wicked old man help you catch another, eh?"
     
  • Sidestory
    • Lieutenant Meiou, huh? I'm honestly really curious which Pluto that is. Old Pluto, current Pluto having aged up and jumped back to now, or maybe even an unexpected third option like being Setsuna's son from the future. Come to think of it, it could be current Pluto's father. That seems much easier than fabricating a backstory solidly enough that it can be used as a reference for a suspicious individual.
     
    frozenchicken said:
    Lieutenant Meiou, huh? I'm honestly really curious which Pluto that is. Old Pluto, current Pluto having aged up and jumped back to now, or maybe even an unexpected third option like being Setsuna's son from the future. Come to think of it, it could be current Pluto's father. That seems much easier than fabricating a backstory solidly enough that it can be used as a reference for a suspicious individual.
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    Current Pluto's brother, was already mentioned to be solider working for MCAT a while ago even got a POV bit.
     
    Last edited:
    Simon_Jester said:
    "Tunc abiit unus de duodecim, qui dicitur Iudas Scarioth, ad principes sacerdotum et ait illis: 'Quid vultis mihi dare et ego vobis eum tradam?' At illi constituerunt ei triginta argenteos."
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    Then one of the twelve, whose name was Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said, "What will you give me if I deliver him over to you?" And they paid him thirty pieces of silver. - Matthew 26: 14-15

    Simon_Jester said:
    "A small matter. Some villains claiming to serve the queen's library. This seemed more pressing. And you?"
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    Ah, the 'British Museum.' Most likely to be agents of Eternal, a Pretty Cure villain group trying to steal valuable items from other dimensions and preserve them for eternity. They are "scheduled" to be opposed by Nozomi and the Pretty Cure 5 crew after Nightmare is defeated.
     
    Winged One said:
    Again, are we sure that isn't just the actual British Museum?
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    It's the British Museum from the future. They accidentally found a way to enter the Time Stream and decided to go back to before their collections got stolen, and steal them themselves, so that they can continue to have those collections in the future.
     
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