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A sparkling red streak came from one of the non chosen random hallways. Drake was in a confusion. He smelled chicken, and there it was. It was huge. But he was a CAF, and tha tmention he had protection.
Drake screeched to a halt. That wasn't right, was it? He wasn't a CAF anymore.. so why?

Just then the chicken took another puff of the cigarette and Drake thought, "Hmm, smoking equals bad, so bite?"
No sooner then he had thought that then the wide eyed CAF fox settled down then pounced at the chicken, trying to bite it in the glutton maximus.

Then took off, tumbling naomi into the air. Luckily, or unluckily Moses caught her and started to hug her.
"Hey... Let me go Moses. I'm not a doll."
she protested, but when one is just 5 inches tall, not much one can do against a flying otter cub. Especially when several feet off the ground.

It was the woman hacking her own beard off that spoke first. "Well, Suicide could begin acting all Athenian on us and Dio could begin reverting but... yeah, what's happening is pretty bad as well." Portia finished her chopping before handing back the knife to Ally, to whom her self-preservation instincts screamed at her to apologize to. "And sorry about the Sue-crack. It's just that the Kudzu thinks it may be on to something with me and... well, we should decide where we're heading first." For a minute, Ms. McSweeney wondered if her new staff was any good as a divining or dowling rod.

Grace, privately deciding that more conflict between two interns, one of which was apparently FicPsychs latest guinea-pig and the other who had take serious offence, tried to think of a way out of this. "Alright, how about we hold a vote on weather to go that way..." she pointed down to one random end of the corridor "Or the other way." She then pointed down to the opposite, equally random end of the same corridor.

"Aaand I've lost interest in this plan." Kirill turned away from the group and began to trot down the featureless corridor. He wanted to run, but the odd. . . jiggling inside his shirt was throwing off his step. It was, he reflected angrily, one of the pitfalls of coming from a fantasy universe- the idealized art was great when he was in his normal body, but something like this happens and you find yourself trying to balance two watermelons on your pecs.

He hurried down the hall. He knew his cubicle wasn't far, but for some reason he kept getting turned around- either his elvish inner ear wasn't as good at navigating corridors as his normal one, or Ironic Overpower thought things were funnier.

A thought of bunnies drifted across his mind. Stomach clenching in dread, he hurried faster.

Ally blinked after the last sentence emerged from her mouth. "Did I just get censored mid-sentence?"

"Apparently," Grace replied.

"Oh no. Please don't tell me that whatever turned me into this is also censoring me." Ally tried out a few words experimentally. "...t. ...k. ....am. ..ck." Her eyes widening in horror, she let out a short sob. "Could this get any worse?"

"Sounds good," Ally replied. *And then I'll gut you for that Mary Sue crack*, she thought.

Grace looked from one of the others to the next. "This is officially the worst day of my life."

"Christ, it's just hair, woman," Ally replied.

"JUST HAIR? It's HER hair!" Grace screamed back.

"Look, can we have the angst, whining and hysterical screaming later, and go find the ...er who'll be bleeding for this?"

"And when I find them, I'm thumping their skulls." Came a feminine, annoyed voice from outside the huddle.

Gurgan, Ally and Grace turned to look at this interloper. "Well THERE'S something you don't see every day: a bearded lady." Ally said with genuine curiosity in her voice before she took another drag.

"You don't see many Mary Sues smoking either, but that's neither here or there." Portia answered, too annoyed to answer any other way. "What I want to know is how I got this dust-trap on my chin and how to get rid of it." She thought for a minute. "Does anyone have a razor or something that can take this thing off?"

Ally looked at the other two: one was a giant chicken and the other's hands were... well, not well suited. But the newcomer had called her... well, the time for petty bickering definitely wasn't now. Sighing, she took out her knife and handed it to the (long term) Intelligence intern. "I expect it back, though."

"Oh, you're getting it back. In fact, How about I join up with you guys: solve this thing, get back to normal, crack some skulls?" Portia took the knife by the handle, tugged the end of the beard so that the hair was taut and began to slice though a rough handful of strands at a time.

"Hey, be careful!" Ian yelped as he shielded himself and Lee from flying electronic shrapnel.

Don't you know that Murphy's Law basically runs this place? Lee added, looking frazzled. If anyone else has a CAD or similar device, please do not do what he just did.

"You know what, I think I still have my CAD here," the Fisherman said, reaching into his pocket. "Here we are."

"No, don't it'll..." Evie began, but the Fisherman had already turned it on and pointed it at her.

[Evie. PPC Agent. Personality Core. What. Unidentifiiiiiiiiied.... ohcelestianotthisagain ERRRROR -72 THE CARDBOARD BOX CONTAINS NO DUCKS. SENSE THIS MAKES NONE.]

The CAD fizzed before emitting a small puff of white smoke.

"Funny, they normally go out much more dramatically than..." the Fisherman was cut off by the device rupturing explosively, spraying assorted electronic components over the group.

Nobody could ever accuse Suicide of being charismatic, but in the true sense of the stat, he was actually quite good at making a lasting impression on people. If anything he had, to use the Discworld term, charisn'tma: people had occasionally been known to stick around him just to see what destruction he would cause next. And he was more than enough of a jerk to enjoy the surprise and irritation of the nurses, who reacted just as badly to having the tables turned as the young Thebans and Astakians had when their pranks were foiled.

He set Jenni down easily, but kept his left arm around her shoulders. There was a mischievous spark in her eye as she surveyed the room, which Suicide definitely approved of. So she was capable of cruelty--or messing with people, anyway, which was at least something to build on.

"Morning to you too," he said cheerfully to Elms, and acknowledged the massed FicPsych personnel with a nod of the head. "And you have my sympathy. If this kind of thing's so rare around that you have to make a fuss about it, we probably should've gone elsewhere and rubbed it in anyone's face." A thought seemed to strike him, and he frowned for a moment before holding out his free hand to Elms. "Hell, where're my manners? Sorry about that. Nice to meet you all; I'm Agent Suicide."

As she turned the corner, she ran slap bang into Agent Luxury.

"Val! Sweetie!" Lux cried, sounding very relieved. "How'd you know I was heading to Medical?"

"I didn't, I'm out here looking for Pompom," said Val. "Careful with the towel!"

"Eh? Why?" Lux promptly grabbed the towel and whipped it off Val's head, revealing that the nurse was now completely bald and suffering from a bright blue rash on her exposed scalp.

"Hey!" Val snatched the towel back and putting it back on. "I'm assuming you're heading to Medical because something randomly weird has happened to you as well?"

"Damn right!" Lux said miserably. "I woke up this morning and ... well, remember Alan Rickman in Dogma?"

Val did. "Ewww! Yeah, I'd say you need to get down to Medical right now - but in the meantime, have you seen Pompom?"

"Who?"

"Uzumaki Pompom. Three-year-old, black hair, big dark eyes, 'bout six inches tall, cat ears? Currently invisible?"

Anyone other than Lux would probably have pointed out that she couldn't have seen him if he was invisible. "No, sorry, I'll keep a lookout."

Kirill twitched as everyone else's thoughts turned to things other than mayhem. Maybe it was just the diabetic sweetness of his newly acquired elfhood, but he hated being conflicted- his anger and selfishness were actively pulling him in two directions, urging him to focus on revenge and a cure, respectively.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm going back to my cubicle for equipment. Do you need me to pick up anything for your scanner-thing?"

Jenni was happy to go along with the general order of "Let's go counter-harass your co-workers!" She wasn't sure she could pull off the damsel in distress thing he seemed to intend, though. She was far too put-together for it—and nobody was touching this braid—so she did her best to look like the arrangement was her idea, relaxed but poised and a little bit smug. Why yes, she had tamed the wild man with the power of love (well, eros, anyway); how perspicacious of you to notice. It was close enough to her old schtick to be worrisome to those who knew her well, but removed sufficiently to be safe. Yes, it would do.

The nurses' lounge wanted to be found. It was exactly where Jenni remembered it being yesterday, and the door was just slightly ajar—perfect for an adventurer-style surprise entrance. There weren't any Beholders on the other side, but there were several nurses who all jumped at the bang. Mirrad the former Ranger slipped seamlessly into a fighting stance, of course, but Parwill, Elms, and young Alex all looked like they'd had their tails stepped on, and Immac actually said "eek!" Alex was nominated by the Narrative Laws as the Obligatory Spit-taker, and since Parwill was sitting across from him at the room's single table, they shared in the honorary coffee-stain.

"Hi, guys!" Jenni said. "We heard you were throwing us a party. Love the decorations." She nodded at the banner, taped up on the wall above the coffee pots. It was pastel yellow with "You Got Laid!" in magenta letters, possibly one of the most offensive combinations short of Sue-colors, and dotted with excessively happy smiley-faces. "So true. Mm, so true." She grinned.

Elms, the curly-haired blonde standing under the banner with a roll of tape still in hand, was the least embarrassed of the lot—coming from a life as a barmaid would do that for you—but she still had the courtesy to be completely put out once she'd stopped being startled. "Jenni! Dammit, it's no fun if you're just going to advertise, woman! And what's with this guy? Someone assigned Charisma as a dump stat this morning." She leveled a skeptical look at Suicide over her blue glasses, no doubt speculating unfavorably on the rest of his character sheet.

(ooc: wherein my new agent meets my boarder persona)

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Portia McSweeney went over some important new facts.

She had a beard.

Great. Just great.

She usually had enough trouble keeping herself all lined up on a normal day. She was in FicPsych once a week to try to tease out memories of where she'd come from before being found in the cafeteria; so far, the only triggers they'd found were the battle scenes from "The Last Samurai" and the better and/or rantier Harry/Hermione shipping fics from the Harry Potter fandom. Add to that the fact that she could barely hold a projectile weapon without blowing her own rear end off and Intelligence was the only place she could fit in at the moment when what she really wanted to do was to blast, slice, impale and generally murder some Mary Sues.

But now she was a wizard. With a pointy hat. And a beard you could hide a chicken in. And a staff.

Perhaps this was the wrath of Rowling upon her: she'd only skimmed the plot of the last two Potter books loosely, she subscribed to fringe conspiracy literature (that purported that Epilogue!Harry had 5 kids by 2 different women)and fanfic was her pretty much her last remaining link to that world.

Then again, perhaps this was the fault of someone within the PPC, in which case she would pry the truth out eventually, preferably slowly and with great pain.

Perhaps... perhaps she should venture out and see what was happening. It couldn't be any worse than in here.

And if anyone laughed... well, maybe the big stick would come in handy.

(My first RP participation in the whole of ever. Exhilarating)

He had no idea what time it was, but he felt well-rested, and the Console wasn’t beeping, and that meant it was time to read. There were only a few chapters left in The Cavalier in White, and Doc was itching to find out who had stolen the titular painting. As he fished around inside his pillowcase for the book, Doc had the weird impression that the walls looked different somehow. The generic surface was a bit…never mind. He opened the book, stuck the bookmark behind his ear and—

Couldn’t read. The pages were all blurry. Doc rubbed his eyes, trying to wake them up. It didn’t help; the letters were still a greyish smear on the page. Confused, Doc squinted, looking around the room.

He saw the lines on the refrigerator door. He read the titles of his books on the shelf. He made out individual buttons on the Console. And for one very brief moment, Doc grinned in excitement. He didn’t need glasses anymore! He could see every—

His grin melted away as he looked back at the novel. He held it away from his face. He retrieved his glasses from their case, hanging from the bed board above his head, and put them on. Nothing he tried changed anything. His glasses were supposed to fix his near-sightedness. And overnight, Doc had turned far-sighted.

Agent Vania was awakened by a shriek from the bunk above her. Having stayed up late the previous night playing video games, she was in no mood to wake up early, especially if it wasn’t for a mission. She got up and peeked over the top bunk.

Doc was swaddled in blankets, huddled against the back of the bed, staring forlornly at a book in the center of his mattress.

[What’s the matter?] Vania asked, immediately aware that something was wrong with her voice.

“The Precious…” A tear slid out of Doc’s eye. “We can’t—wait.” Doc’s Gollum-speak immediately ceased. “What’s with your voice?”

[I’m not…sure.] Whenever Vania spoke, although her mouth hadn’t moved, and she had produced no sound, both she and Doc observed a grey rectangle appear, floating in midair in their respective ranges of vision. The boxes contained her words in white letters. Once she finished her thought, the rectangle would disappear.

[I seem to be speaking in—text box,] Vania decided.

“And my vision is all screwed up,” Doc whined. “I can’t read. What is going on?”

Vania swung her legs out of the bed and stretched. [This is one of many bizarre things that happen in PPC HQ sometimes. You’re just going to have to get used to it.]

“But what do we do now? Are we stuck this way?”

[Well, something is causing this. I imagine we can head out into the corridors, find out what’s doing it, and stop it.]

[BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!]

[Or—]

“—not.”

to be continued…

The suggestion of building a medical scanner out of CADs sparked a thought in Ian's mind.

"Hey, maybe Miah and Cali would be able to help with that," he said as he got back to his feet, scooping Lee up in his arms as he did so.

Good idea, Lee replied. That is, if they haven't been affected by this too.

"Build a medical scanner out of what, exactly?" Kay asked, slightly curious in addition to skeptical.

"CADs?" Emm suggested.

Ally exhaled the smoke and nodded. "Fine by me. When I find who did this, I'm going to introduce them to my axe."

Grace nodded. "Once I get my hands back, I'll see what I can whip up to use on them."

"Thanks, smoothskin. You're a lifesaver." Gurgan took a deep drag before speaking again. "Aaahhh...that tastes good. I tell you, I needed this."

He nodded to the pair. "So, you mind if I tag along? I'm looking for the F***ers that did this to me and I wanna have 'words' with them."

Ally tried not to laugh at the language the other intern was using. One of the many reasons she loved the PPC was that her home continuum had little to no instances of swearing, and since joining the PPC, her vocabulary had considerably widened.

"I'm Ally. She's Grace," she said, jerking a finger at Grace, who now looked nervous, but not hysterical. "And no, we were just looking for someone who could tell us what was going on. But I do have a cigarette here..." She pulled a couple out of a pocket and offered them to the other interns. Grace shook her head.

Jenni seemed to have figured out what he meant, and expressed her good mood in a manner that Suicide decided he could definitely become accustomed to. He was still wearing a grin when the door slid open and the Fern interrupted. His hand automatically went halfway to his knife--inevitable when something surprised him--but as it explained, its psychic 'voice' carrying just the tiniest hint of amusement, he understood what was going on.

Oh, he knew that one. The addition of the banner was a nice touch, he had to admit, but it was still a routine that was old even in his day. Didn't mean it wasn't funny, though.

"Someone once accused me of being shameful," Suicide observed, glancing around and taking his bearings. "He's dead now. Hey, Jenni, which way is the lounge?"

When she pointed it out, he nodded and took stock of himself and his resources. The Fern wouldn't be much help, but then plants never were. (Suicide was not racist or speciesist. Kingdomist, absolutely.) He himself was already a rumpled mess, and his hair . . . ahhh, the hair. Like Dienekes always said: nothing like long hair to make a handsome man more comely or an ugly man more terrifying. He ruffled his hair a little more, giving it the extra volume it needed to be really Wolverine-shaggy and manelike, and made sure the sleeves of his uniform shirt were pulled up for that 'no time, things to do' touch. The knife, in its curious white leather sheath, he shifted to his hip: "Very Byron Sully," as Dio had once said.

Taken all together, he was appeared the antithesis of someone who would even be caught in the same zipcode as the concept of shame.

"C'mon, Jenni," he said. "Let's go say hello." With a small grunt (no comments, please, it was still early for him) he picked Jenni up entirely. There was another of those wonderful surprised squeaks from her, but it didn't seem to bother her too much: it was obvious she'd sussed out what he was thinking, and probably shared it. Suicide arranged her as artistically as he could, finally settling on a hold that left Jenni halfway between bridal-style and a '50s damsel being kidnapped by the monster of the week. He strode off down the corridor, balancing her fairly easily and feeling decidedly cheerful. Rubbing his excellent night in the faces of everyone in the lounge sounded like a good start to the day.

It might not have been great rhetoric, or even good English, but it got the job done. With each word, Jenni felt her lingering uncertainty fade and optimism take its place. Not explicitly, but tacitly, with bluff sincerity, he'd given her permission to look forward. That had been the hangup, and with that dealt with, she answered with a smile of unrestrained gladness.

"Perfect." There was no way she was not hugging him at this point. How did anyone not hug someone who'd just said you were good and wanted to see you again, and looked so damned adorably scruffy while doing it? Some things had to be spoken, but for two tactile creatures such as themselves, this was more eloquent than any words could ever be. The door could wait half a minute. Or a whole one. Or—

"Okay, no, really." She was laughing, but she brought up both hands on Suicide's chest and pushed herself firmly back a step. Even with the height difference making it less easy than it could have been, turning a hug into a kiss was as inevitable as the hug, and it took a real effort of will to stop there with the feeling of the newly-cemented connection vibrant between them. Yet, by the same token it was easier, too. She wasn't worried about losing it now, making it possible to reach over and quickly unlock and push open the door.

Jenni started to say something about going and doing his job (shield optional), but her eye caught a low shape in the hallway. Her mouth dropped open momentarily, but pressed shut again in a vexed expression before she spoke. "Fern. What brings you here?" Her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

Oh, bearing messages, as usual, the potted fern replied casually. The nurses have a little betting pool on your appearance and asked me to mark the time for them as a neutral observer. Elms will be quite pleased, but I'm afraid you've disappointed poor Mirrad. He expected you sooner.

Jenni hadn't blushed right away, but she did now. Mirrad's opinion meant something to her.

She stared a moment, looking puzzled. "We didn't see anyone. How did—?" The lightbulb went on, and she snapped her fingers, rolling her eyes at how oblivious she'd been. "Frank."

The fern ruffled its fronds in amusement. You didn't think you could escape notice, did you? In this department? They're putting up the banner in the break room, you know.

That was unexpected. "You mean the 'You Got Laid!' banner?" It did. "I thought we got rid of it after Suzine threatened us all with No-Drool Videos the last time!" She shook her head, fighting hard not to laugh, and turned to Suicide. "This is . . . I was in on inventing the thing. It didn't seem fair that only the guest should have to take the Walk of Shame, you know? Of course, I have no shame." She grinned. "You don't strike me as the type, either. Am I right?"

"If I could inject some sanity?" Evie began. The Fisherman held her up so that she could address the group. "The first order of business should be to find out how we were transformed. Once we know that we can work out who did it, if indeed this was deliberate."

"We could go to Medical," the Fisherman suggested. "But if everyone in HQ's been affected, then the Doc will be overrun. We could always improvise something. If we work together we should be able to build a basic medical scanner."

Gurgan ran through the hallway, squawking his rage with every step, when he ran into the other two interns. "#*#*#@$(* @#($*#@-Oh!" He paused, blushing at his langauge. "Erm...Hi. I'm Gurgan, and I have two questions: 1-do you know what the hell is going on? And 2: Do you have any cigarettes?"

"A TF gun. . . that's from that weird fetish continuity, isn't it? I can't remember the name." Kirill turned to face Emm, then stepped as hard as he could on the man's foot. "Listen to me. Whoever turned me into this-" he pointed at his brand new ears and mammaries- "didn't do at random. A transformation into an elf- degrading. Into a woman- intriguing. Into a Slesnaya? Disgusting. I can almost feel my brain rotting with their sweet, sickly, nauseating twoo wub of life- if the transformation starts going deeper, it will be horrible. I'd drown in- what do you call it, emotion that says you oughtn't- guilt. I might feel guilt."

With a visible effort, Kirill caught his temper. He wanted to rage, but it wasn't going to advance his goal, and would alienate the people he could use to get at the culprit. "We need to find whoever did this, and show him how exactly unentertained we are. Do we have any ideas on how to do that?"