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Leto, noticing that several Agents can't grieve on drink alone, brought some Sandwiches, Salads and Chocolate cake. At the same time, a portal suddenly opened and a box came out of it. On the Label, it said: This is a present from the heads of various OFU's to the Protectors of the Plot Continuum, in order to commemorate the valiant Agents that died in the defense of it's Headquarters last year. When Leto opened the box, he found out that it contained various foodstuffs, oviously untouched by Gandalf or any of the other OFU cooks.

"Looked like the strongest stuff 'e had," Marcus replied, placing the bottle on the opposite side of the glass from Sara. "'Sides, not that bad. Otherwise ya wouldn' be drinkin' it!" Snickering to himself, Marcus stared at the empty glass, half listening to the song and half losing himself in his alcohol-veiled thoughts. What the hell was it so important to her for, anyway? Couldn't a man just get plastered in peace?

Not too far from where Sara and Marcus were, Troy stared at the bar with a look of concern on his face. He had never known Marcus to act like how it looked he was acting. Part of him wanted to go over to the man he considered a friend, but at the same time, he was enjoying the music and Marcus had always preferred to take care of his problems personally. Adjusting his sunglasses, he moved onto the dance floor again, looking around for the bespectacled (and rather generously endowed, which was odd but not unheard of in the PPC) young Agent that had caught his eye a few seconds before. After all, wouldn't their dead comrades have wanted them to have fun?

Watching the slowly filling dance floor, Gerald Murphy shrugged a bit. "I can look into it later, should probably find Leto," he said to his brother. "You know how business is, bro. You go have some fun for us, aye?"

Chuckling a bit, James grinned at Gerald before heading onto the floor. "Aye, sure. Just don't try to pickpocket anyone, y'hear?"

"I want you to tell me why you're trying to drown your sorrows in the worst-tasting alcohol known to sentient life." She snatched the bottle back and took a swig, glaring over the rim at him and daring him to do something about it.

Adder fidgeted nervously. "Seriously, Deuce, I'm getting that mall feeling."

Her partner gave her a strange look. "'Mall feeling'? You consider that a bad thing? From what I've heard, most Real World girls have positive feelings concerning the mall."

Adder returned his look tenfold. Deuce grimaced. "Right. You're not most Real World girls. But what's your problem?"

"You know that feeling you get sometimes," said Adder, "when you're in some place and you have that unexplainable feeling that you do not belong there?"

Deuce grimaced again. "I know that feeling far more than you could possibly comprehend."

"Well, I get that feeling whenever I'm walking around in the mall. So I call it my mall feeling."

Deuce nimbly dodged a mini-Balrog that had made a grab for his daggers. "Why exactly are you getting that feeling now?"

"Because we had nothing to do with the Mary Sue Invasion, so therefore we reeeally don't belong here."

"Says who? A bunch of the newer recruits are here. See, there's that Abominable Trio I keep hearing about. Hey, they have Pan Galactic Gargle Bleeprin Blasters!"

Adder raised an eyebrow. "I didn't take you for a Hitchhikers Guide fan."

"Oh, please," Deuce rolled his eyes. "I had it shoved in my face during training. I'm completely familiar with it." Grabbing the drink, he took a sip. "Well, well. It really does feel like getting your brains smashed out with a slice of lemon wrapped around a gold brick. What was I saying?"

"That's the Bleeprin working," Adder muttered. "I don't drink. And Deuce, if you get so wasted that I have to carry you back to the RC, heads will roll. Mine will not be one of them."

"Point taken," said Deuce. "Don't worry, though. I can hold my liquor."

"That's what they all say."

However, the veteran wasn't on the attack. Instead, he merely snatched the bottle out of the woman's hand, filling up the glass again before downing it all in a couple swigs. The bottle and glass were placed back, the Agent letting out a sigh and giving his new companion a pointed, if lazy, look. Had he not already been at a rather decent level of intoxication, part of him would have realised how pathetic he looked, but right now he didn't care.

"The 'ell is it to you?" He asked, unable to hide the slight slur to his voice. "Everyone's drinkin'...Heh, the Bleeproducts...they just dun' do the trick, y'know?"

Taking another long drink, Marcus could hear the music starting to turn up, partygoers tentatively dancing to the stereo's choice of music as bit by bit some people attempted to liven the place up. Really though, he honestly couldn't care less. People had died, and he'd never been able to do anything but stand by helplessly and try to get some of the wounded out, but here people were almost celebrating it. He just didn't get it. "Well?" He asked, impatiently. "Wh-wha'd ya want?"

...but kept her thoughts to herself.

"Thanks, Zod."

The woman made her way to the bar, where she sat next to Marcus. Picking up his bottle, she sniffed the contents and took a tentative sip.

"Ugh. Never was a big fan of this stuff. Too strong for me. Didn't expect to see you drinkin', though. What's up?"

"Awful? Sounded like a right an' propa fight, t'me! Only bad ting wuz dat da Orkz wuzn't dere!" Zodfang, having a completely incompatible view of warfare from most humans, genuinely didn't see what everyone was worked up about. In fact, he thought it had been a party to celebrate a good, hard-won, fight until Marcus threatened to kill him. When the woman suddenly jerked up, asking him why Marcus was so worked up. "Zoggif I know. Ask 'im yerself," was all he managed to say, shrugging his massive shoulders as if he'd given up even trying to figure out what was up with his partner.

A small, mousy-haired teen stuck her head through the doorway, and her eyes lit up as she saw the stereo.

"It is 'Sgt. Pepper's'!" she cried gleefully to someone behind her. "C'mon, guys, it's 'The Beatles'! We gotta dance!"

The slender girl bounded into the room, dragging behind her three identical men, all in PPC black save for matching coonskin caps.

"But Bree, we were just going to the Cafeteria to--oh, don't give me that look," the protesting Danny groaned as the girl turned on him, brown eyes wide and pleading.

"C'mon, Krocket, pleeeeease?" she begged, and the misspelling manifested sighed.

"Oh, all right. But I get to be Ringo."

"Yay!" grinned Bree, and she dragged the three Dannys out onto the floor, where they proceeded to dance and sing rather questionable four-part harmony.

"Yeah, I was there. Awful..." she was lost in reverie for a moment, then suddenly jerked and looked up at Zodfang, surprised.

"If I remember correctly, he wasn't here at the time. Why's he all worked up about it?"

Leas took the bottle and considered for a moment. "Let's see if I remember correctly, it helps to hold it like this-" this being a forty-five degree angle- "and hold the cork instead" Not that it seemed any easier to get the cork out that way, but at least he didn't lose it when it did come out. He poured a glass for Trojie first. "All right. Anyone else for champagne?"

Milask was not in the best of moods. This party was not getting off it feet. He was hoping for more dancing, and stories of the fallen comrads. What it looked like was a bunch of beings drinking in small groups.

The sterio was an unusual object. It is slightly psychic and would not play certain songs, eventhough you asked for it a dozen times.

Milask pressed the play button. The Beatles seemed to be what the sterio wanted to play...

"Eh? Wotcha want?" He asked, upon noticing the female Agent behind him. When she asked what was up with Marcus, he took a few seconds, and then shrugged. "No bleedin' idea. 'Oomie's been like dis all week, fink it'z 'cuz o' dat big fight last year."

Dragging her partner by his shirt, Sara entered the store and looked around.

"Is this really necessary?" the taller Agent grumbled, readjusting his skewed glasses.

"Yes. You need to socialize more," his partner nagged, pushing him towards Cassie and Nat and scanning the room for any other familiar faces. She noted Marcus at the bar, and raised an eyebrow as she read the label on his bottle of drink. Making her way through the crowd, she tapped Zod on the shoulder.

"Oi, Zod. What's up with your lump of a partner?"

"Bloody nag," he grumbled over his shoulder at his brightly grinning partner. He adjusted his glasses and smiled sheepishly at Cass and Nat.

"Hey there. It's, uh, it's been a while."

In the middle of it all, a short and fairly rotund Irishman made his way inside. Smoothing down hia hair with his hand, Gerald Murphy, best known by most as "Small Murphy" due to the fact that he was only about 5'4, looked around his competitor's store almost nervously. It was true that he had made a lot of money off of the Invasion, but he had still thought he should at least show some respect by attending the memorial, especially when his giant of a brother threatened to smack him upside the head if he didn't. As the 6'10 James Murphy (or "Big Murphy") squeezed through the doorway, the brothers nodded at each other, before Gerald pulled out a flask of whiskey. While they had each decided to make sure they were about as well-dressed as they could be without being out of uniform, Gerald had never been dissuaded from bringing his own drink.

"C'mon, James," he said in his thick Irish accent, looking up at his brother while taking down a swig. James really didn't look much like him, sometimes, it was almost as if they weren't really brothers. "Like you said, least we can do is pay our respects."

As the two Irish businessmen started to mingle with the crowd, Marcus made his entrance, followed by Zodfang. Instead of the usual banter, both were silent. In fact, the past week Marcus hadn't so much as said two words to anyone, even during missions, only really talking when he had to read out a charge list. The hulking Ork next to him had been trying to get Marcus fired up and talking again, but he was now silent, mostly because Marcus had quite bluntly told him that he'd blow Zodfang's head off if the Ork went about any of his usual antics. Nodding to his partner, Marcus went off into the crowd, looking for anyone he knew. He felt eyes upon him, and even if they didn't say it, he couldn't help but feel like they agreed with him; he hadn't been there, he hadn't been able to fight, so what right did he have to be here? If he hadn't been suspended, were there people who had fallen that'd be alive now? Reece, Dylan, Seth, Steven, Alex, Travis...could he have saved at least any of those men? Any others? He should have been able to fight. Agents moved wordlessly out of his way, as he made his way to a bar some Agent had set up in the corner of the General Store. Dropping himself onto one of the makeshift seats, he let out a sigh, looking up at the youngish man behind the bar, a nasty scar from the Invasion's fighting obvious on his face.

"Oh, hello," the man said, slightly surprised. "Didn't see ya come up. What can I do ya for?" He asked, looking at the stash of drinks he had stored under the bar. "Bleepka, I bet? Bleepsynthe?"

"Nah," Marcus said, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd say this, but just give me the real thing. Leave the bottle, don't wanna bother you by continually askin' you to fill up a glass." It didn't take long before the Agent set down a glass and a bottle of vodka in front of Marcus, who nodded in gratitude as he poured some of the bottle's contents into the glass. He had told himself he'd never touch alcohol again, when being drunk was what got him into the PPC, but there were extenuating circumstances, he supposed.

Meanwhile, in another part of the crowd, agent Vincent Cyrus looked around sombrely. The rest of his group were standing around him, but they didn't seem particularly talkative either. Though he, Einarr, Greg, and Yuri had all made it out alive, it had been a close call, and they each knew several people who hadn't, especially on that barricade they'd set up. Vince supposed it had been worth it though; that barricade in the middle of the corridor had stopped a lot of Sue reenforcements from making their way to Medical when the fighting there was at its hottest. "This ain't much a party," he said, almost mumbling to himself. "Feels more like a funeral."

"Over a thousand warriors paved their way to Valhalla with the bones of the Sue invaders," Einarr said, nodding to himself. The wiry Agent and his long blond hair didn't look quite as imposing without his spear and bullet-deflecting shield, but Vince knew that even unarmed the former Viking was always holding himself ready for a brawl, even while at a party commemorating the deaths of one thousand Agents. "The atmosphere is appropriate, I believe. Anything else would be disrespectful."

"Da, the Norseman is right," Yuri said, his left hand unconsciously moving up to touch part of his ear that had been blown off in the fighting. The Russian usually seemed fairly jovial, seeing everything as better compared to fighting Hitler's forces on the Eastern Front, but even he was sobered. "Many people died here, da? We should show our respects."

"Suppose y'all're right," Vince replied with a shrug, looking to Greg. The former Gear, whose skills with the Longshot sniper rifle had saved them many times over, remained silent as he sipped from his drink. He was even less talkative than usual, it seemed, so instead Vince looked around to see if there was anyone else he knew in the immediate area.

... and started fiddling with the cork on the bottle.

'Actually,' she said after a few seconds. 'If anyone actually wants to drink some of this, can someone else please open it? Otherwise I'll just end up taking someone's eye out with a ballistic cork ...'

"Weird, the way we do this sort of thing, innit?" Deryn took a sip of her drink and grimaced. "No, thanks, think this is enough alcohol for me for now."

"I might have one, if that's all right," Leas said. "Cheers."

"Poppies is more traditional," she remarked. "Or rosemary."

"YAY!" said Krisp. "We're here!"
The Infernal Trio approached and took a glass each. It wasn't time yet to borrow an entire bottle for them three. Just kidding.

'Hey guys,' said the Bad Slasher, smiling round the room. She perched on the edge of a set of shelves, sniffer-dog settling down beside her. 'Happy Anniversary, I guess.' She pulled a bottle of champagne and a dog-eared cardboard box of champagne flutes from her Bag. 'Who fancies a celebratory one of these?'

drowning IT in Bleepka. Whatever.

Meanwhile, the Infernal Trio tried to forget the incident by drowning in Bleepka, Bleepsinthe, Bleepnapps and Bleepquila. Krisp was busy socializing with everybody he could find, especially if they were female or if they were sitting alone in a corner.
South and Whatev mingled in the conversations. The Trio was enjoying itself. It was almost like the old days with the other tall ships.

First were Cassie and Nat, accompanied by Kelvin as usual. Although the two girls couldn't really say they knew anybody from the Invasion last year, they'd taken the opportunity to meet people and have a couple of drinks - and pay their respects to the Agents whom they knew had to have died. They snagged a Bleepka cocktail each and mingled with the crowd, with Kelvin trailing behind them sipping at a glass of wine. For some reason, the Elf got nervous in crowded places and preferred to stick to the company of people he knew.

Not far behind them came two people who seemed to give off the impression that they didn't want to be associated. The taller of the two, a solidly-built man in his mid-thirties with auburn hair and an eyepatch who went by the name of Luke Celinus, looked a little serious as he entered. However, once he was able to mingle with the crowd he began to relax and flirt somewhat with the majority of the female Agents he met.

The smaller Agent, a woman coming up for thirty with red hair and the name of Jessie Lancaster, rolled her eyes and headed in a completely different direction, intending to actually commemmorate the sad events of last year.

Finally, a Japanese man wearing the DAVD flashpatch and glasses came in. Quietly sneaking over to the drinks table, he lifted a glass in memory of his teenage partner, who had died in the catastrophe, and downed it. "Here's to you, Reece," he murmured.

"Well, I'll take the white ones. Sorry, Krisp is being unstable today, I don't know what happened. Krisp, are you OK?" What' took three white roses and gave one each to South and Krisprolls.
"Well, I feel a bit better now. Thanks, What' and South."

"Why not," said Whatever. "Krisp, South, you can take some too."
They did.
"And Krisp, if you could avoid saying something stupid this time."
"Like what? 'If only I'd been there,' for example? Like being there mattered! It didn't last time! You kept saying that, but it didn't! I was there and..."
"Krisp, I wasn't thinking about that!"
"Krisp, are you OK?"
"Uh, well, yes, I guess so, well, doesn't matter, I'm OK now."

OOC: Krisp remembers winessing his mother's death. What' wasn't there and kept blaming himself for a while.