agentbilliard - Tumblr blog

[agentbilliard]

saint is already loathe to recognise most of his coworkers when their faces aren’t covered by materials more costly than cleaning up public school restroom graffiti. the addition of scientists and hotel staff and crystal ornaments that came straight out of the alchemist make him walk with his hands tucked into his pockets and his back hunched to the point where he feels like he needs to give himself detention. the various orders being barked at the bartend confuse him further. but someone’s speaking laymen’s english beside him. he hopes. he’s smelled too many varieties of grape to not be at least a tiny bit drunk.

“are you ordering a secret menu item? come on, sharing is caring,” saint says with a smile. the expression shrivels as soon as he scans the other patrons, unsure as to whether or not they feel tags snipping at their skin too. the tag itches so much. he looks longingly at a discarded toothpick on the floor. he does not dare to look at his seatmate. a single outfit on his bill and he’ll have to move to the galaxy over. “the crowd will die down once the science lark starts getting interesting, which may be now or never, depending on how you look at it. how long are you staying?”

open to everyone / the gala, at approx. 8pm

REMI is not too proud to admit that he had anticipated that this night would go — well, badly isn't exactly the word he's searching for, but it's close. after talking to some colleagues at work earlier in the day, he had been under the impression that everyone would be more or less dreading the event. remi himself had to arrive a little late, as he had to rush to go and get ready in his apartment after work.

he's hovering near the bar, waiting for drinks, but since an hour has already passed since the event began, the bar is currently swarming with guests vying for their own orders. he's not surprised — it's more or less expected at an event that's offering free drinks on a friday night, especially when it's taking place at a location that's as nice as the ritz-carlson.

" i had expected fewer people to be so... thrilled to be here, " he says, more or less under his breath.

[agentbilliard]

the night is young. saint is not. he is thirty-four going on thirteen hundred, his eyebags cut to caked-foundation perfection by the highest of high end couturiers and his heart wishing upon chandelier stars that he was high at home playing pirated edutainment games practicing basic addition instead of social skills. the gala being a chance to prove his worthiness of having billion-dollar dutch research done about him, he does not hand the woman the champagne so much as he makes it float off a tray worth more than his entire outfit and into her hand. the effort leaves him a charming, sweaty mess, rubbing at his temples with great vigor and terrible accuracy.

“you’re talking to me?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. his mask keeps slipping and his buttons keep sinking and his genetic makeup had made his mouth terribly disposed to chowing down on his foot. “the invitations were tacky. this kid of mine, jayson w, he had much better handwriting, and he had to get his scantron tests graded manually in a special room because the sheer amount of graphite might’ve resulted in pneumoconiosis. don’t get why we’re here instead of… saving civilian lives, or something. or stealing more of that champagne, you know.“ 

he clears his throat and adjusts his mask. can’t trust himself with any more drinks, he decides while snatching a flute of the stuff for himself. his phone is convulsing with messages from his sisters, chafing at his thigh with requests for the autographs of every agent he can recognise, but he reckons cutting this attempt at networking short will save his life. “kidding. crime is bad. you look radiant, by the way. who’s your stylist?”

𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫

" thank you. " mila says with a practiced grin as someone hands her yet another glass of champagne. at this point it's hardly that tasty , but it was free and the only thing keeping the agent from leaving. while she wouldn't deny an interest in andersen laboratories , she knew she wasn't going to get much out of this mass event. " what do you make of all of this ? " she asks the person nearest her.

[agentbilliard]

mathsenseisenyoyi posted for the first time in a while featuring the president of @iridescences the agent lucidity fan club.

[agentbilliard]

saint senyoyi’s temper was the sort of fuse feudal warriors peeked at through their mail-chained white-whalebone orifices, watching for hours and hours until the tiniest expulsion of sulfur flatulence poofed into the air, saving exactly zero lives yet ruining the american economy more than the boy band blasts of the 21st century. his adherence to the d.a.r.e. program and other high school temperance societies, however, was to be commended. perhaps not by raphael yet. he had hope, though.

“i would never drink before an important meeting, mon monsieur,” saint says with utter sobriety, although his mangling of the word monsieur into something phonetically resembling monster is somewhere between an intentional death wish and a testament to his going, going, gone knowledge in matters of l’hexagone. agent prince harry–a codename that piques his interest, for is it a military background or a well-hidden past as a redhead that nabbed such notoriety so quickly? raphael–a man that makes saint fidget with the fanny pack until it’s turned around to his bum, unable to be used as a bludgeoning weapon without significant effort. “although it seems you’ve met everyone already and explored their areas quite well.”

“besoin? is that another way of saying basin? because while i may be cleanup, my skills in balancing water containers by hand leave much desired, never mind my mind’s skills.” he taps his temple. a migraine is brewing somewhere despite his non-usage of telekinesis thus far. there is no stick up his arse, he doesn’t think, but boy is there a human resources complaint in his heart. if there is a stick up his arse it has become a sturdy tree shel silverstein would be honoured to write about, he decides, and it has encased all his vital organs so that, should agent prince harry get any closer, his kingdom will not come. by god lyricism is not his strong suit.

“please don’t. i take requests. arias from opera gx and the like,” he replies, playing a small ditty for demonstration. it is neither an opera nor a soundtrack of a video game he confiscated phones over, once upon a time when his employment mattered, but instead a funeral tune. he assumes. “would you like me to write something for you before those bodies begin rotting? i’ll be honest, faculty first aid training spent five minutes on cpr and fifty-five minutes talking about the legal repercussions of performing cpr and breaking a rib. although, obviously, you know that better than anyone. agent prince harry, in situations quite hairy, does nothing if not glare-y and be scary. semi-attractively.”

"my thought is that you are very drunk, mon monsieur." he isn't sure how much of that is true. raphael barely knows the other but also he does not give a shit. he tilts his head at the other. "be my knight in shining armor and protect me from the bad people?" raphael says innocently even though he can kill an innocent human with a kiss of the lips. he doesn't care, he doesn't care much of anything anymore. does anyone have a deciphle on how much they care about other's these days? they seem to be picking them up and throwing to the side as per usual, none of these at cerbeus actually care about the level i agent. the hollow eyes show on his own as he matches saint. knights and saint's were relevant to raphael's life ever since he found himself fighting for his own life on stage in front of everyone else. but he just fell into a disgraced marauder in front of the other's eyes. "protect me and maybe you can explore other areas of me, that is if you fucking wish." raphael says tilting his head at saint with a pleasant bit of a smile on his lips, almost twisted in a way as he finished kissing someone else in front of the other, the limp body, falling in raphael's grasp that he had seemed to have picked up. his hues were dark, his skin was lifeless. the body falls to the ground. "are you dared to be my next victim, pretty boy? i don't think that quelqu'un d'aussi beau que toi a besoin de moi." he was bored tonight, but agent billiard was just making him just as bored. it was not a good mix for the rest of the night. "are you also one of them cerbeus agents with a stick up your ass? should i burn you in a fire right now?" raphael asks as a pleasant smile forms on his lips and he actually pokes saint on the chest, as if, nothing just happened.

[agentbilliard]

@dragonballsammy should invest in some earplugs.

between blowing combustible thoughts such as (and this is merely an improvised, crude illustration of where saint’s mind leads him after seven and a half hours of stifling sobs in sudoku workbooks) a makeup line centred entirely on ignoring momentum’s conservation and trusting that somewhere, somehow agent billiard will sense your usage of his product into impolitic pipe dreams that burn with ambition and whatever cerberus corp thinks is suitable work for him, saint senyoyi forgets that normal people do not speak in military-level code. that normal people have things to do and places to be and many reasons to not entertain the strange man on the street who bumped into you and is now asking for something that may involve monetary transactions. hence, his attempt at returning the smile turns his frown askew into a peculiar expression, the sort common in constipation patients or a parent who was just informed of their child’s underperformance in recess. oh, how the tables have turned.

“hm. is it entertaining in the way billboard chart toppers are entertaining and get teenagers – if you’re familiar with those creatures and their attention spans or incrediblelack thereof when it comes to anything that isn’t a) filmable and b) humiliating for the person being filmed – to go viral by making dances or entertaining in the way that true crime podcasts are? specifically the part where they describe the true crime in gorey detail. not that i listen to those. get my fair share of horror stories from being an agent, if you know what i’m saying.” his mouth is a motorboat slicing through the sea of uncomfortably calm ambience. ever the city mouse, he pushes on the nearest pedestrian call button with a knuckle wrapped in a heart-patterned bandaid. he has no intention of leaving his post, not until someone with twice his power and half his work ethic relieves him of his duties, but he does not have another song prepared and does not want to disappoint perhaps the only woman in the world who wants another song from him. 

he fumbles with the fanny pack. maybe this woman is an eo with the power of making any bag into mary poppins’s purse. “what’s your favourite music genre?” he asks. “if you’re in the mood for a remix, i might have a bassoon lying around here...”

Sammy was doing her absolute best to keep an open mind. She knows she wasn't normal by any means. Extraordinary what they called it. The dragon remained quiet and listened.

So this was an investment. Well if those community college classes taight her anything the strangest investments were the most lucrative. Think of the Sham-Wow. Sammy thought to herself.

She nodded and listened ignoring whatever voluminous comment meant. And listened along. The dragon started to think she was hearing pitches only she could hear. Not necessarily a bad thing but not a good thing either.

Sammy gave a polite smile. "It was entertaining." She said thoughtfully. "Do you have another version of the song?" She asked politely.

[agentbilliard]

saint wishes @disruptedlogic a happy fifty-first birthday.

“sorry, yes, i’ll go a couple years further so you can get into senior discount territory.” saint is hardly dismayed to learn that his educated guess fell into the gutters of error, but still the periodicity of parched humour remains. he’s far more perplexed at the image of a coworker smiling at him without their teeth actively grinding into some precious mineral, and he stares at agent rain with confusion, contemplation. she is the cosine of circumstances, the verification of even-odd identities. that is, until he notices his socks being soaked. then he’s back to trying to find a place on the floor where it won’t recite the happenings of atra-hasis yet again.  “just another day? how long have you been working here? is dismissing personal milestones often celebrated with family and friends part of the level two program?” not that he means to pry, of course. he only means to study.

the bag falls on his foot. he yelps at a manly octave somewhere in whistle note territory. it’s the final straw. not that saint quite had any more straws in him. “oh, hell, have at it. you reckon this is something notable enough for your mission log, however chock-full that is of saving cats from burning pedestrian lanes?”

"fifty? i think you're a couple years ahead of me there, saint," the agent replied with an easy smile. watching him struggle in the moment, quickly turned her easy smile into a slight frown. "are you sure you don't need help first? we can put off my thing until later, i promise. my birthday is just another day. i much rather focus on something else rather than myself, if i'm being honest. i might be able to save your bag for you."

[agentbilliard]

@ofpantheons needs to sign an nda.

and here is what is ironic about the myth of prometheus, for while his authorship of the manual on regretting magnamity remains most prominent in the minds of most casual-wikipedia-scrollers and high-school-latin-class-takers and mary-shelley-copy-pasters, the scrawled lightning ladder of his genetic derivation is even more interesting: aidos, his daughter, was the goddess of shame; deucalion, his son, survived a great flood by heeding his father’s advice and building a gigantic boat. from what little has been pinned to agent prometheus on his personal conspiracy board, the woman deserves her moniker, for her very presence and her very impersonal words fill saint with shame and the desire to build a gigantic boat. being crushed by ten feet of timber would make him squeak out a better song than what he’s composed, he’s certain. so he resolves to be impersonal. professional.

and here is what takes precedence over all other thoughts when he realises just who he pulled aside to serve as the traumatised forensic scientist about to testify to his vandalising of the body’s chalk outline: saint does not want to get his arse kicked. the aforementioned event, you see, is in no way mutually exclusive with other events, such as being fired for being one drop of soft lemonade away from the brooklyn 78th bullpen. so he resolves to be charismatic. jazz hands will not salvage this. maybe jazz feet will. a jazz throat choking up jazz bile sounds good to him, too.

“indeed you are.” the reply is coughed out at last, even escorted by a thumbs up that metamorphoses into a finger gun before figuring that certain gestures may be more offensive to people who and being stuffed firmly in his pocket. there is no trump card to be tossed into his deck by lady luck, no surprise testimony to close the case on his lyrical in a triumphant reprise of his tragic jingle. he must cut his losses before his singing career is most thoroughly sunk. “if there’s one thing i’ve learned from teaching, it’s that honesty is the best policy. except with parents.”

and then there should be a nationwide alarm bursting their eardrums, an ambulance blaring as a cerberus-endorsed model of sports car. a diversion other than his nervous, muted rendition of the alphabet song and the clinking of his tiny mallets against one another. his silver tongue, ever-tarnished, decides otherwise.

“i’ve been aimless since my departure from the academy,” saint tacks on, sentimentality submerging him as suddenly as he surprised the other agent with that mess of a demo. he takes the liberty of saying resignation as through it is the truth, as though he isn’t still forced into digital breakout rooms with students who need their own fort knox vaults. he plays the dies irae on the xylophone as he speaks. “if i’d cared to befriend my colleagues i could’ve connected with the music teacher, learned how to create a melody worthy of being pledged allegiance to every day. oh, do you reckon I need to make it more patriotic? add in some eagle sounds?”

Robyn really fucking hated it when other people weren't careful and found a way to walk into her. Clearly she had a sign on her that said to ignore the full bodysuit and gloves, and attempt to make contact with her anyway. She rounds on the person, ready to give them a piece of her mind, but is instantly stopped by the vision in front of her.

Agent Billiard stood before her, shoving an object into a fanny pack that also served as a xylophone. Was this a new form of Cerberus torture or had working at the company for less than a year, already shattered his psyche?

She didn't have time to react when he told her he needed her, and that included preparing herself for what he was about to unleash on her. A part of her wanted to interrupt and stop him because it was truly one of the worst things she'd ever heard, but it was also like watching a car crash. She was drawn to the disaster happening in front of her - unable to stop it even if she wanted it to.

Oh she would find a way to tap into the cameras later and get the video of this because whatever was going on in front of her was truly a momentous occasion that deserved to be shared. And edited. And potentially put on social media.

When it was over, there was a pause before he asked her for an opinion and another pause while Robyn attempted to gather her thoughts. Did he know she produced music? Was that why he'd chosen her? Not enough production could save whatever that was though.

"Am I the first person who's heard that?" She finally settled on. A neutral comment that hid her true gut reaction of wanting to go back into her lab and scream with horror or laughed - whichever came out first. "Do you want my honest opinion?"

[agentbilliard]

@fatalled better not notice the property damage.

psalms chapter one hundred and sixteen, verse eleven: all men are liars. just as the variegated blood streaks on saint’s browser history have proven with their inability to agree on the definition of a blog or helicopter parenting or how many hot glue cobwebs is too many hot glue cobwebs for a million square foot property, america’s new and improved halloween was conjured by lies, conjectured by corrupted liturgy. that is not saint talking, believe it or not. with the tough crowd cerberus has summoned from preschools and the pits of hell, anything saint says will be dismissed alongside the droning of walmart soul cakes and glow-in-the-dark skeletons, and the only things their audience will believe with his contributions to the show are that he’s boring, worthless, et cetera. which he is, believe it or not, but any sensible person would reckon that tossing up carcinogen-coloured candy and insults to his very being would be too much. not so. not with children who are inherently too much, their glittery baubles metastizing across his own costume, their demanding babbling mudding his mental faculties until he has played trendy pop song by young female artist on his stupid fanny pack xylophone aleph null times.

saint stays near the back, both to survey and circumvent the children, the conversations they are shoving into superhero extraordinaire’s smug, well-sculpted face. they are not interested in his itinerary of information, and they have taken, on average, six hundred and eight newtons of force to keep from straying from the itinerary. he accepts the spare toothbrushes from little miss identity crisis with a smile, attempts to talk about how bow strings are affected by hooke’s law when bilbone hooligannins cuts in with more gaslighting. eventually, he shuts up. he chews on the peanut shells from the bottom of his jack o’lantern and shuts up.

saint fidgets with his fluffy mini skirt. he traded out his civilian uniform for a costume meant to match with his roommate/sugar embossed carbuncle: thing 1 and thing 2. now he is a lonely thing 2 damned to wander the alleys of the big apple for eternity, half-done tank top representing how his heart has been cleaved in halves and crimson mesh leggings symbolising the bloodshed of his wasted hotness. think of the children, his mother would cry out. the children do not think of him. he’s pretty sure they don’t even know he’s an agent. he’s psychologist fodder, horror movie inspiration, the imaginary friend with a concerning grip on developments in national tax legislation. he should have gone as loveshot. at least he’d have an excuse to bear arms.

saint is rewriting his last will and testament in his notes app when mercy senyoyi remembers. through sheer will and morally ambiguous usage of their parents’ overdue pension, she has dressed up as a vending machine. oh, she’ll tell anyone with a hole in their head to hear it that she’s some level i agent, oscillating between the capable women and men who have stunted saint’s career, but he doesn’t believe for a second that any of their custom uniforms include the half-cut carcasses of soda cans galore, geometrically arranged onto her giant grey cardboard box of a top. it would be impressive if its mere actuality was not actively setting saint decades back in therapy. where saint has silenced himself, mercy has appointed herself leader, rotten-toothed lord of the flies, heckling the kids in the front and their questions–sour grapes make the best wine, their father once said–and bothering the man in the back with her questions. very loudly.

“dude, where the fuck are the hot agents?”

he shushes her. also very loudly. “do not dude or fuck me, young lady.” her (pierced? since when was that legal? better question, knowing mercy and the havoc she has wreaked on the american economy: since when was she proficient enough at lockpicking and makeup to have avoided public crucifixion for that look?) eyebrow rises past the stratosphere. “you know what i meant. play nice and maybe you’ll get to expose an affair or two.”

she huffs. crosses her arms. juts her candy-pink bottom lip out. he’s almost too relieved to see that it isn’t pierced. it’s a play for pity, he reminds himself. one she invariably must lose. this is what she gets for skipping family monopoly night. “you look stupid.”

he waves her off. rushes towards his partner as they approach the next house. “you are stupid.”

“this is why i have lucidity posters in my room!”

irrational angst. truly channeling her favourite cerberus agents.

he reaches earshot with loveshot just as the group (sans his sister, who is taking selfies faster than the speed of light as she pretends to crush some decomposing pigeon with her flimsy pepsi can). “i’m so sorry about her. she just followed us back from the kennel and my mum couldn’t say no to all that whining,” saint says at breakneck speed, eyes fixed on the pavement. there are too many decorations. he does not need another reason for employers to think of him as a walking lawsuit.

“of course they would notice. children notice everything but how revolting they act, and you know what their parents would do with a single well-timed tear,” he replies. “you promised the boss. besides, my presence means the parameters of the mission are simple. knock on doors, avoid murderers, keep them entertained. you’re wonderful with them, i must say. and they do wonders for one’s holiday spirit. maybe if you suggest something like a race to see how fast they can go through the houses and promise a power demonstration to the winner–”

he is distracted by the doorbell ringing. out of terror he stumbles into a cardboard coffin, which crumbles under his weight combined with that of the compost bin that has been knocked over by either his powers or a god he does not believe in. all men are liars. saint is no exception. he scrambles to kick the wormy cornucopia under a pile of leaves and telekinetically strongarm the coffin back into architectural stability. when everything fails, he puts his hand on his hip and turns his smile into a grin. neither expression has any chance of looking natural on him.

“are you a scale factor, agent? because you enlarge… my… shape.”

the door swings open.

「 KYUNGSEOK — & saint. ( @agentbilliard ) 」 CLOSED HALLOWEEN STARTER. LOCATION: TRICK 'R' TREAT ROUTE.

They are nearly done. & Kyungseok is more than ready to be done.

"Can we see your bow now?" One of the kids next to him asks, looking up through his skeletal mask. His face is already smudged from how many times he's been adjusting his mask. It's been one of the biggest questions of the night. Can I see your bow? Show us your bow! Can we see it now? Can I hold the bow? I wanna shoot it! The entire route had been filled with questions. They either wanted to see the bow or they wanted to know what the other heroes were doing.

Kyungseok flashes a smile, the one most practiced for Loveshot.

"That wasn't part of the deal, my friend. A hero keeps his word, right? Once we finish the route and head back, then I will show you the bow."

"But that'll take for-ehv-er!" The long words are enuciated with heavy, dragging steps. Their light-up sneakers engaging with every stomp.

"He said we have to wait! We gotta be patient!" The little girl holding onto his hand says, trying to have a conversation around Kyungseok. She was dressed nearly the same as Loveshot except someone had added a cape, sparkles, and a mask. ( Kyungseok did not wear mask. It interfered with his periphery. All of the costumes, however, added a mask. ) The pink and glittery bow in her other hand rattled against her plastic pumpkin. You're favorite color is pink and so is mine! had been the first thing she said to him after bolting across the lawn as soon as he showed up.

She is the daughter of some senator, some politician, someone up in those ranks with enough money to pull enough strings to get Cerberus to look. Heroes, they wanted. Heroes for their children. Nothing but the best for their kids. ( A smoke screen. Kyungseok knew he was there because they did not want to be there. Their children were an inconvenience that beheld them to tradition. My child has to go trick or treating but I won't be the one taking them. ) All ten of them, walking in a haphazard line up the street, were the children of the rich and famous.

Maybe that is what he lets her hold onto his hand. He had been the child of an important person and it nearly cost him his life.

"Patience is a virtue that every hero needs. It's just powers or being strong. The things you can't see are also important. Waiting is hard, I know, but the reward is often worth it."

"Waiting is boring!" Another kid pipes up. She is dressed in a mixture costumes that seem to range from Hades to Granite to Glimmer. "Show us now! Show us fire! Can you shoot fire? Or-or water too? Can, can Whirlpool also do ice if he ... if he can ... if he has cold water?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I'll have to ask him the next time I can see him but Ymir can control ice while Whirlpool can control water. I can't do any of that."

"Why not?"

"Those aren't my powers. Those belong to my friends. I shoot arrows, that's all I do." Extremely well and extremely capably but a child is always going to want flash. The bow is his flash but he isn't going to summon it here. It required concentration and calm. He wouldn't be able to focus on the kids and that is where he needed to have his full attention.

"That's kinda lame. My dad—my dad said ... he said that heroes have to do what we ... we say. So, really, I'm your boss."

"Wow," he keeps the smile on. "A sudden change in management."

"Yeah, so, as your boss. You have to show me your bow."

"I will show you the bow after a few more houses, my friend. I promise. Boss."

The next house glitters with orange lights and flickering pumpkins. Ghosts hold their arms out, haunting the gravestones that litter the yard. Kyungseok squeezes the little girl's hand and sends her off with the group up the steps in order to ring the doorbell. He stands back with his ... partner. Agent Billiard. Telekinesis although the mission report log hadn't been too impressive. He hadn't seen him around, honestly. & if Kyungseok is being honest, he didn't take the time to learn the Level III agents. They were ... well, to put it bluntly, beneath him.

"I am ... ready to leave. Do you think they would notice if we cut it a few houses short?"

[agentbilliard]

@disruptedlogic has disrupted saint's train of thought. thank god.

“you’re really fit for someone who just turned fifty,” saint remarks with a remarkable amount of sincerity. although the perpetrator for his flooded backpack is a former student of his, there’s a sizable portion of him that desires to put the blame on agent rain. the bag is deposited on the floor with a theatrical thump. it’s embarrassing, to have his mentor of a steaming minute see him in such a state, but he also finds the fact someone who just waltzed out of their twenties is now his mentor to be embarrassing highlighted in five hundred pastel shades. he leans against the wall, wet denim leaving an equally embarrassing mark. “i’m assuming the mission details aren’t available to peasants such as i, so just give me the list of gifts i need to buy and wait for me to come back. if i do come back. if not, just take my insurance and get yourself some birthday-cake-flavoured pepto bismol.”

open for : everyone ( just assume connections )

"i completely forgot it was my birthday since i was still recovering from that last mission. so i guess happy belated birthday to me?"

[agentbilliard]

open to everyone. assume connections. or don't. saint is too bedevilled by artistic differences and advertisements for $500 xylophone tuners to care.

saint is aware of his assets. his terms, his conditions, how and why they are continuously rented to sheds made of subtextual shreds by his sisters. as evidenced by the dare program’s generational failures set to crimson brush fonts, however, awareness is bootless if not accompanied by action. so he has taken action, taken the financial x-intercept of his undefined wallet and pushed the slope to negative infinity with his first purchased instrument. in the understandable yet disappointing absence of a mission more challenging than not getting in the way of anyone else's missions, he has taken leave on the basis of mental health. during this leave, which has lasted a handful more hours than intended given that the one with hands holding the hours was one of the three hecatoncheires, he has done anything but become more mentally healthy. instead, he has bought a xylophone attached to a fanny pack, a metronome, a little league cap with the lettering of the dare program and a stench that suggests no action was taken there, either, and a tragic sort of rainbow recorder. and then he bumps into someone who makes him spit the recorder into the fanny pack portion of the xylophone. someone fated to be his first fatality, he decides, from the sheer brilliance of his latest branding scheme.

“i need you.” coming on with the strength of a malnourished feather, there, saint. do not merely grab their attention. seize it until cognitive muscles burst, macerate it with a voice modulated for the lecture hall, sip it with a smile worthy of a cerberus spokesperson. he does not make eye contact, of course. the limit does exist to that function. 

“this is my theme song. rights will sell for billions of dollars. i will get a voluptuously figured–” he chokes on his own words. mirth or la muerte? audience interpretation is appreciated. “sorry. my sister airdropped me these manifestations on the subway. how did this go again? red, blue, orange, yellow…”

in a key yet to be acknowledged by any voice in the history of music, he taps on the xylophone and belts the following: “agent billiard is your friend. agent billiard will make bad guys meet their end. not to say bad people cannot include women. bad people is who agent billiard will apprehend. agent billiard does not condescend. agent billiard can advise you on stock dividends.”

a moment of silence, the purpose of which is undecided. saint clears his throat. "thoughts?"

[agentbilliard]

does @godenvy need a pizza or a therapist? saint is neither, but...

divine punishment is an exotic comfort that cackles with cataracts’ worth of sputum, and presently with no other company than the guinness world record winner for most pertinacious weed, saint infers that no such blessings will pass by him until he either passes away or breaks his fast with the very special brownies he’d sworn were in the fridge this morning. his parents would chide him for these thoughts, he knows, but the sunday has been lazy and saint is too lazy to pretend to have verbal integrity around jester.

a polite comment reflecting her response, then, so she cannot report him to human resources for being a passive listener. “ deflecting questions is rude. i'm shocked. the venn diagram between you and rude is a 0-dimensional shape. ”

“ we are not abandoning the land of liberty and its beautiful citizens– ” at least one of whom is responsible for the tectonic seizures rippling down a rooftop party and into his bowels, shifting everything around until he’s looking over the canyon crack to another nde. thank you, america. thank you, systemic exploitation of entry-level employees. thank you, terrifically priced triassic temptress on main street. he casts a sideward glance to his companion for emphasis, hands drawing a triangle to ensure she manages some recollection of what pizza is. one can never be too sure of anything with jester, sans her plans for psychoactivity and warped view of recreational activities. “ –because you have the munchies. ”

a pop quiz, then. just to assess how lawful arresting his partner would be. twenty-one and up, no more than three ounces; he knows the rules, he does not know if mission partner of the year has ever read a rule without the handbook bursting into flame after an atom of contact. “ aren’t we banned from almost every fast food place on this block? you’d have to pay for a cab, you’d have to pay for the pizza, you’d have to pay for a cab back. lots to do, isn't that? ”

a sigh, then. almost a groan. the heavens have forsaken him, yet he desires nothing save for tetrahydrocannabinol-aided ascension. “ but if you’d been willing to share, a kinder saint might be having this conversation with you, and that kinder version would tell you to dive into my butt pocket and find every coupon you can for the closest fake italian joint. ”

open for  :  agents levels i, ii, & iii  !

          when agent fuckface asked her are you high , she should have responded as a kite.  maybe that would have gotten her out of patrol duty.  jester hadn't realized that saying she'd be available on call over the weekends meant that she'd actually be called in to do things.  there's one thing to be thankful about as the other half of the brownie she ate earlier finally hits :  agent fuckface determined for some reason that she and the other agent on the team for tonight would be capable to handle it on their own for at least a few hours.  one of her duplicates confirms that they're alone , then is dismissed.     "     let's get outta here.  i'm hungry, and this is a dead patrol route anyway.  pizza  ?  we'll come back before he does.     "     an empty promise , but she's not hiding the fact that she would appreciate the company.

[agentbilliard]

saint senyoyi, better known as agent biliard has been with cerberus corp as an eo since 2023 and is LEVEL III. BEING CRUSHED BY A VENDING MACHINE has gifted them telekinesis, though PHYSICAL INFLUENCE WEAKENING WITH DISTANCE, DISTRACTIONS, AND LARGER WEIGHTS has also been noted. when they aren’t protecting the tri-state area, they are fond of playing rounds of fischer random by his lonesome and are never seen without A LEATHERBOUND JOURNAL. civilians think they are meticulous & benevolent, but some of the other agents see them as NEUROTIC & COWARDLY. cerberus corp should consider the fact that their last mission status was successful, although unsuccessfully cleaning up local garbage might have been more impressive when giving out the next one.

001.  GENERAL

name  saint senyoyi

nicknames  agent billiard, vender bender, any saint under the canonized sun courtesy of agent jester

age  thirty-four

date of birth  march 9, 1989

zodiac  answer

place of birth  harefield, hillingdon, london

current residence  brooklyn, new york city, new york

gender  cis man

pronouns  he/him

orientation  bisexual, biromantic

occupations  level iii agent at cerberus corp, mathematics teacher and head custodian at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks

faceclaim  daniel kaluuya

height  5’8

tattoos  none (he does, however, have the divine patience and dearth of dignity required to doodle and calculate all over his forearms daily)

piercings  none (he does, however, have a fake nose ring from his stint in a school-sponsored production of annie wherein mr warbucks and his servants made liberal yet incorrect use of african-american vernacular english to teach middle schoolers about the cold war)

distinguishing features  there are few features of saint’s corporeal form that function as evidence of him being a good person, but at a minimum he has good grooming. his collars are pressed to perfection, his trousers are steamed to sublimity, his hair both facial and scalp-al is combed and clipped as much as possible. nonetheless, a good portion of his shirts are stained with presumably non-toxic paint or crumbs of a graphite muffin. the backs of his blazers are often adorned with sticky notes with adorable titles such as ‘YOUNGEST SENIOR CITIZEN’ and ‘NOBODY LIKES MATH’ and ‘MY FAVE FUNCTION IS =3’ from his students. what can he say? he’s sentimental to a fault. and far too broke to go to the laundromat every week.

positive traits  altruistic, diligent, humble, observant, organized, polite, pragmatic

negative traits  craven, cynical, deceitful, insecure, perfectionistic, pessimistic, unyielding

labels / tropes  absent-minded professor, bad liar, beware the quiet ones, stern teacher, the fettered

likes  alphabetical lists, dish washing, libraries, origami (he cannot do it whatsoever), pranks (if they’re done right), summer, students at brooklyn academy of ostentatiously pubescent pricks (at least they’re funny pricks)

dislikes  art museums, astronomy girlies (if he learns that he has pisces energy one more time he will lose it), drinking (hypocritical), level iii agents, living conditions in nyc (no relation to previous item), rollercoasters, the subway

fears  blood, cockroaches, crowds, death, disappointing his family, his family period, smooth peanut butter, snakes, spiders, vending machines

hobbies  assigning homework, billiards (surprising who?), playing chess, solving crosswords, scrabble, sudoku — only the coolest activities for him, obviously

habits  bites pencils when deep in thought, cracks back against chairs, gestures to whiteboards that simply don’t exist, writes with said pencils on imaginary paper

002.  EXTRA ORDINARY

near death experience…  

“you two! i swear on my non-denominational god that i am not forcing you to believe in, if i see you trying to axe deodorant the animals into making a little baby leopard in front of you, i’m calling your mums and telling them to pick you up this instant.”

the two snicker in response. saint isn’t sure how to respond if not with a wave of his hand, a pinch of his brow, a tour-guide-induced plug of his ear for when half his salary goes to dealing with the legal repercussions of incident number graham. this is his first field trip sitting in as a supervisor, and between the bloody boring itinerary his class has been breaking for the past few million hours and the boorish colleague he’s been paired up with he reckons that it will be his last. good riddance, he will say. good riddance, the class will say. really, the people of new york pay high enough taxes for their final destination to be more than a borough away. yet, here he stands in the densest stench he’s known since ap calculus was moved to seventh period.

this is not what he signed up for. you know what he said, when teachers asked what superpower he wanted to have? his voice would crack and his face would be lightning-split open into a barely-toothed grin and he would say he wanted to be a teacher because wow! they did so much for so little! and the teacher’s voice would crack and their face would be thundering with the truth and they would move on with their days because saint senyoyi had parents who hated him and peers who tolerated him and the guidance counsellor could deal with all that when she got back from happy hour.

he knows what he wants. something cold to drink. stupid brooklyn uniforms have gotten dark enough to hide period stains but continue displaying the effects axe deodorant has on his physiology with pure crystal. he excuses himself temporarily, tells the tour guide he’s off to the bathroom and that all the kids have do not resuscitates somewhere between their baggy pockets and knockoff gucci fanny packs, and gets to a vending machine. it’s bad, he knows, to continue to support capitalism and pollution after all the public service announcements from the lions of lying-about-admissions-policies colleges but it’s all he can afford and all that he wants and you know what superpower he did not wish for? guilt tripping. it’s a part of the faculty welcome package, but he’s never liked gifts.

no diet options. not like he cares. he hasn’t had much time to go to the gym lately. he just needs energy. a temporary fix.

the vending machine, he finds on a note far too small to be in compliance with the the occupational safety and health administration’s latest spicy issue, is temporarily unserviceable. not like he cares. he’s already annihilated the rules by leaving his class to their own devices, shiny and beepy and blackmail-filled as they are. this is just the narcotizing nightcap on the mushroom cloud. he slips a coin through the slot and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

bloody hell. tommy j’s probably got his arse stuck between an alligator and a hard place by now, assuming sophie m’s greasy ipad hasn’t liquidated underneath the september sun. and assuming they haven’t broken up again, which is a flimsy variable by itself considering the seating arrangement’s got tommy j next to jason m and in front of jayson w and the three of them were exchanging notes yesterday like their lives depended on it. saint knocks on the glass. his parents never bothered to knock, but his sister had in the tune of an old ugandan choir song about welcoming and stars, so he does the same. welcome, cold coca-cola into his hands. welcome, please.

next he’s seeing stars. this is getting ridiculous. the machine is burping, whirring, choking, doing what saint should be doing as he details how the penguin populace has plummeted because of plastic straws and whatnot. he groans. only one thing left to do. he shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

and shakes.

next he’s seeing stars and blood and bone and you’re going to be a star saint because sophie m is taking a video of the entire ordeal as russell p drops his forged permission slip between sobs call 911 what’s the british version of 911 he’s english jayson same thing crapface pay attention in geology that’s geography jayson CALL 911 SCREAM CRY IS IT LUNCH IS HE DEAD SCREAM CRY I’M GETTING A REFUND CALL 911. there is glass everywhere. the ringing in his head is louder than the cries, the screams. pain is piercing yet heavy, paperwork that acts like a cactus to his poor eyes. that’s what he’s going to die as? the idiot who got crushed under a vending machine? no. he just needs to move. get out of the geysers and into a hospital that won’t charge him several billion dollars to get in.

he just needs to move.

he is not going to die before getting his one dollar bonus from the state exams.

SAINTS DO NOT DIE where did you come from father ABSOLUTE DISSOLUTION an inch towards the snake enclosure could save me SAVE YOURSELF swimming around nana’s lake house i wonder if i would taste good right now i wonder if a hot emt will try and save me SAVE YOURSELF you taught me how to swim by throwing me in the lake SAVE YOURSELF

he comes back with a massive headache, three exams to grade, and the power to move things with his mind. and a viral remix of his death, but he still hasn’t watched that in full. he’s told the chorus is incredibly vulgar.

power…  

“i wasn’t cheating!”

saint is making a scene for the first time since the tender age of five years old for bragging rights and a lukewarm beer. he hasn’t been accused of cheating since his preliminary foray into the cutthroat world of primary school mathletes, and that situation had the excuse of being started by a bespectacled potato sack no older than five years old herself. he’s kicked out for a myriad of reasons, none of which he believes are based on truth: he had fixed the game, he had fixed the bets, he had fixed his life and therefore had no business being with his friends. honestly? he thinks they just can’t look at him the same after seeing his broken body in a bed of glass, and he can’t blame them for that. he blames them for what happens, next, though.

he retreats to his apartment in shame, exile. daedalus has lost his son, he has lost his place on the top ten trivia masters. then he learns that he can fix everything in his apartment with nothing more than a mathematical buttload of attention and his mind. which, yeah, sounds boring when he puts it like that, but it’s telekinesis. objects already within arm’s reach require little to no effort to move towards him, while materials any farther than that require great concentration and a clear view to be moved. saint and telekinesis have a relationship comparable to a coparenting strategy on the verge of collapse, and none of it is particularly empowering. if he desires to take control of a stack of papers he has to focus on those papers, get an unobstructed path to those papers, stare at those papers for a solid few seconds wherein a hostile could stab him in the back. if he decides that he does not want to touch those papers, they have about a 50-50 chance of coming at him in an effortless tornado anyhow. it makes thinking inconvenient, which makes his life inconvenient. still, they’re something. he can lift roughly as much as he can with his arms, which is around the hundred-fifty pound mark with oscar-worthy thanks to a premium gym membership he passive-aggressively received from his mother some years back, although he has limits. many of them, in fact.

drawbacks / vulnerabilities…  

“shitterdoodle cookies.”

saint is on the same ground level of pathetic as his choice in curse words, for someone who has access to the school twitter account and all the bots that spam it for engagement. the heavier the object, the harder it is to move in manners that do not sound like nails on a chalkboard. the more he uses his ability, the more he is exhausted, liable to ramble about sensitive industry secrets or his feelings. neither will stop, neither will leave the conversational partner with any semblance of sanity. he has to be careful with how long he spends looking at anything, too, lest he drag some family heirloom other than his own through new york mud. also, everything he moves seems to really like his face. his pockets are nothing but bandaid collections by now.

cerberus corp…  

“and i am auditioning for the part of…”

that’s not quite right, is it? he clears his throat. a decade of teaching under his overly tight belt and there persists a lump in his throat whenever it must open. saint’s feelings on cerberus corp are complicated in the way that proving 1 + 1 = 2 is complicated. it’s a fact of life to most, easy to accept for some, but it’s also something that gets the smart alecks of the yearbook salivating and thus something he does not want to be involved in. well, strike that out and rewrite it in the past tense, his teachers would demand, for he now desires a status in american society that does not amount to school/fast food slander scene packs or graves with no return policy. his audition video was enough to get him invited for an in-person appointment, but he suspects that the possibility of him using lights and strings to get the effect of telekinesis pulled along a hundred-pound weight in comparison to his ounce of charisma.

he gets accepted, anyways, by some miracle. maybe it’s merely a seasonal investment in the marketability of a man who can soon hurl snowballs at unprecedented heights and velocities if he manages to concentrate. concentration is harder these days, however, and that descriptor of his career prospects comes with a near-overdose of pressure. he’s been with cerberus for roughly a month now, though the days blur with the hustle and bustle of extraordinarily tedious tasks assigned by the big bosses. saint is a worker bee to his core, though, and understands ranks, roles, and professional hierarchies better than breathing, so he questions nothing. as long as management of his powers is a possibility, the probability of him becoming a manger who has to do zero practical saving is above zero.

saint isn’t the best partner to have around, per se. his abilities are useful, but his personality isn’t much of an asset unless the mission involves stationary store espionage, and his desperation for a guide to everything is everlasting. nonetheless, he is nothing if not nice and accommodating to those he respects (ie everyone except agent jester. dishes can only go unwashed for so many days before his conscience is wiped clean of sanitary scruples) and aims for perfection. which isn’t the best philosophy to have around, per se, but at least he’ll do all the paperwork for you with zero prompting.

codename…  

“vender bender? i would rather die again than be called that for the rest of my life.”

it’s a joke, but saint’s never been proficient with making those. his comedy is a dependent variable, a misshapen animal lump coagulating to the back of circumstances that prove truth is stranger than fiction. proof: here, now, as his branding is being discussed in a manner far too formal for the setting they find themselves in. he has no idea how he got here, honestly. how he got with cerberus, how his card didn’t turn red at the door of the bar. he supposes it’s something like the pythagorean theorem, if the hypotenuse was meant to be the shortest side. he’s not the shortest level iii agent, thank the non-denominational god that he is not forcing anyone to believe in, but there is a nagging feeling that he does not belong, that however many lives he saves he will always be the guy stuck under the vending machine traumatising upwards of infinity children.

he’ll stick with something short and sweet, thank you very much. occam’s razor has never cut murphy’s law while shaving at three in the morning. it is time to show the party how real english billiards is played. he’s set up his own cushions at the left and right ends, shown off his custom snooker spectacles, let everyone know what a genius he is. this is his element, the art of arithmetic gambling. one shot and he’s set for the night, getting his drinks paid by everyone in a fifteen foot radius.

he takes the shot and gets his nose broken by the ball going straight to the hard, wooden edge and bouncing straight to his hard, idiotic face.

agent billiard. that’s a joke for the ages. it’s short, sweet, and a math pun. saint hates puns. cerberus loves the name. saint then decides he loves it, too, changing his social media handles accordingly.

(this is me begging for someone to have their agent suggest billiard after seeing saint smack himself in the face with a cue stick pls and thank you)

003.  EXTRA

tl;dr of backstory while i make it all nice and fancy: the middling middle child of a blackjack dealer for one of the most corrupt casinos in london and a professional sports gambler, saint has always wanted to help people. he’s just never liked people. he’s always liked math, though, and upon moving to the us of a for the sake of his older sister’s career in medicine, he made sure that, if he was to be ignored by his beloved parents, he would be ignored and rich. flash forward to getting his first job at his alma mater which has improved in much the same way that milk improves by growing curds and the lowest college admissions rate in the city, getting crushed by a vending machine, getting kicked out of his favourite bar for cheating at billiards with superpowers, and getting his cool agent nickname his cool agent roomie and his uncool first few missions; if you need a reluctant ass-kicker/incredible ass-kisser/high school math tutor, this is your guy. his mission suit is 100% an actual suit. it doesn’t look cool whatsoever tho it’s the same getup he got into for seventh grade winter formal <3 also he's a faithful reddit user. thats his biggest character flaw i think but he's addicted to r/billiards and does not intend on quitting ever

wanted connections page here!!