‘The Underground’ - 9:00 am, Tower (headquarters)

The date was October 5th, and the time was 9:00 am, exactly. It didn't matter if it was October or March, London was always grey. In a tower that most of the civilians associated with just another skyscraper that involved something of a business, it did it’s routines. The building wasn’t falling apart, but it was not completely new either. In the eyes of everyone passing by, it was just another building with another unimportant name.

Exactly.

---

A woman scanned over a file cabinet of papers and pulled out individual ones, as if she already knew what she was doing. She nonchalantly walked over to her dark oak desk and fanned all the files out like cards among her. Each file had a certain amount of papers, with certain amount of details, of a certain amount of people. A crisp expression laid on her face as her eyes glanced to the names.The small pocket-sized identification photos of these certain beings where attached to the folders with a paperclip. Very stereotypical. With a gracefully movement of her hand, she picked up a pen and began to right on a sheet of paper.

Black Dogs, Hell Hounds, and Cerberus.

Under these categories, she began to write the names of each and every being under their corps. In a way, to the woman this seemed nostalgic. A list of names, with another list, and yet another list. After a few minutes of working, she looked down at her paper. Satisfied, she gathered her folders and papers and put them into a thick folder. Without a sound, the woman grabbed a stamp with the royal seal. This thick folder held the names of some of the agencies delicate and lethal weapons.

By the Throne’s Orders, The Royal Hounds - Hunters of the Crown.

---

Almost without a sound, the thick folder went into a locked drawer of the woman’s dark oak desk. With almost a sigh of sadness, her eyes looked yearning out to the window. A breath to show one last emotion, before she stepped outside of that door. The slender, dark whisper of the woman was Isabella Coon. But not anyone of the company calls her this. Her name is Disciple here. And it will remain that way. It was for the safety to call everyone of this division by their ‘assigned names’.

Other matters needed to be addressed before the day is out. She blinked sharply to snap herself back to remember the task at hand. Turning, she grabbed her cellphone that sent out the following message to the members of the company.

---

Announcement - Current Time: 9:05 A.M. 5th of October - Disciple of Cerberus Speaking

A mandatory meeting will be held in conference room 345B of the East Wing at precisely 9:30 A.M. Yes, I am aware of the short notice. This is not by my account. All members of the Hounds are assigned to report. When you arrive, take your seat. I will be waiting to discuss the current matters. All policies apply.

---

After sending the mass-message, she opened a filing cabinet and took out another folder of papers. Isabella popped her knuckles and took a drink of her tea before leaving. She let her office door close behind her and lock. The black dress she was wearing slightly blew, and her footsteps could barely be heard as she nimbly walked down the hallway to arrive at conference room 345B.

Leaning back against a white wall while on his bed, Clement was inevitably lost in his thoughts again. The idea of serving the royal family had no longer bothered him, in fact it had comforted him to know he was still needed, regardless of what was simmering inside of him. It was unnatural, an abomination as the news called him but he saw it as something different, something that could help him change the world. His amber eyes peered through the darkness, staring at the vein-like crack in the wall opposite of him, knowing that it fell from the ceiling and stopped only after it pass behind his small Victorian painting. The painted that depicted a mighty dragon soaring over a prairie, its flames bursting from his maw in a luminescent stream of fiery fury.

The picture undoubtedly makes me feel better, he admitted before a intricate knock rapped on his metal door.

With a wayward glance towards the corner of his small room, a hidden lantern sparked to life, suffusing the majority with a orange and warm glow. "Come in," He told the person, unwilling to say more than needed.

A gentle push of the door reveal a generic being, a male with cropped hair and brown eyes, his clothes the typical butlers or manservant. "You have a meeting. The message is as followed," said the man, pulling out a cellphone. " A mandatory meeting will be held in conference room 345B of the East Wing at precisely 9:30 A.M. Yes, I am aware of the short notice. This is not by my account. All members of the Hounds are assigned to report. When you arrive, take your seat. I will be waiting to discuss the current matters. All policies apply."

Clement raised a wild eyebrow up before pulling himself off the wall and bed. "Thank you, Ben. I appreciate it." After watching the man walk out, Clement started changing out of his lounging clothes and into his "Hound" attire. Grabbing a white dress-shirt, black vest, crisp black trousers, and aristocratic black shoes from his closest; he put each individual piece on before finally striding out the door and clipping the golden buttons of his vest together. Being outside the room had flipped a switch that was often hovering in the middle of two extremes. He had to calm his mind to a perpetual state. His powers required it.

His shoes clapped against the floor as he made his way to the conference room, it was important that he was never late, important that he maintained the semblance of the royal family in both appearance and presence. With his hands tucked casually in his pockets, his wool-like hair stylishly messy, all for his edges and semi-faded sides, Clement made his way to the location. Once there, he opened the door and grabbed a empty seat, leaning back and closing himself off to the rest of the world.

Angelo was polishing his gauntlets when he heard the message play on his phone for all hound members to head towards the meeting room. Angelo sighed laughing a little as he put on his dark green vest and his blue jeans. Angelo never took off his gauntlets and if he did it was so they wouldn't rust in his shower and anyone who decided to take the gauntlets as a prank.......the guy in the hospital still cant eat solid food. Angelo laughed at the thought thinking the guy got what he deserved, Angelo knew he was on a short leash but that didn't mean he didn't take the privileges of what he had to work with so someone stealing gear from a hound was going to get punished anyway for being a dumbass Angelo just made sure that everyone got the point.

Angelo left his room and walked down the hallway and as some janitors walked by Angelo pickpocketed them for a dollar each. Then when he got to the vending machine nearby he bought himself a soda piercing the outside with his clawed finger then drinking it as he kept walking to the conference room. Once he was their he put the soda in the garbage can and he sat down at his seat laying back and putting his feet up waving to Clement at his own seat as Angelo waited for their orders to come in so Angelo could be put to use. Angelo didn't care about the crown (unless he could steal it) Angelo had such a better life then he did before so as long as Angelo's family was safe and he had his gear Angelo would perform his duties as commanded, even if he was considered a loose cannon...

Even when all is lost to you in your heart and in your mind, your true essence of being lies within your immortal soul…

Those words reverberated throughout Nates skull as he wrestled with sleep. Amidst his battle he is brought back to when he was first recruited by the Hounds. The dream flashed from the horrific morning after his family's murder. He starts to render the feelings he had from that time. Most of the days he was numb, and when the numbness receded he was left with fear, rage, and more questions than answers. He knew he didn't couldn't have done those horrible things, yet he knew he was in some way involved or responsible.

It was then he first became a believer. Sure, everyone knew about the Underground, some spooky story you tell your kids before bed. Except the Boogeyman is very.....very real. Nate knew this all to well.

He awoke from his restless sleep with a violent, jerking motion that seemed almost marionette-like. The sound of his cell phone going off never really was one he enjoyed. He grunted as he fumbled with his pants on the floor, the text message read:

A mandatory meeting will be held in conference room 345B of the East Wing at precisely 9:30 A.M. Yes, I am aware of the short notice. This is not by my account. All members of the Hounds are assigned to report. When you arrive, take your seat. I will be waiting to discuss the current matters. All policies apply.

The tattoos in his back and shoulders began to give the slightest flicker of a glow when suddenly a hand grabbed for Nates back.

"Who was that?" A tiny yet soothing voice asked him, although Nate couldn't remember how he got back to his apartment last night, or where his underwear was, at least he knew her name.
"Tina, you're awake, I'm sorry if my phone woke you. It's work, I have a meeting I need to be at in..."

His eyes catch a glimpse of the clock to see its 9:14 "Shit", he thought "now I really have to haul ass"

"I gotta run babe thanks for everything!" Nate says as he scrambles out the door carrying his pants and shoes, wearing nothing but a plain black v-neck and a pair of neon green boxer shorts. He ran down the hall and caught the elevator going down. As he finished getting dressed he desperately tried not to embarrass the 70-something year old woman in the elevator with him. Getting off the elevator he stopped and finished lacing up his Chuck Taylor Classics, in doing so spied a bicycle by the side of the apartment building. The Tower was still a ways and he wouldn't make it in time on foot...

---

After "borrowing" the bike he made it with time to grab a coffee from the breakfast cart. For some uptight branch under the "Royal Umbrella" (as he called it) the coffee want nearly as terrible in other parts of the world, although crisp Autumn mornings like this always made him miss Wisconsin. When he arrived on the third floor he made his way to room 345B. He was in the east end, finally, as he already went to the wrong wing not a few moments earlier. He walked into the room giving a smile to Dragon and a nod to Striker, feet up relaxing in his chair. And took his usual seat at the table. Disciple sat at the head of the table, he greeted her with the usual "ma'am", nodded his head and took his seat.

"I wonder what kind of mischief they have in store for us this time" he thought as he awaited the start of the meeting.

Through the swirling clouds of steam, the sound of running water could be heard. Droplets of condensation on the white, tiled walls rolled downwards, drawing intricate patterns on the surface. A vague silhouette of a man could barely be seen through the shower door, and it belonged to Miles. He had been awake since seven in the morning, starting his day off with some exercise was part of his normal routine. Being in the Royal Hounds, staying in tip-top shape was important, even with his fae blood. His weakness to iron was definitely a setback, however, but he managed. The crown had been thoughtful enough to set up a sister training facility for others like him, with equipment made from other metals, instead of iron or silver. Most of Miles's morning was spent in said facility, and now he was simply taking a shower to wash off the sweat.

A short squeak of metal against metal rang out as he turned the faucet in a counter-clockwise motion. The torrent of water previously gushing from the showerhead slowed, before stopping completely. Sliding the shower door open, Miles reached for a nearby towel, and dried himself off with it. After all these years, everything was still kind of surreal to him. He had spent so long on the streets, having people look at him like he was some sort of beast, that he couldn't quite believe that it was all over. The fact that he no longer had to fight tooth and nail just to survive... well, he doubted that he'd ever get used to it. The gratitude he felt towards the crown for taking away him away from that dreadful life in the Underground monumental, to say the least. To this day, Miles still felt indebted to them. If the Royal Hounds hadn't taken him in, god knows where he'd be now.

The fluffy, white towel was quickly returned to the rack once Miles had no more use for it. He dressed himself once again; his outfit was simple, consisting of a white dress shirt, a dark grey jacket, and a matching pair of slacks. All of which were tailored perfectly to him, of course. Maybe it was his natural fae vanity finally taking root, but Miles was always a sharp dresser whenever he could manage it. It took a long while for this custom-made suit to finally be complete, but it was all worth it. The end product was something that moved with him like a second skin, combining functionality with appeal. While he really couldn't care less about what other people thought of him, he had the money to splurge, so why not?

Exiting his room, Miles began heading towards the conference room. The text he received earlier mentioned something about a meeting between all members of the Royal Hounds. He wasn't quite sure what it was going to be about, but he wasn't going to question it. Information here was on a need-to-know basis, and he'd find out what it was all about soon enough, anyway. These newfangled "cellphone" contraptions had taken Miles quite a while to get used to, but then again, he had always been a fast learner. The soles of his full-brogue shoes clacked against the ground as he walked along the winding corridors, in search of conference room 345B. The route was familiar to him, and soon enough, he found himself standing right outside of it. Miles pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

He noticed that there were already a few familiar faces present; some more so than others. Clement was the only one in the room that was in the same corps he was, and so, he was a slightly more familiar with him than the other two. However, the Royal Hounds wasn't the place for making friends, and their relationship never really went beyond missions and fieldwork. Miles admitted that it was mostly his own fault, but a leopard couldn't change its spots - his sullen disposition tended to put most people off. He didn't mind it too much, though, he's never needed anyone other than himself. Nodding a quick greeting to everyone in the room, he sat down in one of the chairs, fingers steepled.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Isla thought to herself as she jogged around the sidewalks of London. Makeup-less and long dark hair pulled back, she looked like any average citizen. Down to her sweats and K-Swiss sneakers. She’d woken at 5am, like every morning, and found herself unable to go back to sleep. To even get to sleep at night she took tablet after tablet of melatonin, looking for rest and yet some experience so deep that dreams could not permeate her mind. Nightmares. The dark. They haunted her. If she could she’d never sleep. The night time was where she flourished after all, and having to abide by society’s norm of waking in the light forced her mind into the routine she’d come to presently.

By 8am she was back to her apartment and showering, changing into some white flared jeans and a sweater. She affixed her bracelet to her wrist, the one she could use as a weapon if so needed, and lifted her slouchy shirt up over her chest. She wrapped the belly band holster around her waist and slid in her gun and knife, lowering her shirt once more. Isla let her half dry hair fall into natural curls as she began putting on her makeup, cellphone vibrating on the side of her dresser. Only half paying attention, she reached over and flipping it open as an audio message played from work.

Nodding, Isla finished up quickly, slipping into some dark navy heels, and leaving her building. Upon arriving, she headed straight towards the East Wing, and conference room 345B. As she walked smoothly but with purpose, her mind went over the last months she’d been involved in the Hounds. She knew it was not what she wanted to do, as it was not on her own terms, but it was better than prison.

When Isla, better known as Raven, entered the room, her large eyes scanned over the others, nodding in greeting with a closed lip smile, before finding a seat closer to those she knew best- Striker and Rune.

The sands stirred. Rising within its glass cage, the hourglass flowed backwards in time. Deep within the bowels of the earth, the Last Emir coiled himself upon his throne of hardened sand. There he ruled in the center of his stolid chambers, the high domed ceiling depicting the might of Persia as a memory of the past. Lit by torches and candlelight, the darkness reigned over the twisting passages to the laboratory, training room and master chambers found even deeper into the descent. It was constructed to house Roshan, beneath the Tower, close at hand upon a leash. It was here where time reversed itself, just as the sands in the hourglass turned back upon themselves, that the light of today would never reach into the bowels of history. There, his golden mask hid his face replacing his visage with nothing more than a solemn foreboding as it caught the light of the dim fires. His red eyes narrowed at the doorway into his chambers, his senses feeling the footsteps of his visitor and the scent of the man.

"A guessssssst. Sssseeeking audiencssssse, enter and sssssspeak..." Roshan hissed his words as his serpentine tongue flicked out between the thin opening of his mask. They had tried in the past to use more advanced methods of communications with Roshan, yet a cellphone, let alone a phone was deemed incompatible with the old naga. He had destroyed them in his inability to grasp their magic, the function of electricity was barely beginning to register for the anachronistic being, let alone how to use it. And so stuck in the past, the Hounds had retained him for his usefulness for he made various alchemic potions with fascinating effects and the ability to absorb memories of the devoured was also a nice boon. Yet he knew the real reason why they built him this feeble palace, and kept him in line with their threats to unseal the other one, for had they not intervened, he would rise to take the desert nations and reclaim his rightful throne...

It was not long after the message was delivered. did Roshan rise from his throne, his golden scales moving like lava as they unwound and snapped. The sands too did rise as his throne crumbled away into their basic elements, and provided their king with a path to thread upon. He was bound to the desert sands, and as such, could only travel if he carried sand with him. Thus he ascended into the Tower from beneath the ominous metal hatch which marked a descent into his lair, his army of sand close at hand as it cycled itself like a conveyor belt through the corridors of the Tower. The halls would fill with sand, halls of metal, glass and plastics, halls he found to be distasteful, halls lit by phantom fires.

Roshan opened the portcullis, the two steel doors pried upon as his sand slipped between their cracks and like a building flood widen them to their point of providing entry. The sands then rose into their platform as Roshan slithered in to the elevator shaft, twisting his serpentine body around the cables and ascending to the third floor with every turn. He was amused as to why these humans made these, small rooms which were lifted, in lieu of stairs, their cables alone would have provided adequate means of ascending to a higher floor. There he found the conference room marked 345B, a familiar room, though each time he found himself slightly more furious at the thought of being summoned like a dog to heel. The others would be able to tell of his arrival by the creeping sand which invaded the room beneath the doorway, before it swung open. With merely a glance to the others in the room, Roshan and his sand made his way over past the other chairs and with a tightening grip upon his staff, did he make his throne of hardened sand once more, the message after all did state to take a seat, and so he did take a seat with him.

chuckling to himself, Roshan studied the others, their scents clean unlike his own scent of dry desert sand.

A red haired man was walking through the streets a hat pulled low over his smiling face as he walked through the Drab Undercut Cobble's his entire left arm Covered in dried crusted blood. much to the shock of passerby's. One of them pulled out a Phone which was quickly ripped out of their hands and stamped on by Lazarus. who continued walking like it never happened. A slight vibration Riveted through his pocket. Springing back up his sadistic smile Lazarus or Legion as one might say. Pulled out his Cellphone Well it wasn't really his but since Alice was sleeping it was. It was a message from the hounds. His captives well Limiters Who won't let him rampage around like he likes to do Torturing people and Killing hundreds But alias The hounds still had their use's. Plus Alice would probably Crawl right back into their petty hands. Maybe he could convince Cain to get rid of her or something. yes that what he would do He would kill Alice or at lest be rid of her. Cut out the Pain. So he could be once again the mass slaughterer he was for 500 years.

The Cobbles Seemed to patter with sound as Lazarus was outside of the building. that housed the hounds. walking Inside he took of his hat. Showing his Demonic eye's his red Iris's looked around before narrowing. with half his face covered in Dried crusted blood He looked like a Psychopath. well a very Brutal psychopath. He signed in at the reception Before moving towards room 345B His smile growing wider as he entered the room standing at the back With a couple of shocked look apparent on some peoples face's But they quickly looked away when they made eye contact with his eyes. Lazarus closed his eyes as he chuckled to himself. After all he had just killed 5 people about half a hour ago.

If one was to find the dead bodies they would see that their skulls or necks have been shattered and their hearts ripped out and lay'd beside them in a hexagram pattern. after all somebody had to do it Because it was so fun and entertaining to do... Lazarus eyes lifted up as more people entered the room. he used the term people lightly as they where more prey and victims then people...

Deep within the bowels of the Tower, a demon stirred into consciousness. The announcement over the speaker that had been placed in his living quarters awoke him quite suddenly, and he growled in irritation as he rose within the darkened room. Did they have any idea what time it was? Stretching his limbs and smacking his lips tiredly, he found that his mouth tasted of blood. What was he doing last night? Eventually his senses recognized the sound of labored breathing next to his futon, and he remembered the girl. A really pathetic specimen, pulled off of a street corner after having an unfortunate encounter with a few of London's more normal vampires. She had escaped unharmed, but that was before the Hounds got to her. Unfit for service, she was thrown into the pit of the same sort of beast that had damned her. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse faint, but she was still alive. Good, she would last for another few days at least.

Kawakami Hideo, as he was formerly known, set about cleaning himself up for the apparent meeting that would soon take place. He showered, brushed his teeth and examined his face in mirror, all without turning on the lights. To any mortal, the room was pitch black, but he could see fine, and preferred to keep his quarters with way. Gave him an advantage against intruders, he figured. He idly considered shaving, but then decided that he didn't care enough. A black suit, no tie, collar open, black shoes, gold watch, gold cufflinks, this would do. Running a hand through his long, thick hair, he brushed it back behind his ears and out of his face. There, that would suffice. Even if he didn't care how he looked, the organization wanted him to maintain a certain image. An image of what, he wasn't entirely sure, but he met their standards all the same.

He emerged from his small quarters, locking it behind him biometrically, and entered the dimly-lit hallway outside of it. The Tower was like a termite nest; sure it went high up, but it went underground just as deep, and that's where everything important was kept. The conference room was a fairly long elevator ride up, and so the vampire had plenty of time to curse his employers for demanding that he attend a meeting during the hours of day. Even when he wasn't exposed to sunlight, he felt kind of sluggish when he knew the sun was out. Possibly in a supernatural sense, but mostly in a damned tired sense. Luckily, the conference room was in the heart of the building, and thus lacked windows. His foot slipped a bit as he stepped out into the hall from the elevator. Was that sand? He had a feeling he knew who he was about to run into.

The conference room was full of the usual assortment of varying degrees of freak. Some were normal, in a purely scientific sense, and others you had to know their smell to understand that they weren't human. Others, like the sandy snake-man that Hideo was loathe to deal with, were quite obvious. Many unfamiliar faces; Hideo may have met some of them, but he sure as hell didn't remember them. Regardless, he was eager for this company-wide meeting to get over and done with. He seated himself at the table, choosing a chair at random, and slouched down in it, trying to rest his weary eyes.

In all things, conduct oneself with dignity. Even in the face of certain oblivion.

The room was dimly lit, cast a little crimson by the fading sun behind thin, scarlet curtains. It was the roomed of a scholarly man, a learned man and a wealthy one at that. Tall mahogany bookcases were stuffed with all many of old and obscure tomes. In the middle of the room, two lush and plump armchairs sat. Two gentlemen, each clad in pinstripe, shared a box of fine cigars.

"Can I ask who gave the order?" said the elder gentlemen, as he considered the glowing ember at the end of his Cuban.

"You can." said the second.

"Would you tell me?" The gentlemen took a drag on the silken smoke, smooth and bitter. After being caught a moment in his lungs, it was expertly pushed out through the nose in twin spirals. He took another breath, a deep drag this time.

"But of course not." The two of them shared a single, solemn laugh before the gunshot cut it short. The silencer turned the Webley's report into a cough and a single brass cylinder landed gently on the thick shag carpet. From the punctured lung, fine cigar smoke drifted. The second bullet ruptured the heart, finishing the job. Double-tap, from sitting, guaranteed kill. Mr. Tinker took a drag on the cigar, savoring the rich, exotic flavor of the tobacco. Fine stuff, fine stuff indeed.

It seemed poor taste to use such a fine cigar as the first spark in an arson, but one made do with what one had to hand. Some kerosene from the manor's kitchen, splashed liberally around the library and making sure to get a lot of the accelerant on certain leather-bound, ancient tomes that were not on any approved reading list, then the last nub of still-burning Havana to set it all going. From the bottom of the house's garden, the fire was quite beautiful as it consumed all evidence of the cult, its holy book and its demagogue. But really, anyone who read the Necronomicon for fun or pleasure should have expected what was coming to them. He met his end with dignity, at least. Mr. Tinker checked his phone, seeing a text message commanding him back to London on quite short notice. Well, the Aston Martin still had a full tank, he supposed.

On the road back, he flipped open the phone again and dialed a number from memory. "Yes, Minister, it's done." Then the phone flipped shut again.

Naturally, a gentleman was never late and Mr. Tinker was nothing if not a gentleman. Though he had to drive through the early hours to arrive at the expected time, he found such times quite meditative and calm, never seeming to drain as much as the normal hours. Still, his current suit smelled quite awfully of smoke and he'd had to change that, naturally. There was a spare in the back seat and on the side of the night road, he'd swapped umber single-breasted for charcoal pinstripe double-breasted. He parked the Aston - silver, vintage - in front of the facility and checked his tie was nice and straight in the rear-view mirror before heading in properly. The conference room was already close to full by the time he'd arrived, which was perhaps a little surprising.

Tinker respected many of his colleagues, but others he considered little better than the beasts they fought against. Take, for instance, the snake-man, the one to his right hand side. Dreadful specimen, that one. Just never sat right with him, a gut-thing, nothing particularly personal behind it. And the blood-soaked fool - Lazarus. Whatever virtue the Crown saw in keeping him on a leash instead of in a cage or in the ground, Tinker would never see. Walking around soaked in crimson somewhat defeated the point of a covert organization. If nothing else it was unhygienic and unprofessional. But of course, it would have been quite improper to give voice to such opinions directly. So he calmly sat near the other Black Dogs - Raven, Rune and Striker - and produced a small moleskin from his pocket, ready to make note of any important briefing information.

Receiving new bruises every morning was one of the things Olivia had yet to get used to in her new life as a Hound. Although, she didn't know if getting used to it was necessarily a good thing either. With a groan, she pushed herself off the mat with a quick roll, dodging the follow-up kick just in time, and slunk back into the defensive stance as her instructor circled her menacingly. Today's lesson was restraint, admittedly one of her weakest subjects. She was allowed only to counterattack and defend; acting out of turn resulted in three free blows on her body. So far, she'd gotten four punches on the gut and three kicks everywhere else. It was getting increasingly difficult to maintain her calm, not that she had much to begin with.

After an hour of barely dodging and two more rounds of punishment, she finally started getting attuned to her instructor's movements. She learned to use her keen hearing to anticipate the attacks, and managed to relieve a little pent-up aggression by delivering her countering blows harder than necessary. The slight downward curve on her instructor's usually straight lined mouth made her beam with pride. Olivia became complacent then, convinced she'd mastered restraint already. But as it often turned out during her lessons, she was wrong. She'd gotten good at controlling herself against physical attacks, but it seemed her quick temper was no match for well-formulated taunts and insult.

The moment her instructor had mentioned her father, her temper flared, and she was yelling before she knew it. Immediately, the mirrors that lined the walls of their training room shattered, littering the ground with shards. A weapon rack in the corner of the room had toppled over, and the clanging of wooden swords echoed painfully in her ears. She dropped to her knees then, exhaustion suddenly weighing her down. Her instructor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a steely look in his eyes that she learned was disappointment, and took out the earplugs he wore as he approached her.

"That's enough for today," he said, pulling her up to her feet. He went to the side of the room where her things were haphazardly strewn and went to retrieve something from her duffel bag. Olivia had half a mind to protest, but the pointed look he'd given her made her shut up. As reckless as she was most of the time, even she knew better than to incur the wrath of a hardened Hell Hound twice her size. She accepted the muzzle from him begrudgingly and did her best not to make a face as he set the condition. "Until noon."

Only three and a half hours then. She supposed that wasn't too bad.

---

She received Disciple's message on her smartwatch at 9:25, and by then, she was freshly showered and out of her training garb. She pulled her slightly damped hair up in a high ponytail and smoothed her short red skirt. Olivia took a moment to look herself in the mirror. She wore a crop top, skirt, and wedge booties. Bruises, old and new, were scattered over her arms and legs. The metal muzzle was on her face, covering her chin and part of her cheeks. She looked like a pup being trained not to bark… which she supposed she technically was. Olivia rolled her eyes; she couldn't even laugh sardonically at herself.

Conference room 345B was only a minute's walk form her training room, and she made it in time without needing to hurry. As she slipped in, Olivia noticed that they were about ready to begin. The professional silence that filled the room unnerved her as always, and as she looked about the room, she wondered why many of the Hounds were so surly. Maybe that came with the job? She couldn't imagine being like them in the future. Shrugging, Olivia turned to greet Nate—no, wait, it was Rune, right?—with a smile before remembering she was being Silenced for a couple of hours. She opted for a quick friendly pat on his shoulder instead and greeted the rest with a wave of her hands, wondering if the older ones (like real old; she was still fascinated by the other supernatural beings here, like that snake man and the Japanese vampire) would think her childish for doing so. Then she plopped down on a seat, taking the one next to Dragon, her fellow Hell Hound and sourpuss extraordinaire, already eager for the meeting to end.

Long, slender fingers brushed against the coldness of silver as Camden Sorna rolled the sheen, metal ring between each digit of his left hand, a blank mask of boredom donned on his angular features. He sat leaning forward on his table, right elbow propped to support his resting head as the other extended in front of him so that he may play with his shiny ring. Though his posture was informal and laxed, the Thorn was dressed quite sharply in a casual manner. A simple and thin, navy blazer was fitted tightly over a black, collared shirt, which perpetuated his slim torso. Clean, white sneakers adorned his tapping feet, and were slightly draped over by a pair of skinny, tan khakis.

His eyes were distant as he stared at the front of the conference room, his gaze phasing right through his colleague and fellow Guard of the Crown: the woman who had called them together on such a short notice during a fine day like today, Disciple.

The man tilted his head curiously as he spun the silver ring on his index finger with his thumb, his dark pupils narrowing as his mind began to focus a little.

He was wondering what the section of the wall that Disciple was blocking looked like.

Was it the same, sterile color of white that casted a depressing atmosphere to this suffocating auditorium? Or did it hold some sort of beautiful array of colors yet to be beheld by the human eye?

Camden guess that he would never find out. Disciple's figure, though graceful and supple as it was, became a permanent obstruction to his deep, cognitive analysis that was the result of his boredom. Camden frown, his eyes now settling on hers and gave a small scowl.

Camden sighed as he flicked the ring hard, launching it off of his index finger. His gaze finally wavered, and he forced his eyes away from the front and instead, toward the sky of flawless, white tiles. A metallic mirage blurred the air above him as the ring danced towards the enclosed heavens before disappearing entirely to his snatching palm. Pocketing his special accessory, the man leaned back, folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes as the rest of the Hounds began to file in. Being a Cerberus himself, Camden was the first person to arrive just after Disciple herself. Since his position required a direct obligation to the Crown, his leash was chokingly-short and bounded him to HQ most of the time.

Thus began the long wait for the meeting to commence.

Occasionally, he would peek around the room with one eye to observe the colorful variants that took their seats around the conference room. Though they mostly kept to themselves, Camden noticed that each Corps segregated themselves from each other. The man couldn't help but to smirk at this - the tension in the air was so taut that he felt like he could reach out and pluck out a beautiful melody.

Still, he didn't blame them for being so anxious. They were, after the, the most dangerous beings in the world. One cannot trust the other if both are intent to kill.

Camden gave another sigh, sinking lower into his chair, trying to find a comfortable position to lean back into. He himself was situated at the very back and center of the room, and although his eyes were closed, his other four senses were on full alert as he waited for their business to start.

Rune sat comfortably in his chair as his companions finished filing into the room, some more familiar than others. It always amazed him the level of "talent" the hounds were able to amass. From the oddly attractive to the strikingly bizarre it was quite the team. He chuckled to himself as he cast his gaze across the room to see so many solemn and silent faces. He gave half a smile to Olivia, "Nightingale" as she is sometimes referred. The mask she was wearing made him give a sympathetic head shake. Most of of his corps had arrived, as he continues to meet eyes with those who would actually look at him, his mind couldn't help but wonder to what misadventures they would be going on this time. The message he received on his phone replayed in his mind, this wasn't usual protocol... to do things so last-minute.
The crown hates a slapdash job and he couldn't imagine what could be so important? Either way they would all find out soon enough...

The silence in the room was deafening.

It was so quiet it made Rune feel he had to say something, instead he just went on in his head..."Between the snake-god-man, the demon, and some ancient vampire," he thought. "And then there's the bunch of rag-tag warriors, its no surprise no one trusts anybody in this place.." he joked to himself as he sighed. "It's like the Island of the Misfit Toys, only we are hell bent on giving EVIL the old "return to sender."" The thought brought a childish smile to his face that was soon wiped and replaced with his usual, casual half-grin. After all, he cant just sit here like some sort of idiot smirking away, the meeting was about to begin and he had to maintain some sense of professionalism.

Conference Room 345B - East Wing

The room had a decently sized table to seat all of the ‘guest’. A bit of a dark room, but everyone could see their way around. While standing off more towards the side of the room, she watched Thorn come in. She had a hunch he would be here first, she didn’t really expect nothing less of this man.

The relationship between the two was something Disciple could describe, but it was an odd fashion. Both believed to know each others actual names, though it was rarely spoken. In her terms, it was like two wolves staring at the lamb. They knew the others boundaries, and they did not underestimate the others capabilities. Just two very big dogs in a strange room , she thought.

“Thorn.” she said it carefully, lowering her head and gaze in mutual respect.

---

As the other filled the room, she did not speak. Not a one really knew was standing there the entire time. And if they did, they did not notice her or speak to her. Disciple frankly preferred it this way. They all filed in, some judging the others, some talking to the others, and some not speaking at all. Without a sound, she moved from the edge of the room to the long table in front of a large projector screen. She breathlessly laid the materials on the table, and straightened up her posture.

“Good Morning, everyone.” Like silk, her words dripped from her mouth. “I am Disciple of Cerberus Corps. Most of you already know this.” she paused to make sure she had everyone’s attention. Her tone started to change from it’s silk nature, to becoming more stern.

“You are here today because there is a disturbance. Though of course, we normally don’t call everyone for a mere ghost going bump in the night, these circumstances have concerned the queen, prime minister, and other leading government officials.” She moved to flick on the projector with a remote. The lights became dim, and the wall lit up. “As you know, we are not the only supernatural company under the government. In recent occurrences, Germany has come back on the radar. The Underground is meant to stay away from the normal world and, of course, with good reason. Yet, instead of protecting and hiding, they believe it would be more beneficial for war…” Disciple messed around with some papers, and looked around at her members.

She clicked a button on the remote and a picture appeared on the screen. The picture was of a man in his forties, wearing a navy suit, in a small town coffee shop.

“ Dederick Conrad. A man of his forties, seeming normal and works with local imports. Everything about this man, is a lie. .” A quick pause,

“The man you see before us is dead.”

“The actual Dederick Conrad died of a heart-attack two years ago. Here, we have a prime example of a classic ShapeShifter. We believe it took on his form just a little before Conrad died, and then fully started becoming, or ‘remaking’ him after his death. The shapeshifter took on the form of this dead man and changed things around to avoid the fact of being followed.” She raised her eyebrow, in annoyance to think that this plan would’ve actually worked. “By some of our intelligence, there have been photo’s of this man working with some government men and women of Germany.” The powerpoint went to the next slide, showing Conrad exiting a government building. “Conrad received a certain briefcase from a Underground scientist, approximately a day ago. The briefcase contains blueprints and information of something that is vital.”

“We, and other countries believe the German Underground are trying to create war-machines, by genetically copying and mutating supernatural beings. Taking supernatural DNA, blending it with animals, humans, and sometimes graphing more than one supernatural trait into one being. So far, there’s no success, but that doesn’t mean they are not making progress…”

The projection flipped to another picture, of something that was clearly not human. It was a gritty, unclear picture, but you could make out what was going on. A figure had the face of a wolf, but the scales of a basilisk. The second picture was of a man, whose skin was bubbling and deformed. The third was of a figure who had no face where it seemed skin was just stretched over it. Letting those images sink, Disciple turned off the projector, and the lights became brighter. Quickly without a sound, she picked up envelopes with seals, and passed them around to certain members of the company.

“Those of you who have received the letters, you have your private commands. You know your orders.” She straightened up for her next announcement.

“Hell Hounds Oni, Oberon, Dragon, Nightingale, and Red, you will be leading an operation to invade a guarded located warehouse building that contains the three of the more ‘successful’ projects that I have shown you. You are ordered to eliminate them. We do not know anything about them, once brought down, you are to bring them back to where our intelligence and break them down.”

“Black Dog Mr. Tinker and Raven, your operation is to seize Dederick Conrad. You bring him back alive. Make it soundless, make it quick. I do not except for you to disappoint. Black Dogs Striker and Rune, Mr. Conrad has two guards. You goal is to assist Black Dogs Mr.Tinker and Raven, silence the guard to let them through, once they have seize Conrad, obtain the briefcase.”

“As for Cerberus Thorn, Roshan, Legion, and myself. We are to remain on stand by. They are aware that we are not in the dark about this. Once Black Dog corps returns with Conrad, we are ordered to make him answer. As for the three projects, Roshan and Legion, you will be in charge to lead them to the intelligence to be examined and report. Thorn, in a few days, you will be accompanying a undercover agent who is digging further into this ‘business’ as a reporter. Keep a close eye on the agent because we are suspected they will try to be assassinated.”

---

Disciple lowered her head in respect to all of the following sitting at the table. “Hounds, you have your commands. This operation is to be nothing but successful, do not fail the throne. On that, we have conducted our meeting.” She gathered her papers, sighed, and walked off to the side where she had a sip of tea. While drinking a quick sip, she kept staring at a certain piece of paper. Disciple, was to head the ‘trial’ of Dederick Conrad. This was stated on the orders from the prime minister. She bit her lip lightly as she read into the details. Her body turned, nodded to some on her way out, and slowly continued her way back to her study, still reading her details.

Isla would smile politely and nod with each new arrival. Well, most of them anyway. Some she simply stared. Like the sandman over there. She just stared at him until another member of the hounds walked in and she became distracted. Some of the hounds were wild dogs and Isla honestly thought the crown was kidding themselves by putting chains on them. One day at least one of them would crack and the crown would regret ever assigning them to these sorts of tasks in hopes of controlling them. But ah, she wasn’t supposed to think for herself now was she? No. Just follow orders.

Her mood had brought the corners of her lips tugging downward ever so slightly, and her eyebrows maybe a millimeter closer together. Her expressions were vague and minute, but readable nonetheless. Although her shoulders were relaxed when Rune tried to lighten the mood with a rather silly comment. She managed a genuine smirk. She began running through her thoughts of the hounds she did know well enough to make a judgment call on, but was stopped when Disciple moved in front of the screen at the front of the room. Listening intently, Raven was inundated with information. She snarled a bit at the fuzzy pictures towards the end of the projection they were shown, obviously disgusted with the images. She sighed softly though and turned her attention back to the rather odd looking woman with pale skin, as she passed around some envelopes. Isla could deny she wasn’t a tad bit curious what the private commands were, but oh well. It wasn’t something she needed to worry about obviously.

Instructed to capture Dederick Conrad with Mr. Tinker, she nodded, glancing to the man in the suit briefly before listening until their meeting was officially concluded. Once it was, she turned her chair to face that of her fellow Black dog and apparent partner for this mission. ”Well. It’s just too bad he has to be kept alive,” she said, eyebrow flickering up so it seemed like she was joking perhaps, but she was not.

A German scientist. Cloak and dagger in a hotel. Black bags by moonlight. It's like the war all over again.

Tinker smiled at everything that was presented to him, inscrutable with that eyepatch muffling his expression. The envelope in front of him was fine stock, which he flipped out to quickly and quietly read the specific mission details - his role, Raven's role, what the conditions were. Well, that was a nice little bit of food for thought - how to do it, the timing of it, the best ways to stay out of sight. Isla turned and mentioned something about regretting having to take him in alive. "My dear, he's not of any value to us if he's dead, now is he? You know what they say about dead men, tales, all that." He nodded respectfully to Disciple and stood to get things ready. "Black Dogs, meet in three hours for more detailed briefings."

First was a quick refresher for his constitution - a power nap, a shower, a pot of strong tea, a full English at the cafeteria. A nice new suit, then out to the Black Dog briefing room, where he laid out the intel the organization had provided. A hotel's blueprint. A convention timetable. Tickets on the next jet to Germany. Legends, fake ID's for them to operate under. And of course a nice hefty grimoire on the topic of shapeshifters. Well, you couldn't have a mission without a grimoire, could you? Wouldn't be quite proper.

When the others got there, Tinker began. "Conrad's going to be in the German town of Hesse for a conference, which is our way in. We pose as attendees and hotel staff, lose ourselves in the noise and clutter. By the time we arrive in Hesse, it'll already be dark. We need to get Conrad into a security black spot, extract him and leave no witnesses. Raven - you're with me on that. We're going in under civilian ID's to make contact with him, draw him out, then bag him. Rune, Striker - it's likely he'll have security. Based on what we know about Conrad, we're probably looking at a small detachment of German ex-military. Since he wants to go undetected as much as possible, they'll be a fairly small group. Your job is to make sure they're neutralized before Raven and I go in. Remember, this is a covert mission - suppressors on any firearms, bloodshed is to be avoided if at all possible. Be discrete, be professional."

"Now, the elephant in the room - Mr. Conrad is a shapeshifter. That means we get one shot at this. The second he realizes something's wrong, he's going to break away and transform, at which point we lose the ability to track him. That means there is no room for mistakes today. Co-ordination will be vital and our timing must be perfect. Questions?"

The briefing left Hideo rather confused. Why Germany of all places? The country had been a non-aggressor for over fifty years, and had only really profited from doing so. As the economic center of the European Union, it was effectively the most economically influential country in the world. None of this made sense, honestly. Hideo remembered the short-lived days that Germany had been an ally to his people, and their grasping attempts at embracing the supernatural for their war effort. The Thule Society failed to produce timely results, unlike the forces that Hideo's Emperor had managed to produce, and as such the supernatural forces of Germany had been left mostly alone. Perhaps this was merely the result of such ignorant mercies? A haunting remnant of the past reemerging? There was something greater than a mere grab for power at play here, he knew it. However, his place was not to investigate or question. His place was to kill. And he would do so, in due time.

"Hell Hounds," He announced, rising from his seat and holding his envelope aloft for all to see. "Briefing room in thirty minutes."

Hideo left the room promptly, not waiting for a response. The elevator was then taken back down the the subterranean portion of the Tower, where the Hell Hounds kept the majority of their equipment and facilities. All the while, he looked over the note that he had been given. Quite scarce information, this was barely enough to form any sort of strategy. He assumed the Hounds were working with limited information sources, but this was simply inadequate. He would have to do a great deal of research before their mission began if he would be able to organize a successful operation.

Soon enough arriving the the briefing room well ahead of the others, Hideo continued to brainstorm ideas for this mission. He tried to think if he recognized any of the other code-names that had been read aloud. Honestly, he had no idea who any of those people were, or what they could do. The fresh blood always looked the same to him, and considering that most of them were barely around for a decade, he really couldn't be damned to learn anything about them. Surely that would be helpful in organizing a plan of action, but he would have to make due for now.

Striker sighed as he listened to disciple then looking at the pictures he said "ugly, ugly, ugly as an ass" Striker said trying not laugh at his own joke as he waited for the briefing to be over then when tinker said to go to the black dogs briefing room Striker got up and left and in the time he had he got his daggertail and wrapped it around his gauntlet (since it was the only part of his body that had the protection of gauntlets so he wont hurt himself), then he took a shower and changed into some different cloths mainly long sleeves that would cover his gauntlets otherwise they would be a dead give away so with his long sleeve shirt the only way they would notice is if Striker let them see his fingers were claws which he wont give them a chance to. After he finished his preparations he went into the briefing room and put his feet up to listen to tinkers plan.

is snapping necks an option?" Striker asked and usually it would be considered a joke but he was serious about the question since his gauntlets gave him double gripping and strength then any normal human snapping a persons neck was no problem but he needed to know if death was optional for the ex military, if he was going to draw blood he would simply claw out their throats like a dog would or use his daggertail to slice their throats. kill the guards, get the target and grab his suitcase. sounded simple enough at least for the black dogs it was

Clement or Dragon as everyone should and would call him, found his arms tightly wrapped around his chest as he observed the screen. Earlier he had glanced impassively at Nightingale, the woman, being a odd contrast to the tense soldiers around them. She was beautiful and cheery, even with a muzzle clamped over her mouth. Though he was labeled as some supernatural being, he had still been raised human, still embedded with needs and desires.

However, he had held them in check so far and he'd continue to do so. Throughout the presentation, he maintained a stern expression. He didn't feel particularly sympathetic for the beasts or deformities, they had been causalities in the quest to capture evil; they had done their part. But the others... these agents, had warranted his silent anger. The smell of tinder begin to flow off of him, his darkened suit emitting a orange glow from within his belly. It was best he got that under control, lest he burn the entire building down. He did so with a few calming breaths.

After the presentation and Oni's call for a meeting, Clement closed his eyes, cracked his neck, subtly rubbed the back of his neck to ease the cricks out of it. Sitting still wasn't exactly something he enjoyed, the eternal flame inside of him often stiffened his muscles when they were still. He pulled his chair out from behind him before sticking his hands in his pockets and filing out a moment after Oni. He had decided to take the stairs to keep himself away from others.

Ten minutes later he opened the door to the briefing room and eyed Oni with a amber gaze, the wrinkles on his forehead crunching down on one another, though he was one of them the supernatural got his blood boiling in a sense. He stood off to the side of the door, his preferred area in case his fickle temperament got out of control. He had only felt inclined to sit down due to the rarity of the situation during the initial meeting, however, things were different in this case.

I hope this doesn't take too long.

Camden snorted as the meeting finally concluded, amused at how fast the tension of the air finally snapped into nothingness as movement rifled through the stiff crowd. Like machines, the Hounds analyzed and processed their revered order by the Royal Crown, and immediately turned their cogs to power up their terrible mechanism of absolute obedience. Already the three Corps began to act upon themselves as each individual members congregated and began necessary preparations for their respective missions.

Leaning back as far as he could, Thorn propped his feet up on the chair in front of him and gave a small yawn. With his eyes of deep oak, he casually watched as they conversed with one another, swapping information and concerns until finally they started to disperse into their designated briefing stations. Camden couldn't help but smile as he gazed at the inferno of their will and ferocity, his crooked grin reflecting his boyish envy. They were assigned the more exciting operations, damn them.

Still, babysitting some intelligence brat wouldn't be too bad. Truthfully, Camden had always had a profound respect for the Crown's Intelligence Division. Though their agents were not even a hundredth as good as an observant Hell Hound, their abilities were quite respectful in terms of 'normal' proficiency. He had no doubt that his assigned agent will be capable enough to extract the necessary information, and, maybe with some luck, Camden would be able to ascertain some important data regarding this whole ordeal.

At last, the Thorn of London decided to get off of his lazy ass to make some preparations of his own. He had until the end of the day to rendezvous with the intelligence officer if he wanted to make good time; Camden did not expect the Black Dogs to take very long in securing their 'kill. Better get a headstart. With a hearty stretch, Camden plopped to his feet in a graceful manner, taking a moment's time to crease out the wrinkles of his blazer before striding towards the exit.

Nearing the door that would lead him out of this suffocating room, Thorn passed by Disciple addressing her fellow colleagues as they made their way out. He glanced at her and maintained the stare until she finally got to him.

He gave her a small wink and his usual grin, before walking out the door without a slight pause. But as he made his way outside, he held up his envelope behind him for her to see. A silent message.

See ya when I get back.