[@ZekariVoblis][@Seirei No Hai][@dabombjk][@Spriggs27][@FamishedPants][@lunarlors34][@Lucius Cypher][@Noodles][@Forett]

They said he had to look his best for this bullshit formal dinner and, staring at himself in the mirror in his bedroom, eyeballing his immaculate red serge with it's polished buttons, Corporal's chevrons, shiny leather cross-strap and belt and a left breast festooned with medals; a Medal and Star of Military Valour, a Star of Bravery, a Cross of Valour and the two American odd-balls, a Bronze Star and a Distinguished Service Cross, Duncan came to one conclusion:

He looked like Dudley Freakin' Do-Right. And it was pissing him off. 

With a few grumbled profanities, the bald man put on his campaign hat and went over to and opened up his desk drawer to retrieve his sidearm, an old Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver that was supposed to have been completely replaced within the force about a decade or two ago by more modern, semi-automatic models, but still kicked around in small numbers due to that oldest of the RCMP's enemies- budget constraints. Giving it a once-over, Duncan opened another drawer and the strongbox within it where he kept his ammunition, loading the weapon and holstering it, as well as putting three speed-loaders of ammunition in the appropriate pouch on his belt. 

Next he reached his gloved hands back into his weapons drawer and produced the one thing guaranteed to always make him smile; his knife. A little heirloom made by his grandfather's grandfather (coincidentally, also named Duncan) with a handle of carved elk bone and an eight-inch blade before he set out for the Boer War. It saw [i]extremely liberal use[/i] before he came home and passed it off to his son (another Duncan) who graciously shared his love for this magical-murder-implement with the forces of the Central Powers before he too came home and passed it onto [i]his[/i] son (yet another Duncan), who gleefully took it right back to Europe with him to demonstrate to the Germans why their fathers couldn't seem to get a good night's sleep without waking up screaming and covered in fear-pee. He too, eventually came home, leaving again for a lovely little jaunt through Korea before coming back again to wait until he was old and absolutely out of fucks to give before passing it on to his grandson. 

It wasn't exactly pretty to look at, what with four generations of use and the fact that 'The damned thing's been in more men than a proctologist's finger!' as his grampa always used to brag. Still, one who knew what they were looking for could see how much love and affection had been poured into the object over the years; from it's carefully sharpened edge, the beautiful engravings on the handle and the lack of rust-spots caused by blood; evidence that whoever used it for it's intended purpose, and it had quite clearly been used a [b][i]whole hell of a lot[/i][/b] for that purpose, had been extremely diligent in cleaning it afterward.

With a small grin, MacAiden strapped it to his leg with a little contraption his granddad rigged together back in Italy when he realized he had too much shit in his pockets and hanging off his belt, where he could hide it in his boot where his boss wouldn't see it and subsequently freak out.

[i]'Won't be so bad...'[/i] he thought to himself as he put on his boots, not believing a damned word of it, but thinking all the same [i]'Food's free. And all I've got to do is shut up and smile like a fuckin' idiot every time some jackass MP wants a picture next to the dangling bits of metal hangin' over my left tit...'[/i]

With one last look in the mirror, the now fully-dressed Mountie took a slight breath, put his hands on his hips and nodded not approvingly, but grudgingly accepting of what he saw.

"Well... Let's get this show on the road." 

Had he any idea of how literally the universe would take his comment, he probably would've just stayed in bed that day. For not a heartbeat after those words left his throat, did he find himself standing in the middle of a ruined cobblestone street.

"...What."

A street filled with bizarrely-dressed people, some with honest-to-god animal ears sticking out of their heads, who were coming out of apparent hiding to watch as the street began repairing itself, apparently obeying the deft hand-waving of some silver-haired woman in the distance.

"What."

As a man in green tights gracefully pranced by.

[b]"What."[/b]