Agents of the Multiverse

A loud thunk announced the landing of an arrow into its polyethylene target. It jut out from the yellow ring, where it was still amongst other arrows in a similar site. A nice group today, their archer mentally noted. It wasn't like that all the time, especially for the inexperienced or the troubled.

That was half of the reason Connor was here. Practice kept the mind and body flexible. Even still, he had to admit that the prevalence of so many new faces in the Omphalos was a little troubling. Obviously, they wouldn't turn away the help. There was much to be done around the Omphalos and many problems that needed capable solvers.

But the influx was of people new to this experience, where it was raw and aching. The best Connor could offer to help Krepta was not only attention to his duties as an agent, but attention to any newcomers as a mentor. He was somewhat familiar with the process, even if he'd only taught one agent so far. The process of becoming an exorcist from his world was arguably equally traumatizing - at least, it was for him. That much showed in the scars on his brow.

Footsteps sounded through the grass and onto the dry, dead ground, which made the flat surface for shooters to stand on. Being left eye dominant, he'd been shooting with his right hand. Therefor, he had to turn so his back no longer faced the newcomer. He was greeted by Connor's equally scarred front, his arms decorated with anything from scratches to bites. At least it was comfortable enough for him to wear a T-shirt in the Omphalos' perpetual summer. It was the middle of the day after all. The rest of his attire was also modest, comprising of long khaki pants and combat boots. Suitable for being in the wild.

"You must be my new trainee," he began, a cordial but serious tone to his voice. "Unless I'm mistaken. In any case, you may call me Connor. Or 'Guildmaster Hunt,' if you prefer such a formality. That's usually used by members of my old team though."

Connor appeared to be an older human man, somewhere in his forties or fifties. It showed in the creases of his outer eye corners, if nowhere else. Both of his previous jobs were not the most stress-free. This one certainly wasn't either.

Anomalies were typically few and far between. That's how it always has been since the bombs fell, or so Artyom has come to accept. Beautiful and dangerous, they appeared as a sparking ball of energy, and could easily be avoided if one thought rationally. However, there was a new phenomenon creeping into the Metro, and this one was more noticable, less avoidable, and all the more deadly. Strange creatures unlike anything seen before were spotted where the radiation was strongest, and when there was one.. they only seemed to multiply. Nothing could explain the sudden appearance of such a creature, but as time wore on, more and more men disappeared when roaming too close to the irradiated areas of the surface and metro alike.

Artyom couldn't begin to explain the things he saw when he glimpsed the creatures, though his journal knew well of the otherwordly horrors. Miller advised the Rangers not to investigate, that it was nothing-- Artyom knew better. Perhaps his comrades in the Spartan Order would call him a coward for what happened afterwards; for how a strange, anomalous portal dumped him in a new land seemingly untouched by the disaster of war and the horrors that ensued after; for how he was so tempted to call this place home and live in a safety he had only ever dreamed of.

No, Artyom thought himself a coward- he didn't need to be told so by his comrades. That is why, when all was explained to him and he learned of an agency sworn to fight that corruption which had taken his already crumbling world by storm, he was ready to sign himself up to fight it. Though, just as it was to become a Ranger, he would need to survive another thorough training regiment to be welcomed into the action.

And, already, Artyom was suffering the woes of adapting to a new environment. In the metro, temperatures were perpetually mild and damp. And on the surface of Moscow, freezing. Stuck in the heat of summer, the ranger felt overdressed in his everyday attire. His layers had already been shed, his protective gear left behind, but even his Ranger fatigues felt too heavy, too dark to wear in Omphalos. The most he was willing to compromise was rolling the sleeves to his elbows and untucking his pants from his combat boots, and it was enough to leave the heat feeling just bearable. His journal was kept close, tucked in his back pocket.

It didn't take long for him to locate the stables in which his mentor meant for them to meet in. Compared to navigating the dark depts of the metro tunnels, the headquarters were a welcome change.. and it helped that he had very little access to areas where he wasn't meant to be.

Like the man that stood before him, bow in hand, Artyom had his fair share of scars, littering his forearms and face. The ranger was younger by a good few years, but any sign of youthful vigor was locked behind the frown set on his face as he regarded Connor's greeting with a solemn nod. Though he likely expected more, the ranger was unable to form any more of a reply but his name and a hand offered to shake, spoken in a heavily accented voice. "Artyom."

With the amount of new agents being both a help and an unfortunate situation, Connor figured it made sense that there were many were young folk. He was selected as an exorcist in his thirties, and was quite used to see exorcists even younger than him be selected. One of his team members was even among some of the youngest he'd seen, being only eighteen at the time of his training.

Still, it never got easier seeing them so scarred, physically and mentally. He didn't know if it was because of Artyom's experience with his world or if the Corruption set into it, but Connor decided that was Artyom's story to tell when he was ready. For a lot of people, that was pretty soon, and he understood. Many needed some time to vent their frustrations, grief, and pain. Better out than in.

His bow was raised so he could hook it by the string around his own back, letting it rest there. It was the 'style of fantasy archers,' some teens would like to say. With his hands now freed, he extended one to take Artyom, gripping it firmly as he gave it two shakes. It was released soon after.

"Thank you for stepping forward to offer your skills," he said. "I know it's not an easy decision for many, even if it might feel like it at first. Letting it set in gets to some people, but know now that you're not alone."

His gaze was downcast for a second or two, readjusting his weight between his feet as he spoke to his new trainee. He was unsure at this point if Artyom was just a man of few words, so he might as well make an offer himself. He looked back to Artyom, calm despite his perpetually firm brow.

"So, I'm a Ranger for the Agents of the Multiverse. I've been here for a year in a few months now, according to how time passes in this world and Sanctuary. You must have come through from the latter, right? Did you feel like you got everything you needed?"

Connor spoke in a manner as to hopefully not overwhelm Artyom, but allow a platform for him to voice his own feelings. Perhaps he would even expand on that, Connor wondered, but did not press.

Artyom gave yet another nod at Connor's attempt at offering his condolences. In truth, the russian had a feeling it was wasted on him. Offering his service to Omphalos was not a difficult decision, nor did he feel like he would come to regret it. No, it was giving him a purpose that without, he would be as lost as a lamb; his entire life had been dedicated to survival and later to the Spartan Order as they attempted to bring order to the metro. Had he just attempted to settle down in Sanctuary, his guilt and restlessness would have eaten away at him.

After the handshake, Artyom let his hand fall back to rest at his side. He wasn't quite at ease, but his posture was far from stiff.. could it be he was missing the familiar weight of his Kalash? It wasn't often- no, never did he find himself unarmed like he was now. Even in the comfort of his bunk in D6, he had his knife close. It wasn't as if he needed a weapon, not for the time being. These headquarters seemed safer than Polis or D-6 could have ever been, with no looming threat of mutants or human invasions. Regardless, now was not the right time to strike a complain or a request for arms.

He offered another tentative nod as he was adressed again directly, though his brow raised when his mentor mentioned his familiar-sounding rank. Artyom briefly wondered if the rank of 'Ranger' meant the same here as it did in the Spartan Order. He assumed the question would be answered eventually.

Now, had he been thoroughly prepared? He received some necessities when he had arrived in Sanctuary- spare clothes among a few other things- but he had with him too the provisions he always traveled with. Ammunition, his journal, his gasmask and filters.. in his pocket now he could feel the weight of his trusted lighter- Everything had been left in the temporary housing he had been assigned, but seeing how he had others living under the same roof, he had kept his most personal affects close, those being his lighter and journal. He would need to find a better living arrangement.

A thought came to him as the silence following Connor's questions stretched on, and his lip twitched, as if he had something to say that was stuck just on the tip of his tongue. [Would his silence be a problem?] His comrades in the Order had quickly grown used to his quiet demeanor, even going as far as to poke fun at it, and Miller never questioned him if his only words were ever yes, no, or yessir. It was a rare (or important) occasion when Artyom would offer up full sentences, or god help us all, an attempt at a joke. "All is good." He finally said, an acceptable catch-all to the question, he hoped.

Ah. So he was the silent type. Connor noticed the crease in his lip, but he didn't ask about it. He decided he could work with this. In fact, a part of him almost preferred types like this. Straight to the point and straight to work, they were.

He held a tone of respect for Artyom when he talked to him, not worried overmuch. He seemed like he could handle himself.

"Good to hear." He nodded once in return. As he spoke, he gestured lightly. "Now, let me explain a bit of what I do here. For starters, I'm a Ranger, like I said. They and Survivalists fill basically the same category. We usually take missions that go out in the wild, and we also train others in bushcraft. I usually tend to host practice sessions in both that and marksmanship, with either firearms or bows." His hand moved to his own chest as he continued. "I'm a Mentor as well, so I train new agents coming in. It's my job to get them familiar with the multiverse's situation, observe their skills, things like that. It's also entirely possible that, while you're under my mentorship, we'll do missions together.

"There's a lot of strange situations one can find themself in and they need to be handled delicately. I trust you already have the skill set to do that, and I'm sure there's an ideal rank where you can apply it. We have the home team, such as security and staff of the Omphalos. There's those on the field, such as myself, along with intel and artifact specialists. Lastly, there's the research team. It's pretty much what it says on the tin, but there's also those who dabble in the occult there. Magic and the like, if your world has an awareness of what that is."

For his next sentence, he inclined his head a bit, his brows wrinkling. More of a gesture than an emotional expression. Or perhaps he was just squinting because of the sun.

"Have you received your supplies from the tech hangar since you were recruited yet?" A simple 'yes' or 'no' question. That shouldn't force too much out of him.

Again, there was a subtle change in Artyom's expression as his mentor explained the ranks, something of intrigue lighting up his face. He did get his clarification, and in good time. A 'Ranger' in Omphalos seemed closer along the lines to a pre-war wildlife ranger than a military operative, as the Spartan Order treated them. That being said, as part of Omphalos, the rank seemed to bring the two definitions closer together- he wasn't sure how helpful his own survival skills would be, seeing as they were honed to survive the conditions of his world, a very niche location at that- but he had no doubts that he would be more than able to adjust and adapt. He was more confident in his marksmanship regardless.

But.. Occult? Magic? Sure, he had seen a magic act while passing through the station of Bolshoi, but something told him that the magic here was more than a 'disappearing' woman or a trick of the light. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that mention, and kept his face decidedly neutral. He would prefer to be in the field, as that was where he spent most of his time up until now.. A more passive part in this agency would not suit him, and despite his fondess for writing, research would not suit him either.

The tech-hanger? He thought he had heard someone mention to him receiving supplies as a trainee, but he had assumed that which he was given at his initial arrival would be it. He shook his head in reply, his hand moving to adjust the watch worn on his left wrist. His most used piece of technology, which had been unfortunately dormant ever since his arrival here- Not that he figured he would encounter much radiation, nor keep track of his mask's filter.. nor hide out of sight. Still, despite having lost its functionality for some reason or other, he couldn't bring himself to leave it behind.

A hum escaped Connor, where he tilted his head back in recognition of Artyom's answer. He could only guess that this visit may or may not have been his first one here. Many people made their decision to become agents after a few visits themselves. Artyom seemed like the proactive sort, so Connor wouldn't have been surprised if he came in the door demanding a role.

"You'll receive your gear there, such as the Key Gauntlet." He raised a hand to display the brown glove adorning his forearm and hand. "It will allow you to not only travel through the Gates at the temporal hub, after acquiring the right keys, but to use the communications channel, detect the Corruption, and translate languages as well. And that's just a few of the things it provides."

He shifted his weight between his feet, arms crossing over his chest. His quiver hung from his belt, strapped in place so it wouldn't swing excessively. The covering material seemed less durable than one suited for combat, but it would work as a quiver for training.

"You'll also receive your databook, map, and card. The databook holds a lot of information about the Corruption that we already know. It's updated as we get new intel. It also tells you more general information, such as an in-depth explanation of the specializations and files about different worlds." Briefly, his brow furrowed. "If this databook gets stolen or hijacked, it will self-destruct through acidic melting, so nothing can be salvaged."

He continued with more ease to his tone in his following explanation.

"Your card will receive weekly payments of two-thousand United States dollars, as many agents here use that currency. It can be exchanged at different terminals for supplies and personal effects. However, you can also exchange it for a different currency if you'd prefer it, like that used in Sanctuary, or another type of Earth currency. It just depends if it's available or not."

Then, he canted his head, considering something.

"Do you need an apartment at the Omphalos? They're covered especially for agents. Sharing it with another agent tends to come with more utilities to it, such as a kitchen. Not every single room has that, if you want one, you can see what is available."

Ah, a tool with even more functionality than his watch. To think while the simple garment had been the envy of others, more impressive feats of technology existed elsewhere, it was humbling. He stetched his fingers out, imagining a similar device in his grasp, before allowing his hands to drop back to his sides. He gave an enthusiastic nod at the prospect, already planning a trip to the tech hangar in the near future.

He had many things to handle before he would be considered an agent- he was reminded of his life under the Spartan Order, of how he was thrust into it with a simple mission gone awry, lacking any training but his own experience. Yet he had still proven his worth as a Ranger. He hd no doubts that the same could be said for here, especially with the level of guidance and preparation required of new agents.

Artyom continued to show an unwavering interest in his mentors words, especially at the databook. Another eyebrow raised as the method for keeping the databook was explained. A scary image, but one that struck him with a sudden, humorous thought- He wished his journal would go up in flames should someone else try to tamper with his recorded thoughts and sketches. Momentarily distracted by his silent joke, he missed the next sentence, but caught the gist of it. He'd be paid, not in military grade rounds, but in a common currency here on Omphalos. He supposed that they were more vaulable as ammunition than with bartering.

"..an apartment would be nice." He affirmed gruffly, deciding to speak up to move on. The state of the apartment, shared or not, didn't matter much to him. Though he would feel more comfortable living in a private room, he knew privacy was a luxury he could afford spare. As long as his bunkmates could be proven as trustworthy, which he little doubt about if they were proven agents here, he would be willing to compromise.. After all, anything offered here was more desired and efficient than continuing to live with strangers on Sanctuary.

Oh. Something that had yet to be mentioned alongside the gear. While he was speaking, he may as well as get this out too. "And what of weaponry?" He added. Having a weapon by his side every minute of the day was something long ingrained in Artyom- he missed the comfortable weight of his backpack and Kalash, even if neither was particularly required in a place like Omphalos.. And he was only mildly concerned with the fact he had only left his weapons stashed out of sight in his backpack. Knowing the proper protocol for such things would be beneficial.