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Archivist's Note: Hawkelf was a PPCer from about 2003 to 2005. She developed many agents, but only wrote a few. This is a reproduction of her Freewebs site, "Welcome to Somewhere Upwards!", and the PPC story she had there, "Cat, Hawk, Kitchen." For many years, this was literally the only story to exist about the HQ Cafeteria; this is lampshaded by Gwen's failure to ever see other cooks. Gwen, M'rrhar and Rumor appear in a shared RP account on LiveJorunal. The rest of Hawkelf's characters listed below don't appear anywhere, although Agent Hawkelf was probably active on the permanently lost Department of Character Protective Services LJ community.

Everything below this paragraph is the words of Hawkelf, and is G rated. The only changes made are the display of the disclaimer as text instead of a scrolling banner, separating "nevermind" into its component words, and changing one short dash into a long one. The PPC belongs to Jay and Acacia.

Welcome to Somewhere Upwards!
Disclaimer: I do not own Alpha Flight, Animorphs, ElfQuest, The Lord of the Rings, The Book of Night With Moon, X-Men or the PPC.

In Which There Are Stories
Rumor and Evelen

As soon as their department gets off the ground
and a few technical things are sorted out there
will be stories, but not before.
Agent Hawkelf
AHE will never have any actual stories, but her
department is located here.
(2009: The link is now long dead.)
Kit 'Not the God' H. and Treeleaf
Nothing of theirs up yet . . . Nothing in the progress, either . . .
I should work on that . . .
Gwen and M'rrahr

"Cat, Hawk, Kitchen"

A werehawk named Gwen stalked down the hall, carrying a struggling cat by the scruff of its neck. Not that any onlookers could tell. That she was a werehawk, that is. If one ignored her short, spiky blue hair and nigh-unintelligible accent, one could easily describe her as an average, young human upon first glance. Of course, not many people saw her . . . One of the 'benefits' of being supporting staff; one that could, and had many times, come in handy working in the cafeteria. Too bad it only worked when she was on duty, and only half the time then. She'd long ago learned not to prank agents while they were conscious. They could get awfully testy, and somehow always caught her . . .

Oh, look, she'd finally arrived. Good. Musing over being ignored was getting rather boring.

Gwen marched into the Marquis de Sod's office and dropped the black and white animal on its desk. The Marquis', not the cat's. The cat didn't have a desk, you see. Especially not here, in the Marquis' office.

"Why was dis cat in me kitchen? 'E wes eatin' de mouse meat! Ah wes goin' te make pizza wit' dat!" It had been said that Foul Ol' Ron's Smell has a life of its own. The same, fortunately, cannot be said of Gwen's accent. However, this doesn't keep it from making a good attempt.

The Marquis clasped its fronds and regarded her a moment before addressing the feline on its desk. You did not, I take it, inform her that you have been posted in the kitchens?

The cat stared at the flower, sneezed, and began washing its face.

Very well, then. If you insist upon being this way . . . The Marquis turned back to Gwen. This feline has been assigned duty as the cafeteria cat. His name is M'rrahr, and I have no doubt that he shall tell you the rest in his own time.

Gwen jutted her chin out stubbornly. "Ah don' need no kitchen cat."

Nevertheless, you have one.

A glare was Gwen's only response for a moment before she threw up her hands in exasperation. "Fahne! But if'n 'e eats me mahce 'e goes in a pie!"

That, of course, is between you, him, and the DIA. Good day. And with that the Marquis turned back to its work.

Gwen turned on her heel and left. She didn't have time to argue; there was coffeine to brew, tables to clear, dinner to prepare, and she'd left some brownies in the oven . . .


After a while the Marquis looked up. You're still here?

The cat stretched, replying, "I am to work in the kitchens with an overgrown bird? Surely I can be posted with another cook?"

There was a pause.

"There are other cooks, aren't there?"

The Marquis shuffled papers before finally . . . Anything is possible.

M'rrahr stood and swished his tail before jumping off the desk and leaving.

Behind him the door closed and disappeared into the wall.


Other cooks must exist—of this Gwen was sure. For one thing, half the foods offered she didn't know how to cook, never mind the distinct lack of time to prepare them. And yet there they sat beside the food she had cooked.

And yet she had never seen another cook. Ever. There were no real signs that they existed within the humongous kitchens themselves, either.

Ah, finally. The cafeteria. And look, someone had knocked over a table again, and that crowd around the coffee machine was beginning to resemble a mob . . .

Quickly she crossed to the knot of agents, righting the table and cleaning up some of the mess on the way. Once there she pushed her way through the crowd, grabbed a large jug from a cabinet, tossed a can of instant coffee at the mob in hopes of buying time, then refilled the machine with record timing, calmly ducking the empty coffee container as it was thrown back at head level. That done, she exited through the kitchen door, narrowly avoiding the rush of coffee-addicted monst- . . . agents.

A glance at the timer informed her that she had enough time to start preparing the chicken before the brownies were done. Grabbing one clucking bird by the neck and pulling it from the coop, she got down to work.
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