Chapter Text
Location: Washington D.C
OWCA National Division
Secret Lab, Restricted Access
General Gerund stood ramrod straight with his hands behind his back, silently defying the showy security measures his head scientist had set up to kill flies and mangle unsuspecting assistants before they disturbed him in his lab.
A black silhouette was posted to the wall in front of him, its arms held up in the universal I surrender to demonstrate how most people looking to gain entry should position themselves in the hope of being deemed worthy to glimpse Dr. Moreau at work.
However, Gerund was not most people.
He did not accept excuses or negotiation. Compromise was also out of the question.
And surrender was the worst offense at all.
Give an inch and evil would take a mile, a country, a continent, and eventually the whole world.
So Gerund waited impatiently on the designated area as a green laser grid scanned his body, a row of machine guns pointing at him from a panel in the ceiling, primed to fire should the motion detectors sense that he stepped off the platform before the all-clear signal.
How he hated working with Moreau.
That man seemed to think himself the head of OWCA, when he merely headed the science and defense division. Though his brilliant mind made many valuable contributions to their operations, sometimes Gerund wanted to personally throw Moreau into maximum security prison and never let him see the light of day again.
But here he was, with a printout of Moreau’s hastily written email in his lapel in case the mad doctor forgot he sent it, waiting for permission like he was nothing more than a damn private to be ordered around.
A grating buzz from a loudspeaker rang above him, the guns retreating into the ceiling panel as the laser grid fizzled out.
ALL CLEAR. PROCEED TO SECRET LAB. DO NOT BRING OTHER LIVING ORGANISMS WITHOUT DR. MOREAU’S EXPRESS PERMISSION.
Gerund rolled his eyes as he marched to the heavy, reinforced elevator doors, brushing away the stubborn specks of dirt clinging to the medals pinned to his chest. As long as they didn’t look too closely, no one would see the imperfections. But if one keen-eyed person noticed, they’d draw attention to it, then there would be ten, a hundred, and an entire nation mocking his authority.
And then what? Nothing but chaos, anarchy, and rebellion would follow! Nobody would ever listen to him again!
He would never tolerate imperfection on his uniform–the military green fabric crisp, the five stars across his shoulder polished, his medals aligned, just as he didn’t tolerate failure in everyone under his command.
Though he pushed the button, the elevator doors didn’t open right away. He listened to the machinery grind and groan along its chain–when was the last time Moreau oiled the transport he’d personally built?
Gerund stood a fair distance back as he waited–Moreau was never one to observe basic safety standards and standing too close could easily result in horrific injury or death.
Finally, the grinding came to a halt.
The elevator doors opened, and an unsightly creature stepped–or more accurately, hopped over the threshold.
Its upper half was that of a man–Moreau’s latest assistant, Gerund realized. The torn remnants of a white lab coat clung to his severely stooped back, the bony protrusions of his spine visible against his skin in several places.
And from the lower half, the assistant had a kangaroo’s legs, feet, and long, furry tail stretching out several feet behind him.
One human-sized arm dangled in the air, knuckles scraping the ground in a primal stance. The other arm was half the length it should’ve been, the hand tipped with tiny, useless claws.
"Wash away the horror,” the assistant garbled to himself, eyes blankly staring at nothing as he fled from Moreau’s lab. “Wash away the horror.”
He failed to acknowledge Gerund’s presence, but forcing him to return and salute would just be a waste of time.
Putting the assistant out of mind, Gerund walked into the empty elevator, which offered him no time to acclimate before beginning its descent. He savored the last moments of sanity he had left before he was forced to deal with Moreau’s…eccentricities.
The madman had built his lab underground–so deep into the earth that it was a miracle the magma within Earth’s core hadn’t removed him from existence yet.
Though every passing second brought Gerund closer to hell, he smoothed out the collar of his jacket and got rid of every crease in his uniform he could find.
After all, he was a professional.
As soon as the doors opened, a beaker full of chemicals shattered against the elevator frame, and it took all of Gerund’s willpower to not court martial Moreau on the spot for attacking a superior officer.
“No, no, no! My formula was a dud! A waste! A failure of science! I can’t turn such an imperfect specimen over to the Board now!”
Moreau raved to himself with sounds that barely resembled any language spoken in the modern world. He carelessly swept a row of test tubes into the trash, and Gerund pressed his mouth into a thin line at the thought of Moreau asking for more supplies and funding when he was already so careless with what OWCA allotted to him.
The lab was a mess. There was an overturned desk by one wall, unorganized papers scattered across the floor, and exposed wires sparking dangerously along the electrical outlets. Gerund avoided the foul-smelling pile of vomit on the floor, which was next to a pile of discarded syringes, a sickly yellow liquid still dripping from one needle.
In the center of the room, the operation table’s metal restraints were broken, and streaks of dried blood stained the white surface. Small tufts of human and animal hair were scattered on the floor.
The lighting was dim save for the eerie blue glow of a large computer screen, which had a large crack across the middle. Despite the damage, the screen still displayed a series of graphs to track vital signs, all frozen at zero since there was no subject to monitor.
“Disgusting.” Gerund coldly said to Moreau, who whipped around and glared at his superior without bothering to show an ounce of decorum. “Even our pig agents keep their pens cleaner than this.”
Moreau stormed up to Gerund, irately shaking a finger as his eyes nearly bulged right out of his head. He’d clearly been too caught up in his experiments to perform basic hygiene, and his pale, stringy hair was greasy and uncombed.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Moreau snarled, a small drop of spittle flying onto Gerund’s face. “I need more time on the man-a-roo experiment! My assistant’s upper half failed to transform as thoroughly as I would’ve liked, and I cannot present such inadequate results before the Board! I must perfect the formula at once, and I cannot do that until you give me more resources!”
Gerund wiped the droplet off with his sleeve as he glared down at Moreau. Without breaking eye contact, he removed the printout of the email from his lapel and shoved it into the mad geneticist’s face.
Though Gerund entertained the fantasy of shoving the paper down Moreau’s throat so he’d literally choke on his words, the other OWCA leaders would never allow him to be killed since he was the one who first bred successful genetically modified animals to serve as agents. They were stronger, more resilient, and followed orders better than the rest of their brethren.
His twisted mind was unfortunately too valuable an asset to lose.
“I’ve read your demands,” Gerund said. “But you waste money, blow up all the equipment we give you, and drive every assistant you’re given to madness. I can’t waste more of OWCA’s budget on your…experiments, unless one of your creations turns out to be useful to the organization.”
Moreau snatched the paper out of Gerund’s hand, shredding it into pieces and adding to the absolute sty that served as his lab.
“Mock and laugh all you want, General!” Moreau growled, much like the feral animals he’d raised to behave as civilized humans. “My assistant was just the prototype man-a-roo, but mark my words…oh yes, you better mark my words, we’ll lose the entire country of Austria to evil man-eating horses if we don’t introduce a new species to counteract their threat!”
“The European branch told us they were handling it and they didn’t want American interference–”
Moreau ripped out strands of hair from the side of his head, which was already on the verge of going bald.
“Didn’t you read the report of what transpired last week?” he demanded. “One of those horses passed their insatiable appetite for flesh onto Agent Seven through a nasty bite, and then he tried to devour Agent Nine! They still haven’t snapped Agent Six out of catatonia after witnessing that!”
Gerund reviewed the reports the day they were sent, and the insinuation that he wasn’t up-to-date on OWCA’s international affairs irritated him. But what did Moreau expect him to do about it? The European OWCA leaders were infamously strict about jurisdiction. They’d never accept backup even when he offered it.
“I did.” Gerund waved Moreau’s rancid breath away from his face. “But they’ve made their positions clear. And I don’t blame them for not wanting another species of abominations running loose on their continent.”
“My man-a-roos will not be abominations!” Moreau snapped. “They are to be pinnacles of science! Miracles! My grandest achievement yet! Which is why I summoned you here, General! So hand over those funds! And a male member of genus homo sapiens, preferably those from age thirty-five to fifty in the mid-life crisis stage of development to serve as my next assistant.”
Forgoing his professionalism once the sheer scale of this fool’s insolence smacked him in the face, Gerund snatched Moreau up by the collar of his stained lab coat and hoisted him an inch off the ground. Moreau choked, his words garbled as he pleaded for release.
“I am not a sadistic man, Dr. Moreau,” Gerund warned, ignoring how Moreau’s fingers frantically scrabbled at his own. “I only condone violence when there’s a valuable lesson to be learned. So allow me to make one thing very clear.”
Moreau’s eyes were practically bugging out of his skull, but Gerund didn’t let up on the pressure.
“I will not authorize more funding for your nonsensical projects unless you show me something worth investing in,” Gerund declared.
He released Moreau from his hold, the madman unceremoniously falling to the ground.
Then Gerund turned on his heel and departed from the lab, his patience pushed to the absolute limit at having his valuable time wasted.
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Let go of my hand, you wretched rat!”
Moreau’s outraged screams reached no one’s ears, save for a single ill-tempered lab rat who literally bit the hand that fed it. His fingers throbbed and bled from tiny teeth marks. Ratty the Rat nosed through her pellets while watching Moreau through the bars of its cage. She was way too smug for her own good, and biting Moreau must’ve been her idea of punishment for the unplanned late feeding session.
“Don’t give me that look!” Moreau yelled, slamming his hand against the cage bars. Ratty squeaked in alarm as her pellets flew out of her tiny bowl. “Blame the General for visiting unannounced! I couldn’t feed you with him skulking around!”
His head thumped against the table as he stewed bitterly over Gerund’s refusal.
Didn’t Gerund realize who he was speaking with?
Dr. Gene Moreau, the genius founder of OWCA’s selective breeding and gene experimentation program! The first scientist to successfully breed viable genetically enhanced animals so OWCA no longer had to spend millions on manufacturing flimsy lies to explain away the disappearances of human field agents who were killed in action!
Clearly OWCA had relaxed its standards over the last few decades, because a moron like Gerund never would’ve been made general in Moreau’s day!
Standing up with such force that his chair tipped over backwards, Gerund stormed over to his workstation and shredded his man-a-roo plans into pieces so small that they weren’t even useful for catching Ratty’s waste.
His assistant had been far too neurotic to be helpful in Moreau’s lab. Always asking about frivolous things like sterilizing lab equipment between experiments and having enough gloves to prevent dangerous chemicals from seeping through the pores of his skin.
So Moreau had tried to make him more useful. Transform the assistant’s physical body into something that would benefit OWCA.
Outfit him with genes that possessed the necessary traits to survive one of the harshest environments on Earth for long field missions into isolated areas cut off from civilization. Equip him with large feet and claws to improve strength and combat performance.
And most importantly, the ability to reason and make decisions as a man while his kangaroo genes made up for the deficits of the frail human body.
The serum should’ve been perfect! The resulting man-a-roo should’ve been able to handle Austria’s man-eating horse problem without using up OWCA reserves!
Except that he failed to account for his assistant’s various, irritating neuroses, which resulted in an anxiety-riddled half-man, half-kangaroo hybrid that was probably being wrangled by agents now so it wouldn’t wreak havoc on the streets of the nation’s capital.
If the wrong congressman saw it, they’d see it as an excuse to slash OWCA’s budget again, and Gerund would blame it all on Moreau.
He loathed to admit it, but Gerund was right about one thing.
The man-a-roo wouldn’t have any long term benefits for OWCA. The project had been doomed to fail from the start, yet another blot on his record that was sadly growing more irrelevant by the day.
No one ever remembered that he’d made waves in the scientific world! He’d revolutionized genetics! His creations successfully defended entire nations from the forces of evil! His discoveries used to be the talk of military institutions throughout the globe, but now he, the great Dr. Gene Moreau, had been reduced to slaving away in his underground lab, trying to recreate his glory days with dwindling resources and no respect.
It was a pathetic existence.
“My man-a-roo may’ve been flawed, but now I know that I require someone with the mental acuity needed to follow orders,” Moreau muttered as he paced in front of Ratty’s cage. Ratty’s beady eyes tracked his movement, but she was otherwise devoid of any real understanding. He always felt so foolish, talking to a rat like they were helpful beyond being convenient to inject chemicals into. “Someone who combines the higher intelligence of man with the physical capabilities of the animal kingdom. Someone who will finally help OWCA get rid of all the evil in this world.”
Humans and their annoying tendency to demand freedom and independence made them a far less effective blueprint for gene splicing than Moreau would’ve liked.
Animals on the other hand…
Moreau’s hands scrubbed through his hair (man, when was the last time he bothered to use shampoo?) as the beginning of a new plan came together in his head.
He didn’t need to splice the human body when he could just find a suitable candidate among active animal field agents.
Wasting time on discipline wouldn’t be necessary. That trait had long been instilled into them.
That animal would become the ultimate secret agent, obedient to every command. They would be fully committed to OWCA, and every mission would be a success.
Their body would be repurposed for combat, their mind focused on the mission without pesky emotions clouding their judgment.
They would be the key to securing safety and prosperity for the whole world.
It was a plan worthy of General Gerund’s attention. Once he saw the finished product, he’d have no choice but to increase funding for Moreau’s future projects!
Now only one question remained.
Which field agent to bestow this honor upon?
Moreau mulled over the question as he made himself a mug of strong-smelling coffee (unfortunately, he had to make it himself for the time being now that he was down an assistant) and sat down at his computer.
Logging into OWCA’s database of potential candidates, Moreau sipped his coffee as he scrolled through the agents’ profiles in alphabetical order.
Sadly, the data didn’t look promising.
Arthur the Aardvark was too young. Jeremiah the Bullfrog had vehemently refused to change his name to an alliteration to be more easily identifiable to his superiors. Chester the Cheetah’s ego had been out of control ever since he started moonlighting as a popular children’s mascot of a corn chip company in his off-duty hours.
Moreau’s fingers tapped against his desk impatiently. So many profiles to sift through, so many candidates to disqualify.
Once again, it was a miracle that OWCA was still operating if they believed this quality was remotely acceptable.
The first batch of gene-spliced agents had been significantly more imposing and disciplined. They performed their duties exceptionally well, and without any of this current day whining about worker’s compensation or paid vacation time.
The clock ticked on.
Day turned to night, and Moreau kept himself awake through raw determination now that he’d used up every last ounce of caffeine in his lab.
His eyes were hurting, his hand was probably in the early stage of carpal tunnel syndrome judging from how he’d lost all feeling in it, and he was still no closer to finding his perfect candidate.
Just when Moreau got ready to quit for the next few hours and resume his search after he swiped those delicious imported Columbian coffee beans from Gerund’s office and a few hours of sleep, his computer screen started to beep, an alert flashing on the screen.
In OWCA, everyone was on-duty all the time. No call could be ignored in case it was an important message regarding an evil threat.
He pushed a button on his keyboard, accepting the call since there was no point in trying to pretend he wasn’t here.
A stern-looking woman appeared onscreen, her hair pinned up in a tight bun. She straightened a ‘U’-shaped pin on her uniform as she scoffed at Moreau’s ragged appearance.
“Commander Umlaut,” Moreau said with a salute that wasn’t up to par with the woman’s infamously high standards. “How nice of you to call at 3:12 in the morning. To what do I owe the privilege of speaking with you?”
As always, Commander Umlaut skipped right past the small talk.
“I am calling to inform you that the European Organization Without a Cool Acronym is no longer in need of your half-man, half-beast hybrid to counteract the man-eating horses, Dr. Moreau,” Commander Umlaut declared. “They have been rounded up and the culprit responsible for their stampede of terror is in our custody.”
Moreau rubbed his neck, wishing that she’d at least indulge in some idle chit-chat before getting on with business. It would’ve bought him a little more time to figure out how to explain that the man-a-roo escaped his lab in a way that wouldn’t make him seem like an incompetent buffoon in Umlaut’s eyes.
He supposed he could blame it on Gerund, but Umlaut had called with a sort of desperation a few days ago–well, as desperate as an emotionless woman like her could be.
He’d learned just how dire their situation was when every agent except one had been grievously injured by the horses. The only field agent left had farmhand experience from his teenage years, but he was still new to the agency so Umlaut had held off on sending him out until she could find reliable backup.
She wasn’t shy about how much she hated asking Americans for any favors.
But if she didn’t want the hybrid she’d ordered anymore, then she must’ve found reinforcements elsewhere.
Though he was irritated at Umlaut for not communicating that before, he was curious about who she’d used instead of his man-a-roo.
“Yes, well, my creation was unfortunately sabotaged by a jealous colleague, and the resulting damage rendered it too unstable to send into combat,” Moreau said, and he swallowed his rising indignation as Umlaut rolled her eyes. Even though she’d asked for help, she didn’t truly respect his genius mind. “But do tell me for curiosity’s sake, Commander. Since you say you don’t need it anymore, how did you resolve your little problem?”
Moreau raised an eyebrow as Umlaut unexpectedly let out a schoolgirl-like giggle while twisting a loose curl of her hair with her finger. Then she looked off to the side with a stupid, dreamy grin on her face.
Just perfect. She's swooning.
“Ahem,” Moreau coughed into his hand so she didn’t start going off into random non-sequiturs from weird fantasies that he wasn’t privy to.
Umlaut’s eyes widened as she snapped out of her trance.
“Oh…my apologies, Dr. Moreau,” she said, though she couldn’t quite recover the last remains of her dignity. “I didn’t want to rely on your hybrid without a backup plan, so I sent an emergency alert to Major Monogram’s division in the Tri-State Area. I heard he had one of the most skilled agents in OWCA history under his command. And by Jove was he skilled! Not to mention short, teal, and mysterious…”
“Who?” Moreau demanded as he pulled up a database of the agents in Major Monogram’s division. Because of the dense population of evil scientists in the Tri-State Area, it naturally called for a large agent presence too. The national headquarters in D.C paled in comparison.
Umlaut’s shoulders swayed from side to side.
“His codename is Agent P. But you can also call him Perry the Platypus…oh, I hope he added me to his contacts list! I gave him my number after he rounded up those nasty horses for me,” Umlaut sighed dreamily. “For professional purposes of course. Not that I would mind seeing his secret lair…”
With one hand over her forehead, she staggered back and fainted, leaving nothing but a background of the Alps for the camera to film.
Moreau wrinkled his nose in disgust and closed the call without a professional sign-off.
Commander Umlaut didn’t deserve an ounce of respect after that ridiculous display.
A human padding after a platypus?
Disgusting.
But still, one puny platypus managed to defeat the evil man-eating horses? It was something worth looking into.
Now that his search was narrowed down to one specific mammal in Major Monogram’s division, the haze that had settled in Moreau’s mind cleared away. With renewed clarity, he carefully read over the information available on Agent P’s profile.
Top graduate of his training class.
Master of the platy-jitsu martial art form.
Success-to-failure ratio blowing the rest of the Tri-State Area division along with many international agents out of the water.
Expert swimmer, hovercraft operator, and poker player.
Unmatched loyalty and determination to complete assigned missions.
Moreau couldn’t believe his eyes. Agent P had the most promising potential of any agent by far!
Once again, he lost track of time as he reviewed the videos of Agent P in action.
The platypus was clearly skilled in combat, hitting much harder than Moreau expected for a mammal of its size, but he was baffled that the majority of footage involved Agent P beating up the same incompetent evil scientist with an impossible to pronounce name over and over again.
Agent P’s profile also failed to mention that he kept getting caught in obvious traps that a blind and deaf monkey could’ve avoided with ease.
But the most baffling part of all was that Agent P would actually accept food and drink from the evil scientist, remind him of important events like when he needed to pay the rent, and in one rather bizarre instance, helped set up a birthday party for the evil scientist’s teenage daughter.
“What in blazes are you doing?” Moreau roared as Agent P moped around his lair for a while just because the evil scientist decided he wanted to fight a panda instead of him. From her cage, Ratty let out a startled squeak and burrowed herself in the shredded newspaper lining her cage. “He froze your superior officer!”
And yet, Major Monogram never punished Agent P for hanging up his hat in the middle of a crisis!
He only ever seemed to sing Agent P’s praises (quite literally according to some videos), even when the platypus regularly violated OWCA regulations through his nemesis assignment alone! There was no denying that he was skilled, but it was so obvious that Agent P’s nemesis was slowly corrupting him, encouraging him to break rules that no one dared to break and using Monogram’s favoritism to get away with it!
It was a setback, but it could certainly be corrected if only Agent P was forbidden contact from such a terrible influence.
The gullible host family in Agent P’s undercover identity were hardly any better. Host families handled food, shelter, and veterinary care for non-work related injuries and health conditions so the agency didn’t have to waste money on them. And while Agent P’s most basic necessities were met at the Flynn-Fletcher household, they’d completely robbed him of all dignity.
Since Agent P couldn’t properly defend himself in his cover as a mindless platypus who did nothing but eat, sleep, and use the litterbox, he was mercilessly subjected to the family’s whims.
The father would sit on the couch with his crossword puzzles and a napping Agent P in his lap, constantly asking for his help on clues he had problems with. Why not consult someone who could actually talk back, or look up the answers on the Internet!
One of the kitchen cameras recorded the mother baking special platypus-friendly cookies with bug larvae in place of chocolate chips, and Moreau almost puked up his coffee when the footage also caught a boy with a skull graphic T-shirt trying one and asking for the recipe so he could make some for himself.
The teenager acted like it was beneath her to even share the house with Agent P, but she was rather militant about the brand of pet shampoo her mom bought. Apparently there was only one brand that was both effective on his undercoat and didn’t leave an annoying damp pet smell behind.
And worst of all, the two youngest boys had brainwashed Agent P into thinking he was an actual member of the family when he should’ve been nothing more than a temporary guest. More than once, the cameras caught Agent P’s mindless persona failing around the boys, and it took several seconds before Agent P remembered to keep his face blank. The boys were none the wiser, but any slip-up no matter how brief could’ve exposed OWCA!
Poor Agent P had to endure being treated like a stuffed animal, dressing up in stupid outfits, and the entire family’s disturbing tendency to break into song at the drop of a hat.
That settled it. The Tri-State Area was no place for one of OWCA’s most acclaimed agents.
There was potential brimming beneath the surface–a potential that went unharnessed because everyone in Agent P’s life was ignorant to his true nature.
But Moreau knew better. He was the only one who knew the truth about Agent P.
And he was the only one who could break through the brainwashing of Agent P’s mind. Only then would Agent P become OWCA’s best asset to rid the world of evil.
Moreau ignored the loud creak of his back as he finally stood up from his computer, the addresses of Agent P’s usual haunts downloaded into his watch.
“Shut down all but the main powerframe,” Moreau instructed his lab, and the lights from every machine faded, save for the main computer which continued to run scans for further details on the Tri-State Area.
Then he grabbed a bag of Ratty’s food pellets and dumped two days’ worth of food into her cage.
Ratty squeaked, her nose and whiskers twitching as she stirred at the sound of food from her newspaper burrow.
“Stupid rat,” Moreau said, watching in disgust as Ratty practically inhaled three pellets within a ten second span. “Pace yourself or you’ll starve.”
It made no difference to him if he returned to a corpse in a cage. He’d just replace her with another rodent who failed basic training. OWCA had plenty of them.
Yet no rodent could ever hope to measure up to Agent P. Once Moreau brought him to headquarters, he’d be the talk of the entire base! Then Gerund would have to admit that he was right all along!
But first, he’d have to figure out how to get Agent P away from everyone’s prying eyes.
It was time to pay the Tri-State Area a visit.