Disclaimer: This thrilling tale of the exploits of the TCDA was penned by Huinesoron - my good self - in May 2012, and is here archived with nary an alteration or edit.


The great brass pistons hissed with escaping steam, and the heavy riveted form of the door slid upwards to reveal the office beyond. Behind a fine mahogany desk stood a device of the most marvellous intricacy: a well-wrought tree of brass and leather, with leaves of pure gold leaf. Were one not a fully-authorised Constable of the Department of Locational Continuity Preservation (colloquially referred to as the Phlostigon Department, due to their conviction that every problem can best be solved by the explosive liberation of said element from one's target), one might be tempted to call it a work of art. It was not.

At the heart of the tangled branches, a burst of steam was expelled, and the fronds started to move. The coppery glow of the etheric transduction mechanism flared into existence, the trunk sparked with magneto-electanic force, and a voice spoke from some undefined source.

Ah, my Constables. Pray, enter, and be seated. Let not your overwhelming incompetence force us to abandon common politeness.

Constables Davillo and Serenity entered cautiously, flinching as the grand entrance sealed itself behind them. They took their seats in silence, aware of their transnaturally animated superior's gaze.

Excellent. Would you care for tea? I believe Doctor Creator d'Article has repaired the Magnetonic Pressure Oven, so there should be no further 'incidents'. No? A pity. Now then. Constable Davillo.

The former member of Oberon's court (original name Butterfly; he changed it himself) shifted uncomfortably. "The, ah, incident-"

You refer to your combustion of the entire population of the ethereal realm in the collected works of the Great Dickens?

"... I do."

According to Doctor D'Article, what you have succeeded in doing is fundamentally impossible. It defies all the laws governing ethereal beings, not to mention magneto-electanics.

"With your permission, Sir Mallon, it can hardly be impossible," Constable Serenity (vampire of the Old School, Countess of Transprussia, at least in her own world) spoke up. "He has, after all, achieved it." She ran a finger over the black leather of her corset. "Almost sent me to my grave again, indeed."

And we will come to that at a later time, the brass Sir Mallon promised. Constable Davillo, you are a severe danger to all those around you. The Transfictional Canonical Defence Agency would, I daresay, be better off with you cast out. However, it raised a branch to quell Davillo's protest, the Portentuous Council of Transnatural Directors has taken your unnatural efficiency into full account, and we have decided to continue your employment - with, of course, a suitable docking in pay. It paused for a moment. Alternately, you may transfer to the Department of Internal Structure and Services. You know the furnaces always need stoking. I leave the final decision to you.