multiversallogs | ( your heart bleeds like mine )

Integra has been aware of Mr Benjamin's body guard for some time, and though his identity hasn't particularly concerned her, she was amenable to the suggestion of him becoming employed at Hellsing. It would look good, for the both of them - politician and organization alike - to share more links. She knows little about Mr Lannister, but in passing she's wondered if his home was a place like Boromir's. (She knows she lucked out with that one; how many medieval soldiers would respect her at once as a leader?) Their appointment is soon, but Integra is still sitting on the sill of her open office window, smoking a cigarette and watching the view. It's not often she's in here during the day.

He'd arrived on horseback at approximately the right time he'd promised -- appointments measured into hours, nay, minutes, seems a strangely pedantic quirk of this time, but Jack's schedule was something of a trial by fire in this way, and so no longer an unfamiliarity. Jaime wears the make of his home world with a certain kind of stubbornness unless he's cornered via social terrorism into wearing a suit, and today is not such a day -- dark brown leather with visible stitching flaps as far as his knees in an open coat, scratched and roughed from good use.

Armed with knife and sword both, these things worn plainly and heavily, his former wealth is not readily apparent, but his bearing of a knight is in his stride, the set of his shoulders, his own kind of militant precision.

He is, also, a little cynical of this endeavour, for reasons he had not explicitly made clear to Jack. But here Jaime is all the same, to hear what the lady might have to say in her measure of the arrangement, and he raps the backs of his knuckles against the frame of her door to signal his arrival once he's directed through headquarters.

Integra puts out her cigarette but leaves the widow open, and ties her long hair back before she goes to answer the door. When she does it's - well, as she ever is, formally dressed (black dress shirt, vest, red tie, black dress pants, black gloves with runes on the backs of them), tall, pale hair and darker skin, offset with blue eyes behind glasses. Plenty of people think she looks strange, not quite pretty but maybe striking, in her height and the strength in her shoulders.

"Mr Lannister, please come in."

Sir Hellsing's office is decent sized, old-fashioned, and carries the worn-in feel of someone who genuinely uses it to work in, versus merely keeping it for show. It's tidy at the moment, but there are papers and books and reports hovering on the edges, waiting. She motions for him to take a seat on the other side of her desk. "I understand that Mr Benjamin is keen on this arrangement, but I've heard little of your opinion."

Straight to business it is, then.

Edited (i accidentally a word) 2012-09-09 09:36 (UTC)

Jaime nudges the door some of the way behind him, unseeing because he's watching her instead -- not that this is necessarily their first encounter, but certainly one with more direct conversation involved. He meanders his way after her, never really in a rush. "Ser Jaime, if you favour formality," is a mild enough correction, and one he's made one hundred times.

He drags the offered chair out but also out of the way, standing instead before her almost out of instinct.

"My opinion is mere curiousity, my lady. There are few positions I know about in Baedal that require my particular set of skills."

Edited 2012-09-09 10:03 (UTC)

"Sit down, Ser Jaime." An equally mild self-correction and order all in one - because if he's going to make her order him to sit, then that's fine, she knows plenty of soldiers, but she's not going to look up at him for an entire conversation like some bloody royal. She sits anyway, not bothering to stare at him until he complies; there's an air about this woman that says she isn't used to people not doing exactly what she tells them to do.

And then- "There are plenty of positions in Baedal for a man of the sword, if that's what you're selling, but I've noticed most of you who fall out of the sky in a suit of armor aren't willing to put the work in to adapt."

She doesn't really sound rude, just. Blunt. Polite in her old-world, stiffly educated accent, but disdaining of heading anywhere delicately.

A second ticks by before Jaime complies, setting chair back into place and sitting down, a slow adjustment of weaponry so nothing is jabbing him anywhere critical. Once down, posture and demeanour is almost casual despite the affect he gives otherwise, occupying the space granted him with assumption, not so unlike the big cat best associated with his house.

His eyebrows raise at blunt assessment, but he doesn't have argument lined up. "It's a very different world. Some of us come from great armies, or royal houses, of which Baedal lacks. Loyalties remain far afield, established by birthright."

A smile, easy, automatic. "I have had time to adjust." Or get over it.

The only thing that spares Jaime from a sidelong look and being informed that Integra arrived without her army, established titles, funding, and status and yet she adapted and rebuilt it all without anyone's help (Nuala hadn't even arrived, yet) is that she's too well-mannered to get into a pedantic exchange about it. Right now. Perhaps it wouldn't be fair to hold everyone else to the standards with which she's been raised with, but men are always full of the most fantastic excuses - she's used to it.

"Then you're doing as well as can be expected, I suppose." She pulls a file folder out of a standing organizer on her desk. "I'm sure that you have a casual idea of what we do here - we fight monsters. Hellsing is a paramilitary organization that combats the forces of darkness. Sometimes this means fighting monsters, sometimes this means unraveling curses, or investigating hauntings. What we do falls between the gaps of what local canton law enforcement aren't equipped to deal with and what the Militia has too wide a response time for. It is violent, difficult work that requires a broad skillset and the ability to learn and adapt very quickly. No two threats are the same. Here, most threats are unknown at the onset of encounter."

Fighting unspeakable horrors half-blind and without official jurisdiction except through a tolerant delegation by omission loophole. Jesus Christ.

Edited 2012-09-09 21:51 (UTC)

As well as can be expected gets a thin and crooked smile -- if Jaime were unable to survive what some may see as sly jabs or criticisms, or took offense to all of them leveled his way by man or woman alike, he'd never have survived his own household, between Cersei and Tyrion. The topic is allowed to carry on as she continues, now listing forward in his chair, elbows set against knees in a slouch forward that is customary for him, yet somehow attentive.

He doesn't seem put off. Maybe Jack was onto something.

"I feel moved," Jaime why do you always sound sarcastic even when you're not, "to be clear that I don't hail from a realm infested with monsters of the sort found in Baedal." Only the man-shaped kind. "I've met and slayed a few villains since my time here, but I've no skill with magics to speak of."

"Many of my agents are the same." She flips open the folder and selects a sheet from one of the colored tabbed sections, handing it over to him. It appears to be a list of suggested reading, and times for when the general mage tank trainer is in the back field for open calls.

"We do provide training during probationary employment. And you would, of course, be under the supervision of an experienced field agent until we're relatively sure you aren't going to be eaten alive at the first opportunity. Generally I don't permit people to be half-in on a commitment here," no, this woman doesn't seem like she appreciates anything even resembling lukewarm conviction, "but I suspect Mr Benjamin would be somewhat put out if I returned you missing a limb or ghouled. If you'd like to attend a few training sessions before you decide, you are welcome to."

Jaime hesitates, before taking the sheet, squinting at the list as she speaks and bringing up a hand to scratch his jaw. His has an aversion to heavy reading, but unlike most things that pop into his mind and somehow get spoken immediately, he keeps this complaint to himself. The time table is studied instead, and the sheet folded for later reference.

"I finish what I begin," he says, on the topic of commitment. "I'll see the training sessions, but I expect I'll agree by the end of them, unless I'm found wanting."

Reading is good for your brain, Jaime.

"Then we'll see how it goes." No one comes out of training anything less than needing minor medical attention, seeing as some of the tanks treat it like hazing - but it's still gentler than actual field work. (..Unless Alucard is out, that day.) She can imagine this man, this obviously upper-class knight, finding the hands-on aspect of work, the dirt and the research and the completely unglamorous blood, offensive. She hasn't decided yet whether or not she'll be impressed if he proves her wrong.

"We do offer certain benefits. Landlords in the area who appreciate us offer employees certain rates on housing, and Sobek Croix businesses sometimes mark down shopping for us. It is a quiet community here, isolated enough for when work keeps us to the hall. The locals appreciate the attention."

Once, this great room had been a library. Some of that aesthetic remains, of course - walls lined with books, tables covered in maps. But the sort of research that goes on at Hellsing isn't always purely academic, and the nature of the subjects that must be picked apart is sometimes less neat and tidy than a book can hold. There's a demonic-looking bat in a glass cage on one table (a sticky note taped to the outside reads 'Unidentified, don't poke. Be back after lunch'), several swords, a curiously discolored mace, a box of shotgun shells, and a pair of shoes all piled on another. A half-finished chess game was going on in the back corner. Occasionally the RR clerk sweeps through with an eagle-eyed look to make sure no one's been eating - but apparently everything else is normal.

It had started with the snails.

Or, that's what they think it started as. Maybe the things that are popping up out of the ground and multiplying via division aren't related to snails. Maybe they're just ... okay no, there's no logical explanation for two-meter tall sentient technicolor jelly monsters that reek of blood and are intent on attacking the guild hall via their spawning point at the edge of the grounds. But they're sort of slug-like, so that's the thought.

If only they responded to salt as well - wait, no, that isn't how that line should go.

"WHY ISN'T SALT WORKING?!" Shrieks one new bottom-rung agent, running backwards towards the doors. (That's more like it.)

This totally counts as a crisis in need of management, right? Jurisdiction, it is being assumed.

"I don't think there's enough salt in the--oh," never mind, the guy Jim was trying to talk to has given up on the backwards running to turn and flat-out sprint for the door. Meanwhile the whatever-they-ares are continuing to divide and multiply.

"I wonder if there's enough beer to drown you guys. Do you guys drown in beer? Otherwise I'm going back inside for a weapon."

"Do this," Rodolphus suggests, all dead calm politeness as he joins Jim. It's likely he means going for a weapon and not drowning them in beer, though in fact he would not object to the latter. Making a curt gesture with his wand results in a blast that does make a visible impact and shove the nearest flan-creature back, but does not otherwise seem to dismay them. He tries petrifying them instead, which he considers juvenile but it's not like he's out to win the respect of flan-creatures.

"Lots of weapons," Hellboy says as he reaches behind him and draws Excalibur. "We'll keep 'em busy while you get them. And get that guy back here, while you're at it, he's gotta earn his pay like the rest of us."

With that, he takes a few steps towards the nearest monster, then closes the rest of the distance with a leap that allows him to bring his sword point-down through the slimy thing's head and body. That doesn't kill it, but from the sound it makes and the way it thrashes a pseudopod at its attacker, it did not like it.

It manages to be more direct in expressing its displeasure with its next attack, as ribbons of some sort of black light stream out and pass through Hellboy. He screams, "Son of a--" and is thrown off the monster, although he manages to take his sword with him.

Jim rushes back inside, grabbing the new recruit on his way to the armory. They return, laden with various projectile weapons; the newbie is carrying most of them in his arms while Jim guides him back out to the battlefield.

(Where by "guides" the narration really means "is hauling by the scruff of his neck/back of his shirt and just daring the dude to make another break for it".)

They get back outside just in time to see Hellboy take a run at one of the things, and be flung away. He mutters an oath under his breath, letting go of the guy he was dragging to draw a handgun. He fires several rounds as he advances on the creature.

...And is promptly knocked back on his ass for his efforts.

...Fifteen feet from where he took the hit.

It is never a good sign when two more experienced and competent coworkers are violently thrown back. Rodolphus retreats hastily, though not so far as to actually leave the area, and considers his options. Combat just isn't his strength, and they seem to be immune to petrification.

"Help him up," He instructs the guy Jim dragged back, since providing some direction will probably help the guy's nerves. One of the creatures fires some black light at him, and he snaps up some kind of shield that bounces the light right back. It does not have the same effect on that one as it did on Hellboy. If anything, it seems more aggressive once it's absorbed the darkness.

Whoops.

Hellboy picks himself up just as Rodolphus reflects the dark attack. When the creature just gets bigger when hit with its own attack, Hellboy looks over at Rodolphus and wearily asks, "Really?!"

With a glance and a sigh down at the bloody rip that the pseudopod attack had inflicted on his coat, he quickly shrugs out of it and his scabbard, tossing them both in a bundle back behind them, toward the tobacco field. The monster that he'd fought with tries its dark magic attack again, but he's ready for it this time, and barrels through it, sucking up the pain. Excalibur flashes in a great golden arc as he cleaves through the blood creature in a two-handed swing, and it howls and dissolves.

...Well, that's one down. It's a start, right?

"Really?" Jim echoes, now on his feet, the new recruit scurrying up behind him as he rejoins Rodolphus. Shooting it with a handgun didn't seem to get them anywhere, nor did boomeranging the creatures' black magic back at them. So far their only brief triumph has come from... cleaving one straight through. With a sword.

Jim suddenly misses his helmsman.

There's no time to longer over that thought. They're being advanced upon. Jim takes up a shotgun from the pile of weapons the new guy dropped in his efforts to get Jim back into the fray; he raises it with a terse demand for more shells, and the new guy nods, digging into his jacket pockets.

Jim blasts the nearest creature, once, twice. It slows down, slightly, giving him time to reload. But it's not stopped, far from it.

"If anyone's got a solid plan B, now's a good time," he calls out, grim.

Rodolphus doesn't bother to make some kind of apologetic or conciliatory gesture. Everyone's busy. He'll buy Hellboy a drink later. (The least cordial, most expressionless drink.)

While he's not sure of the specific properties of Hellboy's sword that make it effective against the blobs, Rodolphus considers it a sign that magic is not totally out. A sword like that has pretty much got to be magic in some respect. So he can still provide support in some capacity, even if it turns out he can't in anything else. He makes a brisk gesture with his wand, knocking two entire rows of them back with magical force. They tumble over each other blobbily. Strangely, many of them seem to be shying away from the tanks.

The problem with swinging a sword two-handed like it was a Louisville Slugger, as effective and impressive looking as that may be, is that it leaves your back at risk for a few moments while you recover from the follow-through. The one blob whose reflected attack had strengthened it takes the opportunity presented to make its own lunge, knocking Hellboy down from behind.

"Crap!" Hellboy exclaims. He quickly rolls onto his back, and barely gets Excalibur's point up in time to intercept the creature's attempt to capitalize on its success by stomping on him. The pain of having effectively thrown itself onto the sword causes the blob to howl and stops its attack short.

That's all the distraction Hellboy needs, allowing him to get out from under the monster and to his feet. "Well," he says, keeping the blob pinned in place with his sword, "that magic it was using seemed pretty dark to me. What's the opposite of that stuff?" He clenches his right hand into a hammer of stone, and punches the blob back off his sword and a few feet further besides.

"BOOM!"

Jim, meanwhile, has been trying to provide cover.

And wrangle the new recruit.

"Cover fire!" he barks back at the younger man (and that's saying something, have you seen this captain who doesn't look old enough to have a ship), who stands there entirely frozen, staring up at the blobby creatures.

"Seriously. You start providing some cover fire, or my next projectile is you. We clear?"

...He wouldn't, not really.

...Probably.

But the new guy doesn't need to know that, right? Especially not when it's enough to snap him out of his panic. He drops the entire armload of weapons, blinks down at them a minute, and then he grabs a shotgun and starts blasting some of the creatures.

"Now we're getting somewhere," he mutters, turning back to the fray in time to hear Hellboy's question and see that pretty fucking amazing punch landed.

"Uh," he calls out, his tone and face clearly conveying hold on, hold on, I've got this, I know this one, "...light... magic, or good magic, white magic, whatever the hell you all call it where you're from. We got any of that between the three of us?"

What the fuck, work. What were those things out back? Why are people coming back from the dead? Do we have zombies now? Is that Winchester guy a zombie? Do zombies need paychecks? Well, vampires get paychecks, so probably.

It would probably be prudent to spread out where everyone gossips and bitches after work nearly every night, but the discounts can't be argued with and the habit is already ingrained.

Hey! Look at that. If anyone wants to know if that Winchester guy is a zombie, they can ask him themselv, as he's just come through the door.

All the hubbub in the place stops for a moment as he steps in. Nice. Sigh.

Dean heads to the bar, where the bartender visibly blanches for a moment. He guesses this dude hadn't heard the news. And he guesses this dude knew him, this is taking some getting used to, being recognized by people he's never seen before in his life.

He gets a beer, he gets a table, right in the center of the seating area. Might as well be easy to find, in case people have questions or congratulations or want to talk to him.

Edited (lol what is the english language sometimes lisa) 2012-09-09 04:43 (UTC)

Steve comes through the front door of the guild hall, bearing his shield. But not in the way he usually does; this time he has it cradled in his arms, in front of him, like a basket. A tiny hubbub of peep-peep-peep sounds announces its cargo: there are half a dozen ducklings hitching a ride.

He goes up to the girl manning the front desk today, polite as can be. "Excuse me, I'm so sorry to bother you, but who's on duty today that can help me wrangle some magical creatures?"

Welp.

( your heart bleeds like mine )

● for Jaime Lannister

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● the Research Room

● the Back 40

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● the Ankh

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Reporting in from a field assignment