multiversallogs | drifting away, i'm one with the sunsets

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drifting away, i'm one with the sunsets

Who: Integra Hellsing with Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, and Mabel Albans respectively.
What: Job interviews!
Where: Hellsing Guild Hall.
When: This afternoon and the next morning.
Notes: Different threads! Go nuts. Also YES MABEL GOT ADDED IN HERE because stuff would have happened about on the same day and... we're lazy about making new log posts.
Warnings: Does Jack need a warning label?

Perhaps it's for the best that they won't be coming together - the questions Integra has for Jack are strikingly different than for Ianto, after a point. I's strange to think that she'll have no history with Ianto, but they were never particularly close; perhaps it's only strange that Owen isn't alongside him. But that's not something she has time to reflect upon in anything besides a strategic manner - she writes out her notes for what she needs to ask, then puts away the paper, committing everything to memory easily with the exercise.

... And then it's all paperwork and managing bumping cases as she waits. By the time Jack is scheduled to arrive, she's actually in the process of walking back up from the basement, but the attendant in the lobby will be able to ping her easily enough regardless.

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"I don't have a whole lot to do on my own yet," she admits. She's wondered a little, seeking those shadows, but she wasn't about to take too many risks yet. "If it's not too much trouble, I would love to see more."

Integra gets a lot more respect than she's used to giving - there was something about the woman's aura that demanded it, and Mabel wasn't about to blow this job before she started. She could get used to the Sir thing, there was nothing too unreasonable about this - yet.

Integra nods; of course. It's not exactly a hardship for her to do something besides paperwork and running about for a few minutes, anyway. She rises, and pulls something out of her desk - a small silver pin, just quarter-sized, shaped like a shield. She steps around to Mabel and reaches out to attach it to her sleeve. "I have to put this on you myself," she says, explaining the sudden breach of personal space, "Or it won't work. Counter-measure. It's a pass to let you through the wards deeper in the facility. Princess Nuala can make you a personal one, soon."

This way, no one can break into Integra's office and just steal a pass. It's a simple bit of magic, but a very effective detail, in the end.

Mabel doesn't comment for a moment, examining the pin carefully. She's briefly disappointed that it doesn't feel special or different to her. In a world where the supernatural aspects were openly talked about and magic was dizzily possible, there were still going to be parts of it that would remain frustratingly vague to her.

Wait a minute. Princess?

"Uh, yeah... a tour would be a good start." She wasn't going to get anywhere if she let this overwhelm her all at once.

Somewhere, there is a duty roster, and Mabel will be able to familiarize herself with the various other agents and bosses of the organization; listing off 'demons and vampires and elves, oh my!' seems a bit overkill, at present.

Off they go, then, down medieval hallways and through heavy doors that look (and sound) imposing, leading into long stone corridors. "We have a courtyard," Integra says, pointing without looking to one side through large windows, "Though I'm afraid it's not very well-kept. Some people quite like it, apparently it's very nice in the daytime." ... Which she is not out during much? Seems that way. "Out past it are fields we do training in, and then stables, if you ever end up transporting yourself that way."

Mabel follows, not saying much. Her eyes are instinctively darting toward the corners, the dark spots, the places where reality tended to blur. A place like this could either be a huge hotspot of activity, or devoid of it - though likely it would be a mixture of the two.

Order would drive off the type she was drawn to; as for what it would attract, she could only guess. "I'm assuming there's a lot of different - what's a good word - specialty levels depending on what the case is? I mostly deal with ghosts, but could you tell me what other kinds of cases that get handled?"

The wards (and certain residents) prevent anything untoward appearing inside Hellsing's walls - if Mabel ever sees a shadow blink, however, well. That's just Alucard.

"'Monsters' could be the catch-all term," she says. "Vampires, werewolves, demons, ancient creatures, magic-engineered beings, unseelie fairies, and so on. If it's not of a mortal nature and it's too bothersome or too expert for the Militia to see to, then we handle it. We have an all-terminate policy for offenders who refuse to back down on the first request - while some beings may be acting out of fear or the notion that they have no other options, we do not sit about wringing our hands and allowing more civilian casualties to pile up."

Mabel frowns at this - it wasn't like the policy didn't make sense, the survival rate against a lot of those beings would be low otherwise.

"How successful are you at that? I mean - well, in my experience, there are some things that either don't understand, don't care to understand, or just seem to exist. Especially the ancient creature part - uh, I'm not trying to sound condescending." Try not to blow this on lack of tact, Albans.

"But knowing just what takes them down is trickier, in my experience. You probably got a lot more to work from, though."

"We are extremely successful, Ms. Albans." It's not a silly question - it's a reasonable one that more people aught to think of, and of course, the only woman she's interviewed for a proper position in ages is the only person to ask it. "You needn't take anything on blind faith, of course, but since my great-grandfather founded Hellsing, there has been nothing we have not been able to stop. And we have no jail for monsters, in England."

She will stop Millennium. She has no doubt.

Mabel would comment on the concept of giving monsters less mercy than the people they weren't often worse than, but she's not that stupid.

"If you have... records? Resource materials? I would be really glad to have some time to look them over. It's better to know what to expect, even if it's out of my league."

In her experience, a 'haunting' could always be much, much worse than a simple ghost.

She makes a note of directions - down the stairs at the east end, into the section of the basement that doesn't require higher clearance to get into. (Contamination is a serious issue.) "What records we have from our time here are kept there. You could also solicit stories from the already agents working."

Integra suspects most of them are friendly enough, but isn't an expert on social standards, so she gives no input on it. "I grew up fighting super-human beings that were threats to the nation's security," she admits, after a moment, and pushes open the door to the recreation area - televisions with video game systems, books, oversized chairs, a pool table, one sectional sofa and a large coffee table covered in papers, what looks like a Satanic bible, and a faintly glowing rock. "I may be jaded. Through the far door is the kitchen."

"Well-stocked," she manages. This was looking less like a working environment and more like a - well, a mixture between a college and every paranormal investigator's dream. If she was intimidated at the beginning of this meeting, she's well on her way to becoming overwhelmed now.

The look Integra gives the set-up is one not unlike a resigned parent watching a lopsided fish at an aquarium. Frankly, she doesn't understand nor see the appeal in most things her subordinates use to decompress or entertain themselves with, and it's apparent from how she doesn't bother pointing anything out that these additions were not made by her own hand. (She's fine with it, though. Warriors are permitted their comforts and vices, in her opinion.)

"I suppose." Seriously, she has no idea. Can you imagine this woman playing Halo? Integra leads her through to the kitchen, which is at least clean, though there's an assortment of things stuck to the fridge - notices about weapons, a death threat over chicken salad, a report. Or two. "I realize our wages are only just adequate," she continues. "It's why I've worked to get deals in town for my employees. You're free to eat here, whenever, and abuse of our electric bill. I'd like to be funded better, but with the Militia the way it is, politics are somewhat of a headache."

"I don't... need all that much..." Mabel picks at the death threat note. She'd spent weeks at a time living out of her car, living on canned tuna, bottles of green tea, and chips. A steady paycheck, a place to stay, and free food went way beyond where she thought she could get, ever.

She shakes her head, trying to concentrate. "I'm running out of things to ask about, to be frank with you."

"This work is horrific," she says flatly, while giving Mabel a direct look. "It is violent and brutal and disturbing, and this city is wall-to-wall with dark creatures, incompetent police, and civilians in need of help. The absolute least I can do for the people mad enough to work for me is make sure you're all fed and in one piece when you come off shift."

Integra would prefer to do much more than the absolute least - and perhaps she is, despite her jaded life, having more money than God on tap courtesy of the crown. But this work, this mission - is her existence. It is her everything. She will always take care of her people, and fight for them. Mabel is included in that, now.

Edited 2011-05-31 06:17 (UTC)

It takes a few moments of hesitation to reach this decision, but Mabel ultimately unzips her jacket and slips it off of her arms. Many of the scars are old - faded crisscrossing strips with no particular pattern. A few of them are fresher; there's a scab running across an elbow, an angry bruise in the shape of a hand-print on her left forearm.

"I'm not a badass. I don't go seeking things out 'cause I like beating them up, or getting my ass kicked over it; nothing like that. I live outta my car most of the time, I don't eat a whole lotta food that's not from a gas station, and I've never made all that much money. I've never gotten much respect, even after doing a decent job. Sometimes they take one look at my face, and won't let me do the job at all, even when they need my help."

She shrugs the jacket back on. "I've seen violent, I've seen brutal, I've seen dark and disturbing. I won't lie, it sucks a lotta times. But this is something I feel like I outta do, because I can help people in ways a lot of them can't get any other way. The dead need help too. I've never been in a position where I've had so many resources to work from, but that's not why I want to work her. I want to help people in the ways that I can."

Integra is quiet during this - she owes it to Mabel, who has fought and served in this unseen war. She is, immediately, reminded of Dean and his brother, and the tooth-and-claw lifestyle these Americans all seem to lead in this line of work. So much about her is foreign, from the way she describes people reacting to her to the thought that there should be no order and backing for a necessary service to humanity. It makes her furious, these differences, but it also humbles her.

"I shall endeavor to have my organization worthy of your loyalty, Ms. Albans." There is nothing mocking or sarcastic about how she says it - Integra is serious, entirely. (She doesn't understand doing this to help people. She only understands blood and fire and duty. Perhaps... perhaps these people will remind her what it's worth to be human.)

"Thank you." Mabel looks relieved. For a second she was worried she'd blown the whole thing; people had odd reactions to her scars, even without seeing her back. What Integra said sounded a little strange (loyalty?), but she was quickly realizing this was what the woman was like, period.

She is a little bit too serious, perhaps, and grave to the point of some people finding her dramatic, but Integra is in no way joking. This is her purpose, why she is alive; she is the product of generations of conditioning and duty. Perhaps it's a little sad - she is more of a position than a person. But this is what she is. And she will not treat Mabel as anything but what she is: a warrior, worthy of respect.

Integra nods, and gestures for Mabel to come with her, and see the rest of the hall.

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drifting away, i'm one with the sunsets

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