multiversallogs | It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife

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It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

Who: EVERYONE
What: Réjean has decided that more people ought to celebrate and help raise a bit of dosh for one of his favourite bars. See: flyer.
Where: The Apache.
When: Misdi night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Warnings: Discussion of Pickman's manky feet.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap. Tonight, the bar is packed with people from all across the city, different cantons and cohorts, all out to celebrate surviving the fungal plague. Patrons are encouraged to buy tickets for a door prize with the proceeds going to repair the damage tunnelling ants made to the cellar.

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"It is, yeah." There's a subtle, honest pride to that; Hellsing means a great deal to him, and he doesn't feel the need to be demonstrative about it. It will, in his estimation, ultimately speak for itself. "What kind of work are you looking at?"

"Most of what I do is basic hoodoo -- if you know the term? -- but, ah, it's a bit of a shit deal, but I'm working out of Mafaton 'cause that's where the majority of my clients'll be." Njoki isn't always thrilled about working with the (un)dead, but it pays the bills and usually pays very well.

"Sounds like something our social services would be interested in," he says, after a moment, thoughtfully, and it's not too weird that a lawyer might know a thing or two when one considers whose lawyer he is.

(And that's all, right? Right.)

"Well, let me second the recommendation. If you're staying out in Mafaton, there's room on the books-" and off, but that's a conversation not for a busy bar, "-for freelancers."

"Yeah, I've heard plenty of good stuff about Hellsing," she says honestly but still wary of them. "Which means, I've gotta ask -- and in turn, pay for your next drink since we're talking business in a bar and that's a dick move on my part -- what's the catch?"

Njoki scans the crowd, her gaze resting on Pickman for a moment before turning back to Sol. Just in case this goes suddenly, spectacularly wrong, she'd like to be able to get out quickly.

Sol doesn't look surprised by the question - he'd have asked the same thing, if he'd come to them some other way than how he had.

"Depends on what you mean by 'catch'," he says, inclined to think better of her for both asking and for asking thoughtfully. "Are we secretly working to take over the city, mind-control its inhabitants or cataloguing supernatural citizens to manipulate or purge? I can safely assure you, are we fuck." This is why he doesn't go into politics, thanks, Velma.

"But if you want to take a walk around the block with me, I can give you the long answer." Which involves the fact politics are shit, fuck the Militia, and to say they are not universally loved is a vast understatement of the case; they make no secret of being willing to perform necessary executions, when a situation calls for it.

Are we fuck, indeed. Njoki's smile is sharp and her laugh more a bark or a whoop than anything else, but she seems willing to go get some fresh air.

"I love a crowd, but I could use a breather. Lay on, Sol, and I'll listen." In her experience, secret cabals are rarely so open and friendly about their plans, but those organizations that 'catalogue' non-humans tend to try and put on a cheery face. She can't imagine that Hellsing would have the funding to stick a license and ear-tag on all the non-humans in the city, but it's a risk and not one she's interested in taking.

"After you," he says, lightly - unlike the polite 'ma'am' earlier, it's clearly playful when he gestures for her to precede him, because he is a gentleman, right. (That laugh is interesting, and he thinks he's figured out what she is specifically, which is worth making note of.)

Once they're outside and clear of the door, he says, "Do you want our policy on the aggressive cases, to start?" It's not exactly a catch, but it's not an irrelevant concern, either.

"Go big or go home," she replies by way of saying yes. Njoki is already fairly sure that community service and steep financial penalties aren't going to be high on the list. Back home, the local ruling bodies weren't too kind with those that broke free from tradition and went on open hunts.

"That's about the policy," he says, reflectively, after a moment. Sol is not in PR for a reason, even if he has a knack for this kind of conversation - because he's better at this, person to person, than he is at the kind of diplomatic doublespeak necessitated by doing it for a living. "No, more seriously- we prioritize by behaviour, not by species. Agents are instructed to give one warning, and then act at their discretion, which means erring on the side of least casualties."

Often, the quickest way to do that is to take down the person causing them in the first place. "The way it works out, if there's a nonlethal option- good. If there's not, don't be a fucking moron, pardon my French. We've got the kind of community support we do for a reason." The reason is that civilians trust them - and, if she asks around, the typical assumption that the community supporting them is all human will be swiftly disproven.

He shrugs, exhaling smoke. "There's no supernatural prison here. In a scenario like that, one does one's humble best, in the words of my mother." Usually his mother is making fun of someone when she says that; the point remains. "We're lucky in that that's not the majority of what we end up dealing with."

"I can get behind that." Njoki looks down the street and then up the sky, clucking her tongue once before speaking. "With what I do -- I can heal the undead, repair old wounds, replace limbs, clean up poisons, break bonds -- there's always some big and ugly that wants to keep me as a pet."

It says something about her as a person and her resolve that thus far, she has been able to keep herself neutral and free from any one vampire court.

That it does, and Sol's sideways glance is both assessing and approving. Nice.

"We'd kick you clientele, probably, if you want to stay freelance," he says, watching the skyline, aware in the darkness and aware, right here, that it makes more sense (for her) to be connected to them but not a part of. "We've got the variously not alive on staff as well as dealing with us for Princess Nuala's social services department. The benefits are pretty good, starting with the safe bet of my boss not liking the idea of anyone keeping you as a pet, if you get in a rough spot."

Just because she can get herself out of it by herself doesn't mean she mightn't appreciate a hand.

"We're popular with the civilians," he adds, contemplatively, "but politically, not so much." And the new arrivals tend to run to the 'wary'; he appreciates that they're having this conversation, that Njoki is willing to hear him out and hasn't just decided what she thinks is going on and judged them by that. He understands the wariness, and he's got more patience than Integra does to deal with it - when it's reasonable. When it's not, well, he's not a diplomat. "We're a kind of paramilitary organization, but we're also not government." They're a guild; it's different. "The Princess does a lot of work to make sure we've got a voice, but the ruling class isn't our biggest fan, put it that way."

"S'better than any dental plan, that's for sure." While she doesn't know the full extent of the undead in Baedal, Njoki has a worrying sense that they're far greater and stronger than she's used to. (Hi, Alucard.)

"It sounds reasonable and I'm gonna give 'em a call, but I'm also going to ask around the boys in Mafaton." If the local undead seem to think Hellsing is on the up and up or at least don't hate it with a passion, then Njoki might move forward. "Anything you want to know about me?"

With Hellsing, you get what you paid for, in the main. There may be practises they don't talk about (there are; that's one of the reasons Sol is, as was recently noted, the blackest of black ops agents), but the guiding principles of everything they do are exactly what they say they are. They are good people, they just aren't nice people, and the results can't be argued with. (Well, not very effectively. Some do try.)

"Good move," he says, of her decision. It's sensible and he likes that. "Work-wise, I'm not really the one you'll have to, uh, win over, but personal curiosity, I'd like to know more about how you got into what you do, if you're willing."

"Genetics, mainly. Some relative spotted it in me early on and people like me, we can all do conjure of some sort -- some are thieves, some are blacksmiths, some are just fucking animals, and there's a few that get flesh and the dead. It's not a classy profession and not common." For Njoki there never really was one defining moment where her life changed; she's always been this way, always seen the world as she sees it now, and the only difference is that she can describe and affect what's around her.

"Dead is easier to work with. Less mess, you know? The living are so bound up in their own skins that, well, it's really painful for them and me to fix anything. Why risk getting thrown out of your own body when you can see a proper healer? The dead, well, they're usually just renting the place and it's easier to shunt them into a corner while you work." Reworking Pickman's was possible because he was already in a state of transformation -- he wasn't attached to the feet he had, so swapping them out for hooves was messy and painful, but not traumatizing.

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It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

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