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are you in or out, or in or out?

Who: Hellboy and semi-open to Hellsing personnel.
What: Hellboy calls a meet-and-greet.
Where: Hellsing Guild Hall.
When: Sukkardi, 25 Kavadry, shortly after dark
Notes: This will probably involve a fair share of back-tagging. Players should feel free to mingle their characters around, so they know each other a little when the crap hits the fan in the upcoming plot.
Warnings: Hopefully not, but we'll see.

The call goes out on the Hellsing channel in the morning, a rare burst of text that more experienced members of the guild can probably guess was facilitated by Hellboy handing his CiD to someone from the clerical staff and dictating:

Sol's return reminds me that we've had a bit of churn lately. In the interests of everyone knowing who their fellow guild members are, I'm calling for a little get-together in the dining hall this evening. We'll be starting at dusk, so everyone can do their socializing before the evening's work gets into full swing. Attendance is not mandatory, but it is highly encouraged. Refreshments will be provided.

Come dusk, an area has been cleared out for people to meander and mingle. With Maggie gone, the kitchen hasn't really been the same since, but Hellboy has somehow connived for a couple of tables to have a few platters -- cold cut and cheeses; fruits, veggies and dip; nachos, queso, and salsa -- a couple bowls of punch, and even a bowl filled with ice and some bags of donor blood for the vampires on staff. One of the tables has nametags and markers.

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Plaster dust rinsed out of his hair and the smell of packing plastic washed off his hands, Sebastian arrives to the meet and greet and attaches a nametag before making his way into the room. He's always been rubbish at these sorts of social events, but over the years he's had enough practice that he's confident he'll be able to survive.

"Alright, LeMat?" Lucius says, as Sebastian happens to be nearby when he enters. Their relationship is, of course, a professional one, but not unfriendly for that, and he really is pleased about the return of Sebatian's magic, for his sake.

"Well, and you?" He's relieved to have someone he knows well enough to comfortably chat and that familiarity takes the edge off work related socializing.

"I've been worse," he answers, amiably. "It's been relatively quiet, of late." Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on one's baseline of optimism.

Mycroft, though well-versed in mandatory meet-and-greets, has never been fond of them. They're useful for gathering information and observing people he may otherwise not have much contact with, but they're also crowded and noisy and have far too much easy-access finger food. He'll need to wind down quite a bit after this.

Once he's applied the hateful name tag to his lapel, he decides he'll make the most of his time by talking to someone he's taken a lingering interest in since being hired on at Hellsing. There is obviously much more to the resident groundskeeper than his title would imply, and the more Mycroft knows about the power structure of Hellsing, the more capable he'll be of using its resources to everyone's best advantage (including his own).

"Mr LeMat," he says, approaching Sebastian with a polite smile. "I don't believe we've properly met."

"Not yet, Mr Holmes, is it?" Sebastian offers his hand to shake, but mindful of his missing fingertips he won't be unreasonably put out if Mycroft ignores the gesture. There's a hint of polite, practice to his tone that suggests he has at some point in his past experience with this sort of event.

Mycroft takes Sebastian's hand without any awkward hesitation. Not only is he somewhat used to gruesome sights, but touch will tell him more about the injury, even if the contact is brief.

"Yes, that's right. It seems the pleasure must be mine—everyone thinks very highly of you here."

"That's very kind of them to say so." The injury is at least five years old, but there's a raggedness to the scarring that hints at a poor quality of medical treatment at the time. While the missing fingertips isn't uncommon for a certain inept sort of handyman, it's not commonly due to an unclean crush wound. The line of scar tissues is not even, which suggests it was caused by repeated, inexact blows with a sharp, but not honed, edge.

"But I think they've only said that out of fear that I'll end up renovating their rooms next and cover it all in flamingo pink."

The injury is indeed a rare one, and it only reinforces some of the conclusions Mycroft has drawn about LeMat. He can't see the whole picture yet, but every piece helps complete the puzzle.

"Not to be contrary, but I've found most people have greater difficulty lying through their actions than they do through their words," he replies, his smile taking on a wry edge. "Considering trends in this organization, I'd think that if someone had said something aloud, it would be much less... forthcoming."

"What you're saying is that if they really hadn't liked me, I'd be sent to fix the water heater?" Or, in other words, pay a visit to Alucard.

Sebastian's smile is easy and highlights that one day, he'll have crows' feet around his eyes. Like many wizards, his actual age is difficult to guess, but it's not unreasonable to deduce that he's somewhere in his mid- to late twenties and spent a few years living rather rough with at least a couple of those years as an underfed child.

Sol isn't the only Koenig in uniform today; after Integra had dryly pointed out that they already have a tracking system for their employees (her name is Princess Nuala, and she knows where every single one of those badges is at all times), arrangements had been made to make a small addition to the collection. Liesl, currently treating the food tables like an obstacle course in her new black pedal-car, has a newly-stitched Hellsing badge of her own. It declares her fleet maintenance, a title inherited from Dean and largely pointless in Baedal (though she got a toy car out of it), and contains altered impression enchantments-- rather than the agents' swagger, it functions as a supernatural reminder that she is a noncombatant and not to be touched.

Her father, a beer in hand, keeps an eye on her as he moves through the crowd to reconnect with their family and get to know the new hires.

The markers, Jim comprehends well enough, but the name badges throw him for a minute. Not their purpose, but how they're meant to be used. He writes "Jim" in the space provided, and... then what?

He's bent low over the table, trying to puzzle this out, when there's a low rumble of wheels and a shouted warning from somewhere on his left. Jim straightens up, eyebrows raised, and he breaks into a wide, bright, and absolutely delighted grin as Liesl goes speeding past.

"Hey, nice wheels!" he shouts after her, laughing.

And then it's back to contemplating this name badge. Wait, is that a seam in the paper...?

Sol, who'd given the obligatory warning to make sure Liesl didn't careen into anyone in her path, comes to a stop by the table and sets his beer down to examine the options here. Jim's puzzlement gives him a moment's pause, before he takes one himself and scrawls Sol on it, peeling the backing off and slapping it absently on the sleeve of his jacket. “Like so,” he says, amiably; he refrains from appending 'kid' to the end of that, reflexively, and reminds himself that he's not that old yet.

(Forty isn't so bad. It's better when you're still at peak health, admittedly.)

"Ohhh. I get it now." Jim's grin remains in place as he picks at the tag with his thumbnail, loosening a corner from the backing and peeling it free. "Thanks. We don't have these where I'm from, I was a little bit lost for a second there."

He sticks the tag on the left side of his cardigan. [He's dressed like this, minus the glasses and plaid jacket ~~and yes, Integra, the jeans are tight~~.] And then he extends a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sol. Did I hear right on the network recently, that you just got back to the city?"

Shaking Jim's hand (as he glances toward the tag for the name, yeah), Sol returns his grin with sharp-toothed ease; there's something interesting about the way he carries himself, for being Captain Desk Job, but that is what it is. The three piece suit - the earring, the partially visible neck tattoo, the glint in his eye - makes him look more like a gangster than a lawyer, these days.

“Right,” he confirms, with a 'what are you gonna do' gesture as they let go. “Me and Schumacher over there, we were back in Baltimore just after the new year.”

"Schumacher" is not a name Jim knows; he guesses both that it's some cultural reference he doesn't get due to differences between times (not worlds, necessarily, he knows of the city of Baltimore), and that the person Sol is actually referring to is the little girl in the pedal car (from the way he shouted a heads-up at Jim as she sped his way). "A friend of mine went through the same thing, just before the New Year," Jim offers, sympathetic, "I can't imagine it's what anyone who's already been here before wants to have happen again. I'm glad the two of you had Hellsing to come back to. A support network is always a good thing to have."

“Yeah,” with a swig of beer; his gaze follows his daughter for a moment and if she's feeling any ill effects of being bounced around the fucking multiverse, she doesn't look it. (They made a family here, and she's so happy to be home that he can't grudge it. The cottage was a setback, but he should be able to get them in somewhere else soon-- in the mean time, it is good some places, being back.) “Third time around with Hellsing, now; no regrets there.”

He's probably the best walking advertisement for the place, and he knows it.

Jim's eyes follow the little girl's circuit around the room, both amused by her antics (there's a certain devil-may-care attitude with that little one that strikes a chord with him, what can he say?) and wondering just what sort of toll being dragged into and out of a place like this must take on someone so young.

"Third time," he echoes. "Damn."

After a moment, it fully sinks in, and he turns to look at Sol, eyebrows raised. "...Third time? This city's messed with you guys that much?"

“Two cities,” Sol corrects, wryly aware of just how deeply fucked the whole situation is and how much moreso it sounds when recounted back to somebody else. “Hellsing, we got our start back in another one a little like this. I signed on before there was anything to sign on to. Why I already had a job to walk into when we first arrived here.”

"So you all--Hellsing--knew each other before you got to this city?"

In all his poking around for ways in and out of Baedal, Jim has heard a lot of origin stories. But this is a tale he hasn't heard, and it promises to be rather more epic than most. He gestures at a nearby table, suggesting they should sit.

"Did you all get brought here together? The entire organization, dragged in wholesale?"

“No, no,” with illustrative gesturing, as they sit down, Sol's shaking his head. “There are other cities that take people, like this; I met Sir Integra in another one. She'd come through with Alucard, she was angling to build a new organization from the ground up; I told her when she had something, I was good for it. Did some recruiting off my own back before she even started paying me.”

He thinks of Wesley, for a moment.

“Vanished from Bete Noire, back where I came from-- for months, me and Liesl back in Baltimore. Then Baedal, and I picked up with Hellsing where I left off.”

Seems to be a pattern, since he's done exactly the same thing for the second time now.

In addition to setting up this shindig, Hellboy himself has even gone so far as to wear his uniform today. Black shoes customized to be open at the front for his hooves, black pants with a hole for his tail, the black shirt Princess Nuala made him for Catenrat, red necktie that he probably needed some help getting sorted properly. He's left the coat and belt in his locker, but still carries Excalibur on his back. On the breast pocket not obscured by his sword's baldric, there's a nametag:

"This was a good idea," Liv commends without any real preamble, making her meandering way toward Hellboy as she presses her name tag to her chest. She's wasted no time in getting herself a glass of punch. She may or may not have prioritised that above her name tag. Good idea or not, she's probably defeating the purpose of a meet and greet by sticking to someone she's already met.

There's something to be said about being qualified to wear a uniform, and Olivia sports hers with pride. She looks sharper than usual in black slacks, white dress shirt, black vest and a red tie. Even her boots have been polished, though they're still obviously made for stomping rather than dressing up.

"I have them, from time to time," Hellboy replies as he finishes swallowing down a roll of ham and cheese. He's also got a glass of punch, with which he washes the food down. "But thank you."

Refreshments taken care of, he takes a moment to take in her appearance with an approving nod. "And look at you, all decked out in the uniform and everything. You talk to Astrid lately?"

Liv smiles graciously and gives a little half-bow. "Thanks! And yeah, she's getting a place nearby here and moving out of the Inn soon. It's been a lot for her to take in, unsurprisingly. But she's adjusting well. Working here will be good for her." She shrugs her shoulders. "She likes to focus on her work." Sounds like someone they know.

"Yeah, well, I'd say she could join the club, but she already has."

Which is to say, most of Hellsing tends to focus on their work above and beyond other priorities. Hellboy adjusts his tie and the fit of the button closing the shortened right sleeve of his shirt in self-conscious acknowledgement that he's very much in that club as well.

"Still, I'm glad it's working out for her. She seems like a good kid. How about you? You settling in okay? Adapting to the kind of cases we get?" His instincts in recommending the guild to her in the first place suggested that she should be fine, but as a senior agent he considers it a responsibility to ask anyway.

"Astrid's a bit quirky in her own way. She's got a great sense of humour once you get used to knowing where to look for it." There's no attempt to obscure the fondness Olivia feels for her teammate.

As to whether she's settling in okay, "Yeah," Olivia is quick to assure. "Some of it's a little weirder than I expected, I'll be honest, but it's nothing I haven't been able to handle so far. The cases back home might actually seem boring after this." She laughs quietly. It's a joke, and it isn't, but if it's anything heavier, she doesn't dwell or reflect on it more than a second. "I wouldn't mind tagging along on whatever you're working on, if you need a hand."

"I haven't had much chance to encounter it yet, but I'm sure it's there," he says with a chuckle. They haven't known each other long, but Hellboy makes his friendship decisions pretty quickly, and he is definitely already fond of Astrid as well.

"I did warn you about that. I'd already seen lots of crazy stuff back home, but here there's that, plus a few other variations on the theme. Also, outside of cases, I had an angel come up to me a few weeks ago and ask me why I wasn't causing trouble. I don't mind admitting that does a guy's head in a little." He shakes his head as though to say what is my life. "My long-term case has been back-tracking a Shoggoth's path through the sewers. I'm hoping to hit the end of the trail soon, but I've run into a bunch of stuff along the way that needs following up on. I wouldn't mind some extra hands on some of that."

Martha's stopped by the meet and greet after her shift ends. It's clear from the smile on her face that she thinks that this is a brilliant idea; meeting people at work is always helpful, especially if the job can be a bit stressful. Affixing a name badge to her labcoat, she picked up a cup of tea and started to circulate with hopeful smile.

One hopeful smile deserves another, right? Enter one very tall captain in dress uniform, turning toward her as he rounds one of the tables.

"Hi." He extends a hand, looking down at her. "I don't think we've met; I'm Captain Steve Rogers." He's determined to meet as many of his colleagues as he can tonight, to try to get to know them before he needs them in an emergency.

Being no stranger to talking to people who tended to be much taller than she was, Martha smiled up at him in response, and then she took his hand. "Dr. Martha Snape-Jones. Please call me Martha."

She was full of intentions tonight, intentions of getting to know people, and intentions of getting to like and trust them.

With Captain Steve Roger, Martha decided, it was something that was going to be easy.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers."

"The pleasure's all mine. Please, call me Steve."

He frowned, thoughtful, trying to place the name--names, he at least knew, he just hadn't had a chance to match them to faces yet.

"You work in Medical, am I right? With-- ah. The kind of grumpy southern gentleman? Is that Dr. McCoy?"

Faramir pushes his hood back as he enters the hall. Spending most of his time hunting and scouting, there are many among this gathering he does not know. He looks around with a polite curiosity on his face.

The tags are an alien concept that amaze and confuse him immensly. Why you should give out your name so easily without a formal introduction is just beyond him - to him, it is skipping an essential part of what it actually means to meet someone.

But these are not his customs and he will respect and follow those given to him. He will wear a nametag.

However, he can be seen tugging at it from time to time, a faint frown on his face. It does not belong there.

It feels, aside from the assorted nature of the company, almost like home to Lucius. Attending functions at which it's important to socialize - and be seen to socialize - has been part of his life since childhood.

He still doesn't push; the Malfoy name doesn't have currency in Baedal, nothing like he's used to. But he's amiable, approachable without being pushy. In the meantime, he nurses a drink and watches, noting without seeming to who speaks to whom and for how long. It's second nature.

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