undergrounds | Guardian Initiation: Feb 2016 (For Simon and Illya)

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Guardian Initiation: Feb 2016 (For Simon and Illya)

It's a bright but chilly day in Westminster as the new Guardians make their way to the Night Council headquarters to be initiated. They are directed to a large study where they wait nervously for their turn to stand before the Council. There's a large, empty fireplace, a live crow perched in an iron cage by the mantelpiece, a bookcase of old and dusty tomes (mostly supernatural history and biographies) and several overstuffed leather armchairs. The bay window affords a view over Whitehall.

The crow watches with beady eyes. You get the sense it's watching you.

The initiates are called one by one. A woman wearing glasses pops her head into the study every few minutes to collect the next one. She'll take you to a large dimly lit chamber, usher you in, then leave, closing the door behind you.

At first glance, you'd be forgiven for thinking that you're surrounded by people. The chamber is circular and around the walls there are standing figures, men and women, life-size. They're statues in various poses, some with their hands in front of their faces as if trying to protect themselves. The expressions carved into their faces are mostly grimaces and many of them are wide-eyed, perhaps shocked or fearful.

But the statues are just decoration. There are real people here: the Council members, sitting in front of you. They're arranged in a rough semi circle around a table, with the President Sylvia Redbright in the centre. Her seat is raised above the others, almost a throne. She's directly ahead of you.

Also directly ahead of you, between you and the Council members, is a small square table upon which sits a thick sheaf of paper and a golden pen. Both have a magical aura. The paper is high quality, printed on in black ink and bears the seal of the Night Council. It runs to twelve pages.

Sylvia nods at you, smiling. "Welcome. Don't worry, you've already done the hard part. This is just a formality, nothing more. I'm going to ask you to repeat a few words, sign the contract, and then we're done." She glances at her fellow representatives and they each stand up, Sylvia included. "Step forward and place your hand on the contract." She gestures with her palm flat, and waits for you to follow her lead. "Repeat after me. 'I stand here before the Night Council to swear an oath. I am a Guardian of the Night Council. From this moment on, I pledge my allegiance to the Night Council, in life and in death eternal. I swear to devote myself to the Night Council, to the protection of its members, and to my duties as a Guardian. I swear this by everything I hold sacred and dear in the world.'"

She pauses, then indicates the contract on the table. "There's a space for you to sign your name on the bottom of the first page. Go ahead and sign it."

As you step forward, Gilbert Norrell, the Witch Representative on the end of the row, stands up. He fusses his clothing smooth, then comes over to stand and watch as the document is signed with impatient, beady eyes. Any hesitation is met with thin-lipped disapproval. When you're done, he takes the document and strides back to his seat while the other Council members sit down.

"Thank you," Sylvia says. She smiles. "And congratulations! We look forward to working with you. Before you go, I'm obliged to inform you of one more thing. The contract you signed is magically binding. It will hold you to your word, and there will be consequences if you break it. Any Guardian who fails to abide by the terms of their contract will turn to stone."

She pauses a moment to let that sink in. The statues around you, were they...?

Sylvia clears her throat, but Norrell only offers a faintly patronising smile. She goes on: "We don't expect that to happen, of course, but for reasons of security we must ask that you keep this a secret." Her tone is matter-of-fact, laying down the law. "You are bound by the terms of your contract not to reveal those terms. That means you cannot discuss the oath at all, or make any attempt to reveal it to anyone else, whether in speech, writing or any other form of communication. Every Guardian makes the same oath and none of you can speak of it."

The eyes of the Council members are staring down at you, every one of them serious, stern. Your secret will not leave this room, any more than the stone statues can wake up and walk themselves out of here.

Norrell speaks. "It is a life long commitment, but one I am sure you will come to find rewarding."

Finally, Sylvia waves a hand, dropping the formal tone. "I want to say again, thank you. We do truly appreciate your commitment to the Night Council, and all the good work that you'll be doing not just for us, but for the whole country. We'll keep your contract here at headquarters and if you want to come back and read it in more detail, you can do so. Your training starts tomorrow. I wish you the very best of luck."

Best of luck, newbie. You've been officially initiated.

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Norrell rather enjoys ceremony. He enjoys being behind a table judging other people, enjoys getting to demonstrate his new rank, enjoys positions of respect and -- in general -- positions of power.

It is not a surprise, then, that he enjoys swearing in the new Guardians. Standing alongside the rest of the Night Council. The idle threat of the statues behind them.

What may be a surprise to the cynical is the slight edge of discomfort he displays as the Night Council finally file out and leave to go about their business. He carries the signed contracts, neatly hidden into thick brown envelopes, and pauses outside the room to shuffle things in his grip a moment. The crow shifts in its cage to look at him and he shoots it a glower full of the deepest hatred.

The sound of someone walking near him startles him, however, and he gathers the papers up again and tries to right himself.

"Can I help you?" he prompts, although he gives the air of not particularly being interested in helping.

"I was about to ask the same thing," Illya offers with a hint of a smile.

For all his size, his smile is easy. Polite. Even deferential. All brawn and few brains, that's the usual assumption. He quite likes it, actually. It makes it easier to come and go as he pleases, to be ignored during conversations. He doesn't look like someone given to intellect, apparently, so he is considered to be uninterested in topics. Which means no one bothers to filter themselves when he's around, usually.

Ah -- now this one he doesn't know. Norrell studies Illya with idle curiosity, eyes flicking over him.

"You work at Redbright, do you not?" The school. Norrell does not entirely approve of it, but he knows he has not the full power to undermine Sylvia in such things. "I have seen you there in passing. Handling both positions will be difficult. You will be expected to always put the Night Council first."

Not even an introduction before he begins the nagging and chiding, yet then again Norrell expects Illya to know who he is already. He is important. People should know who he is, especially people wishing to join the Night Council.

"Kuryakin," he offers. "I work security there for Missus Redbright, yes."

As a kind of temporary measure. A way to put himself in a position to attract some attention and get exactly where he is now. Or, at least, similar. This exactly was probably not what Waverly had in mind, especially with the new stipulations. However, he would work with what he has.

And, for this man, he'll offer a bit more of his cover story.

"I am here on behalf of the Russian government to assist the English government. The spirit of international cooperation. I answer to the Night Council over Russia."

And UNCLE over the Night Council. ...As much as he could now.

The Russian government! Norrell's eyebrows loft in surprise at that, for it comes as quite the shock to him that Russian agents would wish to assist the English -- or that such a thing would even be accepted so easily! Then again, he supposes with how tight the Night Council Oath is that there is not too much damage Illya could do. Neither could they have known that when he thought to join, either. It's possible this has made his life more difficult than he realised, and so equally for the Russians. The thought soothes Norrell's and he seems to centre himself once more.

"I would expect as much," he says instead. "Being a Guardian of the Night Council is a great privilege, and not a duty to be taken lightly. You have training, then, in government work?"

That, he thinks, would balance out the matter of the other Redbright recruit -- who will clearly need some training.

"Government security," he replies, offering a small nod. "I was previously with the FSB."

After all, he's allowed to lie to the Night Council, even under the oath. He just can't act against them. Or tell anyone how bound he is. At least Solo or Miss Teller hadn't gotten into this bit with him, though he wished they were here, at least.

Norrell appears faintly soothed by this knowledge, and shifts his grip on his papers.

"That will do very well!" he declares, "I have often employed members of Hillingdon in the past, but although they are hunters they are not always the best at personal security or the intricacies of something like this! It has become a very dangerous job, and I have had numerous threats against my person! From the fae, especially! Are you familiar with the fae?"

He blinks his small, pale eyes at Illya curiously -- apparently intent on assessing his merit as personal bodyguard. After all, Guardians are meant to protect the Night Council -- although perhaps not 24/7 one member.

"I am," Illya responds with a faint smile, bowing his head politely. "I trust you already wear silver or iron. Depending, of course, on whether vampires are also a problem, sir."

It seemed best not to mention details of his service. After all, few understood that an agent in his position had to work whatever side he was told. So, the less said, the better, for he had worked for and against almost every group. Including werewolves.

"Of course! Although vampires are not so much a problem -- we have an agreement of sorts with Islington, both from the perspective of the Night Council having one aboard and my own personal work with them through Daybreak. Although that does not account for those who are not with the nest, or who disagree such actions -- of which there are a few!"

Something that Norrell looks thoroughly scandalised by. Dissent is not something he approves of! The world would be a much simpler place and better place if everyone followed the rules properly and fell into line.

"Da." In this case, it's better to play up being Russian. Being other. He's quite used to it. "I am still learning how the politics of London are different. In Russia, we do not have the problem of vampires against werewolves. Usually."

There were always variations, but it wasn't as prevalent as it seemed to be here.

"I have heard this! It is different for other countries, I think, although matters here are also changing too! Just recently a peace offering was made between them of territory, and the wolves supported us in driving back the fae -- a thing I did not expect!"

Explaining things is something that pleases Norrell greatly, and the more he explains to Illya the more pleased he seems to become. He enjoys little so much as playing at teacher (within reason), as speaking to someone he knows more than and educating them.

"I suppose it is because they understand the great threat the fae have become! That we must all work to drive them out and block them from returning to this realm!"

"I wonder if it will last," Illya murmurs idly. Whether he means the truce between the vampires and werewolves or the threat of the fae or the ability to block the fae... he doesn't clarify. He is here, ultimately, as an observer.

"Still. If there is anything you need, sir, I hope to be able to help."

"Oh, to be sure! I may have something..."

He thinks a moment, frowning absently away at some spot in the wall as he does so, then nodding to himself.

"I have a few appearances, the sort which would very much benefit from extra security, and a meeting -- I am so very busy, you understand, so very busy! I will think on it, but this will be a great help. A great help indeed!"

Illya offers a polite nod. Then, there is one very important question to ask.

"I only need to know if you want the security seen or not."

Because he is, surprisingly, good at both. Either being an imposing figure or keeping out of sight but able to watch everything.

It is a good question, to be sure, and one that Norrell considers for a long moment.

"I suppose it would depend on the occasion," he says finally, "sometimes it is good for security to be seen. It sends a message! Other times... in more... delicate situations that is not advisable."

Like, for example, when you are meant to trust a person. A big show of security somewhat implies the opposite.

Edited 2016-02-28 18:19 (UTC)

"I can provide either, should you need it, sir. I believe the Night Council will have my contact information."

Should he say it? It was always hard to tell. To judge the people asking for his help. But, well. He could say something about other matters later. For now, he would keep things official.

"Of course! And I have no doubt that I will! Yes, perhaps I should contact you at the right time -- no doubt you have some settling in to do as well! Do you know our existing Guardians? You should meet them, learn your way around! Oh, and there will be plenty of reading to do too on our laws and the application of them!"

He beams happily, since the prospect of doing a lot of reading about law is one that appeals to a man like Norrell.

Edited (wrong icon) 2016-02-29 14:24 (UTC)

The letter of the law, Illya knows, doesn't matter. How the people who have the power choose to administer the law does matter. And they will let him know what to do when. That, however, he won't say. Things he's learned through practical application is what actually matters.

"I have met one so far. I will meet the others."

"Be sure you do! Oh, and you should be certain to come see me if you have any questions. The politics of London can be complex, I know! I myself found it very difficult at first to negotiate, for I am not a man who enjoys small talk and parties! I prefer to spend time on my studies -- but oh, London is a very different place to York! Here one must put time into such things to recognised! The merit of one's studies alone is not enough to be recognised!"

A thing which Norrell clearly finds surprising and disappointing in equal parts, if his expression is anything to go on.

A man who likes to hear himself talk. Illya knows those kind of people. He usually works for them, and it seems this is no different after all. He listens, even though he's only half paying any real attention.

"I am mostly a soldier," he replies, even if that's far from the truth. Unlike one of his associates, he can lie, and he makes use of that ability. "Politics and I are in different worlds."

"Then you understand!" he exclaims, "oh, it is so frustrating! To have so many doors closed to you, simply because you do not walk in the right circles yet! I wish things were otherwise, but," and here Norrell sighs wistfully -- offers Illya a tired smile. He is so set upon by difficulties, by things in his path! "It is something I have done my best to grow used to. I would like to think I have become tolerable at it!"

If 'tolerable' is how one would describe bullying one's way onto the Night Council and ousting people in one's way, then of course -- Gilbert Norrell is 'tolerable' at politics.

Simon is still reeling. The last twenty-four or so hours have been nothing if not confusing.. When Simon had mentioned wanting to be a guardian to Norrell, the older man had reacted so...well, not necessarily negatively but definitely doubtfully that he had been sure that was the end of it. Not so, apparently. The nomination and initiation had come and gone so fast that he still has a hard time getting his head around it.

He's no longer certain he knows what he signed up for.

Especially now that he knows what the statues are.

He wanders the room, nervously gnawing on a thumbnail, until he wanders a bit too close to the man himself. He pauses, mouth open to excuse himself and wander somewhere else, but the wrong words end up coming out instead.

"So I guess I became a Guardian after all."

"It is what you said you wanted," Norrell begins, a little hesitant. He feels an odd sort of guilt about it all, but he is bound by oaths himself. He could not simply of told Simon what it entails. He had hoped the warnings would have been enough, but... so it is. "You will have many resources at your fingertips. The position is an honourable one."

And also one that is feared, for good reason. Though in the end, of course, Simon has a degree of choice at least in how he carries out orders. Mostly. Sometimes.

"That's what they tell me," Simon replies wryly, half-smiling at Norrell. Jesus Christ, what's he gotten himself into?

"This wasn't where I expected I'd be six months ago. Guess life's funny that way."

He offers a wincing sort of smile at that, nods as if in understanding.

"I tried to tell you," he says, since he feels the need to point this out. Simon had not, perhaps, appreciated it at the time -- but he had tried.

"You did," Simon acknowledges. "I think I need to work on listening."

Understatement of the year, Simon.

"It is a hard learnt lesson, but... one me must all learn."

Which is, perhaps, hypocritical in truth coming from Gilbert Norrell of all people, but he does not see it as such. He always enjoys imparting advice to others, sharing his great wisdom, and Simon as his junior is a prime target.

"Perhaps that is how you should see this, as a learning experience. It may not be what you expected, but there is much to be gained from this position -- many here you could study under!"

Simon is something of a captive audience for Norrell right now. The last thing he wants is to be standing here being the impartee of wisdom, but Simon doesn't really know anyone else here and at least Norrell's ego is a thing relatively easily stoked. A little patronizing advice is far preferable to having his very intense fellow inductee, Illya, make him feel like an idiot child for never having handled a firearm. So he grins and bears it and hopes that he hasn't touched on a particularly long-winded vein.

"I would like to know a bit more about the mechanics of what I can do," he agrees reluctantly. "Though I don't think there are many shapeshifters in the Night Council." The head of Hillingdon is a human (and a fellow Guardian), after all. Probably a human who can kick his ass from here to Manchester and back, but still. A human.

"Miss Merad is a shapeshifter," he says thoughtfully, considering this problem. "I do not think we have any others as Guardians at the moment... although there are sure to be some books on it! Have you consulted Redbright's library?"

He will not offer his own, not yet. Not when he is still uneasy with Simon as a whole. His behaviour until now has not exactly been respectful, after all, and although in his heart Norrell is not without pity he does dislike lack of respect. Especially from someone so young and inexperienced.

Oh, her.

"We've met," Simon says tersely, recalling their introduction. It's his lot in life to make terrible first impressions on people.

Books, however, he's a bit better with. They're far less complicated than people. "I've had a look at the collection, actually. I was surprised at how extensive it was, though I don't know how much I understood. I took French in school, but I didn't retain any of it. I think all I remember is how to ask for the toilet or buy a baguette. And I haven't got any Latin at all."

Norrell thins his lips in disappointment at this news, keeps thinking regardless.

"Latin is a useful skill when studying magical history," he says finally, "however it and French are not the only language that these books come in. There are some written in English which I know of."

This may be like getting blood from a stone, but the fact that he's mentioning it at all is more than some might get.

After the ceremony, Illya's reaction is hard to read. His eyes still sweep between all those present, living and stone. The oath is one he didn't expect, especially not being able to tell anyone. This is something Waverly needs to know. Solo and Gaby as well. But they won't now. Another secret, this one he has no choice but to keep.

Still, he made his decisions that brought him here.

"An effective deterrent, certainly," he mutters, more to himself than someone near.

After the ceremony, Simon's desperate for a drink. And a smoke. Mostly a smoke, actually.

He's fairly certain the Night Council look down on smoking indoors, though, and he doesn't particularly want to become a statue within an hour of being inducted. Not that he honestly thinks they'd turn him into a statue for thaf, but...really, that had been a pretty detailed contract he'd just signed.

You never know.

So instead Simon busies himself by nervously flipping his lighter around in his pocket, trying to make it look like it isn't overly obvious he's doing so. He's just about to see if he can figure out how to excuse himself from this august assembly, get home, and get outrageously drunk when he hears the other inductee--the Russian guy--say something.

"I'll say. Those things are fuck--" He winces when the word slips out, quickly looking around to see if any of his new employers had caught the profanity, "Pretty scary," he amends guiltily.

"Powerful men like to make sure they keep their power," Illya murmurs as he shrugs his shoulders. Ultimately, he seems sort of unbothered by the idea.

To him, these kind of punishments are harsh but usually warranted.

"And you may wish to be careful they do not think you are considering burning the place down."

It might be a pocketknife he's fiddling with, but it's too small for a mobile, and agitation looks similar no matter who's showing it. He's known enough smokers to have a guess at what's in the man's pocket.

Illya's reminder catches Simon mid-flip, and he fumbles the lighter. It's cheap, plastic, and an extremely inappropriate shade of neon orange, which stands out all the brighter on the very formal rug. He blushes, scrambling to collect it. He's really outdoing himself tonight, isn't he?

"They'd probably turn me to stone before I managed to get anything to light," he says once it's safely back in his suit pocket, his cheeks still quite pink.

"Though with the way things are going I might be lucky to make it out of here at all."

Illya sighs just a bit. If this is the state of London Guardians, he shouldn't be surprised that he's among them now. They clearly need someone to get them into better shape.

"I'm sure you will get used to it."

Simon can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. It's better than continuing to make an absolute fool of himself. "I think I'm going to have to or we'll all be sunk."

He holds out a hand for the Russian werewolf.

"Simon O'Neill. I suppose we ought to be properly introduced if we're going to be working together from now on."

"Illya Kuryakin," he replied, shaking the young man's hand.

"Do you have any experience with security?"

Best to know just what the criteria for becoming a Guardian was. He doubted that the young man would answer in the affirmative.

"None whatsoever," Simon admits, noting how much firmer the other man's handshake is. As if he isn't intimidated enough already.

"I'm a Uni student, actually. Biology. I know fuck-all about anything else."

Something tells him that Illya doesn't have that problem. The way he asked the question, it's pretty clear that this isn't the Russian's first security experience.

He gives a small nod, unsurprised. What is the criteria? Because this young man... Well. He can make something of him, at the very least. Just in case he ever gets out of this.

"We will have to change that. Surveillance at least."

If you ever find out the criteria, Illya, let Simon know. He'd like to hear it--and how he fits into it--himself.

"At least," he echoes with a self-deprecating laugh.

"And if you ever need some cell cultures prepared, I'm your man."

"Do you know how to shoot a gun?"

Because, well, even if it wasn't something London allowed, but it was still something to know. He kept his firearms, after all.

Simon's eyes go wide.

"No."

He's never even held a gun.

"That we will fix. When are you free?"

Because that's not an 'if.'

This doesn't feel optional. Simon does some quick mental calculations.

"This weekend?"

"Very good."

It was just as well the boy learn to shoot, at the very least.

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Guardian Initiation: Feb 2016 (For Simon and Illya)

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