st_clare: (Bloody Hell...)
[personal profile] st_clare in [community profile] birthright_rpg
London, England - 1978


The bottom line was, she wanted to be punished. If they'd punish her, perhaps she'd be satisfied.

Julianna and Edmund remained in Boston for a week after Allison's funeral. They spent the days touring the city, the evenings in the hotel bar, and the nights not talking. The time passed far too quickly. When it came time to fly back to London, the flight alternately was too long and too short. They arrived at Heathrow just before dawn, and he kissed her on the cheek when they said farewell.

She was wearing basic black when she arrived at Council headquarters, the color of mourning. She was terrified but resolute. If they sacked her, it was what she deserved. If they didn't sack her, she was going to turn in her resignation.

The Watcher's appointment was with Cyrus Claymore, a senior member of the Council. Julianna had never met the man, but she'd heard rumors. Her low heels made clicking noises on the highly-polished floor as she made her way down the hall. Portraits of other Watchers, now long dead, hung on the walls. She was vaguely surprised to see that Mother was not among them.

"Doctor Claymore?" She was amazed that her voice didn't shake. Was she supposed to use his professional title? I am Julianna St. Clare. Whatever happens, I deserve it

on 2013-10-30 07:30 pm (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
Cyrus Claymore was not what one expected of a man of his professional stature. A worried imagination might provide an idea of someone tall and imposing, with an expression as grave as the situation at hand. Doctor Claymore, however, was an older gentleman of average height and build, more paunchy than most members of the Council, as if he had a habit of taking too many servings at the table. He was black, and what hair remained on his head was short and gray. He only wore glasses when he read, which was something of an oddity in a field that demanded near-constant squinting at faded print.

“Ms. St. Clare, please, come in,” he said, beckoning from a large desk with an open hand. His office was large and tidy, the walls done in wood, a grandfather clock pendulum swinging in the corner. Shelves climbed floor to ceiling, each crammed with books and neat stacks of papers tucked into leather portfolios. In the corner sat a smaller desk with a typewriter, and by the windows, a pair of maroon wingback chairs. There was a pot of tea and two cups, a small pitcher of cream, a dish of sugar.

He stood up and walked to one of the chairs. “Have a seat.” The cushion sighed underneath his weight.

on 2013-10-30 10:06 pm (UTC)
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“Not at all.” He poured two cups of tea without asking and lumped sugar into his brew. “There’s no need to stand on formality. Call me Cyrus. May I call you Julianna?” The tone of his voice wasn’t warm, exactly, but it was frank. If the rumor mill was to be trusted, he was not putting on airs; no tyrant worked within these walls. Claymore was a congenial administrator, and he would be so in their interview, as long as it went according to his expectations.

He raised his cup and took a sip.

on 2013-10-31 02:03 am (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
"Mm. Well, these are hardly common circumstances." He set his cup on the little table and settled more comfortably in the chair. As his fingers laced loosely in his lap, Claymore more closely resembled a psychologist than a senior member of an organization tasked with diverting the apocalypse. From somewhere down the corridor, the sound of footsteps came to them, and then a heavy door closing on dry hinges.

"I understand you've just returned from America. You went against the Council's recommendation, did you not?"

on 2013-10-31 04:44 pm (UTC)
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“It’s interesting to hear your phrasing first-hand. ‘My’ slayer.” Claymore’s thumbs rubbed together and he fixed on her an inquisitive look. Seconds ticked by. A bird fluttered outside of the window pane, but he didn’t break his scrutiny of her. “I heard that you felt a particular attachment to the slayer. There is a reason that multiple watchers are tasked with the training of each of our assets, Julianna. We do it to avoid just this sort of attachment.” He jabbed at his knee, as if her false step was on display in his lap. “This misplaced sense of responsibility over her fate. It seems you were allowed too much time with her. It is a misstep we will avoid in the future.”

on 2013-10-31 10:13 pm (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
“No one has suggested it,” he said and spread his palms before her. “The slayer passed every test we put to her, and I stand by our determination that she was ready for the field. Her death was not a failure of the Council, but a consequence of her calling, a consequence that is both natural and necessary. The strongest slayers survive the longest in the field, and when they are no longer strong, they are replaced. Not by us, but by the perils of their calling.”

He shifted to pick up his cup of tea. “Such thinking may seem harsh, but our world, our very existence would have crumbled into dust long ago, were it not for this system. This tried and true system.”

on 2013-11-01 12:20 am (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
"And yet it's your use of pronouns that disturbs me, Julianna. My slayer. Your tests." He chuckled and shook his head, and when he next spoke, it was with pure conviction. Cyrus leaned forward, his thumb and forefinger pinching the air. "We are one entity, this Council. Any failure belongs to us all, but in this circumstance, there was no failure. A slayer was bested. If you believe she was not ready, then you imply a systemic failure of the process we have put in place -- one that has worked for centuries! -- rather than acknowledge an ugly yet simple truth... That girl met her match. If that is the case, I must call into question your faith in this organization, and we cannot afford to splinter."

He sat back.

"We grieve for a life cut short, yes. We grieve for a family who has lost its daughter. But we do not let it deter us. She accomplished more on this earth than most people will in eighty years."

on 2013-11-01 01:40 am (UTC)
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“Not arrogant,” he corrected. “Foolhardy.”

The watcher stood up and adjusted his suit jacket. He went to stand by the window and, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets, he looked at the grounds beyond the pane, the meticulous hedging of the property. “My interest is in whether we’ve lost two assets in this ordeal. The likelihood of your working with another slayer is minimal if you continue on this path. Please understand, it is not your tutelage that has been called into question. It is your disposition.”

on 2013-11-01 02:49 am (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
Cyrus narrowed his eyes in contemplation of the woman. She was a puzzle, at one moment apologetic for having developed a depth of feeling for a pupil, and in the next, defending those same methods. Loss was a tricky emotion, it was true, but he began to suspect Julianna St. Clare was correct when she diagnosed herself with arrogance.

Let no one cast aspersions on her performance, other than herself.

“A sabbatical might do you some good,” he agreed. “You can return to your research while you sort through what is proving to be a complicated response. And they believe we have it easy.” He snorted lightly. Cyrus walked around the back of his chair in the general direction of his desk.

on 2013-11-02 03:27 am (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
"It is alright that she matters. She ought to matter," said Cyrus, picking up a manila folder on his desk, weighing it in his palm, and then resettling it on another pile. He briefly rubbed the back of his head. "But there is no reason for it to cost you your career. Surely you told Allison that doubt cripples a slayer in battle. I put that same advice to you now. Doubt on a watcher is far worse. How can you instill confidence in your next pupil if you believe yourself to have failed?"

on 2013-11-03 12:57 am (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
“Yes. I had heard he went with you.” If Cyrus thought it was a questionable decision for either Watcher to make, he gave no visual indication of it. That was not the issue at hand, and there were other, more important concerns.

“Do you know what I have here?” he asked, changing gears and pressing a fingertip into the top of that paper pile. When he was done pointing, Cyrus folded his hands across his stomach. “It is the name and address of the young woman who was called, moments after Allison died. While you grieve, another girl is awakening to things about herself she never thought possible, and there is a target on her head. So my greatest concern is not the girl we lost, but the one we’ve yet to meet. The one who will need the capable guidance of this Council… the best we can give her. Right now, I cannot recommend you for that team, and that is a serious loss to this organization.”

His chair squeaked as he leaned up and took a pen from its holder. He began to write on a pad of paper.

“No. Hope is not enough. You must have, above all else, resolve.”

on 2013-11-03 03:05 am (UTC)
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Posted by [personal profile] birthright_npc
Cyrus leaned forward. “Put Allison to rest,” he said, not unkindly. “However you can, trusting in powers far greater than us that she played the part she was meant to play. Her death was beyond your control. It was meant to happen as it did. We know from prophesy that very little happens without predestination.” He linked his fingers, which made a dry sound as the skin chafed. “And put some distance between yourself and this place. When you’re ready to work with another slayer, we will welcome it.”

on 2013-11-03 04:08 am (UTC)
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“Of course,” he said, a phrase that encompassed all that Julianna had requested. “There may be an opportunity in South America later this year. If it comes to fruition, I will keep you in mind.” He stood up and took the cup of tea and saucer from the woman’s uncertain fingers, setting them aside on a table. Before she made for the door, he opened a desk drawer and withdrew a pair of unmarked envelopes. One held a copy of Allison’s final examination remarks, signed by several of what Julianna would consider trusted colleagues. The other contained compensation for air travel to America.

He handed them to her and returned his hands in his trouser pockets.

“You know, I had the opportunity to share a meal with Allison when she first arrived. She was a sweet girl.”

He went to the door to see her out.

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