Arcane Exfil

“Have I ever mentioned how much I seriously hate, loathe… disdain meetings?” Ethan grumbled as a guard led them through the halls.

“Well shoot, don’t reckon I’ve heard that one before.” Miles didn’t even blink at Ethan’s little comment. “Maybe the hundredth time’s the charm.”

“In that case… have I ever mentioned–”

Miles cut him off with a smirk. “Man, don’t even start. Shit’s gonna be annoying enough when we step inside.”

Cole couldn’t blame the guy. A decade-plus of briefings had taught him bureaucracy was bureaucracy, whether it came with stars, suits, or whatever passed for authority here. Of course, he always knew where he stood – the boundaries between agencies, the pecking order, the whole dance.

The only difference between the various agencies and leaders was how asinine they got about operational support. Different agencies, same half-assed bullshit: here’s the target, intel might be good or might get you killed, figure it out yourself, and oh yeah we can't give you the tools you actually need. At least here they’d burned resources just getting his team on the ground.

Granted, Delta opened doors that stayed shut for everyone else. Walking into a room with three different power structures, each with their own stake in how this played out – it wasn’t anything new, but now they were ‘heroes.’ What weight did that carry in a world desperate enough to summon them? Hopefully, a few more privileges than what they were afforded back home.

“Probably won’t be too bad. I mean, hey, they need us. They need us badly – I can tell, despite their offer of letting us play civvie,” Cole said. “Hell, the King wouldn't have shown up at our bedside otherwise.”

“Fair ‘nuff,” Miles said.

The guard murmured something to his counterpart at the chamber doors. A moment later, they entered to the herald's announcement: “Lieutenant Cole Mercer, Sergeant Miles Garrett, Sergeant Ethan Walker of the United States Army.”

The herald paused, then gestured toward the four men seated together on one side of the rectangular table in the center of the room. “At the head, The Right Honorable Alrick Varesset, Prime Minister of the Crown. To his right, Director-General Cullen Fernal of the Office of Threat Assessment and Control, Sir Fotham Fallamore of the Office of Thaumaturgy, and General Aldam Gallahad, Commander of His Majesty's Armed Forces.”

Three different agencies at one table – four, if the Crown counted – and not a hint of the usual territorial pissing. Who knew an existential threat could be such an effective antidote to bureaucratic infighting?

“Gentlemen. Please, take your seats,” the Prime Minister greeted them. “I dare say your first evening in Celdorne proved rather more eventful than intended. Though, they have rather thoroughly validated His Majesty's choice in summoning. The Crown now seeks to formalize your service to the Kingdom. We have prepared articles of service befitting your role as Slayers. The nature of your duties shall require proper accord between His Majesty's forces and the Office of Threat Assessment and Control.”

Alrick passed copies of the document to each of them. “While your status as the Crown’s chosen heroes afford certain privileges, I should articulate that it also carries obligation in equal measure.”

He paused, turning to a man in another brigandine piece, but with a light mesh overlay on top. A bit overkill for a meeting, but not really out of place considering the recent incident. More interesting was the fact that this guy looked almost as clean as the mustachioed general beside him -- all except for one minor detail. Healing magic could get rid of scars, but apparently it couldn't get rid of the tired stare behind his facade of composure; the eyebags borne of seeing shit no one should ever have to see. “Director-General Fernal, if you would?”

Cullen cleared his throat. “Let’s start with your compensation. Fifty crowns monthly. Each.” He paused, likely hoping the number would impress them – fat chance when they had no frame of reference. It didn’t take the Director-General long to read the room though. “More than some regional merchants see in a month. But then… we expect more than what merchants deliver.”

The fact that the man didn’t say anything like ‘local merchant’ or ‘village merchant’ was telling enough. Definitely not East India Company levels of stacked, but regional merchants would still be running decent-sized operations between cities – likely enough to live like whatever passed for multi-millionaires around here.

Well, it was good to know they valued their demon hunters. Concerning to know just how much they thought they needed to, though. The rest of the package reflected that kind of commitment. ŗ

Cullen moved down the document – full medical care they’d gotten a taste of already, a whole-ass house provided by OTAC upon completion of their training, and equipment privileges a notch below what Cole had seen on the King’s personal guard. Not quite what he’d been hoping for, but time and performance would get them better gear, he was sure of it. Those iridescent scales were already calling his name. Or… whatever he might find out in the field, apparently.

“Spoils rights?” he asked.

“Yes, the arrangement does include material considerations.” Cullen studied Cole, probably trying to gauge his reaction. “Recovery rights. Salvage. You’ll find our accounting methods most accommodating in that regard. Incentive, to put it lightly – should the threat of extinction be insufficient.”

Fotham had mentioned that before – extinction. After last night, Cole had zero doubts about what that meant. All those anime shows, with their tragic misunderstood demon races looking for peace? Ain’t no way could he reconcile that with a coordinated infiltration and assassination attempt.

And if that’s how Celdorne really felt, then the command structure that followed probably had some flexibility built in – hush-hush concessions – even if it looked rigid on paper. Celdorne’s tech, or lack thereof, probably gave another point to that. No radios? No micromanagement. Hard to backseat drive when the higher-ups couldn’t even reach the driver, after all.

Though that cut both ways. No quick calls for support, no real-time coordination with other units, unless they somehow got pocket Scrying Panes sitting around. They’d be truly operating independently, whether anyone liked it or not. Might even work in their favor – nothing quite like comms limitations to force command to trust their judgement in the field.

Still, the whole setup reeked of potential clusterfucks. If they had to work jointly with regular military units, then how? They’d use… what, runners? Signal flags? Trying to navigate these clauses was challenging enough when Cole barely understood how OTAC or their Army functioned beyond basic organization – or how their weapons felt.

As lacking as his intel was, seeing their proposal was still helpful. They’d sketched out some basics in preparation for this meeting back at the infirmary; now they had the actual terms to work with – or around. Better to step aside, get their arguments straight, list out the changes they’d need to implement.

“Prime Minister, Director-General. Would you mind if we took a few minutes to review these terms in detail?”

“Of course,” the Prime Minister replied. “Please, take whatever time you require. The antechamber through that door should serve adequately for your discussion.”

Cole led the way into the other room, Miles and Ethan following. The door’s solid thunk behind them would keep this private. And if the Celdornians could secretly listen in with magic, well, there was simply nothing they could do.

Ethan got the first word in, of course. “So, pay’s solid, at least.”

Cole put the document on a side table. “Not that we know what a crown buys, exactly. But hey, regional merchant money is regional merchant money.”

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“Great benefits, too, can’t lie. A house and free healers? Hell, that’s a sight better than sittin’ in base housing, hopin’ Tricare don’t leave you hangin’. Only thing missin’s a retirement package.”

Ethan snorted. “Pretty sure 50 crowns a month is the retirement package.”

“Yeah, can’t argue with that.” Miles shrugged. “But gear-wise? I’m guessin’ these Slayers’re a step up from the ol’ off-the-rack specials?”

Cole nodded. And if those badass rifles they came across earlier were simply standard issue, who knew what OTAC had in store for their Slayers? “Most likely, but we can ask to confirm. Same with the stuff about authority; doesn’t really say in here, does it?”

“Ain’t find shit.” Miles squinted at his copy. “Wait – ‘You shall be vested with legal and civil authority equal in measure to that of Slayer Captains, and empowered to act in like capacity under the laws and ordinances governing such office.’ Doesn’t say nothin’ ‘bout Slayer Captains, though.”

“Yeah, we’ll ask about that too. You guys got anything else?” Cole glanced at the others. Both of them shook their heads. “Alright. I wanna go over the main concern.”

Ethan leaned over a chair. “Same thing that got Miles riled up, I’m betting.”

“That dumbass autonomy clause,” he groaned.

“We ain’t getting carte blanche right off the bat,” Cole said. “Might take a while. Last night’s a compelling argument, though. We did all that with no hand-holding.”

Miles crossed his arms. “We’re still a question mark. Far as they’re concerned, coulda just been dumb luck.”

“Maybe. So we roll with their setup for now. Training period, oversight, whatever. But with our own conditions. Show ‘em how we work, make it clear last night wasn’t a fluke. Make ‘em see that it worked because we called our own shots.”

“Like breaching the walls,” Ethan added.

“Yeah. So we have them agree to ramp up. Maybe something like a notch looser for each successful mission, or over time. Then we revisit that Fernal guy, or whoever he sends, and reevaluate; push for more room.”

“Yeah, sounds solid,” Miles agreed, Ethan nodding alongside.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The officials looked up as they walked back in – probably done with their own little side chat.

“Gentlemen,” Alrick said. He glanced down at an open notebook that no doubt contained contingencies upon contingencies. “Have you reached any conclusions?”

“Some.” Cole dropped back into his seat. “We’re gonna need to clarify some stuff, though. First, this bit about Slayer Captain authority – what does that actually mean? Jurisdiction, operational scope, all that.”

“You will operate at your own behest in all matters of demonic or cultist activity,” Cullen answered. “Local enforcement – police, sheriffs, marshalls, town guards – they serve at your discretion.”

Sounded a bit iffy. Not that he was complaining with the powers of an inquisitor, being the recipient of such privileges and all. Still was kinda fucked up, being Big Brother himself. “And who decides that? Us? Someone else?”

Cullen didn’t hesitate. “You. You investigate as necessity dictates. Approval is not required. The understanding, of course, is that this authority serves my Office alone. The Crown does not tolerate overreach. Censure. Dismissal. Or worse, depending on how far one’s ambitions might stray.”

“And… investigation includes anyone, right? Law enforcement themselves? Nobles?”

Cullen let out a slow breath. “It does, yes. And you can imagine, exercising that authority with certain… individuals requires careful handling. Some are less inclined to cooperate than others. Police can be territorial. Nobles, defensive. Both, stubborn. You will have the authority to act, of course, but it’s often wise to ensure your actions are as unimpeachable as your intent. Noble grievances, justified or not, can be rather troublesome.”

Miles snorted faintly beside him. Cole resisted the urge to mirror it. Troublesome sure was one way to put it, and hopefully, he’d never have to find out. “Lots of privileges for Slayers, then. I imagine the weapons aren’t exempt?”

This got a different reaction – almost like a coworker perking up when mentioning the game last night instead of droning on about printer refills. He smiled. “Our equipment exceeds conventional standards. Mithril alloys, enchantments, quality necessitated by the threats we face.”

Cole raised an eyebrow. “Better than the King’s Guard?”

“Scarcely. However, veteran Slayers, specialized units – those under my direct command – they carry comparable arms. Sometimes superior. Standard Slayer equipment proves… adequate for most encounters. Far better than what the good General equips his men with, should that be your concern.”

Miles gave a soft scoff. “Adequate, huh?”

Cullen glanced his way, unfazed. “It keeps Slayers breathing. Custom provisions, you understand, must be earned. No exceptions, even for heroes. Advanced enchantments? Specialized tools? Prove yourselves worthy, and you may earn the privileges of demonstrated competence.”

Cole tilted his head up a bit. “Demonstrated competence.”

Cullen didn’t blink, but he for sure knew what the repetition implied.

But just in case he needed that extra push… “Last night was a bit of a surprise. VIPs getting hit wasn’t in anyone’s playbook, but even despite that, we spotted the infiltration, pulled the defense together, and dropped the bastards. Hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to learn any offensive magic, either.”

“A commendable effort,” Cullen admitted. “But one engagement –”

Cole cut him off gently. “Doesn’t prove anything long-term, sure. But it builds precedence.” He navigated to the command structure and autonomy section in their proposal. “Precedence, I’m confident, that justify some adjustments to your terms.”

Cullen leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

“Simple structure. We’ll agree to the standard privileges you’ve outlined, expand after training’s complete, then full autonomy – or, at least, mounting autonomy after we earn some trust. Having a say in missions, mission parameters…”

“Yes, that is reasonable. I can grant your team certain flexibilities now, given recent events.” Cullen tapped his chin. “We may revisit your privileges after each successful mission.”

Good. They’d had to do the same for Delta; only fair it was the same here. “I suppose we’ll be dealing with the standard metrics? Outcomes, how well we achieved them, losses, and so on?”

“Indeed.” The single word carried finality.

Cole glanced at his team. Satisfactory enough, based on their nods. “Alright; I can agree to that. One condition, though: my team stays intact, and under my command.”

“Ah, but your team must evolve to meet its challenges. What say you, should we find compatible additions? Potions, after all, are no substitute to a skilled healer's touch.”

Cole paused. Yeah, Cullen got him there. Mack’s condition already left enough of a hole in their composition. “Compatible additions we’ll consider; contingent on our approval. Splitting us up though? Not happening.”

“Acceptable.” Another response where the man didn’t hesitate; probably expected this.

A deeper voice interjected – General Gallahad, speaking for the first time since the meeting started. “And should you prove your worth to the Director-General, I'd be willing to grant similar considerations for operations with my forces. Lieutenant, you’ve served in this ‘United States Army’ for some time, I expect?”

“Eight years,” Cole replied. “Special operations, mostly.”

“Capital. Then you understand the coordination of disparate units.” The General’s mustache twitched. “I should be most pleased to hear how your forces manage such endeavors. No doubt you’ve insights for us?”

Smart guy. Cole’s weapons alone probably told Gallahad everything he needed to know about where they came from – a place centuries ahead in military development. No wonder he wanted to pick their brains about modern doctrine. “Happy to share what I can, General.”

“Very well. Then we’ll explore further once you’ve completed your training with Sir Cullen’s office.”

“If there are no other matters to address?” Alrick glanced around the table. “Sir Fotham?”

Fotham shrugged. “We’ve little say in the matter regardless, but yes, the terms are satisfactory thus far.”

“And our heroes?”

“Alright by me,” Ethan said.

Miles’ subsequent agreement was all Cole needed to finalize the deal. “Yeah, we’re ready to sign off on it.”

“Excellent.” Alrick motioned to a scribe who’d been quietly scratching away in the corner. “The revised articles shall be prepared momentarily.”

About ten minutes later, the scribe presented the stack of copies to Alrick. Cole reviewed his new copy – everything seemed alright. He wasn’t the best with this Founding Father-ass legalese, but the document was short enough that it’d be impossible to miss a hidden clause.

The Celdornians signed first, then passed it to Cole.

He signed, then passed it to Miles and Ethan. Left a spot for Mack – whenever he finally woke up.

Alrick collected the signatures. “We shall have these processed immediately. Good day, gentlemen.”

That only left one last question. “Director-General,” Cole turned to Cullen. “What’s next?”

“We’ll need some time to conduct our internal review first; ensure the Office is free of infiltrators. In the meantime, I believe it prudent that you and your team learn basic elemental magic, as per Director Fallamore’s recommendation.”