Disclaimer: I do not own Vampire Academy or anything surrounding it (but I do own this plot :D)


JPOV

"See, I told you so."

"You most certainly did not-"

"Nope, I did – pay up, Jenny." He extended his hand and flexed his fingers, gesturing for me to hand over what he deemed he was owed. I, however, remained steadfast in my stubborn stance since no bet had actually been affirmed by both parties.

Emyl and I had just walked out of the compulsory collective meeting for all new personnel and, as predicted, it was dire. The head guardian – Georges Demort – was about as lively as his last name. He appeared to be a remaining fragment of pre-revolutionary France, with the same blind loyalty and acceptance of the hierarchal system and his place in it. And, much like the upper classes of that French society, he expected us to share this opinion. Around halfway through the meeting, Emyl and I got so bored that we began counting how many times Guardian Demort said he phrase: 'it is our honour'.

We got to 53.

"I totally said it would be over fifty." Emyl stated, finally conceding and moving his hand away. I rolled my eyes and continued to walk forward with Emyl at my side.

"So, what's in your fancy pack then?" I asked nodding towards the sealed envelope swinging with his arm, back a fourth like an unobstructed pendulum. Each attendee was given a sealed, 'confidential' envelope with our assignments and any and all details that would be necessary in our future careers. Naturally though, as soon as we were all out the door, everyone was opening theirs up and comparing with those around them. I had yet to open mine, but I was dying to see how much more exciting my life could have been as a personal guardian rather than, as Alastair so eloquently put it, 'your average peasant in a puddle'.

A life I could've had…

I squashed the sentiment almost as soon as it came into my head, chastising myself for being so pathetic. Emyl appeared blissfully unaware as he glanced down at his unopened pack and grinned. Stopping by the wall as we turned the corner, we both eagerly ripped open the envelopes like excited children at Christmas. Though, much like my Christmas', I was disappointed by what I found. Inside my gloriously confidential envelope were three pieces of paper: one that was a long and complex form that I had to fill out regarding my new position; the second was another form, though this one was asking for my shirt and trouser sizes for uniform and the final was a typed-up letter from Guardian Demort, concluding with:

Please report to Guardian H. Croft at 1400 hours

I scowled at my contents; it was the epitome of the most unhelpful feedback ever. I seriously considered marching back into that now vacant hall and demanding Guardian Demort explain himself for this packet of lunacy. Thankfully, I managed to compose myself; grunting loudly before looking over at Emyl and trying to stop my laughter at the look on his face. His features were consumed with confused horror as page after page fell out, each containing detailed accounts and profiles of Harriet and her immediate family. There was even a 'short' history of the Contas at the very end of his mountain of paperwork.

"Jesus! This has more stuff than Harriet's suitcases! How the hell did they fit it all in?" he exclaimed, occupying himself by studying the physics of how essentially the transcript of War and Peace had managed to squeeze itself into that small brown envelope. I snorted, failing somewhat to contain my amusement and Emyl narrowed his eyes towards me, glaring teasingly.

Maybe my three pages weren't so bad...

"Shit – have I got to read all of this!?" he said hoisting up the massive wodge of paper and gazing at me dumbfounded.

"I believe you: 'have to know it better than you know yourself'," I quoted, trying to mimic Guardian Demort's European accent.

Emyl huffed begrudgingly, "Well, guess what I'll be doing 'till bloody Easter." He grumbled and I smiled softly.

"Maybe it won't be too bad – at least you'll have Harriet to keep you company." I said in an attempt at reassurance but it had the opposite effect on me, making my tone waver towards that of a slightly damper mood.

Emyl, ever the observer, ceased in his faffing and looked up with a small smile. "Hey, don't worry, Jenny: you won't be alone in this. You are not defined by what you do, nor dictated by your career or position. Harriet and I will always be right beside you. Allies for life, right?" He finished with his signature smirk and I grinned back.

"Allies for life." I echoed the memory – a promise Emyl and I had made when we first started our training. Even our two child selves – socially ostracised by circumstances beyond our own – understood: it is important to have friends, if not then allies, in life. Yes, I would serve the Moroi – endeavouring to put them first in everything – but to do that without someone you could call friend? To commit yourself to your career and forgo any emotion or sentiment? What an empty life that would be.

And with that, we continued. I had arranged to meet up with Harriet later on that day; she'd insisted in showing me all the shops at Court and the pleading hope in her eyes made it all but impossible to refuse her, but that excitement was going to have to wait until after I had spoken to Guardian Cross – no, Croft. Emyl too had been summoned elsewhere: he was to meet the rest of the team he'd be serving with and to be briefed in the art of protecting the Contas. Thus, we walked together, talking of the little insignificant things that people do and laughing at past memories until we reached our divide and parted ways.

In spite of all its architectural glory, whoever designed the Royal Court was a blithering idiot. There were more twists and turns in these corridors than there were in the structure of DNA. Whilst all the offices for the Guardians were located on the third floor, getting from one to another involved going either up or down one or two flights of stairs and back again like in a naval ship. Albeit a seriously pampered naval ship. I got lost several times (for Guardian Demort had so delightfully not given me a map in amongst my three page 'highly confidential' pack) and I had to ask for directions which is mortifying enough when you are in a group, but on your own it is so much worse. I did find the office, and thankfully before two o'clock, but I was already embarrassed before I went in which gave me little in the way of hope when I actually had to speak to the man.

"Ah, Guardian Hathaway," shortly followed my entry before, "please, do be seated" followed that. I nodded stiffly, not managing the smile, and sat opposite Guardian Croft. He was younger than I thought he would be – early thirties perhaps. Guardian Demort was well into his fifties so I had just assumed all senior members would be around that age. He seemed pleasant enough as he looked up at me from his stack of paper that occupied most of his desk-space, but was mercifully disinterested enough to not notice my pathetically nervous attitude.

"So, I have looked over your scores and I must say: very impressive." He said, pulling up a file to the top of his paper mountain. "It seems you could have done anything with these results. What made you choose to be a Court Guardian?" he asked.

Well.

My nervousness was gone and what replaced it was an odd mix of irritation and resentment. Why didn't I choose another career path? Let's review the facts: it won't be much of a shock to hear that I didn't have much in the way of friends, especially not Moroi friends. Harriet was possibly the only one I would give the definition of 'friend' to. The others seemed to maintain the unspoken social hierarchy that stuck dhampirs like me – who weren't exactly what society deemed 'normal' – at the same level as a pile of shite. Then there was the previously stated issue of my mother. If you hadn't already guessed, we didn't get along. Elaine Hathaway wanted nothing to do with me and I had been reminded frequently of that. But what she did want was for me to not ruin her beloved reputation any more than I already had, hence her interference with my placement. She wanted me to keep my head down and just exist as though all my soul had been removed and all that remained was an automotive zombie. Though, unfortunately for her, my soul was very much still here and very much displeased at its current situation. God! If I, in the highly unlikely situation that it was, ever had a child, I would never put my career before their life; I would never do what my mother did to me. Never.

Obviously, I decided not to impart this internal little rant to Guardian Croft. Instead, I took a breath, mentally slapped myself and spoke with sufficient politeness and truth. "It was not my choice to make."

"Of course – duty must always come before personal preference." I wasn't sure whether he'd misinterpreted or just decided to ignore my double-edged meaning; either way, I wasn't about to argue. After another quick sweep of my file, Guardian Croft placed it back on his desk, clasped his hands and looked me in the eye. "So, Guardian Hathaway: you will be part of my team. Mostly, you'll be manning the wards, sometimes helping out at the bases, but mostly just ward duty. However, events pose slight variation: each team is on a rotation where they will be helping in guarding at royal parties and such. Your first one will be the upcoming Ivashkov party precisely three weeks from now. Clear so far?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. It's a six day shift, but sometimes you may be required to work Sundays. We meet at Base 34 on the upper-west side everyday at 06:00, but arriving early is always advisable. You have fully authorised and free excess to the gym facilities and are expected to maintain a constant level of health and fitness. Failing in doing this will not only result in your demise, but also the demise of those much more significant that you. Each shift is four hours long and you will always have three. Depending on the situation, shifts can be shifted and changed and it is always first-come, first-serve, which is way it is best to get there early. Set timetables are currently in the process of being made, but they need to be signed off by her royal highness and, frankly, she has more pressing matters than reshuffling guardian organisation." I thought I detected a bitterness in his tone as he said that, but had the sense enough to remain silent. Guardian Croft continued, telling me the dos and don'ts of our line of work and I must always remember to put the Moroi first in every situation.

They come first.

They really weren't joking when they said that – engraving it into our skulls so deep that if you were to strip away every thought and memory, that would be the last remaining one. I sat and listened, taking in every detail and every piece of information Guardian Croft gave me. In spite of his fading youth, he still seemed aged before his time – almost drained. But every so often there would be a change in his tone, a tiny spark of passion that could not be suppressed. That made me smile. When he finished, he asked me whether I had any questions of my own.

I asked if I could have a map.

That made him smile a little and he printed me a copy of the blueprints of the Royal Court, along with handing me my room key and an issued pager with instructions on how to use it. I thanked him and left shortly after, passing another young girl waiting for her briefing. I gave her a quick smile, but her face remained void of emotion as she looked towards me before walking in.

Rude. I thought. I laughed inwardly, externally shaking my head as I turned the corridor and made my way back where I had come. Thankfully, my memory served well and I was able to trek back to where Emyl and I had originally parted without having to unfold my extensive map and spend two hours just working out where I was. I decided that it would be best to learn this quickly which effectively declared what I would be doing for the rest of the day.

"Hathaway?" I skidded to a halt, not at the sound of my name, but of the voice that it came from. Every ounce of my body began desperately pleading that the voice would go away if I remained facing away. Alas, I had no such luck. "Janine fucking Hathaway!" My face contorted into a scowl and I lashed my body round to face the caller.

Behold – Tristan Drozdov: manipulative, cowardly, high-school tormentor who had the same unpleasant disposition as a bloody Strigoi. To give some perspective, I would happily take a full-front Strigoi attack over spending three seconds with this childish twat. Hell, I'd even prefer to talk to Alistair Kravitz. He got a kick out of making people's lives hell and the worst part was that he thought he was untouchable because of his family. The sad truth was he was right. It wasn't as though the Academy didn't try to punish him for his many, many, sins, but each time he would be bailed out by his arrogant father and over-zealous mother who believed him to be impossible of any wrong-doing.

And, unfortunately for me, my stubborn, unyielding yet easily-angered nature made for excellent entertainment to his lordship. In the fifth grade, I had been stuck next to him in my maths class which was about as brutal as it sounds, especially since he had very little interest in the subject we were supposed to be studying. It was there when he learned of my character and found great amusement in pushing all of my buttons, just to see which ones would strike a nerve and give him a reaction. Eight years later, and he still hadn't grown out of it, or indeed, grown up all together.

"Tristan." I said, smiling sickly as he approached with his band of ever so merry men. Luke Voda and Charlie Archer used to hang to Tristan like the plague and I was absolutely thrilled to see that that had not changed.

"Good God, what are you doing here?" Tristan said with his naturally slurred and muffled tone making him sound like he was suffering from a permanent cold.

"Working." I replied.

Why that one word was funny, I could not tell you. But it was apparently hysterical to the three Moroi in front of me who lost all composure as they erupting into laughter. I sighed and looked away, seriously wanting to just walk away, but knowing it would be completely futile. "Oh, she's 'working' now, lads." Tristan informed his posse which seemed to provoke another round of laughter.

I crossed my arms over and stood there tapping my foot, "Quite finished?" I asked and their laughter died down.

Once he had fully regained his usual state, Tristan spoke again: "Oh, I see that you have not changed one bit." He stated. "Just the same uptight, little loner. Still a virgin I take it?"

I was in no way going to give him an answer to that. With one final sigh, I turned on my heels and began walking away. I was vaguely aware of the mantra: they come first; they come first; they come first hissing away in my head, but I think the sheer fact that I had restrained myself from punching him in the face was something to be marvelled at.

As predicted, Tristan wouldn't just let me go so chased on after me, jumping in front of me. He knew better than to lay a hand on me; I could still see the disfigured thumb that came as a result of it. "Hey, where are you going? I ain't done talking."

"Really? That's unfortunate because I am." I made to move around him.

He blocked my path with a side step. "Now, now – that is no way to speak to your superiors. Show a little respect."

Respect is earned to self-absorbed dick! "If you don't like the way I speak to you, I won't speak to you at all." I said and made to move again only to be blocked.

"I told you, I wasn't done talking." He replied with a growl.

"And I said I was. Let me go."

"No."

"No?"

"Yeah."

I smiled. "Thanking you." I said, making to move round him again.

It took him a moment to realise his mistake. "Wait, that's not what I meant."

"Well, it's what you said." I pointed out. "Look, just go and bother someone else. I am really not in the mood."

The self-absorbed grin returned, "Well, maybe I can get you in the mood..."

"Oh, for the love of-!" I exclaimed, pushing past him but not getting very far as Luke and Charlie blocked my path. "Right, what do you want?" I said turning back to the leader of this infuriating pack.

Tristan just shrugged. "To talk. Catch up. We're maths buddies, remember? How are things going?"

"Fantastic. Now, can you let me leave?"

"But you haven't asked how I'm doing."

"That's because I don't care."

"That's not very polite. I'm sure your supervisors will not be pleased to hear you are not being very nice to the people you are supposed to be protecting." He said with a pout. I gritted my teeth indignantly before I spoke again.

"How are you, Mr Drozdov-"

"Lord Drozdov."

"How are you, Lord Drozdov?" I corrected with an indisputable temper.

He smiled, pondering over his answer. "Well, I'm not too bad. I mean, I could be better. You wouldn't believe the rudeness I have had to put up with this afternoon."

"How awful for you. Though are you sure it wasn't deserved." I responded curtly.

"I have been nothing but a perfect gentleman."

"Really? Because a gentleman wouldn't keep a lady against her will."

"Ha! You think you are a lady!" he roared in laughter and I bit my tongue to hold back any further comment. "Oh, I forgot how much fun it is talking to you."

"Glad to be of service." I muttered sarcastically.

"I bet you are." He winked and I resisted yet another urge to slap him.

"Right, now that we have 'caught up', I'd like to get back to my life now, so: bye." I said and made to leave, again, but was, again, stopped.

"Life!? What life?" he exclaimed, "Janine Hathaway doesn't have a life."

"Well, I think that is a matter of opinion." I moved to pass him. He blocked. I was now seriously struggling not to hurt him. "Let me go."

He seemed taken aback by my assertion to the point he found it comical, "I'm sorry, did you just give me an order?"

"No, I asked you to let me leave."

"Oh, to me it sounded very much lik-"

"The lady has asked to leave," a new voice joined the conversation and I was shocked beyond all belief when I looked round to discover who it was and met his blazingly intimidating gaze.

Ibrahim.

Tristan seemed unaffected by his heavy presence but I remained steadfast in my astonishment of the Moroi who stood not three feet away, casually with his hands in the pockets of his suit. The former Moroi snorted before clearing his throat and regaining some composure. "Sorry, and who are you?" Tristan asked, giggling as he did.

I snapped my head round from where it had been facing Ibrahim and glared at Tristan, really, really wanted to punch him right in his stupid face. Fuck propriety. He was a horrible person and I would not allow him to belittle or mock another person, especially if it was on my account, like a demonic child who thinks he has definitive power because he has the best shoes or something about as pitiable.

Ibrahim, however, remained as cool and as collected as ever. He seemed bored with Tristan's juvenile behaviour yet there was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he spoke, "I am someone who knows exactly what happened at the Zeklos Yuletide ski retreat." Tristan lost all colour in his face and he froze in horror and the amusement in Ibrahim's eyes had down spread to the rest of his features. "Now, how unfortunate would it be if that little indiscretion were to make itself known around the circles of higher society. Dear Tatiana does adore gossip."

Tristan now looked sick at the thought to the point that water began to fill his eyes. He looked nervously at Ibrahim whose expression had retracted its original humour and replaced it with a menacing glare. "Come on, lads. Let's go." He said shakily which caused his posse to look at one another with confusion.

Ibrahim, evidently pleased, allowed a smile to seek onto his lips but the menace remained. "An excellent choice, Mr Drozdov."

Tristan didn't even bother correcting Ibrahim and I don't think I have ever seen anyone move faster away from something in all 18 years of my life. Within a blink, he had darted around the corner and I was left gobsmacked at what had just happened.

"My, my, Guardian Hathaway: first I find you standing alone, next with the worst that our species has to offer? You really aren't good at this 'acquaintance' thing." Ibrahim chuckled as he too observed Tristan's frantic escape.

Rekindling my earlier flare, I turned back to Ibrahim forcefully and glared, "I had that under control."

"Sure you did." He replied, though not at all agreeing with me.

My glare increased. "I did. And I don't appreciate you butting in. I can fight my own battles."

"You know, most people would say thank you." He inclined his head as if he were conducting a deeper assessment of the object in front of him.

That object being a very pissed off me. "Yeah, well: I'm not most people." And with that, I stormed away. Having already spent five minutes with Tristan Drozdov, to then have to deal with another stuck-up Moroi was just a step too far. It wasn't the fact that this Moroi was Ibrahim, it was the fact that it was he who managed to get Tristan to go away. No-one fights my battles for me. That is something I pride myself on; I don't have many virtues, but I am good with a stake and I would not allow some Moroi – who was still very much a stranger to me and in both of the two encounters I had with said Moroi left me feeling either angry or uncomfortable – to take that away from me. What if word got out that Janine Hathaway is too weak to stand up for herself and has to be saved like some pathetic damsel in some damned children's book!? I could wave goodbye to any effort to be a good guardian. I would be labelled as weak; as a coward. No. I would not allow that. I can't allow that.

Clearly, I needed to stay well away from this Ibrahim Mazur.