Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing or any of its characters etc.
Chapter 1 : Trepidation
A shadow-merging silhouette of disciplined grace flickering with each passing shaft of silken silver hue continued undeterred, each curt clip of the moonlit parquet resounding through the vacant halls, accompanied only by an occasional shaken breath. The silent walk from the depth of the mansions stonewalled cellars had begun with a forced surge of determination and grit, both brought on by several hours of self-coaxing, internal conflict, and of course the logical assurance that the occurrence itself was inevitable.
Intentional procrastination, or indeed any attempt at delay would only further agitate such an unpredictable situation. 'Best get it over with.' Had mentally echoed every step, every stair and every door. Still, one could not quench the frosty burn of unreasoned fear and static nerves that prickled within at the thought of total humiliation by reprimand or, worse still, the disappointed and damning looks of blame that only serve to deepen the pangs of self-accusation and complete failure.
But this damnation was her reward for such carelessness, not for her life, but those of the soldiers serving beneath her, those whom had trusted themselves, without judgement, to her, both loyal and dedicated in their service. To each bloody and torturous death she had led them; a superior, a commander, a friend. There was no punishment, she understood, just enough for her crimes nor was there a reversal for the pain and grief caused, she would accept her dealings without any offer of justification nor pathetic excuse in the face of her superior's severity.
For in truth, no punishment dealt by another could overshadow the wrenches of guilt or the singed memories of gore that flooded her, their agony-twisted faces that still pleaded for her aid, for anyone's and eventually for their own blissful end. Forevermore, every moment her eyelids closed or sleep slowly lulled her thoughts she would see those faces and the uniformed stretch of nameless, dull granite gravestones. Forevermore she would hear the harsh wretches of mourning wives or grieving parents, each and every innocent curiosity of naive children, those yet too young to comprehend the finality of death.
Even the silence and blank stares of the emptied individuals who were now left to face this harsh reality alone, struck something deep within her, perhaps her realization that this was her reaction when, as a small child, she had stood at her fathers grave completely unresponsive, uncaring and unaware of the silent trails that stained her rosy cheeks. She knew their pain, she knew their blame and she knew it was deserved.
After three shuddering pounds of the grand oak door, none nearly as loud as the thunderous, bloodthirsty wringing of her deadened heart, and a succession of deep breaths, she waited. Waited for the call that would deliver her to her executioner, the futile hope still lingering that beyond the heavy, arched doors lay an empty office. Fidgeting, she fixed her lapels, tugged the hem of her skirt and ruffled her hair, the silence growing, now a thumping pulse in her ears.
"Enter." The calm, ice voice sliced through any illusions of her actions being overlooked, Integra with her warmth of a frozen corpse was most certainly angry. At once her cool façade was deciphered, her tones recognised as those she reserved for intimidation, clear and decisive execution and strictly impersonal discipline.
'Into the lions den.' With a last deep grasp of unneeded air the young commander grasped the cold iron handle, swiftly revealing herself, flooding the barren halls with the blue taint of the full moon now visible in its magnificent entirety.
The room was dark, an inky intangible mass bathed in only the natural radiance of the night that had proudly revealed itself amongst the velvet cobalt background, sprinkled with the occasional diamond twinkle. A rigid silhouette interrupted her view beyond the great glass window of the office, a gentle waft of smoky tendrils floating across the cratered silver surface that seemed so close; she had never seen it look so beautiful.
Alucard lingered among the shadows at the far corner of the room, his vantage point to survey the interesting scene that was about to stage. A master of the shadows, he coagulated seamlessly, unsure as to whether his master even knew of his presence. Then again, she seemed unnaturally perceptive for a human, or perhaps it was his constant talent for appearing at the most inappropriate moments that she had come to not only predict, but also expect.
The policegirl, he was certain, remained oblivious, such was the limited perceptions of the naive and delicate child he was most loath at times to refer to as his second. It seemed the girl would never learn and as such he would never teach, until the time came when she would show some worthiness, some spirit and at the very least willingness to embrace the true power of the nosferatu, his brethren. Until that moment he would not waste his time, his pride would not allow it, he had no time for her indecision and weakness. He would accept it neither from his master nor the soldiers beneath her and so he most certainly would not accept it from his fledgling, there was no excuse.
But he had not yet given up hope, for there were signs. There were signs of acceptance; times when he could see her treasure with pride her newfound life and abilities. He watched as she stepped stiffly forward, her gaze held level; she had not dropped her eyes to the floor, a miracle in itself. He was somewhat respectful of her for accepting what was sure to be a firm reprimand, in the very least, as opposed to hiding her face in an pathetic attempt at unvoiced pleading.
It was as she entered he noticed her captivation with the view, the silent majesty of the full moon. He too had found great beauty in this night's glorious skies, for all creatures of the night the moon was a comforting, soothing caress were the sun was a harsh, thirsting burn, but tonight its silvery glow and selfish swallow of the sky from behind the crossed panes of the window only served to taunt him, his only desire to be free once more to wander beneath its embrace.
Policegirl had appeared almost hypnotised by its magnificence, oblivious, once more, to its hidden mockery. But the hidden twinkle that fluttered beneath those lashes had not escaped his attention and he realised that she had been somewhat instinctively drawn to its seductive splendour. 'Indeed, there is hope for her yet.'
She watched Integra's unmoving figure linger before the window in what she could only assume was contemplation, but not for her judgement in this situation, no Integra was never one to mull over a decision or feel even the most minute pangs of regret, it was just not in her nature. A natural born leader, she was decisive, cold and even ruthless in her orders, never one to be disobeyed or let down. The young girl respected her ability to command, and even somewhat looked up to her, realizing she would never attain such independence or doubtless self-confidence.
As the strangling, silent minutes passed, each more suffocating than the last, she resisted the urge to loudly clear her throat and stuffed her trembling hands into a formal grasp behind her back. Showing her selfish fear would not do at all, but only serve to discredit her apparent decision to accept her fate and show at last some form of courage, she deserved this, if not only to offer some form of retribution to her comrades' memories.
Eventually, Integra, stark blond hair framing a set of bespectacled ice blue eyes, turned, walking rigidly to her imposing oak desk, eyes closed, settled into her leather chair crossing one leg over the other and released a held sigh.
The commander noticed the slightly slouched posture as she dropped the file from her nimble fingers, splaying the images she had so often recounted in not only her nightmares but also every waking moment, across the gleaming surface. She finally opened her eyes, revealing her icy glare with a hint of what could only be placed as slight exasperation to stare at the slight form standing patiently, if not anxiously, before her.
The young girl instantly recognised the slight tilt of the head, purse of the lips and straight, numb stare with a single raised brow, she could see her superiors hands clasped firmly on her lap, thumbs tightly pressed against one another. It was her main dread of this encounter, the one question she could not even fathom a reply to, let alone predict the reaction to anything she might have used in some attempt at a coherent sentence.
And then,with complete, unaffected monotone, she spoke, "Explain."
