"The Organization"
By: SniperWolf
DISCLAIMER
(SniperWolf, our fearless (read: foolish) author, it seated in the office of Sir Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. She is seated quite comfortably in Integra's chair, lounging with her feet on the desk, smoking one of Integra's cigars.)
S (niper) W (olf): (haughtily) Yes, I do own Hellsing. I admit to it. Why, yes, I am a genius, thank you for noticing. Really, even I'm impressed with me.
(Integra comes up behind her, but SW fails to notice her, even as she grabs a letter opener off of the desk)
SW: I tell you, originally I wasn't sure this would work but, really, I can't take all the credit. You see, it all started when I was born…
(Integra smacks SW's across the back of her head, and with the other hand brings the letter opener to SW's throat. Integra nods, and out of nowhere Alucard appears on her other side, and holds the Jackal to SW's head.)
Integra: Do it right.
SW: (Gulps) Yes ma'am. (Integra hands her an index card, which SW promptly begins to read from) I, SniperWolf, do not own Hellsing, any of its characters, or any of its story. I am, however, the owner of Inspector Cunard and various other unimportant not-as-cool-as…do I really have to say this?
Integra: Damn right you do.
SW: not-as-cool-as-Integra-Hellsing-or-Alucard secondary characters that come up across the story. (Looks at card quizzically) Wait, do I have to say this? What does this next part have to do with the disclaimer at all?
Integra: (Digs letter opener farther into SW's throat) Say it.
SW: Also let it be known that I am a horrible, horrible wuss, I'm afraid of dogs, I've never seen The Goonies, and that my very existence is a ghastly mistake which will ruin lives, frighten small children, and bruise fruit. Not necessarily in that order. (Slowly the guns and letter openers are put away. TCE looks annoyed, throws down index card) I AM NOT!
Alucard: Hey, you said it, not us.
Walter: (From downstairs) Dammit, why is all the fruit always bruised?! Don't we have any decent fruit in this entire manor?!
Integra: (Smirking) I rest my case.
SW: Oh, shut up.
Chapter One: Rational Conclusions
Inspector Alexandra Cunard, sighed, kicking her black boots up onto her desk and reaching into the front pocket of her shirt for a cigarette, and looked out the window. She has never really liked the scenery in London—of course, considering all the rain, she reasoned, she never really got a chance to enjoy it. For a while she remained in that position, looking out the window of her dimly-lit Scotland Yard office, watching the cars passes by and listening to the rain hit the pavement below. The sound had an almost hypnotic quality to it, but eventually she turned away, turning instead to the paperwork on her desk.
The number of murders had been much higher than usual this summer. Piles of cases rested on the Inspector's desk, a desk which was beginning to creak under the weight. Each case unsolved, each gathering dust, each threatening to be the one that would bring the commissioner down to her damp basement level office to take her badge from her. And they were all beginning to look the same now—a victim, male or female, somewhere between 16 and 50, drained of blood, sucked bone dry. Some who's time of death could be put thirty-six to forty-eight hours before the time they finally hit the pavement, or the sidewalk, or the floor of the office building.
Fourteen coworkers who said, "Yeah, so-and-so was acting kinda strange, but I chalked it up to…"
Thirty-six neighbors who said, "Nah, I didn't notice anything weird…"
Thirty-nine mothers who started crying in the living room, and thirty-two fathers who said, "I always knew this'd happen some day…."
And no perpetrators—yeah, there was that. No logical ones anyway. The only evidence found on few of the scenes was the occasional blood spatter from a person other than the victim or a pile of dust. A shell casing here or there that didn't match any gun in the book.
"I tell you, this was the biggest mistake of my life," Cunard muttered, taking a slow drag on her cigarette.
Inspector Peter Kerns, the officer who shared an office with her, looked up from desk on the other side of the room and smirked. "You say that every day."
"Well, it was," Cunard insisted.
Kerns chuckled. "I'm not sure. Personally, I think that you say that so often that it's lost all meaning, even to you. And besides, secretly, this place has grown on you. You'd never admit it, but it has."
"No it hasn't," Alex muttered, putting out her cigarette on the arm of the chair and wiping the ash on the floor, then discarding the cigarette in a nearby wastepaper basket. "Useless paperwork, endless water cooler gossip, and another dead body waiting for me around every turn. How the fuck could places like this 'grow on me'?"
"It has. Why else would you come here everyday?" Kerns asked, running a hand through his thick black hair and readjusting his glasses. "It can't just be that you feel the need to bitch at someone other than your own reflection."
Cunard looked at him, her expression quizzical, and Kerns sighed. In her past three years here, Cunard remained somewhat of a mystery to him. About five-foot-eight and lean in build, Alex Cunard was an American—born and raised in Back Bay Boston; Kerns had spent some time in the US and could tell by her achingly genteel accent—who had emigrated at the age of twenty-four. A former United States Marine, his partner had a commanding presence, and had a posture that proclaimed that, though she was a relaxed individual, she could deal with anything. Though only twenty-seven, she was an extraordinarily decorated officer, and by far the youngest inspector in decades. She was also an albino—her long, snowy white hair was expertly cut and tied back neatly, and her red eyes were carefully hidden behind circular sunglasses. A dark scar across her throat marked her as either incredibly foolhardy or incredibly lucky. Clad in a pair of black pleated pants and a long-sleeved black pinstriped shirt that was clearly made for a man, she appeared almost spectral.
"Go home," Kerns muttered, shaking his head. "Go get some sleep. You're starting to obsess."
Cunard smirked, grabbing the black blazer she had draped over her chair earlier that afternoon and putting it on. "Are you telling me that I shouldn't be doing everything in my power to find the men responsible for these killings, Peter?"
"No," Peter sighed. "I'm trying to—you're burning yourself out, Alex. And we both know it. How many packs of cigarettes have you gone through today?"
"I hardly think that's pertinent to—"Alex began.
"How many?"
"Two…ish," Alex admitted.
"I've seen a lot of guys do it; they get so wrapped up in a case and in the dead that they forget about the living. I'm just saying there's bound to be a rational explanation for all of this if we just think it through rather than jumping to insane, impossible conclusions. And you obsessing over it isn't going to make it come any faster."
"What insane conclusion? I haven't jumped to an insane conclusion. I haven't jumped to any conclusion, and that, my dear Inspector Kerns, is why we have a problem!" Cunard snapped, her tone a bit more defensive than it had been before. As she spoke, she removed a silver watch from her pocket, checked the time, smirked and replaced it in her pocket.
"Oh really?" Kerns smirked, and pointed to a rectangular bulge in Cunard's blazer pocket. "Then why did you start reading Dracula, Inspector Cunard?"
"Oh, this?" Cunard said, pointing to her pocket. "This? This is nothing, Peter, you know that I'm not superstitious or anything, my God, vampires, what a ridiculous notion—I'm clearly………I'm taking a class."
"What?" Kerns said, resting his head on his hand. "Lying Badly 601? You're clearly on the post-grad level in that particular subject."
"Err," Cunard said, grabbing her fedora off of top of the coat rack by the door to their office. "It's a course on Freudian theory. Clearly, after all, the vampire represents the new deviant, dangerous sexuality of the late nineteenth century, while the vampire hunters represent sexual repression in the form of the bourgeoisie marriage and overly spiritualized relationships………you aren't buying a word of this, are you?"
"Nope. It sounded petty convincing though, for a second."
"Damn."
"But you and I both know that there is no such thing as vampires," Kerns said, shaking his head. "And therefore, it is impossible for them to have killed any of those people. There's bound to be—"
"—a rational conclusion," Cunard finished in monotone.
"Exactly."
"But, Peter, I never said—you know that I don't believe in—look, I know that it's—"
"Uh-huh," Peter said, returning to his paperwork. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, Alex."
"Really, Pete—"
"Good night, Alex."
Inspector Cunard lit up another cigarette as she left the Scotland Yard building. Shutting her eyes, she took a long drag on her cigarette before heading down a dark side street toward her shitty little studio apartment. Looking up in disgust, she noticed that the streetlights—which had been out of commission for over a week now—were still unfixed. Of course, this is what she got for buying a second-rate apartment, even though its location was rather convenient.
Turning the corner onto an adjacent street, Cunard sighed again, the murder scene of one of the more recent victims still fresh in her mind.
Her name is Anya Rosso, and she is sixteen.
Her limbs are in a position consistent with being attacked from behind. Her acid-washed blue jeans and her black KISS t-shirt are covered in blood. Her blood. Two little bite marks—fang marks—are on the right side of her neck. Her brown hair is a mess. Her brown eyes are frozen with horror, and her glasses are askew. Nothing is stolen from her purse. Under the odor of blood and death, one can smell Marlboro Lights and stale liquor.
Her name is Anya Rosso, and she is sixteen, forever. Killed on night like this, on a street like this—quiet streets, the only witnesses to her death were the assailant himself and the dead eyes of dark apartment buildings. Once a warm center of life, now a beautiful miracle of death. Amen.
Anya Rosso.
Anya Rosso.
Anya Rosso.
Cunard shook her head, forcing the image from her exhausted mind, and, for the first time, noticed her elevated heart rate. Pausing in the street, she took two more long drags on her cigarette and flicked the butt off into the darkness, a burning speck of orange contrasting against the dark pavement.
"Get a grip, Cunard," she said to herself quietly. "On a long enough timeline, everyone's survival rate drops to zero."
She was sixteen.
"So was your little brother," Cunard muttered. "But that didn't stop that drunk from moving him down on his bicycle."
Her name is Anya Rosso. She is sixteen. Two little bite marks—fang marks—are on the right side of her neck.
"Rational conclusions," Cunard muttered, clenching her right hand in a fist. "There has to be—there are always—rational conclusions. Death, taxes, and rational conclusions."
From the building to her left, a gunshot suddenly rang out, pulling Cunard from her tumultuous thoughts. Ducking behind a black van and scanning the vicinity, she drew her Colt Detectives' Special from the holster on her belt, and looked for the source of the noise. Another shot rang out—the third floor. Rising from her crouch, she dashed down the narrow alleyway up to a slightly dilapidated fire escape. Climbing as quickly as she could, the gun still in her right hand, she arrived at the third floor. Finding the window locked, she charged with the intent to roll through, careful to shield her eyes from the glass.
The scream of a woman prompted her to rise to her feet and hurry down toward the end of the hallway. And then eerie silence ushered her further.
Cunard paused, putting her back to the wall, next to a door that was somewhat ajar. A pale light emanated from inside. She could hear breathing—two people. One clinging by a thread. In the darkness further down the hallway, she was almost certain that she saw motion—a flash of deep red. An accomplice? Lovely.
"Police!" Cunard yelled, deciding that if the victim was still alive, it made more sense to deal with this psycho's accomplice later. "Drop your weapon and open the door now!"
There was no response from inside the room.
"I'll warn you one more time," Cunard said, undoing the safety of her gun with her thumb. "Drop the weapon now and we'll go much easier on you."
Cunard waited two seconds, and then kicked the door open, holding her gun in her right hand and displaying her Scotland Yard identification. The apartment was in disarray—clearly there had been a bit of a struggle. Fearing for the victim, Cunard increased her pace, heading toward the light coming from the next room. She could see spent shell casings on the ground.
Her gun still in front of her, Cunard came into the room, and yelled, "Freeze!"
Her mouth went dry at the sight in the room. The perpetrator was a young man, maybe eight or nine years her junior, dressed in a fine suit. In his arms was a bloody young woman, shot twice in the stomach. Blood covered every surface.
But that was not the worst, the Inspector realized, going sheet white. The young man had his teeth dug into the right side of her neck.
"Cease and desist!" Cunard repeated. "I hereby place you under arrest…"
The man did neither.
"By order of Scotland Yard—"
He paused, apparently done, and lowered his victim to the ground. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his suit, Alex saw it come away slick with blood. After a moment, he turned and faced the inspector. A seemingly normal young man, the inspector noted—of course, not counting the blood covering his shirt and the sharp incisors in his mouth.
"Scotland Yard?" The youth said, snickering a little. "Scotland Yard holds no sway over me."
"I hereby place you under arrest—"
"What do you intend to do with that gun...Inspector?" the youth asked, drawing a little closer to examine Cunard's badge. Slowly, Cunard took a step backward. In the midst of it all, she noticed that the poor young woman on the floor had stopped breathing.
"You can't stand against me," the Inspector said. "I have a gun, and I am not afraid to use it."
You shocking, horrible liar, the Inspector thought.
"A gun, Inspector?" the youth laughed, and Cunard took another step backwards. "No, Inspector. All you have is bullets, and the hope—because that's all it is really, a hope—that when your gun is empty that I am no longer standing, because you don't have any spare rounds on you, do you?"
Cunard remained silent.
"Of course not. Because you haven't fired that particular gun at any point in your tenure at the Yard, have you? And you never thought you would. You never thought that you would one day have to use the symbol of your office, and you never thought you'd have to use it in a situation where, though you hadn't realized it, everything you knew was totally useless."
Cunard heard noise on the floors below, the sound of people coming, and fast. Accomplices? Great. Her heart pounded in her chest, and a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead into her eye. Nonetheless, as she blinked it back and attempted to ignore the irritation, she kept her gun trained on him, just below his heart.
Clearly the young man had heard the commotion as well, for his eyes widened, and suddenly the smug expression was replaced by something that looked a little more like fear. But why? Cunard had come alone. There was no way that anyone at the Yard could know that she was here.
"You bitch!" the young man seethed. "You…you never said you were with them! You lying little…you…"
The noise drew closer, and the man looked around, trying to figure out his options. After a moment, his eyes settled back on Alex Cunard.
"If I'm going down," he growled, lunging for the Inspector, "then I'm taking at least one of you bastards with me! Starting with you, 'Inspector'!"
Cunard had been prepared for his attack, but not for his incredible strength. The speed and intensity of his charge has forced them both to the floor. He lunged again, going for her throat. Alex attempted to grip his throat, to push him off, only to find that his strength was far greater than hers.
Suddenly, there was a gunshot.
Alex felt blood spatter across her face, and looked up to see that no longer was the young man above her, on top of her, going for her throat. In fact, nothing was on top of her, except for a rather large pile of dust and a silver bullet. Rising to her feet, the Inspector holstered her gun and turned to exit, only to come face to face with, quite easily, the largest handgun she had ever seen. Black and at least 39 cm long, the barrel read "Jesus Christ Is In Heaven Now", an inscription that made Alex blanch further upon reading it.
The man carrying the gun was equally frightening. Clad in a black suit and red jacket and hat, his eyes were blood red and his incisors, too, were impossibly sharp. Seeing the fear on the Inspector's face, he grinned a dark grin that made the Inspector even more nervous.
"Um, well, thank you…sir," Cunard said smoothly. "Scotland Yard gives you its deepest thanks. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think that I'll be on…my…way…I'm not leaving, am I?"
The man said nothing to her.
"Listen, do you want money, or something? 'Cause I don't have any money. I...I have a token. One token. And I need it. So I'm really sorry I can't help you, sir, but I'd like to get back to my apartment. I have leftovers there. True, I don't really like them, but I think it'd be best to get it over with, you know?"
"You aren't going anywhere," he said.
"Listen, do you want to file a complaint or something? I'll…look, just call Internal Affairs, and I'm sure we can have this whole nasty mess figured out by tomorrow."
Suddenly. Alex heard a ban as the door was broken down, and the sound of men entering the apartment. As they came around the corner, Alex saw they were dressed as SWAT troops, except they were no Scotland Yard troops. On the right shoulder, each of the machine-gun toting men had a patch reading "HELLSING".
And, then, quite suddenly, everything went dark.