"Let's go!" Winkle cried, urging the men on.

Anchored in a cavernous grotto tucked deep in the Andes Mountains, the Letzte Bataillon prepared for the warfare they vehemently craved. She had been running drills with her troops on the exterior of the dirigible for most of the early evening. One of her favorite duties, Winkle usually trained her men on the metal skeleton supporting the bottom of the Deus Ex Machina, the largest ship in the fleet. The metal gutters that held the ship's engines reinforced the iron underbelly created the perfect obstacle course.

Since the Major rarely let troops go ashore to the surrounding jungle without a specific intent in mind, one had to be inventive. As a sniper, she was charged with training other marksmen. Thanks to her initiative, aside from live target practice, fieldcraft was the most popular and daring training session. While mortal men learned the art of camouflage, F.R.E.A.K.s took evasion and stealth to an entirely different level. Silent as shadows Winkle and her troops darted and swung from beam to beam, racing from stem to stern and back.

As per usual, since the Major appreciated her musical taste, opera blared over the sound system to rally the troops, and they would practice the art of war to Wagner, Mozart, and her personal favorite, Weber. Like in a theater, the glorious sound echoed off the high stone wall of the grotto until the cascading arias became akin to a valkyrie's unending warcry.

Normally, she would cheerfully urge her men to victory with song, enthralled by the music and promise of violence. While the men ran helter-skelter, she'd flip and tuck ahead of them, playfully and fearlessly rallying them. Now, as was becoming a habit as of late, she practiced in stern silence, slowly falling through their ranks as they raced ahead of her.

Limbs starting to shake uncontrollably, Winkle stopped and perched on the starboard engine. Careless men had been lost during this exercise before. Those who slipped and fell were left to their own devices. Should they survive being dashed against the rocks over a hundred meters below, they then had to climb back up to the zeppelin before sunrise, or else. How humiliating.

Winkle grimaced and glanced down at the dark depth below, expression worsening as her stomach grumbled and constricted painfully. A few of the troops paused then, perching on the metal girders like ravens and cocking their heads to the side questioningly. For a high-ranking officer to feel such fatigue was unusual. With a glare, she straightened and ordered them on with a flick of her hand.

The troops followed the order, but a few blood-red eyes lingered. The curious glances stopped only when she bared razor teeth at them. Not good. The Batallion, at least, those under her control, were sensing a change in her. Bending down, Winkle started to stretch to hide the quaking and pressed a hand to her thinning waistline. She hadn't fed since her short examination a week and a half ago, Zorin still the root of the problem.

She'd tried to solve the problem with an offering but to no avail. The plan had backfired and if anything had only made Zorin more vigilant. Once the fleshly caught meals were brought and strung up over the long tables, Zorin didn't leave the mess hall until the guests had been thoroughly drained. Chain smoking, she now played cards with the Batallion every night while they fed and made bets on how long the individuals, the meals of the evening, would last. With Zorin's presence popular and expected, Winkle doubted she'd be able to feed freely for some time.

Suddenly, there was a thud before her as someone else landed on the engine. The moonlight dappling through the jagged gaps in the rock ceiling dimmed. She glanced up to find a green-clad, barreled chest blocking the view. Tilting her head back further, Winkle found Günsche silently staring down. Stopping her stretches, she stood tall and sighed in annoyance. Cold, dead eyes bore down, head tilting as he took her in.

"What?" she spat, hunger having made her mood foul. He didn't reply right away and watched her long legs quake despite stiff posture. "Well, are you just going to stand there all day?"

Raising a hand in a request for silence, Günsche's started to sign in his direct way. First, he pointed at her chest then sharply downward. He paused before making a cross symbol in the air with his index finger. Having worked with him for decades, she could pieces the command together: 'you', 'go down', 'infirmary'. Still, she pulled a face and shrugged, hands waving in mock confusion.

"What?"

He was unmoved.

Quick as lightning he grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her forward, and wrote across her palm with a finger: Order. Go. To. The. Infirmary. Struggling to pull away, she blew a raspberry at him. Spittle hitting his face, Günsche released her and expressionlessly pointed up to the ship's entrance near the cargo hold.

"Yes, Hauptsturmführer," she huffed then leaped away.

Grousing all the while, Winkle climbed into the cargo hold entered the dark underbelly of the ship. She shouldn't have made a scene; Günsche was only acting out of duty, but the gnawing hunger was aggravating. Although giving him a hard time wouldn't solve anything, lashing out felt decidedly good. Besides, it was irritating being ordered to return to the clinic in front of her men. How long had Günsche been watching her struggle anyway?

Giving a snort, she clenched serrated teeth and walked down the long hallways of the lowest level of the airship. The infirmary was attached to the laboratory at the bottom of the zeppelin. Initially, the medical and research facilities were separate, but over the decades, the rooms had become nearly indistinguishable. The Doktor's work expanded by leaps and bounds so sporadically, projects, papers, and equipment were strung about in hodgepodge fashion that some might politely call creative chaos. Winkle, on the other hand, found it appallingly disgusting.

Even the corridors were strange down here. Speckled with dark patches of red rust and flaking paint, it is hard to distinguish between the fluids–blood, motor oil, grease, and dried globs of amber ooze–that slicked the walls from floor to ceiling. Dimly lit, the buzzing lights overhead crackled and spat sparks every so often. The power surges from the Doktor's experiments were taxing on the old copper wires.

Perhaps due to the charge in the air and sense of foreboding, the rusty, creaky halls were infrequently visited, except for those explicitly ordered here. As she neared the medical facility, the sound of voices echoed loudly down the hallway.

"I told you to disinfect every tank!" Dok cried.

"I did, Sir, I swear on my life!"

She peered around the hall corner to see the Doktor arguing with one of his few, if only, remaining medical officers. Not an unusual sight.

"Clearly you didn't, the entire batch died! Poisoned by the putrid swill you contaminated in your laziness!" Dok accused, jabbing a finger at the man's chest.

"But-but I did exactly as you requested!" The medic fearfully stammered. At the words, the Doktor's hands began to knot into fists of rage, and he shoved one deep into his lab coat pocket as the assistant continued, "It's impossible to disinfect anything in that chaotic lab–"

The medic's sentence ended in a gurgle as Dok's hand suddenly lashed upward. Red fanned the air in a spray misting the Doctor's face and already stained clothes. Gripping his gushing throat in surprise, the assistant took a stumbling step forward before crumpling to his knees. Gasping wetly, the medic managed to sputter red froth before pitching face down on the floor with a heavy thud.

Blood flowed in beating spurts across the tile, and Winkle salivated at the sight. Thirst burning her gut, she considered making a dash for the dying medic. The sight of the bloody Doktor standing over the prone form, chest heaving and scalpel glinting dimly in the light as it shook in a clenched fist, made Winkle think better of it.

Clamping a knuckle between blunt teeth, Dok let out a shuddering sigh. Like a brooding gargoyle, he curled in on himself, limbs quaking with rage. When blood began to gather and steadily drip onto the floor from his bitten finger the Doktor seemed to gather himself. Pocketing the blade, he stood straight and drew a deep breath before teeth released his hand.

"Wonderful, now I have to dispose of you too," he spat bitterly.

Bending down, he grabbed the medic by the wrists and pulled. Giving a grunt, he slowly managed to drag the body back onto the infirmary, a dark crimson trail following behind. The door clicked shut when the corpse's feet slipped past the threshold.

Eyeing the clinic, Winkle worried jigsaw teeth and considered leaving, not wanting to bear the brunt of the Doktor's temper. Besides, drills would be over soon; her absence might be noticed by the troops, as she was supposed to deliver them to the midnight feeding, not that she would be a part of it. Memories of Zorin suddenly flashed through her head, and she grimaced–damn that glowing hand!

A week ago, she had found Zorin alone in the weight room to settle their differences. Winkle would have attempted sooner had she not initially assumed the woman was playing a cruel practical joke. But the consequences of Zorin's wrath, or ill sense of humor, were becoming apparent. Not feeding was beginning to take its toll, and that created a problem. What would happen if the rest of the Batallion learned that one Obersturmführer was starving out another?

Winkle remembered she'd placed the cigarettes on the bench between Zorin's knees. The woman hadn't stopped lifting the weight over her head until Winkle had cleared her throat. After one more rep, Zorin had placed the weight back into its cradle and slowly sat up. Odd eyes had glanced from the pack to Winkle then back.

"What the hell this?" Zorin had asked with a scowl as she picked up the offering.

"An opportunity," she'd chirped, "I think we should sta–"

"–What the fuck is this?"

"Cigarettes, I know–"

"–These are English, you think that I would smoke shitty, limey cigarettes?" Zorin had asked flatly then crushed the box in her hand before dropping it to the ground. "Is that how you say thank you? What an insult."

"I…wait, thank you?" she'd questioned, cocking her head. What on Earth was there to thank Zorin about? "I don't understand."

"Pfft, of course not. Why would you? You're too busy be'n wrapped up in that stupid opera to pay attention," Zorin had sneered as a throaty laugh leaked through parted lips.

Winkle had felt her face burn then. Any attempt at peace was forgotten.

"I will not stand to be treated like this!" she vowed.

"Then kneel," Zorin had replied as glowing words spiraled in circles on her tan skin.

With a laugh, the muscled woman had lunged off the weight bench in a blur. There hadn't been any time to react. Tattooed fingers latched onto her face like talons as Zorin had lifted her off the ground by her skull. Through the mask of fingers, Winkle had watched as liquid words spilled down the toned arm. The weight room spun as the walls swirled and melted away until only the two of them had remained in a misty white plane of nonexistence.

Zorin spoke again, lips no longer in time with her echoing words, "Why don't you think for a spell." Green eyes flicked downward then, and Winkle fearfully watched a bottomless, black void suddenly yawn open beneath her dangling feet. "Let's use that bird brain," Zorin had mused with a cruel grin, then dropped her.

The darkness had swallowed Winkle thick as velvet as she screamed. She'd fallen through seemingly endless space until her knees hit hard, slick tile with a crack. The sound of running water had greeted her as wafts of steam fogged her glasses. Nearly blind, she'd turned to see the hazy outline of a nude, tattooed body looming in the distance. Bare feet slapped against the wet floor as the figure strode toward her.

Winkle shuddered and shook her head, pushing away the memories. She wasn't in the weight room, Zorin was hopefully nowhere nearby, and she'd been loitering in the hallway for a while now. Still, she could almost hear the awful, grating cackle as though the woman were still present. Zorin's mind meddling touch was impossible to forget. Damn it. Not even her mind was safe.

Once again, dinner was off the table, not wanting another taste of Zorin's illusions and possible humiliation in front of the feasting soldiers. But if Günsche saw her wandering around the ship, there was a good chance he'd order her right back down to the infirmary, the symptoms of starvation now apparent to more than just Dok. And most pressing, the best shot at a meal was through those infirmary doors, the Doktor's temper notwithstanding.

She sighed, sagged despondently, and began to walk toward the door. Nearing the pool of blood, she considered lapping at it, but pride wouldn't allow such an act. Although it was unlikely, it wouldn't help appearances if anyone caught her drinking like a dog off of the floor. Straightening up, Winkle rapped loudly on the infirmary door three times. No answer.

After a pause, she pulled the door open in time to see a large glass jar fly across the room. Gross yellow liquid sloshing inside of it, the jar crashed to the floor and shattered apart. Shards flew and tinkled across the tile as the dark, yellow liquid oozed into a sticky puddle. Laying in the amber goo appeared to be a single, pinkish lima bean barely more than two centimeters long. Eyeing the mess, Winkle's gave a grimace of disgust. She stepped away and began to back out the door.

"What are you doing here?"

The demand made Winkle stop, head whipping toward the sound of the voice. In the near right corner, Dok sat nearly bent double over a makeshift desk, one strange hand twisted into his hair while the other held a blood-stained finger to his lips. A large, amber ring stained several stacks of papers that sat like a mountain range across the desk, no doubt the place the jar had been seated moments before the Doktor hurled it behind him.

"I was ordered to come," Winkle answered as she stepped forward and let the door close.

"By who?!" Dok asked, suddenly spinning his office chair around to stare at her. Pale face flecked with blood; his golden eyes stared in alarm behind slipping glasses.

"...Günsche."

The Doktor's rigid posture relaxed as air hissed through clenched teeth.

"Ah," he murmured. After fixing his spectacles with an index finger, magnified eyes looked her up and down."Well, no surprise why. You look terrible." Giving a frown, she stuck her tongue out at him."Even worse. Do that again and I'll remove it," he reprimanded, and she sucked the muscle back in wetly. Satisfied he continued, "Clearly, you didn't listen to me the last time–"

"–But I did!" she blurted. "I tried a peace offering!"

Dok's lips formed a tight line, and Wrinkle glanced away, knowing she'd acted out of turn twice in a row.

"A peace offer–for Blitz?! I did not say to offer her an olive branch; I said no confrontation. While you share the same rank, God does not make all men equal and neither do I," Dok sniffed and wagged a bloody finger at her.

"Then what should I do?" Winkle whined, clutching her caving stomach.

"Figure it out! I'm a doctor, not a counselor," he retorted irritably. "But you had better find a solution before the Major notices, for he'll find one, but I doubt you'll like it."

Winkle grimaced, realizing he was correct.

"Okay...okay I'll try," she muttered.

"Try," he mocked, fists balling tightly in a sudden swell of rage. "Don't try, do! Now!" and gestured toward the door with a quick, dismissive wave.

Shaking his head, Dok turned back around to the catastrophe he called an office space. Free from the Doktor's scrutiny and seemingly dismissed for the evening, Winkle snuck a glance at the body on the floor.

Chalky face frozen in a silent scream, the dead medic lay slumped beside several gurneys in the opposite corner of the room. The fresh blood stains dripping down the side of one steel bed suggested that Dok had tried and failed to get the body on the slab, too heavy to lift without assistance.

She stalked toward the dead man and crouched beside the body like a thief. Mouth watering, teeth parted wide to–

"–Don't!"

And Winkle jumped at the command, head snapping up to find the Doktor glaring over his shoulder at her.

"Do not drink from the dead," he said simply, starting to turn away again.

"But–"

"–Do NOT drink from him! Better to starve than drink tainted blood," he clipped matter-of-factly, stabbing the bitten finger in her direction.

"But how is this any different than a blood pack?"

Sighing exasperatedly, he fully swung the chair around to face her again.

"What I fed you before was removed while the subject was living, before death could mar it," Dok explained rapidly, "Yes, you thirst for blood, but you're thinking of it only as a liquid, as though it were water–ach, idiot! You're not parched–no! You are craving life itself! That is the curse and beauty of what you are, now don't ruin it by drinking from the dead!" He cried, deformed hands clenching as though to strangle her.

"...Then can I have a blood pack?" She asked sheepishly with a small grin.

At the request, his teeth bared in anger.

"No."

"But–"

"But, but, but!" he parroted back in falsetto, "but nothing! I'm not a charity."

With a scowl, Winkle realized her only lifeline was being severed. She glanced at the body in thought, then back to the Doktor.

"Then I'll earn it," she challenged.

He laughed sharply once and barked, "How?"

"I'll move him for you, you can't, right?" She asked, nudging the body with the side of her foot.

Mirth leaving his face, Dok's lips pursed.

"Then lift it," he ordered flatly.

Grabbing the man under the armpits with gusto, Winkle hoisted the body upward only to falter. Quickly wrapping her arms about the corpse, she crushed it to her chest to keep the dead weight upright. Limp as a ragdoll, the medic slipped and hunched over in her grasp until she floundered and was forced to leaned the body against the gurney. With a groan, Winkle tipped the man over until the torso collapsed onto the metal bed with a bang as the corpse's head smashed against the gurney. Body halfway on, she quickly darted to the other end and yanked the uncooperative legs up onto the slab.

"Ta-da!" she sang and whirled around with arms thrown wide to present the accomplishment.

"...Pathetic display, but you did manage, I suppose," Dok muttered, stroking his chin. "You really haven't fed at all, have you?"

Unable to feed from the mess hall and stationed on the ship she hadn't had the opportunity to hunt elsewhere. Shaking her head, Winkle held out her hand expectantly.

"Nope, now my reward is~" she hedged with a smile, fingers grabbing at the air.

"–Unavailable," Dok answered with a shrug.

"But...but I…"

"Yes, you did lift the body, good for you Obersturmführer," he acknowledged, clapping hands twice in false praise. "But you see, I never agreed to your terms; I just said lift...and you did."

Her stomach twisted. He had never intended to give it to her in the first place. Shoulders slumping, Winkle stared forlornly at his hard, watchful face. She had no hope of facing Zorin malnourished. Günsche would probably send her back to the infirmary out of obligation. And Dok was no help whatsoever. A dead end until the others began to notice her weakness.

"Please…" she began and cringed at the word, hating how weak the plea sounded. "I could hunt, but I can't leave the ship without permission. And requesting one leave won't be noticed, but eventually...they'd find out that…"

"You are not as formidable as you appear, possibly costing your standing with the Batallion, the rest of high command, and the Major–all because you can't feed yourself," Dok summed quickly, and she nodded despondently. "Ja, I know. You weren't designed to combat Obersturmführer Blitz; she's trapped you quite nicely."

Winkle sank to the floor, "No one can ever find that she's starving me out."

"It certainly wouldn't look good," he agreed, making her hunch further. "At best, you'd be demoted, at worst...well, I suppose…" he trailed absently, pausing to bite a bloody knuckle in thought before continuing to himself. "Well, finding the supplies would be time-consuming, but the seance might work with another, it's not uncommon for people to form attachments to family firearms…."

"You wouldn't dare replace me!" Winkle gasped.

"Why not?" Dok questioned callously, as though the solution was indisputable. "If you can't handle your peers, forget true combat. Need I remind you what happened in 1945? Besides, you're an older experiment. I'm sure I could make another, an improvement!"

The words stung. Tears prickled her eyes at the thought of being scrapped and never getting a chance to see Millennium's triumphant return. Still, she wasn't dissuaded. What the Doktor said as true, he probably could create another, but how feasible was that really? Winkle remembered the scene in the hallway. Appealing to his stunted sense of compassion hadn't worked, time to switch tactics.

"Oh? Well, go ahead!" she snapped. Rising to her feet, Winkle turned to address the empty room, "Come on everyone, you heard him, let's make another!" A sharp gasp followed. She glanced at the Doktor. Jaw slack, the man sat aghast. Flashing a wicked smile, she spun on the tips of her toes and pranced back to the dead medic's side. "Come on! Get up silly, snap to it!" She cried grabbing the corpse's arms and giving a playful tug, "I don't see anyone else~"

Metal wheels screeched against the tiled floor as Dok shot up out of his seat.

"You–" he fumed.

"Up! Up! UP!~" she chanted, swinging limp arms back and forth.

Soft-soled shoes slapped against the floor in rapid succession behind her.

"Silence!" Dok shrieked.

Winkle glanced back. Seeing the raised fist, metal glinting between clenched fingers, she ducked down. As Dok's hand whizzed overhead, scalpel slicing wayward black cowlicks, Winkle quick scampered to the opposite side of the gurney. Alert, she rose to her feet, watching the hunched figure for sudden movements.

Bowed from the force of the swing, the panting Doktor raised his head, scalpel gleaming in his hand. Spectacles slipping down his nose, yellow, blazing eyes glared at her. A stab from the surgical knife would sting and the wound annoying to heal at present, but not lethal.

"What's wrong? I'm trying to help," Winkle assured and with a smile. "You said you could make another, right? Must be awfully hard by yourself~, you used to have so many assistants. "

"Shut your insolent mouth!"

"But Herr Doktor, you are always saying that science stands on the shoulders of giants. Without others where would you be?" Winkle questioned, terribly pleased with her retort.

"Do not twist my words," he threatened and flicked the blade menacingly in her direction.

He didn't attack, however, which led Winkle to believe that not only had she found some leverage, but Dok was listening despite his fury. Although the Hellsing raid in 1945 had thinned their ranks considerably, the numbers in the Letzte Bataillon slowly increased again over time. But while the army had endured, the medical staff only dwindled pathetically.

Her transformation had been shortly after the Hellsing raid, at that time the laboratory had boasted a staff of nearly forty. Winkle remembered this, as there had always been an assembly to showcase the latest, greatest specialized F.R.E.A.K. As the first, she'd witnessed the rise of more comrades. Zorin had been made within the following year, but it had taken almost another twenty for Alhambra to join their ranks in the late 1960's. By the time the Brazilian had been reborn, only a measly seven medical officers had stood with Dok to present the newest creation.

"But, Doktor, I think we can help each other out," Winkle proposed, smiling growing devious. "If you be the hands that feeds, I can offer a helping hand in return~."

"Y-you manipulative devil," Dok choked, head shaking vehemently." As if I would ever stomach you being underfoot in my facility!"

"Why not?" she asked with a shrug.

"Why?! You have the gall to ask!" he steamed."For one, your behavior as of late has been positively atrocious. And you have absolutely no training in any of the medical or scientific arts!" Dok cried, hand coming to clutch at his heart in horror. "I will not have your nescience ruin my work!"

Quirking an eyebrow, Winkle clicked her teeth at the response and gave a sideways glance to the body on the slab.

Sighing theatrically, she patted the cooling cheek and asked glibly, "And did all your training keep you from making a mistake?" Fingers gripped the stiffening jaw, and she puppeted the head back and forth. Lips pouting in mock sympathy, she leaned on the gurney and rested her chin on a palm. Bending close to the corpse to continue their conversation, Winkle cooed, "Ahh, I thought not. I wonder what the Major will have to say come next progress report…"

The dim light of the lab was obscured suddenly as the angry grinding of teeth issued from above. Pleasantly, Winkle looked up at the red-faced, blood spattered Doktor looming over the gurney, magnified eyes murderous behind strange spectacles.

"Enough!" He growled. Trembling with rage, Dok's free hand dove into the pocket of his bloody lab coat and held up a tiny remote.

Winkle's smile vanished. The back of the device was listed with several names, and the Doktor's fingers hovered over the one corresponding to the bold letters that read R.I.P. van Winkle. Perhaps she had gone too far. Quickly, she released the medic and shot off the gurney.

"I-I was only tryin–" she began to explain.

"–I know what you were trying to do you imprudent quim!" Dok snapped back viciously. "And this is what your needling got you–the ultimate leverage, see?" he asked, and Winkle grimaced, watching fingers tense around the remote. "So, you want to barter? Well, do you?!"

Winkle hesitated, "...I...I think we can help each other."

"Bah! You can't even help yourself!" Dok seethed.

Serrated teeth clamped shut, and Winkle bit her lip bloody. She could offer no rebuttal. Unable to hold the steely gaze, she looked at the floor and nodded twice conceding that he was right. She hadn't resolved the conflict with Zorin. If anything she'd made it worse. In increasingly desperate attempts to be fed, she'd gone overboard, insulting and alienating her only chance at a meal, not to mention repeatedly disrespecting a high-ranking officer. Behavior not all befitting an Obersturmführer.

Head bowed, she waited for the Doktor to press the button. He had killed for much less. She dared to sneak an upward glance and regretted it; large, livid eyes stared down in return, silently promising pain. After snorting sharply through his nose, Dok suddenly turned on his heel and stalked off into the clinic.

Winkle remained bent, head lowered, as though contemplating where to step in the center of a minefield. In the distance, cabinet doors slammed, glass shattered, then footsteps slapped purposefully across the floor toward her again. She watched as gray shoes came to an abrupt halt.

"Attention!" he barked. At the command, Winkle immediately snapped her head up. The Doktor's lips were pursed, but he appeared unnervingly calm as he held a vial of clear liquid toward her face. "You want to work for your sustenance?" Winkle quickly nodded, not expecting the abrupt turn of events.

"Well, due to your behavior, you've earned this instead," Dok replied, waving the bottle between latex fingers. When she didn't move, his mouth twisted into a vicious snarl and he hissed, "take it!"

Winkle snatched the bottle, "Wha–"

"–Drink!" he cut off, holding up the remote in a silent threat.

She removed the cork, raised the bottle to her mouth, and tipped it back. Yelping and sputtering, Winkle spewed the fizzling mess onto the floor, hand coming to clutch scorching lips. The liquid burned like hot coals and its lingering touch continued to melt gums and tongue into bloody strings of goo.

" 'at?" she tried to ask, fanged maw open and dripping red like a sore.

"Holy water," he sniffed. "To wash out that disrespectful mouth of yours–now get to work! You can start by cleaning up the mess you made," and he gestured sharply to the bubbling ooze on the stained tile.

After whipping a dirty rag at her face, Dok stormed off toward the depths of his domain once more as crashing and muffled curses followed in his wake. Pulling the filthy, awful-smelling cloth off her head, Winkle watched the Doktor's back disappear as he entered the laboratory and slammed the door behind him. Although her mouth still sizzled, blistered lips gave a slight smile. She had an in.


Notes:

About the whole drinking from the dead thing. I needed to limit Winkle's ability to get blood, so I decided to nix dead bodies. I know Alucard like...eats everything, but he's Alucard, bootleg-copies can't compare. (But the Letzte Batallion totally cornered and ate people whole! Dok even ordered them to do so–-shhhhhhh, yea yea.) Interview with a Vampire rules apply in this fic, the blood is good until the heart stops, so catching and drinking spurts from the dying is totally okay, but drinking from someone whose heart has stopped isn't. If the blood is beginning to coagulate on a surface it's not good either. (I know it's incongruent with Hellsing.)

I probably write the characters sassier than they should be too, but ehhh. I like it. (Wheaton syndrome?) Winkle is really sassy with Dok, like way more than she should be to a high-ranking officer, but I wanted it to seem like they have a working relationship (Besides, isn't that the master x vampire power dynamic–subjugation and sass? That's it, that's the show.) Winkle teases to get what she wants, switches to being humble and coy when that backfires. She might be a bit of an airhead, but tries her hand at manipulating emotions to get her way.