Author's notes: Okay. Here it is, another chapter of somewhat crackaliciousness. Sorry, Vergil seems to want more seriousness than this fic deserves. So, here we are.

CHAPTER 2

In London, the streets crackled with subzero temperatures. But no one could surmise from the stratified scorch-marks on the ground that moments ago, London had been exposed to a gate to another world. It was a world of scorching, purifying flames, of monsters unimaginable. It was the realm of demons.

A man in a long blue jacket stamped his shoes a little in the snow; the park was absolutely silent, each sound muffled and eerie, the trees bowed under the weight of freshly fallen snow, the lakes and rivers bubbling no more. It had to have been a pleasant change from the screaming wails and moans of those who inhabited Hell. The pond's ice-covered surface had been broken, due to a body having come flying from the gate to Hell and smashing through hardened snow, then colliding with the solid ice of the pond. Unfortunately, the surface was now broken into many pieces, and the body underneath continuously thrashed and spluttered.

The white-haired figure stood and watched this display with chillingly unconcerned eyes before he turned away and headed off along a snow-laden path.

A waterlogged voice cried out, "Vergil! Don't let me drown! I can't swim!! Please--" The voice was decidedly feminine; it was desperate, choked with water, and shrill with terror.

The figure paused, answering to the name of Vergil. "Your usefulness has ended. I only required you to escape from Hell."

His response was even more violent thrashing, and then... it began to grow dreadfully quiet. The girl from before disappeared under the water; the last to disappear was one arm, swaddled in black leather. This stranger was going to die without ever having a name, without having a face, and without so much a single solitary glance of worry from the man who was called Vergil. She was still fighting, still struggling to survive; not for herself, but to regain her tenuous position at his side.

Before the last knuckle of her longest finger could disappear, Vergil shoved his sword sheath into the frigid waters, poised at the edge while grasping elusive wet, cold white. The black gloved hand stirred and flailed and finally all four fingers and a thumb seized the lifeline with a tenacity that belied the lethargic movements of the rest of her body. With seemingly no great effort, the man Vergil pulled her in, grabbed her by the elbow, and flung her haphazardly into the snow. She was blue in the face, her long hair pulled back in an Asian-style knot that was slowly coming undone. She had a face like a pixie, but her eyes were wide with cold shock, her body steaming, as it had still been burning hot from the atmosphere of the demon realm. Her clothes would do her no good here.

Unbashfully, Vergil turned her over onto her back and methodically took off her soaking wet clothes. Had she been anything more than a quarter demon, she would have been fine, but she could have drowned, which meant she could still damn near perish from hypothermia. The little naked quarter-demoness clung onto him, all sharp elbows and knees. He pried her frozen fingers off his sleeve every time. When her clothes were all stuck together in a freezing pile, she huddled with her nude behind in the snow.

She could not even hope to speak. Vergil threw his coat over her and pushed her down, wrapping her in it like a shivering, frozen tortilla stuffed with humanoid. In a moment, his body was also smothering hers, which forced his eyes to be hovering only inches from her own terrified orange ones. He looked as if he would bite off her nose if she so much as twitched funny.

Minutes ticked by. This stranger, clad in only a black shirt and pants with boots that were dusted with white flakes of frozen water, was laying on top of someone he was going to let die. Why had he changed his mind? Surely he could not have felt an ounce of pity for this pathetic creature, who could not hope to be as powerful as a half-demon like himself, nevermind obtain the power of full-blooded demons like the ones Vergil had fought in Hell during their daring escape.

When she was warm enough to blush, he stood up, dusted his hands off, and glared at her dispassionately with little more regard than he would reserve for an insect. "Get up. You've wasted too much of my time already."

"I-I..." The girl's eyes widened; they were a brilliant shade of orange. She had olive skin and a pear-shaped form, though her soft curves did not in the least suggest she was weak in physical strength. "Thank you... Master Vergil!" The young woman flung herself to her feet, crushing herself against his body while saving them both another dip into the pond. "Thank you so much! You really do care about me!"

He flinched, as if her touch gave him a shock of physical discomfort. He detached her from him, and hooked the sheath of his sword back where it belonged by his side. "Enough. Get your clothes. We'll have to find a place to stay. You're not walking around like... that... and I want my coat back."

The girl's expression could only be described then as blissfully happy, as if she could not remember that he would have let her drown and freeze to death ages ago. She was still flush with embarassment, the jacket falling open. She tucked it around her, slipping her arms into sleeves that were far too long for her. Despite being barefoot, she picked up her sopping wet clothes and hurried after him. He had no patience to wait for her. She waved her arms, crying out to him, "Wait! Vergil, sir, wait for me!"

Both hands slammed onto her desk. Integra snapped at Walter, "What do you mean he's not waking up?!"

"I've tried everything other than physically injuring him to make him rise, sir. He seems to be in a kind of torpor and he... absolutely will not come out of it." Walter's genuine concern showed on his face; every line etched was creased with emotion, which normally would not show. This was not just a Walter concern, either. This was a concern for all of England,Queen and Crown. "And I know he's not pretending. If he was, he wouldn't be able to help himself and snicker and wake up or... something. But this was an order from you. Just saying your name would be able to rouse him, surely."

Integra's concern was sandblasted away by anger and outrage. "I will see this myself."

It was just a few minute's walk. But Integra was almost running in her haste to see what had stricken her vampire with this strange lethargy. Walter was hot on her heels. They spoke not a word to anyone the reason of their haste. When they descended into the unlit blackness of Alucard's usual haunt, the coffin lid was closed the way Walter had left it. It was difficult for just one person to crack it open even a hair. Integra approached the quiet, unmoving coffin, the count's Last Domain. She felt none of the usual disquiet, the temperament of the atmosphere as quiet as it would be for the day.

"Alucard, rise!"

The coffin did not move. Her eyebrow twitched. Then she cocked back her leg, and sent a resounding kick to the coffin. "Alucard, I command you to rise!"

"S-Sir," Walter murmured quietly, bowing his head. "Perhaps we should alert someone to this situation."

"No! There has to be some way to wake him. We can't do anything for sure. But we have to do something about the vampire in Soho." Integra pushed her spectacles up her nose, anxiety causing her to motion franticly for Walter. He quickly administered a small cigar for her, lit it, and watched her take in the wondrous nicotine to soothe her nerves. "That's it. I will go there myself. Walter, assign our best men to this team I will command. You stay here and help monitor Alucard and see if there are any changes, anything at all."

With a clack of her heel, she pivoted for the door and hurried out, crying out orders before she even closed the door behind her. Walter sighed, took a long look at the coffin, before he followed her out of the basement, shoes clacking stiffly in the ungodly silence.

This world was not his own; it felt like he had walked into someone else's dream. Everything from the snow to the surreal gleam of televisions and lights on the pristine whiteness and even to the small figures asleep in their beds sent his mind into a kind of wreckage. He could see people up late, watching television, hardly showing concern for demon invasion, as if their lives were slow and monotonous and easy. It was disgusting. He couldn't stand seeing them, asleep, peaceful, so absolutely ignorant. He wanted to rattle their world of bland numbness, paint their front doors red with blood, show them that demons existed and were very much worthy of attention.

The quarter-demoness he met in Hell was called Vivian, who then helped him navigate some of the rougher regions (being a permenant denizen herself for some years already). She claimed to be the descendant of the demon Asmodeus who ruled over one quarter of Hell itself and commanded at least eighty of his own minions. Somehow Vergil found that unlikely until she explained that her mother was a half-demon spawn of Asmodeus, and that she was the daughter of THAT person. Her power could not possibly compare to Vergil's. Why did he even bother keeping her around then?

Maybe, during the course of watching her slowly drown, he had weighed her usefulness against the difficulties ahead, and decided that an extra pair of hands and a cute face could get him places where the Yamato, his favorite weapon (and trusty negotiator), proved unsatisfactory.

Some dens of iniquity were still active, even this late at night. Vergil stood before the building of a hotel that seemed to be alive with sexual activity. With a wrinkled nose, he walked up to the front door, where he was sequestered by a tough, burly looking man with a lazy eye.

"Hold ye fast, there." He spoke with a funny accent. It grated on his nerves. "If ye dinnae have the cash, ye cannae enter. Apologies, lad, but this is a pay-oop-front ooperation, if ye know wha' Ah mean!"

Vergil moved his hand to the Yamato. "My apologies. I must have been mistaken." He did not sound even remotely repentant.

Then the burly brute's eyes caught a glimpse of the naked skin beneath the Vivian's blue jacket. His eyes grew wide and stupid, before he looked back, locking eyes firmly with the bizarrely slitted pupils of Vergil's own cold ones. "Ah see. Well, then, this ain't no weather to be oot and aboot in,dressed like tha' there lass! Getcher inside, c'mon then!" He grabbed Vergil and hauled him inside; in contrast, he gently lifted the girl onto the step, nudging her in after him. "Go and have words wi' Marcellus. He'll set you oop right, har, har har!"

It was warm in here, stank of marijuana, drugs, sex, and very faintly of blood. Whoever Marcellus could be, he was waiting for them further in the lobby amidst a pile of flesh and earthly pleasures. Vergil kept a firm hold on Vivian's sleeve as he placed himself in the lion's den. A circle of sofas surrounded him, piled with sleepy human bodies. Incense was burning, the stained carpet stank of felines and old fluids, and any number of black candles were sweating along the walls and on coffee tables with glass tops sporting unfinished lines of white powder.

Marcellus was a pale-skinned man in a uniform that was pulled open at the front. He was well-built and muscular, cheeks flushed with drink and any number of narcotics brewing in his system. When he smiled, it was like a cheshire cat smile. He sized up Vergil, then motioned to the girl with a glass of Merlot. "How much?"

"What do you mean?"

"You haff come to sell her, yes?" The man had an accent as well, though nothing like the burly man with the lazy eye. This was different; clipped, cut, and slightly ridiculous with his tenor voice. "Make her take off zat jacket. I vould like to see her."

Vergil's eyes narrowed slightly. But before he could actually say so, the girl slid the jacket off and put it over her arm, then handed it off to Vergil. She smiled cheerfully and ignorantly, as if none of the things in this room bothered her in the slightest. Vergil sighed as she dropped her sopping clothes into the arms of another girl, who took them away. Vergil sincerely hoped they were going to dry them. The man looked at her with some measure of appreciation.

"Gut, gut. I like some meat on my women. So, vhat ist your price? Oh, I'm sorry. I am Marcellus Von Trap. And who are you, handsome fellow?"

He quickly replaced his jacket on his person, his searing scrutiny seeming to put the German man at odds. "Sorry, but I am afraid she's not for sale. We're new to the area."

"New, you say?" Marcellus Von Trap crossed one leg over the other, tipping back some of the Merlot with a smile. "Ja. I can see zat you are not native to our customs. Zis is unfortunate for you, Mister Stranger, for I am not an easily forgiving man. Give me the girl and you vill be free to go." He smiled this time, and when he pulled back his lips, his eyeteeth were obscenely pointed. "This ist not your game, dear boy. The girl ist hardly vorth the trouble. Ve are masters of the flesh, we take what we vant, we partake of earthly and unearthly pleasures... ze only difference is zat we put a pricetag on it. So vhat do you say? I offer five-hundred American dollars for zis pretty mare. You get to keep your head, and you pocket some change."

Vivian looked on at Marcellus as if she could imagine herself crushing his tiny little head with her bare hands. "How d..dare you speak of me that way! Vergil would NEVER give me away for money! He's not after money anyway!"

"Shut up. Marcellus, I think you misunderstand your situation... and for that, you may find yourself paying a price you did not foresee." The half-demon Vergil dextrously sidestepped the coffee table that had suddenly gone flying past his head, stirring his hair. It was the simplest of actions, one foot moving behind the other, tipping his body away from the table's trajectory. The vampire seated on the sofa was on his feet in the next instant, having some inkling that he would miss. When Vivian realized there was going to be a fight, she dived over another couch, grabbing a throw blanket and wrapping it around herself with a scowl.

"Get him, Vergil!" she whooped, pumping her fist in the air. One of the nude women lunged at her throat, fangs bared; defying good sense, Vivian dropped her blanket in order to send a roundhouse kick that knocked her head clean off her shoulder.

The sofas proved no obstacle at all, as Vergil backshuffled out of every punch and kick the vampire could offer as effortlessly as if they were all dancing to his tune. The movements were not lost on Vivian, whose gorgeous gold-orange eyes were inherited from her demonic heritage were as keen as any true demon's. It was probably her one saving grace for all the weaknesses she carried. Vergil snatched up the Yamato and blocked the emerging dagger with it. With a quick flick of his wrist, the dagger went spiralling into the wall with a thunk and wobbling hilt. The women who were laying sprawled on the sofas rose up, faces suddenly spawning inhuman teeth and eyes like those of serpents. They sprang forward.

A bright, silver blade drew a white line in mid-air, and bisected the women's bodies in two. They fell into bloodied halves, cold glistening viscera piling out onto the carpet, bone and flesh smelling rotted and too far gone. Still they struggled against death, crawling toward his pant legs, leaving trails behind them. He kicked them back and pierced their soft skulls with the blade. While their writhing bodies died and melted into dust, Marcellus lunged forward again, blindly, despite his lack of a weapon to match that of the bloodthirsty Yamato. He was dispatched within seconds; he fell backward, his body still stubbornly holding itself together by the sheer power of his vampire blood.

"Vhat the h-hell.. are you!?" Marcellus gasped, his fangs gleaming as his mouth gaped, blood pouring from his gullet.

"My name is Vergil Sparda." He smiled only a little. "Unlike you, my father was the highest ranking demon in Hell. You are simply... scum to do our bidding. You would do well to recognize your masters, filth."

"Y-You... a demon...!" The vampire gurgled; final death was absolutely imminent. With a final gasp, his head fell back against the floor and he dispersed into a thousand black shadows and bits of sand. Vergil stood in their remains, before acknowledging that Vivian was still standing behind a sofa draped in a throw.

She grinned. "That was awesome! You sure showed them! But, what WERE they?" She shifted from one foot to the other, her toes curling, stark white against the carpet.

"I think they were vampires. Now, they're dead vampires." Vergil whipped blood off his sword, bowing his head so that his eyes were hidden. "Go get your clothes, Vivian. They should be dry by now."

Vivian nodded, saluted once, then darted off to chase down the girl who had taken her clothes away. It turned out that she was only human, a servant of Marcellus, who had been marked for vampirism before she felt a strange weight lift from her shoulders a few moments ago. "And yes," she said, "your clothes are drying right now. Some of the leather bits can't be dried that way but they'll be dry soon too."

Vivian smiled. "Hee, you can leave now. But remember Vergil! He's the one who killed Marcellus and set you free! I wouldn't approach him right now though." The small woman tittered. "He hates humans."

The woman paled, then turned to get her coat and flee as quickly as possible. Vivian sneered. "Cowards, just like he said. Waiting around for someone else to save their worthless hides. Tch." She tucked her blanket up higher before she opened the dryer and pulled out her clothes. She squealed happily as the freshly heated fabrics touched her skin. She tried to get dressed quickly, and darted out with her still-damp leather arm-wrap halfway around her arm. "I'm ready!"

"You don't look it." Was that... a smile? Really?! Her eyes lit up and she latched onto his arm, keeping step with him more easily as he vacated the whorehouse without so much as a single glance to the gathering mortal women; terrified in their nude repose, they had collected at the foot of the stairs.

But outside was another story. A nondescript black van had parked on the other side of the street, and its myriad occupants piled out the minute the doors of the whorehouse had opened. Vergil's hand dropped to the Yamato's hilt almost on instinct. The people in the car did not look at all friendly.

"Stop right where you are, vampire!" A soldier wearing a winter muffler and eyes that pierced like precious gems glared from behind a pair of round glasses. "You are not lords of this city, no matter where you decide to haunt!"

"What are you talking about?" Vivian shouted, waving her hands. "We're not vampires! We just killed them in there! They wanted to buy me but when we said no, some guy named Marcellus Von Trap tried to kill us! His whores, too! But Vergil slayed them on the spot!"

His pupils were like small black points in a sea of blue. He stared at the soldier whose sword points gleamed in the moonlight. She was just another human, a pathetic mortal. But the fire in her eyes was unlike much he had seen. He respected that fire, that admirable (yet futile) determination. It was a woman beneath all that masculine energy, her facade failing even before his eyes.

"So am I to believe that you are vampire hunters as well?"

"No." Vergil stayed his hand, but with Vivian babbling on about things these fools did not need know, he'd find it hard to convince them. "What she says... is true."

She motioned for the ring of soldiers to stand down. Vergil start noticing the other life forces, peppered throughout the street. More soldiers that would have been damn near invisible to the naked human eye. The woman was a strategist as well.

"So. Vergil. You say you don't hunt vampires, yet you casually wander into the good country of England and start slaying them as if you are a leading expert in their extermination. I suppose you're capable of handlng that sword that's laying there. I suggest you relax. I am Sir Integra Hellsing, leader of the Hellsing Organization."

"Vergil Sparda."

"I'm V-Vivian."

A voice pervaded the tension. "U-Um, excuse me... there's a strange man upstairs. He hasn't moved for hours and he seems to be in trouble." The women from inside had gotten themselves into some form of decent clothing and were standing behind Vergil and Vivian in the doorway. "No matter what we do, he doesn't wake up!"

"Won't wake up, you say?" Integra stormed past Vergil and Vivian to the girl. The women scattered about, staring at this strangely uniformed woman as if doubting her gender altogether. She moved like a man and held herself with that indestructible British pride. Typical of royal blood. Vergil followed her, as did Vivian who struggled to get through the mob of women who tittered about their handsome sleeping beauty. The stairs creaked, and the musty stink of carnal pleasures filled Vergil's nose. This was where men bought goods of another kind.

It was not anything of interest to Vergil if some strange guy had offed himself in a brothel. But as soon as the three gathered in the bedroom, Vergil nearly fell backward into Vivian. The man on the bed was sleeping peacefully at the moment, but there was blood pooling in his palms from where he'd been clenching his hands tight. There were bites in his throat from multiple women having their way with him. But thankfully he was fully dressed (or as dressed as he could be, with only that ridiculous jacket and chest-belt), his chest rising and falling evenly, a sword decorated with a skull and bones laying beside him, his guns sticking out from under his hips.

Integra was quick to notice the similarities. She looked sidelong at Vergil. "You know this man."

"Unfortunately yes."

"Unfortunately?"

"He's my ridiculous twin brother." Vergil stared down with some shock and a little disgust. Vivian stood behind him, eyes glazed, almost sure she had heard Vergil mention Dante at some point. "I haven't seen him in a... very long time." He then seemed suddenly like a child, mystified and a little shocked. He could not seem to fathom seeing Dante in a place like this, unconscious as if he had been caught under a vampire's thrall. Thank God he was still breathing.

"The same thing is happening to Alucard," Integra informed him. "Since last night he has been acting strangely. And now... this. I don't think I need to say they are connected. Alucard was meant to come here and exterminate the vermin here today."

Vergil leaned over Dante, jabbing him with the hilt of the Yamato in the stomach. He didn't so much as twitch. Then he took one arm, pulled him up, then started to manuever him over his shoulder, as if he weighed nothing. "Who is this Alucard?"

"He is the Queen's vampire."

Vergil quirked a brow at her as he sidled to the door. "Whatever. Dante's coming with me. I don't care what you people do."

"Pardon me, but ... you're removing evidence from a crime scene," Integra stepped into his path, eyes smoldering.

"My brother is evidence now? Pretty unsavory evidence, if you ask me." Vergil gazed back at her. It was a match of wits. Or a boring moment. Vivian blinked, looking quickly from one to the other, before she quickly pushed herself between them, one hand on Integra's, er, chest... and the other on Vergil's face, pushing them apart.

"Why don't you let us stay at your house?!" A terrifyingly maniacal grin developed; her eyes gained flecks of gold in the orange. "Ahh, a sleepover at a human's house. This will be fun!"

Human and demon-blooded all piled outside, pushing aside the whores of the vampire Marcellus, and into the back of a second truck that had pulled up behind the last one. Dante was propped against his brother's side, who seemed half-dazed from the entire situation. He was awarded with odd looks from everyone but Integra, who was speaking quietly into an earpiece.

The ride back, dull as watching grass grow, made Vergil sleepy. Adventures in Hell were not suffered lightly. He shut his eyes and leaned his cheek almost unconsciously on the top of Dante's head and promptly dropped off. Vivian jealously looked at her master without speaking.