I was shooting for something a little less… bland. Ah, to hell with it. If bland I am, then bland I shall be.

/

Public transportation.

It doesn't matter if you're in New York, Hong Kong, Chicago, or London, it's all the same. All across the civilized world, it is common knowledge that public transportation is a synonym for the burning pits of hell.

None were quite as aware of this as Cricket.

Standing rigidly in a very uncomfortable position between what seemed to be a chronic masturbator and a rather shady 'salesman', clutching onto a loop that hung from the ceiling, she said prayer after silent prayer that she would make it out of the tube free of any emotional scarring. The air was thick and steamy with the London morning humidity, making the already stuffy train drip with condensation, and it felt like she was in the heaving belly of some sort of terrible snake. The teenager tried to draw herself in as tightly as she could, to avoid so much as brushing one of the many sweating, panting businessmen and women that were packed all around her, keeping a wary eye on one rather corpulent fellow to her left that appeared to be attempting to break a world record for how much one man could sweat.

This was how her twenty minute trip in the tube was spent, and when the train finally crawled to a stop at her destination, Jane tried to maneuver her way out the doors as quickly as she could without bumping into any sweat-soaked chests. She herself could feel a slimy film coating the small of her back and the crook of her neck, and she hoped to the sweet Lord and Mother Mary that it would dry by the time she made it to the gates of the Hellsing manor. Looking and smelling like you just ran a 10k marathon next to a homeless man is not exactly the impression one wants to make on their first day of work.

Walter watched with a thin frown as Integra took a fat cigar from its case, leaning back in her stately office chair with a deep, exasperated sigh. He set the tray he had been holding on the desk that was littered with paperwork, retrieving a silver lighter from his pocket and lighting his mistress's cigar before pouring her a cup of steaming tea. "I do wish that you would try and cut down on all those cigars, Sir Integra. They aren't good for your health," he commented in a grandfatherly tone, placing the lighter back where it belonged. Integra shot him a narrow look before eyeing the tea appreciatively, picking up the cup and blowing delicately at the coils of steam, thus effectively ignoring the butler. If it were anyone but Walter, she would have given them a sound tongue-lashing and promptly dismissed them from her service for daring to chastise her.

"Not that I don't trust your judgment, Sir…" he began casually, adjusting his manacle, "but I do wish that you might have consulted me before hiring the new maid."

Integra looked at him from over the rim of her glasses, sipping the warm liquid. "It was my choice to make." She answered firmly.

Walter nodded. "It is indeed… I was simply implying that I'd have liked to see who I am to work with." He replied, referring silently to the last hired hand, a portly Hispanic woman who didn't quite grasp Walter's specific instructions to NOT go into the basement under any circumstances. Alucard didn't take too kindly to being awakened at twelve in the afternoon by the scent of lemon Pledge slathered over his coffin.

Integra frowned at the memory, nodding slightly. "Hn…I suppose you're right."

She sighed, taking another sip. She was beginning to worry that hiring this girl on a whim was going to lead to some very…stressful situations.

Walter noted the grimace on her face and cleared his throat politely. "So, what is this new employee's name?" He questioned, bringing Integra out of her thoughts.

"Jane," She answered in a stronger voice, straightening herself. "Her name is Jane."

The butler nodded in approval. Jane was a nice, simple name, easy to remember. "If I may ask, what is she like?" When he had brought her in to see Integra previously, he hadn't paid much attention to her. Though he was much too well-mannered to say anything, he inwardly hoped that she was one of those sorts that wore kitten heels and frilly little skirts.

"Well," Integra thought back to the interview from a few nights before. "She's terribly young. Sharp, but inexperienced, and plain." She said thoughtfully.

Walter sulked ever so slightly, giving a little sigh. Plain… Oh well. Perhaps he would get lucky with the next maid.* "Young? How young?" He asked idly, silently lamenting.

"Sixteen."

Walter's eyes snapped up, full of disbelief. "Sixteen?" He protested doubtfully.

"Yes, Walter, sixteen." Integra repeated with some annoyance. "Remember, when I was sixteen I was running the Hellsing Organization effectively on my own, and had been for some time." She clipped with a bit of indignity.

The butler bowed his head humbly, recovering from his surprise. "Yes, of course, Sir Integra. I only meant that she should be in school, yes?" He said, smoothly saving face.

Integra snorted. He was a quick old man, indeed. "Don't concern yourself over such matters. Leave me now, she'll be arriving shortly and I have work to do…"

It was then that she just so happened to shift in her seat and glance out the window, and right on cue, the gangly subject of their conversation appeared not fifteen feet from the gate.

"Speak of the devil," Integra muttered with an arched eyebrow, finishing the last of her tea and placing her cigar back between her lips. She turned her stare back to Walter. "Well? Go let her in, before the poor thing passes out from heat stroke."

When Walter finally made his way to the door and opened it to let the child in, he almost slammed it shut again. An unearthly shade of blue, brighter than before assaulted his eyes, and it was more than a few moments before he was able to look at anything else. When he finally regained his composure and managed to politely usher the girl in, he couldn't help but notice that she distinctly resembled a homeless cat, with her disheveled hair and clothes in disarray.

"I know, I look like a douche bag on wheels. Downright unholy weather." She fanned herself with what looked like a bright orange flyer, catching her ragged breath. Walter was silent, looking at the girl almost suspiciously. She certainly looked sixteen—Strange hair color, tight black jeans, cell phone bulging out of her back pocket.

"You must be Jane." He said, trying to keep his voice from sounding unimpressed.

She boldly offered her hand for him to shake, beaming. "Jane's my payroll name. You can call me Cricket. Who're you?"

Walter tentatively shook her hand. It seemed nicknames had changed quite a bit since he was a teenager.

"I am Walter." He didn't feel the need to tell her more. "I'll be your manager of sorts." He said curtly, motioning for Jane… Cricket, he thought to himself, to follow him. Cricket… how absurd. Integra had said she was sharp, but so far she seemed about as sharp as a butter knife.

It was nearing eleven, and Walter had shown Cricket all of the Hellsing manor that she need concern herself with, pointing out her duties along the way. Her display at the doorway had worried him; she had appeared to be a lazy, daft, and rather rude sort of person. Yet, as they had traversed the mansion he found her to be really quite pleasant company. She had listened intently when he gave her instructions, didn't babble, and was calm and collected. By the time he had finished showing her around Walter decided that he approved of this Cricket character's manners, though he also concluded that she was a little… off. But her oddness paled in comparison to that of, well, any of Hellsing's other employees.

"After I show you the supply closet, you'll be done for the morning." Walter said as he led her to the very back of the mansion.

"So I'm only on the first floor, then," Cricket drawled from behind him. Walter nodded, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket as they approached the closet door. She peeked down the left hallway, noticing how the elegant, lavish decorations seemed to suddenly end, though the hall didn't. Unadorned stone walls seemed to grow closer together; darker, more dismal, more foreboding. At the end of the tunnel was a steel door, set in place by impossibly heavy bolts.

"Walter," Cricket piped curiously. "What's down there?" She thrust her thumb towards the mysterious hall.

He turned, following her questioning gesture down the hall… and straight towards the basement door. He now had to make a decision: Speak casually of it, claiming it as storage in hopes of dissolving any interest she might have, or risk heightening her curiosity with vicious threats.

He had always preferred threats.

Slowly, the butler drew himself up and turned to her with an electric stare. He wasn't much taller than she, but somehow he managed to loom over her like an ominous raincloud, his dignified demeanor suddenly turning frighteningly calm, almost dangerously so.

"That area is absolutely restricted, no exceptions, ever." His voice was unsettling…extremely unsettling. "Just remember, Jane… Curiosity killed the cat." He threatened subtly.

Cricket stared back in stunned silence, the wheels whirling in her brain, before something almost audibly clicked.

"Ooohhh," Walter didn't like the deadpan look on her face. "I get it, I get it. It's like your porn dungeon, right?"

The butler blanched.

"Must be something a little kinkier than Hustler down there if you need a steel door that big."

*Yeah. I know. Sexual innuendo. I swear I didn't mean it like that when I wrote it.