Whipping Boy
|Chapter 2|
Three days.
Integra had expected the priest to wear himself out much sooner than that, or at the very least, get a daytime reprieve—but it seemed she had grossly underestimated the man's mania. Though she couldn't hear it from the office, both Alucard and Seras confirmed that his ranting continued throughout the day and into the night and so on and so forth for three. Whole. Days.
She had ordered Alucard not to interfere. Let the monster lose some sleep for a change.
On the fourth day, a frazzled Seras had reported no sound from the sealed room, and later that night, a slightly grumpy Alucard confirmed the same. It seemed that Maxwell had finally exhausted himself.
She promptly sent Walter down with a tray and a promise of amenities if the man could behave himself.
Integra wasn't expecting much. The priest-turned-vampire had gone at least three days without sustenance—his time in Alucard's dubious 'care' not withstanding. And while Seras had done the same for longer, she hadn't spent that time yelling obscenities at the top of her lungs. (Nor had she done so without a coffin lined with her home soil.)
So it was with no little surprise that she found herself facing the Escariot from across the broad expanse of her desk, freshly washed and groomed—his matted nest of hair considered a loss and thus removed. Integra fought back a smirk. Without his mane, Maxwell had the look of a fresh-faced altar boy.
Scowling at the scrutiny, the priest crosses his arms over his chest with a 'humph'. It fails to impress.
There is much Integra can say at this point. Alucard has promised to bring Maxwell to heel, and she has no doubt that her servant will do so. With relish. However, she is curious as to how this strange turn of events came to be, and for that the knowledge must come straight from the horse's mouth—or pig's, as it were, without the Midian's interference.
Hmm. Straight to the point, then.
"What happened in Africa, Maxwell?"
She would like to say that she saw a moment's startlement behind those green eyes but, after a very short pause, she merely received a very familiar arch look.
"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific. A great deal has happened and I haven't exactly been conscious for all of it."
Her hands itch for the familiar shape of a cigar, and she curbs the craving by clasping them before her. A small mercy for Maxwell, though he likely knows the temptation of grinding the cherry into the closest bit of his flesh would test the very limits of her restraint.
It would probably be the first warmth he's felt since his 'death'.
"You know what I speak of. How was it you came to be there? How did Alucard manage to turn you? I do know a bit about how it works, and yet I can't imagine you asking for it, even on pain of death-"
Reaction is instantaneous. Faster than her eyes could track, the Section XIII Director was inches from her face, snarling—his pointed eyeteeth feral and gleaming. She felt the Seals rise to match the potential threat posed by his ire; threads of power weaving around them both for protection and subjugation, respectively.
"[You whore-spawn mongrel!] You think I asked for this! How dare you! I slit my own throat! I chose death over your monster's mercy!"
Realizing how close their faces were, and possibly feeling the slight burn of the Wards against his skin, he returned to his seat—though his gaze continued its efforts to scorch all visible layers of dermis.
"You know nothing, but I will not be the one to enlighten you. In time, you will learn the err of your ways from your faithful servant-" At this he sneered. "-but by then the truth will be little consolation. –For your information, I never asked for this. I spit in your pet's face, and laughed at his shackles, for I knew they chained him to a vapid heathen slut, such as you!"
Integra felt her face heat with rage. God in Heaven, did the man have an infuriating way with words. She reached deep inside for calm. The same calm that destroyed obstacles, be they people or politics, buildings or beliefs. Walls merely perceived and those that were tangible.
All things fell before it. So would this man.
"Maxwell, you have a choice. You can either tell me everything, starting with your presence in that God-forsaken village, of your own free will, or I can have Alucard puppet everything I want to know from your unwilling lips. –I don't have to tell you that your little snit has put him in a foul mood and it is quite possible that you won't recover fully from it, should you choose that path."
She let that sink in a moment, before continuing.
"I know my Servant. While he speaks the truth, I know it is not always the whole truth. In this matter I must rely on you. Speak with prejudice, as you will, but tell me in your own words what has happened to make you as you are now. –And know that you're only damning yourself with another outburst. I've sent Alucard away, but not so far that Seals won't alarm him of your tantrums."
She refrains from referring to Alucard as his 'Master'. That can wait until she isn't trying to pry information out of him. She fully intends to exploit it, though, if only to return this indignity in kind.
Maxwell is frowning. Most likely in consideration. She knows his current position is enough of a rub, so much that cornering the man hardly seems necessary or fair. But she also knows that were their positions reversed, the priest would spare no time lording over her misfortune before finding the quickest way to dispatch true-death.
There will be no shelter here.
Letting out a breath (and God only knows how long he's been holding it) he physically braces himself before starting his tale. He reiterates what she already suspected—that their combined presence had simply been a miscommunication between local government and clergy. The details were expectedly gruesome and liberally laced with the man's bigotry, but she had anticipated that, too. It was only when he got to the part where he lost his life, that Maxwell became vague. Confused, but adamant that he had in no way accepted a plea for so-called immortality and likewise that none had been offered.
She was compelled to believe him, but still couldn't understand how it happened. The tenants were quite clear on the matter. An offer made. An offer accepted. That was the way of it.
At best he should be dead. At worst, a ghoul.
"Alucard. Explain yourself. Does your childe lie?"
Maxwell immediately snarled at the vernacular but was silenced by his sire's entrance. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Semantics. Really? The man was going to be a neurotic mess by the night's end.
Her servant smirked down at the seething priest, who issued a low growl in response—his attention fully trained on Hellsing's Alpha-Monster.
"No. He doesn't lie, though he does have a way with words—don't you agree? Everything is either an epithet or useless indoctrination. I'm surprised you gleaned anything from the conversation at all."
She merely blinked at his observation.
"I've learned to filter out most of the hypocritical gibberish. Now, explain yourself. If he doesn't lie, then how does a vampire sit before me?"
The jackal grin widened into Cheshire proportions.
"Oh? You mean you don't know? I'm surprised-especially at you, Priest. I was under the impression that your texts went back quite a bit farther than any in Van Helsing's library. Am I to assume that the Glorious Catholic Church does not know its enemy any better than a common Dutch scholar?"
He chuckled as Maxwell, hackles raised, shot out of his chair. Thankfully the Midian phased out before either could experience a repeat of their last confrontation. He materialized next to the window, still chuckling—raising the Iscariot's ire to the point that the wards intervened.
"[Shit-sucking monster!] I've known how to grant your eternal rest long before your so-called 'master' let you out of your miserable little cage. And as for this, you ignorant beast, there's NO WAY you could have-"
The priest choked on his rant before suddenly going still. A contest of wills ensued between fledgling and master—neither moving, their battle waged on a mental front. Integra could still feel the wards pulse around her, no doubt straining to keep the two vampires in check. She frowned. While she had no real worries about Seras, and to some extent, Alucard, it might behoove her to look into the wards themselves, and their limits.
With Maxwell already testing the strength of his tethers, intentionally or not, it would only be erring on the side of safety.
She waited. There was little doubt as to who the victor of this little contest would be, and she was content to let it play out. Though, she could only hope the insufferable bastard gave Alucard a migraine. –Common scholar, indeed.
She didn't have to wait long. With fluttering eyes, Maxwell took his seat—his sire taking the reins. Grinning that insufferable Jackal grin, he turned crimson eyes to his master; ignoring the youngling twitching in his chair, still trapped in thrall.
"Master, I am curious. –Do you think me a virgin? Or perhaps that I was upon being made thus."
Integra scoffed.
"It's my belief that the Devil Himself made you thus."
Alucard laughed, full-throated and dark with promise.
"Just as well, for I was a grown man; proven in battle and in a woman's flesh. And while those who uphold their chastity, like the priest there, are likely to become a childe of the night once bitten—it is not a guarantee. Am I correct?"
"Yes. We all know that children normally do not rise again, but remain dead—as do some adults that are not virgins. That still doesn't explain how one becomes a vampire against their will. The texts are quite specific in that regard."
Maxwell arched in his chair, eyes fluttering madly; a groan slipping passed his lips. The battle still raging, though obviously in the Elder's favor.
Both spared him barely a glance.
"Really? Well, then there must be some other explanation besides the validity of a text written ages before the Malleus Malificarum."
Integra narrowed her eyes at the poorly veiled sarcasm.
"The Malificarum is useless propaganda created for the sole purpose of justifying the slaughter of innocents. –I'm sure even Maxwell will attest to that. However, the text you're so intent on discrediting, and I assume it is my noble ancestor's journals you speak of, is actually a collection of texts, dating to well before that worthless bit of pulp-fiction to as late as fifty years ago. –And they all say the same thing. That you cannot turn a person against their will. Acceptance of the contract is vital, for it IS a contract; writ in blood and delivered by proxy—that would be you, to the intended applicant. –Which would, in this case, be no one; if Maxwell speaks the truth."
In his seat, the Iscariot in question finally slumped; eyes half-mast and staring out into nothing. The battle was won. –But not, Integra suspected, the war.
She turned shrewd eyes to the victor.
"You, yourself, validated Maxwell's claim. And I've yet to hear a explanation that meets my satisfaction as to why I am plus one nightwalker, when really I should be toasting the death of an annoyance. So, I would like an explanation. And if the next words out of your mouth are not to this end, I'll have no choice but to send you to your room, now that it's free. –Without supper."
Integra weathered the withering glare. Alucard was normally tight-lipped about his past, about his general knowledge, and (especially) about his weaknesses. If it wasn't taunting, temptation, or scorn, the Midian's counsel was kept largely to himself. He had humored her off and on during her childhood with useless small talk, but that strangely innocent time had faded with youth—as had her patience.
"I'm waiting, Alucard…"
There were a few more moments of token silence before he answered; his tone surly with a hint of sulk. It almost made her smile.
"I don't know."
Her potential grin died before it was ever born; ruthlessly smothered by her surprise.
"You don't know? You DON'T KNOW! –What the Hell was all that then?" She flung a hand towards the catatonic Maxwell. "You mock him for his lack and yet bring nothing to the table yourself?"
The mulish look slid into a frown.
"Master, you assume that I have sired all Midians. I only hold the answers to my own creation, and that of my Brides, my children. I do not know the workings of this curse beyond what it has gifted me."
He bowed apologetically. When he straightened, his lips once again formed a smirk.
"However, I will inform my Sire of your inquiries. Perhaps his answers will be more to your liking."
Integra sneered.
"Answers from the Prince of Lies? -If you have nothing of worth to add to this farce, then get out—and take that with you. "
Her finger stabbed in the general direction of the stirring priest. A clutch of dark tendrils exploded around him, the shadows swallowing his sudden look of abject horror. It is a cruel monster that releases its prey only when it is devoured; to watch the last sliver of light slip away. Alucard must be feeling spiteful.
In any case, the Iscariot was gone before he could scream.
It was only later, when she was reflecting the night's events to a blissfully empty office, that she remembered Maxwell had been on the verge of something before his Sire intervened.
Ah well. There would be time for that later. For now, there was tea. -And paperwork.
She raised the cup to her lips signed on the line. By the time she reached the acquisition forms, the moment was all but forgotten; discarded hubris in the wake of More Important Things. Like how much ammo the Geese thought they were entitled to.
Bloody mercenaries.
Usually, by the time information reached the Captain of the Wild Geese, it had changed so many hands it wasn't worth the bullet that killed the messenger. Intel was gathered on a per-job basis through various contacts, both above and below the board, and only when the price was right. Since shacking up with the Hellsing Organization however, all of that was handled internally—and they didn't even have to pay for it.
The Lady draws her colors and they do battle. What could be simpler?
The Captain took a long pull from the cigarette at his lips. Intelligence was not their trade, but when people spoke to one another in hushed voices it was best to listen, even if it was at a distance and with half an ear. It was this way he learned the package he'd transported a week ago had contained not one, but TWO undead—one of which he'd seen skulking around the manor in nothing but a bathrobe; muttering obscenities in something that sounded like Portuguese. -Victoria says he is a priest.
If that is so, he will scare the men worse than the Trash Collector on principle. They are not monsters, but most would say they are not good people.
And they would be right.
It matters little to him however, if there's a new addition to the menagerie. Victoria is practically human, her Master serves the same Mistress as he, and the other, well… The Geese have survived worse circumstances than an undead priest with a grudge. This job has provided steady pay, nice lodgings, and reliable medical treatment. The Vampires are an interesting, if sometimes terrifying side note, but no more than hostile territory with none of the above.
So when the Butler escorts the scowling newest edition into his 'office' (which is really just a corner with a table shoved into it), he understands that things are about to become interesting—or terrifying, depending on his orders.
He gives a nod to Walter, who is looking slightly harassed.
"Captain, this is-"
"I can make my own introductions, Butler. Your services are no longer required."
Walter Dollneaz is not a man easily riled but it is obvious by the rigid set to his shoulders that this pale creature has sorely tested his legendary resolve. Which is saying a lot. The man they call 'Angel of Death' is constantly in the presence of vampires and is one of the few humans the big one will listen to without fail. To upset him is both unwise, and (thankfully) nearly impossible.
He is a little impressed. Despite himself.
"Very well, I'll leave you to it, then." He nods. "Captain."
Both watch the retainer's back as he leaves, a vague sense of finality settling over them. Careful to avoid eye contact, he sizes up the priest with a proprietary air. There can only be one reason for this meeting, although why it has fallen onto him, and not the creature's sire, is anyone's guess.
The robed figure sneers at his perusal; revealing a single wicked canine. Yes, he can see why the household has steered clear of this one. All the burgeoning pomp of Rome housed in an ill-tempered, pretty-faced package. He can't imagine what the Lady sees in this one that's worth keeping, but he understands now why this particular task has been left in his charge.
He is a childe in need of a lesson. -One he would not survive by his sire's hand.
"I am Father Enrico Maxwell and I am here to acquire clothing. –And please, spare me the introduction on your part. Whoever you are matters little to me."
Well. That wasn't exactly what he was expecting. He knows the Butler wouldn't foist off such a menial task as assigning kit, no matter how annoying the assignee, because that was what the man did. Dollneaz was the Requisitions Master. Nothing was given out unless it passed through his hands first.
He took another drag; letting the narcotics do their job.
"Pardon, but if you're looking for clothing, the one that brought you here is the man for that. I assumed you were here for battle assessment. The Butler can outfit you, if that's all you need."
The priest's sneer turned into a grimace of distaste. Ah, there was a catch then.
"Yes, well. -It has been brought to my attention that the only clothing I may acquire, other than what you see here, must be hewn with the Hellsing coat of arms. As only the Hellsing Militia may openly wear this crest, I am here to.. join it."
The last part was said in such a way as to mean, 'Eat shit'. –Which, by his expression, was exactly what Integra was making him do. The magnificent woman.
Laughing would get him killed, but it was a hard battle nonetheless.
"I see."
He paws around for a piece of paper; finally calling one of the men over when he finds none. Once they return with the requested items, he pushes them towards the priest, who eyes them with unveiled suspicion.
"Here. I need you to write down your qualifications. They can be anything you think may be relevant. Like languages or weapon handling; combat training…"
He takes another pull of smoke; taking in the other's almost scandalized expression with it. He's not expecting much, but he's not discounting anything either. He's made that mistake before. Thankfully it only cost him an eye.
"-Be as specific as possible. Like what languages you can read and which ones you know well enough to parse what is being discussed in a conversation. That sort of thing."
There is a moment of stunned silence; then the shell shock slides into indignation.
"I had no idea Hellsing had lowered itself to hiring right off the street. Do you know who I am, mongrel? Do you know to whom you speak? You want qualifications? I lead a secret organization whose divine purpose is to crush heathen filth such as yourself until you quail for the true salvation of our Lord. Or go to Hell. -Which ever comes first."
It is he who is sized up now; like prey. He feels the telltale prickle at the base of his spine and remembers that this is not a man. Not really.
"-Would skinning your worthless hide in a single, unblemished piece be sufficient? If you have a letter-opener, we can start right now."
No. Not a man. A monster. Perhaps one even before he died.
"Mm. That would be impressive. However, I do not have a letter-opener so I'm afraid I can't accommodate you. And that would count as Survival Training. –Which is still good, just not what I'm looking for."
A growl issues forth, inorganic and bizarre. The sound of it, the wrongness, alerts every muscle in his body before he forces himself to relax. There is no fight or flight. Not here. Not now.
"You are seconds away from losing your status as both Captain, and Living Being. I suggest you use those precious seconds wisely and tarry me no further. -Now. Where do I sign?"
He takes a drag. Considers his options. The men are still, hands drifting to sidearms. They've been listening. Watching. Waiting to see what he will do. He holds the drug-laced fog in his lungs until he feels like he's drowning.
He exhales. Right into the creature's face.
"You can sign this page all you like. However, if you want a position within this organization, I hope you have more than penmanship to bring to the table. –In the meantime, if you need clothes with the Hellsing crest, then I suggest you look to the Lady's closet." He glances at the robe. "I'm sure she has something in your size."
The Captain of the Wild Geese has faced worse than an undead priest whose glower could kill a man. He simply can't remember it at the moment. There is a red halo surrounding the other who is frozen, mid-lunge; snarling in a register the human throat is not equipped for. He's seen that haze before. It is the leash that keeps the big one from killing everyone on the compound. And apparently this one from the same. Merde.
He waits it out. It takes less than a minute for the ensnared to compose himself, but it feels like hours.
Finally out of the ward's merciless grip, the priest reaches for the pen.
"You are an imbecile. It will bring me much joy to deny your passage into the afterlife." He slides the paper over. Pauses. "Or perhaps help you along. -I will need more of this."
The Captain's eyebrows convey just how likely he thinks that will be, but motions to his men in compliance. The others are staring, gazes heavy with equal parts wonder and trepidation. He can't help but agree.
Interesting and terrifying. It should be the Hellsing credo.
|End|