Disclaimer: Warhammer 40,000 and all other associated copyrights owned by Games Workshop. Hellsing and all other associated copyrights owned by Kouta Hirano. Should any one of these parties wish it, I will remove this story at once.

*Transmitted: The Song of Hate
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: The Calm
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 5040001459247/4512689753.47836
*Thought For The Day: Never Forget, Never Forgive

Seras watched Lydwida closely. Her breathing was slow and even. The machines quietly beeped and buzzed, keeping track of her vital signs, administering pain-killers, food or other things as necessary. The poor woman had barely survived her encounter with the daemons. Seras had taken away the worst of the damage, but she still needed rest. If she hadn't been sedated, Lydwida would be up trying to hurt herself again. She pushed herself too hard.

Seras carefully pulled the blankets over her, so she wouldn't get cold. Lydwida would need to rest for another few weeks before she recovered. She had whispered 'Itasion' for hours until the medics sedated her.

Seras quietly left the cold medicae section and went to discuss the battle-plans with Duran. Or more appropriately have strategy talked at her and agree with whatever he came up with. She swept by soldiers and functionaries, receiving and returning salutes. Seras was dressed in full battle gear. The sort of gesture a "saint" like her should make. Her headache started to throb. Despite her pain and disgust she kept her face straight. Any twitch, flutter or blink they'd take and find a thousand different meanings in. She hated having to act like this. She hated being this thing, this object.

Most of all she hated having to need it.

So many of them, clinging to hope, because she was there. They endured pain after pain, witnessed the most terrible of things. All because of her. If she was a 'saint' it meant that all of it was for a reason. That there was a grander purpose in life than madness and violence. Without that purpose they would die. So Seras let them call her saint, and hated every moment of it.

She walked out into the main corridor. It went on for kilometres, and was at least one hundred metres tall. There were people in it, non-military personnel going through their day. She hated this too. Having every lie she'd told thrown in her face. All along the walls were tapestries, murals and paintings 'illustrating the history of the Hellsing Order' from Abraham to now. Artisans had spend most of their lives painstakingly weaving painting and crafting them based on what she said. They were all wrong.

The ones at this end of the ship were the oldest, the ones about events before even she had been born. Thirty thousand years had faded the memories. She guessed the Hellsings looked right. The events were probably wrong. With Abraham's life she knew was wrong. She lied completely about it.

Next were the ones about when she was young. They were as accurate as she could remember. When they were not, it was because she lied about it. There were parts of her former life they did not need to know.

This one, one drawn about the fight against Millennium, always drew Seras's attention. It was the sum of all she had to lie about, omit, and hated. It was second only to another she hated the most. On the right it had Integra standing on a hill, wearing armour that never existed and wielding a glaive far too large for a human to lift. Below her were over a hundred men painted in exacting and loving detail. Seras was amused that everyone else considered them holy. She'd never had the heart to tell them. The left was a garble of darkness, fangs, appendages and Chaos symbols. It wasn't technically right, but now Seras understood more. Above both was a rendition of herself, in silver armour descending on wings of light.

After Millennium's defeat there were fewer murals. The Golden Age, The Fall. They were not as bad, there was little to lie about, little to know. The other events she wouldn't tell anyone else. Those memories were private.

She still had to walk by a few more before she got to the training grounds. The Unification, the Great Crusade, better days. Before she turned into the training grounds her eye caught a glimpse of the painting about That Day. Her a crystalline figure of silver and light, against a red daemon of blood and death.

It was wrong.

She swept onto the balconies overlooking the area. Duran Fides, the commander of the Hellsing military, was there overseeing the training regimes of the officers. He was in full battle dress as well.

"Duran."

He turned and saluted. He had a face that may as well have been hacked from stone. Piercing eyes and sharp angles, he looked the same as he did when he joined two millennia ago.

"Your Holiness." Her migraine bounced at the words. "The psykers and Seekers have completed their inquisition on Aloerux IV. Purifiers Alexi and Xajeo had determined that Rythun has created a new type of undead. They believe that its capabilities would be comparable to a vampire."

Vampires, after all this time, Seras thought, but did not voice her amusement. "The troop strength: three thousand Legionaries, two thousand cultists, forty APCs and ten MBTs. They have concluded that Rythun was attempting to beseech the Ruinous Powers for deamonhood. We interrupted him, but he will try again."

He handed her a dataslate. Seras glanced at it briefly. The names concerned her the most. During the Great Crusade she had kept careful track of all the deeds and all the pain the members of the Legions went through. She would see all the traitors dead.

Duran continued on as she read, "Training of the officers goes well. Sergeant Michael preformed admirably during the time he was separated from his squad." Seras had meant to ask why he had the drops scatter deliberately. Apparently this was why. "I have sponsored his promotion to Lieutenant."

"Are you sure about this?" Seras asked. It was an old question.

"Yes, He has been strong in personal leadership in his squad. On Aloerux he demonstrated his ability to keep calm in trying situations."

He was avoiding the question. Both knew it.

"That wasn't what I was asking."

For a moment the warrior in him slipped away. He looked so old. His eyes unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere. He grasped a rail for support.

"Yes. I am sure."

Seras nodded, but said nothing.

Both watched the exercises below. Both thinking of other things.

Then the battle-plans were drawn.

Author's Notes: As always, any comments concerns or inquiries welcome.

Thus concludes the introductory arc for The Grim, Dark Future.

Welcome to Warhammer 40,000.

Welcome to a place worse than any hell imaginable.

Background Information: Seras was canonized as a Saint in the late years of M.31. She did not find out until mid-M.32, far too late to do anything about it. These events will be detailed later.

Ketch117- Integra is unfortunately dead at this point, she will be an active component of the 40K part of the story as the plot goes forward. In the Chaos Codex there is mention of 'Doombreed' the first of the Daemon Princes who "led armies that ravaged entire nations on Earth long ago". Make of it what you will.

Edited with the assistance of Enslavement-Thesis