Now, Jubalii sings: If I was a rich girl, I'd own Hellsing. But I don't. (Shrugs)


Sister? Hah! More like Slave-driver!

12-year-old Fulton Abraham Hellsing pushed his well-kept hair out of his eyes and tried to wipe the sweat off of his glasses. Standing in formal wear on a bright summer's day was not the boy's ideal way to spend the evening. However, Sister Dearest insisted upon him holding a Summer Gala, and here he was, about to have his picture made underneath the canopy at the front gate. Winston, the butler, held the camera steady and motioned toward the woman standing behind his young master.

"Miss Seras, please! Push your hat up, even if only a little! I need to be able to see your face in the picture!"

The Draculina laughed and obeyed, trying to keep most of her face out of the sun. Fulton knew that the sun wouldn't kill his "Sister", but she didn't really enjoy staying out in the broad daylight for too long. After the picture, he knew that she would excuse herself and go to bed, awaiting the cool darkness of the night. She stepped closer to Fulton and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. He cursed silently that he was still so small. Seras towered over him, and she was the smallest in the whole manor! Her hand tightened on his shoulder slightly as Winston counted, forcing Fulton to pay attention and stand straight, with a smile. The bright flash blinded his eyes for moment, and then Winston came over to show him the picture. Seras' voice slipped through his head as she went through a portal, assuring him that she was only a call away if needed.

Fulton had never thought about the worrisome future as the heir to Hellsing when he was 8. Now, however, was a different story, and he understood the danger all too well. More than once, he had had his life flash before his eyes before being rescued by Seras.

And he wasn't ignorant about the power he wielded by having a Draculina in the manor, either. He had read the journal, and had parts filled in by Seras that weren't included in the secret manuscript; meant only for Hellsing eyes. He wielded the ultimate authority over mankind: A demonic creature of the night with an eternal thirst and powers beyond all belief. And Seras wasn't even the strongest; or so he had been told. The mysterious Bird of Hermes (who Seras had mentioned in passing but never discussed openly as she did so many other things) was the most powerful being in all of Christendom and even had dark powers that extended beyond the grave.

However, the Bird of Hermes was not here. The only information that he had ever gotten from Seras was that the Bird of Hermes had been vanquished, along with his servant, when his great-grandfather Enoch Hellsing had become afraid of their power, should the seals ever break. As she told him this, he had stared at the Hellsing seals, a dark brand of tattoos, on her own hands. They always showed, no matter how many different gloves she wore over them. Once, in a rare quiet moment, he had held her hand and touched the seal gingerly.

"Sister, do they hurt?" she didn't need to ask what he was talking about. He felt her stare, but didn't meet her eyes.

"It did… when they put them on. Afterwards, it didn't hurt unless I tried to defy my Master, or the current Heir."

Seals aside, Seras never offered any information on the Bird of Hermes. He often tried to pry it out of her, only to have his psyche clamped down on, or mental barriers thrust into his brain. The pain was enough to make him forget any question he ever wanted to ask.

Fulton glanced up from his musings to find that the Gala was already in full swing. He decided that if he wasn't social, he'd pay for it later from Seras; so he began to mingle, talking to the guests and enduring another socially awkward gathering of people much older than himself. After a while, he made himself scarce over near an old tree. He smiled as Winston approached him with a glass of punch.

"Enjoying ourselves, Sir?" the butler teased.

"Oh, of course, Winston. Seras was right, I always give the best parties," he retorted sarcastically. The butler laughed and turned as old Widow March called for someone to bring her a napkin. Fulton watched Winston gracefully move through the crowd.

Watching Winston, one would think that the 29-year-old man was born to be a butler. Full of poise and a good English attitude, any event that transpired was immediately dealt with, from dropped kerchiefs to an absence of hors d'oeuvres at the buffet table. However, everyone at the Hellsing manor knew that Winston was not only an excellent butler, but one hell of a marksman. Winston could wield anything from a handgun to a sniper rifle with ease, making him a valuable asset to the team of guardians around the young heir. Not only that, his infallible attitude had won over the hearts of the many female soldiers, and the respect of the males.

Even Seras herself was friendly towards the butler. They often played together in the target yard. Fulton loved to watch them go: Winston with his guns of choice firing rounds everywhere at once, and Seras moving faster than the human eye; once here, once there, doing a somersault in mid-air, sliding on the ground like a baseball player, and even throwing herself into the way of the bullets, only to dodge at the last possible millisecond. Once, Winston even grazed her glasses, breaking one lens in two. This earned him the respect of the Draculina, plus a hefty bill to repair custom-designed glasses. Fulton was surprised that she wasn't angrier at the broken glasses. However, as time went on, he had begun to realize how fragile, how simply strange, her mind was. She could be happy and joking with Winston or the soldiers one moment, only to throw a chair through a window the next from rage. She could be praising Fulton for his obedience and maturity one second, and punishing him for being childish within the same moment. He quickly learned the rules about where and when to push his Draculina's patience, if only for his own mental well-being.

Inside the Hellsing Summer Gala, a pair of young men stopped their chatting to stare at the young boy sitting alone under a tree with a glass of punch. They stood side-by-side, exact copies of one another, and marked every move the boy made. They turned to watch the Servant-Man, walking along with a tray of food. They sorted the information and sent it mentally to their Mistress, who cooed with glee at the sight.

The Mistress clapped her hands and covered her mouth as giggles escaped. Her Servants were human zombies with no will of their own, and they were fitting in just perfectly with the other human meat-bags. The plan wasn't ready to be put into action yet; no. The boy was still much too young. However, she had waited this long; what was another couple of years to her? She called mentally for her Servants to return to her. As an afterthought, she told them to bring that young lady over by the columns. She was getting hungry.


(Raises hands) I'm done. For tonight, anyway. I know you've got questions, I know.

Who is the Mystery Mistress?

Why does Seras have mental-awkwardness?

Why is Fulton so nerdy?

Where the hell is Alucard?

All will be revealed next chapter, O Impatient Ones. Don't fret; my scarf and I will come through for you. I promise. Unless my brain gives out from lack of Dr. Pepper first.