As the meals (days, one must think of it in terms of days) passed, Integra began to wonder where the line between unconscious and comatose lay. Anderson neither woke nor stirred; if it hadn't been for the movement of his chest, he could have easily been freshly dead. Or a vampire, she had thought to herself with a slightly hysterical sense of humor, thinking back on how Alucard and Seras both ceased breathing when they fell asleep.

There was no stir craziness; she was beyond the point of cabin fever. She had catalogued every miniscule speck of dust on the coffee table, every atom of the sofa, and could have probably told a questioner the exact number of eyelashes on Anderson himself, if she'd been asked. There was nothing to do, which was torture in itself. She was out of options, and her daily pacing only seemed to make her waste away. The only respite was mealtimes, where she could at least look at something new. She found herself staring fondly at pancakes one morning—though if it were truly morning, she didn't know—until they were cold, only because the sight of their warm brown color against the pale beige of the tray was a wonderful, exquisite contrast to the white infinity of the room she now inhabited.

There was only ever one tray, and she wondered if they knew Anderson was still unconscious or not. Perhaps there were cameras recording her every movement, though she wasn't sure where one might hide a camera lens in the cell. Then again, perhaps there was only ever one tray, and she would be expected to halve her daily meals with the priest when he finally awoke… if he awoke. It was also highly possible that they'd only stuck him back in here to die; this was her greatest concern, only because she wasn't sure what she might do if he up and died on her. She wasn't sure if she could go back to that awful silence, even though the only sound he made was soft, constant breathing.

Still, every meal she took a moment to lightly shake him, taking care to keep from opening any of the wounds that still remained. Her hope was that he'd finally open his eyes and show some improvement, though it never happened. His injuries were healing, at a much faster pace than a human's, but still slow. She'd seen him take a bullet to the skull and get back up again minutes later; to take this long to heal what, to him, should only be minor cuts and bruises was discerning in the least. It only showed that he was much weaker than he had first appeared to be.

Walter had told her once, when she was a young girl, that people became numb when exposed to horror on a daily basis. Though she hadn't felt or seen anything too bad—not yet, at least—she still felt a crippling numbness creeping in on her like a tiger, low to the ground and poised to strike the moment she let down her guard. Every day seemed to bring it closer, every hour that she spent locked in a cell that practically glowed with purity and whitewashed horror.

The last straw was when she awoke and realized, with a sort of helpless bleakness, that she no longer expected Alucard or Seras to come busting through the door. She would have gladly welcomed the Iscariots with open arms at this point, but the truth was settling deep into her breast, thumping in time with her heart. No one was coming for her. It was an awful moment, the most awful, terrible moment in all her meager twenty-plus years of life. If she had been the sort of person that cried, she might have wept at the realization. But as it was, she only stared blankly at the stainless steel of the table and gave a heartfelt sigh. Then, as she rested her head on her hands, something within her stirred; it was something that she hadn't felt since childhood, about the time when her father died.

So we're giving up then, are we? the snide voice spoke up with a harrumph. Just going to blithely walk into the light like a trained puppy, I see. Not even put up the smallest fight. The voice sounded suspiciously like Sir Irons, when he was in one of his more lecturing moods. Aren't you ashamed to call yourself a Protestant Knight? It sneered.

If Anderson couldn't get out, then how can I? She glanced under her arm at the still form on the bed, the dried stains of his blood still marring the white mattress-like cover, though the iron odor had long since dispersed with the constantly recycled air. If there was any way to power out of this place, he'd have found it by now. He's not an idiot.

Well, you bloody well won't find a way moping about like this. You're Integra Hellsing, for God's sake! Get up and get at it! She frowned, lifting her head. The same emotion had resonated with her once she had realized her uncle's true plans for her. To lie down and die like a submissive dog was not the Hellsing way. A true blooded member of her family would die on their own two feet, laughing in the face of Death and carrying as many of the enemy as they could to the afterlife with them. If you're going to die, do it with as much dignity as possible, the voice echoed her father's own words sagely. Don't let anyone get the better of you, when all they have are mind tricks and brute strength.

I won't. Resolve flooded her veins and she took a deep breath, wishing (not for the first time) that she had a cigar. She licked her lips and looked around, but no escape ideas jumped out at her from the well-lit corners of the room. I have to do something to keep myself occupied, until they come for me. If I could just see something of the outside of this room… would it be worth trying to peek through the slot near the counters? If there are cameras here, they might withhold food if they suspect a plot.

"I don't suppose you have any ideas?" she asked the prone figure on the bed sarcastically. There was no answer, naturally, but it felt good to talk. Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but each word rasping against her vocal chords felt good. "I didn't think so," she muttered after a long moment. "If Walter were here, he'd tell me to catalogue my assets. I don't have any," she growled in frustration. "Everything here is either bolted to the floor or completely useless."

She got up and tried, for the sake of trying, to yank the chair from the floor. As she thought, it wouldn't budge an inch. She huffed and walked around the room, this time not with the mind-numbing pacing motions she'd been using, but instead more thoroughly. Her hands ran along the walls again and again, trying to discover some weakness. She rested her ear against the cool whiteness, striving to hear something beyond the plaster and brick. She did the same with the door, but her efforts proved to be in vain. She even tried to somehow tear apart the shower, but the handle was held in place by screws that were nearly impossible to move, and she ended up with two broken fingernails. The shower head was too high for her to reach; standing on her tiptoes and stretching her arm for all it was worth, she could just barely press her fingertips against its base.

She took a break for lunch, which proved to be a simple turkey sandwich meal with one slice of cheese and once leaf of lettuce. She licked the last bit of the day's dessert—custard— from the spoon and stacked the tray on the counter, an act that was sadly proving to be habitual for her. She wanted nothing about this cell to be habitual—for it to become so meant that she was spending too much time in here.

She took time after lunch to check floors and ceilings. She couldn't reach the ceilings without standing on the bolted chair, and even then her fingers could barely brush the tile set firmly into the framework. Still, there had to be a way for air to circulate through the room, though the grate wasn't obvious. I'm becoming a bit too familiar with air ducts, she thought blandly as she searched for the grate. Still, if it will help me get out of here, I'll be more than happy to climb into one again. She did find it, only to realize that the air was coming from small vents built into the framework of the bed. She tried to see into the vent openings, but it was too dark. She could see a bit better when she took her glasses off, her face pushed up against the vent itself, but everything was so blurry without them that it didn't help in the end.

"If only I could tell that there was a proper duct down there…." she mumbled to herself, sitting up and drawing her knees to her chest. She propped her head on them as she thought over possible ways to break the vents and enlarge the opening. If she could tear apart the bed itself, would there be some way to make a hole large enough to slip through? Could she hide it under the cushion-like mattress, if she could somehow pry it off the bedframe? Of course, if there were cameras, there was no reason to hide it at all.

They'd know exactly what was going on.

"I keep it easy, the first few times. Of course, some people would claim that it's not easy a'tall, but I feel that they bring it on themselves."

She'd woken in a new room, one that she assumed was an interrogation cell. She wondered, not for the first time, how many rooms this compound—prison?—had. There were no tables or chairs in sight here. She was strapped to some sort of operating table, though it felt more like a morgue slab. She wasn't strapped tightly at all, only enough to restrict her getting up and moving. It was angled up to a half-reclined position instead of being flat on her back, but it still brought to mind 1984 and the horror of Room 101. She inwardly quipped that rats weren't her greatest fear, so she didn't need to worry about having the same fate as poor Winston.

The room itself was dimmed, the only bright light being one right above her head. Very typical, almost as though I were in a police drama of some sort. From what she could tell, the room lacked the odd asylum-esque monotony that the others had. The walls were dark, the floor dark, no solid grays and whites here. The edges of the room were blurred, a sign that her glasses were again missing. She supposed that she wouldn't have any need of them here. Her arms were beginning to fall asleep, the restraints restricting blood flow even as loose as they were. With their lack of feeling came a nagging sense of claustrophobia, as though the room itself were beginning to close in on her. She felt bad for chiding Seras Victoria for her fear of closed spaces, seeing firsthand the strange, panicky heartbeat that came with it. She took a slow, quiet breath, attempting to control her body's natural reactions to the situation.

She heard a lighter click and a familiar, overpowering scent wafted around her. Immediately her mouth dried and she bit the inside of her lip. Wayne Grady walked around her 'perch', taking a deep drag on what she immediately recognized as her preferred brand of cigars. He blew out the smoke, looking at the stick before nodding appreciatively at her.

"That's good stuff," he admitted, taking another drag. "Want some?" he asked with a polite smile that seemed a little too smug for her taste. She smiled in return, hoping that he could see every facet of sarcasm and resentment in the gesture.

"No thank you," she replied civilly, even as her every pore longed for the sweet embrace of the addicting nicotine. "I'm thinking of going off them, actually." His smirk widened and he shrugged.

"Suit yourself, ma'am." He stuck the cigar in his mouth and let it dangle from his lips as he looked her over appraisingly. It was a detached sort of observation, as though she were no more than a dissected body lying on the table for examination. He moved closer and she caught the sour smell of beer and, oddly enough, oranges; even with the smoke, it was a nauseating smell that made her want to slap him away. "I think your hemline's gotten shorter since we last met," he noted, reaching out a hand and motioning at the edge of her nightgown. She bit her tongue, determined to play by the rules… until he went one step too far, at least.

"I suppose you'd know about that already, so there's no need of telling you," she said as civilly as possible, though her teeth were clenched tight enough to make her jaw ache. The man arched a brow at her, puffing on the cigar as he continued to study her.

"We don't keep watch," he said after a moment, looking away. The tone of his sentence was odd enough that it almost seemed like he was changing the subject, rather than addressing her. "Why would we need to? If you can somehow manage to find a way to off yourself even after our precautions, you deserved the honor of dying."

"What reason do I have to believe you?" she snapped, her tight reins slipping in her growing impatience. He took the cigar between his fingers, looked at it, and then dropped it to the floor, grinding it beneath his boot even though it was only half-smoked.

"What reason do I have to lie to you?" he asked with genuine curiosity. He crossed his arms, tilting his head to stare directly into her face. "I'm holding the ropes here. I've got nothing to lose or gain from lying to you. It's far easier to tell the truth anyway. I don't watch the prisoners. It's a waste of time and money. Y'all can't escape, and if your cellmate gets a little antsy and turns you into his bitch, it ain't no concern of mine." He laughed. "Well, your cellmate might not, but I'm sure there's plenty of other prisoners in this place that end up being bottom for one reason or the other. Hell, they might as well just enjoy one last good fuck before they die anyway!" He laughed louder, as though pleased at his own words. Her jaw tightened even further, back teeth grinding together in an effort to keep quiet.

"What is it that you want from me, that you couldn't have gotten anywhere except from the source? What do you want with him? We're nothing alike, other than a very thin line that borders our professions. Is it information about vampires that you want? About Alucard?"

"I don't want nothing," Grady stated, walking around the table until he was behind her. It set her on edge; she wanted to be able to see him. "It's what my boss wants. And as for vampires, we'll come back to that another session. Like I said before, I like to make the first one easy. Think of it as a tutorial course, for what might come." He walked around to her other side, circling the table like some sort of predatory vulture. "I ask the questions here, Miss Hellsing. And these questions are about the easiest that you'll get. That way, whatever happens from here on out is up to you." He stopped in front of her and smiled. "Is your name Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing?"

"Yes," was her tight-lipped reply. His smug grin widened.

"And tell me, Miss Hellsing: What's two and two make?"

"This is utterly ridiculous," she hissed, cheeks burning. "I'm not going to sit here and answer these asinine—" She couldn't finish the sentence as her entire body lit up in pain, too much for her to even make a sound. Thankfully, it only lasted a brief moment and she felt every muscle in her body relax as the pain vanished as quickly as it had come. Her breath left her in a long exhale, a shudder working up her spine. What was that?!

"Mild electrical shock," Grady answered, as if reading her thoughts. His eyes narrowed. "That's the lowest setting. Didn't feel good, did it?" She shook her head slowly, a part of her remembering his words during her 'orientation'. "The entire apparatus," he continued, his accent drawing the word out, "is rigged with a current. Every time you give a wrong answer, or no answer at all, you get shocked. And, might I add, that shock treatment is merely the hammer my toolbox. A staple, for sure, but I have much more advanced ways of making you talk." He stepped closer to her, his noxious odor surrounding her like a pungent mist. "Never forget that, Miss Hellsing. You won't be able to die until you talk, no matter how much you beg."

"I'll never beg," she vowed, her voice sounding breathless in the wake of the current.

"I hope not," he replied. "I hope you obey yourself, and I can let you die in a few months without a problem. I could probably even arrange for a relatively painless death. Something like a firing squad." He rubbed his chin. "Of course, standard execution is death by Ghouls, but I think I'll have to find something more creative for you. Ghouls ain't that scary when you've gotten so used to them." He smiled secretively at her. "It's so exciting to see a grown man cry when faced with a hungry Hoard. I never get tired of it." He turned to face her, hands behind his back. "Two and two, Miss Hellsing?"

"Four," she muttered, feeling ashamed of herself for bending to his will. But, she reasoned, if she could hold off the torture for more pressing questions, she might have a chance of lasting until she could find an escape. No sense wasting suffering on something as simple as her pride.

"Good girl," he purred, only heightening her mixed anger and humiliation. "Now, let's put some of these questions to good use, shall we?" He walked away, coming back with a metal chair. He sat backwards in it, resting his arms on the backboard. "When were you born?"

"October of 1977."

"And your parents?"

"They're dead." He nodded as though sympathizing with her.

"When did they die?"

"My mother died when I was born, and my father died in June 1989." Grady rested his head on his arms.

"Of what?" Integra paused, her pride again warring with her common sense for dominance. Why should I sit here as if I were filling out some questionnaire?! To stay alive! She answered herself. I have to sit her like some schoolgirl and… stay alive until I can escape. Then I'll make sure he gets exactly what's coming to him. I'll let Alucard tear him limb from limb while I ask the questions. "Of what?" he repeated, louder. She felt that the shock was next and roused herself from her thoughts.

"Of AIDS." Grady sat up at this, eyes widening.

"Oh? How did he catch it?"

"I don't know." There was a pause.

"Your mother also had the disease?" She felt discomfort curling up within her breast.

"I don't know," she repeated, more quietly.

"Do you—?"

"No."

"You've been tested?" Grady was methodical now, staring intently at her. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck, wondering if he was asking to be sure that no blood-borne diseases could be transmitted to him during her interrogation.

"Yes, I have."

"Good," he responded, nodding. "Good to know." He leaned his neck to the side, cracking it before resting it on his arms again, a picture of ease. "By your answers, you were about twelve when he died. That left you an orphan, with no family?"

"I was an orphan, but I had an uncle. My father's brother."

"Where's he now?" Integra smiled grimly.

"Dead."

"Your family seems to succumb to the angel of death rather quickly, I'm afraid."

"He deserved what he got." A chuckle.

"Oh? That sounds like a bad memory, Miss Hellsing. What did he 'get'?"

"A bullet. A parting gift from myself." A cruel, yet knowing smile crept up the corners of the man's mouth and wrinkled crow's feet near his eyes.

"I see. So what was his crime?" His voice dropped a few octaves. "Did he like little girls?" A sound of disgust welled up in her throat, along with a mental relief that that hadn't been the case.

"Of course not!" she spat. "He wanted the Hellsing title for himself, and the only way to get it was to kill me."

"I see," he repeated, looking at the soles of her bare feet. "Hmmm…. And so after that, you were alone."

"No." She wasn't alone, had never been alone. Walter, and the servants, and Alucard, repulsive as he was at times, had always been there. In her life, in her mind, even in her thoughts. And now, with the Police Girl as well….

"No," he agreed, his voice cryptic and damning. "Well, you aren't alone now either, with the big guy," he laughed. She didn't bother mentioning that he hadn't woken up. Instead, she asked something that had been on her mind since he'd been thrown back into her cell.

"What did you do to him?" Mr. Grady laughed.

"Ask him yourself, if he ever wakes up. But, little lady—you better be prepared to know the truth."