Uh…yeah. This is my take on how Hellsing'd run on a normal work day, or something very like it. Of course, Hans and Scrap are in there somewhere, but since they're new, they don't get as much mentions. This hopefully draws the focus onto other things, hope you enjoy!
February 11, 2014
3rd Person POV:
Seras sighed as she awoke, staring up at the lid of her coffin. Alucard had managed to bully her into actually using the damned thing, and she heaved the slab of wood aside with a casual push, although the metal hinges squeaked and creaked in protest and the heavy wood made an alarming thump as it slammed against the side of her coffin, echoing in her somewhat barren room. At least it was carpeted, which gave it a more comforting aura than the bare stone and suchlike the other rooms possessed. She sighed heavily as she saw the blood pack waiting for her at the table, nicely warmed and waiting in a bowl. Walter figured she'd have a better time drinking the stuff if she pretended it was tomato soup or some other kind of red liquid. It helped her maintain her illusions of humanity.
She sighed, pulling off her blue PJs and snagging a mustard-yellow uniform from the depths of the large wardrobe and pulling it over her head. For some strange, unfathomable reason, uniforms never looked flattering on anyone but soldiers who were practically born into them. Seras was not such a soldier, and she frankly thought the glaring fabric made her look like a moving slug. But it was a discomfort she learned to live with, just as she had learned to move in this particular uniform very, very carefully, for fear of the horrid tiny miniskirt that went with the tightly fitted shirt. I swear, it's like Captain Bernadette personally designed every organization uniform I own. She thought with a sigh, gingerly picking up the bowl and pouring the blood out through the long plastic straw into the cold white porcelain as it suddenly was awash with crimson red.
She slurped it down hastily, then placed the red-stained bowl down on the table, making a face. It wasn't the taste she protested, but then again, she had never bitten a living, breathing human. Or bitten anything, now that she thought about it. All her food, since her transformation, had come to her in bowls, bags, and cups. Kinda like a dog… She thought in an oddly petulant mood, then shook herself and straightened the Hellsing badge on her shoulder. She may not be a member of the serving force any more, but she would do her duty, and do it well. Unless Sir Integra did something that was wrong, she'd follow her to the end of the earth.
Pip lifted the edge of his hat, seeing the men sprawled across the floor, their beds, and the chairs by the fireplace, and sighed, tugging it down again. He stood with somewhat of a wince, rubbing his knee. Some damn farmer-ghoul last night had lifted its foot just as he tried to trip it –it was a hell of a lot easier to dust a ghoul when it was on the ground– and slammed the remnants of a heavy, iron-shod workboot into his knee at just the right angle and just the right time, almost breaking it. The medics on scene had told him to take it easy for the next few missions –he was too good of a commander, despite his verbal spats and rough manners, for them to replace– and he had nodded with no intention of doing so.
However, it was starting to become increasingly tempting to take a rain check and keel over on a couch until his knee stopped feeling like someone had slammed it with a shovel and then started jumping repeatedly. He sometimes wondered if mignonette ever got the aches and pains he did after battle. Probably not, he thought with a somewhat rueful smile. As an undead creature, her muscles were technically not active at all, nor were any of her nerves. He still wondered though, as he wove his way through the piles of exhausted men and filthy combat clothes with practiced ease, guns slung every which way so that the unwary walker might set off WW3 just by putting their foot in the wrong place.
They were beginning to stir too, he noticed, coming back from the short shower in the locker rooms and seeing them moving about, greeting each other and talking, some passing by him to use the same facilities. He chuckled somewhat wryly as he shrugged on his combat jacket, seeing the time on the clock. Sir Hellsing had her pride and her job, and the hours of the Hellsing Organization reflected that. Pride dictated she would not change her human body's schedule for staying awake with the sun, but her job dictated that she must stay up in "vampire prime time", namely when the sun went down and all the little bloodsuckers came out to play. Therefore, she had worked out a compromise.
All residents of the Hellsing Manor, when the day did not involve somehow meeting or interacting with the outsiders, such as the Round Table or Iscariot, awoke at three in the afternoon, trained until the designated time of the mission –it varied depending on how far away the vampire was and what kind of difficulty it would be taking it down– and then went to sleep at five or six in the morning. Alucard was somewhat excused from this schedule, and was allowed to awake at any time he pleased, as long as he got himself to the mission on time and went to his chambers before Integra slept at the very latest. "Breakfast" was at four, "Lunch" was right after the mission, and "Dinner" was around three in the morning. It took some getting used to, that was for sure, but hey, the job paid well and they could indulge in the pastime of killing as much as they wanted, while doing the world a favor at the same time.
Walter sighed slightly through his nose, scrubbing diligently at the plate in his hands. While the mercenaries could simply put their dirty dishes in the washer and press Go, Walter himself had to hand-wash all of Seras's dishes, all of Alucard's…well, Alucard's glass, and the new werewolf's plates himself. They tended to have blood all over them, and if he put any combination of the three in with the humans', there would be hell to pay from all sides, with the humans complained of blood residue and the nonhumans complaining about food traces. It was just generally easier to wash the blood off and clean the other's dishes the normal way.
Speaking of, it was nearly time for Integra's soothing tea. The Round Table was being persnickety about having both Scrap and that werewolf on board, so to speak, even with Integra's sharp counter of the fact the werewolf was certainly not staying, and that once Scrap had been trained in everything that the creature could train her in, he would be banished from England with the threat of silver bullets and wolfsbane as motivation. That had brought up the whole issue with Alucard and Hans having bitten her and mingled their curses…
He winced and continuing cleaning up.
Integra inhaled her cigar deeply, allowing the nicotine to sooth away the headache pounding in her temples. Vampire punks were getting more and more numerous, and if she wasn't careful, they'd finally catch the dreaded attention of the cursed media. Oh dear Lord, not the media. They'd have a field day, talking about ancient curses and government conspiracies and all sorts of foolishness. This latest case was one of the more and more scarce serious ones, and exactly the reason why the wider world didn't need to know. Apparently some teenager had witnessed a successful biting and turning, and awed, asked the vampire to be a fledgling as well. The vampire had given a long, rambling explanation no doubt, then acted, and now the teen was running around their computer or whatever, spamming the encounter to all their friends in a gushy, excited, vampiric-loving way.
Sometimes she wanted to find every last vampire romantic and strangle them with the braided pages of those stupid, misinforming, deadly books.
What made matters worse was the media of today, and if the hackers at British Intelligence hadn't managed to stop the message in its tracks, reverse it, and lock it, every friend of a friend of a friend of a friend in the British Isles would be blathering about the possible existence of vampires. But still, that girl was so stupid…of course his bloody eyes had been smoldering, BECAUSE HE WAS A DAMNED BLOODY MONSTER THAT WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A DAMNED, BLOOD-SUCKING DEMON! Her eye twitched as she tried to calm herself via another long draft at her cigar, her fist tensing. No doubt her and most of her friends by now had been bitten, and some had no doubt committed that most parent-forbidden act and were now stumbling around, infecting others as ghouls and generally ruining all the lives of those they came in contact with.
Her heart gave a small flinch of sympathy, mixed with a healthy amount of frustration. It wasn't the girl's fault, it was the bloody stupid writers and their bloody stupid books, spreading their bloody stupid information, and making money out of it, and because of that, a perfectly normal, innocent community was having a close encounter with the forces of hell and the damned. No doubt that one girl caused at least several of her friends to become ghouls, although she may not have intended it, she was still responsible. It was also Hellsing's duty to exterminate her, her and all her friends that had become threats, vampires. Her knuckles turned white around her cigar, and she sucked in a long whiff of the smoke, feeling strangely sympathetic for these unknown girls.
Sometimes, life really just wasn't fair.
Hans sighed silently, shading in the slope on his hill, the graphite-smeared notepaper perfectly depicting the scene outside his window. The Hellsing leader didn't trust him, and he didn't blame her, but there was only so much one could take of cleaning one's gun and taking apart one's gun before it became tiresome and the mind wandered to other tasks. Thus, his talent for drawing. He had had many, many years to practice it, and many hours in those many years, so it was only natural that he had grown better and better, and was now a master of this art. His notepad was filled with more than just the German communication and the pictograms. One corner of his mouth twitched up as he crosshatched the fur of the wolf standing on the gentle incline he had spotted through the gap of the trees crowding this side of the house.
One particularly satisfying doodle was that of a certain bat being torn to shreds by angry wolves.
But then again, he hadn't come to win their trust. He was here to train his pup, give her the best chance at life he could, and then leave, and get on with his existence. If he was confined to his room in all but name, he could deal with that. It wasn't like he didn't already know what the house was constructed as, what the habits of the inhabitants were, everything. It amazed him sometimes that a mere human like him could hide such killing intent, such anger, such raw hatred and treachery from the Vampire King, especially when they were in close quarters for extended and regular periods of time. He shrugged stoically, mentally grumbling as he switched the pencil around in his hands and erased a crooked line. Who was he to judge? For all he knew, Alucard and his master had figured the traitor out long ago and were merely waiting for proof.
9.17 PM, USA Central Time
So…yeah. I always did think, if Alucard can read minds like he's implied to be able to do a whole bunch of times (but he's never done it, has he?), wouldn't he have Walter figured out like right after WW2, when he turned traitor? If Walter hated him enough to betray his home, his employer, and pretty much wasted 50-some years of his life hating the vampire, don't you think Alucard would've, I dunno, SENSED THAT?! Just doesn't seem legit to me. *mystified shrug* But then again, most of Walter's traitor-dom doesn't make sense to me. He turned traitor and caused literally millions of people to die because he wanted to kill Alucard? That's it? Wasted FIFTY FREAKING YEARS planning to kill him? Again…just doesn't seem legit. That kind of major psychotic f-n hatred would DEFINITELY be noticed before he could do anything, and the guy acts like a bloody FRIEND to Alucard through most of the OVA, at least until he traitors. Food for thought! :)