Chapter Ten
There will come a day, when all the lies will collapse under their own weight, and truth will again triumph. — Joseph Goebbels
Despite the hours of training they'd endured, the new recruits had yet to master the art of stealth; Heinkel could hear the clamor of voices and thud of footsteps long before they entered the training room. Several halted at the sight of her slouched against the wall, though Dorian didn't spare her so much as a glance. When Heinkel glared at the few with the temerity to meet her gaze, they looked away, suddenly fascinated by the floor.
She sneered. Cowards.
While she detested Dorian, at least the old man's aversion to her had nothing to do with her appearance. Being ostracized because of her religion didn't bother her—at this point, it was almost routine—but Heinkel had never imagined that being snubbed simply because of her appearance would bother her so much.
And the Protestants didn't just avoid her; apart from Seras and Integra, everyone treated her like an animal that might attack at any moment. (Not that the opinion of Hellsing's leader and her pet vampire mattered, given that Seras was an imbecile and Integra feared nothing.) Heinkel tried to tell herself that it didn't signify what any of these heathens thought of her, but this failed to ease the hollowness in her chest.
"Hello!" Seras chirped, easing the emptiness slightly. Not that Heinkel was glad to see her, but even the draculina's company was preferable to that of Dorian and his idiotic pupils.
As if to prove her point, the girl with the bad dye job—Margaret—shrieked, clutching the arm of the man next to her. "Oh my God!" She squealed, eyes widening dramatically. "When that monster appeared out of nowhere, I thought…"
Heinkel gritted her teeth, disgusted by the woman's hysterics. Monster or not, Seras was totally obedient to her master; the draculina would never attack an agent of Hellsing without provocation, particularly within Integra's own home. Surely even this moron was aware of the situation…
Seras' face flushed—how did vampires blush, anyway? —and she took a step back, flashing an apologetic smile (sans fangs). "I'm sorry. I promise I'll use the door next time."
Heinkel rolled her eyes. That's never going to happen.
Margaret ignored her. "I don't know why Sir Integra keeps a thing like that around." She announced to no one in particular. "Seems like more trouble then it's worth, if you ask me."
To her surprise, Heinkel was irritated by the girl's insolence. While Seras' habit of materializing without warning wasrather aggravating, at least she had the sense not to go around squawking at every little thing. She glared at Margaret, who scowled back but didn't say anything else (at least, not within earshot).
Once the lesson ended, Dorian turned to Heinkel and Seras, mouth pursed in disapproval. "Sir Integra requests that you join her in her office."
Though surprised the butler had acknowledged her existence, Seras soon recovered, flashing her trademark smile. "Of course." Turning to the recruits, she added, "Training's over for today, but anyone who needs extra practice is welcome to stay. Be sure to practice your hand to hand combat skills before tomorrow's session."
Once dismissed, most of the group began heading for the door, but Margaret only smirked. "You've got to be kidding me. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm not taking orders from a filthy bloodsucker." At her words, the other humans halted, eyes fixed on Seras as they waited for her reaction; the room was so quiet Heinkel could hear the ticking of Dorian's pocket watch.
Before the draculina could respond, though, Dorian spoke. "Vampire or not, Miss Victoria is your superior. If you fail to obey her orders, your time with us will be brief. Do I make myself clear?" Though he spoke softly, the steel in his voice was evident; Heinkel was impressed despite herself.
For a moment, Margaret's mouth opened and closed soundlessly—like a fish, Heinkel thought—before she muttered an affirmative, stalking out of the room without a backward glance.
After a moment, the others followed, save a broad-shouldered man with greying hair: the one whose arm Margaret had grabbed, and who'd stared at Heinkel on his first day. "Miss Victoria, please allow me to apologize for my niece's rudeness. I'd say she's not always so unpleasant, but…"
With a smile that was only slightly forced, Seras shook the hand he offered her. "There's nothing to apologize for. After all, she has every right to fear me."
Heinkel snorted, drawing curious looks from the other two. I knew she was spineless, but this is just ridiculous.
"Please, call me Oliver. And you are too kind, my dear; Margaret's behavior was inexcusable. I'll be sure to speak with her, although I doubt my words will have any effect. She's always been headstrong…" When this observation was met with silence, the older man seemed to sense he'd overstayed his welcome. "Well, I'd best be going. Until tomorrow, then. Miss Wolfe. Mr. Gray." With that, he was gone, leaving Heinkel staring after him.
Perhaps she was imagining things, but when Oliver had spoken to her, there was no fear in his eyes—at least, not that Heinkel could see. Was the man a fool? Didn't he know she could end his life with one blow? Every time she thought she'd begun to understand these people, they defied all logic.
The door to Sir Integra's office opened before Dorian could knock (not that Heinkel would have waited, and anyway, Seras failed to grasp the concept of doors). Hellsing's leader was in rare form tonight: her suit impeccably tailored, glasses gleaming, a cigar clenched between her teeth. The room was full of the sickly scent of tobacco; and Heinkel stifled a sneeze.
Integra began to pace, smoke trailing behind her like a ghostly train. Glancing at the floor, Heinkel noted that the carpet in front of her desk was worn from countless hours thus spent. "What did you find?"
Standing at attention, Dorian began, "Unfortunately, the building was reduced to rubble—here the old man darted an accusatory glance at Heinkel, who ignored it; after all, it wasn't her fault the witch had booby trapped the place—but Oliver discovered this among the wreckage." Producing a tattered scrap of cloth from his coat pocket, the butler presented it to Integra without a flourish.
That's all?
Given Dorian's smug demeanor, Heinkel had expected something a bit more impressive than a nasty old rag. However, rather than laughing in the old man's face as she'd hoped, Integra examined the cloth closely, eyes widening as she did so. "It can't be."
"What is it?" Seras blurted, unnerved by her master's discomfort.
Feeling herself stiffen, Heinkel instinctively scanned the room for threats. To see Integra Hellsing, a woman of unshakeable confidence, disconcerted was unsettling, to say the least.
Shaking her head as though to deny the reality of the object she held, Integra murmured, "This belonged to the Major." Passing it to Seras, she wiped her hands on her suit as though the mere act of touching the cloth had contaminated them.
Heinkel peered over the draculina's shoulder, stomach clenching as she recognized the remains of the Nazi leader's jacket. But what was the witch doing with a dead man's clothing? All her victims had been female; and besides, the Major had died at Integra's hand. Perhaps it belonged to another person with appalling fashion sense, but that was rather unlikely.
Finally, Sir Integra spoke. "There's only one reason a practitioner of black magic would have an object belonging to the Major. Millennium is attempting to raise its leader from the dead."
"What?" Distantly, Heinkel realized she was shouting, but she couldn't stop herself; the thought of the Nazi general clawing his way out of Hell both terrified and infuriated her. "But that's impossible!"
"Hardly." Integra replied, her features somber. "Practitioners of the dark arts have experienced great success with necromancy…provided they are willing to make certain sacrifices."
"Sacrifices?" Heinkel bit out, stomach churning with a combination of rage and revulsion. "Then those girls were…"
"I'm afraid so."
As a warrior, Heinkel had often experienced bloodlust, but never like this. She wouldn't snuff out the witch's life with a well-placed bullet; rather, she would obliterate the evildoer with her bare hands, watch the light fade from the murderess' eyes as she begged for mercy.
As for the monsters who commissioned this grisly task, they would experience agony like they'd never known: until they begged for death, until pain obliterated all thought but the longing for annihilation.
If this travesty came to pass, if the Major was resurrected like a twisted version of the God he defied, Heinkel would make the demon long for Hell; for even the fires of the inferno could not compare to the torment Millennium's leader would suffer at her hands.
Part of her protested at these thoughts—so like the enmity embraced by the Major himself—but she dismissed these qualms. After all, mercy and forgiveness would only lead to weakness and ultimately, defeat; and victory was all that mattered now.
The righteous will rejoice when he sees the vengeance; He will wash his feet in the blood of the wicked…
