Chapter Twenty-Three

Those who have courage and faith shall never perish in misery. — Anne Frank

It had been decades since Hans last visited Rome; and the city was as he remembered: a chaotic mix of new and old. Men in suits chatted beside an ancient fountain; a gaggle of tourists gawked at a nun emerging from a tiny chapel. If their stares annoyed her, the sister didn't show it. Instead, she hurried down the street, feet tapping briskly on the cobblestones.

From his position in a narrow alleyway, Hans frowned, eyes following the woman as she rounded the corner and disappeared. Impossible though it was, he couldn't help feeling as though he knew her. While he hadn't seen her face, something about the determined set of her shoulders reminded him of—

His head throbbed and he squeezed his eyes shut, the morning sunlight forming bright bursts on the backs of his eyelids. For a moment, Hans tried to gather the fragments of his scattered thoughts before deciding it wasn't worth the effort. He had a job to do; and there was no time to waste. The sooner he returned to the others, the better. He was lucky to be the sole operative entrusted with this responsibility—Van Winkel had almost accompanied him, much to the captain's dismay. While she was a capable fighter, his fellow werewolf liked to hear herself talk almost as Schrodinger.

Hans was also grateful that none of the others were there to see him wearing civilian clothes; it had been difficult to part with his uniform, despite the knowledge that it was far too conspicuous to wear in public. He would never belong here, with these people and their blissful ignorance, their painfully ordinary lives. These clothes—shoes a size too small, a shirt that made his skin itch—only served to remind him just how out of place he was. He was a monster, an aberration; if these humans knew his true nature, they would flee in terror. But it was not yet time to reveal himself; and so, Hans melted into the crowd, heading for the address the Doktor had given him.

It had been a gamble, but the risk was well worth it, Heinkel decided. Once she had the relic in hand, incapacitating her opponent was child's play. It seemed Jasper wasn't nearly as formidable without the crucifix enhancing his speed. Then again, he was probably out of practice—no doubt it had been quite some time since the regenerator battled an opponent without his "special advantage". Besides, the greyish tinge to his skin suggested the relic had taken more from him than he let on.

Heinkel couldn't help but be disgusted by the man's weakness—despite his earlier bravado, Jasper's actions revealed him to be nothing but a pathetic coward. Once it became clear that this was a fight he couldn't win, the regenerator fled, spewing insults and threats of retribution as he went. He hadn't even attempted to take the file with him—not that Heinkel would have let him. Still, how could a soldier abandon his mission so easily? She would rather die than experience such dishonor.

That's what's wrong with people these days. Yumie would say, shaking her head. They aren't wiling to fight for what they believe in. But not us. We'll defend the Church with our very lives.

Strangely, though, the memory of her friend's words was little comfort. Instead, Heinkel felt hollow as she made her way back to the ground floor (though not before saying a quick prayer for the souls of her fallen comrades). All she could think about was the Archivist's mutilated body, the agony the poor woman must have suffered before the release of death. Now that her friends were gone, who would care if the same fate were to befall Heinkel? Integra might be annoyed at the loss of a valuable operative, but Heinkel was nothing more than a pawn to the head of Hellsing. Dorian would undoubtedly rejoice, and Seras…

Who cares what that damn vampire thinks?

Swearing under her breath, Heinkel shoved the door open with more force than necessary, the sudden brightness of morning banishing all thoughts of the draculina. Her eyes watered as she scanned the alley in which she stood, searching for any sign that she wasn't alone. While the Archivist had been dead for a matter of minutes—an hour, tops—Heinkel knew the extent of the Church's vigilance better than most; the woman's silence wouldn't go unnoticed for long—which meant she had to put as much distance between herself and this place as possible. After all, Heinkel already had enough to handle without getting involved in a murder investigation.

Luckily, the Lord seemed to be smiling on her—no one so much as glanced her way when she blended into the crowd, grateful for the scarf that hid her face. The streets were teeming with people despite the early hour, their presence grating on Heinkel's already-raw nerves. She clutched the Millennium file to her chest, head down as she walked as swiftly as possible without breaking into a run.

Heinkel felt oddly exposed in the clothes Ana had given her—with half the city out for her head, it would have been foolish to wear her robes. (She should have considered this before, but Heinkel had been too focused on infiltrating the city to worry about her apparel.)

The relic was in her pocket. While using it would have expedited her return, Heinkel had spent her entire life relying on her own abilities; and that wasn't about to change now. Besides, it seemed almost sacrilegious to remove the necklace Anderson had given her, a cross commemorating her acceptance into Iscariot. It was all she had left of her old mentor, and Heinkel refused to exchange it for another—no matter how powerful.

"Heinkel?"

She flinched at the sound of her name, body tensing in preparation for combat before she realized it was Ana. Apparently, her efforts to leave unnoticed had been wasted. Slowly, Heinkel turned to face her foster mother. She'd never wanted the woman who raised her to see her like this—exhausted and reeking of blood—but it was too late to run. And Heinkel was so tired of running…