Alright, so this is my first fanfic, all apologies if it sucks. I got tired of seeing Alucard rule the Hellsing boards, so I decided to give Anderson, my favorite character, a little more facetime. Thus, you won't see or hear anything about the Hellsing Organization in this pre-anime fic, it's all Iscariot, all the time! Reviews appreciated
Disclaimer: I don't own Hellsing, and I'm not sure who does, so there.
Chapter One: Genesis
"In the beginning," intoned the dark man, illuminated by flickering candlelight. "God created Eden, and the first flora and fauna. He created the first man and woman, and the Tree of knowledge. His creations, however, were not perfect. Man and woman were weak, and fell prey to the first predator. That first hunter was the serpent, the one creature not created by God, but by his fallen soldier Lucifer out of rage at imprisonment." The dark man paused, letting his gaze rise from the tattered book in his hands to drift over the eager faces of his audience. They were completely absorbed by his words, by his reading of the book. They would make good followers, even if only as eventual fodder. Perhaps a few would be worthy of more than that, the dark man mused. After a moment of pregnant silence, he returned to his reading.
"The fallen angel knew that he might never gain the realm of heaven or even earth, but he could still salve his pain with the suffering of those who inhabited those planes. So he created the serpent, the first being with a mind for malice, and set it upon Adam and Eve. The serpent, at the cost of eternal punishment and humiliation, was able to fulfill its designs and have the humans expelled from Paradise. For years, the Fallen One was satisfied with the suffering he had wrought with the creation of the act of Betrayal. Before long, however, he began to desire more pain and anguish. Through dreams and doubts, he placed the seed of anger into Cain's mind, the seed that would spawn the Act of Murder. Once again, the Fallen One's plans were successful, and Cain was cursed by God to wander the earth in agony. The Fallen One wallowed in Cain's despair, thoroughly pleased at the pain promised to Cain and his descendants. But He was not done with Cain."
The dark man once again paused and let his eyes fall upon those before him. Many of them had heard all of this before, several times. He had been reading them the scriptures of the Fallen for weeks now, and they had begun to memorize many of the passages. Tonight would be different, however, he thought. Tonight would mark the first night of their true discovery, their true calling. The mere thought of what was to come brought the ghost of a smile to the dark man's sallow face. Tonight would be fun.
"As Cain became more and more desperate with his new life, the Fallen One revealed himself to him in a dream, promising power in exchange for allegiance. Cain agreed, and became the first to receive the No Life King's blessing, the first vampire. He would be the first of many, the agent who would be the weapon of the Fallen One, who would cause unimaginable pain and fear for his master to enjoy. Those who followed God believed Cain to be dead or banished to a faraway land and summarily wrote him out of their holy texts. Unbeknownst to them, however, Cain never left them, he was only much changed by the gifts bestowed upon him, the true Mark of Cain. His descendants and progeny, vampires all, would become spread to all corners of the Earth, seeking to cause more and more pain for their patron god, Lucifer, the No Life King. Their bloodlines, though much diluted by millennia, persist in some of today's undead. These modern nosferatu, though powerful in their own right, are but mere shadows of their ancestors."
The dark man closed the book and set it down on the candlelit table beside him. The others in the room began to glance around at their fellows. That particular bit of scripture had been read to them countless times before, and had always ended with the same phrase, about modern vampires. A few began chanting softly, believing the sermon to be over. The dark man's voiced boomed out suddenly, silencing the room in a heartbeat. With a slight grin, the dark man resumed his preaching, to the amazement of those assembled.
"One particular bloodline of note, however, does not exist today. It is the bloodline of one of Cain's first victims, a man named Zacharias. This bloodline seemed to have died out in the 10th century, its last descendant a powerful vampire who went by the name of Balthazar. Balthazar was truly a vampire of legend, having lived for nearly twelve hundred years. Recovered texts have referred to him as "The Unholy", "Scourge of All Life", and "The Defiler", amongst other titles. He was said to have bathed in the blood of kings and to have devoured the souls of his subjects. Those who followed him claimed that he took particular pleasure in slaughtering men of the cloth, and that he held God in contempt. None of these claims have been substantiated, however, as the texts concerning Balthazar are few. Those who were close enough to him to actually know him died by his hand long before they could write their praises of him. In his time, he seemed to be untouchable, by man or God."
The people assembled before the dark man gazed up at him in rapt attention. There was something different they sensed in the dark man. His moves were more stylized than usual, his words ringing out with uncommon clarity and energy. Something clearly had him agitated, and what agitated one so powerful as the dark man would definitely affect them.
"Zacharias' bloodline is said to have died out because, after a millennia of unlife, its final son, Balthazar disappeared. There was no mention of his death, or of anything concerning his sudden absence. It was simply as if he were there one day and gone the next, never to be seen again. Other vampires who had known him investigated his disappearance, but could find no evidence of his whereabouts. So, time rolled on without Balthazar, and his name was soon lost in a mire of history, a speck of dust in the desert."
The dark man paused again, letting the silence settle over the small, candlelit room. He breathed in deeply, savoring the near-palpable air of tension. Then, after a moment, he leaned forward into the light, a dangerous light in his eyes. He grinned, like a carnival attendant before revealing the most hideous freak in his show.
"Balthazar is not dead," the dark man whispered, drawing gasps and looks of shock from his listeners. "Nor is he lost." The dangerous light in the dark man's eyes flashed, becoming a wild look of exultation. His teeth, long and sharp, glinted in the candlelight as he spoke, his voice rising and intensifying. "He is yet among us, in this very city. This very night, Balthazar the Ancient, The Scourge of All Life, walks the streets. He is coming here, coming for his truest followers. His time will soon be upon us, when we will offer up the dying screams of a thousand victims as a sacrifice to the No Life King. He allowed us to find him, and we will help bring about the ultimate suffering!"
The dark man, the vampire Ambrose Fletcher, lunged fully into the candlelight, euphoric in the midst of his sermon. All around him, dozens of his followers, human and vampire alike, chanted feverishly to their God, the Fallen One, in thanks for this Balthazar, this new savior and champion of suffering. Hundreds of feet above them, above the abandoned subway tunnels Fletcher and his cult called home, the city of New York slept, blissfully unaware of the shadow that would soon descend over it.
St. Michael's closed early that night. Not for any abnormal reasons, only that even with the meager furnace keeping the building heated, the frigid New York winter was more than enough to convince even the most dedicated parishioners to forgo the evening's Mass for the warmer comfort of their own homes. Father Caleb Ross couldn't blame them, of course. He didn't enjoy saying the Mass on one of these icy nights any more than they enjoyed listening to them. If it were up to him, he mused, checking the deadbolt on the front doors of the Church one last time for the night, Masses on nights like these would be shortened to a Eucharist and the sermon only. He chuckled to himself, blew on his hands to warm them, and then sighed heavily, looking up at the stained-glass window above the doors, already beginning to frost over in the cold air. Actually, if it were up to him, he thought, he'd have the Church closed down for a few weeks to put in a better furnace and to re-insulate the whole building, make it more hospitable and welcoming to those who would seek shelter on nights such as this.
He shook his head as he turned from the locked doors, and began walking down the snowy sidewalk. Of course, the Parish would need some real money before such repairs could be afforded, and that didn't appear as if it would happen any time soon. Father Ross had an unshakeable faith in God, but he also considered himself enough of a realist to understand the situation at hand. St. Michael's was close to being shut down for good. It had no money coming in to support itself, and without the ability to use that money to pay for maintenance that might bring people back, it was only a matter of time before the doors closed for the last time. It filled Ross with a great sadness, but the Church that he had grown up in was dying a slow death.
Ross trudged down the snowy street, arms tightly crossed over his chest to block out the cold. The streets were usually quiet at night in this neighborhood, but never this silent. The lightly falling snow seemed to muffle out the sounds of the world, save for the crunch of his own footsteps in the snow and the buzzing hum of the streetlamps overhead. He loved these nights in spite of the cold, he realized. Nights like these, when the snow on the street kept traffic to a minimum, were among the only times when the city seemed at peace. No hustle, no bustle, just cold, white, and silent. It was beautiful.
As he rounded a corner, seven or eight blocks from the church, a new noise rang out to shatter the peace of the snowy night. A scream, a woman's scream. Father Ross looked around wildly, trying to discern the direction of the scream. Perhaps he could help this poor soul. He finally located the source, the entrance to the old subway station. He jogged over to the downward-leading stairs as best he could over the snowy terrain. He slowed as he neared the stairs, and began to descend quietly. He was just about to call down, ask if everyone was alright, when he heard a new voice below him, at the bottom of the stairs, a male voice. Father Ross stopped and listened, heart racing. "Scream all you want, bitch, ain't nobody gonna come help you! Matter of fact, KEEP screaming! Keeps your heart pounding out that blood, makes it that much hotter and sweeter!"
The woman seemed to have no trouble fulfilling the man's wishes. She screamed again, her shrill voice echoing up the stairwell and out into the cold night. The man laughed, and taunted her again. "Don't know why you're so freaked anyway. All I did was ask for a drink. At least you don't have to pay the bartender for this," he sneered. A new voice joined in suddenly, startling Father Ross. "Just get it over with, idiot! All the screaming is just going to attract attention."
"So fucking what?" the first voice scoffed loudly, over the woman's screams. "Who cares about attracting attention? I'm having fun! Besides, it's not like anybody's gonna be able to help her if they do hear. Jeez, lighten up, Matt. You're ruining the mood."
"You may not care about attention, Scud, but Fletcher does, and you know it, " snarled the second voice. "And the last thing we want is Fletcher up our asses, all because you wanted your damned fun." The woman continued to scream.
This Matt, in Father Ross's opinion, seemed like the smarter of the two. His voice had an air of sophistication, like he knew he was better than the crime he was committing, cold and uncaring. The first voice seemed younger, almost teenage. That one, Scud, sounded like a thug, and little else.
"Aw hell, you're right," Scud sighed. "I fucking hate it when you're right, you know, you're no fun. Oh, well, " he said, malice creeping into his voice. "I guess it's time for that drink, eh bitch?" The woman gave one last shriek, long and piercing, then abruptly stopped. Atop the stairs, Ross made the Sign of the Cross and mumbled a silent prayer.
Father Ross crept silently down the first couple of stairs, hoping to at the very least get a good enough look at the muggers to provide the police with a good description. He kneeled as quietly as he could, and peered down at the subway station's platform. He had to quickly clamp his hand over his mouth to suppress his rising gorge at what he saw. Two men stood over the corpse of the young woman, both with faces and chests covered with fresh blood. The woman's corpse lay in a rapidly-spreading pool of blood, which seemed to have originated from her neck, which was savagely torn open. Even from a distance, Father Ross could tell that her throat, along with a large chunk of flesh, had been completely ripped out. The older of the two men, most likely Matt, was using the fingernail of his right pinky to pick something out of his bloodstained teeth. Ross stifled a gasp at the sight of Matt's teeth. They were oversized and wickedly pointed, to the extent that Ross could only label them as fangs. The younger one, Scud, calmly licked blood from his fingers, and laughed.
"For such a skinny little, bitch, she sure tastes good, eh Matt? Usually the skinny ones are so damned underfed they taste spoiled."
Matt finished picking his teeth, and spat out what looked to be a ragged chunk of skin. "She was quite tasty, my friend. I once again must thank the Fallen One for blessing you with such a good eye for taste." He chuckled and smiled, a sight that, when coupled with his bloodstained face, Father found deeply disturbing. "Let's head out of here, Scud. I've had my fill for the night."
"What about leftovers?" the younger man chortled.
"Leave the body, " Matt said, turning and walking toward the subway tunnel's entrance. "Either she'll be a ghoul soon enough, or the rats will dispose of our trash for us. Now come on, I think Fletcher wants us all to be there when Balthazar arrives."
"Yeah, yeah," spat Scud, following his friend into the tunnel, leaving the ghastly scene behind them.
Father Ross sat on the stairs until their voices had long since died out, unmoving and trying to comprehend what he had just witnessed. Once had collected his wits and made sure the two men had gone, he stumbled back up the stairs and out into the snowy night. Without a word, he walked back the way he'd come, back toward St. Michael's.
Blood, he thought. So much blood… They had it on their faces… talking about the taste… the tall one's teeth… bloody. Did they drink it? Drink her blood? He stumbled down the sidewalk, oblivious to his surroundings. He could not erase the sight from his mind, the sight of the long, sharp, bloodstained teeth. Why would they drink her blood? Cannibals… psychopaths… why? Who drinks blood for fun?
A final thought dawned on Father Caleb Ross as he reached the doors of St. Michael and began fumbling numbly with the key, cutting like an icy blade through his mind. Vampires…
I know this chapter starts kinda slowly, and has a noted abscence of Anderson and Iscariot, but don't worry, everyone's favorite priest shows up next chapter. Lata!