Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, I promise I'll get back to Incognito's part of the story soon enough. There isn't really a lot of action in this part, just bridging between the events of the Order 13 and setting up the plot for this. Still, I hope you enjoy.
---
Order 14: Repentance
Blood dripped over white gloves, crimson seeping into the fabric's pores. With steady monotony, beads of fluid fell to the floor and puddled there, casually stepped over by an approaching black boot. The boot was joined by its partner, coming nearer and nearer to the regulation prison cot tucked away into one alcove. A spot of blood hit one well shined top, balancing precariously on the edge before trickling down one side. It left a slick trail in its wake, sparkling under the dim overhead lights.
"Your orders master?" The owner of the gloved fist spoke, his deep baritone rolling out smoothly. There was a hint of victory in that voice, a wide smirk curling those thin lips. He had ceased his forward motion now and stood casually staring down at the occupant of the bed. Beneath the wide-brimmed hat his scarlet eyes gleamed with ill concealed delight. Curved fangs plainly revealed themselves in his smile, the fangs of a lupine or a feline. The vampire leaned forward, shortening the distance between himself and then woman on the bed. He lifted his fist in front of her face, the movement gradual and taunting. His grin widened as the woman's eyes followed the slow progress of blood to floor.
An noise of amusement escaped Sir Integra's lips, breaking the expectant silence. She turned her face to the damp wall, away from the scarlet temptation. Her long blonde hair swirled with the movement before settling upon her utilitarian green suit. Light flashed from her round glasses, perched upon a fine aristocratic nose. From behind them icy blue eyes burned steadily. The amusement didn't extend to her voice which was harsh and commanding, the tone of which implied she was used to being obeyed. "Leave me Alucard."
A flicker of irritation crossed the vampire's face and his curled fingers tightened into a clenched fist for a moment. He quickly quelled the emotion and relaxed his hand. Alucard's habitual grin restored itself upon his features and tugged the corners of his mouth up once more. Sweeping off his hat, he dipped his head in a mock bow, still smirking at her. The ebony tousle hair tumbled down his forehead, creating a thin veil in front of his intently gleaming ruby eyes. "As you wish."
The blood splattered around Integra's cell slowly ran together into one large pool. The center rose towards his fist, mingling with the liquid still clinging to his glove. It was a strange sight, the upwards progression seemingly disappearing into the hand. The last drop lingered on the side of Alucard's smallest finger, quivering there reluctantly. A small point of crimson against the stained gloves. His arm extended, finger brushed against Integra's dusky cheek. When it pulled away the bead of blood remained there, a single shimmering droplet. Alucard floated backwards, his red trenchcoat flaring out on either side of him. It melted away into darkness, then his body, then his face, until only his eyes watched her mockingly. Finally those disappeared as well and the cell was empty of the undead.
Integra remained motionless a moment longer, poised on the edge of her cot as if unsure whether or not the vampire was truly gone. A few moments passed, nothing happened. The bead of blood began to run down the curve of her cheek bone, approaching the delicate line of her jaw. She reached one hand up hesitantly, setting a finger on the damp surface. Then, more vehemently, she flicked the droplet away. Her face was a mask of disgust, a red line of dried blood still marred her dark skin. With a grimace, Integra wiped her dirtied hand upon the damask napkin provided with her meal. She then used the soiled cloth to gather the shattered pieces of glass and return them to the table, restoring some semblance of order to the cell.
Just as Integra retreated back to the safety of her corner, a rough hand rapped against her cell door. It was more of a formality than anything else, a gesture to let her know that someone was about to enter. It did not really matter whether or not she said 'Come in.' The heavy oaken door creaked open, even in the absence of her voiced permission. A stout prison matron of indefinite years entered, her small eyes cast loathingly in the Hellsing leader's direction. Cold efficiency marked every movement as the woman surveyed the room with utter distaste. Her gaze paused upon the untouched food and shattered wine glass. A wrinkle worked itself into her broad nose and lingered there as she swept away the shards.
"That will be added to your bill," the matron's voice was mechanical, as if it had been selected from a long stack of records. Bill, as if this was some kind of high class hotel rather than a dank high security prison. There seemed to be a hint of relish in her voice as well, an undertone of satisfaction. She must have seen this all the time, the moment when the state's prisoners lost their cool and took out the anger on hapless pieces of dinnerware. A jibbing taunt was added over her shoulder as she headed back for the door. "Do desist from destroying any more of London's property Integral."
The absence of 'sir' created a long uncomfortable silence. Integra remained seated on her cot, finger curled around the rim on either side of her thighs. The dark face was calm and blank, not gratifying the woman with emotions. Behind the glasses, Integra's eyes were as cool and precise as ever. She was waiting for the news the matron had come to bring.
The woman hurumphed and clacked her way across the cold stone floor to the door. Halfway out she turned, one leg raised in midstep. A contemplative look passed over her features, considering leaving entirely. Their eyes locked, the matron's spiteful and Integra's icy buy expectant. Finally she spat it out as though the words left a foul taste in her mouth. "Her majesty's emissaries will speak with you now."
Integra rose, pleased that she had won this minor battle of wills. Handcuffed wrists hanging loosely in front of her, she followed the woman through the tangled maze of hallways. Set at even intervals were heavy doors so like her own with a small barred grate set at the top. Stale air wafted out from these grates into the hallway beyond, giving the entire place a musty old smell of slow decay. It reminded her of the crypt in which she had first discovered Alucard.
The Hellsing Organization would have fallen apart then, if Uncle Richard had managed to gain control. There was so much that only she could do, what she had learned from her father could not soon be taught to another. Integra shuddered to think what it would have been like. The Organization was on the brink of destruction again, this time from the outside rather than internal struggles. She had been weak and helpless then. She vowed she never would be again. And she was not now, was she? Strange, how history always manages to come in loops.
The sharp sound of the woman's heels against stone stopped suddenly, leaving a gaping silence in its absence. Integra glanced upwards, drawn away from the wisps of her memories. They had halted in front of a plain door, distinguished only by the lack of a grate. Beyond it, there was a distinct click and the door swung upon on its own, unpushed by human hands. Integra felt a nudge on the small of her back and ignoring it strode confidently forwards.
The room into which she entered was wood paneled, looking surprisingly modern against the dank stone of the rest of the tower. She supposed that it had been sound-proofed, though why bother when the metallic gleam of a surveillance camera could be spotted whirring back and forth in the corner. A small folding table had been set up in the middle with two cheap plastic chairs arranged, one on either end. The far seat was filled by an effeminate man in a dark double-breasted suit, his eyes covered by tinted sunglasses. The single bulb suspended from the ceiling sputtered and flickered, but an interrogation light set up in the corner shone an unwavering blinding beam at the empty chair. Integra could hear the clack of the matron's heels retreating behind her even as two blue uniformed SAS guards gripped her elbows and steered her to her seat. She shook off their support and sat down herself, staring straight ahead despite the brightness of the light.
The man across nodded once at Integra's guards and they left the room to maintain posts outside the door. His hair was so heavily gelled that it barely shifted at the movement. The immaculate coiffure was meant to intimidate, but Integra found it made him seem more like a doted upon poodle. She focused on the manila folder in his hands, not the least bit startled when he slammed it down on the table in a very official sounding way. Red letters were stamped on the side, but Integra couldn't make out the word upside down. The man opened his mouth to speak, closed it, cleared his throat with a drawn out ahem-hem-hem sound, then addressed her. His voice was high and nasal, with the condescending phoniness of an upper level official who deems you beneath his notice.
"Miss Integral Wingates Hellsing." Again Integra noted the absence of 'sir' in her title and suspicion began to grow in her mind. Removing the top piece of paper from his folder, the other drummed his fingers against it once then refocused the hidden gaze on her. "This paper you see here is the deed to the Hellsing estate. I regret to inform you," his voice held anything but regret, "that the State has been forced to seize it and all your assets to subsidize your time spent under our keep."
Integra suppressed an undignified snort at this. More than anything else she had been through so far, she was fiercely angry at the loss of her family seat. Hellsing manor was the physical embodiment of the organization and everything it strove for. Its loss was another nail in the coffin, reminding her of everything she no longer had. The house, the lands, these belonged to her and nobody but a Hellsing should call them home. The logical part of her mind, the part she could never entirely shut away no matter how hard she tried, told her that the State's control might actually be for the better. Looters would have long ransacked the mansion and stripped everything in the absence of Hellsing soldiers. At least the government would try to keep the purpose of the Hellsing Organization under wraps from the general public. Any of the vitally important documents that Integra could not allow to fall into anyone else's hands were well-hidden and encrypted. Even now, several were probably being destroyed as per her emergency plans, formed in the aftermath of the Valentine Brothers disaster.
The rustle of another sheet emerging from the envelope forced Integra's attention back to the room. The man smoothed this second piece of parchment down over the first and cleared his throat again. "After your arrest, the Knights of the Round Table reconvened to discuss the implications of your treason," he pronounced the word distastefully, almost spitting it out, "They have decided to renounce your membership as a Protestant Knight. You have been stripped of your title and rank. From this moment on you may not contact any members of the Round Table or share any information you may still remember from previous meetings."
The loss of her knighthood hurt less than she expected it to. Integra had been anticipating it from the moment a Judas was discovered among their ranks. His words only confirmed her suspicions. It didn't bother her as much as the loss of the ancestral Hellsing lands. A knight was a knight in official terms only. Inside she knew she was just as worthy of the 'sir' as any of those scheming old men who sat around the table. To those that mattered, she would always be Sir Integra. This self-important man and his paperwork couldn't change that.
"As you know, the punishment for treason is death." The man replaced his papers and shut the folder, fixing Integra with a hard stare. Not turning his head, he reached one hand up and neatly unplugged the security camera. Its mechanical whirring died down and the red power light faded off. Integra round herself slightly surprised at his actions, though she supposed in hindsight that she should have been prepared. Since when did government organizations not go behind each others' backs in less than honest maneuvers? Now unrecorded or overheard, the man continued, "I won't deny the people on the streets are calling for your execution. They blame you for everything that's gone wrong lately. I myself do not think their view is wrong."
The temperature of the air in the room went down a few degrees. Integra could feel the chill radiating off of the man across. She matched his expressionless face with her own infamous ice-cold resolve, steel blue eyes hard and unreadable.
"The Queen, however, seems to favor you. This story of FREAK vampires," his tone was disbelieving, "seems to have won her sympathy and she believes that your organization was not solely responsible for the chaos of the terrorist attacks on the tower. Out of respect for her Majesty, it has been decided that your life will be spared. You should be grateful."
Integra did not, as the man implied she should, get down on her knees and grovel her thanks. She would not beg for mercy on account of friendship with the Queen. This second chance merely told her that someone saw her missions as worthwhile and decided to support it, albeit behind a screen of other reasons. The unspoken question was of course, what now? Even without her lands or title, they would never let her go without further punishment. Released onto the streets of London as was, she had no doubt the angry mobs wouldn't hesitate to beat her to the ground.
"Instead, you will be sentenced to a lifetime of exile, never to return to England. Speak to no one about your departure. A representative will arrive early tomorrow to pick you up and drive you to the airport." He answered her last question next before she could even fully form it in her head. "The Vatican Special Section 13 was so good as to agree to watch over you. You will follow their instructions; your British citizenship is being revoked as we speak."
The Vatican Section 13 - Iscariot. Oh great, Maxwell.