Singularity

Order: Conflict

"Eat lead, shithead!" Trooper Revlin barked, twin Sig pistols firing from the hip as he dove for cover behind the battered, bullet ridden corpse of a Wooly Mammoth. He he the hard packed earth hard, rolling twice, leaves and detritus sticking to the dark green of his cargo pants and jacket. The smell of gunpowder and dusty age mixed together in the climate controlled cool, the darkness of the chamber broken only by recessed lighting and muzzle flash.

"The tainted shall be Purged by the wrath of the righteous, Protestant dogs!" A woman's voice rang back, punctuated by several more rounds of gunfire, tossing up tufts of hair and skin from the creature the ex-Hellsing agent was taking cover behind, each new bullet hole marked by a plume of sawdust.as the stuffing was driven out of the massive body.

Were said lady not bent for leather on the destruction and death of both himself and his immediate co-workers, Revlin might well have said she was pretty. Close cropped brown hair, nicely proportioned, and just the right height. Her outfit, a black suit covered by a brown synthetic storm coat provided the perfect compliment to clear, blue eyes. All in all, a real catch.

"Lady, I'm gonna come over there and bust your head in a sec . . ." Revlin shot back as another round came particular close to his spot of refuge.

Well, a catch, were she not so maniacally homicidal. It seemed all women he ran into were that way. Except for the Sarge, but even he knew better than to try and hit on her.

Sighing for lost cause, Revlin reached to his waist and yanked a grenade from an ALICE pouch. Pulling the pin he lobbed it in a high arc without even bothering to glance out to check his opponents last position. It was, after all, simply a stun grenade, and even if it landed directly in front of his adversary, it would not likely result in a kill.

But that wasn't the reason he hadn't bothered to look. Revlin hadn't been aiming for the Iscaiot woman. Rather, for the rather large display she had been sheltering in front of. A display so large, it filled the center of the roundhouse like chamber, and he therefore wasn't exactly concerned about missing.

This particular branch of the British Museum was truly a wondrous place. It housed collections of antiquities and oddities from all around the world, and from all periods. Curios that were, at the current moment, being desecrated and destroyed in no less than three separate battles.

Originally, it had simply looked like a robbery; a silent alarm had been triggered on one of the displays of Crusade-era artifacts, and that wing of the museum had gone into lock down, bars sliding shut and reinforced doors closing fast.. Local police had rushed to the scene and entered into a nightmare. Security cameras showed the first team being butchered in a flash of silver blades before the cameras themselves were removed. But the burglars battle cry of "Dust, to Dust, Amen!" had lent an already bad situation a far more sinister aura to those who recognized its voice, its tone, and in turn, its speaker.

Ceras and the remnants of Hellsing had arrived soon after, far faster than the D-11 specialists could be called in. With Bonner blasting through a sewer channel into the subbasement, they had easy egress. And almost immediately, things had gone straight to hell.

The current gun battle was taking place in a room set up to recreate various periods from the Mesozoic on up to early man, complete with replica mammoths, dinosaurs, and even pre-humans. As a boy, the Hellsing trooper remembered his ncle taking him on the rounds of the museum, and as a child of seven, being particularly averse to this exhibit for one chief reason. The centerpiece was a massive skeleton of the Tyrannosaurus Rex; the tyrant king. From snout to tail, this particular example of prehistoric monster was almost 37 feet, with teeth just under a foot in length and as wide around as the barrel of his over/under grenade launcher. The first time he had gazed upon it, the boy had been terrified. Now, as a trooper, he idly reflected that there were far worse things in this world to be afraid of. The Nosferatu, the No Life King, were far more terrible than the largest of the Tyrant lizards. Its funny how some childhood fears, such as a rampant dinosaur, fade with time, while others become suddenly and horribly validated.

The grenade exploded in a blinding flash, having impacted just below the base of the T Rex's skull, forcing the attacking Iscariot to look upward. For a second, she thought the beast itself had reanimated, its body seeming to shake of its own accord as ghostly muscles pulled and strained, its jaw wide in a roar of defiance. But it was simply the shockwave and sound of the grenade, though the Judas Priest would still face the same inevitable result. The massive skeletal structure buckled and collapsed in a spray of bone dust and fossilized marrow-shards, crushing the Paladin beneath it, its final kill drowning out the last screams of its last victim.

Standing up and picking mammoth hair from his jacket, Revlin made a rough bow to the King of all Dinosaurs, before jogging off down the corridor towards the sounds of another firefight. Idly, he hopped that there was a battle ongoing at that Beaches of Normandy diorama. He had always wanted to be there . . .


The Café inside the main hall of this particular wing of the museum was a refuge of sorts. For the tired parent, struggling to reign herd on a half dozen eager children, for the tired child, tired of being dragged from exhibit to exhibit by two overly intellectual parents. Even, on occasion, for the haggard and twitching guide or caretaker, driven to the brink of patience by yet another troublemaker or know it all. It had clearly been designed with refuge in mind; thick, deep carpeting, elegant freestanding lamps casting a soft glow, mahogany and dark wood trimmings all seemed to welcome the tired soul. One could almost imagine the clink of glasses, the hiss of the espresso machine, the scent of fresh tea, the casual conversation and open discussion such an atmosphere undoubtedly encouraged.
Currently, the Café was the refuge of Viktor, Stasi, and Bonner, the open discussion was done with 5.56 mm NATO standard ammunition from one side and .48 calibur handgun rounds, as well as the occasional thrown combat knife, glinting dully in the dimmed light of the display cases, from the other.

Originally, the Café had been refuge of Five Hellsing soldiers. One was rapidly bleeding out behind an overturned French sofa, his blood staining the maroon carpet a deeper shade of red as his moans filled the air. The other had been pinned to a fresco of some ancient battle, multiple combat knives piercing his neck, chest, and right arm. He had stopped squirming minutes ago.

But their deaths and the constant suppressing fire wrought by Viktor and Stasi had given Bonner the time she needed. A heavy weapons and demolitions expert, she was a master at blowing things up, or as she billed it, 'combat re-engineering', or rearranging opponents and their goods into more manageable, bite sized pieces.. Right now, she was re-engineering her own little surprise for the two Iscariot operatives that were on the balcony across the way, and while crude, she was certain it would be quite effective.

The M-4 Carbine with the over/under grenade launcher was certainly far from crude. A marvel of a modern military's war machine, it was capable of dispensing a wide variety of devices at range, with, Bonner felt, a certain amount of finesse that full on grenade launchers and dedicated Anti-tank weapons possessed. The roughshod part was the shell she was currently stuffing down its muzzle. Reuters had not been able to acquire live rounds for it, so she had been stuck building her own from dummy rounds the man had been able to get his hands on.

The round she was currently loading was one of her homebrew creations, a phosphorous airburst of her own design, and illegal under current International Law. Now slotted and running hot, she leaned out from behind a formerly overstuffed and overturned lounger, and let fly.

It exploded slightly in front of and above the two assailants in a burst of luminous fire, coating the balcony and its contents with burning gel. The Iscariots screamed as they burned, and the gunfire came to a stop.

"And the wicked shall be purged in Righteous fire . . ." Viktor smirked as he moved quickly out from behind his own makeshift barricade and moved to assist the bleeding Hellsing trooper, unslinging his medi-kit and setting to work.

Stasi and Bonner grinned at him and answered in an odd stereo effect, that had the Iscariots been able to hear over their own screaming, would doubtlessly have infuriated them.

"Amen."


Ceras let out a rather brutal string of curses as she neatly lunged, tucked and rolled, a few of her choice euphemisms so vile they would have made a sailor blush. Coming from a woman of her stature and relatively pleasant, nondescript looks, such a vocal hemorrhage would have doubtlessly seemed out of place in any normal company.

The vampire's display of acrobatics came to an end as she slid to a stop behind a freestanding display entitled "Spoils of War: The Riches of the Crusades", a line of flung bayonets protruding from the marble floor just behind her. As if to let her know just how close she had been to being skewered, the closest one was still vibrating wildly back and forth.

The appearance of the Iscariot on the evening news had thrown Victoria for a loop initially. First, their was the question of why there were here, and why, of all places, in a museum. That passed through her head quite quickly, as her mind began to prioritize and plan. More important was what kind of response she could get together to deal with the intrusion by the Vatican's minions. 12 troopers, counting her. Bonner would provide an explosive entrance. Stasi and Relvin would lead two separate teams, while Lackmay and herself would act as a final sweeping unit.

Within five minutes of the initial broadcast, Hellsing was on the move, streaking towards its chosen prey.

It wasn't until Ceras had strapped into the shotgun of her SUV that she allowed the full realization of her opponents to hit her.

Definitely more than one operative. All highly trained, and more than likely, fanatical in their determination. And, if she had identified the voice correctly, their commander was likely none other than Alexander 'Hanging Judge' Andersong, the Vatican's trump card. The one who had nearly killed her twice before, beheaded her master, and killed her superior.

It had taken all her willpower to force her fear down, even as the long healed wound to her throat began to itch distractingly. She had prayed to whoever was listening that she had been mistaken in her identifications.

But now, huddled behind the display, her horror had been realized.

Gritting her teeth, she unholstered her last weapon, flicking the safety off the Desert Eagle as she brought it to bear, firing her first few shots blindly over the protective cover of her display, before ducking her head out when she was sure Andersong wouldn't immediately hurl a blessed blade at her head.

Anderson had slid behind a dark marble pillar, his laughter echoing like fire throughout the confines of the hall. Round after round tore into the Paladin's cover, ripping chunks of masonary apart in a hail of lead.

Ceras' Eagle clicked as the last round left the chamber.

Grinning crazily, the blond man stepped out from behind the ruined support, arms out, blades down, forming some sort of demented, bladed human cross as he advanced, eyes glinting with madness.

From his position hunkered behind another pillar just to the right of Ceras' position, Lackmay decided to make his presence known with a flurry or rounds from his FP-90, though the relativly small caliber rounds of the light assault rifle hardly slowed the regenerators advance. Not for the first time the former SAS recon specialist wished that he could bring his Artic Warfare into play, but these close confines were no place to bring a sniper rifle to bear.

Especially when Angeldust Andersong was the target. Ceras hadn't even had time to swing her SAW forward before its barrel had been removed in a flurry of silver strokes, and, despite her inhuman speed, was bleeding heavily from wounds received in a cat a mouse battle that spanned five exhibits and 7 minutes.

"Feh, the dregs of your cursed organization are reduced to this, vampire?" Andersong half laughed, half cackled as he continued a slow advance, his stride hastening as Lackmay paused to reload.

Ceras mind race frantically as she ducked down again, hands checking pockets in a vain hope that she had some how missed an extra round, clip, grenade, or her Harconnen. With her Squad Automatic Weapon laying in pieces, and no other ammunition to speak of she had little illusion as to the limited damage they would cause the regenerator. The Hanging Judge had been hit point blank in the head by the Jackal, after all.

"Sarge! Look out, he's!"

Ceras twisted around to look upward just in time to see that the Hanging Judge had leapt up onto the display and was stabbing down with a blade, aiming straight for her heart, having closed the gap a few seconds faster than she would have though possible.

There are times in life when people display amazing and previously unforeseen strengths or skills. Do or Die circumstances or extreme pressure can result in incredible adrenaline rushes and pure stubborn willpower that have allowed countless improbable, and perhaps even impossible feats to be preformed. The lifting of an overturned car by a single person, the tenacious survival of a wounded soldier or police officer that should have been dead five times over. At times, reserves of strength otherwise unknown force their way to the surface, and this was just such an occasion.

As the blade descended, Ceras Victoria simply willed herself away, to be anywhere but there. And, while she was no longer alive to feel the benefits of an adrenaline rush, her willpower, and her nature of existence, responded to the call.

The bayonet met only cold stone, penetrating six inches deep in the floor as the policewoman phased through to a lower level, her being and belongings in substantiating as she fell.

The priest was momentarily shocked and confused, his manic grind weakening, his eyes losing a glimmer of their fanatic flame. This vampire was a fledgling, only a few years dead, he told himself. The ability to shift was a skill found only in vampire far older and more experienced! It was impossible! Had he so severely underestimated his opponent? Might he actually have to invoke upon the holy magiks to subdue this hellspawn?

It was the hesitation and round of self castigation that nearly cost him his life. Lackmay, seeing his sergeant drop through the floor, and seeing the Iscariot crouched on the ground, staring blankly at his sword, convinced him that close quarters be damned, now was a good time as any to give his rifle a shot. Besides, with only him in the room, he would be the next obvious target, anyway.

.50 mm BMG rounds were originally intended for use in heavy machine guns. Over the years, however, several arms manufacturers had taken it upon themselves to develop rifles capable of utilizing the shells as well. Relatively common and capable of doing an extreme amount of damage, such rounds fitted the sniping tactics quite well. Though more than capable of removing a hostile human target, more often than not the rounds, and by extension, the guns that used them, were used in an anti-material fashion, disabling transports, communications equipment, or any similar suitable target.

Or in this case, cutting a crazed, sword wielding madman down to size. Lackmay leveled and fired in one fluid, rehearsed motion, the round ripping out of the weapon's muzzle and tearing a bloody swath from the priest's left side.

Even as the Church Paladin screamed and spun to confront his new target, Lackmay had ejected the spent round and was sliding the bolt home on a new bullet. He squeezed the trigger pull, and another section of the advancing priest went up in a wash of blood and gore, his trench coat ragged and blood red, intestines and viscera and spilling out of the jagged hole in his stomach.

And then he was on him, twin blades streaking downwards, and the Sniper brought up his rifle to block. The bayonets sparking against the black metal or the barrel and the skeletal stock, before pinging off as the priest readied another swipe.
The hammer blow struck the priest on the side of the head, bone and flesh caving in with a grisly, meaty crack. The momentum of the strike sent him careening head over heels, landing hard a good 10 feet from his starting point. He landed heavily, blood oozing from his third major wound, though the other two had already begun to heal.

Ceras' attack had caught the man completely off guard. After her initial shock a phasing through the floor, she had managed to gather her wits about her, forget what just happened, and leap back up the way she came, promising to revisit the incident later, when she had the time, and her soldiers weren't in danger. The entire mental process took less than two seconds, but was just enough time for Lackmay to have gotten his first shot off, and hence, the priests attention. So when she had jumped back up through the floor, she had been given the perfect opportunity for a surprise attack. Grabbing a weapon in either hand from the display she had previously sheltered behind, she had likely saved Lackmay's life.

Andersong still refused to die. Kipping up to his feet even as Ceras advanced to deliver another blow, he brought up twin blades into an X, intercepting the long sword's one handed, overhead strike just in front of his head. One eye leered out at the policewoman, ruined face giving a half smile even as she watched bone and flesh reknit, and the gelatinous ooze that was the ruin of his right eye reform.

But, Ceras had picked up two weapons from the display. Her right hand grasped the haft of an already bloodied, massive battle hammer, and she swung it into play, slamming it against the back edge of the blocked blade. The added force shattered the bayonets and drove the edge into the paladin's skull like a hammer and chisel.
Father Alexander Andersong of the Order Iscariot slumped, and then fell to the ground, as Victoria yanked the sword free.

Stumbling backward, and fighting fatigue and exhaustion, Ceras fiddled with her com bead. "This is Red Eyes, Teams report."

"This is Squad Bravo," Stasi's voice crackled back. "Johnson is dead, Terik is wounded, but he'll make it. Two Iscariot down."

"Charlie here." Relvin acknowledged. "Woman's dead, rest of my squad is . . ."

"Rest of Charlie here, we separated from Relvin to sweep. All other areas are clear."

"Any idea what the Iscariots were doing here, Red Eyes?" Stasi queried.

Reaching down, Ceras pulled a heavy looking satchel from the corpse, and opened the top. The inital engagement with the Hanging Judge had occured in a clean room, where he had been rifiling through bookshelves, before shoving one musty tome into his bag and charging the two operatives.

"Borrowing books, looks like. My Latin is rusty, but it looks like it's a record of something or other from the crusades. I'm not entirely sure, but for now if they want it it's enough that we stopped them . I doubt they just wanted to aid to their library, however. We can check it out fully later. In fact, we have a LOT to discuss later. Leads, meet up tomorrow at the usual place."

A murmur of assent greeted Ceras's answer.

"Red Eyes, Charlie Leader here, I hear the black and whites pounding on the doors.:"

"Roger that, lead. Everyone out and go to ground. Bravo lead, bravo medic, make sure the wounded and dead get the care they need. In the name of God, Impure Souls Shall be Banished unto Eternal Damnation."

"Amen." Came the chorused reply.

All over the museum, Hellsing agents moved towards their point of exit. Had then been a bit slower in leaving, two of them would have been privy to a very disturbing sight indeed. A skull, nearly split to the jaw, slowly reforming, and a wrecked eye and mouth twisting into a crazed smile.


Author's Notes: It has been quite awhile since I added to this, but I slowly move onward. This chapter was all action, with really no character development, though I did get to introduce a few more of the Hellsing Troops. Originally this next chapter was supposed to have a lot of plot and action, but I figure it would be nice to see how the action alone stands. Rest assured that next chapter will see at least a partial explanation for the Iscariot's intrusion into London and the museum, as well as a closer look at England's undead populace.