Singularity
Order: Hammer Hand
Madness had long been Alexander Andersong's companion and it was without reservation that he embraced it. Oh at first he had been hesitant enough; in those few early days so long ago, in a village whose name had long faded from mind and map, he had fought hard against losing himself to his fevered mind.
But the sight of the Hominus Nocturna, of a true blood vampire, had utterly shattered his already damaged psyche. Returning home from the horrors of war bloody, broken and dispirited, only to watch his isolated village be plagued by horrors unimaginable, had laid him low, sending him convulsing with fever and plagued dreams. For whatever reason the vampire had spared him as he picked apart the hamlet over a fortnight, letting the soldier suffer from his visions and sickness. A state which was in no way helped by seeing terror etched on the faces of his caretakers day and night, of seeing the shifting black shadow shape that was the creature upon the move through the windows, mocking him, toying with him. The incomprehensible mutterings of his guardians, the hushed whispers of a liquid night that drained the life from its victims, the sight of the restless dead, all rushed to fill his addled mind with unspeakable dreams.
It was when he was only one of a handful left huddled in the small, heavy stone monetary, that the Iscariot had arrived. The vampire had been toying with them for days by that time, sending the animated corpses of friends and loved ones one by one against the chapel's defenders, enjoying their torture. It was caught by complete surprise by the small band of hunters that walked to challenge it.
The
Church Paladins tore through its undead minions forcing it from its
refuge in an abandoned tomb at the village's edge, through the once
sleepy hamlet, and towards the last stronghold of the defenders. It was
likely not their choice that its retreat should take it by the
location, but it occurred, none-the-less. The No Life King had
shattered apart the barricades and snatched up the crippled Alexander
from where he lay moaning with delusion and fever upon a pew, knocking
aside the few villagers that tried to oppose it. Perhaps it thought a
human hostage would be proof against the Iscariot. Perhaps it merely
wished to feed on the most frail. The truth would never be known.
As Alexander was jostled, even in his weakened state he managed a
defense. His bayonet, a silver edged blade picked up from a distant
battlefield, a trophy of a grisly conflict, had lain nearby his sick
bed and he snatched it up. Without hesitation it was driven between
those glaring, hateful red pinpricks of light, eyes that were windows
to hell itself, the creature long having abandoned its soul.
It was his first time seeing a body fade to ash, but it would not be the last.
The Iscariot took him with them when they left hours later, his actions proving him worthy of being one of their own. But his madness never left him despite their ministrations. By the time he was under the care of the Order Hospitalars in the Vatican City, Alexander Andersong had given in to his affliction, and began shaping it, perhaps unknowingly, into a tool of the mind. Fanatical madness was the anvil. Zeal, the forge hammer. The undead, the ones unfortunate enough to be caught in between.
The vast majority of the time Andersong did not fear. He did not question. He did not plan, nor think ahead. He simply hated, and reveled in the slaughter of that which had laid him low. Only in the moments of purest bloodlust, when his foes lay about his feet, the work of his Holy Order completed and the blood of the impure not yet dry upon his blades, did Alexander Andersong ever find peace.
'And that' the Hanging Judge reflected as he quietly intoned a prayer, standing over a hastily dug grave, 'Is perhaps the problem.'
Two of his subordinates, regenerators like himself, had survived and the one that didn't was now buried at his feet. He made a note of the location of the small grove, and to have a Vatican team come to exhume the body for transport and re-interment in the catacombs beneath their order's monetary as early as possible. A protestant country was no place for the body of such a hero to rest.
The priest sighed, leaning against a tree and slumping to the ground idly replaying the previous night's battle in his head and searching for faults. What he found did not please him in the least.
Hellsing was not only not destroyed, as their intelligence had suggested. It was capable of mounting a rapid and effective response to his actions. His team had failed in acquiring the sacred Chronicles of the Righteous Order, a tome deemed instrumental in eradicating the creatures of the night.
'And most importantly, I failed in my duty. I believed myself infallible, and did not cast the protective wards. I toyed with her when a swift finish would have been far better. The fledgling was far more powerful than I would have thought, and I paid the price for my arrogance.'
To have been defeated by such a fledgling, to have been brought down by his own hubris was a blow enough to encourage him to take stock and willfully abandon his pleasantly insane realm to observe the world as it actually was.
He had not been required to analyze a situation in neigh on two decades. He had been a hound for so long, leashed to Maxwell's side and plans, he had forgotten what it was to lead a kill team and to objectively plan the downfall of an adversary, to outwit and outsmart them, to revel in tactical, rather than dogmatic, superiority. To force down his psychosis, and fight with his mind as well as his brawn. But he had done it before, and he would do it again. And then he could once more fully embrace the madness that he held so dear.
The retreat almost went by the numbers. The three different units had left in three separate transports, all heading for various safe houses just as the clock struck two. It looked like everything was going to be fine.
And surprisingly enough, it did.
All three Hellsing squads were currently safely ensconced in safe houses throughout the Greater London area. Terik, after receiving a blood transfusion, was on the mend. Weapons were cleaned, gear counted and stowed, and stock taken.
Some stock took a lot longer to take than others.
Idly sipping a blood packet with the TV droning in the background Ceras had long ago turned her thoughts inward. On some level she was aware that she was running up a power bill and she was drooling slightly out of the corner of her mouth. Dimly she could hear the soft, faint swishing of cloth on metal, as Lackmay tried to buff out the scratches on his Artic Warfare in the other room. He had asked her if she had any black nail polish when they had first arrived at her domicile, obviously looking to temporarily touch up his damaged baby.
That was something he would never do again. The evil eye had practically pinned him to the wall, and the grin would have been more fitting on the Hanging Judge.
Ceras, apparently, was not a Goth.
But the Hanging judge was definitely on the young commander's mind. According to the news, no bodies had been discovered, and that tidbit of information had been added to her post-action review for further digestion.
"No bodies, which means, in all likelihood, the damn Bayonet freak is still alive, and we have at least one other regenerator on our hands; I doubt he could carry three separate corpses.. Which I should have expected. If Master didn't manage to stop him its doubtful that I could have.' Ceras mentally sighed as she mulled over her thoughts, licking her lips to remove the drool before continuing her mental train.
'I survived the battle, but a lot of it was luck, plain and simple. I didn't panic, that was good. But if Andersong had used those binding spells like on the train, or I hadn't miraculously managed to phase through the floor, I'd be dead. Deader. Whatever.' She paused on one of the thoughts, and considered it more thoroughly.
Over the past month, Ceras' skills had been improving in leaps and bounds. Her strength and senses had increased markedly, and her resistance to injury was increasing exponentially. But dropping though the floor was the first of the 'big' powers she had seen Alucard display that she had successfully demonstrated.
'A big step forward; though I imagine I've been somewhat slow in acquiring it. I don't know how I did it either. I just wished I wasn't there, and suddenly, I wasn't. Now that I know I can do it, I need to learn to control it.'
"Yo Sarge! I'm calling it a night. Err, morning. Or something. Crashing in the normal place." Lackmay said, as he stood in the kitchen doorway, his wiry frame illuminated in back light relief cast by the flickering television.
"Pulling a vampire, Lackmay? Going to sleep the day away?" she joked.
"When in Rome . . ." Lackmay started, before frowning, realizing the expression he had just used.
"Lackmay, if I ever see you acting like one of those stupid paladins, you'll never sleep comfortably again. I guarantee it.."
"Ehheh." Lackmay grimaced, and disappeared down the hall, booted feet making muffled thumps on the threadbare carpet, until Ceras heard the squeaky groan of her guest mattress, and the contented sigh of the other soldier.
An objective viewer would see that single gesture, a single unguarded, relaxed sigh, as Ceras' greatest improvement. Super strength, enhanced stamina, the ability to phase through solid objects, all were admirable. But not nearly so admirable as to rival that which she now inspired in her subordinates. They joked with her. They relaxed around her. They fought for her, and trusted her with their lives . Today one had died for her.
To follow her to the gates of hell, and then willingly storm them. Ceras was becoming a commander of men.
The vampire had yet to realize that, though. Her brain was still on autopilot, still taking solace in her normal routine of fighting and reviewing, of making sure she was up to par, that she wasn't needlessly endangering the lives of her subordinates, to see that.
Perhaps, that was exactly why her team was performing so well.
Sighing, Ceras leaned back in her chair and tossed the packet towards the recently emptied trash, eyes fixating on a single spot of the heavy wooden dining table in front of her. A look of determination passed over her face, before she raised her hand, and stabbed it downward . . .
In the other room, Lackmay could have sworn he heard a loud thump, followed by his sergeant swearing up a storm.
"Sir Integral."
The hard piercing voice would have made a lesser being blush. The Lady Hellsing didn't flinch, but returned the hard stare of her comrade with one of her own. No venom traveled the gloomy, cold distance over the round table between the two Knights, however. The respect for each other was mutual, though the disdain each felt unavoidable.
The acting magistrate of the Knights of the Round continued after a poignant pause.
"As you know your case has been up for review for several weeks now, and debates within the Round Table and within member organizations themselves have been conducted. It may interest you if not surprise you that the Queen herself has weighed in on the matter."
Integral didn't reply, but shifted her gaze to each member of the Knights in turn, eyes unblinking even in the cool dryness of the chamber.
No one flinched, and her gaze was met uniformly. A group of peers, perhaps even equals. All concerned first and foremost with the defense of Great Britain.
"The last major incident you responded to resulted in the death of over 90 of your command. Over 50 civilians also lost their lives. Roughly 3 million pounds of property damage to the area surrounding the conflict was noted, to say nothing of the damage done to the chapel complex itself. More importantly, we were almost unable to contain the events from the media. Bribes had to be paid to multiple media conglomerates."
"As we are well aware however you were successful in your practice. While the losses incurred are neither desirable nor exemplary, your efforts and results speak for themselves. Additionally your remaining troops seem to be demonstrating a loyalty to your cause and command that we had thought non-existent. As you are aware it appears you have 20-30 operatives left functioning as a single active cell. They have been successful in countering freak activities, though it is obvious their effectiveness is limited by their size. They have only been able to respond to the most serious of incidents."
A hint of a smile tugged at the Hellsing's mouth. Personal pride, or pride in the compliments to her organization, it was anyone's guess.
No one did. It was an irrelevant issue. The job was done, London was spared. Everything else was of no consequence.
"Which brings us to the goings on of last night. Your soldiers met and clashed with, as far as we can tell, members of the Vatican's Section XIII inside the Third Expansion of the British Museum. Though not the initial response Hellsing's counterattack managed to drive the Iscariot out though no bodies from either group were found. 12 officers of the city police force were killed as well as 7 museum guards either by .50 caliber slugs, bayonets, combat knives, or a large bore weapon we have yet to match shell casings to. We have not yet identified the target of the Iscariot raid, either. A section of a display of Crusade era artifacts seems to have been their primary goal but the catalogue of items it contained is missing and the display itself was subject to all manner of destructive forces. We cannot tell if anything has been taken, or what purpose it might serve in their hands. But this drives home the nature of the situation we find ourselves in. With Hellsing gone the Vatican is clearly stepping up operations on our ground and the freaks, while less widespread than usual, are definitely there. In fact their silence has some of us worried."
Another pause, before the magistrate leaned back in his chair, arching his hands in a temple.
"Which leads us to the final point. Sir Integral Wingates Hellsing, on the Authority of the Knights of the Round Table and Her Majesty, you are hereby reinstated as Hellsing's Commander with funds allocated as for the reconstruction and rebuilding of said institution. The vote was unanimous. As for your . . . Trump Card, we of the Council have been somewhat divided and a definite consensus could not be reached. But, the Queen herself intervened; as such, you may once again bring him into service."
Integral nodded, stood, and saluted. Quickly a gray suited agent moved to her side and removed the cuffs fastening her hands with a deft twist of his wrist and a snap of the lock.
And she spoke. "Gentlemen. If you will excuse me then, I have a duty to perform."
The acting magistrate and the other members stood, all bowing slightly.
Bowing in return, Sir Hellsing spun on her heel, and stepped into battle once more.
Author's Notes: I really should stop saying what will be in the next chapter, as it never seems to pan out. At best, I get one or two of the scenes I mention in it, and just ignore the rest. Take the opening sequence of this chapter. I have no idea where in hell it came from, but as it turns out, I like it. Ignoring what I just said, expect to see Integral out and about next chapter. Everything else is up in the air, though I will say I have Alucard's reintroduction scene written and one of the two plotlines fairly solid in my head. At least two chapters of material will come out prior Alucard's return as Ceras has to advance a bit more, and Hellsing has to re-solidify, so those of you waiting for him to have a major part will have to wait a bit longer. Besides, once he comes out, it will become a lot harder to write things without having a Deus Ex Machina thing going. I mean, outside of a major Iscariot action, or another Elder Vampire, what really challanges him?
As a side note and point of possible intrest, I've always kind of viewed Ceras as the equivelent of a battle tank, particularly after I saw her with the Harconnen and the twin hopper fed gattling cannons in the manga. In keeping with that image I've tried my best to portray her style as heavy handed bordering on draconian in combat, with no effort at all to be elegant or subtle. Alucard is the elegent shortblade. Ceras, the 20 pound battlehammer. Don't know why I bothered to write that. Now on to something completely different.
Review Responses:
Lady Blackmour: As usual, thanks for the beneficent and critical review. I will certainly try to be a bit more varied in my use of tenses, but knowing myself, how well I shall succeed is far from certain. As to a possibility of a pre-reader, such thoughts intrigue me. I fear the possible obligation it may bring to then actually write on some sort of schedule, however.
Seraphim 74: Thank you for your kind and lengthy review. For the longest time, I imagined that this story would remain nothing more than the first couple chapters as well, given that this was supposed to be a one shot in the first place. This far in, I don't think I could just abandon those that like the story though, so I imagine that I will finish it. Slowly. And I mean geologically slowly. Seriously, the tectonic plates move faster than I do.
To all the other reviewers: Thank for taking the time to review. It really made my day to see that people are interested in my story.
