Singularity
: Order Nine:
Ascendant
"Ladies and gentlemen, select your targets, and fire at will."
14 safeties snapped off. 14 triggers were pulled.
Considerably more ammunition was expended, then abruptly halted with a single raised hand.
23 ghouls hit the pavement. Nine windows shattered.
Seven troopers leapt over three separate police blockades, 14 boots hitting blacktop and cobblestone, traversing the fifty meters to the front door.
At ten meters from the entrance, the black haired trooper leading the charge racked the slide to his riot gun. At eight the solid slug left the breech, buckling the steel and wood egress point and ripping it part as if it were no more than tinfoil. It swung loosely on its hinges before the riot gun soldier deftly sidestepped to allow his commanding officer to take point. Said woman proceeded to reach the door and subsequently level it with a shoulder charge, dozing its remains aside before diving into a roll.
She came up into a crouch firing from the hip, her auto shotgun's drum magazine already having cycled twice. Her teammates entered behind her and secured the room adding their own small arms to the mix. Five more ghouls crumpled, coagulated blood refusing to leak from massive rents in flesh and bone.
Twenty seconds later, First Squad, First Platoon, Hellsing Division, had locked down the house's first floor.
"Command, this is Red Eyes. Ground is clear, sounds coming from the second. Watch the rooftops."
"Acknowledged, Red Eyes. Snipers are in position."
Satisfied with the reply, and assured that the freeks wouldn't be making it out via the roof, Ceras made a curt gesture with her hand. At the signal, two of the squad broke off, following her to the base of the stairs, FP-9s pointed up and covering the second floor landing, even as she placed a foot on the first step.
Major Ceras Victoria came to a complete stop at that point.
Both of troopers shot a glance at the Major, who shook her head.
No. They weren't going up after them.
But that didn't mean the two freeks in question were going to be getting away.
Or even left alive for that much longer.
The young midan closed her eyes, before stretching her hands out in front of her, and extending her will.
The Shadows elongated, her own stretching out before her, shimmering and quaking. The air crackled and the scent of ozone flared only to be rapidly overtaken by the smell of fire. Then Brimstone.
Two sets of eyes opened peering back at Ceras from her own shadow, deep crimson and bright, sickly green meeting.
Outside the house Hellsing troopers jumped at the sounds that seemed to shake the building itself. Massive, world rending roars, bestial cries of rage and primal fury.
A second later, one freak was hurled backwards through a second floor wall. Two snipers zero'd in on the falling body, and one of them managed a clean shot through the head, ashing it before it hit the concrete.
The other never appeared, but a loud scream, ending abruptly, seemed to indicate the remaining freeks fate.
15 soldiers turned to look at a female knight and her retainer.
"House is secured, Command." Sergeant Stasi.
Integra nodded, switching her band to be broadcast through all the soldiers' radio sets before replying into her own com.
"Understood. What . . . was that noise?"
"Under control, sir. Allies. The Major's . . . new pets."
"Am I to understand, Major, that you have successfully acquired your own pack of shadow mastiffs?"
Ceras squeezed her eyes shut, mouth opening wide in a chagrined smile, reaching back to scratch the back of her head. She had been hoping to delay this conversation for a bit, or at least was hoping Integra wouldn't press the issue. Using her familiars during the last raid had been a necessity: the conflict was controlled and isolated, with little danger. An ideal test situation for her companions, or so Praetor had convinced her. Unfortunately, they had been far louder than she had anticipated.
She had hoped to keep them hidden. Now, it appeared, that was no longer an option.
"Ehhh . . . sort of? But, I needed to inform you that some of the new trainees have arrived early, and . . ." Ceras' voice died off, under the knight's glare.
Integra's eye twitched, from where she sat behind her desk, backlit as she was by ambient glow of the setting sun, diffused through her curtains.
"Sort of, Ceras? You either have familiars now, or you don't. Do not try and change the subject. And do NOT think of phasing through a wall, like your damned master. I will NOT have another of my subordinates getting into the habit of leaving just because they don't feel like answering questions."
"What she means is, Sir Integra, is that while she has a familiar . . . or familiars, as is the proper distinction in this case, they are not wolves as apparently belonged to her predecessor." Praetor piped up from his position on Ceras's back, slightly pitched voice a tad muffled by the vampires body.
Integra let out a controlled sigh. "Fine. Cats, bats, bloody armadillos! What animals! Quit being so damn obtuse!"
Ceras almost flinched at Integra's visibly raising ire, before practically squeaking an answer. "Bears."
"Bears?"
"Grizzly and Polar, to be specific, Lady Integra." Praetor again provided an altogether too cheery answer.
Integra sighed, and collapsed into her chair, the fledgling's evasiveness suddenly falling into place. "I see. I take it this has something to do with the disturbance at the London Zoo a few nights ago. And I assume that is why you were hesitant to tell me."
"Umm . . . yes?"
The Lady Knight shook her head. "I was unaware that you had to actually take your familiars, as it were. You had to kill them?"
Ceras shook her head. "Not . . . exactly. I beat them into submission, then made a pledge pact with them. It sorta kills them, sorta not. They aren't real undead, like I am, but they aren't really . . . real . . . period, anymore. I guess they best way to explain it would be that they are now . . . independent aspects of, ummm, me."
"What my Mistress means to say," Praetor began, "is that the Bears are now avatars of her will. They are embodiments of her noble wrath, tributes to her boundless strength, monuments of . . ."
"Shut up, Praetor!" Ceras barked out, flushing red before yanking the hammer violently off her back harness and stuffing the head of the weapon into a half full camo pack that rested at her feet, the haft pointing out and upwards at an angle. The damn hammer, for all its intelligence and sound guidance, was beginning to get annoying in the extreme. With its excessive mannerisms and flowery tongue, Ceras was convinced that it had missed its calling as an intelligent, magical salad fork, or some other equally ostentatious and frivolous peace of flatware foppery.
"Amhh, 'es Miftres. Mph apomophies." Came the slightly muffled voice.
Integra cracked a tired small at the occurrence. "You don't take complements well, do you, Ceras?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to overstep my bounds. With you back, I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to do. I mean, you handle things much better than I . . ."
" Relax, Major. While I wish you had informed me of your excursion before you actually did it, I find no real fault with what you did. Your Master has done far worse."
"You don't? He did?"
"He did. Remind me to tell you about the Blacktap Distillery raid someday. A ghost of a grin flittered across her face at the memory, before her face tightened and she carried on. "Regardless, your actions were necessary, if unorthodox and unapproved. You need to understand this, Major, and understand it well. As it stands currently, after myself and Walter, YOU are the ranking officer of the Hellsing Organization. Whether I want to or not, I trust your judgment. By promoting you, I stated this officially. Personally, I believe this to be true, as well. But you need to be more decisive. I know you organized everything on your own in my absence, planning raids and the like. I need you to do that now."
"I . . . I see."
"I'm not entirely sure you do, Major . . . Victoria," The knight switched her form of address, starling the vampire to attention. "Fergeson held your position before this. He was ultimately my subordinate. But he was also my advisor, and if not a friend, a . . . comrade. I need you to fill that role. My own decisions are not infallible, and opinions of my men are welcome. Your dedication and initiative during my imprisonment was admirable, and I need you to continue displaying that, without fear or embarrassment now. Your growth as a vampire necessitates that, if not your role as a commanding officer. I believe that even if you are not now fully capable, you will shortly become so. I have placed a large portion of the success of this organization in your hands Victoria. You have my faith. Will you make me regret it?"
The response was immediate, and heartfelt.
"No, Sir Hellsing!"
Integra gave a confident smirk. "I didn't think so, Victoria. Now, about the new recruits . . ."
The magiks invoked by the Order of the Iscariot, numerous and terrible, were curious things.
They worked for healing, for violence, for weal and woe. They worked on the living, the dead, the dying and the damned. They are rather indiscriminate weapons that could be wielded for good or evil, but not, the scriptures noted, were they themselves innately beneficent or malevolent.
Magik was simply a sword, a tool, infused with the intent of the wielder, and no more heretical than the man, woman, or beast that wielded it. So was quoted in the Litany of Hunters, chapter 4, verse 15. A remarkably pragmatic approach given the Order to which the doctrine belonged.
Then again given that said Order so often followed the 'means be damned, its all about the ends' school of existential persecution, maybe not so far off. At least they weren't overly hypocritical about this one area.
Despite the words, taught as they were to every neophyte to ever grace the Iscariot's Templum, magiks, particularly the ones recently and presently invoked, unnerved Paladin Eklesia to no end. A spell dating back to the crusades, a holy wyrd composed by Sigsmund himself that summoned the spirits of departed comrades back to smite the heretic and blasphemer, reanimating their immortal souls to serve, and perhaps more. The spell had been seldom used, and was only recently rediscovered amidst the archives of the Temple keep.
A man with less faith would call it blasphemy. A blind man might call it necromancy.
But its use was deemed necessary to retrieve the Tome from the cursed Protestants. Divine scrying had managed to track the tome to a well guarded, if small research facility in the country. Too many soldiers for three paladins to deal with on their own.
And so across the misty moors, down the two lane road in that far off end of England, the holy warriors lead a small host of spectral warriors, ghostly armor clanking, leather squeaking, swords at the ready.
Watchtower lights flared to life, even as startled MPs un-slung rifles and began cracking away.
Gunfire. Cursing. Screams. Engines roaring to life, communications towers calling for back up. One man gunning an armored SUV and plowing through the semisolid wraith ranks, knocking their bodies apart and crushing ghostly armor. A weapons squad unloading with a SAW, the massive cannon kicking with recoil even before its tripod had hit the dirt. A few of the overrun soldiers even clubbing and striking against the blessed wraiths with gun stocks and combat knives, after their positions had been overrun. A Corporal, attempting to drag a wounded man to safety, his subordinates left leg severed by ghostly fire. Heroism was on plain display that night, the valiant battle captured and preserved on digital film from a dozen and two different cameras. In the end, that film, that bit of digital immortality, was all that remained to share such tales of defiance. The wraiths took no prisoners. The priests gave no mercy.
In the end, silence fell. In the end, the Iscariot had taken the prize.
But, really, it wasn't the end. It was a horrible, malignant, beginning.
"Calm down, ya bastards! Few words, then the bar opens!"
Calming a group of soldiers on a day pass is normally not an easy thing to accomplish. Even more so when said soldiers have just spent the past week fighting the minions of undeath to a standstill. Even more so when the location of said unit is a favored bar.
Despite the impressive build up, the soldiers of Ceras' Strikers, the 26 surviving veterans of Incognito and Hellsing's dissolution, quieted up in quickly and respectfully, the dull clank of glasses, the raucous laughter and jokes, the general din of a good time fading into silence. A credit to their training and discipline.
Or, it was because the free bar wasn't free until Stasi said it was. Either or.
The Backroom, so called, was an interesting little establishment. It had a long history of hosting to those in service to King and Country, such as it were. Black and white photographs of RAF servicemen, British and American Allied Infantry, and even SAS lined one wall. Another wall was graced by pictures of police officers, with a few of the checkered caps and nightsticks and trinkets of office and trade signed by notable men and women. It was a bar used to the oddities of those who spent their lives in service, wholly owned and operated by the same family through multiple generations.
The bartenders here knew how to keep a secret. SAS missions had been plotted on the counters. Officers of the law had told their stories on the stools. Returning and departing infantry had poured their hearts out to a generation of barkeeps. And now Hellsing had hijacked it for their own personal celebration.
A wolf whistle split the silenced room, followed by a few catcalls and good natured cheering as Stasi yielded the impromptu stage, a low table, to the Ceras.
"Alright Major! Take it off!"
Laughter rippled through the assembled group.
Flushing red, much to the amusement of her gathered forces, Victoria glared at Stasi.
"I thought you said the bar hadn't been opened yet."
The big man grinned. "I did. Some of em showed up plastered anyway."
Rolling her eyes, at him, she turned her gaze back to the crowd. "Dream on, Emerson. You wouldn't know what to do if I did!" she bit back, her face flushing a deeper shade despite her boldness.
Another ripple of laughter, as the soldier in question's jaw dropped and his friends ribbed him.
"Seriously, though. We're here to celebrate both our continued service to Hellsing, and to ring in all the damn greenies we're gonna have to train up. They arrive en mass tomorrow, and the lot of us are gonna be mostly broken up, at least for awhile. Need to spread our experience around. Or at least our stubborn refusal to let odds and averages get a word in edgewise."
"Here here!" one cried out, hoisting a bottle of something in the air.
Ceras grinned through the smokey hazy, taking in her troops one by one, Integra's little discussion running through her head as she did so. She wasn't just a Major. She was trusted. An officer. A . . . well, in time, hopefully, a friend. Someone who's judgment could be trusted and seen through to the end.
And in front of her, around her, grinning, leering, drinking and shouting, were the men and women who had made her world possible. The men and women who had stood, shoulder to shoulder, trusting her despite her youth, her inexperience, and her unusual existence. The loyalty was humbling. It was time she told them.
Not in so many words, of course. It wouldn't do to break down in tears before her troopers.
"Anyway, I just wanted you guys to know, the fact that you came back, that you worked with me . . . its been my pleasure and honor to command such a dedicated unit. I can think of no better first command. We've saved lives . . . many lives, and those that have given their all to our cause have not done so in futility. We are England's guardians of the night, her shield against the nightmares. We are Hellsing, and you guys have made me proud. So tonight the drinks are on me. Ladies and gentlemen, the bar is now open!"
Despite the best efforts of the members of the Hellsing First, the night eventually ended, yielding onto the brilliant light of day. For most, it meant attempting to sleep off hangovers, waking up in odd positions, or trying to find those first awkward words to utter to the naked person beside you. Still, it beat out what the Hellsing First-First ended up doing.
Hellsing's organization had, at Walter's suggestion, since been reorganized. A clearer chain of command was placed. Hellsing would now have no less that three platoons. Each platoon would contain 25 or so individual troopers, divided into teams of 5 or six. The First-First, then was Platoon 1, First Squad. In essence the best that Hellsing had to offer, outside of its actual 'special' operatives. Among other honors, it was Ceras's squad.
Lackmay, Bonner, Ves, Johsten. Ceras, of course. All five were out on the fields of Hellsing manor, greeting the mid morning light. And Stasi and Revlin, from the soon to be formed Hellsing Second-First. All had been supposed to withhold from serious hard drinking the night previous, though Bonner and Revlin both looked rather green. All to be able to review the new recruits.
It was Stasi that started things off, as he usually did when he didn't know the people or issues in question, with a belligerent bellow. "Alright, listen up! You've all passed your background checks, and the physicals. But before you become Hellsing, you need to learn exactly what you've opted to join. You've heard the stories of bogeymen and things that go bump in the night. And most of you, I'm sure, think its bullshit. And that's the damn last thing I want from my new recruits. Crapping your pants when you see the actual thing isn't going to be beneficial to you or the guy next to you. So! Attention, and look sharp! The Major is here, and she's gonna show you just WHAT it means to be a Hellsing Trooper!"
The gathered recruits, 50 odd, were a motley crew. Enlisted from all walks of military and paramilitary life, the collection of uniforms, accents, and facial scars ran an interesting gamut. At least a few mercenaries, a few SAS Uniforms, British Army regulars, even D-11 agents and a couple ex-American servicemen and women. But each had passed the initial exams, and each had at least a vague inkling of the darker side of the world. Whether it was an ex-police officer that had seen a murderer take a full clip and still manage an escape, or a professional soldier who was assaulted by apparent drugged out, mindless enemies, they all felt that there might have been something a bit off with the conventional view of the world. It was why they had been selected. It was why they had volunteered.
And now as Sergeant Stasi stepped back and Major Victoria stepped forward into the noonday sun, their inklings and feelings would be laid to a definite, if not final, rest.
Ceras surveyed her future charges, eyes drifting from uniform and squad badge to face and firearm, trying to match the persons in front of her to the files and dossiers she had gone over the night before. Honestly, she was a little nervous but it was tempered by the realization that she had already been in charge of almost 30 troopers during Integra's absence. The difference between Ceras' Strikers and this group, she told herself, was simply one of respect. Her team respected her. She just had to make this lot do the same.
'Well then,' she thought, 'time to put the fear of god into them.'
Moving from her resting point in the shade of the manor's barrier wall, Ceras adjusted her blue military cap and high collar to shield her face and neck from as much sunlight as she could, though the day was dark and threatened rain. It was a habit she had gotten into a long time ago; though the sun's rays could not turn her to dust, prolonged exposure to high concentrations of sunlight would cause great pain, and, if left in the light too long, eventual death. But simple shade, cloud cover, or even an outlandishly large, red hat, and she would be fine.
"My name is Major Ceras Victoria. You can and will call me Major. For your own sake, you will take me, this organization, and the things you are about to here seriously." Her voice came out smoothly, authoritatively. There was still a snort of disbelief.
"Feh. You expect us to believe that shit we've heard? About vampires and zombies and shit? What else do we have to look for, little girl? Leprechauns? Gnomes? Maybe an elf or two?"
Ceras rankled at the little girl comment, but held her tongue, instead leveling a red eyed glare at a man wearing a D-11 uniform, flanked on either side by two more D-11 agents, all wearing the same squad markings on their sleeves. "No. No gnomes. What's your name?"
"Che. Jaeger. D-11."
"Well, Jaeger, D-11, you should relax. You won't have to deal with Gnomes. Just things like me. Which, if you think with something above the belt, should terrify you. But let's cut this stupid verbal sparring. Give me your best goddamn shot."
Ceras unclasped her belt and webbing, handing the gear, and the attached Desert Eagles, to Stasi, idly cracking her knuckles as she waited. Praetor remained strapped to her back, mute, on threat of having the leather bindings on its hilt re-wrapped with strips of a rather puke-ish avocado green vinyl.
Apparently, the war hammer had a thing for its appearance.
Jaeger, as he so referred to himself, stepped forward, his companions offering a brief words of encouragement and knowing glances.
"Jaeger Valkov, of D-11's Special Assault division. Squad leader of Team 6, and a noted troublemaker. Refuses to serve regular police duties, as he refuses to go about unarmed. Three times reprimanded for use of excessive force. Still, commended twice for going above and beyond the call of duty. Awarded again for pulling a wounded teammate out of a drug bust gone bad, at great risk to self."
Jaeger raised an eyebrow as he reached the border of the dirt arena. "A fan of my work?"
Ceras shook her head, a tight lipped grin spreading across her face. "I was D-11 at one point in my . . . life. Your reputation as a heroic jackass was apparently well deserved. When I heard you were among the recruits, I checked up on your record. I figured if anyone was going to give me a hard time, it would be someone like you."
"Feh. Everyone's a critic . . ." The ex-cop looked down and off to his side, a smirk growing as he spoke, before lunging forward, corded muscle and sinew exploding into action. His 170+ pound frame hurtled towards the comparatively slight women in front of him, intent on putting the full weight of his motion behind his leading fist. A one hit knockout.
Or so he intended. At the last second, Ceras simply dropped into a crouch, ducking under his punch with blinding speed. Now over extended, the D-11 agent struggled to suppress his forward momentum before he stumbled over his adversary.
Ceras didn't give him the chance. Extending her legs and pushing up off the ground, the vampire angled forward, catching Jaeger in the chest with a rising shoulder charge. Jaeger's motion came to a complete stop, and then reversed entirely. And continued reversing, and elevating, until he crashed into his fellow agents a good 15 feet behind him with enough force to send all five of them to the ground like so many ten-pins.
Aside from the groaning, you could have heard a pin drop.
When Ceras gave a full, toothy grin, even the moans of pain came to an abrupt halt. The elongated fangs were readily apparent.
"My name is Ceras Victoria. I AM your CO. And, should you decide to make Hellsing your new, permanent home, you WILL be reporting to me." She stalked towards the fallen officers, idly cracking her knuckles.
"You saw what I just did, and you're probably think its pretty unusual. You're right, it is strange, but not for any of the reasons likely being passed through your heads. Right now, you're thinking 'how in hell did that women, that kitten, just smash a full grown D-11 agent into the air and back 15 feet? What you should be thinking, however, is why didn't that vampire rip Jaeger's head off"
A collective murmur or alarm and disbelief rippled through the gathered recruits.
"I am technically dead. I have been for almost three years, since a botched hostage rescue mission in Cheddars. The Hellsing Institution, for better or worse, came to my aid. Since that time I have eliminated no less than 27 freek vampires, been party to the destruction a pureblood ancient, and off'd more ghouls, or zombies, than I care to count. They are evil, deranged, and bloodthirsty killers. Make no mistake, I am one of the exceptions that defines the rule"
By now Ceras was standing over her beaten soon to be subordinate. Glancing down at the tangled mess of limbs she spoke, raising her head to fix the recruits with a level, even gaze.
"In Hellsing, things of nightmares exist. We hunt them. We kill them. We ensure that England and its people are safe from beings that stalk the night. It is not pretty. It isn't glamorous. And frankly the pay kinda sucks, too, thought I'm told healthcare and retirement is good. But! Know that your service will save the lives of countless others. And that you will be supported and equipped to the nines, with everything and anything this organization can provide. If that doesn't appeal to you, or if you can't stomach what I've said, or what I AM, leave now. If you don't and continue on, you'll be lucky to end up dead. Because the alternative is ending up a ghoul slave, and possible killing your own squad mates."
Turning her gaze downward once again, she extended a hand up to Jaeger.
"Hellsing will look after you, if you look after it. I promise"
Jaeger looked up at the white gloved hand hesitantly before smirking slightly and accepting it.
"Welcome to Hellsing, Mr. Jaeger."
Author's Notes:
Well well, yet another chapter come and gone. Hope it proved enjoyable. Next chapter sees Alucard's return, in all his toothy glory. CnC welcome, particularly on the nature of the relationship I'm trying to develop between Ceras and Integra. More will be made of this in future chapters, as well as a larger part for Praetor.
Currently looking for a pre-reader that doesn't mind my abysmally slow pace. Feel free to drop me a line via an e-mail, or check my journal or AIM account. For that matter, anyone can feel free to say hi, no matter what.
Many thanks to all who have reviewed. Someone said I made their day. Well, that comment made mine. Though I am loath to admit it, reviews motivate me. In the same way a turtle is motivated to run from a predator. I do it, but I still do it slowly.
Note to all: I will finish this story, baring severe personal issues or events. I will not lose interest in it. Part of the reason is due to my pace – I do things gradually. I seldom burn out. The other reason is I find it tragic when a story remains unfinished. I generally apply this to all stories I write except for those I state as such at the initial posting, and if I ever do discontinue a story, there will be notice, and a summary or outline of the rest of the tale.
