Had time to read over briefly - else it'd never get posted.
Have a nice day,
~death-in-the-orchard
The Hellsing vampires generally retired to their coffins half or a quarter of an hour before the sky began to absorb color from the nearing sunrise. Dawn would follow, as the undead beings were submersed in their deathly slumber. The Vampire Alucard had perturbed the young fledgling when one of her magazines had been torn into scraps and placed in two separate plastic containers – one dubbed the mouse's "bed," and the other its "toilet." When her Master had explained this to the mouse, as though it could understand him perfectly, syntax and metaphors included – pertaining to objects that might be found in a domesticated rodent's "natural" environment – she asked him whether it were possible, at all… just because it would be fun if she could join in too… if maybe the mouse might be able to understand her too, even just a little. Alucard had made some comment about her not being an awakened vampire, so her connection with familiars had not yet been properly established, before leaving her room. Due to the disappointment, Seras Victoria had shut herself within the darkness of her (still relatively new) coffin, smelling the cozy fragrance of pine – immersing herself in the smell and rejecting what she had interpreted as a suggestion that she start drinking blood, perhaps sometime soon… Her imagination fabricated a tone that Alucard had failed to use, which suggested she was worthless "unawakened." But the concept of the metamorphosis that would take place after her first "real feeding," frightened her. Not much mind was given to the little vermin, which she'd placed in the "toilet" by accident – mistaking it for the "bed" – given that there was no distinguishing the two, apart from memorizing which was on the right or left of the other. Once she had shut herself in her coffin, the nimble little mouse hopped, flea-like, out of the container. The few shreds of paper that hadn't been thrown back by the hind legs, fluttered down beside the creature – startling it, so that it bounded away in fright. With its tail raised high and its body stiff and inanimate, the mouse took some time before resuming its status as an animate creature, finally relaxing its limbs and spine as the tail lowered and the little head wagged as it sniffed the air inquisitively. Reassured, the little black mouse returned to the paper to sniff and then nibble at the scraps curiously. Not finding it very tasty, or appearing not to, the mouse soon left the paper alone and began to satiate its curiosity for other novelties. (Perhaps much in the same mindset as its vampiric 'Master.')
Father Anderson had slept earlier, needing only a few hours to give him enough energy to watch the monitor. After all, no effort was really required for the job. In any case, he had no other duties to attend to, and would not be returning to the orphanage until this… experiment, was completed. Maxwell had grown tired of the dull music and of watching or listening to the Hellsing fledgling click and roam through the internet, introducing him to Youtube videos about nonsensical things, and then a series that taught one how to make a crochet bag – a very small one, mouse-sized – which the girl had then imitated, rather successfully. At least, for how far she had gotten before resorting to a movie she began to watch on her laptop, as the mouse slept somewhere near. (It was either sleeping or being incredibly still – he hadn't been very interested in knowing which.)
Maxwell had only the audio to go by to identify most of these activities. However, even the audio for the movie was sufficiently leaden in nature – it (over)filled his soul with such an extreme and highly concentrated concoction of boredom and impatience that he gladly went off to bed and left the video feed from the Mouse-Cam unmonitored.
The priest who now occupied the generously cushioned seat Maxwell had previously claimed, directly in front of the monitor and the keyboard (as well as other stolid instruments stacked and distributed about the table, which Father Anderson could not distinguish from objects that were currently in use) saw that the mouse had no interest in climbing into the 'bed' (though Anderson did not know it as such, and in his perspective he saw the 'surplus' of containers as unnecessary). The black shape, which blended into its dim environment while the sun had yet to rise, made its way to the floor and then crawled under the door. In darkness the mouse zigzagged in an empty corridor, before deeming this as too dangerous to continue. Father Anderson allowed himself to assume the little beast was capable of meditating on the Vampire Alucard's instructions, when the demon had advised it not to get caught or cause trouble. Thereafter, the mouse darted down straight passages like a bullet skimming the well-polished floor, cutting to the right to remain against the wall when a corner was met. As though the creature were simply gliding along a predestined path, the mouse moved with the swiftness of the dexterous and predominantly defenseless beasts that the Lord had made meek and small, but had granted swiftness.
Maxwell had explained that an instruction manual for adjusting the audio and focus of the camera (if those were the terms he had used), could be referenced should something, such as a fall or a tight squeeze, alter the video in any way. Or if the mouse entered a lightless area. The camera adjusted automatically to various levels of light, almost as well as the human eye – or so, Maxwell had been told, believed, and then repeated proudly. But the switch to a "night setting…" There was a mental sigh from the Catholic as Father Anderson (truthfully an elderly man and thus qualified to claim any excuse for his unfamiliarity) failed to keep track of the terms Maxwell himself had not managed to mangle beyond comprehension. The supposed "night setting" had to be switched on manually.
So gloved hands which informed readers about the whereabouts of Jesus Christ (as well as, for some reason, the fact that Anderson interacted with the undead) leafed through pages that were tattooed with dull lines of text and labeled diagrams, as intimidating to a non-technical person as a hardened criminal might be to a scrawny and inkless law-abider, patiently referring to the index so he could find what chapter or section had anything to do with a night or darkness setting. A feature referred to as "Active infrared night-vision" seemed appropriate. After minutes of reading and examining the computer monitor, command window, and keyboard while jabbing his finger at all three – given that he had discovered Maxwell's computer had a touch-screen and that he hadn't the slightest idea as to what he was doing – Father Anderson managed to switch the light exposure settings so that he now saw a clear, though colorless, image of what the Mouse-Cam was capturing. As the mouse scurried about without encountering anything that might interest Father Anderson, he examined the manual and discovered how he could record the camera-feed – should something interesting show up. Maxwell didn't want to deal with storing what could be days of footage, and until this point, nothing seemed to have been important enough for Maxwell to start recording snippets of audio and/or video.
But the priest had long ago begun to doubt the worth or usefulness of what this whole escapade might eventually produce.
4:48 AM. So a summer sunrise for the Hellsing estate was only minutes away. The mouse had entered the vents and was shooting through the dark tunnels, with the sounds of its miniscule scraping claws making their way to Father Anderson. There was not much to take from the monitor, besides a wave of disorientation or motion sickness as the mouse darted into left turns, right turns- where would it end up? Did it have a destination in mind? It seemed to be moving with a rapidity that suggested a plan or goal existed. A clear purpose that continued to elude Father Anderson, though his willingness to accept the calm period, the peaceful duty of watching a humble creation that the Lord had bestowed upon the Earth, allowed no amount of monotony to dissuade him from remaining in the room.
The whiskers twitched on the curious nose, poking through the vent to investigate the room it opened into. The Mouse-Cam, however, could show nothing but the bars of the vent from this angle, and the priest – who had looked up for a moment – returned to the manual. Only a sound of disturbance, a crackling of the camera as it scraped against metal, caused Father Anderson to stop reading. So he was able to witness the fall.
The mouse emerged unhurt, Father Anderson could tell as the camera continued to move about and sway from side to side with the animal's walking motion, but what was shown in the room had the Catholic dumb and staring. He knew what would happen, even though he thought it was too ridiculous to be real. However, the little pest with pathetic claws that helped it climb, gripped the trailing cloth and had no problem scaling what it had converted into a ladder of sorts. Of course no such "mouse-ladder" existed. Nothing had been prepared for the mouse; nothing here was laid out for the purposes of inviting its presence or of welcoming it into this dominion. But the priest let the computer record the feed as the mouse was in the middle of climbing its "ladder."
Whatever motivated the beast, be it curiosity, a natural magnetic pull, or the influence of the Vampire Alucard's character on its own behavior, whatever power was behind this development, the mouse was climbing, it was not stopping, and Father Anderson – though not fully approving of his own decision to record this – would not change his decision. The Iscariot listened to the soft, cushiony sounds of deflation and progression, the mouse and its red bow crawling over mountains and hills that sunk slowly under its paws. And then all was rustling and muffled, and nothing could be seen distinctly – however, the surroundings remained obvious.
And then the expected larger movement came. Then another – as the mouse crawled forward, and the two movements met.
There was a gasp and sputtering of sounds that were not molded into words, the world thrown over itself as the comforter was flung from the mattress, from the sleeper and the tiny invader. All matters of disorder and chaos were recorded. The Mouse-Cam caught the shape, the silk and cotton, the body pushing itself from the bed… with the minor rustling of sheets and the creak of weight leaving the mattress, which summoned a prevailing stillness. Father Anderson examined a grey monochrome picture of Sir Integra Hellsing, standing in what for her was a defiantly sense-compromising darkness (a setting prone to thinning the glass which separates the imagination from reality). From where she was planted beside her bed, the woman's iridescent and colorless eyes squinted, bare and unaided, into the camera. And Father Anderson came to the realization that Sir Integra was absolutely frozen (it wasn't the camera misbehaving). She did not move. Did not attack. Did not speak. And did not react. She did nothing at all for what was, in all actuality, a very long time to be standing motionless in darkness because one had been woken by a domesticated mouse. Minutes. Nearly five minutes – the priest noted – she stood, immobilized by her mind.
This spell of paralysis was broken as she edged towards her nightstand, her arm reaching for it- but she retreated back with a body convulsing jolt, a muted gasp, and then the abrupt 'flight.' She was even farther from the nightstand, so she had to squint all the more, eyeing what had before appeared to be the treacherous mouse. But the mouse's dark coat, the lightlessness, and then her own nearsightedness, left Sir Integra incapable of detecting the mouse's whereabouts. Bent forward and straining to perceive something as obvious as the bed, then jerking away to check the floor about her bare feet, suddenly fitful, as if dancing on hot coals. Then stillness... A movement of the leg, to feel something on the floor that – the priest realized – had been (once again) mistaken for the mouse intruder.
The chill that had cleansed her of sleep and fatigue left the Hellsing heir rigid, eyes widened and then narrowed, looking at and then just to the side of shapes and forms she thought, for an instant, might have been the rodent. Still the satin fur was felt against her arm, a softness that was cool and metallic as it instantly inspired fright. It had caused her to abandon her bed, to surrender it to her enemy without resistance, merely from reflex. The nerves in her foot had been triggered, and her anxiety had instantly been assaulted by the roaring monstrosities that clamored in her psyche, swarming upon her in the darkness and in her blindness, though soon she had confirmed that all she had felt brush up against the length of her little toe had been the corner of a floor rug. But now the creature could be anywhere on the floor, or it could still be on her bed, in the sheets, or it might have burrowed deep into the mattress already. It might have sprung onto her nightstand, or somehow reached the shelves of her bookcases. At any moment it could swoop upon her, launch itself from any direction, to gnaw its way into her, to claw her as it climbed her body – it could manifest itself at her toes, ripping hunks of meat from her bones, it could be about to send itself flying into her hair where it would entangle itself, hide from her, biting off her ear, or suddenly on her face and at her eyes or crawling into her mouth.
Sir Integra felt the reverberations of the cacophony of rodent screeches and hisses echoing against the reality of entrapment on all sides, the long and powerful yellow fangs and leathery tails and rough fur of a nest of rats crawling over her. Though the room was silent. And the mouse was still, unmoved from the mattress, with the camera focused on the human that had left it alone in the warm collection of soft, nesting material. It sat on the bed watching her dilemma as Father Anderson sat in Maxwell's seat watching the monitor.
Integra's hands were partially raised on either side, to ward off an expected attack. And she was shifting her feet, wary of their vulnerability. The priest prepared to switch the setting for the camera as Sir Integra gradually backed towards the wall. She kept watch over the masses of blended and smeared shapes before her as a hand swept over, first the shelves of books, skimming bindings, then reaching farther back to find the wall. But the Iscariot could observe, with all sense of clarity and certainty, where the light switch was and was not located… and Sir Integra was fumbling at an area she obviously believed was supposed to contain the pair of switches. However, she needed to move to her right, closer to the bookshelf, to have a chance of flicking some of the lights on in her groping attempts.
These attempts stopped, giving the light switch up for lost – beyond her power in the current situation. Before her, next to the bed, but in the vicinity of the dreaded beast whose touch still haunted her… on the nightstand – there was a lamp. Impossible. Foolish to pursue. It was probably there waiting for her, ready to ambush. Swarming rats pervaded her mind as her tall figure stood in the darkness of her bedroom, in plain, black bedclothes. A buttoned shirt and pants that matched. She was standing, listening closely, slowly cocking her head to search different parts of the room. As this was done, Integra's posture was somewhat hunched, leaning with the intensity of her search.
And then began the construction of the "stool." In defense of her exposed toes, and to rid herself of at least one anxiety, Sir Integra pulled books from her shelves and set them on the floor. Fingers gentling assessing their thickness and the sturdiness of their covers before selecting the appropriate "blocks" for the job. And so, with painstaking slowness and many interruptions and stiff pauses, in which she searched for some disturbance, extending her senses to probe the darkened room – she eventually constructed a meager "stool," of sorts, to raise her feet – hopefully – out of the mouse's immediate reach. Balancing on this predominantly stable assemblage of multi-purposed books, she was again listening. On this stubby tower, her shoulders were again hunched, and she was listening and rarely squinting at the unmoving contents of the room. Illusions playing tricks. The chill claiming her skin. Hair standing on end, and heart jabbing her ribs maliciously as it bullied her lungs, refusing to let them fill, or at least, feel as though a full breath had been acquired. Simply hellish.
As she was thus positioned, and clearly observable on the monitor, Father Anderson saw a section of her long hair slip forward, from where it had been held back by her shoulder – stroking her arm from the end of the short sleeve, over her elbow, and reaching her wrist.
The panic was explosive. With a wrenching contortion of breath and syllables, she threw out her arms, batting away the hair as she stumbled back and the assemblage of books collapsed. Integra tumbled with books slipping under fretful feet, and then collided with her head ringing against the shelves, her back slamming into the stiff wood – then her body fell into a heap on the floor. Scrambling away, still on the floor and with her head throbbing piercingly, Integra's horror recalled the touch, the idea that the beast was on her, somewhere. On her.
Much patting, brushing, and swiping went on in an attempt to flush out the monster before it managed to eat its way into her. Her hair again deceiving her as it flew about her person, as if possessed with some will to torment her. It was her jerking and twitching movements that manipulated the soft strands of cool hair, but in blindness, in darkness, Integra could not be certain which touches where from her own hair and which might be from the fur of the creature.
With a new surge of revulsion, Integra shuddered and beat wildly at her sleeve, at her shoulder- the woman undid what buttons her shivering hands could manage before tearing off the shirt prematurely, with sounds of slight tearing occurring at the unseen seams, and a loud pop as a button blasted free. The woman was on her feet as she pulled her last arm free of the shirt and then pitched it as far as its silken bulk could go before the air slowed and filled it, to let it descend to the floor a relatively short distance from Integra.
Half clothed, with a black bra preserving some "modesty," the muscles in her stomach and arms shaped what was exposed from her waist up. She gathered the loose hair and held it behind her in a fist, aggression in her posture as she snarled into the gloom. Releasing the hair, Integra strode with an arm touching and then griping the bookshelf once it was within reach, and she claimed a hefty projectile which she held up threateningly when she ventured some ways towards the center of the room. The book swung as if it were in flames and Integra possessed the power to ward off the monster that plagued her.
Her voice battered down the fortified silence, words rolling with growled fierceness, "Where are you? I'll crush you! I'll crush you, you little vermin! Come out!"
She swung upon detecting something towards the right, a shape that was unfamiliar. The book broke upon the shape she then realized was too large to be the mouse, crumpling and flailing pages protesting her decision to use the ill-prepared book as a weapon. And yet she went back for another, this time larger, though not as thick, with an equally hard cover. It was soon descending onto the shape and carpet in a series of blows that aimed to flatten it out, as Integra found that it was the shirt she had suspected of containing the mouse. She beat the shirt mercilessly, and hissed at it, almost in tune with the blows she inflicted, "Damn! Vermin! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"
Of course all the while the mouse was sitting on her bed, though now it burrowed into the folds of the crumpled sheets, rather intimidated by the angry woman. But Sir Integra, panting with rage, had finished with her mangled (and totally innocent) shirt, and now glowered at the shape she knew to be the bed. Her thick curtains were unchanged by the sky as its shades lightened. Unhesitatingly, she fell upon beating the bed and sheets with the book, striking at the inherent spring of the mattress. Bombarded with collisions that fell all around it, the mouse fought its way out of the field of battle and leapt away towards freedom, landing on the carpet. But in its fright, it only had time to consider the bed as a form of shelter – while the senses of a descendent of Hellsing had caught onto the movement, a mere shadow that had been nearly cast off and deemed insignificant by her unconscious mind, before the resounding and all-silencing plop of the mousey body hitting the thick, closely-cropped carpet commanded all attention. And she believed she heard it scurry under her bed.
Now on the assault, in the role of the hunter and no longer herself hunted, Integra stepped forward victoriously and – after a moment of searching – claimed her glasses as her rightful reward for her efforts, in this initial battle. And so war commenced, and the eager woman backed away (always facing the bed) to gather more "supplies" from her shelves.
The mouse had been reassured by the quiet that resumed once it had escaped from Sir Integra's bed, so it now rested in a crouch, a flurry of panic still pulsating in its tiny chest. It saw part of Integra's pants and two bare feet some distance off, towards the wall – though it was not certain this had been its attacker.
When Maxwell walked into his office, he thought Father Anderson was napping on the desk, having fallen asleep in Maxwell's preferred chair. But when the hulking form reacted to his entrance, Maxwell wasn't prepared for the bemused, but certainly entertained, expression that came to the priest's face after he had rotated the chair someways around to look at Maxwell, obviously considering him for a brief period before leaning back in the chair and rubbing his hand over his face and then his blonde hair. He then released a spurt of barking laughter that startled Maxwell, and made him spill some of his hot tea onto his hands.
The burning sensation made him cross as he snapped at the "laughing maniac," frowning when he hoped he might be allowed to return to his preferred seat. "What are you laughing at?"
Father Anderson's gloved hand massaged his mouth as the muscles in his face remained hardened, preserving a wide smile. Amusement, but also prevailing uncertainty, was expressed in his movements. He breathed in deeply over the hand that clasped his mouth and dented cheeks. His head rolled back as the hand dropped away and Father Anderson pushed his back against the cushions of the chair. "How do we go about this?"
Maxwell waited, impatiently, and becoming only more annoyed when he searched for an explanation for the paladin's behavior in the monitor, but only found a grey scale representation of something or other that looked boring. The mouse was under a piece of furniture or something.
"What was so funny?" The demand did not lessen Maxwell's frown as he awaited his long in coming answer.
Green eyes went to the monitor, so the back of Anderson's head was turned to Maxwell, and then the priest gazed into the adjacent wall, once again rubbing his face.
The voice from the speakers surprised Maxwell, so that he looked at the screen in a dissipating state of perplexity when he recalled not seeing a person in the video before. There was still no person to be seen, but the ends of someone's – maybe silk? – pants and bare feet, off to the side. Then first the knees appeared as the person crouched, with long, light – though colorless – hair spilling from some unknown dimension- without warning the face of Integra Hellsing lowered into view, swathed in the loose, spilling hair. Though something was odd – but Maxwell didn't digest what exactly that odd detail was, when an enormous object was tossed at them (towards the camera), slipping over the carpet to rocket by them. Maxwell's mouth gaped in preparation of speaking, when Integra moved to a better position – swiftly – and was directly in front of the camera. It was also obvious that she'd pinned a quantity of her hair under her knee in the process. But the discomfort was ignored as another book – Maxwell identified it now as a book – was thrown at the mouse. But it was evaded with a quick dodge from the little animal – which stood puffed with alarm, tail straight up, unused to being assaulted by humans or books.
"Dear God, she's nearly-!" the observation jutted from an exclamation that escaped Maxwell's lips (aided by the fact that he'd been gaping) as the camera was bashed with a book.
The high pitched squeak of pain actually made Maxwell feel pity. Then even anger – the mouse was an Iscariot operative, after all. And the Hellsing woman was going to beat it to death, all in the glory of her heathen near-nakedness. No, before she killed the mouse, she might even manage to break Maxwell's beloved camera.
As the mouse scrambled away towards the bulging form of the comforter which had amassed on the floor beside the bed, a sliding book struck the mouse from behind, and it let out a terrified squeak before the momentum of the object carried it into the confusing, shifting body of the comforter. On the other side of the bed Integra laughed at another instance of success, and grabbed her two remaining books as she walked around the end of her bed.
Maxwell, having remained standing and completely forgotten the notion of sitting down, looked to Father Anderson, finding him unamused and a fist seemingly kneading his fingers as the other hand lay over the armrest. The room smelled like apples and spice, but the pale palms and knitted fingers that held the tea remained uninterested. Then the uncomfortable heat made Maxwell search for a coaster, which led to him sitting down in Father Anderson's old chair. Once more he desired to have his preferred seat returned to him.
Having the screen nearer seemed to build the suspense, as Maxwell listened to the distressed mouse's frightened clawing, worming, and tunneling deeper into the comforter – or it might've been looking for a way out. But Integra Hellsing was somewhere beyond the confines of the comforter, so the observers doubted this was the mouse's motive. Then again, what did they know about what went through tiny rodent brains? Heavy, disorienting collisions jarred and warped the comforter around the mouse, like liquid being sloshed around in a fishbowl. It was drowning in motion, fear tearing at its little heart and nerves. It took a moment for the men to realize Integra was stomping on the comforter, hoping to pound the little creature to a pulp (in their more colorful and pessimistic imaginations). More simply – hoping to break all of its fragile, tiny bones, so that it would be flatter and deader than before.
There was an exhale that brought the priest's mood to Maxwell's attention, and he saw his agitation, the convulsions in the useless hands, gripping the armrest of Maxwell's preferred seat... Maxwell prodded the priest's wrist, distracting Father Anderson. "Don't break it... You're still breaking it…"
There wasn't much that could make Father Anderson understand how something as insignificant as a chair could hold any sort of value or importance, so he blankly offered to switch seats, to which Maxwell accepted thankfully.
The bashing had ceased, and for seconds the Earth was a quiet and peaceful place, strangled by layers upon layers of looping and tightening suspense. Then it became more confusing than before. Both man and beast were lost as Sir Integra lifted and shook parts of the large comforter, uncovering an edge so she was able to find a new grip. She cast the comforter out like a net over water, though she hoped this with would dislodge her hidden prey, rather than entangle it further. In the end, her efforts proved to be fruitful as the mouse was torn from the cloth - woeful claws were unable to dig deep enough or cling hard enough for the mouse to remain within the "safe" fabric. It soared across the room, landing – seemingly – mid-scurry on the dense carpet. It darted along the wall and then hid under Integra's second night stand. She flushed it out by shaking the piece of furniture, and then bending down to confirm it had run off. Pushing up from the floor, Integra caught sight of the mouse (a small shadow) tracing the perimeter of the room, running beneath the skirts of the curtains without stopping, and darting left at the corner to run towards the shelves. But there was little to no space to climb beneath or behind the book cases, so the mouse crammed itself into the corner, where the wall and the side of the bookcase met. There, the sad little mouse hoped its dark coat would keep it camouflaged.
However, sunlight thrust itself upon the darkness, scorching the aiding shadows. The light revealed the black little abomination behind her as Sir Integra stood before the curtains, having thrown them open. It only took her an instant to find where the mouse was compressed into a pathetic and anxious ball of fluff. It fled from her in a determined and rapid manner, wrapping around furniture, following the dimensions of the room itself- a thrown book dissuaded the mouse from escaping under the door. When Integra reached this (near) point of escape, she repurposed her bed sheets to preemptively cram them into the crevice of freedom that had once shone beneath the door. When she reached the next window, its curtains were also parted, so the room was further illuminated. Outside the sky yellowed as the blush of pink clouds deepened. Purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows shone through the latticed bedroom windows. And an aged tree that extended beyond the third floor of the mansion caught a soft breeze; some of its leaves scuttled over the glass.
During this time Anderson had worked on reverting the camera's settings, impressing Maxwell who waited for the video quality to improve. When color had returned to the monitor, they were confronted with the warm orange light that bathed the contents of the bedroom. When Integra came between the mouse and the window, the dawn caused her hair to glow with a near holy splendor – her face framed, briefly, within a golden halo. But any such illusion was severely degraded by her incomplete attire – leaving her to be viewed as a violent Amazonian, or a harpy… something un-Christian-like, not a bit angelic. As the men watched the young woman chase the little mouse round and round the room, throwing books and then sacrificing one and then two and three pillows, the priest leaned on the desk, his head resting comfortably against his fist.
Then he remembered and informed Maxwell that, "This is being recorded."
Blue eyes looked puzzled, then recalled the feature, then pondered over the priest's motive.
Father Anderson responded to the inquisitive expression he received. "We know of her aversion to mice. So I suspected something interesting would happen… if this happened to be her room." More questioning looks brought about the description of how the mouse had ended up in Sir Integra's bedroom via the vents. Books hurtling into walls, as well as near collisions with the large projectiles, were but minor distractions.
An eruption of violence and rustling audio that conquered the monitor ended their conversation, and informed them that the mouse had hidden in the comforter. They weren't expecting much from the haphazard assault, expecting the tussle to resemble the previous encounter with the feathery-light but warm bed cover. However the sound that was introduced to the audio, one that Father Anderson was well acquainted with, tore through their composure and laid bare the true possibility of losing the mouse (or camera). Directly in front of the creature the blade plunged through slitting fabric and escaping goose feathers, then was retracted out of view. It came down again, somewhere near the mouse, as the creature wriggled about fretfully.
The knocking of some god bestowed deliverer held back the sword Sir Integra held in her hands, and she looked to the door, panting lightly. Moisture trickled unexpectedly from her temple.
"Sir Integra-?"
"Don't come in Walter."
Silence. And Integra looked about her demolished room, realizing she'd lost all track of herself and her duties. The back of her sword-less hand swiped at more sweat. And she breathed a little heavier.
The butler's voice came again, "I heard the sound of something being bludgeoned." As he was speaking, Walter stared down at the bits of Integra's sheets that appeared on his side of the door, contrasting with his polished black shoes. When no response came, he proceeded, "Are you, by chance, tearing something, Sir Integra?"
Shining cobalt glared about the room, prepared to ignite it as Walter asked her another question, that caused her to grimace at the unsightly ruin she'd produced. "No, Walter. I'm not."
Maxwell and Father Anderson could see a clear image of Integra's feet, and they stared solemnly at the screen as the mouse darted forth. The sensation of being climbed (however briefly) by the detested animal forced a cry from her throat, more startled than anything else… but Sir Integra couldn't help that the only response one could expect from Walter under these circumstances, would be his prompt entrance. The mouse fled to some unknown cranny, as the state of the Hellsing bedroom, and Integra Hellsing herself, claimed the forefront of the moment.
After seeing her, the Angel of Death browsed the disheveled room, already more than convinced there was no "great" threat. He beheld the pretty books that had been abused, strewn about like soldiers who had died valiantly in the midst of a bloody battle.
"The mouse is in here, Walter."
"Then should I awaken Alucard?"
"God no." The mere mention of the vampire disgusted her, in the prospect of putting her morning's misfortunes on display. "It's a mouse, Walter. I can handle a mouse. Now, please adjust my schedule, give my most sincere apologies to whomever needs them, and I will see to this on my own." The great Hellsing leader sighed as she had to step over one of her books, and then side-step the shirt she had been wearing. The garment was now unappealing, given that the mouse had crawled over it twice in her pursuit of the menace. The butler continued to examine the room, and Integra tossed back the hair that had stuck to her dampened cheek. Her breath was not yet even. "I'll clean it later, Walter."
There was a pause which suited the gradual nature of the moment. "Then, what would you have me do for now?"
"I'd have you let me put on a shirt." In saying this, she turned from Walter, who was continuing to survey the room and avoid the space she occupied, but rather than going to her wardrobe, Integra was met with a wall of very familiar and, altogether, unpleasant things. Red, black, white, then ribbon, and then Alucard's face. The nosferatu of course was not avoiding the space she occupied. He was very much occupying it with her – though immobile due to her unexpected appearance and not out of a demonstration of spite or stubbornness.
"I want to know this story." Alucard stated quite seriously, also alerting a most displeased and (already) exhausted Walter to his presence.
Not capable of speaking through her clenched jaws and the outrage that ignited her mind till the edges of her rationality singed, the tip of her sword jabbed forward, threatening the Vampire Alucard's abdomen with either a scorching impalement or a traditional disembowelment.
Again, the view of gathered legs and feet commanded the monitor that shone before the Iscariots' intent expressions. These human characteristics only grew more prominent as the poor creature that carried the camera had to rush towards its dreaded predator in order to reach its protecting "Master." Its forepaws clawed furiously at the leather boots before the panicked mouse sprung onto the laces, where it adhered to the threads most dolefully. It was soon encased in a pair of icy white gloves, and the mouse did not see its predator as she stepped away in haste and then laid the sword over Alucard's hands with menacing sincerity.
"That is mine."
The forceful claim went unheeded, the undead being ignoring his Master's anger as he went to the wall, deeming that all of his duties had been satisfied in the successful retrieval of the rodent pest. The commanding and sturdy frame of the Vampire Alucard draped in the red trench coat, emerged from the wall upon leaving Sir Integra's bedroom, and stood in the hallway. Curiosity led Alucard to part his hands and consider the influence of the tiny beast he held, permitting this delay since the matter was supposedly finished.
Yet, further down the hallway the wall appeared to rupture. The door to Sir Integra's bedroom had burst open, and upon seeing the vampire standing idly to her right, she proceeded to march in Alucard's direction, shirtless, shameless, with her sword proposing a challenge. "Give the rat to me."
"The mouse is mine, if I recall our past-" Alucard's nonchalance served only to aggravate the woman more as she now snarled at him.
"The rodent. Give it to me now." Sir Integra had reached the Vampire Alucard and stood awaiting his response. In the background, a purposeless Walter appeared, looking on and remaining near should he be needed during this strange… this exceedingly strange morning skirmish.
"But as I recall, you-" The sword was thrust towards his face, ending Alucard's speech yet again.
The gleam that shifted with a fractal quality in Sir Integra's glare, reinforced the declaration that this had not been a suggestion. That there would be no debate in the matter of whose prey the mouse was. "Mine."
Crimson read the sturdiness of her vendetta against the rodent, for extinguishing all of its kind and likeness. Then all that was then offered to appease her, was to yet again defy her order – the mouse was dropped into a large pocket in the front of the vampire's trench coat. He then stood prepared to receive whatever consequences this might incite. However, Integra was silent, though her bright gaze narrowed further with disapproval and resentment. No, she'd never possessed the same control her great uncle and then, to a lesser degree, her father had wielded over the demon. The monster which had at one time been the great Count Dracula and was by this time greatly altered, as a result of enforced interaction with the living and participation in their war with the undead, and disallowing the privilege of reigning over a great territory of land and its distributed peoples, or the right to follow a more solitary existence governed by personal wills rather than the wills of men and heirs. The control was not as total, but it was still active where it was most needed. And yet, Alucard had bitten and turned Seras Victoria – when both she and Walter had believed this to be beyond Alucard's power, while he was under the influence of the Hellsing seal.
But needing something like Van Hellsing's influence for something as demeaning as retrieving a silly rodent was ridiculous to consider. Truly, Integra had no need for the tight control that had existed previously. Any conflict with Dracula was, in all ways, domesticated. Like trying to detach your cat's claws from your knitting and then keep it from unraveling your ball of yarn, only to then need to see after the safety and preservation of the knitting once again, and so forth.
The stare exchanged between the two stretched without dialogue.
Eventually Integra spoke again, "It is mine. You know the Iscariots addressed it to me." Her words already began to deflate the intensity of the confrontation.
The Vampire Alucard was indifferent to the entire exchange, finding it needless, but possibly odd enough to be worth indulging. His Master, the only representative of the great Hellsing bloodline, was standing before him, a naked blade offering some form of punishment that was truly alien to Integra's character, and altogether unlikely, wearing silken trousers meant for sleeping, neither shoes nor socks, hair tossled and unbrushed, sweat still detectable by undead senses, and then adorned with a simple black piece of undergarment. However, it failed to present some sexualized image of the female form – no, it most definitely did not present any such thing. Unless the ripples of toned muscular contours and scars from training, recreation, and very minor (undead or Catholic) conflict, was to be adopted into the sexual prime of a young woman in her early twenties... In many respects, Sir Integra was male, predominantly male, in the demon's perspective of his Master. Taunting and teasing was just good sport.
"And you passed your unwanted gift to me, hence, I own the rights to determining what is done with my 'gift.'"
The blade persuaded Alucard, who was in a mood to be persuaded despite the maturing morning hours, to stand against the wall – just as Sir Integra directed. She was then at liberty to seize the wretched beast from the undefended pocket-
…
Somehow… the concept of stuffing her hand into a small space containing a live rodent had not been fully comprehended by her rational mind, which was generally capable of reason – though in this instance there had been an apparent lack of thought. Before the observant crimson gaze, Sir Integra's pallor sickened, deteriorating rapidly as she remained rigid, her hand clasped around the hot furry animal, though the little tail was soft, rather than scaly or leathery like those she had experienced before, more than a decade before. As Walter approached, having recognized what had happened, Alucard measured the butler and what his intervention would shortly bring about. Then the twisted demon smirked down at his young Master, no mark of sympathy possible to imagine on his smug dead face. "Would you like some assistance?"
Integra did nothing but look ill. She could feel the bow that was somehow tied about the vile thing in her hand. It squirmed like a thick, fat, disgusting grub, a maggot, a worm. And her bones tingled, as if her body had grown cold enough for them to shatter - like anything else that was made of thin ice. Her jaws were clenched, her skin was roughened and hairs stood on end – she wouldn't be able to stomach the thought of breakfast at this point. What would have been able to worsen the situation? …Having the Frenchmen show up to inundate them with fresh ingredients, so that they might cook up some more of their nasty little rumors. Walter was growing impatient with some of the men he'd hired, she knew that and – no, don't think about it – not it- not anything, nothing at all. Nothing, nothing, nothing in my hand- Thank god, Walter. I love you.
The mouse was taken away by the Angel of Death, who uncovered a proper cage to hold the disruptive "gift" the two Iscariots were currently mulling over, as the recording stopped. They went back to look over what they'd captured.
…
Signs of disobedience, perhaps.