-Chapter 3-
Dawn had come.
Underground in the Hellsing family dungeons, the werewolf had reurned to his human form. He was sane like this. Most of the time, at least.
And his head hurt like hell. He knew it wasn't supposed to hurt this much when the moon went down. Looking down, he examined at his body in it's human form. His nails were more clawlike than they should've been. He was clad in an unzipped hoodie, t-shirt, and cargo pants, all loose fitting and camo-patterned. He kicked off his shoes and socks. His footclaws were longer than normal, too. His socks had holes in them, he noticed.
Oh well, he'd save them for something later.
Putting them back on, he continued his examination. He looked under his shirt. After three years of neglect, his body wasn't quite as impressive as it was when he had been in the wild. Being half starved for most of the time didn't help either. He had work to do, if he managed to escape from captivity.
He noticed his arms and legs were longer. Whether that was because three years had passed or because of the experimentation he wasn't sure, probably both. What bothered him was the headaches. Before, it was only supposed to last for a few minutes, then go away. Now though, it had lasted for at least half an hour. He knew that if these headaches went on like this, he'd lose control during transformations. And even before he was captured, when he was younger, he'd had trouble. Loss of control, excessive bloodshed, overpowering instinctual urges, and other madness plagued him since conception.
He felt the inside of his mouth with his tongue, feeling the long, sharp teeth. Definitely bigger. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. It always felt like dog fur, so little had changed. It was still a soft brown mop. Feeling his ears, which his hair had grown past, they were slightly more pointed now, but little else was different. He supposed his eyes were still yellow, too, but he didn't want to tear one out to take a look.
It mattered little, he always kept his hair long enough so that close examination of his eyes was hard.
He smelled someone at the door. Alucard materialized inside the room. Despite himself, the werewolf flinched. Something about this vampire made him uneasy, and it wasn't just the way Alucard carried himself. Seras appeared next to him. Her appearance did little to settle the werewolf, not that she was there for that, though.
"Alright, hound, we're not going bother interrogating you, we're just going to take what we want from you," Alucard said. The werewolf shifted uneasily at this. And with those words Alucard raised his magnum and blew a hole in the werewolf's neck. Blood spurted across the room, the round had pierced his artery. Hurriedly, the werewolf pulled the bullet out of his neck so he could regenerate the wound. As expected, the wound closed up. The Midians licked up the blood that had spurted out. The round didn't go far, but Alucard's aim was dead on.
"And now," Alucard said, "Let us see what your blood can tell us."
And with the werewolf's fresh spilt vitae still upon their tongues, they dove in the werewolf's past…
End of Chapter Three
Okay, okay, before you get on my case about the end there, lemme explain. A group of fans called the Birds of Hermes came up with this theory. Here, I'll just paste it for you.
"…a Ricean metaphor in which blood carries and transmits memories (essentially fragments of the soul) that act like film negatives, but lack the original consciousness, creating a copy of the mind."
In my fanfic here, Alucard and Seras only need to drink a mouthful of blood for this to work. So, yeah, sorry if you cry foul. Just trying to tell a story here, and for it to work the way I want it to, Alucard and Seras use a sorta-kinda-not-really-at-all new power.