Warning: This particular chapter will be rated M for strong violence and sexual inuendoes; I'm sure you know the reason why.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing or a time-travelling wardrobe (Lord do I wish I did, though).
Seras stared in horror and shock as a sliver of blood splattered on her face.
She scarcely dared to believe what was happening; it had to be a dream, it just had to be.
Yet, as she stared at her father, lying there motionless; he didn't get up, and she didn't wake, and the nightmare kept happening. The burglars were laughing.
"You dead? You dead?" one of them asked gleefully. "Ehee hee, hey, hey! You dead, copper?"
There were two of them. One dressed like a common chav, the other more refined like a pimp or a dandy. It didn't matter, because they were both scum, and laughing gleefully over her father's death.
"Is he dead? Is he dead?" the chav asked.
"Yep," said the would-be dandy, "He's plenty dead alright."
"Fuckin' pig," said the chav, "You regret it now, fuckin' pig?"
"This is what happens to a punk cop who gets in too deep. You got that?"
While the hooligans laughed, her mother pulled her away from the scene, sternly instructing her not to make a sound. Seras was hysterical; she felt like crying, screaming, clinging, curling up and running away all at once, yet she couldn't move. She could only make strangled distressed sounds in the back of her throat.
Her mom placed her into the wardrobe she got lost in the night before, and held the door, as if to close it.
"Listen to me very carefully, Seras," her mother said, "No matter what happens, stay in here."
"Mum!" Seras cried, but the door shut in her face.
"Mum," she whined, leaning her head against the door, and crying pitifully, "Mum. . ."
When she opened it, she found that she was in a completely new room; clean, silent, free of blood, burglars or corpses. Her brain was moving slowly, thanks to the tragedy; it took her a moment to remember the time travelling wardrobe that brought her there.
"Help. . ." she whispered under her breath.
Her mum was in danger, her mum needed her; there was not a moment to lose. She needed to go back, to help her, to get help for her, to stay still, to wake up, to get out; to do something!
"Help," she said again, more loudly, and her panic kicked in. "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP, PLEASE!"
Her screams woke up the mansion that never slept.
Walter snapped up in his bed, and ran to see what the commotion was about at once. The soldiers gathered, Arthur emerged from his room with the girl of the week; even Sir Irons emerged form the guest bedroom. Walter met Seras out in the hallway outside the spare bedroom, where she was stumbling around, crying hysterically.
"Seras!" Walter cried, "What's wrong?"
"Please! You've got to help," Seras cried, shaking uncontrollably, "You've got to help! I can't do it—" she sobbed, "I just can't."
"Can't do what?" Walter asked sternly. "What's wrong?"
"I," Seras sobbed again. "Th-there's people in my house—they got me dad—and mum—my mum—!"
"Is it a vampire?" Sir Arthur called out earnestly, discreetly buttoning his fly.
"I dunno—it's—they—they said 'you dead pig?' I—I dunno—I just dunno!"
"I'll take care of it," Walter assured her. Every young lad has a hero in him, and the hero in Walter's chest puffed proudly at the call to duty, especially to protect a pretty young girl (the hero in Walter didn't seem to care it was a girl he didn't like). "You don't have to worry."
"Not if it isn't a vampire attack," Sir Hellsing interjected. "If it's not a vampire, then it's a civil matter. You'll have to go to the police."
This was the absolute wrong thing to say, because Seras' parents were the police, and this was happening to them.
At that moment, Seras started as though she heard a gunshot the rest of them didn't.
"Did you hear that?" she cried, more hysterical than ever, "My mum!"
With that, she turned around and ran for the wardrobe.
"Seras!" Walter cried, trying to stop her. "Don't run! Don't—shit!"
Seras wouldn't listen. She was hysterical, desperate to save her parents at all costs. She dashed over to the wardrobe, and peeped inside. "Hello?" she called, "Daddy? Mummy!" and she climbed in and shut it behind her.
Despite his superior reflexes, Walter yanked the door open a split second too late, for she was already gone.
"Shit!" he cursed, and ran back into his room to grab his gear. A fine time to change into his pajamas on a night like this!
Sir Hellsing followed him into his room while he furiously threw on his work clothes. If it was a vampire, he would not be caught dead in his pajamas.
"Now, Walter, we don't know if this is a vampire attack," Sir Hellsing said. "The Hellsing Organization is a prestigious anti-vampire military unit set to defend England, the Protestant Church and the King against creatures that go bump in the night."
"Something went bump in the night in her house," Walter said simply, pulling on his special leather gloves.
"Yes, but we do not know if it was a creature of the night," Sir Hellsing said, "We are not some petty police force for petty criminals. If this is a civil matter, then save it for the civil police, and don't get us involved."
"I'm already involved," Walter said simply, pushing past Sir Hellsing out of the room.
"I'm ordering you to observe first," Sir Hellsing said, following Walter out of his room. "See if it is a vampire attack first. If it is, then by all means; kill the bastard. If it isn't, then cease and desist; this isn't our issue."
"Keep telling yourself that," Walter said, and pulled his wires taught, and pulled the wardrobe door open.
"Don't do anything if it isn't a vampire!" Sir Hellsing called as Walter closed the door.
He opened it to a sea of death, darkness, and silence.
It looked just like any other vampire crime scene, with blood everywhere; all over the floors, the walls, and the picture frames. There was the body of a middle-aged man slumped against the desk in the drawing room; Walter could only assume it was Seras' father. The blood splatters over the wall, coupled with his lack of external injuries and the position of the body, indicated a gunshot to the frontal lobe.
The body of Seras' mother lay sprawled out on the floor yonder, a large bullet wound visible on her forehead. Walter did a double take when he saw her blouse ripped open, her skirt hiked up and her body violated. He had seen many heinous acts against women, children—even men—but it had never been anyone he knew before. He had knkown this woman; she was kind, stern, and made the best crumpets he ever tasted. It felt like a punch to the heart to see her lying there, murdered and violated thus.
He was snapped out of his revere when he heard a low groan, and noticed Seras lying face down at the base of the wardrobe.
He felt he could kick himself for not noticing before, and kneeled down beside her.
"Seras!" he cried sternly, though he knew not what to say. "Come on, Seras . . ."
He tucked a bang behind her ear, and saw that her eyes were closed. She had no external injuries, save a gaping bullet wound near her stomach, which was bleeding rapidly. Something akin to panic, or perhaps just desperation, overtook Walter. He turned her over and propped her up into his arms, patting her face to wake her.
"Seras, come on," he said sternly, propping her up so her head was leaning against his shoulder. "Come on Seras, wake up!"
She was breathing raggedly, and began to curl up closer to him unconsciously, as though to abate the pain; or hide from something awful. She began to cough, and clutched the edge of his coat with her little fingers. A single drop of blood fell down her cheek and onto the hard wood floor.
Walter felt desperate, and dragged her into the wardrobe with him.
Would he have taken her back to the Hellsing manor? We shall never know, for at that moment he heard sirens approaching the house.
Her injuries were fatal, and she needed all the help she could get; perhaps medicine was more advanced in this time.
He looked at her, at the wardrobe that was dripping with blood, and pressed her forehead against his cheek.
What would she do?
Sir Hellsing waited for many hours for Walter to return. If it was a vampire, he would have disposed of it by now, and come back to brag about his conquest. If it was a civil matter, it was not his concern, and he would have come back anyway. Surely, there was no reason for him to take so long?
Finally, Walter emerged from the wardrobe, disheveled and covered in blood.
"Well?" Sir Hellsing said expectantly.
"It was a civil matter," Walter said emotionlessly, "There was a break-in; no bite marks, blood draining or ghouls; no signs of vampire activity. The father and mother were shot in the forehead, and the girl in the stomach."
"What happened to her?" Sir Irons asked.
"The ambulance arrived promptly on the scene," Walter continued emotionlessly. "The girl was taken in to the local hospital, where they operated immediately to remove the bullet, and stitch up the damaged tissue. She woke in the middle of surgery, despite the anesthetics, and went into shock; she hemorrhaged, and expired."
There was a moment of silence.
"So, the girl died?"
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" Walter snapped. "She was shot, she bled, she died. That's what happens in civil disputes."
"Well, I know that," Sir Hellsing said peevishly. "But is that really how it went?"
"What do you mean?" Walter said, a little defensively.
"I mean, if that's all that happened, then why did it take you so long to return?"
"Because they saw me with her before I could hide," Walter said, "They insisted I come with them, to treat me for whatever injuries I had, to question me on what happened there—as though I know any fucking thing about that. I couldn't exactly disappear in a closet in front of them, so I went along with it. I had to feed them some bullshit story about how I was a friend visiting from London—even though it was a school night—and was sleeping over when the criminals broke in. I had to come up with about a million stories to cover for the ones they disproved—why I couldn't give them my number, my address, tell them where my parents were. I had to talk to the police, doctors, therapists, sketchists, wanting to know what the criminals looked like. . ."
"Did you tell them?" Sir Hellsing asked.
"No," Walter snapped, "They were already gone before I arrived."
"I see," Sir Hellsing said, "And the whole family is dead?"
"Yes," Walter snapped, "The whole family is dead."
"Good," Sir Hellsing said, "That girl was the only witness—in that time, anyway—to the Hellsing Organization. We couldn't very well let her get away."
"No, indeed," Walter agreed.
"So the only thing left to do is take care of the wardrobe," Sir Irons said.
"Yes, that's right," Sir Hellsing said, "Now that the family is gone, there remains only the wardrobe. Someone else will want to move into the house, or have the furniture sold, inevitably, and it'll only be a matter of time before someone crawls in and discovers the Hellsing Organization. What shall we do about that?"
While they were talking, Walter walked up next to the offending wardrobe, and promptly used his long legs to kick onto its side. It fell down with a loud "CRACK!" and several splinters, nails and other loose items went spilling everywhere.
Sir Irons and Sir Hellsing blanched. "What are you doing?"
Walter lifted it right-side up. "Just conducting an experiment."
He stepped into the wardrobe, shut the door (which hung crookedly now) and opened it.
Sir Hellsing and Sir Irons were staring at him.
He shut it again, and opened it; shut it, opened it.
Sir Hellsing and Sir Irons sweat-dropped.
"It doesn't work," Walter said with grim triumph, and handed Sir Hellsing a loose nail, "I guess that means there won't be any more time travel."
And with that, he went to leave the room.
"Now wait just a minute!" Sir Irons said, "What if someone enters the wardrobe from the other side, and, being unable to exit through here, ends up lost in some unknown dimension?"
"You really love disaster theories, don't you?" Walter smirked, "Since it takes two sides of the same wardrobe to travel, and this one doesn't work, I doubt the other will either."
"You don't know that for sure," Sir Irons said, "And now that the wardrobe is ruined, there's no way of finding out, is there? What if someone enters it and ends up in zero space? What then?"
Walter only smirked, "If they do, then that is a civil matter; it isn't our issue."
And with that, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked briskly out of the room.
Sir Irons and Sir Hellsing looked at each other dubiously.
"Was it something I said?"
Walter closed the door to his room and collapsed backwards on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His earlier smirk was gone. He couldn't explain to them what he saw there, how he felt; how long he waited for Seras to exit surgery, how she looked at him when they took her away.
She looked at him like he was a stranger. Her eyes were blank; she seemed to have no memory, no spark of recognition for him anywhere. Yet there was also something like anger in her eyes, like she just met him and hated him just for being what he was.
The therapist said it possible she had repressed her memory of him, of the incident, so save herself from the trauma associated with the tragedy. It was possible she had some residual anger from the incident, especially if she had seen what had happened to her mother, as emotional memory is more persistent than cognitive. He figured it would come back to her with time.
"How much time would that be?" Walter had asked.
"That depends," the therapist said, "on how much she wants to forget. It could be a weeks, a year, even a decade after the incident; or it may not come back at all. If it does, it will likely be triggered by a smell, taste, or other identifier related to the lost memory . . . or via suggestion during psychotherapy."
Walter had snorted. "Well, if that's what happens, she should fire her therapist."
Nay, Walter was determined that he would not be the "identifier" of this dreadful night.
The truth was he didn't want to remember, either. He was quite tired of "civil matters" and was determined not to get involved with another one ever again. Let the idiot humans go and shoot each other, it was not his problem; it was only vampires he was supposed to kill.
Besides, Hellsing was a secret organization, meant to work from the shadows. Their job was to spring up, help people (well, kill vampires) and disappear without a trace. It was only fitting that Seras would not remember him, and he not to get involved with her afterwards.
Besides, if she did remember him (and this was a huge if), she would be a witness to the Hellsing Organization, and he would not in good conscious be able to let her get away. Being an orphan, it would be mighty convenient to bring her here, to make her into a maid, or even train her into a fellow vampire hunter. (Sir Hellsing often said that one angry child is more powerful than a hundred soldiers.) But who would want a stupid little creature like that, anyway?
Besides, the way her parents were, he was sure she had plenty of nice, loving grandparents or aunts and uncles that were just waiting to take her in and love her. She was a normal girl, meant to live a normal life; what would the Hellsing Organization want with a normal girl like that, anyway?
Tired of thinking about it, Walter blew out his light and went to sleep.
Despite her abrupt entrance and exit out of their lives, the Hellsing Organization returned to normal soon after. She was only there for one afternoon, and didn't leave much an impression during her short stay anyway.
Besides which, the whole country—the whole continent—was submerged in war, what with the blitz krieg and continual air raids on London, and there was no time to think of a deceased girl or a time-traveling wardrobe that no longer worked. Sir Hellsing studied the WWII book that Walter had brought him from cover to cover, so he knew everything that had and was going to happen, and this gave him a tremendous boost in confidence.
Sir Irons left shortly too, having his own affairs to take care of, and Alucard finally returned from his mission in Ireland.
"You would think they had vampires joining this war," he said gleefully, "The Irish curs were using our trouble with Germany to try to free themselves from British rule. Since when do vampires care about human politics, anyway? It really was very pathetic."
Walter only nodded at this story. He really didn't find it as amusing as he normally would.
Nothing ever escaped Alucard's notice, though, and when Walter refused to tell him what was eating him, he found the truth on his own.
"So," he said casually a few days later, "Arthur tells me there was a girl in this mansion."
Walter nearly spit out the tea he was drinking.
Alucard laughed. "So I was correct! What sort of girl was it?"
"Asshole," Walter muttered, and pushed past him. "She's dead now, so what does it matter?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," Alucard purred, and materialized in front of him. His features were softer and his voice was more feminine. "She must have been quite a gem to capture your attention."
"Don't be stupid," Walter snapped, and elbowed him away.
"Ah! I see I've hit a nerve!" Alucard cried, and his features continued to change. "What type of girl was it? What did she look like?"
"Piss off!" Walter snapped. He grabbed his cup and tray and headed for the kitchens.
"She must have been very pretty for you to be affected by her death," Alucard continued gleefully, all trace of masculinity gone from his voice and features. "What did she look like? Was she small? Delicate? Strong? Did she have long hair? Was she blonde? Red headed? Did she have black hair? What colour were her eyes? Were they blue eyes? Green? No? What about mixed? I hear that can be quite exotic."
Alucard was constantly morphing his appearance to match the physical descriptions that he mentioned. It was rather eerie, a young girl with ever-changing skin, hair and eyes; almost like that horse that kept changing colours in The Wizard of Oz.
"Did she look like this?"
Alucard presented himself (or was it herself?) before Walter as a petit young girl; slim, prim, with long black hair, pale skin, and large, wide green eyes. She was so pretty that Walter started and blushed. He was still young, and had rarely been around pretty girls before.
Taking Walter's reaction as a confirmation, Alucard roared with laughter. "I knew it! So she was a pretty little thing!" her voice dipped into a seductive purr, "Now how far did you two go?"
"Leave me alone!" Walter snapped, proof positive that he did NOT want a physical demonstration from Alucard, and spent the whole afternoon avoiding him.
"Come now Walter, you can't hide forever!"
"I said no! Now fuck off, you cretin!"
"Only if you'll join me!"
"GYAAAAH!"
Eventually, Alucard grew bored of trying to pry information that Walter wasn't going to give up, and focused on more exciting matters, like the rumours of ghouls being used in combat overseas, and the likelihood that he and Walter would be sent over to take care of them.
Walter, too, was excited over the news, and he eventually regained his smug attitude, and the two of them enjoyed the war to the fullest.
The wardrobe was all but forgotten, with the members of Hellsing unaware that the maid had swept up the missing pieces and placed them in a small burlap pouch in one of the drawers; unaware that it would be given away years later when the mansion would be refurnished to Richard's tastes when he returned from boarding school; unaware that it would eventually find its way to a second-hand furniture store in a small village, where a young officer would arrive with his young wife, thick with pregnancy, to find some inexpensive furniture to fill their new house, where they intended to start a family.
They were unaware that the officer would eventually find the pouch of missing parts, and would use one of his days off to fix the busted wardrobe with its original parts, unintentionally restoring the time-travelling magic. They, too, would be unaware that the various items they filled the wardrobe with would travel back and forth between the dimensions, including the book about the fictional radio that sent signals between two different times (which Arthur would discover by chance and read carelessly).
And, of course, they were all unaware that a young girl would climb into the wardrobe to play hide-and-seek, and be let out by a young lad forty-four years earlier, starting the cycle anew.